Last Fairytale, The (4 page)

At the end of the meal, Vonnegon promised to put in a call to the detectives first thing Monday morning. Gen gave him her business card and suggested he get in touch if his company needed help solving the burglary. They shook hands, exchanged polite thanks and goodbyes, and parted on the street.

When Vonnegon turned downhill toward his car, Gen thought he left reluctantly. Unfinished business? She and Bree linked arms and strolled away in the opposite direction.

“I do not trust that man any more now than I did before lunch,” Bree said.

“Interesting, though.”

“Which part?”

“All of it, really. I admit I’m intrigued.”

“Easy for you to say, you didn’t find the body. You didn’t get grilled by Inspector Clouseau. You didn’t get accosted by Vonnegon twice last night.”

“You seemed surprised at the info he collected.”

“Not really. I use search engines all the time to dig up stats about people, so I’ll have background for my magazine assignments.”

Gen’s eyes slid to her. “So did you research Ducane?”

“Some. Wasn’t much to find. He’s not a joiner, hasn’t been published in his field that I could see, no social networking other than the regulation Facebook account he never posts to. He’s an MIT grad, originally from the Midwest. That’s about all I got. I didn’t have a reason to dig too deep.”

Gen and Bree parted almost on cue to skirt a jogger running up the sidewalk, then moved back together. “Most people would find it pretty unsettling, finding a dead employee in the office, but Vonnegon didn’t show much remorse.”

“Yeah,” Bree replied. “The guy doesn’t break a sweat. I get the impression he doesn’t have a nerve in his body.”

“You were quiet today. Not the Bree Marie who almost told the handsome detective to take a flying leap last night.”

“Vonnegon throws me, I guess.”

“How so?”

“Oh, you know. I’ve never had your kind of confidence, the wild and crazy coed who used to dance on the cafeteria tables. I thought you were more ballsy than anyone I’d ever met.”

“I’ve dialed it back the past couple years.”

“Why?”

Gen adjusted the strap on her bag and shoved her hands in her pockets, then blew out a long, slow breath. “The girl I used to be was a little too bourbon-infused and frantic. It evened out when I fell in love with Ryan. Then I opened my business and that showed me the troubled side of people, even more than being a lawyer had. It grounded me. Helped me appreciate what I have. I like the person I am now.”

Gen squeezed Bree’s arm. “But I remember you as a pretty tough interrogator on the school paper. So I was surprised when the reporter in you didn’t pound the Elergene CEO with a million questions. You had good reason to.”

“Yeah, I was a wimp today.” Bree sniffed. “Although I did have a few choice words for him last night outside my condo. I wasn’t intimidated when I was tired and cranky.”

“Oh, come on. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“What, that I get crabby, or that people can make me feel inferior?”

“Everybody has their grouchy days. I mean the other.”

“Look at it this way. My work requires that I listen, record information, take instructions. I play the part much better now than when I was a kid.”

“Hmm.” Gen draped an arm around Bree’s shoulder. “You look the same, but the Butler girl I knew was pretty assertive. And just as quick to laugh.”

“So.” Bree changed the subject. “I know you live with your boyfriend, but is there an ex-husband in your past? Kids? Stepchildren?”

“Nope. I like to think there will still be time for a family when I’m ready. You?”

“No. Bad break-up about a year back. We’d set a date and were planning the wedding. Well, I was, anyway. But when I tried to get him to help choose the invitations, he bolted. Said he loved me, but he wasn’t in love with me.”

“I’m sorry, Bree.” Gen’s voice was soft. “You must have felt terrible.”

“I’m not sure I’m over it yet.”

“No chance he just got cold feet?”

Bree shook her head. “He married his high school sweetheart nine months ago. They just had their first baby.”

“Rat bastard.”

Bree laughed. “Yeah, anger helps. What about Anna, and your sister? I saw her soap opera a couple of times. And what happened to Madison?”

