Labyrinth

SIXTEEN

I was up at eight o’clock on Sunday morning and in a better frame of mind: ten hours’ sleep and a new day. Most of the storm seemed to have blown inland during the night; the rain had slackened to an intermittent drizzle. The overcast was still thick and at a low ceiling, but it did not seem quite as oppressive as it had yesterday afternoon and evening.

When I finished shaving I went out to hunt up breakfast and a Sunday newspaper. No luck. The Wharf Bar and Restaurant was not open this early, nor was anything else in the immediate vicinity. I bought a copy of Saturday’s Santa Rosa Press-Democrat from a coin-operated machine in Bodega, took it back to the motel, settled for another cup of free instant coffee, and enlightened myself with day-old news.

At ten I gathered my things together and checked out. It was ten-thirty on the nose when I pulled up in front of the Darden house. If nothing else, I was at least punctual.

Mrs. Darden answered my knock and admitted me. She was wearing a tweed suit today, with a blue scarf at the throat, and her graying hair had been neatly brushed for church. Handsome woman, all right. The smile she let me have was warm, as if I were an old friend come to pay a social call.

We went into the parlor, where a girl about eighteen was standing near the fireplace. You could see right away that she was Mrs. Darden’s daughter: same short hair, hers being a tawny brown, same attractive features, same hazel eyes, same infectious smile. Besides age, the major differences between them were height and chest development; Sharon was about four inches taller and two bra sizes smaller, which gave her a somewhat willowy look. She was dressed in an ankle-length wool skirt and a bulky knitted sweater.

Her mother introduced us and then excused herself and left the room. Sharon and I sat down. She said, “Mom told me about your talk yesterday. I can’t tell you much more about Jerry than she did, I’m afraid.”

“This article of Jerry’s-he never gave you any clue as to what it was about?”

“No. The only thing he ever said was that it was something which would establish his career as a journalist.”

“He seemed positive about that?”

“Oh yes, very positive.”

“Can you think of any sort of unusual occurrence in this area recently?” I asked. “Anything that might inspire him?”

“No, there’s just nothing. Not much ever happens in Bodega.” She said that last sentence not as if she were unhappy about the fact, but as if she were rather proud of it.

Mrs. Darden came back in carrying a tray laden with a porcelain coffee service and a plate of homemade breakfast pastries. She put the tray down on the coffee table, poured a cup for me, and urged that I help myself to the pastries. I did that, not so much to be polite as because I was pretty hungry. And within five seconds, despite using a cake plate and a napkin, I managed to get powdered sugar all over my pants and on the carpet as well. The slob strikes again.

“Oh please, it’s all right,” Mrs. Darden said when I apologized. There was an almost wistful note in her voice, as though she had once been used to having things spilled on the carpet and was recalling other times it had happened. Maybe her husband had been messy, too; that would explain it.

I put the pastry down for the time being, before I dropped it and the plate too, and sipped some coffee. Then I said to Sharon, “You talked to Jerry before he left last Sunday night?”

“Yes. Only for a minute.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he was going to the post office. I asked him if he had finished his article, if that was what was in the envelopes he had, and he said yes. The only other thing he said was to leave the key out for him.”

“Key?”

“To the front door.”

“It’s our policy not to give out keys to boarders,” Mrs. Darden said. “But we do put one under a flower pot on the porch whenever no one is home, or if we know a boarder is going to come in after we’re in bed.”

I thought that over. “Then you always lock the front door when you retire?”

“Yes.”

“What time do you usually go to bed on Sundays?”

“Around eleven.”

“And it was after nine when Jerry left?”

“Yes,” Sharon said. “Just after.”

“About how long would it take him to walk from here to the post office and back again?”

“Well-thirty minutes or so.”

“Which indicates he was headed somewhere else besides the post office,” I said. “Otherwise he would have expected to be back by ten, when you were both still up, and he wouldn’t have asked for the key to be left out. Is there any sort of taxi service in the village?”

“No. None.”

“Bus service on Sunday night?”

“No.”

“So Jerry either planned to walk to where he was going or he was being met by someone.” I did some more ruminating. “He was excited, intense, when he left here?”

Sharon nodded.

“Yet he’d just finished writing his article,” I said, “and was about to put at least one copy in the mail. And he’d spent all day at the typewriter. He should have been relieved, exhausted-but not still excited. It had to be whatever he was going to do after leaving the post office, or whoever he was going to see, that made him that way.”

“But it could still have something to do with the subject of his article, couldn’t it?” Mrs. Darden asked. “Even though he’d finished it?”

“Yes. It probably did. How many places in the village are open on Sunday night?”

“Just the tavern. Everything else closes by six.”

Sharon said, “Doesn’t Mr. Ingles stay open until ten, mom?”

“You’re right, I believe he does.”

“Mr. Ingles?” I said.

“He owns the Sonoma Cafe. It’s on the road just outside the village. You may have noticed it as you drove in.”

I hadn’t noticed it, but I nodded anyway. And then tackled the pastry again, this time without embarrassing myself, and drank the rest of my coffee. Immediately Mrs. Darden refilled the cup.

