Meadowlark (6 page)

Jay engaged the gear, and we eased away.

I said, "Liar." Nobody on the Peninsula was fool enough to
stop in an ice storm to vandalize anything, not even the local vehicle
of choice. I wondered if the pickup had a gun rack. Most did.

"The kid was drunk." Jay despises drunk drivers. They are
lower on his personal totem pole than cowards.

"Plenty of anti-freeze in his system."

"College student," Jay muttered. "I've seen him on campus."
Jay drove on. He stopped in Shoalwater and talked to the deputy
there. I had the feeling the pickup driver would be taking a
Breathalyzer test soon.

We chugged on home. Later, as we twined warmly in bed,
Jay murmured, "I'm sorry you had a rotten time, Lark."

"Me, too." I'd been thinking. "McDonald was pretty obvious
and crude. You were right. He was using me, but not to get at you, or
not exclusively."

"Who?"

"Bianca." I flopped back against my pillow.

"'S possible."

"I won't say anything to her about it."

"And you're going through with the workshop?"

"Yes. That woman needs help." I thought of Keith and Del
with their heads together, smirking and watching, and of the
free-floating hostility in the air.

Hugo Groth had drawn most of the fire because he wasn't
there. Bianca was probably partly to blame. She said she had been
trying to re-create the commune--or the hotel she'd lived in as a
child. If they'd all chosen to live together that would have been
different. Bianca's wealth made her naÏve desire to create a
community look a lot like coercion. At least Hugo had had the sense
to move out.

Bianca called me two weeks before the workshop was
scheduled to begin.

I had gone in to the store to sort new stock and enter it into
my inventory. "Is everything set?" I hoped neither of the speakers
had backed out.

"I think so. Lark, have you seen Hugo?"

"He came in last week to pay the rent."

"He hasn't showed up at work for three days." She sounded
tense.

"Has he gone off like this in the past?"

"Twice, but I traced him easily both times. Now I don't know
what to do. Nobody knows where he is, not even his ex-wife. There's
no sign of him here, and he doesn't answer the phone, either."

"Better call the sheriff." The police would not be impressed.
Hugo was a mature adult with a bank account. "Where's his
bicycle?"

"I haven't seen it here. Do you have a key to his
apartment?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to barge in on Hugo if he's taking a
little vacation. I'll run up and knock, if you like, and look for the bike
in the hall."

"Will you? I'd be grateful."

"I'll call you back," I said, resigned and not best pleased.

The bike wasn't on the landing, and Hugo didn't respond to
my knock. I tried Mr. Williams, too, but he must have been out.
Downstairs, a utility bill addressed to Hugo and a couple of
advertising circulars lay in the little basket below the mail slot. Mr.
Williams' mail was gone.

I went back into the store to report my failure. "He hasn't
picked his mail up recently."

At the other end of the line, Bianca heaved an exasperated
sigh. "Damn Hugo. He went off before because he got restless, or so
he claimed, but he never left me when there was anything crucial to
do. I'm going nuts nursing this broccoli, getting his starts ready to set
out, supervising the other digging--every one of those huge beds has
to be composted and double dug before we can plant. I wish we'd
never started that experiment."

I was trying to envisage Bianca in her vivid designer tunic
digging up spadefuls of the Good Earth.

"It's almost the end of the term," Bianca wailed. "He has to
evaluate the interns."

"Lawsy."

"What?"

"That must be difficult for you." I started to ask how I could
help and bit back the words. I was already doing the woman a large
favor by running the workshop.

I could hear Bianca gulping at the other end. She said in a
muffled voice, "I'm sorry. If I come to town, will you at least let me
into the apartment?"

That was doubtfully legal. I was not a cop, however, and
landlords do have rights. I sighed. "Okay, Bianca, but make it snappy.
I want to go home." I was fixing
boeuf en daube
with mixed
veggies. The vegetables were organic, the beef just beef. Probably full
of steroids.

"Half an hour?"

"Okay."

She showed up forty-five minutes later in jeans, a
sweatshirt, anorak, and boots. She looked almost like a farmer--a
morose farmer. A man's tweed cap hid the mahogany hair.

I led her upstairs and we knocked and called. No response. I
unlocked the door.