“Maddy and Anna are in love with the two best men in the world, after my guy Ryan, that is. Madison married Cole last summer. She’s Madison Welles now, and hopefully by next winter baby will make three. They’re trying to get pregnant. We’re all excited to be aunts.”

Gen paused. “God, I’m sorry, Bree. That was thoughtless.”

“I’m not so messed up I can’t be happy for old friends. Tell me more.”

They were approaching a small park. An empty bench on the side of the greenbelt beckoned, and they headed for it.

“Madison is a successful real estate agent. She and her husband live in a marvelous stone cottage overlooking Lake Sonoma. She’s just finished her first novel, a story about the couple who built the house.”

They sat down and dropped their bags onto the steel mesh seat.

“Anna graduated from Sonoma State last June with her Master’s in psychology. She interned with a clinic last summer, and they offered her a job. Her boyfriend, Hodge, is an electrical contractor.

“And Gabi has her own talk show now. She’s a hit on daytime in a whole different venue. And successfully single, by the way. Her daughter, my niece Emily, is talented, gorgeous, and brilliant.”

Bree laughed.

“Do you realize that’s the happiest sound that’s come out of you since we met yesterday at the elevator?” Gen raised her face toward the sun. “Vonnegon was right, Bree, this will pass. And you’ll fall in love again, and there’s still plenty of time to win a Pulitzer.”

Gen watched the clouds scudding high across the sky. The wind off the water brought the smell of salt and sea. A group of white sails far out on the bay reminded her of pearls stripped from a necklace and cast upon the water. Life was darn good. She was happy with her choices.

She hoped Ryan felt the same way.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Bree replied. “But I stopped thinking things were going to go my way a year ago.”

“So you got sidetracked. Let it go. Wasn’t your goal to be another Bob Woodward?”

“Yeah, that was my last fairytale. But it was a long time ago.”

“Call me crazy, but didn’t you just get dropped in the middle of what could turn out to be a corporate espionage plot? Theft of quasi-government secrets? A possible homicide?”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Think about it, Bree. You’re a writer who always wanted to become an investigative journalist. I’d call this an opportunity.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have access to the inside players in a compelling story about … well, I don’t know what it’s about yet. But that’s the point. Dust off your reporter instincts and find out.”

“The police won’t let me get involved.”

“Don’t ask permission. Lots of good stringers don’t have cops feeding them tips. They have to dig up their own.”

“Some hack is probably already working it.”

“I don’t think so. Did you see this morning’s paper? There was a sketchy little article in the local section. Not much detail.”

“I saw it. Pretty matter-of-fact.”

“It looks like the field is wide open. You could take the ball and run with it.”

“Couldn’t I get in trouble?”

Gen chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve never been good at following the rules.”

“Oh, right. It’s all coming back to me now.”

“Here’s my proposition,” Gen said. “Let’s do our own research on the key players. It’s not like Garcia or Vonnegon are going to call in the press, so until they get wind of it, the story is yours. It’s a great way to find out if reporting is still your cup of tea.”

Bree sat up straight. “I see what you mean.”

“It could be fun,” Gen said. “I’ve never seen the value in giving up. Where you trip is where the treasure lies, right?”

“I like it,” Bree said. “Look for the upside when life is upside down. My mom–” She stopped.

“You must miss your mom.”

“I don’t know why I said that.” Bree looked away, out over the bay, then dusted her hands on her pants. “I don’t let myself think about her much. I remember when Madison’s parents were killed in that car accident. I thought my heart was going to burst. That’s the last time I visited my mother’s grave.”

Gen covered Bree’s hand with her own. “So what are you afraid of?”

“Do you want to know the truth?”

“Of course.”

She leaned forward and tapped her chest. “Deep inside is a little girl who knows there’s something wrong with me. When I get close to anything I want, it runs away. Every time.”

“Running says more about the other person’s character than yours.”

