The Last Annual Slugfest (22 page)

It was an even bet whether Angelina had had second thoughts and told the sheriff I had forced her to turn off the power and help me escape.

But the sheriff wasn’t at my truck, and once I got inside and started the engine—thankful once more for the snap pockets of my slicker that protected the keys—I realized that the person who had answered the call at the fish ranch was probably a deputy. Even if Angelina had told him who the intruder was, he wouldn’t know what my truck looked like. Not yet.

The other thing I realized was that I couldn’t go home. Even though I was shivering, every garment I had on was dripping, the cab of the truck reeked with the smell of wet wool, and there was nothing in all of life I would have traded for an hour in the tub, I couldn’t go home. If the sheriff was looking for me, that’s where he would look.

But spending the night in my truck was out. I couldn’t keep the engine idling all night, and in an unheated truck I would have pneumonia by sunrise. Where could I go?

It was not quite ten o’clock—a long time till morning. Could I go to Rosa’s house? No, too obvious. Besides, half the town would still be there, including officer Joey Gummo. A motel? Hardly, if I needed anonymity. A friend’s? The sheriff knew my close friends, the people I could drop in on soaking wet late on a Saturday night. I shivered. Even though all the windows were closed, drafts of air chilled my skin.

I turned the truck around and headed down the hill, past the fish ranch. Through the rain, I could see the yellow dots of the fence lights, but if the deputy’s car was still there, its headlights were off. The road was empty. I pressed harder on the gas and turned right toward the fishing village of Bodega Bay. As I crested the hill, the Pacific wind bounced the truck onto the white line. I yanked the wheel at each curve, waiting for the tires to grab on the slick macadam. The three-building shopping area—more a convenience for fishermen and tourists than a town hangout—was coming up on my right. There was a space in front of the Laundromat. I pulled in.

The Laundromat was empty. Clearly no one else in Bodega Bay had so pressing a need to be either clean or dry that they had been lured out on a cold, stormy night like this. Locking the gun in the glove compartment, I wriggled out of my clothes, and into my slicker, and hurried into the Laundromat, sopping garments in hand.

It was marvelously hot and steamy. The smell of soap and bleach filled the air. Bursts of laughter and shouting came from the bar next door. Three men—merchant seamen from the looks of them—made their way past the Laundromat to the bar.

I opened the dryer door, jammed my clothes in, and clunked a quarter in the slot. Then, naked under my slicker, I walked to the back of the Laundromat where the candy machine was, bought a Baby Ruth, and sat down.

I had suspected that Angelina was hiding Leila Katz at the fish ranch. But the fish ranch held neither what should have been there—fish—nor what shouldn’t have been there—Leila. When I read the meter there Thursday, the fish incubators had not been in the yard. So the fish had been disposed of since then. Could the fish have died, as Angelina insisted?

Outside, two more seamen raced through the rain to the bar.

Maybe the fish had died. I had heard that ranched fish were neither as hardy nor as intelligent as wild fish. There was a tale of ranched fish that were raised for a year or so in cement channels like the ones Angelina had, then turned loose into a river that emptied into the ocean. Instead of swimming to the ocean to mature, the ranched fish had swum upstream, decimating the younger, smaller wild fish that were headed to the ocean. There was a lot of skepticism about fish ranching. If Angelina’s fish had succumbed to IHN, every fisherman along the Russian River would be laughing. No wonder Angelina would be angry and frustrated. No wonder she’d toss those useless empty incubators outside. No wonder she’d go to extremes to keep me quiet.

Still, as an explanation for Angelina’s decision to help me escape from the sheriff, it seemed weak. But if I didn’t accept that, what reason was there for Angelina to toss out fish, stack her equipment in the yard and leave the building empty—and then be panicked when I discovered it?

