The Bohemian Connection (16 page)

“Is the coroner doing tests?”

“What?”

“On the body.” I couldn’t bring myself to refer to the body that was being cut up and analyzed as Michelle.

“Oh. I don’t know. Craig didn’t say. He just can’t plan for the funeral and he doesn’t know what to do.” Alison looked to be in the same shape. She stood up, reached down for a corner of the blanket and picked it up, holding it out as if she didn’t know how it had gotten in her hand. “I thought I’d sleep in the sun. But I wasn’t sleeping.”

Had she been up all night worrying about Craig? It wasn’t the response I would have expected from cool, controlled Alison. I could more easily believe she had been delivering marijuana or cocaine to errant chairmen of the board.

“Alison,” I said, “do you remember telling me that Ross brought you up here one weekend?”

She nodded.

“When was that?”

If the abruptness of the question surprised her, she didn’t show it. She looked down at the blanket hanging from her hand. “It was just this time of year. I remember that because there was a party at Jim’s bar on a Saturday night. It was called the Bohemian Ball—the first and last, I understand. Jim thought it would be fun for the townspeople to have their own Bohemian festivities, so he arranged that. People were supposed to come dressed as bohemians, however they chose to define that. They may have come that way, but they left as drunks. By the time Ross and I cleared out the sheriff had been there four times and left with a carload three of those times.”

“What year was that?”

She shook the blanket and began folding it. “Not recent.”

“How not recent?”

“Not in the last couple of years.”

“Can you be more specific?”

She stood staring down at the blanket. “No. I can’t. I don’t have much of a sense of long-term time. I’m real reliable on what I have to do this week, maybe even this month. But I don’t think about the past much and it all runs together.”

“But surely—”

“No, believe me, Vejay. I’ve been through this type of thing before.”

“Okay then, on the more recent scene, you were in the bar Thursday night about ten, buying a bottle of wine. How come?”

For the first time she looked alert. She stopped with the blanket half-folded and stared at me. Then she continued to fold in silence.

“Craig told me you were never out of the shop that night. Why would he say that?”

“It was only ten minutes. He probably forgot.” She started toward the cars. “Did Michelle’s aunt put you up to asking that, Vejay? Because if she did—”

“Good weekend for some fun, eh girls?” Two men stood in our path. I had been so absorbed in my questions I hadn’t heard their footsteps. Alison almost walked into them. The speaker, a man of about fifty with styled hair and tan slacks, looked us over appraisingly and let his gaze come to rest on Alison. His companion, somewhat younger, but similarly dressed, watched nervously.

“How about a drink?” the spokesman asked.

When a similar offer had been made to Vida and me last year it took me a few minutes to realize that during Bohemian Week any two youngish women together were likely to be mistaken for hookers. Vida hadn’t been so slow on the uptake. Now I watched how Alison handled this.

“No,” she said in the same tired voice. “I’m on my way to work.” She looked past me. “And Vejay has to leave in a hurry.” She pointed to my truck, which the sheriff was inspecting.

I raced over through the sand. Sheriff Wescott was pulling out his pad. When he saw me his face, reset into a scowl.

With a sigh, I said, “I suppose I can’t convince you that I was just here a moment.”

“Nothing personal,” he said in an all-business tone. “Time isn’t the issue. It’s not a parking spot.”

“Look, I’m sorry about last night. I would have called to tell you that, but there wasn’t anything I could say. I figured the best thing I could do was to stay out of your way.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

I extricated it from my wallet and held it out.

“Take it out of the plastic case, please.”

I did. “I realized it was an embarrassing mistake, but Sugarbaker does look a lot like Ross Remson. Even Michelle told him so.”

He stopped, pen poised, and stared at me in disgust. “You talked to him after that?” In the bright sun, in his brown uniform, against the background of the sand, he looked all tan—weatherworn and hard.

“I needed to know why Michelle met him Thursday night.”

“Registration?”

“Look—”

“Registration.”

I climbed into the cab, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the papers—owner’s manual, repair record, maps of California, San Francisco, Sonoma and Marin Counties, and the registration.