By that time I was half-expecting a gory corpse in the
bathroom. I was relieved not to find one. There was no trace of Hugo,
apart from his belongings. We took a good look around the living
room, and Bianca headed down the short hall.

I surveyed the living room with a landlady's eye and decided
Hugo was a keeper, even if he was using the front room as a
bedroom. A double futon lay flat on its frame, the bedcovers drawn
up and the pillow plumped. There was no television, but he had set
up an expensive looking CD player and speakers. He had been
reading the Zen master. The book lay on the arm of an easy chair.
The furnishings had a second-hand look, but they were reasonably
tasteful and in good repair.

I strolled to the small dining table in the corner next to the
utility kitchen. It held a placemat with a few crumbs, a salt and
pepper shaker, and a bottle of vitamin C. In the kitchen, the counter
was clean, but a bowl, a couple of spoons, and a paring knife lay in
the sink. Nothing had molded in the clean, well-stocked refrigerator.
Even the lettuce looked crisp. Staples--cereal, rice, soup,
crackers--stocked the cupboard shelves. Hugo didn't have a lot of dinnerware,
but there was plenty for one, and he had stoneware of a good plain
design. Altogether a decent bachelor establishment.

Bianca came out of the bedroom, which he had apparently
been using as an office. Her hair was ruffled, and she clutched the
tweed cap.

I said, "Everything looks normal to me. He told me he used
dope sometimes. Maybe he just decided to hole up in a motel on the
beach with a bong and a book. Don't pot smokers lose track of
time?"

"Not that much time and not Hugo." She ran a hand through
her hair. "Hell and damn." She glanced around the 'bedroom.' "The
plants look okay."

Trust a farmer. I hadn't even noticed the plants. Three neat
houseplants, one hairy, two with shiny leaves, sat on one of the wide
sills. I walked over and stuck finger in the soil supporting the hairy
plant. "Feels dry."

"That's a succulent," Bianca said crossly.

"Oh." I had so far avoided killing my Boston fern. Otherwise,
my relationships with plants had been fleeting. I looked at the other
sill. "Oops."

"What?"

Hugo had placed a small cushion on the sill. It didn't cover
the whole surface. A drinking glass sat in one corner. It held three cut
daffodils. They had wilted.

Bianca expelled her breath with a whoosh that ruffled her
bangs. "He wouldn't leave flowers to die like that. That means he
hasn't been here in two or three days."

"No." I had a bad feeling about the daffodils, though Jay
would probably have shrugged. Everything else looked cared-for.
"Hugo's missing, all right. Better notify the police."

Bianca groaned. "Why did it have to happen now?"

There was no answer.

She looked at me, eyes intent. "Will you come to the farm
now?"

I started to say 'yes' and caught myself. "What could I
do?"

"Help me question the staff and the interns. Help me look for
him. You're an outsider. You might spot something. Please."

I drew a breath. "No."

"Keith will be at work."

I stared. "I suppose he told you..."

Her cheeks were red. "He didn't have to. I know Keith. You
were uncomfortable at dinner, and you left as soon as you could
afterwards."

I caught myself again. I had been about to apologize. I did
feel sorry for Bianca, but she had chosen to seat me next to her
husband.

My silence got to her. Her shoulders sagged. "Well,
thanks."

"Hugo will turn up."

Tears welled. "If he doesn't I'm dead."

I sighed. "Look, I'll come out Saturday afternoon, if you like,
for a couple of hours. That's if he hasn't reappeared. Meanwhile, I'll
ask Jay to do some checking through the sheriff's office."

Her face brightened. "Can he do that?"

"He's a reserve deputy and does consulting for their crime
scene people."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks." She didn't sound hopeful.

I wasn't either. Tracing a man who didn't drive a car or use
credit cards was going to be difficult. I called Jay to tell him we had a
missing tenant.

I drove out to the farm Saturday afternoon around three. I
wanted to see it in daytime anyway. Bianca had asked me to stay
overnight, an offer I declined flat, with no qualms. Hugo's continued
absence was worrying but hardly an emergency. Bianca had
admitted everything was set for the workshop.

