Cape Perdido Read online

  “Is there any dirt?”

  He smiled faintly. “My, you’re direct. No, there isn’t. The money disappeared. No one’s been able to figure out what happened. I didn’t take it, and I don’t know who did.”

  “But you resigned.”

  “Because I couldn’t do a good job under a cloud of suspicion, and I cared enough about the organization to put it in the hands of someone who would be effective.”

  Jessie nodded. She’d always been able to recognize a truth-teller, and Joseph was one. He was also the person she could confide in. “Okay, there’s something more I have to tell you: Eldon’s disappeared.” She recounted what she and Fitch had found at the Tides Inn. “Neither of us knows what to do,” she finished, “especially since we think he had some connection with the fire at the mill.”

  Joseph frowned. “Why?”

  “His entire approach to the situation. Talking about getting dirt on McNear, his disinterest in going through legal channels. I gather he’s used such tactics before.”

  “Well, yes, but I doubt even Eldon would resort to arson. Besides . . .” He hesitated.

  “Besides?”

  “This is to go no farther than this room, d’you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know who set the fire. You remember Harold Kosovich?”

  “The little man who used to work at the mill.”

  “Right. I saw him at the fire and followed him to a shack on the rez, where he’s been living. Found him overdosing on booze and pills. He’s okay now, but there were empty gas containers in the trunk of his car.”

  “But why would he set the fire?”

  “There’s a lot of . . . stuff twisted up in Harold’s mind, I think. His auto accident, being shunted off into administration, losing his job, and more recently, losing his trailer. He’s been fixated on the mill since it closed. This water-bag thing probably pushed him over the edge.”

  “But setting that fire wasn’t a sudden impulse. He would’ve had to buy the gasoline, plan for a time when there was nobody around. Plan how to set it so he wouldn’t be trapped and killed.”

  “Well, Harold knows the mill. I suspect he’s been slipping in and out of there for a long time—not doing any harm, just mourning the past.”

  With some relief, Jessie let go of the notion that Eldon had hired an arsonist. “So are you going to the sheriff with this?”

  “Not till I can talk with Harold and confirm my suspicions. And even then I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s disturbed, that’s for sure, but what’s the good in having him arrested and put away? He’s with my aunt on the rez, and she’ll look out for him; other folks will as well. I’m tempted to let things lie.”

  “Well, it’s your call. Now, what do you think we should do about Eldon?”

  “First you should alert the sheriff’s department. Because he’s a stranger to the area and the circumstances are suspicious, they’ll put out a be-on-the-lookout order right away. In the meantime, I’ll ask around. I’ve got some contacts who might be able to shed some light on this.”

  Jessie nodded, glad to have placed the matter in Joseph’s capable hands.

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  The Kudge ranch spread over 260 acres on the ridge above Calvert’s Landing. Joseph hadn’t visited it in over twenty years, and as he drove in through the wooden gate, he saw that the vineyards lining the drive were poorly tended; a quarter mile later the big frame house came into view, its white paint faded and blistering, front porch sagging. The rosebushes that Doris Kudge, Mack and Ike’s mother, had carefully nurtured were woody and choked with weeds. Probably the chestnut trees in the orchards that stretched beyond the house were in a similar state of neglect.

  Well, that was no surprise. Joseph had heard that Ike had let the place go since his parents died. Heard also that he’d turned his hand to cooking meth and had taken up with a rough crowd.

  He got out of his van and went up on the house’s sagging front porch. The afternoon was warm here on the ridge, and the door was open behind the screen; he knocked, then called out. After a moment Ike appeared at the end of the long hall, wearing cutoff jeans and a stained T-shirt that strained at his gut, and carrying a can of Bud.

  “Joseph?” he said. “What the hell’re you doing here?”

  Ike’s tone wasn’t unfriendly, so Joseph opened the screen door and stepped inside. An odor assailed him: not meth—the factory would be far from the house—but a mixture of mildew, wet dog, grease, and cat piss. When Joseph had visited his friend Mack here, the house had always smelled of lemon polish and baking.

  “Hey,” Ike added, “you want a beer?”

  “Sure.” Joseph followed him down the hallway to the kitchen at the rear. The greasy odor was more pronounced there, and the countertops were covered with dirty dishes, beer cans, and take-out cartons. Ike got another Bud from the fridge and tossed it to Joseph, cleared a stack of newspapers from a chair at the round table, and motioned for him to sit.

  “Been a while,” he said. “I seen you up on the platform at the mill the other day. Guess you heard me pretty good.”

  “Yeah. You sure were giving those waterbaggers hell.”

  “You bet. They piss me off so damn much. They goin’ away now that the mill’s burned down?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Shit, after that fire, you’d think they’d get the message.”

  “You think the fire was meant as a message?”

  “Had to be. The timing, you know.”

  “Well, I doubt the message got across. They want what they want, and they’re probably going to pursue the project.”

  “Fuckin’ outsiders! What right—ah, hell, don’t get me started. So why’d you come up here, anyway? It ain’t like we’re buddies, never was.”