I asked, “Do you know where Steve Farmer lives?”

“Across the bay,” Sharon said. “On Salmon Creek Road, above the marina.”

That was a long walk from Bodega-more than five miles. But if it was Farmer that Jerry had been going to see, for whatever reason, Farmer could have met him here at the post office. Or anybody else could. Or he could have hitchhiked somewhere.

“Do Steve and Jerry get along well?”

“Sure. They’re pretty close.”

“Did either of them ever speak about a girl named Bobbie Reid?”

“No-o. Is that somebody they know in San Francisco?”

“It’s somebody they knew,” I said, “and who knew Christine Webster.” I did not see any reason to go into detail. “What can you tell me about Gus Kellenbeck?”

“We don’t know him very well,” Mrs. Darden said. “He only moved here about four years ago, when he bought out what used to be Bay Fishery; and he seldom comes into Bodega. I do know that he’s a good businessman. The past couple of years haven’t been a boom for anyone in the fishing business-mostly because of poor salmon runs. But he’s managed to keep the plant operating at a profit. Or so the talk is. He pays the fishermen top dollar for their catches.”

“One of those fishermen being Andy Greene?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your opinion of Greene?”

“Not very high,” Sharon said. “He has a nasty mouth.”

“And a nasty disposition,” Mrs. Darden added.

“Has he ever been in trouble of any kind?”

“Not that we know about.”

“Did Jerry get along with him?”

“I believe so. He never said anything against the man.”

“And he also got along with Kellenbeck?”

“Yes. He seemed to.”

I tendered a few more questions, without learning anything else of interest and then finished my second cup of coffee and rose to go. In the foyer both Sharon and her mother wished me luck, and I thanked them for their help, and Mrs. Darden let me out. She seemed almost disappointed to see me leave; her parting smile struck me as even warmer than her welcoming smile. Maybe I reminded her of her husband in more ways than one. Maybe she found me attractive and desirable and wished she could get to know me better.

Maybe I was an idiot.

Too much libido, that was my problem these days, brought about by too long a period of celibacy. What I ought to do pretty quick, even if I had to pay for it, was get my ashes hauled-as we used to say in the good old days. Otherwise I was going to start salivating every time a woman looked at me with anything except revulsion.

I drove down into the village and parked near the tavern. It was not far from the post office; somebody going in or out could have seen Jerry Carding last Sunday night. Longshot, but it might pay off: It didn’t. The tavern had just opened for business and the bartender on duty only worked until six on Sundays; he did give me the name and address of the night barman, but when I hunted up the place and talked to the guy a few minutes later, he had nothing to tell me. He knew about Jerry’s disappearance-it was evidently a major topic of conversation in the Bodega Bay area-but did not know the kid by sight. Last Sunday had been a slow night, he said. Just a few regulars, all of whom had come in early and stayed until around eleven or so. He could not remember anyone arriving or leaving between nine and nine-thirty.

So all right. If Jerry had met someone at the post office and been driven away in a car, I was out of luck; I could not go around knocking on every door within a five-mile radius on the off-chance that someone had been passing by at an opportune moment. Which left me with Mr. Ingles at the Sonoma Cafe. And an even longer longshot: Jerry would have had to leave the village on foot in order to be seen passing the cafe, and Ingles would have had to look out at just the right time in order to see him.

The Sonoma Cafe turned out to be a standard roadside diner-small frame building set back some distance from the highway, facade unadorned by anything except a sign bearing its name. It was open but not doing any business; the lunch counter and a row of brown vinyl booths were deserted. The only person in there was a guy in his sixties, fussing over a pot of something on the stove that had the aroma of fish stew.

He kept on fussing until I sat down at the counter: then he turned and came over to me. He was wearing a white shirt, a bow-tie, and an apron, and he had a shrewd bright-eyed look about him. On his scalp were tufts of hair as thin and fine and colorless as dandelion fluff.

“Afternoon,” he said.

“Afternoon. That stew smells good.”

“You bet. Like a bowl?”

“Sure.” Mrs. Darden’s pastry had not done much for my hunger.

He ladled some into a bowl, put the bowl and a couple of packets of crackers on a plate. When he set the food in front of me I said, “Would your name be Ingles?”

“It would. How’d you know?”

“Mrs. Darden mentioned that you owned this place.” I went on to tell him who I was and what I was doing in Bodega.

He looked more than a little interested: the village-gossip type, I thought. He leaned on the counter and studied me with his shrewd eyes. “Read about you in the papers,” he said. “Private eye, eh? Never met a private eye before. Don’t look nothing like Jim Garner, do you?”

“Jim Garner?”

“ ‘The Rockford Files.’ Mean you don’t watch that show on TV?”

“No.”

“Ought to. Got lots of action, lots of cars getting smashed up.”

“Uh-huh.” I tasted the stew. A little salty but otherwise not bad. “Do you know Jerry Carding, Mr. Ingles?”

“Sure do. Used to eat in here once in a while. Damned funny the way he disappeared; damned funny. Got the whole town buzzing.”

“I was hoping you might have seen him last Sunday night. Say between nine and ten?”

