Death in Donegal Bay (3 page)

Faulkner had eluded me again; I was back in the pool when Ian came home earlier than she had expected to be.

“Put on your suit,” I suggested, “and join me in a game of underwater grappling.”

“I’ll put on my suit,” she said, “but we’ll save the grappling for tonight.”

A breeze from the north began to drift in after dinner. We opened all the windows to cool off the house and sat in deck chairs on the front lawn.

A little before eleven, Jan said, “Let’s not watch the news on the tube. All we’ll see are liquor-store holdups, car crashes, fires, and milling crowds chanting hate slogans from the troubled Middle East. Let’s go to bed and start grappling.”

“If you insist,” I agreed.

I
WAS ON MY
second cup of coffee in the morning when Mr. Raleigh phoned. “That crazy Corey,” he told me, “didn’t come home all night. His mother was worried stiff! Then he phones us early this morning from Donegal Bay. What is he doing up there?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Raleigh. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Not him.
Confidential,
he called it. Huh! But I thought as long as you were working with him, you might know.”

“Did he tell you I was working with him?”

“Not right out. When does he ever say anything right out? Let’s say he led me to believe you were.”

“He had a reason to,” I explained. “I did tell him I would help him any time he needed help. Evidently, he hasn’t needed it.” I took a breath and said, “If he was on an all-night stakeout, he probably didn’t have a chance to phone you before this morning. I think you underrate your son, Mr. Raleigh. He is more mature for his age than you seem to think.”

“When he gets mature enough to pay us some room and board and rent for the garage, I’ll be ready to agree with you. Mr. Callahan, as one adult to another, if you learn anything I should know, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I lied. “Tell Mrs. Raleigh not to worry.”

“I’ll do that. She thinks a lot of you. And thanks.”

Donegal Bay was a beach hamlet about twenty-five miles north of San Valdesto. It had started as an artist’s colony in those long-ago days when land along the coast cost less than a million dollars an acre. The colony was still there, and the area was also a mecca for clam diggers and dune-buggy itinerants. The bluff above the beach held the impressive homes of the latecomers who could afford the current prices.

What, I asked myself, was Mrs. Alan Arthur Baker doing in Donegal Bay? Was she painting a picture, digging for clams, racing a dune buggy? Or perhaps visiting a wealthy lover on the bluff?

This case was getting more interesting by the hour. Jan had called it right; it was my kind of case, full of maybes. The first three maybes were doubtful—but who can be sure?

“Who was that?” Jan asked.

“Mr. Raleigh. Corey stayed out all night and he’s worried. I wish he would let Corey grow up. He’s twenty-one years old.”

“Only chronologically. Do you think something happened to him?”

I shook my head. “He phoned home this morning from Donegal Bay. He must have followed Felicia Baker up there.”

“And spent the night with her?”

“Watching her, not wooing her!”

“I know. It was my little joke. Why don’t you run up to Donegal Bay and question your protégé?”

A little joke followed by a little rhyme; my bride was chipper this morning. Grappling often had that effect on her. I said, “He’s probably on his way home by now—and it’s none of my business.”

She smiled.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“Your little joke. Let Mrs. Casey know if you’re not going to be home for lunch. And now I must trudge off to my day of labor.”

She trudged off to her day of labor in her little Mercedes, and I went into the den to resume my remedial reading. I had lasted six rounds with Faulkner yesterday before throwing in the towel; how many rounds could I go against Joyce?

None. I couldn’t concentrate. I phoned the Baker house and the maid answered. I identified myself and asked for Alan.

Mr. Baker wasn’t at home, she informed me. “He went to Los Angeles early yesterday morning and we are not sure when he will be back. He’ll be phoning here this afternoon to tell us. Perhaps you could call back tonight?”

“Could I speak with Mrs. Baker?”

“Mrs. Baker is not home, either. She is visiting friends in Lompoc. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes. Please tell him I am worried about a young man we both know. He’ll know who I mean. The young man’s father is worried about him.”

Five minutes later, I decided to do what Jan knew I would. I told Mrs. Casey I wouldn’t be home for lunch. I told her that if a man named Baker phoned this afternoon, she should tell him I was out playing golf.

