Dream Town

Chapter 50

Archer got back into his car but he didn’t go far. Out of sight of the Bonham house, he did a U-turn and parked behind two other cars on the opposite side of the road. He slid down in the seat and waited. A few cars passed him, and then an old pickup truck with MALIBU LANDSCAPING stenciled on the door panel glided past. Ten minutes later a black-and-silver Bentley with Peter Bonham at the wheel passed by him heading down the canyon road.

Archer had to make a decision: Follow the man, which would be tough to do on a narrow canyon road in broad daylight without being spotted. Or take advantage of his absence and see what he could find on the property. Archer decided on the second option and drove back to the Bonhams’ house. The old pickup truck he’d seen was parked at the curb.

He parked behind it and made his way quickly to the Bonhams’ rear yard. He saw a short and stocky man in his fifties pushing a wheelbarrow with gloved hands. He had on a broad-brimmed straw hat, faded dungarees, and a dark blue work shirt. When Archer drew closer he saw the man looked to be of Japanese descent.

In the wheelbarrow were a shovel and a bush with long green leaves. Along both sides of the rear yard were thick hedges that formed a boundary line. To the left was a line of fruit trees with dark green oranges dangling from the limbs. Raised flower beds and terraced shrubbery sat in well-designed configurations. The rugged, dry canyon walls soared behind all of this manmade horticultural pleasantry. To Archer, it was simultaneously lovely and tragic looking.

The man stopped the wheelbarrow next to a spot where a bush had clearly been. A mound of shoveled dirt lay next to the hole.

“Hey, pal,” Archer said.

The man looked at him from behind thick-lensed, round spectacles. “Hello.”

“Are the Bonhams in? They were expecting me, but no one answered the door.”

“I do not know. I just work here in yard.”

“Right, planting that bush. What happened to the other one?”

“It died. Something killed it.”

“Well, that happens. To plants and people. What kind is it?”

“Coffeeberry.”

“Coffeeberry?”

“The seeds, they look like coffee beans.” He lifted his hands high over his head. “It grows to fifteen feet. Birds love coffeeberry fruit. And it is quite good against fire. It grows good just about everywhere. It is very, very pretty.”

Archer looked around the lush grounds. “You did a real good job back here.”

“Thank you.” The man lifted his shovel out of the wheelbarrow and set it next to the hole where the bush would be going in.

Archer knelt and looked at the ground around the bush, where there were traces of something white. “What’s that, some sort of plant food? Or maybe a fungus? Maybe that killed the bush.”

“I do not know what that is. It was on ground, I guess.” Archer straightened. “You got moles?”

“What?”

“Over there where the lawn is lumpy.” It was the patch that Archer had seen previously.

The man shook his head. “There are no moles here. That is Mr. Bonham’s bomb room.”

“Bomb room?”

“He is very afraid of them dropping bombs here. Big bombs. You know. Like they do on islands out there.” He pointed toward the Pacific, his expression turning somber. “They can kill many, so many.”

“So he has a bomb shelter over there? Can you show me?”

The man led him over to the spot. Archer knelt and saw a clasp in the lawn with a large padlock on it. He touched the grass around it and saw that it was fake. That was why it was lumpy. It was covering a metal plate — the entrance to the shelter.

“Who has the key to the lock?”

“Mr. Bonham.”

“You ever been down there?”

The man shook his head. “No. I like sky and sun. Not dark places.”

“How do you know it’s a bomb shelter, then?”

“I ask Mr. Bonham when I try to cut the grass there, and it all go bad. It is not real grass, see. Then he tells me to not worry about this part of the grass. See?”

Archer stood. “Yeah, I see. Hey, you need some help getting the bush in the ground?”

“Sure, mister, sure. Thank you.”

Archer helped him lift the bush and its root ball out of the wheelbarrow and they got it situated level in the hole. While the man was fetching his shovel, Archer used his handkerchief to scoop up some of the dirt laced with the white powder, and thrust it into his side pocket.

“You leaving now?” asked the man, turning to him.

“I’m leaving now.”

“Hey, mister, you got bomb room where you live?”

“No, but in light of things, I might seriously think about getting one.”