Bree angled her head and regarded Gen

“Everybody questions themselves, Bree. Don’t let it keep you from going after what you want.” Gen reached for her handbag. “As for the interesting situation we find ourselves in, well, let’s just put one foot in front of the other and see where it leads.”

“Thanks for showing up when I needed you.”

“It’s a gift. Now let’s get going, we’ve got work to do. I think the first order of business is to take a hint from Vonnegon and do some more Googling.”

They stood. Gen gestured toward her parked car. The pair joined arms and ambled toward the street, heads together, deep in whispered conversation.

Marin County is literally the jewel in San Francisco’s crown. Dotted with wealthy bedroom communities and a half-hour commute across the Golden Gate Bridge, it’s easy enough to access by car. In terms of lifestyle, however, North Bay is a galaxy away from the city.

Of the 3,000-plus counties in the United States, Marin ranks among the richest in the nation. But the residents are not universally privileged; the area boasts a mixed bag of humanity. The locally born and raised collide with newly-minted millionaires jockeying for a limited number of starter palaces overlooking the bayside coastal waters.

Less fortunate residents make do with secluded inland Mill Valley homes that, although not nearly as impressive as those along the cliffs, are perfect for a certain element whose desire is simply to disappear, for a weekend or a lifetime.

Bree hadn’t made a trip to North Bay since she was twelve. Her parents had bundled her and sister Cooper into the car and drove aboard a ferry that carried them across to spend the day on Angel Island.

In the early 1900’s, hordes of immigrants were detained in the old wooden buildings until they could obtain official clearance to enter the States. Most of the arrivals were Chinese, but that day Cambria learned her mother’s Russian parents had also landed there. They’d suffered through a two month internment.

She realized now it was a pilgrimage. Lilia Butler was sick, although she hadn’t told her daughters yet. Her mother needed to go to Angel Island that day to say good-bye to her own ghosts while she still had the strength.

Bree had watched Lilia weep as her eyes raked the museum walls, covered with vintage photos of exhausted people in ragged clothing. Now she understood. That day, Lilia had cried for her own mother and father. No one ever arrived from the old country to hold their babies or share in her parent’s good fortune.

Perhaps her tears also fell because she looked into those dead eyes and saw her future.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Gen said.

Bree looked to the side and watched her passenger sip at a Starbucks Grande. Why had she conjured up that old trip?

“I was thinking about Marin,” Bree replied. “And the last time I visited this side of the bay, about a hundred years ago. Now here I am, skimming along in my VW bug with the sunroof cracked open.”

“Sophocles said ‘old age and the passage of time teach all things.’”

“Are you saying I’m old, or that I have much to learn? Or both?”

“You’re not old, and don’t we all have things to learn?”

Bree glanced aside. “I’m not sure that applies to you. It’s like you were born intact with everything you needed to know, and all the tools to get where you wanted to go. It’s hard to think of you with concerns.”

“Oh, come on. I have my share of worries, just like everyone.”

Bree turned her attention back to the road. It didn’t seem the proper time to question Gen about what they might be.

The Redwood Highway cut a swath through the area, then curved onward to offer a peek at its fringe of ritzy communities. This morning connecting roads spat the swanky vehicles of well-to-do residents onto the famous highway. Most of the mid-morning traffic was turning south, but Bree drove against the flow, past Sausalito and Marin City.

She ejected a CD from the player and tapped in Boz Scaggs’s favorite hits. As the music began, her mind wandered back to her childhood trip to North Bay. What she’d told Gen was true; she seldom allowed herself to think about her mother anymore.

Not the way she laughed and sang to them while she was cooking, or how her lustrous sheet of straight, dark hair rippled down her back like a waterfall. She used to think her mother’s hair was a mirror, and Bree was Snow White.

The fairest of them all.

Once again she felt a hollow, brittle sphere of sadness in her chest. To block it, she jabbed her index finger at a button and stopped Boz in his tracks, then forced her thoughts out of the rearview mirror and back to the scenery.