She looked at me suspiciously. “Is that a lie?”

“Yes. But it’s only a venial sin, not mortal. It’s not even venial enough for three Hail Marys.”

“And what if Mrs. Callahan wants to know where you are?”

“She’ll know. It was her suggestion.”

School was out. It was vacation time, and Highway 101 was loaded with vacationers, heavy with campers and house trailers. The petroleum shortage had turned into a petroleum glut and we were back to Mr. Veblen’s conspicuous consumption.

The Donegal Bay off-ramp was wide, the road it led into was narrow and pitted with potholes. I turned under the freeway and started to climb gradually toward the sea. It was a small rise. From its crest, the spread of Donegal Valley lay before me. It was studded with wild mustard blossoms and about a dozen large ranches.

The climb was steeper and longer coming out of the valley. A cool breeze from the ocean drifted into the car about halfway up the grade. There had been avocado trees or cattle on most of these ranches at one time. Several of them were still working ranches; the others had been converted to leisurely spreads for the horsey set.

The road grew wider as I neared the top. At the bluff end, an even wider and unpitted macadam road lined with olive trees intersected it. This was the road that served the large homes looking down on the town and the sea.

I drove along it slowly but spotted no nine-year-old Plymouth. At the far end, the road narrowed and started its steep and sharply curved descent to the town and beach below. I stayed in low gear all the way down.

The main street of the town ran laterally with the beach; the five side streets that crossed it extended for only a block on each side. Back and forth I drove, covering every house. Corey’s car was not in sight.

He was probably home by now. I was about to turn for home myself after I had covered the final street. But then I saw the sign that read
Einlicher On Tap.

It was a weathered building of unfinished barn siding with a shake roof. An immense rust-eroded anchor was set on a concrete base in the small patch of ice plant next to the parking area. The place was named (of course) the Rusty Anchor.

There were only two customers in the place. One was a tall, tanned, long-haired, blond, bearded youth wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. He was sitting at a corner table with a tall, tanned, long-haired, blonde but unbearded girl wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. They glanced up as I came in and then went back to consuming the immense bowls of clam chowder in front of them.

The ceiling was festooned with fishnets, the rough wooden walls were adorned with dried multicolored kelp. The man behind the bar could have passed for Clark Kent, except for the scar tissue over one eye and a slightly cauliflowered ear. That should have been the tipoff, but it had been a long time since I had seen Mike Anthony in action.

It was the blown-up photographs on the back bar that alerted me—Mike standing over Jess Leppert as Jess went down in the third round at Las Vegas, Mike’s murderous overhand right slamming Chico Maracho halfway through the ropes in their San Diego brawl.

“Mike Anthony,” I said, “as I live and breathe!”

He smiled. “Right. And where have I seen you before? I’ve seen you somewhere, I know that.”

I shrugged. “Maybe at Burke’s Gym? I used to spar a little with Charlie Davis there. My name is Greg Hudson. Could I shake your hand?”

He shook my hand and said, “That was too bad about Charlie, huh? He had a lot going for him.”

Charlie Davis, heavyweight, had been killed in a plane crash. I said, “That’s for sure. He was heading for the top when it happened.”

He studied me. “It couldn’t have been at Burke’s. I didn’t train there often. Hey, wait, didn’t you used to hang around Heinie’s?”

“At times. That could be where you saw me. I never got on a card you were on and never more than four-round prelims. How about a tall glass of Einlicher and one for yourself?”

“Coming up,” he said. “It was Heinie who steered me onto Einlicher.” He poured us a pair of glasses and asked, “Visiting friends here?”

“Nope. Looking for a place to live. I can’t breathe that L.A. air anymore. Do you like it here?”

He shrugged. “I like the air. I could use a little more action. My cousin owned this place, and he sold it to me cheap.”

“It might be a little rustic for my wife,” I said. “Are you married?”

He shook his head and smiled. “That kind of action I can get even around here. I never saw any need to sign a long-term contract.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew a business card from it and laid it on the jar. “If you decide to come up here, deal with this guy. He’s a buddy of mine. He’ll do all right by you.”

I took the card. “Thanks. How’s your clam chowder?”

