No sign of any other cars for miles, then a woman chattering happily on a cell phone came barreling around a blind curve in a minivan and nearly sideswiped us.
“Brilliant,” said Milo. When his breathing had settled: “Soledad. Means loneliness, right? You’d have to like your alone time to move out here.”
A thousand feet higher a few ranches appeared, small, scrubby, desultory plots set into gullies notched off the highway and bounded by metal flex fencing. A cow, here, a horse, there. A weathered sign to nowhere advertised weekend pony rides. No stock to back it up.
“Read me the address, Alex.”
I did. He said, “We’re getting close.”
Ten miles later we came upon several private “picnic grounds” set off the west side of Soledad Canyon Road.
Cozy Bye. Smith’s Oasis Stop. Lulu’s Welcome Ranch.
The numbers that matched Barnett Malley’s address were burned into a blue roadside sign that announced Mountain View Sojourn: Recreation and Picknicks.
I said, “Maybe he’s not that antisocial, after all.”
Milo pulled off onto the hardpack driveway. We bumped along an oak-lined dirt path until we came to a shaky wooden bridge that crossed a narrow arroyo. The blue Welcome! sign on the other side was bottomed by a whitewashed plank that listed a magna carta of regulations: No smoking, no drinking, no motorcycles, no off-road vehicles, no loud music. Pets by individual approval only, children must be supervised, the pool is for use of registered guests only…
Milo said, “Take that, Thoreau,” and kept driving.
The entry drive ended a hundred yards later at an open paved square. To the left were more oaks- an old, thick grove- and directly in front of us were three small, white-frame buildings. To the right sat another paved area, larger and sectioned by white lines. Half a dozen trout-decaled Winnebagos were hooked up to utility lines. The backdrop was sheer golden mountainside.
We parked and got out. A shed-sized generator behind the RV lot hummed and snicked. “Recreation and picnicking” seemed to mean a place to park, access to a bank of chemical toilets, and a few redwood tables. An in-ground pool, drained for the winter, was a giant, white, gunite bowl. Behind the swimming area, a pipe-fenced horse corral was empty and sun-bleached.
A few people, none below sixty, sat in folding chairs near their trailers, reading, knitting, eating.
“Must be a stopover,” I said.
“To where?” said Milo.
I had no answer for that and we continued walking toward the white-frame buildings. Prewar bungalows; all three were roofed with green tar paper and had stout casement windows and tiny front porches. The largest structure was set well back from the campgrounds. A thirty-year-old Dodge Charger, red, with chrome wheels, occupied the adjoining gravel driveway.
Staked signs shaped like pointing hands identified the other two buildings as Office and Refreshments. The sunlight made it hard to discern any internal illumination. We tried the office first.
Locked door, curtains across the windows. No response to Milo’s knock.
As we headed over to Refreshments, its door creaked open and a tall, thin woman in a brown print dress stepped out onto the porch and positioned her hands on her hips.
“Can I help you?”
Milo put on his welcome smile as we approached her. It didn’t change the wary expression on her face. Neither did his badge and his business card.
“L.A. police.” She had a smoker’s voice, sinewy, freckled arms, a scored, sun-cured face that might’ve been beautiful a few decades ago.
Wide-set, pink-lashed amber eyes examined both of us. Her nose was strong and straight, her lips chapped but suggestive of once-upon-a-time fullness. Permed auburn hair framed her in a way that concealed some of the wattle in her neck. White frizz near her hairline said she was due for a touch-up. Clean jawline for a woman of her age- sixty-five minimum was my guess. Katharine Hepburn’s country cousin.
She tried to return Milo’s card.
He said, “It’s yours to keep, ma’am,” and she folded it small enough to conceal in her hand. The brown dress was a floral jersey and it caught on the sharp bones of her shoulders and pelvis. The upper edge of her sun-spotted sternum was visible in the V-neckline. Her chest was flat.
“I used to live in L.A.,” she said. “Back when I didn’t know any better. Same question, Lieutenant Sturgis. What can I do for you?”
“Does Barnett Malley live here?”
The amber eyes blinked. “He okay?”
“Far as I know, ma’am. Same question.”
“Barnett works here and I give him a place to stay.”
“Works as…”
“My helper. Doing what needs to be done.”
“Handyman?” said Milo.
The woman frowned as if he’d never get it. “He fixes things, but it’s more than that. Sometimes I feel like driving into Santa Clarita and seeing a movie, though God knows why, they’re all awful. Barnett looks after the place for me and he does an excellent job. Why’re you asking about him?”
“He live on the premises?”
“Right there.” She pointed to the oak grove.
“In the trees?” said Milo. “We talking Tarzan?”
She conceded a half-smile. “No, he’s got a cabin. You can’t see it from here.”
“But he’s not there, now.”
“Who said?”
“You asked if he was okay- ”
“I meant was he okay cop-wise, not was he okay because he was somewhere out there.” She glanced toward the highway. Her eyes said leaving the homestead was highly overrated.
“Has Barnett ever been in cop trouble, Mrs…”
“Bunny,” she said. “Bunny MacIntyre. The answer is no.”
Milo said, “So you used to live in L.A.”
“We’re making small talk, now? Yeah, I lived in Hollywood. Had an apartment on Cahuenga ’cause I needed to be close to the Burbank studios.” She flipped her hair. “Used to do stunts for the movies. Did a couple body doubles for Miss Kate Hepburn. She was way older than me but she had a great body so they could use me.”
“Ms. MacIntyre- ”
“Back to business, ay? Barnett’s never been in any kind of trouble, but when L.A. cops drive all the way here and ask questions it’s not because they want a nice cold drink from my Coke machine. Which, incidentally, is working just fine. I’ve got nachos and chips and some imported bison jerky.” She eyed Milo’s waistline. “Bison’s good for you, has the saturated fat of skinless chicken.”
He said, “Where’s it imported from?”
“Montana.” She turned and walked back inside. We followed her into a single, dim room with wide plank floors and a hoop rug and the head of a large, stuffed buck mounted on the rear wall. The animal’s antlers were asymmetrical, a gray tongue tip poked from a corner of its mouth, and one glass eye was missing.
“That’s Bullwinkle,” said Bunny MacIntyre. “Idiot used to sneak in and eat my garden. I used to sell fresh produce to the tourists. Now all people want is junk food. I never shot him because he was stupid- you had to take pity. One day he just dropped dead of old age on top of my Swiss chard, so I took him to a taxidermist over in Palmdale.”
She walked over to an old, red Coca-Cola machine flanked by revolving racks of fried stuff in plastic bags. A cash register squatted on an old oak table. Beside it was the jerky- rough-cut, nearly black, stacked in plastic canisters on the counter.
“Ready for that Diet Coke?” she asked Milo.
“Sure.”
“What about you, quiet guy?”
“The same,” I said.
“How much buffalo jerky? It’s a buck a stick.”
“Maybe later, ma’am.”
“You notice what it’s like out there? Damn oil painting, those deadbeats park all day and eat their own junk. Darn portable freezers. I could use the business.”