“You’ve made your point,” I said. “I’ve told you I’m sorry. I wish I could do something to make you less angry, but there apparently isn’t anything that would do that.”

He handed back the registration, then continued to write out the ticket.

When he held out my copy, I took it and said, “Just one question, an innocuous one.”

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t turn away either.

“Do you remember a Bohemian Ball held at the bar some years ago?” The weekend Ross brought Alison to Henderson.

“It was before my time.”

“When exactly was it?”

“I’m not even going to ask why you want to know that.”

“And you’re not going to answer me?”

“I did.”

I
CLIMBED INTO THE
cab of my pickup and carefully shut the door. I wasn’t about to give Sheriff Wescott the satisfaction of seeing how furious I was. I pulled slowly away from the concession stand and drove in first gear around the parked cars behind the beach. So intent was I on preserving my image that I missed the exit road nearest my house, and since I was hardly about to circle past the concession stand—and Sheriff Wescott—again, I had to take the far exit to Zeus Lane.

It wasn’t till I reached the intersection at North Bank Road and sat vainly watching for a break in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the main road that I realized the sheriff didn’t need to see a driver’s license, much less a registration, to write out a parking ticket!

“Damn him!”

I yanked the steering wheel to the left, ready to make a U-turn and barrel back down to the beach. But an ice cream truck sat inches from my back bumper and there wasn’t room to pull forward and make the turn. And by now Wescott was probably gone anyway. He was probably driving away from the beach in his official car, laughing.

So I sat, watching the traffic and feeling the sweat drip down my back. Any suggestion of the morning fog had long gone. There was no breeze. The sun reflected off the roadway, and the open windows of my pickup only provided an entryway for the heat.

During the noon hour of the first Saturday of Bohemian Week I should have known North Bank Road would be jammed. Limousines with their tinted windows inched along toward the turn-off for the Bohemian Grove. Occasionally a carefully coiffed head of white hair would be visible in a back seat. Interspersed throughout the general flow were the Mercedes of the younger rich who still drove themselves, and the station wagons of the tourist families heading toward their motels or the ocean.

Across North Bank Road was the empty parking lot of Davidson’s Plants. Catching staccato glimpses of it between the passing trucks, I noticed that even the shop truck was gone.

Two ancient school buses labeled
HOLINESS CHRISTIAN DAY SCHOOL
passed. Three small hands waved out the windows. I waved back. An equally ancient pickup pulled into the Davidson’s Plants parking lot. A man climbed out and stalked up to the closed door of the shop. Even from across the street I could see how filthy his jeans and workshirt were.

A Volkswagen van stopped in the intersection, blocking my line of vision. When it moved, I could see the man banging on the glass door of the plant shop. His matted beard and long hair shook stiffly with each hit. But the door remained closed. Apparently Craig had learned from his mistake of letting me in this morning.

I inched the pickup forward. Two limousines crossed the intersection.

The man was still there, still banging, still eliciting no response. Finally he stopped, turned toward North Bank Road, and stood considering.

Seeing him full on, I recognized him. He was the man who had bought the African violet from Craig yesterday. Had he taken it home to a wife who told him what a sorry plant it was? Had she sent him back to replace it with a healthy one?

To my left, in the eastbound lane, a Mercury hesitated. I jutted the nose of my pickup forward, blocking the lane. But the westbound, beach- and Grove-bound vehicles kept moving.

Over in Davidson’s lot, the man climbed back into his truck.

To my left, drivers began to honk their horns.

The man pulled out of Davidson’s lot toward North Bank Road.

I punched a long blast on my own horn. A westbound station wagon paused. I shot across. The man from Craig’s lot turned right into the westbound traffic—into the space I’d created.

Momentarily, I considered pulling into the plant shop lot and turning around to follow him. But I knew that would be futile. By the time someone let me into the line of traffic, he would be halfway to Jenner. Instead, I drove on, making a right onto the street that paralleled North Bank Road, and headed to the PG&E office.