If I hadn’t suspected Angelina of being Leila’s lover, would I have found the situation at the fish ranch so odd? Considering her vehement denial of that accusation, could I really be sure she was Leila’s lover? What was it Maxie Dawkins had said? “She surprised everyone when she married—don’t know why she bothered.” Was everyone surprised because she was a lesbian? But if she was, Rosa didn’t know about it. And that meant most people didn’t know. So that wasn’t the reason for surprise. “Don’t know why she bothered,” Maxie had added. Of course! She was already living with her husband! That had to be it. And that, everyone would have known. Everyone but her boss, the very conservative James Drayton. Had Edwina threatened to tell him? If Angelina had been Leila’s lover, perhaps for her it was a collegiate fling, or a rebellion against her years in the convent. But for Leila, the affair would have been the beginning of a new way of life. Then, Angelina’s living with a man and her subsequent marriage would have made Edwina all the more outraged.

I put another quarter in the dryer, choosing not to examine my sweater. Skintight and dry had to be better than loose and sopping.

Still, I had no proof Angelina was Bear. If she
wasn’t,
then who was? Maybe it was someone who didn’t even live in town anymore. Maybe the affair had nothing to do with Edwina’s murder.

But even if Edwina’s murder had no relation to Leila’s lover, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t connected to the treaty, the fake treaty. Who would go to the trouble of acquiring a fake treaty? And why? Anyone who had been to a historical society lecture knew how enthused Edwina must have been about her “discovery.” Anyone familiar with her numerous attempts to call news conferences to present the most minor historical findings wouldn’t doubt that she would have gotten television coverage for the announcement of the treaty. She had told the society members that if she ever discovered a treaty she would race off to Sacramento as soon as she had finished the announcement and present her find to the big shots there. Anyone would have known that by the time they declared the treaty false, Edwina would have created enough fanfare to make her humiliation overwhelming.

Who hated Edwina that much? With a warm flow of relief, I realized that one person who could be eliminated was Chris Fortimiglio. He didn’t hate Edwina; he merely considered her an irascible eccentric. And as for the treaty, Chris wasn’t interested in the historical society or the possibility of treaties. He could have read in the paper about Edwina’s plans for the treaty she always dreamed of, but I doubted he had.

That left those who had been to Edwina’s lectures—Leila, Curry Cunningham, Bert Lucci, Hooper, and maybe even Father Calloway. But of the five, who hated Edwina enough to contact her niece and convince her to be party to the scam, or to arrange to have phony letters sent from Washington in her name? It was the type of plan that could only be sustained by someone who enjoyed each escalation, who made it a point to be near Edwina and watch each reaction with carefully concealed triumph. Who?

The dryer clunked to a stop. I pulled the door open and grabbed my clothes. The sweater was still damp, but it was also two sizes smaller. One more turn in the dryer and it would have fit only a doll. I carried the clothes back to my truck and wriggled into them.

I reached for the key to start the truck, then hesitated. No one with the possible exception of Leila had a motive for the elaborate deception of the false treaty. No one, except Leila’s lover. A desire for revenge would be ample reason. But now I had even less idea who Bear might be than I had had before. Leila was the only one who knew. I felt more certain than ever that she was in danger, but now I had no idea where to look for her.

Suddenly I realized what I needed most right now was a shot of brandy. And for once, in a day when no one had been where I looked for them and nothing had worked out, I was dealing with a need I could fill. I grabbed my purse and headed for the bar next to the Laundromat.

The Seaside Shanty was a shabby rectangular room, with a fish net and a couple of dusty seashells on one wall, a hodgepodge of tables and chairs, and the bar at the other side. As soon as I stepped in, the lay of the land was clear. Tonight’s clientele was divided into two groups: fishermen and merchant seamen. I recognized guys from the fishing fleet leaning back precariously on chairs grouped loosely around tables in the rear. Rindo Mercatti, who was as close to what could be taken for a leader of such an independent group, was complaining about the storm outside. “How many days is it going to cut off salmon season?” he demanded of his cohorts. “And do you think Fish and Game is going to say, ‘Oh, those hardworking fishermen have missed a week, let us, gentlemen, prolong the season’?” He was greeted by a mixture of laughter and grunts, and a few more personal characterizations of the biologists at the Fish and Game Department.

In front, separated by a bare three-foot strip, were clutches of men, the merchant seamen I had seen heading in here. There must have been twenty-five of them. They were bemoaning the rain too.

