Just Over The Mountain (5 page)

“It would appear you’re much more experienced than that.” June took the charts. “I’m sorry you had to stay so late. It isn’t usually this wild.”

“At least it’s only schoolchildren and not an epidemic. Um, June? You have a few extra minutes? I have something on my mind.”

June braced herself. Susan was going to tell her she couldn’t come in anymore, she just knew it. “Sure, have a seat,” June said, laying down her pen and giving the nurse her complete attention.

Susan sat on the edge of her chair, a bit nervously, it seemed. “I know you’ve run ads in local papers and contacted the nurses’ registry for a full-time nurse-practitioner, and I know I’m only an old operating-room RN with no special postgraduate training, but is there any
way you could be persuaded to keep me on? Maybe even part-time?”

June’s mouth fell open in shock. “Susan?” she said, afraid to believe what she’d just heard.

“I’m sure if there are other duties you’d require a nurse-practitioner’s skill for, like prenatal exams and that sort of thing, I could learn…”

“Susan, I only advertised for a nurse-practitioner so I’d be sure to get at least RN applicants. When you run ads like this in small-town papers, every nurse’s aide in a sixty-mile radius wants an interview. You’d be amazed at how many people who have worked two weeks in a nursing home think they’re registered nurses. I would die to have you!”

“Seriously?” Susan edged farther back into her chair, confidence melting her features into her usual smile.

“But John told me you’d never consider it.”

“That’s what he thinks…because he doesn’t listen. But I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”

“What about Sydney? Can you find day care or a baby-sitter?”

“My best friend, Julianna Dickson, has a first-grader also. As long as I can get Sydney to school in the morning, Julianna will take her home in the afternoon. She’s been doing that all this week, having the time of her life.”

June frowned. It didn’t sound as if Sydney was complaining. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a deal. But I’m worried about John. He obviously doesn’t realize you’d like to do this full-time. How are we going to handle that?”

Susan put up a finger, signaling “just a minute.” She left the office, but was back in a flash. June accepted the piece of paper she was being handed. “Show him my résumé, June. Tell him I applied for the job. The rest is between the two of you.”

“But Susan, I don’t want to get into the middle of some marital—”

“Would you hire any nurse without getting John’s opinion?”

“Of course not.”

“Then that’s how you should do it. I’ve been telling John for a long time now that I’d like to work again, but when you move to a place like Grace Valley, where surgeries aren’t abundant and there’s a long list of qualified surgical techs and nurses waiting for an opening at Valley Hospital, the discussion is pretty short. And then there’s Charlotte. I thought she’d probably work to the last day of her life, but I honestly didn’t think it would threaten so soon or I would have talked to you before now. I would have let you know you didn’t have to worry about having a nurse available in the event of an emergency.” She lifted a blond eyebrow. “There was no point in offering to substitute for Charlotte. She wasn’t about to let anyone else into her sacred space.”

“Well, I’ll be.” June shook her head, trying to grasp her good luck. “Should we talk about salary?”

“Why bother? I know you’ll pay me what you can.”

June stretched a hand across her desk. “You have a deal. If I can convince your husband.”

“I’m sure he’ll be convinced,” she said, smiling.
“John would like to have sex again in his life.” She stood to leave but stopped and turned as she got to the office door. “Those Forrest twins? Are they the kids of the old boyfriend I’ve been hearing about?”

“I don’t know. What are you hearing?” June asked cagily.

“Just that you dated Birdie and Judge’s son in high school and he’s moved back with his sons.”

Sounded pretty harmless. “Yeah. The same.”

“Pistols,” Susan said. “Better not turn your back on them.”

“Really?”

“Oh, really. I left them in the examining room for maybe ten minutes and they were into everything. I had to reclaim a speculum from one’s pocket.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. If they were mine, I’d frisk them every day when they came home.”

It was almost seven by the time June was able to call Tom and tell him she could finally have that cup of coffee. Since it was so late, she ordered a hamburger for herself and a bowl of chow outside the back door for Sadie. Tom arrived just as June was taking her first bite.

“I’m sorry, Tom. Have you eaten?”

“I took a dinner break at home a couple of hours ago. What’s going on at the clinic? I think I saw every car I know over there today.”

