Rita Judson was manning — womanning? — the grocery counter when I walked in. Through the archway I could see Mack and a few other men clustered near the bar; I detoured over that way for a better view. They were holding a private wake for Nils, the way it looked, their faces solemn and what conversation there was uttered in low voices. Fred Dyce wasn’t among them. Neither were Strayhorn or Cantrell.
I went on to the counter and commiserated with Rita for a minute or so before I asked my questions. Drawing her out about the three other newcomers wasn’t difficult; she didn’t mind sharing what she knew, though it was not much about any of them. When I left her, this was what I had:
Fred Dyce. He lived in the San Fernando Valley, not L.A. proper — Van Nuys. Sold used cars and drove one himself, a Jeep Cherokee with vanity plates: LKYDYCE. Marital and family status unknown; he wouldn’t talk about his personal life. Or explain what had brought him all the way up to Deep Mountain Lake from Southern California. He drank a lot, mostly sour-mash bourbon with beer chasers, but so far he’d kept it and his hostility under control. His cabin was number eight, on the north side lakefront.
Jacob Strayhorn. Born and still lived in Stockton. What he did for a living was uncertain; he’d told Mack that he was in the manufacturing business, but he’d been reticent about what it was he manufactured. Kept to himself and volunteered almost nothing of a personal nature, beyond the fact that he was divorced. Drove the beat-up Chrysler I’d seen on my way to Two Bar Creek yesterday morning. He wasn’t staying at the resort; he’d rented one of the smaller private cottages downshore — not far from the Stapleton property.
Hal Cantrell. Real-estate broker in and resident of Pacifica. Married a dozen years to his second wife; two grown children from his first marriage, none from number two. Rita’s take on him was the same as mine: shrewd and sly. “I wouldn’t want to buy a house from him,” she said, and even though she’d laughed, I had the feeling she meant it. He took annual one-week fishing vacations by himself, each year to a different location. But he didn’t do much fishing, mostly just sat around and drank beer and schmoozed with whoever happened to be handy. He occupied cabin one, on the south side lakefront. Which meant that his transportation was a four-by-four Chevy Tracker; I could see it parked in front of number one when I came outside.
I went that way long enough to make a mental note of the license plate number, then walked back and across to cabin eight. No sign of the Jeep Cherokee. And no answer to my knock. Each cabin had a tiny porch tacked onto its lake side; I moved around to this one’s, climbed three steps onto its weathered boards. A plastic picnic cooler sat in the shade against the wall, but there wasn’t anything inside except an inch of melted icewater. The curtains were partially drawn across the window, so I put my nose up to the glass and peered inside. That didn’t buy me anything, either. The interior was messy, the bed unmade and clothes and fishing equipment strewn around. Dyce was a slob; so what? There was nothing out of the ordinary that I could see.
I kept my hand off the handle on the porch door. Too early in the game for illegal trespass without provocation, even if the door happened to be unlocked. Instead, I went down and wandered along the narrow strip of beach that ran behind the cabins.
Hal Cantrell was sitting on the porch of cabin one, feet propped on the railing, a bottle of Beck’s sweating in one hand. He waved the bottle as I approached and called out, “Hey there. Come on up and join me.”
I did that. Next to his chair was a table that held a bucket of ice and more beer, and a pair of six- or seven-power binoculars with a worn leather strap.
“How about a cold one?” he asked.
“Little early for me.”
“Me, too, if I weren’t on vacation. Might as well live it up. You never know, right?”
“About what?”
“How long you’re going to be around. One day you’re above ground, the next you could be under it.”
“Like Nils Ostergaard.”
“Like him. Hell of a thing, wasn’t it.”
“Hell of a thing,” I agreed.
“Nosy old bird, but I liked him.”
“So did I.”
Cantrell tilted his head back to get a better look at me from under the brim of his canvas fisherman’s hat. “You really think it was an accident?”
“Why? Don’t you?”
“Everybody seems to read it that way. But you were asking a mess of questions before the deputies showed up.”
“Just my nature. I’m a professional skeptic.”
“So am I, when it comes to John Q. Public. Can’t survive in my business if you’re not.”
“Mine, either.”
“That fellow Strayhorn,” he said. “What’s his problem?”
“Problem?”
“The way he kept needling you. Plain he’s a got a bone on where you’re concerned. How come?”
“He doesn’t approve of my fishing methods.”
“No, huh?”
I shrugged. “You know anything about him?”
“Not much. Makes pipe down in the Central Valley.” Cantrell grinned, winked. “Me, now, I’d rather lay pipe on the coast.”
“What kind does he make?”
“Sewer pipe, I think he said.”
“Have his own company?”
“Could be. Didn’t tell me if he does.”
“You spend much time with him?”
“Nope. He’s not the social type.”
“Neither is Fred Dyce.”
“Hell, no. He’s got a bone on for everybody.”
“Give you any trouble?”
“Not me. I steer clear of guys like him when they’re boozing.”
“Any idea what put that chip on his shoulder?”
“Nope, and I could care less.”
“Not much of a fisherman,” I said, “even though he pretends to be. Doesn’t seem to know a dry fly from a housefly.”
“You can say that again.”
“What do you suppose he’s doing here, then?”
“Trying to learn how to be what he says he is.” Cantrell gave me another head-tilted look. “You seem pretty interested in Dyce.”
“I’m interested in everybody. Another part of my nature.”
“You go around looking in everybody’s windows, like you were doing over at Dyce’s cabin?”
I didn’t answer the question, watching him. His expression didn’t change; his eyes remained friendly, guileless. Pretty soon I said, “Nice pair of binoculars you’ve got there.”
“Had ‘em twenty years. Can’t beat Zeiss.”
“For what? Spying?”
He grinned, put his hand over his heart the way he had at the gas pumps yesterday. “I am not a spy. Or a Peeping Tom. Just a guy with a nosy streak, like you and Ostergaard.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I happened to be scanning around, and I swung the glasses over that way and there you were, up on the porch. So I kept watching. What were you looking for in Dyce’s cabin?”
“Nothing in particular. Just looking.”
“Wouldn’t be because you think Dyce had something to do with the old man’s death?”
“No. We all decided it was an accident, remember?”
“Oh sure, I remember.”
“I understand Ostergaard had a little run-in with Dyce just after he arrived.”
“Is that right? About what?”
“Him pretending to be an expert fisherman. Nils didn’t like people who weren’t what they claimed to be.”
“Who does?”
“You get to know him at all?”
“Who? Ostergaard?”
“Ostergaard.”
Another grin. “Now we’re around to me. I’m on the list, too, huh?”
“What list is that?”