“Nosir,” he said immediately. “I’d of remembered it if I had. How come you’re asking me? Police didn’t come around when they was here.” He sounded disappointed that they hadn’t.

“This is one of the few places open on Sunday nights,” I said. “And there’s a chance he left the village on foot. Is it possible one of your customers saw him?”

“One of my customers? Well now.” Ingles scratched his scalp and seemed to do some memory cudgeling. “Zach Judson, maybe.”

“Oh?”

“Zach stopped in for a cup of coffee around nine, as I recall. On his way home from some lodge doings in Tomales. Stayed about a half hour. Could be he saw the boy; ain’t talked to him since.”

“Does Judson live in Bodega?”

“Nope. Jenner.”

Jenner was a tiny place about fifteen miles up the coast. I said, “Could you give me his telephone number?”

“Nosir.”

“Pardon?”

“I said nosir, I won’t give you his number.”

“Why not?”

“Because he don’t have a telephone,” Ingles said, and cackled at his own humor. “Old Zach’s deaf as a post in one ear and half deaf in the other. Wouldn’t hear a phone ringing if he was sitting on it.”

“You can give me his address, can’t you?”

“Sure. Cost you a buck, though.” He winked at me. “Service charge.”

A buck. And a thirty-mile round trip to Jenner that would probably turn out to be a waste of time; for all I knew Judson could be in Tomales again for more lodge doings, and it was doubtful that he had seen Jerry Carding anyway. But what else did I have to do? Hunt up Steve Farmer and try to pump him again about Bobbie Reid? That was about it-and it struck me as a last resort, the thing to do before tossing in the towel and heading home to San Francisco.

I sighed and got my wallet out and put a dollar bill on the counter. Ingles made it disappear in two seconds flat, as if he was afraid I might change my mind. Then he grinned at me and said, “Zach’s is the last house on the west side of the highway, just before you get into Jenner. Big old gingerbready place, looks like it’d fall down if a good wind come along.”

“Thanks.” I finished my stew, gave him some more money for that, and slid a dime tip under the plate when he wasn’t looking. The stew had not been all that good and neither had he.

As I started out he called after me, “Tune in ‘The Rockford Files’ one of these nights. That Jim Garner’s a real good detective. ”

Me too, I thought wryly. Even if I don’t have my own TV show.

I headed the car north on Highway 1. The winding two-lane road had little traffic for a Sunday afternoon, but the fog had come back again, heavy and wet, and it made the pavement slick and visibility poor; it was forty-five minutes before I crossed the bridge spanning the Russian River and approached Jenner.

The hamlet-what there was of it-was located at the mouth of the river, where it widened out and joined the ocean. To the west, between the road and the water, were a lot of tide flats and a few houses. The last house south of Jenner matched Ingles’ description: a ramshackle twenties-style structure that seemed to list inland, as if the constant wind off the sea had been too much for it. A lone cypress tree grew in the muddy front yard, wind-bent and leaning companionably in the same direction; parked near it was a 1940s vintage Chevvy pick-up. Lights glowed behind chintz curtains in one front window.

I took my car into the yard and put it next to the pick-up. When I got out a fat lazy-looking dog came around from behind the house, barked once in an indifferent way, and then waddled off again. I climbed sagging steps onto the front porch and rapped on the door.

Nobody answered. Ingles had said Zach Judson was all but deaf, I remembered; I tried again, using my fist this time, pounding hard enough to rattle the wood in its frame. That got results. The door creaked open pretty soon and a guy about seventy peered out at me through wire-framed spectacles. He had a gnarly face, a mop of unkempt white hair, and one of those big old-fashioned plastic hearing aids hooked over one ear.

He said, “Yep?” in a tone that wondered if I was going to try to sell him something.

“Mr. Judson?”

“Yep?”

I told him my name. “I’m a detective, and I-”

“You say detective?”

“Yes, sir. Investigating the disappearance of Jerry Carding.”

“Who?”

“Jerry Carding.”

“Never heard of any Jerry Carling.”

“Carding, Mr. Judson. Jerry Carding.”

“Never heard of any Jerry Carding.”

“The story’s been in all the papers and on TV-”

“Don’t read the papers. Don’t own a TV.”

“He vanished from Bodega last Sunday night, between nine and ten o’clock,” I said. “A young fellow about twenty, dark hair, Fu Manchu mustache. I understand you were in Bodega around that time and I thought you might have seen him.”

“Yep,” Judson said.

“Sir?”

“Yep. Did see him.”

Well now. “Where was this, Mr. Judson?”

“On the highway. Near Ingles’ cafe.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yep. Hitchhiking.”

“He thumbed you, then?”

“Yep.”

“But you didn’t stop for him?”

“ Did stop for him. Used to hitch rides myself, back when. Decent young fella. Polite, good manners. Missing, you say?”

“Yes.” There was a tenseness inside me now; this was the kind of break I had been looking for. “You took him where, Mr. Judson?”

“What?”

“Where did you take him?”

“Not far. Just up the road a ways.”

“How far up the road?”

“To the Kellenbeck Fish Company,” he said.