Boobytrap

11

As soon as I entered the Zaleski cabin, I had the same sudden, violated-space feeling I’d experienced earlier. Not a leftover current but a fresh one. My skin prickled with it; the hair on my scalp rippled.

Without touching the light switch, I backed out and shut the door. It took me thirty seconds to unlock the car, remove the .38 Colt Bodyguard from its clips under the dash, get back to the door and inside. I stood listening. No sounds, nothing for my eyes to pick up except stationary shadows. I clicked on the hall light, went from there into the empty kitchen. Put on the kitchen light and followed its outspill into the front room. Empty. Same with both bedrooms and the bathroom between them. And again, nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

I let myself relax, lowering the gun. Definitely a fresh aura, though; there hadn’t been anything left of the first one after I’d aired the place out this afternoon. Somebody had been here again tonight — the same somebody. Twice in one day.

For what damn purpose?

I started back to the front door, to see if there were any signs of forced entry this time — and there was a knock outside. I froze. A second knock sounded; that one took me over beside the door, with the gun up alongside my ear.

“Yes?”

“It’s Marian.”

She sounded all right, nothing unnatural or urgent in her voice. I slipped the .38 into my jacket pocket, but I kept my hand on it as I opened the door.

She was alone. A quick study, too; she said immediately, “You’re all tense. Is something wrong?”

“No. Just feeling jumpy tonight. I guess.” My face had a damp feel; I let go of the gun. used both hands to dry my cheeks and forehead. “What can I do for you, Marian?”

“Well, I have a message for you.”

“Message?”

“From Callie Ostergaard. Something she forgot to tell you, she said. About Nils — a receipt he found the other day that bothered him.”

“What kind of receipt?”

“Callie doesn’t know. That was all he told her.”

“Does she know where he found it?”

“No.”

“In what way was he bothered by it?”

“Puzzled and suspicious. Callie said.” Light from the hall showed vertical ridges between Marian’s eyes, like close-set quote marks. “What’s this about? Why should Callie want me to tell you about a receipt?”

“I can’t talk about it now. It’s between Callie and me.”

“Something to do with what happened to Nils?”

“Marian, please don’t ask me. I’ll explain it to you when I can. Okay?”

“This receipt. Does Callie know what Nils did with it?’*

“Not exactly.”

“Meaning she has an idea where it might be?”

“Yes. She said for you to look in the toolbox in Nils’s pickup. He kept things in there that he didn’t want to bring into the house for one reason or another — private things. She doesn’t know where the pickup is now.”

“Where he left it last night,” I said, “or else it’s been moved over to Judson’s.” Then, because I’d never seen him driving it, “What make and color?”

“A Ford, I think. At least fifteen years old. White with one of those covered shells on the back.”

“Will I need a key to get into the toolbox?”

“Callie didn’t say anything about a key.”

“Probably not, then. While we’re on the subject of keys… did Nils have one to your cabin?”

“Yes, he did.”

“To this one, too?”

She nodded. “He had spare keys to several of the cottages in case of emergency.”

“Where’d he keep them? At home, on his person?”

“He carried them on a big ring.”

“Each one marked?”

“Yes, a piece of tape with the owner’s name.”

“Thanks, Marian. Forgive me for being mysterious. It’s just that I don’t want to say anything until I have more information.”

She said, “I understand,” and let it go. Most people wouldn’t have; she was a special person, all right. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I watched her out of sight, thinking: So somebody could’ve taken the Zaleski key off Nils’s body and used it to get in here both times. Taken it after he was murdered, if he was murdered, or this morning after the body was found. His entire key ring could’ve been lifted, for that matter.

Why? Why would anybody go to the trouble to steal Ostergaard’s keys and then risk not one but two covert visits to this cabin?

Why would anybody steal padlocks off boathouse and storeroom doors?

Why would anybody pretend to be someone he isn’t at a remote mountain lake? And then maybe commit murder to protect his real identity?

Erratic, apparently purposeless behavior. The stuff of paranoia and psychosis…

I got into the car again, not bothering to lock the cabin, and drove down to Judson’s. The pickup Marian had described had been moved there; it was parked at the western edge of the lot. I pulled in close next to it. There was activity inside the cafe but nobody outside in the vicinity. I went to the Ford, tried the lift-up door on the shell. It wasn’t locked. The sky was darkening, with most of the sun gone behind the peaks to the west, but there was still enough daylight for me to see inside and to find the toolbox among a welter of fishing gear, spare parts, and miscellany. I flipped its catches, sifted through the contents.

At the bottom, tucked inside a plastic freezer bag, were a few personal papers and a small envelope. The envelope yielded a strip of paper about four inches long, rumpled and food stained and folded in half — a cash register receipt. I shoved it into my pocket, closed the toolbox and the shell door, and drove straight back to the cabin.