  “I’ve got a problem, and I think you can help me. A man who’s on our side of this water grab issue has gone missing. Name’s Eldon Whitesides, from New York City, and he disappeared from the Tides Inn sometime between nine last night and three this morning.”

  “Why you think I can help you?”

  “I hear you’ve got connections.”

  “With people who can make somebody disappear?” Ike crumpled his beer can and went to get another. “You been listening to too many rumors, Joseph.”

  “Rumors nearly always have some basis in fact.”

  “Maybe so.” Ike sat down heavily. “You know, when you were hanging with Mack, I never liked you. You always had this way of acting better than the rest of us. I don’t much like you now, but I like what you’re trying to do for the river. So I’ll ask around, okay?”

  “Thanks, Ike.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I ain’t guaranteeing nothing.”

  “I know that. And thanks for the beer.” Joseph stood.

  Ike watched him, eyes narrowed. “Guess you’re surprised to see what shape the place is in.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “I just couldn’t cut it after Ma and Pa died. I’m not much of a rancher, I guess. Maybe if Mack was alive, we could’ve kept things going, but then if he hadn’t died, Ma and Pa would probably still be here.”

  Something cold moved inside Joseph. “How d’you figure that?”

  “Because Mack was their favorite, and they never got over him dying. Pa had a bad heart, but not that bad. After Mack, he just gave up on living. And Ma, she killed herself. Pills.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Nobody knew. The doc put it down as an accidental overdose, so she could be buried in the Catholic cemetery, but I knew different. She just didn’t want to go on without the two of them.”

  One more burden to bear. Would it never end?

  STEPH PACE

  Steph was inventorying liquor behind the bar and brooding about her four o’clock appointment with Timothy McNear when the door opened and Neil Woodsman came in. “We’re not open till five,” she called out, but the man crossed toward her and sat down on a stool.

  “I
know,” he said, “but I was hoping you’d bend the rules, join me in a drink.”

  As a businesswoman, she felt she should be polite to him. As a native of the Cape, she’d like to smack that look of smug self-confidence off his bearded face.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Please, just one round.”

  Then again, maybe she could find out what the waterbaggers’ plans were. Joseph would thank her for doing a bit of detective work. “All right, one,” she said, and poured from the bottle he indicated, then took down a wineglass for herself. Medicinal, she thought.

  “Where’s Mr. Erickson?” she asked.

  “Gregory’s down at the mill, talking with the waste management people about the best way to dispose of the waterbag.”

  “You people planning on pursuing your project?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d be afraid of more violent incidents. The community’s made it pretty clear they don’t want you here.”

  “Once the project’s off the ground, they’ll forget they ever opposed it.”

  “I don’t think so. And the state water board may take our wishes into consideration. Or feel the situation here is too volatile to grant your application.”

  He shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Doesn’t it concern you that down the line people might sabotage your pipelines or continue to shoot up the bags?”

  “Not particularly. Like I said, the opposition will go away in time.”

  “And the mill burning down—that doesn’t alter anything?”

  “I very much doubt the fire had anything to do with our project. But now Timothy McNear will have to clear the site, and that’ll make it easier for us to go in there to trench and lay pipe.”

  “You can’t believe it was coincidence that the mill burned a day after the bag was shot?”

  Again he shrugged.

  She said, “Well, I don’t think it’s coincidence, and neither do any of the people I’ve heard talking about it. How much did you pay McNear to allow you a right-of-way across the land?”

  Woodsman’s eyes glittered. Something disconcerting and oddly familiar there. She’d seen a look like that before. He rolled his glass between his fingers for a moment, then sipped. “Enough.”

  “And why’d you target the Perdido? Why not the Mad River, up in Humboldt County, or the Albion or Gualala, down in Mendocino?”

  “Another firm is interested in those. Besides, the geographical situation here is perfect for our purposes—the river, the point with a natural harbor. And, of course, there’s McNear.” His lip curled when he said the name.

  “You targeted him because you knew he’d shut down the mill and probably needed the money.”

  Woodsman nodded.

  Steph’s fingers tensed on her glass, the urge to smack him coming on even stronger.

  He grinned widely, taking pleasure in her poorly concealed anger. “It’s just business, Miss Stephanie,” he said. “Just good business.”

  TIMOTHY MCNEAR

  Timothy sat in his car in the parking lot of the small electronics shop in Calvert’s Landing, examining the tiny voice-activated tape recorder that he’d just bought. How long since he’d used such a device? Five years, anyway, before he’d closed the mill. Weren’t these things supposed to get simpler as the technology improved? It was no larger than a cigarette pack, but the instructions booklet was a quarter inch thick, with text that he was sure was equally incomprehensible in English, Spanish, and French.

  It took a few moments to figure out the basic operation, and then he discovered that the batteries were not included. Back into the store for those. Then he had to test the recording volume, adjust and readjust, and next there was the question of where on his person to conceal it. Would it be too obvious in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt? No. Well, then, he was ready for his meeting.

