“I will, if he comes here again. Sandy’s had enough, more than one person can take. Enough, you hear me?” She shook an angry finger a couple of inches from my nose. “Get off this property or I’ll call some of the workers and have them throw you off. Now!”
I said mildly, “That’s quite a temper you have.”
“When I’m provoked. Keep standing there and provoking me and see what happens.”
“No, thanks. I’ll be going.”
“And don’t come back. Ever.”
Hard-shell woman, I thought as I left the building. Full of fire when it comes to people she cares about. That was admirable, but I couldn’t help wondering how far she’d go to protect a friend. How explosive her temper was when she was really provoked.
At the crossroads store up valley I had a look into the Sonoma County phone book. Erskine had managed without much difficulty to find out where James Woolfox lived, which probably meant that Woolfox had a listed number and address. Right: 10116 Chalk Hill Road. I put gas in the car, asked the store clerk for directions to Chalk Hill Road — it was back the way I’d come, past Silver Creek Cellars — and pulled out again onto Highway 128.
Number 10116 was about three miles along Chalk Hill’s twisty course. An asphalt drive led in under a wrought-iron arch set into pillars, the words “JSW RANCH” in the center of the arch. The drive hooked around the brow of a low hill planted in grapevines; more vineyards stretched away on the opposite side. A quarter of a mile in, the vineyards ended and pastureland opened up — rough terrain full of rises and dips, carpeted in bunch grass and spotted with craggy outcrops, ancient oaks, several grazing horses. Beautiful setting, unspoiled by the ranch buildings arranged in the lee of the hill in such a fashion that they seemed almost part of the landscape. Aspens flanked the drive leading in to the ranch-yard and more oaks shaded house, stables, and other outbuildings. Judging from this place and the winery, James Woolfox had both taste and an affinity for nature.
The house was an old two-story frame, brightly whitewashed and trimmed out in dark greens and browns that matched the oak colors. An arbored area the size of a football field extended out in front and to one side; grapevines grew thickly over its trellised roof and supports. Underneath was a garden and a lot of wrought-iron outdoor furniture, and on one of the benches a man sat alone, bundled in a heavy wool jacket. He stayed put, watching my approach, until I reached the end of the drive where it widened out into a parking area. Then he stood and came out to meet me.
Average size, average features enhanced by a symmetrical, silvering beard neatly barbered. Hair darker, thick and wind-tangled. Crowding fifty, but youthful looking and in good shape. His face was drawn, the eyes sad and carrying heavy baggage underneath.
“Mr. Woolfox?”
“That’s right.” Hoarse voice, as if he had a sore throat or incipient laryngitis. I had the impression he was one of these self-contained, quiet men who speak only when they have something to say — and that he’d had to do a lot more talking than he was used to the past couple of days. “Which breed are you?”
“I’m sorry... breed?”
“Newspaper, TV, radio.”
“Oh, I see. I’m not a reporter, Mr. Woolfox.”
“No? Then—?”
“But I am here about Ira Erskine,” I said. “I have some things to say to you and your fiancée.”
He’d stiffened a little. “Things?”
“I’m the detective Erskine hired, the man who found Ms. Nelson for him.”
I watched his face harden, set tight. But he remained silent for half a minute or so, staring at me without blinking. The wind gusted around us, cold and moany, rattling the tree branches and arbor vines. It was no more frigid than Woolfox’s stare.
He said finally, “Say what you came to and get off my land.”
“I’d like Ms. Nelson to hear it, too. Is she here?”
“She’s resting. I won’t disturb her, not for you.”
“It’ll only take a couple of minutes—”
“No.”
“All right.” The wind, gusting again, made me say then, “Can we at least talk inside? It’s pretty cold out here.”
“You’re not welcome in my house.”
“The porch, or inside my car? Out of the wind.”
The porch suited him; he said as much and led me up there. It girdled the ground floor on two sides, the part facing the open pastureland enclosed in glass. Woolfox stopped as soon as we were protected by the glass and turned to face me again.
“I’m listening,” he said.
I said, “It wasn’t easy for me to come here like this, but I felt I owed it to you and Ms. Nelson. Myself, too. I want you both to know I had no idea Erskine was stalking her. If I had I’d’ve notified the authorities immediately. He told me a pack of plausible lies about having a son in Santa Fe who was dying of leukemia, wanting to locate his ex-wife to give her the news about the boy. I swallowed his story whole. That’s not an excuse; I don’t have any excuses to make. I should’ve checked on him and I didn’t. At least I should have talked to your fiancée before I told Erskine where to find her and I didn’t do that, either. I can’t undo the damage. All I can do is tell you and her I’m sorry.”
“Cold comfort,” Woolfox said.
“I know it. But cold comfort is better than none at all.”
“Is it?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“The last honorable man.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who sneers at honor, Mr. Woolfox.”
The long, silent stare again. To one side of him I thought I saw the curtain move at an inside window, the blurred shapes of head and arm and shoulder behind it. A second later, the shapes were gone and the curtain hung motionless again.
Woolfox blinked, let breath hiss out between his teeth; some of the rigidity seemed to leave his body, and along with it, some of his hostility. He said, “I can’t forgive you. Your carelessness could have brought harm to a woman I love deeply.”
“Forgiveness isn’t an issue,” I said.
“No, I suppose not. You were right before, I’m not a man who sneers at honor. But for you to come here like this—”
He broke off, glancing past me. That and the whisper of footsteps turned me sideways. A woman had come out through the front door and was approaching us in stiff, deliberate strides. Her age and the short, brown curly hair would have identified her even if there hadn’t been a strong resemblance to the photographs of Janice Durian Erskine. The first thing that struck me about Sondra Nelson in the flesh was how much she’d matured in five years, how much more attractive at thirty-something she was despite the effects of fear and stress. In her twenties her near-beauty had been the fragile kind; over the past few years it had solidified and strengthened, as if a fine steel mesh had been added in layers beneath the skin. Janice Erskine would have crumbled and run scared again as soon as her former husband showed up; Sondra Nelson was all through running and had been for some time.
Woolfox said, “You shouldn’t be out here without a coat,” and stepped past me to her side. “You shouldn’t have come outside at all.”
She smiled tenderly at him. “This sweater’s warm enough.” The sweater was a bulky-knit, black like the slacks she wore; but it was a safe bet the color choice had nothing to do with mourning. Her crimson smile flattened out before she said to me, “I overheard part of what you were saying a minute ago.”
“I meant every word, Ms. Nelson.”
“I’m sure you did. I can’t forgive you any more than Jim can, but I don’t hold you responsible. Ira’s dead, that part of my life is over — it’s all that matters.”
“For your sake I’m glad it turned out that way. But the fact is, I hold myself responsible.”