“Nice flowers,” I said.
“My husband takes care of those. The vegetables are mine.”
The heat in the kitchen felt like South Florida in June—not yet oppressive, but a temperature that made you think seriously about leaving the state. Two big stainless steel pressure cookers fitted with racks sat on burners over matching low blue flames. The lids were lined up on the counter nearby, their little pressure cooker caps resting on the windowsill. Freshly sterilized lids, seals, ladles, and tongs were laid out on white sackcloth towels like surgical instruments. A third kettle contained a dark red liquid, as viscous as glue. I picked up the rich, hot perfume of crushed strawberries. I counted twelve pint-capacity Mason jars lined up on the kitchen table in the middle of the room. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“That’s all right.” She returned to the sink. Everything about her smacked of Midwestern farm values—the canning, the sheets on the line, the truck garden, the unadorned face.
“You remember the case?”
“Vaguely.”
I noticed she didn’t ask to have her memory refreshed, so I volunteered the help. “A sheriff’s deputy took a report from you. According to his notes, you spotted a girl hitchhiking near the Fair Isle off-ramp July 29, 1969.”
“You mentioned the date before.”
I ignored the minor reprimand. “You indicated seeing a vehicle stop and pick her up. Turns out she fit the description of the murder victim found in Lompoc a couple of days later.”
Cloris Bargo’s expression was modified by the appearance of two swatches of pink, like blusher applied by a department store cosmetologist. “You want iced tea? I can fix you some. It’s already made.”
“That’d be great.”
She opened one of the kitchen cabinets and took down a burnished blue aluminum tumbler, which she filled with ice cubes. She poured the tea from a fat glass pitcher she kept in the refrigerator. I knew she was stalling, but I wanted to give her room to declare herself. Something was going on, but I wasn’t sure what. She handed me the glass.
I murmured, “Thanks,” and took a big healthy swallow before I realized it was heavily presweetened. I could feel my lips purse. This was equivalent to that noxious syrup you have to drink before blood draws designed to diagnose conditions you hope you don’t have.
She leaned against the counter. “I made it up.”
I set the tumbler aside. “Which part?”
“All of it. I never saw the girl.”
“No hitchhiker at all?”
She shook her head. “I’d met the deputy—the one who wrote up the report. I was new in California. My family hadn’t been here six months. I hardly knew a soul. There’d been a prowler in our neighborhood, and this deputy was sent out to talk to us. He’d gone house to house, asking if anyone had seen anything strange or unusual. I was off work. I’d just had an emergency appendectomy and I was still recovering. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been home. We ended up having a long talk. I thought he was cute.” She stopped.
“Take your time,” I said.
“A week later, the paper mentioned his name in reference to the murder investigation. I’d never told a lie in my life, but I picked up the phone and called the Sheriff’s Department and asked for him. Once he got on the line, I said the first thing that came to mind.”
“Your claim that you’d seen a girl whose description matched the victim’s was completely false,” I said, hoping I’d misunderstood.
“I just said that. A lot of people must have called in with information that didn’t pan out. All I wanted was a chance to talk to him again.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking, Shit, shit, shit. “Did it work?”
She shrugged. “I married him.”
“Well, that part’s good, at any rate.”
Her eyes strayed to the window. I saw a car pass along the driveway, cruising toward the rear. I looked back at her.
She lowered her voice. “Do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t mention this to my husband. I never told him the truth.”
“He doesn’t know?”
She shook her head.
“Would it really matter to him after eighteen years?”
I heard the car door slam shut and her husband’s hard-soled shoes tap-tapping across the pavement between the garage and the back porch. There was a pause while he checked his pansies and petunias. In my opinion, they needed watering. He apparently agreed. I heard the shriek and squawk of the faucet handle when he turned off the water, moved the sprinkler, and turned the water on again. He continued toward the back door while she went on rapidly. “Every time someone asks how we met he tells them the story of how I took the time to call in the report. He admired I was such a conscientious citizen. Says it’s one of my best traits. He claims he fell in love with me on the phone. Then he said it seemed like fate since he’d seen me in person just the week before. He thinks I’m different. A cut above, he says.”
