“Were those doors unlocked?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“Right upstairs. With Mae, having an aperitif and some conversation. We do that often now. Since Mr. Overholt passed along. And I heard a car door shut. I didn’t hear a car drive up, but I heard the door shut.”
“Because of the radio?”
“Yes. Mae and I were listening to the radio. I got up and looked out the window and saw Barbara Becker get out of a blue station wagon. I think it was a Kingswood Estate. The Chevy. A bunch of kids in the back.”
Nick frowned, tried to remember the exact words of his conversation with David. He hadn’t said anything about Barbara and the flyers, had he?
“Did you go downstairs and talk to her?”
“By the time I got down there she was back in the car. I didn’t run after her. I figured it was something to do with the flyers, and how important could that be?”
“She didn’t take them?”
“No. Mike took them. Like I told you. Maybe fifteen minutes later.”
Mae came through the side door again. Another pleasant look for Nick. One a little sharper for Gunnar. She put a roll of tape back in the desk and left.
NICK CALLED Sharon from a pay phone, said he wouldn’t be over. She said fine, she was awful tired, too. They talked quietly a minute and hung up.
Then he called David and Barbara’s house. Got Barbara because David was out. Made small talk, then asked about her picking up early copies of the worship flyer last Tuesday around quarter to six.
“I sure did,” said Barbara happily. “Just a few for my youth group to send out. Nick, is everything okay?”
16
ANDY BECKER CRUNCHED along a gravel walkway toward one of the guesthouses behind Big Red in Bluebird Canyon.
Wednesday, a week after Janelle Vonn in the SunBlesst packinghouse. Light breeze, warm in the sun but cool in the shade. Seagulls crying over the beach. A hawk in the canyon pivoting just ahead of its own shadow, a flash of sun on its wings. Smell of ocean and sage and marijuana smoke.
The weather-beaten slat cottage sat at the far end of a mostly brown lawn. One of three, all similar. Wood silvered by the sun. Roof shingles warped. Stained-glass windows-hummingbirds and flowers. Small stands of plantain and giant bird-of-paradise for privacy. Beyond them rough hills sloping into the sharp blue Pacific.
Andy was about to knock when the cottage door slapped open. The window glass rattled. A young woman, batik sheet around her and nothing else, marched past, never looked at him. Bare feet on the gravel, orange hair flying, headed for the main house. Andy looked back at the girl and the big slouching home, barn red in the clear morning light. Big Red, all right. Paint peeling, blankets for curtains. Rain gutters askew.
Jesse Black stood in the cottage doorway. Hair a mess, jeans slung low and loose, a red plaid flannel shirt hanging out.
“I’m the writer,” said Andy. “Thanks for meeting.”
“You were at the ’Piper last Thursday,” he said.
Andy offered his hand and Black lightly knocked his fist against it. Black looked past him toward Big Red, then back at Andy. His eyes were dark and lively. Dark stubble on a pale chin.
“Come on in.”
Andy stepped through the narrow door into a tiny living room with a small couch. Throw rugs and beanbags. To the left a galley-sized kitchen. Sink and refrigerator and small counter. Cupboards and a window. Down a very short hallway Andy could see another room and what looked like the foot of a bed.
But mostly what he saw were instruments. The well-used Martin with the pickup over the sound hole leaned in one corner. An old f-hole Epiphone and a small amplifier in another. A white Stratocaster sitting upright on the couch. Beside the couch a Sears Silvertone electric with the amp built into the case. A ukulele stood beneath a window facing north up the coast. Maracas. A tambourine. Two recorders and a harmonica on the kitchen counter next to a plastic bag half full of grass and rolling papers.
“Busted,” Jesse said without interest.
“I’m cool.”
“I didn’t have that out when your brother was around. The whole compound was under FPA.”
Andy waited.
“Full Pig Alert,” said Jesse. Didn’t smile but his eyes did.
“That’s halfway funny,” said Andy. “It’s the cartoons of pigs dressed like cops getting shot and stabbed that bug me. Because he’s my brother.”
“Yeah, it’s all bullshit. One side against the other.”
Black motioned to the couch. Took the Strat and plunked himself onto a bright yellow beanbag. “I don’t get why you want to talk to me. Your articles about her already came out.”
“I’m interested for myself,” said Andy.
“You mean for a book or screenplay?”
“No. For me. I liked her. I’d known her since I was twelve. I mean, never well, but still…”
Black strummed the electric. Unplugged, it made a distant sweet sound like it was underwater. “She talked about you. You wrote the obit for her mother. She showed it to me. It was more than just an obituary, though. You got the mother’s misery. But you knew the difference between pathos and tragedy. I grooved on it.”
“Thank you. Most people don’t recognize the difference.”
“And you wrote that thing about her family. Now that was awesome. Got the stupid animal brothers and the innocence of Janelle and her sister. Changed the names and places, but you got the truth of it down. A lot of people knew it was her.”
“Not everybody,” said Andy. “But, yeah. A lot of people.”
“People wanted to help her after that.”
Black strummed a change that Andy recognized from the Sandpiper set last Thursday night. “Smoke?”
“Sure.”
Black set the guitar down and went to the kitchen counter. “This sinsemilla is dynamite.”
“I’ve heard about it. You and Janelle smoke a lot?”
“No. She liked acid. Leary turned her on to a dose of genuine Sandoz and she took to it. Not every day. Maybe once a week. Liked a little tequila, too.”
Black rolled a joint in less than a minute. Tight, slender, and filled all the way to the ends. Torched it with a Bic. A sweet green smell and Andy felt the smoke fill his lungs and the instant tilt of his senses.
“Those were good songs at the Sandpiper,” said Andy. “Even without knowing Janelle I would have liked them.”
“Outtasight.”
“‘Imagine You’ blew me away.”
“Came in a rush. Wrote it in a couple of days. Right after I heard.”
They passed the joint in silence. Finished half and let it go out. Jesse cranked open a hummingbird stained-glass window. Took the Stratocaster and sat back in the yellow beanbag.
Andy looked north out a clear window to Main Beach and the lifeguard stand and the boardwalk. Waves lazy on the sand. A vulture shot across the sky startlingly close to the window. Could have reached out and touched him.
The door slammed open and the orange-haired girl swept in. Sheet still clinched around her with one hand and a beer in the other. Had to put down the beer to get the roach to her lips, the lighter to her sheet hand, and walk back out. Not a glance at either of them.
“Crystal,” said Jesse.
“Bummin’.”
Jesse shrugged. “She’s a good keyboardist. Kind of possessive, though.”
Andy could see the vulture, smaller now, framed in the window of sky. “I saw her. Janelle. After it happened.”
“I’m glad I didn’t.”
Andy felt his heartbeat echoing in his eardrums. Same thing every time, first few minutes of a high. The sinsemilla was stronger than any he’d ever had before.
“I’m not sure why I put myself through it,” said Andy.
“I’ve tried not to picture her that way,” said Black. “It’s bad enough to see that kind of thing in a book or something. But if it’s someone you loved, almost impossible.”
“The first time I saw her was by that packinghouse. This was, man, fourteen years ago. Something like that.”