In the privacy of the kitchen I examined the cash register receipt. It was from a Safeway store and carried a list of fourteen items ranging from Hormel chili with beans to Elmer’s Glue to a six-pack of Beck’s. Dated twelve days ago. None of that was particularly interesting; the only thing about the receipt that pushed any buttons was the location of the Safeway branch.

Half Moon Bay.

Why would Ostergaard keep a Safeway receipt that, judging from the food stains, he’d found in somebody’s garbage? Why would he poke around in garbage in the first place? And why would the receipt puzzle him, make him suspicious?

Hal Cantrell, I thought. He lived and worked in Pacifica, which was only about fifteen miles up the coast from Half Moon Bay. And he’d been drinking a bottle of Beck’s this afternoon. Coincidence or connection? Maybe—

The telephone went off.

The sudden noise made me jump. Getting nervy. Hell, who wouldn’t under the circumstances? I went over and answered the thing.

Tamara. She said, “Yo, finally,” with a slight prickly edge in her voice. “This the fourth time I done called you, boss man. I even tried your car phone.”

“I’ve been in and out and I didn’t expect you to get back to me tonight. Something already?”

“Yep. Fast worker you got here. Fast and underpaid, you know what I’m saying?”

I ignored that. “Talk to me. What’ve you got?”

“Nothing on Fred Dyce or Hal Cantrell. Mr. John Strayhorn, now, he’s something else. Gotta be your man.”

“Strayhorn? Why?”

“Looking for a man’s not who he says he is, right?”

“And Strayhorn’s not?”

“Well, he doesn’t live in Stockton or anywhere else down that way. And there isn’t any company that manufactures sewer pipe in the Valley, either. No Jacob Strayhorn anywhere in Norcal, only three J. Strayhorns and none of ‘em owns a Chrysler LeBaron. Two of the three were home, not off on a fishing trip in the mountains. I couldn’t get hold of the third, but since her first name’s Jolene I don’t think she’s your man.”

“Criminal record on anyone named Strayhorn?”

“Nope. Not in California and not with the feds, either. Phony name, probably.”

“Why pick a name like Jacob Strayhorn for an alias?”

“Hey, you can answer that better’n me.”

“I don’t have any answers right now,” I said. “Were you able to trace the license plate number I gave you?”

“Yup. Belongs to a ten-year-old Chrysler LeBaron, all right, but the registered owner’s name is Ed Farlow.”

“Located where?”

“South San Francisco. But he’s not Strayhorn.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yup. He sold the car about six weeks ago, through an ad in the Chronicle. Guess the name of the dude that bought it.”

“Jacob Strayhorn.”

“You got it. Paid eight hundred cash.”

“And never bothered to reregister. Did you ask Farlow to describe the buyer?”

“Said he couldn’t remember much about the man. Said he was white, middle-aged, average — ”

“—and had pale eyes.”

“Right. Fits your man, huh?”

“To a T. I don’t supposed he volunteered any information to Farlow?”

“Nope, and Mr. F. didn’t ask.”

“How’d he get to Farlow’s home? Somebody drive him?”

“Mr. F. doesn’t know. Had a call asking if the car was still for sale, couple of hours later Strayhorn showed up on his doorstep. That’s all he remembers.”

I sat down and muttered, “What the hell.”

“Say what?”

“Talking to myself.”

“So what’s this dude up to? What’s happening up there?”

“Tamara, I don’t have any damn idea.”

“But you’re gonna find out, am I right?”

“If I can.”

“Anything more you want me to do?”

“Not tonight. I’ll let you know.”

“Well, stay cool. Hang loose.”

“Hang and rattle, more likely.”

“Huh?”

“Old expression. Don’t worry about me.”

“Who says I’m worried?”

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“Maybe I am,” she said. “You still owe me ten days’ pay,” and there was a gentle click as she broke the connection.

I opened a bottle of Bud, then decided I didn’t want it after all and forced the cap back on and put the bottle away in the fridge. I wandered into the front room, then out onto the deck. Dark now. Running clouds obscured some of the stars, giving the lake a black, oily sheen. I stared down at the water, trying to make at least some of what I knew add up.

Fat chance. I was more confused now than before Tamara’s call.

Strayhorn wasn’t Strayhorn, evidently, but I still had no clue as to who or what he really was. Maybe he’d murdered Nils Ostergaard and maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he was the one who’d trespassed here twice today and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe there was a link between him and Half Moon Bay that explained why Ostergaard had kept the Safeway receipt — and maybe there wasn’t. The whole business was a maze of half-formed possibilities and deadends. And I was like the laboratory rat running around banging into walls and corners, looking for a way through to the cheese.