“I see. Did Ira give you any explanation?”
“No. He asked if we wanted to buy a bottle, so we did, and took it up to our room and consumed it on our balcony. And all night the noisy party on the beach went on. But the quiet in the hotel was louder than any cacophony I’ve ever experienced.”
When we got back to the van, Shar took out her phone and made a call. “Hi, Mick,” she said.
“Anything?”
Mick Savage, her nephew, computer specialist, and fastest skip tracer in the west.
“I see…Uh-huh…Right…No evidence about a gas leak on Friday the eighteenth?…Yes, I thought as much…No, nothing else. And thanks.”
She broke the conversation, stuffed the phone back into her bag, and looked at me. Her expression was profoundly sad.
“You’ve got yourself a jukebox,” she said.
“Before I got into this,” Shar said to Chris Fowler, “There’s something I ought to say.”
The three of us were seated at a table in the bar at the Riverside. The dim lighting made Chris look curiously young and hopeful.
“Secrets,” Shar went on, “are not necessarily harmful, so long as they remain secrets. But once you put them into words, they can’t be taken back. Ever.”
Chris nodded. “I understand what you’re trying to tell me, but I need to know.”
“All right, then. I spoke with three men who were present at the hotel on Wednesday, August 16, 1978. Each gave me bits and pieces of a story, that led me to suspect what happened. A check I had run on a fourth man pretty much confirmed my suspicions.”
On August sixteenth of that year, a canoeing regatta was held at this hotel-a big yearly event. The cottages and rooms were all full, but we’re only concerned with a few people: Tom Atwater and his lover Bobby Gardena. Ira. And my witnesses: Mark Curry, Darryl Williams, and Sandy Janssen.
“All three witnesses came up here that Friday before the regatta. Ira arrived on Sunday, Bobby Gardena on Tuesday. It soon became apparent to everybody that Tom and Bobby weren’t getting on. Bobby was baiting Tom. They quarreled frequently and publicly. Bobby confided to Sandy Janssen that he’d told Tom he’d quit his job and put his San Francisco house up for sale, with the intention of moving to New Orleans. Tom accused him of being involved with somebody else, and Bobby wouldn’t confirm or deny it. He taunted Tom with the possibility.
“After the regatta there was a barbecue on the beach. Everybody was there except for Tom, Bobby and Ira. Bobby had told Darryl Williams he planned to pack and head back to the city that night. Ira was described by Mark Curry as alone and unhappy.”
I heard a noise in the reception area and looked that way. A thin scarecrow’s shape stood deep in shadow on the other side of the desk. Ira Sloan. I started to say something, then thought, No. Shar and Chris are discussing him. He has a right to hear, doesn’t he?
“Something unusual happened that night,” Shar continued. “Mark Curry noticed it when he returned to the hotel around two. Sandy Janssen described a strange atmosphere that kept him from sleeping well. Darryl Williams talked about hearing whispers in the corridors. The next morning Tom told everybody that Bobby had left early for the city, but Darryl claims he saw Bobby’s car in the lot when he looked out his window around nine. An hour later it was gone. None of my three witnesses ever heard from or saw Bobby again. The skip trace I had run on him turned up nothing. The final closing on the sale of his city house was handled by Tom, who had his power-of-attorney.”
Chris Fowler started to say something, but Shar held up her hand. “And here’s the most telling point: On Thursday night, all the guests received notice that they had to vacate the premises on Friday morning, due to a potentially dangerous gas leak that needed to be worked on. A leak the PG &E has no record of. The only men who remained behind were Tom and Ira.”
Chris sat very still, breathing shallowly. I looked at the reception area. The scarecrow figure in the shadows hadn’t moved.
“I think you can draw your own conclusions,” Shar added. She spoke gently and sadly-not the usual trumpeting and crowing that I hear from her when she solves a case.
Slowly Chris said, “God, I can’t believe Tom killed Bobby! He was a gentle man. I never saw him raise his hand to anybody.”
“It may have been self defense,” Shar said. “Darryl Williams told me one of his friends had an earlier relationship with Bobby, and abusive one. Bobby always threw the first punches.”
“So an argument, a moment of violence…”
“Is all it takes.”
“Naturally he would’ve turned to Ira to help him cover up. They were best friends, had been since grade school. But that doesn’t make Ira a murderer.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Anyway, you can’t prove it.”
“Not without Bobby’s remains-which are probably somewhere in this hotel.”
Chris glanced around, shivering slightly. “And as long as they’re here, Ira and I will be at a stalemate, estranged for the rest of our lives. That’s how long he’ll guard them.”
I was still staring at Ira Sloan’s dark figure, but now I looked beyond it, into the common room. The stained-glass oval hanging on the fireplace chimney, that I’d fancifully thought of as the stone in a mood ring, gleamed in the rays from a nearby floor lamp: pink, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo. The seven colors of the rainbow.
I said, “I know where Bobby’s buried,”
“When I saw this stained glass yesterday,” I said, “I couldn’t tell the colors, on account of it being hung where no light could pass through. A strange place, and that should’ve told Shar or me something right then. Tonight, with the lamp on, I see that it’s actually the seven colors of the rainbow.”
We-Shar, Chris, and I-were standing in front of the fireplace. I could feel Ira Sloan’s presence in the shadows behind us.
“It’s the only rainbow symbol in the hotel,” I went on, “and it was probably commissioned by Tom Atwater sometime in 1978.”
“Why then?” Shar asked.
“Remember I told you that the first rainbow flag was designed in ’78? And that a version of it that was flown at the parade only had six colors. They dropped indigo so there would be exactly three stripes on either side of the street. That’s the one that’s become popular and is recognized by the International Congress of Flag Makers.”
Chris said, “So Tom and Ira put Bobby’s body someplace temporary the night of the murder-maybe the walk-in freezer-and after Tom closed the hotel, they walled him in behind the fireplace. But Tom was a sentimental guy, and he loved Bobby. He’d’ve wanted some monument.”
Behind us there was a whisper of noise, such as I imagined had filled this hotel the night of August 16, 1978. Shar heard it-I could tell from the way she cocked her head-but Chris didn’t.
Bitterly he said, “It couldn’t’ve been self defense. If it was, Tom or Ira would’ve called the county sheriff.”
“It wasn’t self defense. It was an accident. I was there. I saw it.”
Slowly we turned toward the reception area. Ira Sloan had come out of the shadows and was backed up against the warning tape, his face twisted with despair of one who expects not to be believed.
“Bobby was leaving to go back to the city,” he added. “He was taunting Tom about how he’d be seeing his new lover. They were at the top of the stairs. Tom called Bobby and ugly name, and Bobby went to hit him. Tom ducked, Bobby lost his balance. He fell, rolled over and over, and hit his head on the base of the reception desk.” He motioned at the sharp corner near the stairway.
Shar asked, “Why didn’t you call the sheriff?”