“No. I stayed over in Santa Carla. What’s going on?”
Rho explained about his landlady being missing. “Will said she often visits you. Did she ever mention someone named Samantha Lindsay?”
“No. Who’s she?”
“Another missing woman. I thought there might be a connection.”
“You mean, they might’ve gone off together?”
“It’s not probable, but I’d like that better than Virge going off by herself.”
“Yeah. I can’t imagine her doing that.”
“I gather you know her fairly well.”
His lips tightened. “As well as I want to.”
“What does that mean?”
“Virge can be... difficult. When I first moved in I thought she was charming in a ditzy sort of way. She’d show up here with cookies or brownies, and I’d invite her in and make tea. Sometimes we’d play cards. But then she started showing up every day. And she got demanding.”
“How so?”
“She wanted me to be here whenever Will was away at night. Wanted me to drive into town with her. Ordered me to come over and fix stuff at the house. I tried to put some distance between us but it didn’t work, and she’s gotten clingy and kind of obsessive. To tell the truth, she’s turned into a pain in the ass. I’ll be glad when my lease is up.”
“When’s that?”
“Three weeks, and I’ll be going home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Seattle. I was born and raised there.”
“What made you leave?”
“Is this an official inquiry, Deputy Swift? Or are you just being neighborly?”
“It’s Rhoda. And I’m being neighborly.” Truth, mostly. She found herself liking Clay Lawrence and wishing she’d gotten to know him earlier in his stay.
“Okay, I left because my marriage busted up. My wife was involved with one of my coworkers, and I needed to get away. So I got in my car and drove south till it broke down in some godforsaken town. From there I hitched.”
“How come you stopped hitching here?”
“My last ride dropped me off in front of the hotel, and I was hungry. A pretty woman waited on me, and we hit it off, so I decided to stay a while.”
“Becca Campos.”
“Right. She does housecleaning for Virge and knew about this cabin. Aside from Virge, the place has been good to me. I’ll miss it.”
“So why go home?”
“It’s time.”
“Becca going with you?”
“No. From the first we’ve known our relationship was no-strings. I’m not ready for another commitment. Maybe I never will be. Becca understands that.”
Rho wondered. She’d seen the way Becca linked arms with Clay as they walked through town, noted her smiles and body language. But that was none of her business.
“Clay,” she said, “can you think of anyplace Virge might’ve gone tonight?”
He considered, shook his head.
“Would she hitchhike on the highway?”
“God, no! Woman’s afraid of her own shadow.” He thought some more, eyes moving quickly, and then they grew still. “There’s the canyon,” he said.
“Cascada Canyon?”
He nodded.
“She wouldn’t go there.”
“Well, you probably know her better than I do, but for the past six months or so she’s been talking a lot about those murders. Asked me a couple of weeks ago if I’d go there with her and help her confront her fears. Of course, I said no. I was afraid of what it might do to her.” He paused. “You know, yesterday evening... There’s this grove of redwoods to the far side of this property.”
“And?”
“I was up there around dusk watching the fog. I go there late almost every day. It’s kind of like meditation for me. Anyway, I noticed this guy down in the canyon, following the driveway toward the highway. First person I’d ever seen there, so I followed him and we talked. He claimed he was sent out from New York by the owners to check up on the property, but his story didn’t ring true to me.”
“Describe him, please.”
The description matched Guy Newberry. He’d certainly been busy since he arrived in town.
Guy stood on his balcony, listening to the wash of surf on the rocky beach before tackling the remaining profiles of the victims. Claudia and Mitch Blakeley, he thought, were examples of a type he’d encountered all too often: indulged as children; blessed with small talents and large aspirations; cursed with an unwillingness to work long and hard at anything. In short, dabblers.
And no doubt envious of those who had succeeded. They didn’t recognize the toil and sacrifice that success demands. They didn’t acknowledge the years of paying dues to a club in which the payee was denied full membership. What had one of the New York dabblers said to him several years ago? Oh yes: “Talentwise, there’s not much difference between the best and the worst of us, but some are chosen and some aren’t. It’s as if somebody’s sprinkling gold dust around. One person it sticks to, another it doesn’t.”
He couldn’t debate the first assumption; with a few notable exceptions, talent fell into a fairly narrow range. And luck certainly played a strong role in any individual’s career. But if there were some latter-day Tinkerbell flitting about, what made her dust stick to one person and not the other was a coating of good, honest sweat.
In accordance with that thought, he went back inside to the profiles.
Susan Harrison Wynne, murder victim, thirty-one years of age. The wealth that flowed from Harrison Industries had cushioned her from birth: nannies; private schools and lessons; the brownstone in the East Seventies; summers at the family estate in Bar Harbor. But the cushion was not without its protruding springs. Her father divorced her mother for a younger woman when she was thirteen. Her only sibling, Dunbar, was usually away at school — no source of comfort. Her mother took to traveling and bringing home lovers who never lasted out the year.
Great sums of money and a difficult family life usually bring isolation and loneliness, but not so with Susan. She went out of her way to make friends, and they helped her keep intact her natural warmth, intelligence, and humor. Classmates and teachers from her boarding school days described her as an instigator of hilarious pranks and harmless disruptions for which even an ogre of a headmistress found it hard to punish her. Adventurousness and intellectual curiosity became her hallmark.
When the time came for filling out college applications, Susan tore up those from the eastern schools her adviser recommended and instead applied only to the “alternative” campus at Santa Cruz. There she became intrigued with organic gardening and worked tirelessly in the campus plots. Horticulture led naturally to the culinary arts, and soon she was taking lessons from a chef at an innovative California-style restaurant downtown. The owner had brought in a fine arts major from the campus to create a sculpture for his courtyard dining area, and Susan, who had seen the young man around but never spoken to him, soon fell in love with Forrest Wynne. Before long they took an apartment together, and when Susan, on the recommendation of her mentor, was accepted at the Academy of Culinary Arts in San Francisco, Forrest transferred to the College of Arts and Crafts in nearby Oakland. Before they moved north, they married and soon conceived their first child, Heath.
There were two photographs of Susan Wynne clipped to the profile. Guy removed them and studied the one dated shortly after Heath’s birth. A heart-shaped face framed by straight light brown hair; faint smile revealing dazzlingly white teeth. Nothing exceptional about the features until you looked into her eyes.
They glowed with warmth, intelligence, and kindness. Even in a photograph they appeared to look beyond the surface of what they saw. This was a woman who was sure of who she was and could accept others on whatever terms they presented themselves. She would have been a good listener and willing to aid friends with her considerable insight. And she wouldn’t have been afraid to tell you when you were being an asshole.