“Hey, what?” Gen said. “I was enjoying that, it’s such a romantic song. I always wonder if he was thinking about the Golden Gate when he wrote it.”

“Sorry. Pick another CD, will you? Boz is making me sad today.”

“Well, then, forget the music for now. Let’s review the day’s agenda instead.”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, so as you know, my property tax record search turned up the address of a house Vonnegon owns in Tiburon. I did a little more digging and found that Andrew Ducane kept a boat in Richardson Bay, just up the road from our friend Taylor. We’ll look for that after we check out the house and see if we get lucky.”

“I’m curious about Ducane,” Bree said. “What we’ve heard so far doesn’t really jive with him being a nautical guy. Boat people are usually so into the cruising life and being on the water. But I don’t think there was a single picture related to sailing in his office, and Vonnegon didn’t mention anything about it.”

The 131 appeared ahead. Bree turned onto the southeast off ramp and merged onto Tiburon Boulevard.

“Maybe he didn’t know,” Gen replied. “According to Vonnegon, Andrew didn’t share much. Was he hiding that part of his life? That’s what today is about. We’ll track both places down and look for a chance to talk to neighbors.”

Bree caught a glimpse of the water and her thoughts wandered. “Did you know that Tiburon means shark in Spanish? Legend says a Spanish explorer named this peninsula for the leopard sharks that cruise these waters.”

“How appropriate,” Gen replied. “Because nowadays a significant number of local residents bear an uncanny resemblance to its namesake.”

Bree chuckled. “Are you referring to all the lawyers that live here?”

Gen gave her an elbow.

Once upon a time, Tiburon was the end of the line for the Northwestern Pacific Railroad. Flatbed cars carried lumber to the port, and barges fanned out across the bay to deliver it.

Without freight trains rumbling into the peninsula, Tony Bennett wouldn’t have crooned his famous tune about leaving his heart in San Francisco. And hadn’t she recently read that this was the first place in the nation to ban trans fats?

The thought made Bree’s stomach growl. The Beetle’s dashboard readout told her it was almost eleven. The bowl of granola she’d eaten early that morning had definitely burned off. She steered onto Main Street. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

Bree tooled along until she found the sign she was looking for. “There’s Sam’s Café,” she said. “I read a couple of online reviews that said their view of the water was worth the visit. Work for you?”

“Absolutely. And we’ll miss the lunch crowd.”

Sam’s parking lot was just beyond the ferry terminus. The sight made Bree wonder if the four of them had eaten at Sam’s that day. No, now she remembered. Mom had packed a picnic lunch.

Damn it, Bree.

As they stepped from the car, their noses were accosted by the putrid scent of low tide. The tables on the outside deck were empty, and the café’s front door was closed against the smelly shoreline.

“No worries,” Bree said. “If we eat inside, we’ll be out of the wind.”

A twenty-something kid was wiping tables when they entered the diner. His left ear was pierced. His short hair was spiked up with mousse.

A tattoo on the inside of his forearm depicted the sun and moon in a single sphere, the sun with male features, the moon with female. A perfect example of the connection some couples enjoyed; one mind with two faces, yet each with a different view of the world.

Would that ever happen for her?

“You open?” Gen asked.

“Would I be picking up plates if we weren’t?”

“Are you still serving breakfast?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay if we sit in a booth by the window?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Anywhere we want?”

“Find a clean one.”

“Can we have menus?”

“On the tables. Extras over there.” He hooked his thumb toward a stack near the cash register.

“Alrighty then. We’ll just get the heck out of your way and mosey over and sit.”

The kid scowled at Gen before he turned toward the kitchen, his tray heaped with dirty dishes.

“The breakfast crowd must have been brutal,” Bree said.

“I guess.”

The eatery was fairly empty and they had their pick of tables, so they chose a booth that had been wiped down at least once that day.

Bree took a seat. The panorama of scurrying cumulus, bobbing boats, and deep blue sea outside the window stopped her breath. The city across the bay was crystal clear.

