Looking for Yesterday Page 18

  Rae had been working as a security guard when the head of the company referred her to me as an assistant. Although she was usually disheveled, more often late than not, and cowed by her perpetual-student husband who made her type all his papers, her enthusiasm and willingness to do the most routine of tasks compelled me to hire her. Within a year she’d shed the husband, created her own room in the attic of All Souls, and moved on with her life. There’d been some setbacks: a couple of disastrous relationships, a demand from her ex-husband for alimony when she began making good money—which was speedily dispatched in court, with Hank representing her. Since then her personal and professional trajectory had been upward.

  “You want to watch the DVR?” Hy asked.

  “Not now. I don’t have an attention span.” I closed my eyes, snuggling in closer to him. “In addition, I don’t have any clothes. I don’t have anything. I may never leave this house again.”

  “In your dreams. Rae’s going to arrange for a personal shopper from that store you and she like to come out this morning. You’re getting a whole new wardrobe.”

  “At great expense.”

  “The insurance will cover it.”

  “But all the other stuff that’s gone—”

  “A lot of it is, but not these.” He reached into his pocket. “One of the firemen spotted that ammo box riveted to the linen closet floor and thought it must have had something to do with the explosion. He removed it, found your old thirty-eight Special and your grandma’s garnet earrings.”

  He held up the earrings. The red stones sparkled in the light from the embers.

  “Oh, Hy, thank you!”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the fireman—whose name is Freeman—and the US Navy for making indestructible ammo boxes.”

  “I’ll call Freeman in the morning, but not the navy. I doubt they’d approve of the use I put that box to.”

  9:10 a.m.

  I’d slept another few hours. Now it was time to get moving—at least as much movement as a woman with only a bathrobe to wear can indulge in.

  I phoned the office: Ted said that everybody was working on my house fire, trying to locate possible suspects in our case files. Next I called my insurance agent, who had heard about the fire and was full of sympathy—but, I sensed, already trying to wriggle out of paying off on the full amount of the policy. I then phoned Howard Freeman, the fireman who had saved my ammo box; he was pleased to hear from me but refused to take a reward. “All in a day’s work, Ms. McCone.” When I told him I wanted to contribute to one of their charities, he thanked me and recommended the Survivors’ Fund.

  Then I decided I was a survivor too and ought to get out of bed.

  Mrs. Wellcome brought up a tray of pancakes, bacon, and fried eggs. Fortunately she couldn’t know that shortly after I ate I threw it all up.

  At ten thirty Rae’s personal shopper arrived with trunks of clothing.

  By the time she left at eleven thirty, I was the possessor of a small but attractive new wardrobe: all-new underwear; a robe in a handsome black-and-orange California poppy pattern; three pairs of jeans and five sweaters; a stylish all-purpose black pantsuit; three silk blouses; shoes, boots, and slippers; a warm tan woolen jacket and a black raincoat; a Baggallini purse; and a stunning low-cut red cocktail dress that exactly matched Grandma’s garnet earrings. Other things—jewelry, scarves, miscellaneous accessories—could wait a while.

  Rae then appeared, bearing such necessities of life as my brands of toothpaste and shampoo, a blow-dryer, a new brush and comb, face wipes and cotton balls, and a pint of peach ice cream, which we devoured on the spot. That I kept down.

  While we were making pigs of ourselves, she said, “This reminds me of the time you and Hy were staying at the old RI building and that bomber blew it up. Remember: Julia had to go out and buy you almost everything.”

  “That wasn’t nearly as bad. We were staying there because our house was under renovation. I still had plenty of stuff stored there.”

  “True.” She scraped the last of the ice cream from her bowl. “So what do you think you and Hy will do?”

  “For now we’ll be staying at the RI hospitality suite—no way anybody’s going to get at us there.”

  “Ricky and I had hoped you’d stay here.”

  “And we’d like to, but until this is all wrapped up, we don’t want to put you two at risk. Or the kids, when they’re here.”