I made my way past them to the bathroom. Even through the coating of dust and water spots on the mirror, it was a shock to see how haggard I looked. My skin was leaden gray. My hair hung like seaweed. I ran a comb through it, but when I moved my head the clumps glued themselves back together again. I could have put on eye makeup, but it didn’t seem worth the effort.

Instead, I walked back to the bar and ordered my brandy.

The mirror behind the bar was almost as crusty as the one in the bathroom. Reflected in it, the fishermen in their heavy gray sweaters looked rather like a faded Renoir print.

The bartender slid my brandy toward me. I took a long swallow, let my eyes close, and felt the warmth flow down to the bottom of my spine. I had the whimsical feeling that when I looked back in the mirror, Rindo Mercatti and his buddies would be painted in bright blues and greens.

What I did see, when I glanced in the mirror, was a still gray-clad Rindo Mercatti staring at me. A few times in San Francisco I had made the mistake of assuming a sixty-year-old man’s intentions were paternal. But I doubted Rindo was considering picking me up—not on the last night he could spend with his buddies. He was just trying to remember where he had seen me. It had been at Rosa’s, over a year ago. Considering how I looked now, I wasn’t surprised he couldn’t place me.

I handed the bartender a five, and took another sip, then finished the drink. Pocketing the change, I headed back to my truck.

While the engine warmed, I sat back, still savoring the heat of the brandy and picturing Rindo Mercatti in a lavender fishing sweater. Maybe he
had
been considering picking me up. In the world of lavender and green he wouldn’t have hesitated. An older man …

Could Bear be an older man? Could age be why he was “unsuitable for a Henderson woman”? Would that have been enough to ignite Edwina’s years of retribution? Bert Lucci was not just older, he was a bedraggled handyman. And Father Calloway—my breath caught. I could barely let myself consider him. I liked him. Everyone liked and trusted him. And priests aren’t supposed to seduce young girls. But if he had seduced her young niece, that would be plenty of reason for Edwina to pursue her revenge.

Hours ago, I had intended to go to Rosa’s and insist she search the crannies of her mind for recollections of adolescent Leila. Even if she couldn’t recall anything more about Leila, she could remember if Bert or Father Calloway had behaved oddly that summer of Leila’s affair, or if Edwina had suddenly been on the outs with one of them.

Rosa had refused to talk to me hours ago. Now, surrounded by her family and friends, people who would be calling me plenty worse than “bad luck” for the Fortimiglios, Rosa wasn’t likely to be more willing to accommodate me. Joey Gummo would take pleasure in throwing me out. But it was a chance I would have to take.

I
PARKED THE TRUCK
in a copse just beyond the Warrior opposite Rosa’s driveway. Now, nearly two hours since I had jumped the fence at the fish ranch, my fear of the sheriff checking out all my likely haunts seemed slightly ridiculous. Still, I wasn’t willing to chance parking right in front of Rosa’s house, even if there had been a square foot that wasn’t already taken. There must have been forty vehicles left along the side of North Bank Road, parked every which way along the driveway or nosed toward the house. There was barely room to walk.

The windows of the oblong house were steamed from the warm breath of Rosa’s friends inside. In spite of the rain, the kitchen door was propped open. I could smell the aroma of garlic and oregano as I neared the steps.

If this gathering was like the ones I had been to at this house a year ago, by now the spaghetti Rosa had made when the first guests arrived would have run out, and rather than face the possibility of someone going without, Rosa would be making more. One night, when she had had an official party, perhaps for Chris’s birthday, she had made a third batch and we’d eaten it at two in the morning. In those days there had been bursts of laughter, comradely shouts and claps on the back, and music from a record player Rosa had bought when she was first married. But tonight, as I climbed the steps to the kitchen door, there was no music or laughter, just a steady, deep hum of serious talk.

When I walked into the kitchen, the first person I saw, standing behind the counter, was Joey Gummo. As he looked at me, his eyebrows pulled together in angry disbelief. “What are
you
doing here?” he demanded.

Joey, the desk man at the sheriff’s department, could he know about my breaking into the fish ranch? Surely, the sheriff hadn’t—

“You’ve got a nerve after what you did to Chris,” he said.

I almost smiled with relief. “I need to talk to Rosa.” I started toward the living room.

He grabbed my arm. “She doesn’t need to see you.”