I picked up Highway 4 above Concord, and when I got past Antioch I stopped at a service station and bought a tankful of gas and a map of the Delta area. A couple of minutes with the map was all I needed; Yoloy Island didn’t look to be too hard to get to. And it was small enough so that I probably would not have to chase around checking streets and asking a lot of directions to Meeker’s place.
It was getting on toward two o’clock when I crossed the San Joaquin River at the westernmost edge of the Delta, near where it merges with the Sacramento River on a course to San Francisco Bay. Highway 160 began there and wound up through the network of islands, villages, marinas, picnic spots, levee roads, seventy bridges and drawbridges, and more than a thousand miles of waterways that make up the Delta. It was pretty nice country, full of willow trees and mistletoe-draped cottonwoods, cultivated farmland and jungly backwater sloughs where you could pick wild blackberries and catch catfish and Delta crayfish, shanty-towns occupied by elderly Chinese who looked as though they’d stepped out of the nineteenth century, places with colorful names like Dead Man’s Slough, Poker Bend, Jackass Flat, some of the best restaurants in California, and any number of houseboats, speedboats, sailboats, rowboats, skiffs, rafts, and old freighters. About the only inland water craft you wouldn’t find, in fact-and ironically enough-were the steamboats that had opened up the Delta in the days following the Gold Rush, carrying passengers and freight to and from Sacramento, Stockton, San Francisco, and new settlements in between.
The area was steeped in history and legend. Ghosts were said to walk on foggy nights in Dead Man’s Slough; there was supposed to be a treasure of gold specie buried on Coarsegold Island; old-timers would tell you straightfaced that there had been so many corpses consigned to watery graves in the Deltas-miners murdered for their pokes, cheating gamblers, claim-jumpers, outlaws and outlaw victims, Chinese slaughtered by whites and by their own in tong battles, passengers and crewmen killed when steamboat boilers exploded-that if you drained all the rivers and sloughs, you could walk from Sacramento to San Francisco on the layers of muddy bones.
During the summer the Delta was one of the most popular recreation and resort areas in North-em California. In the spring, though, cold winds still blow steadily across the flat alluvial plain and keep most people away. And this year, because of serious flooding and land erosion during heavy winter rains, even foul-weather fishermen were said to be looking elsewhere.
With the light traffic conditions, I made the twenty-odd miles to Grand Island in just under forty-five minutes. The turnoff I wanted, according to the map, was Poverty Road. I found it easily enough, went along there for another three miles, made another turn on Yoloy Road, and followed that to where an old-fashioned latticed-metal bridge spanned the gunmetal-gray waters of a channel. When I came off the bridge I was on Yoloy Island.
If yoloy meant “a place thick with rushes,” as Lloyd Underwood had told me, the island was well named: Tules grew all along the shoreline, below the levee road that looped along its perimeter. The other side of the road was lined with willow and pepper trees. Toward the center of the island, well apart from each other on higher ground partially hidden by brush and trees, I could see a couple of frame houses, one of them in tumbledown condition; unpaved access roads led up to each property, and at the foot of each drive was a mailbox with a name lettered on it. I slowed at both of them and pulled over close enough so that I could read the names. Neither one was Meeker.
The whole island could not have been more than three-quarters of a mile in circumference. Halfway around it the levee road veered inland past a rocky point on one side and a stretch of windswept grassland on the other. Beyond the point was a stand of cottonwoods, and beyond the cottonwoods was another house, this one built between the road and the slough and shaded by more cottonwoods and a couple of droopy willows. I came up near the drive and squinted through the windshield at the mailbox standing there. The lettering on this one was artistically done in three colors: Oswald J. Meeker.
I turned up the drive. The house was an old two-story frame with galleried porches and looked even more tumbledown than the one back near the bridge: white paint chipped and faded, upper gallery sagging in the middle, railings and Victorian latticework broken in places. The remains of a covered pioneer wagon, maybe authentic and maybe not, sat off to one side; the high grass growing up around it made it look as if it were sinking into the earth. Parked between the wagon and the house was a Plymouth station wagon, Korean War vintage, that had part of its right rear panel caved in and rust spots all over its chrome.
Meeker may have been a pretty successful artist for the pulps, I thought, but he didn’t seem to be doing too well these days. Unless the ramshackle appearance of everything was an eccentricity or some sort of calculation. For all I knew, the inside of the house was as opulent as any in the wealthy neighborhoods of San Francisco.
I parked my car behind the Plymouth and got out. The wind here was raw and blustery, swaying the grass and the willow trees, building little choppy waves in the slough behind and below the house. It had scraped the sky clean of clouds, leaving it a slatey blue with the sun off-center in it like a frozen yellow eye. I pulled up the collar on my coat, stuffed my hands inside the pockets. Then I went up onto the porch, stepping gingerly because the old boards creaked and gave under my feet, and pushed the doorbell button.
Nothing happened. The door stayed closed and there weren’t any sounds except for the echoes of the bell and the low whistling cry of the wind.
Maybe he’s not home, I thought. Maybe I should have called first instead of driving all the way up here on faith. But unless he owned two cars, how about the Plymouth wagon sitting there?
I came down off the porch and made my way around to the rear; it could be he had a studio back there and hadn’t heard the bell. Past the house, I saw more grassy earth that sloped down to a tiny natural cove flanked on both sides by thick tule patches. Two beaten-down paths led through the grass. One went to a rickety pier that bisected the cove, extending twenty feet or so into the channel; the other went to some kind of shed with a window on the near side, built triangularly between the house and the pier.
A screened-in porch with a glass roof had been tacked onto the back of the house. I thought that the glass roof probably made it a studio, all right, and climbed three steps to the screen door. It was unlatched and standing open a couple of inches. I — caught hold of it and poked my head through and called Meeker’s name.
No answer.
It seemed a little funny that Meeker would leave the door open like this if he wasn’t around. Maybe he was eccentric enough not to care about things like locking doors-but it still made me wonder. You’d think he would want to protect his personal belongings, particularly the original oils and charcoal and ink sketches that were hung all over the inner wall of the studio. They had to be worth quite a bit of money to collectors.
I debated going inside. But I did not want to do that; trespassing was one trait of the fictional private eye I had always considered dumb as well as illegal, and I cared for it less than ever since I’d broken into a fish processing company in Bodega Bay on that Carding/Nichols case a few months back, against my better judgment, and nearly got myself killed for it. Instead I settled for a look around the studio from where I stood outside. Which told me nothing. The place was even sloppier than my flat, cluttered with easels, jars of paint, brushes, blank canvases, and other artist’s supplies, and a farrago of papers, maps, books, tattered Western pulps, fishing equipment. It was also empty of human habitation.