It’s what I asked the reporters that followed Novak and Thayer out, too. Asked the question on camera, in an interview with a Santa Rosa TV newswoman. Also told all about how Storm Carey came out yesterday afternoon and visited Faith in cabin six, and what a hot number she was and what a cold one he’d been. I came off pretty good — and that’s not just me blowing my horn, it’s what the newswoman told me afterward. Interview’s supposed to be on sometime today. I watched the early news, but it wasn’t on then. Noon, maybe. Or seven o’clock. They’d better use it sometime; it’s sure to mean even more business, people showing up to get a look at the cabin where Storm Carey’s murderer stayed and then likely staying on themselves, at least for one night.
Two of the reporters took cabins last night, one from the San Francisco Chronicle. He said he’d use my name and mention Lakeside Resort in his story — more free publicity. I had two other cabins rented before that, by weekenders up from the Bay Area to gamble at the Brush Creek casino, and the last two went after all the excitement died down to a couple from Ukiah who didn’t want to drive back so late and to another couple, young and sure not married, that I figured were out for an all-night sex binge. I told the boy the rate was seventy-five and he paid it without an argument. None of my business what people do inside one of my cabins, long as they don’t trash the place or steal sheets or towels or the TV.
I didn’t have much time to myself this morning, either. Folks checking out, a few more rubberneckers, arguing on the phone with Maria Lorenzo because she wouldn’t come in early like I asked her to. Had to go to a christening, she said. Her and her religion. One of the worst things the white man ever did, you ask me, was to convert the heathens to Christianity. She finally showed up at eleven-thirty, half an hour later than she’d promised, with a lame excuse about the start of the christening being delayed. I told her she’d better have all the cabins done by two and then went in to eat my lunch a little early. There’s nothing like making money for a change to give a man an appetite.
Fixing lunch made me realize I was low on items like milk and bread and cold meat. I could’ve sent Maria out to buy my groceries when she was finished with her cleaning — I’d done it before — but then I’d have to pay her a couple of bucks extra. And it was a nice day, sunny, and I felt like getting out in the car for a while. I waited until the noon news came on the Santa Rosa channel, to see if they’d show my interview. They didn’t. Long story about the murder, interviews with three other locals but not mine. A little miffed, I went out and yelled at Maria to keep an eye on the office. Then I got the car out and drove south to Brush Creek.
The grocery store there is the only shop in the village still open on Sundays. One of the few stores still open for business, period. The place looks like a ghost town with all the empty and boarded-up buildings. If Miller’s Grocery dies, what’s left of Brush Creek will die along with it and then it’ll be a ghost town.
On the way back, on the stretch of road that runs close to the lake just north of the village, I noticed a boat heading shoreward on this side. It was well beyond the Bluffs, several hundred yards offshore. Looked like Audrey Sixkiller’s old Chris-Craft. In fact, I was sure it was. There’s no other like it on this part of the lake, and even at a distance you can’t mistake those boxy lines and dark, burnished hull. Besides, this time of year she’s about the only one you’re likely to see out on the water. Crazy damn Indians’ll do things a white man wouldn’t if you paid him.
I drove on up and over the high ground, down past Nucooee Point, and it wasn’t until I neared my resort that I had a wide view of the lake again. And there wasn’t any sign of Audrey’s boat anywhere. Not then and still not when I pulled into the Lakeside and took another look from there. Puzzled me. The shoreline above and below the Bluffs is too rocky and overgrown for even a fisherman’s skiff to put in. There’s only one spot you can dock along the two-mile wooded stretch where she’d been heading, and that had to be where she’d gone. The question was why.
Why in hell would Audrey Sixkiller want to put in at the ruins of Nucooee Point Lodge?
Zenna Wilson
Howard and Stephanie came into the kitchen just as I hung up the phone. They both had their jackets on. And Steffie was wearing that dreadful Hootie and the Blowfish sweatshirt she’s so fond of. Howard should never have bought it for her. That singing group may not be as bad as most nowadays, the ones with their filthy language and suggestive lyrics, but it’s still not the proper music for an impressionable nine-year-old to be listening to and admiring.
“Well,” I said, “where are you two off to?”
She said, “The park.”
“Not Municipal, I hope. It’s still a madhouse downtown, and the police station’s right across the street. You know what I mean, Howard.”
“Highland Park,” Steffie said before he could answer.
“Oh, well, that’s all right. But why don’t you change first, sweetie? Put on a sweater and skirt.”
She wrinkled her mouth in that pouty way she has lately. Lord knows which of her schoolmates she learned that little trick from. “We’re gonna play Frisbee. You can’t play Frisbee in a sweater and skirt.”
“At least put on a different top.”
“I like this one. Dad, what’s wrong with this one?”
“Nothing, baby.” Taking her side, naturally, the way he always does. “You look fine. Go on out to the car. I’ll be along in a minute or two.”
“Okay. ’Bye, Mom.”
She skipped off and banged the door behind her. I swear she does it on purpose sometimes because she knows it annoys me.
Howard said, “I don’t suppose you want to come with us.”
“No, you go ahead. I have some things to do here.”
“More phone calls?”
“Howard, please don’t start. Lunch will be ready at twelve-thirty, so be sure you and Steffie—”
“You’re glad Storm Carey’s dead, aren’t you? I mean, really happy about it.”
“... That’s ridiculous. What on earth makes you say such a thing?”
“You sounded happy on the phone a minute ago.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “A shocking murder not two miles from our home — that’s hardly cause for rejoicing.”
“I heard what you said to Helen Carter. ‘The Jezebel got exactly what she deserved. We’re all better off rid of the likes of her.’”
“Well? Aren’t we better off?”
“No. She wasn’t a whore, Zenna.”
“Of course she was. How can you defend her?”
“I’m not defending her. I’m saying she wasn’t a whore or an evil person just because she slept around. She had problems—”
“Problems!”
“Yes, problems. Losing her husband the way she did, for one. And she did plenty of good for this community.”
“Fornicating with every man she could lay hands on, married as well as unmarried, flaunting her drunken ways in public... I don’t see any good in any of that, Howard. You can’t mock the Lord and His teachings without suffering the consequences.”
“So you are glad she’s dead. A woman who never did anything to you, never harmed anyone except herself — brutally murdered — and you’re downright ecstatic.”
“I am not ecstatic!” He was making me very angry.
“Yes, you are. Ecstatic she’d dead, ecstatic it was that stranger who killed her because it vindicates your judgment of him, too.”
“My judgment? He was a degenerate, for heaven’s sake! Anyone with half a mind could tell that.”