  Timothy was no stranger to clandestine recordings. Once he’d conceded that the business world, not academia, was to be his lifetime habitat, he was consumed with a desire to succeed. Even in those days of clumsy reel-to-reel technology, he had secretly taped meetings and negotiations, later playing and replaying them, looking for ways he might refine his technique. Not that it had needed much improvement—the man who had thought of himself as bookish and introverted found he was articulate and diplomatic, as well as a tough adversary when necessary. His quick mind could expose the fallacies behind what appeared to be logical arguments, and his sharp tongue could wither the most experienced union negotiators with a few well-chosen words.

  Extracting the information he wanted from Stephanie Pace would pose no problem for a man like him. And he’d have his tape as evidence in case she later refused to cooperate in his plan.

  JESSIE DOMINGO

  Jessie watched as the sheriff’s department detective who had introduced herself as Rhoda Swift examined Eldon Whitesides’s wallet. Swift was fine-featured and dark-haired, dressed in tan slacks and a brown sweater rather than a uniform; her handshake indicated strength that Jessie didn’t usually associate with a woman of her small stature.

  Swift stared meditatively at Eldon’s driver’s license, counted the bills stored in the compartment behind it. “You were right to call us,” she said. “There’re bloodstains on the corner of that coffee table. I’m going to declare this room a crime scene and get my technicians out here.”

  Fitch, who was seated on the sofa, gave a faint sigh.

  “I’ll need to take formal statements from both of you,” Swift added, “but that can wait till tomorrow morning. Right now I want to secure the scene and call in my people.”

  Jessie glanced at Eldon’s laptop, where it still rested on the table. “His computer—” she began.

  “Is part of the scene.” Swift opened the door and motioned them out. “The substation is on Center Street,” she said. “Drop in any time tomorrow morning and we’ll get those statements.”

  Jessie followed Fitch down the stairs and across the parking area. When they reached the car, she said in a low voice, “The stuff about Joseph on the computer—”

  “Let them read it and question him.”

  “But I told you what he said.”

  “That’s his story.”

  “What, you think he lied to me?”

  “Maybe he told the truth, maybe not. But you strike me as altogether too willing to believe him.”

  “You mean I strike you as naive.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Fitch held out his hand. “Give me the car keys.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, as usual, you’re getting overwrought. We’ll be safer if I’m the one behind the wheel.”

  So much for detente with Fitch. She slapped the keys into his hand and climbed in on the passenger side.

  As Fitch drove slowly through Calvert’s Landing, then picked up speed on the highway, Jessie fumed inwardly. But as the miles slipped by, her self-awareness asserted itself, and she began to consider what he had said. Was she too trusting, merely because Joseph had long been one of her icons? Was she indeed naive?

  In Boulder she’d developed a crush on her geology professor and had an affair with him, mistaking his being flattered by a young woman’s attention for real feeling. But at graduation time he’d eased her out of his life by recommending her for a job in Denver. It had taken a year to get over the pain of that rejection, and her job had been eliminated within eighteen months. Then, in Albany, her idealistic and impetuous actions had almost destroyed her career. Later, she’d believed that Eldon Whitesides had hired her on her own merits. Well, look at the truth of that situation.

  When’re you going to grow up, Jessie?

  Maybe now’s the time.

  She glanced at Fitch. He was driving with both hands clamped on the wheel, his jaw bulging as if he was grinding his teeth.

  “Hey,” she said, “you could be right. Maybe I a
m cutting Joseph too much slack.”

  He relaxed some. “And maybe you have better people instincts than I. I’m a skeptic by nature.”

  “So what should we do next?”

  “It’s too late now, but tomorrow one of us should call the people on the foundation’s board, alert them to what’s happened. And we’ll call a meeting of the Friends’ board, fill them in, try to reassure them.”

  “What about Eldon?”

  “It’s in the hands of the sheriff’s department. Leave it there.”

  When Jessie was silent, he added, “I mean it, Jess. Back off and let them do their job.”

  “Okay,” she said. But then, in a gesture she hadn’t used since childhood, she crossed her fingers against the lie.

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  Jose Garza’s face was strained as she admitted Joseph to her small house. She must be exhausted from taking care of Harold Kosovich all night, he thought. Rose had spent her life tending to others and shouldn’t have to be so burdened in her retirement. But then, she wouldn’t be content if she wasn’t helping someone in need.

  “How’s Harold?” he asked.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where? Back to that shack? His car’s still parked at the community center.”

  Rose took his hand, went to the sofa, and pulled him down beside her. “Not that kind of gone. He died a few hours ago. His heart just gave out.”

  At first Joseph couldn’t take it in. The little man had been resting comfortably when he’d left that morning. Now he’d never know for sure if Harold had set the fire.

  Rose added, “All those years of heavy drinking, using whatever prescription drugs he could get his hands on, he didn’t have the strength to survive this last episode. Maybe he’s better off.”

  “Nobody’s better off dead.” But as he spoke, he knew the words were untrue. Harold was a tortured man and tired of living; such a man would always find a way out, and it was an unkindness to hinder his departure.