The gate to the lot was closed, but my key was on my ring. I unlocked it and pulled in, leaving my truck behind one of the utility pickups we used when reading meters. The larger trucks, the trouble trucks, driven by the trouble men who handled customer’s complaints, were parked against the building. I unlocked the office door and walked into the cool darkness of the meter readers/supply room.

Even for an empty building the office seemed oddly quiet this Saturday, like a room where someone has died. I had worked Saturdays before; we all had occasionally. It wasn’t a matter of choice. But on those days the office, without the clerks and the customers, was only slightly different than it was on weekdays. It had the feel of the last day before Christmas holidays. Then, those of us who had to work waited in the office till everyone was in and we could head for the bar. Of course, then I was paid to be here. Today, I had no legitimate reason.

The walls of the meter readers’ room were painted the same tan as the trucks. The metal bookcases were tan, the old wooden table in the center of the room might once have been another color, but if so, the paint had worn off over the years, leaving bare, worn wood that was, of course, tan. And in the corner was the San Francisco bag. After the initial coolness of the dark room, it now seemed warm and close. Nothing moved. There was no sound except for my movements and a steady whirr coming from the center of the building.

The route books were on a lazy Susan. HE6 (Henderson, Route 6) was in front. I pulled it out and opened it near the end, then flipped back through the pages until I found Maria Keneally’s page. Under her name and address were directions to her meter. And there was space for comments, warnings such as “lawn mushy” or “occupant hostile” or “Doberman hides behind house.” For Maria Keneally it read, “offers tea.”

On the opposite page was what I sought—a listing of her usage for the past two years. Maria Keneally had been in the hospital and then recuperated with a relative in San Rafael last winter. As with this year’s vacation, the hospitalization had been planned. She had discussed turning off all her appliances with me. And indeed for January there was no usage at all recorded. I glanced at the figures for the last read period, most of June and a week of July. They should have been the same as January.

But they weren’t. The usage was minimal, but there was usage. It was a small enough amount that had the house belonged to someone else, someone with whom I hadn’t discussed the preparations for departure, I would have assumed that a neighbor was coming in and leaving a light on. But Maria Keneally hadn’t had anyone check on her house in January when nights came early and an unlit house was a clear target for our winter burglars. She certainly wouldn’t worry during the short nights of summer. Besides, I recalled how pleased she had been to get her first bill in February and find $0.00 on it. She had saved it to show me.

But there would be no zero this time. The usage listed for the past month was before Bohemian Week. It would be more this month. I wondered how frequently the Bohemian Connection used Miss Keneally’s house. It was secluded and yet easy to get to. For a rendezvous it was almost too appealing to pass up.

“Miss Haskell! What are you doing here?”

Dropping the book on the table, I spun around. “Mr. Bobbs, what are
you
doing here on Saturday?”

“Working. But this is not a work weekend for you.”

I couldn’t tell him I was checking the PG&E records to confirm a suspicion that had nothing to do with my job. That it related to a murder would make it only more suspect. Trying to think as Mr. Bobbs would, I said, “One of the reads was bothering me. I had to see if I’d recorded it right. I was afraid I’d transposed the numbers.”

Anyone else would have asked if it couldn’t have waited till Monday. But Mr. Bobbs hesitated. Coming in on a day off to check a read was clearly not a preposterous idea to him. Finally he said, “And did you?”

“Transpose the numbers? No, I had it right.” I closed the route book and put it back on the lazy Susan. As I lifted my arms I felt a cool breeze on my back. I realized the whirr was louder.

Mr. Bobbs still stared suspiciously. His thin brown hair clung to his scalp. In spite of the closeness in the building he wore his tan jacket. The only concession to the heat he’d made was to unbutton the top button of his shirt. I wondered if he had been sitting alone in his office, thusly dressed, or if he’d put on his jacket before coming out to see who was skulking in the back room.

“Miss Haskell, it is against policy to enter the office on off days for any reason. We do have—”

“I didn’t want a mistake to go unnoticed. When you’re only allowed three mistakes per thousand reads, you can’t be too careful.” My reads had always been under the error limit, but this was still not a topic I wanted to discuss with Mr. Bobbs. To divert him, I asked, “Was it my suggestion that you were considering here on a Saturday?”