“Back-to-school physicals. Nothing earthshaking. What’s on your mind?”

“You should have a heads up. I found Clarence. He’s back in that hovel in the forest. And he’s either not taking his drugs or they’re not working.”

“Oh no!”

“He’s not real bad yet—”

“He was never real bad, Tom, as long as he had his environment under control.”

Tom scratched his chin. “That’s right,” he said facetiously. “I really shouldn’t misinterpret him shooting me as evidence that he was in a bad way.”

June leaned forward. “We agreed, if he had wanted to hit you, you’d be dead.”

“June, he mistook me for someone he served with in Vietnam.”

“Poor Clarence,” she said. “Did you get him out of there? Get him to the hospital? Or at least home?”

Tom shook his head. “He won’t budge. He told me to tell his family that they were better off without him.”

June put her hamburger down. “Oh God. Is he suicidal?”

“I’m not sure. I told Jurea and the kids that he was upset by the changes they’ve gone through in the past few months. It
has
been quite a lot, if you think about it. And I have a call in to Charlie at the VA. You might want to check on Jurea, see how she’s doing.”

“I might want to check on Clarence…”

“Let’s be careful not to bombard him with attention. I just wanted you to know that the Mulls are in trouble again.”

“I am so, so disappointed to hear that. I’ll give social
services a call tomorrow, see if Corsica Rios or some other caseworker can drop by and see if Jurea and the kids need anything. But I can’t think of much more we can do.”

Tom shook his head in exasperation. “I’ve thought of every possibility, including tranquilizer darts.”

“Tom!” June scolded. She tried again with her burger, taking a big bite. Mustard, ketchup and the grease George Fuller was famous for squished out and a big splotch of it landed right between her breasts on her pale blue knit top. It was not a small splotch.

“Nice,” Tom said.

Before she could even put the burger down and grab a napkin, Judge Forrest and Chris came sauntering into the café. They were immediately greeted by someone at the counter who hadn’t seen Chris since he’d been back.

“Great timing,” Tom observed.

She began to scrub the spot with her napkin and while chewing, muttered, “He keeps giving me reasons to hate him.”

“You might as well get this over with,” Tom said.

“Why? I’ll just make a run for it and you can apologize for me. Say my beeper went off or something.”

“Don’t be a coward. Cowards die painfully in the end.”

“God,” she said, scrubbing. “Cherokee wisdom, as if I don’t suffer enough.”

“Hi, June.”

She looked up and there he was, looking down at her as she scrubbed her shirt.

“Well,” she said, mortified.

“Looks like you got a little on you,” he said, and winked.
Winked.

She heard a sound that she knew was Tom stifling a laugh and she contemplated many punishments for him also. “Well, hi there! I wondered when I’d run into you. Welcome back.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to—”

“Oh nuts,” she said, reaching for the pager attached to her belt. She pressed a button on it which lit up the last number phoned in. But he wouldn’t know that, right? “I’m sorry, Chris. We’re going to have to continue this later.” She reached out to shake his hand. “Good to see you, though.” Then to Tom, “I’ll talk to you about that other matter tomorrow,” she said. She grabbed her plate and headed to the counter where George met her with a cardboard to-go box; he was a very well-trained café owner. She dropped her hamburger in and zipped out the door.

Five minutes later she was again at her desk, this time finishing her dinner, when she looked up to see Tom leaning in the door frame. Her mouth was full, but at least the food was all in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed and lifted the napkin to her lips to blot them. All the while Tom just watched, a slight curve to his lips. He was so damn patient! And his quiet appraisal seemed accusatory.

“Well, I didn’t want to talk to him. And definitely not right after I’d spilled my dinner on my shirt, okay?”

“You’re not a good liar,” he said. “He knows you bolted.”

“He does not! He
thinks
I bolted, but he’ll never be sure.”

“Eventually, you’ll have to talk to him, because he’s going to be living here now. And he’s been asking if you’re seeing anyone.”

She seethed. What nerve! Two angry red patches grew on her cheeks. “Did you see what he did? He
winked
at me!”

“He’ll learn,” Tom said. But what he thought was, This is going to be good!