The farm nestled in a meander of the Coho River. The tidal
stream emptied into Shoalwater Bay three marshy miles west of the
entrance gate. Above the open gate hung an arch of heavy timbers
with the pokerwork legend Meadowlark Farm dangling on a slab of
red cedar.

I drove straight up to the cattle guard, past a pasture full of
ewes that looked as if they were about to produce quadruplets. A few
spindly lambs, much whiter than their mamas, watched me chug
uphill. At the cattle guard the graveled road dipped and rose in a
wide curve toward the house. The exterior of the huge edifice was
stained gray, an unfortunate effect. Bianca's house looked like a
beached whale.

I parked in front of the main entrance and rang the bell.
Nobody answered it. I turned around on the porch, a stylized
verandah, and surveyed the countryside. It was at that stage when
deciduous leaves are just beginning to show and sun-yellow
forsythias and daffodils gild unexpected corners. A faint haze misted
what looked like an apple orchard to my left, and, to my right, as
promised, the house gave on a spectacular view of the estuary. As
was true everywhere in the region, the dominant winter color was
the dark, dark green of conifers, fading to blue in the distance.
Wintergreen.

"Lark?"

I started and turned. Marianne Wallace stood in the
doorway, looking anxious. "She's still out rounding up the kids."

I was supposed to help Bianca question the interns about
Hugo. "Okay," I said. "My car...?"

"You can leave it where it is today. The car barn's around
back." She gestured to her left. "Come on in."

"Thanks." I stuffed my keys into my shoulder bag and
followed her through the main hall. She waved at the coat rack, and I
shed my jacket and purse. "Where are we supposed to conduct the
inquisition?"

She was moving at the unhurried pace that seemed typical
of her. "Kitchen, we thought. I made coffee and spiced cider." She led
me across the dining room and through the swinging door that
opened on the kitchen.

I stopped on the threshold, one hand on the door.
"Nice."

"It is nice," she agreed. "Coffee?"

"Cider sounds better." I sat on a blond chair by the big
butcher block table and admired a room that managed to be high
tech and friendly. The color-scheme was blond and hunter
green.

Marianne ladled a cup of cider for me and gave me a
cinnamon stick as a swizzle.

I inhaled deeply. "I love cinnamon."

"It's cassia."

"Huh?"

"Most of the cinnamon used in this country is really cassia.
Tastes the same. Much cheaper."

I hadn't the foggiest idea of the origin of spices and herbs
other than garlic. I sipped.

"I'm worried about Hugo."

I stared at her, curious.

Marianne's round, pretty face drooped with distress. "Do
you think you'll be able to find him soon?"

"I don't know. Not if he doesn't want to be found."

She poured herself a cup of black coffee and perched on a
stool by the gleaming Jenn-Air range. "He should never have moved
out. I told him so."

I said, "I think there are too many people for him here."

"Yes, some of the time, but it was Del, too."

I raised an encouraging brow.

She sighed. "Del's always riding Hugo 'bout one thing or
another. Del don't know when to quit. I miss Hugo. And he's real..."
She groped for words. "Real fragile. I worry about him not eating. He
gets absent-minded about it, and then he has one of his stomach
attacks. And riding the bike to town in the dark--that's
dangerous."

I murmured agreement. "Have you known Hugo a long
time?"

She considered. "Since we came six years ago. I can't say I
know him. He's a quiet man. But I like him. He's got patience."

That observation startled me. Del and Angie had given me
the opposite impression, of a man fanatical to the point of rigidity.
My own impression of Hugo, though, was closer to Marianne's.
Maybe he had a split personality. Maybe, like most people, he was
just inconsistent.

A door opened, and I heard scuffling and talking outside the
room.

Marianne said, "That's Bianca and the kids in the mudroom.
They'll wash up and come in in a minute." She rose and began filling
mugs with cider.

"Can I help you?"

She flashed a smile over her shoulder. "It's no trouble."

Bianca burst in. "Del had them out with the sheep, Marianne.
He wants Jason and Bill again in an hour, and Angie... Oh, hi, Lark.
Sorry we're late." She wore her farmer get-up and red plush booties
instead of boots. I gathered she kept the slippers in the mudroom. "I
hope the kitchen's okay. We have to keep the conference room clean
for the workshop."