“Tricky.”
“You bet.”
The back door opened. Her husband came in, pausing to wipe his feet on the mat before he entered. Nice-looking guy. He was in his fifties with steel gray hair and blue eyes, his lineage probably Dutch or Scandinavian. He was tall and lean in a well-knit frame, without an ounce of fat. He wore street clothes—tan dress pants, a dark blue dress shirt, and a tie with a pattern of blue and tan. He had his badge on his belt. I wondered what his job was after twenty years with the SO. He’d already removed his gun and his holster, which he’d probably locked in the trunk of his car. “What’s tricky?”
“Getting the pectin just right,” she said without batting an eye. Having lied to him once, she was apparently an old hand at this.
“I’m Kinsey.”
“Joe Mandel. Don’t let her fool you. She makes the best strawberry preserves you ever ate.”
“I’ll bet.”
His face was creased, hair thinning as age began to take its toll. He looked athletic, and I assumed he was fast on his feet, still capable of tangling with the bad guys when circumstances required it. “Looks like a science lab in here. You two cooking up trouble?”
“More or less,” I said.
He exhibited no particular curiosity about who I was or what I was doing in the kitchen with his wife. He leaned over, bussed her on the cheek, and patted her arm. “I’m going to change and do some yard work. We’ll go to Sizzler tonight, get you out of this heat. You need help?”
“I’m fine, sweetie. Thanks.”
“Nice meeting you,” he said, with a quick smile at me.
I smiled and raised a hand in response. Cloris watched him depart, her expression fading from warmth to something more subdued.
“He seems nice.”
“He is nice. That’s why I married him. He’s decent. It would never occur to him to lie to me.”
“Why don’t you tell him, then?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business? I can handle this myself.”
6
The drive from Santa Teresa to Lompoc takes an hour by car, but I stopped at Gull Cove, which marks the halfway point. In my heart of hearts, I knew why I’d volunteered for this part of the job. Aside from the fact I needed time alone, I was flirting with the notion of going back to Grand’s old house. Like a newly reformed drunk, I’d sworn off with conviction just the day before and now found myself thinking maybe one more quick visit wouldn’t do any harm.
I reached the Gull Cove minimart at 2:00 P.M. The business had been housed in an enormous shambling structure covered with cedar shingles, an appealing mix of modern and traditional, with a few Cape Cod elements thrown in for good measure. The building had also housed a twenty-four-hour diner, a curio shop, and a tiny two-station beauty salon. Even at a distance, it was clear the entire place had been closed down. I could see windows boarded over, and the asphalt parking lot was cracked and faded to a chalky gray. The surrounding grass was a dull brown with assorted weeds and wildflowers gro
wing to knee height. On the hillside behind the building, a lone tree had died and stood now like a scare-crow, its twisted branches raised toward the sky as though to beckon birds. The population of Gull Cove was pegged at one hundred, but I couldn’t for the life of me spot so much as one.
I parked my car near the front steps and got out. The wide wooden deck creaked under my feet. A notice posted on the main door announced that the complex was closed for renovations. Someone had drawn a Happy Face in pencil with the mouth turned down. Someone else had written “WHO CARES?” in ballpoint pen. A third party, perhaps human, had taken a big dump near the padlocked door. I peered through the minimart’s front window, which was dusty and streaked where winter rains had hammered at the plate glass. The interior was stripped; not one fixture, counter, or display case remained. It looked like the renovations would be going on for some time.
I turned and stared at the road. The Gull Cove complex was the only commercial structure for miles, a hundred feet from the highway and a natural stopping-off point for travelers who needed to take a break. It was easy to see why someone thumbing a ride might get dropped off in passing. Perhaps after doughnuts and coffee, our Jane Doe found a lift as far as Lompoc, which had turned out to be the end of the line for her.