  Her blue eyes darkened, and I knew she was thinking of various incidents of celebrity stalkings that had put both of them in danger. Such as the time she’d pulled Ricky off a stage in Albuquerque, New Mexico, when a man with a grudge was gunning for him.

  I said, “By the way, I heard your press conference went well. Hy DVRed it, but I haven’t had time to watch it yet.”

  “It wasn’t bad. I darted and weaved here and there, confused the hell out of them until most of them decided it wasn’t really much of a story. Now what can I do?”

  “Well, I’ll have to deal with the annoying little things: I’ll need a new driver’s license, investigator’s credentials, credit cards, and cell phone. Fortunately I keep my important papers—passport, birth certificate, insurance policies, will, and property deeds—in the safe at the office. My three-fifty-seven, too. Hy’s notified the Mendocino and Mono County sheriffs’ departments that our places there might be at risk, but their departments cover a huge area and haven’t the manpower to watch them full-time.”

  “You have caretakers, don’t you?”

  “Well, sure, but in Mono County he’s the ranch manager and has lots of other things to tend to. In Mendocino the guy takes care of five other houses besides ours.”

  “Alarms connected with the fire and police and sheriffs’ departments?”

  “Now you’re sounding like my insurance agent. Yes, we do, but you and I both know how easily such devices can be tampered with.”

  We sat in silence for a moment—both, I suppose, contemplating another pint of peach ice cream.

  Rae said, “At least let me take care of the cell phone and credit cards; I might even be able to get you temporary driver’s and pilot’s and investigator’s licenses.”

  “Don’t you have other things to do?”

  “Hell no. Like I told you, I’m not starting my next book till April. Ricky and I have no major travel plans till July. What am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the fog drift by?”

  “Then I accept your offer. But I’ll owe you.”

  “Yeah, big-time.” She grinned, her lightly freckled nose crinkling. “You can work some of it off by letting me come car shopping with you. Ricky always buys mine, and I know I’m a better bargainer than him. I also wouldn’t mind helping you house-shop, if you do.”

  “Agreed.”

  Then the phone rang. Rae answered, whispered, “Your mother.”

  “Which one?”

  “Saskia.”

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  “Sharon, how are you?” her low voice asked.

  “As well as possible under the circumstances. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Hy gave me the number, and then I spoke with your other mother.”

  “How is Ma?”

  “Calm. Frankly, I’m surprised. Her responses to other difficult situations have struck me as slightly hysterical.”

  “She wasn’t always like that.” I remembered Katie McCone, as she’d been called then, in her straw sun hat, digging with her bare hands in the dirt we’d filled the swimming pool with to grow vegetables after a sonic boom from a fighter plane out of NAS Miramar had irreparably cracked it.

  “Well, maybe she’s reverted to her former self, then. I’m glad Kay and I have become good friends over the years. Is there anything either of us can do?”

  “I think the situation’s under control—for now.”

  No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang again. Rae said, “You pick up this time.”

  “Daughter, is that you?” The familiar voice
was harsh from a lifetime of smoking. Elwood Farmer, my birth father, who lived on the Flathead reservation in Montana. As with Saskia, I’d had no idea he existed until a few years ago.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “This house fire—it was bad?”

  “We lost everything.”

  “Saskia telephoned me, but she didn’t know how bad at the time. She gave me this number. You weren’t injured?”

  “No. Even the cats got out okay.”

  “Then I will pray for you.”

  “Elwood—”

  “As I have told you, you may call me Father.”

  “Okay, Father, but you know I’m not religious.”

  “Prayers are not hurtful things for those of us who believe to send out to those who don’t.”

  The comment stung—which Elwood had intended it to do. “I’m sorry, Elwood…Father.”

  He said something in his native tongue and broke the connection. But the caring and comfort in those incomprehensible words from this relative stranger who had sired me filled me with strength.