“You’ll never know until you try it,” he said.

I tried it. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, either. “Good,” I said. “How about another couple of beers?”

We had those and then I told him that as long as I was in town, I might as well look at a couple of houses. I didn’t add that maybe his buddy would know if Anthony was still messing around with Felicia Baker, the woman who had told her maid (and husband?) that she would be visiting friends in Lompoc.

The blonde and the blond went out with me. They climbed into a dune buggy and headed for the beach. I climbed into my car and headed for the office of Duane Detterwald, real estate, trust deeds, insurance, notary public. Just meeting a man named Duane Detterwald should make the trip worthwhile.

His office was half of a converted beach bungalow. The other half was occupied by a bait, fishing tackle, and boat rental shop.

Duane Detterwald was a jockey-size man with a ferret face. He was clothed in a tan Palm Beach-type suit, a yellow oxford cotton shirt, but no tie. His tan loafers glistened with polish. Or maybe varnish.

“Could you give me a rough estimate of the price range you’re considering, Mr. Hudson?” he asked me.

“It would depend,” I told him, “on what I could get for my house in Brentwood. I suppose those homes up on the bluff are out of sight?”

“Not any more than the homes in your area. I have only one listing up there. They’re asking four hundred and thirty thousand, but I’m sure that they would consider a smaller offer. How large is your home in Brentwood?”

“Twenty-eight hundred square feet. It has three bedrooms, a den, and two and a half baths. It’s right next to the Brentwood Country Club. It’s paid for, so the buyer can’t assume a low-interest loan, but I’d be willing to take back a sizable second trust deed.”

He nodded. “I’ll phone and see if we can get in this morning.”

He phoned and we could. On the small dirt parking lot behind the building, he said, “So long as there’s only the two of us, we’ll take the little car.”

The little car was a Datsun 280-Z, the other a Cadillac De-Ville. Why, I wondered, would Duane Detterwald have to share office space with a bait store?

Zoom, zoom,
the Datsun rumbled, rolling out of the lot. Tuned twin tail pipes …
Duane, baby, what goes on here?

On the climb up the winding road, I said, “I sure thought Mike was heading for the title.”

“So did he. Until he ran into Duke Ellis. Duke was the guy who put Mike out of business. He tore his guts out. I won a bundle on that fight.”

“Have you known Mike long?” I asked.

He nodded. “Since high school. I told him he wasn’t ready for Ellis. But Mike is one stubborn wop.”

“You’ve known him since high school, but you bet against him?”

“I did. And I told Mike I was going to.”

And Mike went into the tank,
I thought,
and split the wad with you.
I asked, “How long have you been in the real-estate business up here?”

He smiled. “I had a hunch that question was coming. I came up here three months after I joined Gamblers Anonymous. Don’t get nervous, Mr. Hudson. You are riding with an honest broker.”

“I’m sure I am,” I lied.

The house he parked in front of was more Georgian than Californian, a two-story red brick place with white shutters bordering each window, and fronted by a wide, low porch. Fluted pillars supported the roof of the porch.

“The lady of the house,” he told me, “never got over
Gone With the Wind.
But now she’s found an even bigger all-frame colonial in San Luis Obispo.”

The lady of the house had red hair. Any resemblance to Scarlett O’Hara ended there. She was tall and angular and bony, a woman of about sixty trying to look thirty.

“Duane, darling!” she said. “I missed you at the Ellers’ party last night.”

“I was out of town,” he explained. “This is Greg Hudson, Marilyn. He might be interested in your house.

She smiled at me. “This way, Mr. Hudson.”

Cutesy, chintzy rooms, crowded with maple furniture and too many oval rugs and oval-framed pictures. There were four-poster beds in two of the bedrooms. I was glad Jan wasn’t here. It was the kind of house she would ache to do over—with an axe.

I told Marilyn, “It’s a charming place. But I can’t make an offer until my wife sees it. Will you be home this weekend?”

She nodded. “But you’d better hurry. A buy like this doesn’t stay on the market long.”

Outside, Duane chuckled. “Not very long. I’ve only had the listing for ten months.”

He still seemed amused as we headed down the steep road. About halfway down, he started to chuckle again.