I went back to the car and checked my notes, looking for Roxanne Faught’s last known address: Q Street in Lompoc, thirty minutes to the north. Seemed like a long way for her to travel for a clerking job. I fired up the engine and hit the road again, heading north, the Pacific Ocean on my left. Today the swells were low and without chop, the color a darker reflection of the blue sky above. Idly, I thought about Grand’s house. It was possible I’d catch a glimpse of the place if I happened to pass that way. Surely, it was visible from the highway if you knew where to look. I turned on the car radio to distract myself.
I reached the outskirts of Lompoc. The town is flat and compact, a one-story panorama of wide streets and small houses. A constant wind blows off the ocean, funneled by the rolling hills that cradle the town. Three miles to the north is Vandenberg Village and beyond that, Vandenberg Air Force Base. The entire valley is given over to horse farms and cattle ranches, much of the agricultural land planted to fields of commercial flowers, many of them grown for seeds. Though I had no idea what I was looking at, I could see stretches of bright yellow and vibrant pink. Beyond them were acres of what appeared to be baby’s breath. Many farms were being sold to real estate developers; the sweet peas, poppies, and larkspurs being crowded out by crops of three-bedroom houses in neatly planted rows.
The town itself boasts the Lompoc Municipal Pool and a substantial civic center along with all the standard businesses: the Viva Thrift Shop, banks, attorneys’ offices, automotive and plumbing supplies, retail stores and gas stations, coffee shops, pharmacies, and medical complexes. Lompoc is a base town with neighborhoods of temporary residents whose military careers will always move them from place to place like pieces on a game board. It was hard to see what people did for amusement. There wasn’t a bowling alley, a concert hall, or a movie house in sight. Maybe local culture consisted of everyone renting videotapes of last year’s money-losing movies.
Q Street wasn’t hard to find, coming as it did between P and R. The address was on the left side of the street, and I slowed as I approached. The house, resting on cinderblocks, was an oblong wooden box covered with sheets of asphalt siding imprinted to look like dark red brick. A porch, stretched across the front, sagged in the middle. Two white-washed tires served as makeshift planters from which pink geraniums spilled. An old white claw-foot tub had been upended and half-buried in the yard. A blue-robed plaster Madonna stood in the shelter of the porcelain rim. I pulled in at the curb and got out.
An old man in overalls was in the front yard bathing a dog. The man looked ninety, if a day, and was still staunchly constructed. He’d strung a garden hose through the half-opened kitchen window, and I assumed the other end was attached to the faucet. As I crossed the grass, he paused in his work, releasing the hose nozzle, shutting off the stream of water. He had a square, jowly face, a lumpy nose, and a straight, nearly lipless mouth. His hair was slicked back, plastered down with pomade, and even then, so thin I could see through to his scalp. His skin was mottled brown from sun damage, interspersed with patches of red. His blue eyes were vivid dots under pale, sparse brows. The air smelled like wet dog hair and a pungent flea soap. A medium-sized pooch of no determinate breed stood knee-deep in a galvanized tub. He looked skinny and frail with his coat plastered to his frame, thinned to transparency. Dead fleas, like pepper, seasoned the flesh underneath. The dog trembled, whining, and wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. I kept my gaze averted so as not to embarrass him.
The old man said, “Help you?” His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a man his size.
“I hope so. I’m looking for Roxanne Faught and this is the only address I have. Any idea where she is?”
“Ought to. I’m her dad,” he said. “And who might you be?”
I showed him my card.
He squinted and then shook his head. “What’s that say? Sorry, but I don’t have my specs on me.”
“I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa.”
“What do you want with Roxanne?”
“I need information on an old case. Apparently, a girl came into the Gull Cove minimart when Roxanne was working there in 1969. I’d like to ask her some questions about the incident.”