  The next call was from Hy: The RI hospitality suite was set up for us to move in. He’d sent one of the guards out for groceries. Rae volunteered to take my new things and the cats over there. I agreed, hoping to hear from Mick or one of my other operatives.

  No calls. Mainly I sat in a chair overlooking the ocean and brooded.

  Hy had said we could rebuild. But did I want to on the same lot, providing the insurance company forked over? I wasn’t sure. I loved the neighborhood and the neighbors. I’d loved the house, but it would be impossible to replicate, and I couldn’t imagine another structure standing in its place. The alternative was to sell the lot and, land values being what they were in the city, even in the current recession, I’d probably get a decent price. But then what?

  A condo in one of those high-rises that were springing up like mushrooms in the rainy season? God, no. It was bad enough I’d be working out of the RI building. A house in Sea Cliff near Rae and Ricky? Hy and I could afford one, but the incessant fog would drive both of us crazy. Pacific Heights? Maybe: the weather was usually good there. Nob Hill? Tel Hill? North Beach? Too congested. Potrero Hill? Bernal Heights? Maybe: they were also good-weather areas.

  Trouble was, I couldn’t get enthusiastic over any place.

  Give it time, McCone. You’re still grieving over the loss of your home.

  If I hadn’t been in the middle of this case, I’d’ve left and flown up to Touchstone or to the ranch in the high desert. Or driven either scenic route—

  But I didn’t have a car. Rae was taking care of a rental, as well as replacements for my driver’s and investigator’s and pilot’s licenses, but I had no idea how long it would take. In the meantime, I didn’t have anything—

  Stop this pity party, McCone! You have photocopies of everything important in the office safe. Get off your ass and do something.

  I got off my ass—and the phone rang again.

  It was Rob Warrick; his voice sounded strange. Early this morning I’d asked Ted to call every current client, and all other persons connected with my cases, and give them this number.

  He said he was so sorry to hear about the fire, then came to the point of his call.

  “I just finished clearing everything out of Caro’s storage unit, and I came across some papers and letters to her that might interest you. They were in an envelope taped to the back of that cabinet. Some of them look to be originals of the Xeroxes she tried to bring you the night she was attacked.”

  “And the letters?”

  “Also originals, from an old friend of hers from high school named Valerie. They’re all dated in August, but the year isn’t specified, and there’re no envelopes with a postmark or a return address.”

  “Do you know this Valerie?”

  “I never met her, but Caro talked about her a lot. I was under the impression that they’d fallen out of touch, though.”

  “What’s Valerie’s last name?”

  “Benton? No—Benbow. That’s it.”

  “And these letters say…?”

  “They’re kind of puzzling. I’d like to show them to you in person.”

  “Okay,” I said, and gave him the address. “Have your ID ready for the security guard.”

  2:23 p.m.

  When I opened the door to Rob Warrick, he seemed intimidated by the premises. “Who lives here?” he asked.

  “Relatives.”

  “Nice place, although that can’t possibly make up for losing your home. What caused the fire?”

  “The fire department called a few minutes ago. They’re pretty sure it was arson. There was a charred gasoline can under the deck.”

  For a moment he didn’t speak. Then he asked, “Because of Caro’s case?”

  “You have any reason to believe that?”

  “No, although it is a coincidence.”

  “And you distrust coincidences.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So do I. By the way, how’s Patty doing?”

  “Mulching and composting with a vengeance—even in the rain.”

  “Her form of therapy, I guess. And you?”

  “I’m doing okay. I thought I’d made sense of things, and then I found these.”

  He handed me a sheaf of newspaper clippings and letters handwritten on heavy bond paper.

  “You recognize the handwriting?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay, let me read them.” I led him into the living room, where four easy chairs overlooked the sea. “You relax—the bar’s over there, the kitchen’s through the door. Help yourself to whatever pleases you.”

  Rob helped himself to three fingers of Ricky’s best single malt scotch and settled down in the chair beside me as I read.

