She thanked me, and I said, “Sure. Sorry I couldn’t get him out sooner, without the hassle. But he’s too far gone to listen to reason.”
“I shouldn’t’ve served him when he came in, not even one round.”
“Well, I doubt he’ll be any more trouble tonight. But if he does come back, give me a call.”
“Not necessary. Mack’ll be home from Quincy pretty soon. How about something on the house, a drink or some food?”
“I’ve lost my thirst and my appetite. But thanks anyway.”
So much for Dyce, I thought as I got into the car. He’s not the one. Poor self-pitying slob with a mad-on against the world because his wife is divorcing him for another man; a scratch fighter and a blowhard and a fool, but nothing more.
If Ostergaard was murdered by a first-timer, it was either Strayhorn or Cantrell.
11
As soon as I entered the Zaleski cabin, I had the same sudden, violated-space feeling I’d experienced earlier. Not a leftover current but a fresh one. My skin prickled with it; the hair on my scalp rippled.
Without touching the light switch, I backed out and shut the door. It took me thirty seconds to unlock the car, remove the .38 Colt Bodyguard from its clips under the dash, get back to the door and inside. I stood listening. No sounds, nothing for my eyes to pick up except stationary shadows. I clicked on the hall light, went from there into the empty kitchen. Put on the kitchen light and followed its outspill into the front room. Empty. Same with both bedrooms and the bathroom between them. And again, nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
I let myself relax, lowering the gun. Definitely a fresh aura, though; there hadn’t been anything left of the first one after I’d aired the place out this afternoon. Somebody had been here again tonight — the same somebody. Twice in one day.
For what damn purpose?
I started back to the front door, to see if there were any signs of forced entry this time — and there was a knock outside. I froze. A second knock sounded; that one took me over beside the door, with the gun up alongside my ear.
“Yes?”
“It’s Marian.”
She sounded all right, nothing unnatural or urgent in her voice. I slipped the .38 into my jacket pocket, but I kept my hand on it as I opened the door.
She was alone. A quick study, too; she said immediately, “You’re all tense. Is something wrong?”
“No. Just feeling jumpy tonight. I guess.” My face had a damp feel; I let go of the gun. used both hands to dry my cheeks and forehead. “What can I do for you, Marian?”
“Well, I have a message for you.”
“Message?”
“From Callie Ostergaard. Something she forgot to tell you, she said. About Nils — a receipt he found the other day that bothered him.”
“What kind of receipt?”
“Callie doesn’t know. That was all he told her.”
“Does she know where he found it?”
“No.”
“In what way was he bothered by it?”
“Puzzled and suspicious. Callie said.” Light from the hall showed vertical ridges between Marian’s eyes, like close-set quote marks. “What’s this about? Why should Callie want me to tell you about a receipt?”
“I can’t talk about it now. It’s between Callie and me.”
“Something to do with what happened to Nils?”
“Marian, please don’t ask me. I’ll explain it to you when I can. Okay?”
“This receipt. Does Callie know what Nils did with it?’*
“Not exactly.”
“Meaning she has an idea where it might be?”
“Yes. She said for you to look in the toolbox in Nils’s pickup. He kept things in there that he didn’t want to bring into the house for one reason or another — private things. She doesn’t know where the pickup is now.”
“Where he left it last night,” I said, “or else it’s been moved over to Judson’s.” Then, because I’d never seen him driving it, “What make and color?”
“A Ford, I think. At least fifteen years old. White with one of those covered shells on the back.”
“Will I need a key to get into the toolbox?”
“Callie didn’t say anything about a key.”
“Probably not, then. While we’re on the subject of keys… did Nils have one to your cabin?”
“Yes, he did.”
“To this one, too?”
She nodded. “He had spare keys to several of the cottages in case of emergency.”
“Where’d he keep them? At home, on his person?”
“He carried them on a big ring.”
“Each one marked?”
“Yes, a piece of tape with the owner’s name.”
“Thanks, Marian. Forgive me for being mysterious. It’s just that I don’t want to say anything until I have more information.”
She said, “I understand,” and let it go. Most people wouldn’t have; she was a special person, all right. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
I watched her out of sight, thinking: So somebody could’ve taken the Zaleski key off Nils’s body and used it to get in here both times. Taken it after he was murdered, if he was murdered, or this morning after the body was found. His entire key ring could’ve been lifted, for that matter.
Why? Why would anybody go to the trouble to steal Ostergaard’s keys and then risk not one but two covert visits to this cabin?
Why would anybody steal padlocks off boathouse and storeroom doors?
Why would anybody pretend to be someone he isn’t at a remote mountain lake? And then maybe commit murder to protect his real identity?
Erratic, apparently purposeless behavior. The stuff of paranoia and psychosis…
I got into the car again, not bothering to lock the cabin, and drove down to Judson’s. The pickup Marian had described had been moved there; it was parked at the western edge of the lot. I pulled in close next to it. There was activity inside the cafe but nobody outside in the vicinity. I went to the Ford, tried the lift-up door on the shell. It wasn’t locked. The sky was darkening, with most of the sun gone behind the peaks to the west, but there was still enough daylight for me to see inside and to find the toolbox among a welter of fishing gear, spare parts, and miscellany. I flipped its catches, sifted through the contents.
At the bottom, tucked inside a plastic freezer bag, were a few personal papers and a small envelope. The envelope yielded a strip of paper about four inches long, rumpled and food stained and folded in half — a cash register receipt. I shoved it into my pocket, closed the toolbox and the shell door, and drove straight back to the cabin.
In the privacy of the kitchen I examined the cash register receipt. It was from a Safeway store and carried a list of fourteen items ranging from Hormel chili with beans to Elmer’s Glue to a six-pack of Beck’s. Dated twelve days ago. None of that was particularly interesting; the only thing about the receipt that pushed any buttons was the location of the Safeway branch.
Half Moon Bay.
Why would Ostergaard keep a Safeway receipt that, judging from the food stains, he’d found in somebody’s garbage? Why would he poke around in garbage in the first place? And why would the receipt puzzle him, make him suspicious?
Hal Cantrell, I thought. He lived and worked in Pacifica, which was only about fifteen miles up the coast from Half Moon Bay. And he’d been drinking a bottle of Beck’s this afternoon. Coincidence or connection? Maybe—
The telephone went off.
The sudden noise made me jump. Getting nervy. Hell, who wouldn’t under the circumstances? I went over and answered the thing.
Tamara. She said, “Yo, finally,” with a slight prickly edge in her voice. “This the fourth time I done called you, boss man. I even tried your car phone.”