“No trouble?”
“Few looks, that’s all. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. What’d you find out?”
“Nobody home at the Hunters’, alarm system still on, big Audi sitting in the garage.”
“Look like anyone’s been there since yesterday?”
“Uh-uh. Got that deserted feel.”
“Okay. Thanks, Tamara.”
“What else you got for me to do?”
“Nothing on the Hunter ease until I see what I can find out in Gualala. When you get back to the office, go ahead with the Pac Bell search—”
“Way ahead of you there. I e-mailed my man before I left and he already got back to me.” She was a true child of the new age; she carried a laptop with her everywhere she went — to bed and the bathroom, for all I knew — and checked her messages with compulsive regularity. “Might just be your mother-in-law’s right about Mr. Todd. Be something funny goin’ on anyway.”
“How so?”
“Subscriber was Inco of California. Impressive, right? Big outfit of some kind. But the thing is, they had the number exactly one month. September first to October first.”
“Cancelled by them or Pac Bell?”
“Them. Paid the setup charge in advance, paid the one month’s bill and cancelled at the same time. Not much of a bill, either — few dollars over minimum, all on toll calls to Marin.”
“Who opened the account and signed Inco’s check?”
“Man named John Klinghurst. Mean anything?”
“Not to me.”
“Well, Mr. John Klinghurst has himself another phone number listed in his own name. Same billing address as Inco’s — twenty-six-eleven Kirkham. That number’s still in service.”
“Inner Sunset. Residential area.”
“Right. All of this say to you what it does to me?”
“Scam of some kind.”
“With just one target. Mr. Archie Todd.”
“When you get back to the office,” I said, “see what you can find out about this John Klinghurst. Call my mother-in-law, ask her if she knows him or has heard the name. And check with Dunbar Asset Management. Todd’s financial consultants. If they won’t give you any information about his account, talk to his lawyer, Evan Patterson. See what he knows about Todd’s financial situation.”
“Will do,” Tamara said.
We rang off. By then I was through the worst of the cliff-hugging turns and on my way past the old Russian stronghold at Fort Ross. A phrase popped into my head: Trouble ahead, trouble behind, and me somewhere in the middle. I smiled a little, wryly. You could use those words, pretty much verbatim, as an epitaph for a private eye.
13
Gualala is one of several villages strung along the Pacific rim of Sonoma and Mendocino counties, between Fort Ross and Port Bragg. Some people think the name is Native American, but in fact it’s a Spanish phoenetic rendering of Valhalla, the mythological home of heroes fallen in battle. Timber interests working the long spine of mountains to the east built a logging camp there in the 1850’s — one of the “doghole ports” used as shipping points for schooners carrying redwood to San Francisco Bay. For over a hundred years much of the Bay Area’s lumber supply came from the area.
Its modern evolution began in the early 1960s, when logging went into a big decline. Retirees and wealthy individuals looking for second homes and private retreats began to move in, drawn by some of the most ruggedly unspoiled coastline in the state. Developers, naturally, weren’t far behind. Under close watch by the Coastal Commission, they built a ten-mile-long stretch of environmentally friendly homes on large parcels called Sea Ranch; and farther north, oceanfront property stretching halfway to Point Arena was gobbled up at increasingly higher prices. Gualala, smack in the middle and loaded with old-fashioned seaside charm, flourished for that reason, and because its isolation, generally temperate weather (the area is known as the “Banana Coast”), and scenic attractions made it desirable to artists, writers, and other urban dropouts.
A little of the old charm has been diluted by such growth byproducts as minimalls and motels, but for the most part it’s still a down-home place. It may not be quite as unspoiled as a few of its “doghole” neighbors, but on the other hand it hasn’t gone the way of Mendocino, the best known of the coastal towns fifty miles to the north, and become a cloyingly quaint, tricked-up tourist trap.
It was a quarter of two when I crossed the long bridge spanning the mouth of the Gualala River and entered the town. The weather up here was mostly clear and sunny, but there was a fog bank out at the horizon line and a gusty wind that threatened to drive it inshore before dark. The Banana Coast’s mean temperature may be higher than San Francisco’s, but it gets just as many year-round smothers of fog.
I pulled into the lot next to the old Gualala Hotel and went in there to ask directions to Port Creek Road. It was at the north end of the village, leading up into the hills. I found it all right, climbed past a school and through a long wooded section. The number 2410 was painted on one of four mailboxes at the foot of a private access lane. The last of the four houses back in there, set on a piece of high ground, was the one I wanted.
It was a small place that had seen better days, built of redwood logs and shakes, with a front deck that looked as though a good wind might knock it down into kindling. Just as ramshackle were an empty carport, a lean-to stuffed with firewood, and a shedlike structure in the trees behind the house. I’d seen woodsmoke coming from the chimneys of two of the other houses; there was none here. Nobody home, evidently.
I left my car on the turnaround where the lane ended and walked up to number 2410. The stairs felt spongy under my feet as I climbed onto the deck. The boards up there were in such bad shape that my weight on them brought creaks and fluttery movement from an ancient chain-supported porch swing. Some place. Aunt Karen wasn’t anywhere near as well off as the Hunters. But then, she might be the kind of artist who didn’t give a damn about material rewards.
There was no bell so I banged on the door. All that got me was more creaking from the rusty swing. Well? I turned to glance along the lane. The thick growth of pine and fir on the Port Creek Road side cut off any view of the neighboring houses. I faced the door again. Knocked once more, listened, didn’t hear anything, and tried the knob. I expected it to be locked; the fact that it wasn’t stirred me. I hesitated with my hand on the knob. Better not, I thought, somebody could show up any minute.
Emily, I thought. And opened the door and leaned inside.
Dark in there — curtains open but not much natural light coming through the windows. A faint, pulsing red showed in the fireplace: the last dying embers of a recent fire whose warmth still lingered. I glanced back at the empty lane another time, then went in all the way, leaving the door open so it would be easier to hear the sound of an approaching car.
When my eyes adjusted I could see that the room was maybe twenty feet square. Not much furniture, rag rugs on a bare hardwood floor, a breakfast bar and a pocket-size kitchen to my left. Pieces of stained glass, mounted and suspended from the ceiling, served as wall decoration on both sides of the fireplace. I couldn’t tell much about them in the gloom and I wouldn’t have been able to judge their quality anyway.
A narrow hallway bisected the wall opposite, next to the kitchen; I went that way, taking in the room. Karen Meineke was not much of a housekeeper. Papers, unemptied ashtrays, unclean dishes, other items littered most surfaces. Woodsmoke, cigarette smoke, fried foods, dust and dampness created a heavy, hanging smell that encouraged mouth breathing. I walked along the hall. A right-angle extension led to one bedroom; another, larger bedroom opened up ahead. The larger one had an unmade brass-frame bed, piles of dirty clothes, and not much else. I backed up and moved into the second bedroom.