  August 2

  Caro:

  I know it’s inexcusable, but what’s done is done. And maybe, in its way, justice has been served, too. None of us likes this charade, but for Dave’s sake we must go on with it. So much depends on preserving the status quo. What she did is reprehensible, and so, so unfair to you. But we must—and we will—go on.

  Valerie

  August 9

  Caro:

  I hate this as much as you do, and I wouldn’t go on with it except for old times’ sake. When he called and begged me to substitute, I couldn’t refuse. Please believe me, it wasn’t the money. It was the memory of the days when we were so close.

  Valerie

  August 30

  Caro:

  Finally we’re all safe. I know how hard it’s been on you, but now you’re back in the fold—is that a sheepherding term? I never remember those things you’ve told me. Please join us and live easily. We await your arrival!

  Valerie

  “Not much to go on,” Rob said.

  “I don’t know; Benbow’s an unusual name. I’ll have one of my employees start a trace on Valerie. The dates—August second, ninth, and then the thirtieth—make me wonder if there weren’t more in between. This mention of sheepherding—that also interests me.”

  “I don’t think Caro knew anything about sheep. Of course, I could be wrong.”

  I thought of the private investigator Edna Sheep; maybe her last name was why Caro had hired her before turning to Ham Roth. Sheep versus pigs. The idea was ridiculous. But sheep—there was something about them.…

  “Of course,” I said, “Jethro Weatherford kept sheep.”

  “Who?”

  “Doesn’t matter right now.” I stood. “I need to do some research. May I keep these letters?”

  Rob stood too. “Certainly. And now I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ve been neglecting my work so much that I’m afraid they’ll boot me out of the firm. Call me when you have something.”

  I walked him out, then went back to the living room and looked at the laptop Rae had loaned me.

  Sheep. What the hell could sheepherding have to do with all of this?

  4:07 p.m.

  Appar
ently sheepherding had a lot to do with it, according to the Internet.

  The Waldens had threatened Jethro Weatherford with a lawsuit over letting his sheep stray onto their land.

  Jethro had responded, saying they’d better not set foot on his property.

  Then the boundary dispute had started: the Waldens had claimed that a corner of Jethro’s ranch actually belonged to them. A court had ruled otherwise. Over the next six months, four of Jethro’s sheep had been brutally killed.

  The Waldens had denied they’d had anything to do with the killings, but a nearby ranch hand taking a shortcut across Jethro’s place said he’d seen an employee of Dave and Kayla’s in the pasture around the times the animals had been slaughtered.

  The Waldens, it seemed, were good at denial.

  The phone rang and I let the call go to the machine, but when I heard Jim McCullough’s voice I picked up.

  The fireman said, “The suspect you mentioned who might’ve done your house fire, Daniel Winters, cleared out of his apartment yesterday afternoon. Was picked up on a DUI north of Sacramento. For once the Highway Patrol paid attention to our BOLOs.”

  “Did he confess?”

  “No. Lawyered up with Iron Mike Falvey, but I doubt Mike’ll be representing him much longer. He doesn’t like clients who don’t follow orders. Problem is, Winters has an alibi for the time of the arson: he stopped by at Capitol Casino in Sacramento, drank too much and made an ass of himself. Quite a few employees and patrons can identify him.”

  “Maybe distancing himself from another thug he’d hired to set the fire?”

  “Possibly. But to be frank, I don’t see him for the job. When his first thug failed, I doubt he tried another.”

  I sighed. “So he won’t be charged for anything except drunk driving.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not against the law to be vicious and stupid.”

  After I ended the call, I read the Valerie letters again. With Winters out of the picture, it was all beginning to make sense. I strongly suspected who had set my home on fire, and I was determined to nail the bastard.

  5:17 p.m.

  None of my more experienced operatives were available: Craig and Adah were still down with the flu; Julia didn’t answer her home or cell phone; Derek had gone to Las Vegas for the weekend; Patrick and Thelia weren’t reachable either.