He squeezed the hose nozzle and the spray of water showered like a light rain over the dog’s back and haunches. “That the one got killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well. I guess that’s all right then. I know a sheriff’s deputy came by a couple times asking the very same thing.”
“You’re talking about Stacey Oliphant, the guy I’m working with. Is your daughter still in the area?”
“Close enough. How about this. I’ll go give a call and see if she’s willing to talk to you. Otherwise, there’s no point.”
“That’d be great.”
He laid the hose aside, lifted the dog from the tub, and set him on the grass. The dog gave one of those profound total-body shakes, flinging water in all directions until his coat stood out in spikes. The old man picked up a heavy towel and gave the dog a vigorous rub, then swaddled him in the towel, and handed him to me. “This’s Ralph.”
Since I was hoping to curry favor, I took the dog without protest. I could feel warm doggie bathwater seeping from the towel through my shirt front. Ralph lay in my arms, a damp bundle of bones, as trusting as a baby, his eyes pinned on mine. His tongue flopped out the side of his mouth, and I could swear he smiled. I jiggled him a bit, which he seemed to enjoy. I really don’t understand how animals persuade human beings to behave like this.
The old man reappeared, closing the door carefully. He made his way down the steps. He wasn’t quick on his feet, but he seemed to get the job done. He had a scrap of paper in his hand. “She’s home right now and said it’s okay to give you this.”
I handed the dog over and took the paper, glancing down at the phone number and address. “Thanks.”
“It’s a little house off the highway. You go down here about ten blocks until you hit North Street and then turn right. Once you get to Riverside you turn right again. She’s about five blocks down.”
Roxanne Faught had turned her front porch into an outdoor room, with pale sisal carpet, a dark green painted porch swing, two white wicker rockers, occasional tables, and a double-sided magazine rack, one half stuffed with issues of People and the other with copies of Better Homes and Gardens. Five terra-cotta pots of bright orange marigolds lined the edge of the porch. When I arrived, she was sitting on the swing with a bottle of beer and a freshly lit cigarette. The house itself was white frame and completely nondescript. There were windows and doors in all the proper places, but nothing that made the house distinct. Roxanne was in her sixties and attractive, though the creases in her face were exaggerated by al
l the makeup she wore. Her hair was, in the main, a coppery blond, showing gray at the roots where four inches of new growth formed a wide band. Her brows were plucked to thin arches and her dark eyes were lined in black. The smoking had darkened her teeth, but they were otherwise straight and uniform, suggesting caps. She wore a long-sleeve navy T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up, jeans, and tennis shoes without socks. She took a sip of beer and pointed at me with the bottle. “You have to be the one Pop just called about. Come on up and have a seat.”
“Kinsey Millhone. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I wasn’t sure where you were living so I started with him.”
“I’ve been in town all my life. I guess I don’t have much sense of adventure. My great-aunt died and left me just enough money to get the house paid off. I can survive without working if I watch my step.” She paused and picked up a strand of two-toned hair, which she studied critically. “You can see I quit going to the beauty shop. Cheaper to color it myself, when I get around to it. I can’t give these up,” she said, gesturing with her cigarette. “I smoked so long I’m probably doomed, anyway. Might as well enjoy.” She coughed once, loosening something deep in her chest. “What can I help you with? Pop says you’re here about that girl got killed, what was it, twenty years ago?”
“Just about. Eighteen in August.”
“You know what’s interesting about her? She’s got a grip on folks. Here she is dead all that time and she still has people out there wondering who she is and how to get her back where she belongs.”
“And who killed her,” I added.
“Yeah, well good luck on that. You got your work cut out. Sit, sit, sit. Can I get you a beer?”
“I’m doing fine right now, thanks.” I settled on one of the white wicker rockers, which creaked under my weight. “I can see where you’d want to spend the day out here, watching traffic go by. Nice.”