The bloggers were accurate. This was as good as it gets for the price of a plate of food. She watched for a while, counting sails, before plucking a menu from a bundle tucked between the sugar shaker and a half-full bottle of ketchup.

When the waiter showed again to take their order, Bree was ready. “I’ll have a Denver omelet with hash browns, wheat toast with butter on the side, and coffee.”

“I’ll have the same, but make my omelet the Southwest. Heavy on the salsa side, please.”

He penciled notes on a green pad and spun on his heel.

“Wait a minute.”

The kid turned toward Gen, his face a question mark. She opened her bag and pulled out a couple of grainy photos downloaded from the Internet.

“Ever see these two guys around?”

The young man’s face was inscrutable. “You cops?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Gen rolled her eyes. “But we’re in disguise, as you can see.” She indicated her sneakers, jeans, and sweatshirt.

“Actually, we’re writing an article for an online magazine,” Bree said. “A touristy bit with a little local color.”

Gen picked up the thread. “These guys are sailors. You’re safe.”

The kid squinted at the pictures. “Yeah, the younger dude has come in a couple times with a group. They sit outside and drink. Locals. Good tippers. If I’m ratting him out in any way, my pockets will be lighter. Crappy thought, considering the size of my paycheck.”

Bree kept her face blank. No way was she going to break the news.

Gen didn’t skip a beat. “And the other guy?”

“No idea.” He shook his head. “That it?”

“Yeah, thanks. Other than the eggs, of course.”

“The sooner we stop gabbing, the quicker I get your order to the cook.”

“Right.”

He split without a smile or a backwards glance.

“What a sorehead,” Bree said. “His girlfriend must have dumped him last night. That’s exactly what I would’ve done, tat or no tat.”

“I saw that.” Gen spiked her brows up and down. “Makes me want to get some ink.”

* * *

The lunch rush was underway in earnest by the time they finished their food and tore themselves away from the window. They paid the bill and returned to the parking lot, where Gen pulled a ball cap with a wide visor low over her forehead. She grabbed a wad of maps and directions from the passenger seat and spread them on the VW’s miniscule hood. With her index finger, she traced the route from Main Street to Vonnegon’s place on Paradise Road and rattled off street names.

“Not far.” Bree slicked back her hair, rolled it into a low bun, and secured it with a chopstick. They climbed into the car and drove out of the lot headed east.

The road wound along a pine-shrouded cliff dotted with up-market homes. Gen called out house numbers as they passed. “Real estate around here is worth millions of dollars a pop,” she said. “I hear the big properties sell for obscene amounts of money. It’s a shame we can’t see much beyond the gates.”

“I’ve seen enough already to be rethinking my piddly retirement account.”

“Slow down,” Gen said. “We’re getting close. There it is.”

Vonnegon’s property fronted on the asphalt two-lane. An eight-foot hedge barred them from getting much of a peek, but judging by the view down the drive, the parcel dropped away from the building to the water below.

The place appeared to have little usable land. The panorama of ocean and sky, however, was probably breathtaking, unimpeded as it was by trees or housing. Gen could easily see the allure.

Even more attractive were the wheeled army-green trash cans beside the drive.

“Score number one,” Gen said. “It’s trash day.”

“Plan to do a little dumpster diving?”

Bree eased to the curb and set the parking brake. Gen hopped out and glanced casually up and down the road, then headed for the gate. Bree followed.

“If someone answers, I’ll ask directions,” Gen murmured. A video camera was mounted above the entry keypad. Gen tapped the speaker button and the light blinked red.

Through the ironwork, they could see that the street-side windows of the sleek stucco house were covered with wide plantation shutters. The slats were closed. No one seemed to be around. Gen couldn’t catch a sound other than the hollow echo of the keypad buzzer.

Back at the curb, Gen studied the nearest neighbor, a contemporary number perched on the hillside across the way. “I don’t see anybody.” She turned away and lifted the lid of the closest can.