P
art of Tom’s routine was cruising Grace Valley, both the town and the outlying rural community. In town, a mere ten blocks held one hundred small homes and a half dozen businesses, including the police department and the clinic. Grace Valley was mostly rural and didn’t even have its own grocery store. The schools were located west of town, and the high school was shared with the town of Rockport. Beyond the town, Tom had to be familiar with all the back roads, the dirt paths, the abandoned roads from the logging and mining days, the trails between farms, the cow and horse paths. He regularly inventoried the outbuildings on farms, abandoned storage sheds on the edges of property as well as those in use. If he ever had the need to chase someone, he should know where they might find a route away from him and where they might hide.

Tourism was on the rise in all of northern California. People came to hunt, fish, camp and just enjoy the
beauty. They had been spared the insult of big resorts, but quaint bed-and-breakfasts had sprung up all over the place. That meant a lot of the cars, trucks and campers on the roads did not belong to locals. It was hard enough to take care of a town as spread out as Grace Valley, but with strangers continually passing through, it increased the load tenfold. The police department was still just three men—Tom and deputies Ricky and Lee.

Tom thought it wise to be a visible presence, and his two young deputies also toured the roads with regularity, especially the roads that connected major thoroughfares and highways to the town. To strangers, it might look as if there were a lot more than three of them.

The time Tom spent at the café was more for the benefit of contact with the people than for the food, though he thought George Fuller’s cooking at least passable. Tom liked to take his meals at home whenever possible, and on his way to and from he would take different routes so he could have a look around. He covered a lot of territory just getting himself fed every day.

On this particular day he came across a covered pickup with California plates parked by the side of a well-traveled road. He pulled up behind it, got out of his Range Rover and looked the pickup over. It was in pretty good shape for its age, but dirty. The owner had probably spent lots of time on back roads and hadn’t visited a car wash in a long time.

He shined his flashlight into the windows. The seats
were covered with towels and there were clothes, a bedroll and camping gear in the back. It was important to talk to campers from out of the area whenever possible; a lot of people didn’t realize the dangers hidden behind the great beauty of the mountains. There were fire hazards, wildlife that could be dangerous if misunderstood and the human element. Clarence Mull was not the only squatter hidden in the forest. And there were marijuana farms hidden back there with very territorial landlords. A camper or hiker could easily stumble into unfriendly territory.

“Ho there,” a voice called.

Tom saw a tall redheaded man lumbering through the brush toward his truck. He had a shaggy and unkempt look about him, but he was dressed in the sort of clothing an old-fashioned college professor might wear—khaki pants, brown, laced shoes, sweater vest and tweedy jacket with patches on the elbows. Around his neck dangled binoculars and a camera; over his shoulder a large canvas bag.

“Hello, Officer, is there a problem with my vehicle?”

“I was going to ask you the same question, sir,” Tom said. “I thought it might be abandoned.”

“No chance of that, Officer.” He came around the truck to stand in front of Tom. “I haven’t broken any laws, have I?” he asked. His accent was either British or Australian, Tom wasn’t sure. Formal, in any case. And perhaps a tad effeminate as well.

“Depends on what your business is.”

“Bird-watching, as a matter of fact. I’ve been
chasing a ruby-crowned kinglet, a rare sight for this part of the country, particularly in the late summer and early fall. It’s a tiny little beauty and I suspect there’s a nest around here.” He chortled as if he’d told some sort of joke. “Little blighter probably has a whole family and I aim to get a shot,” he said, patting his camera.

“That might not be such a good idea. If you get more than twenty feet off the road, you’re on private property.”

He looked around, craning his neck. “What’s this then? A farm of some sort? I can’t think anyone would care if I slipped around the shrub and muck in search of a tiny bird. I don’t mean to damage any property or let the livestock loose.”

Tom took out a pen and tablet. With his pen he pointed to a No Trespassing sign on a post just a few yards up the road. “In fact, it’s a family home on a piece of acreage and there isn’t any issue of you doing damage. It’s an issue of them deserving the privacy they invested in.”

“I don’t even see a house!” he protested.

“If you slip around the brush and muck for long, you’ll eventually run into a house. Can I see some identification?”

The gentleman opened his satchel, pulled out a wallet and handed it to Tom. “I must inquire once again, Officer, have I committed a crime?”

Tom flipped open the man’s ID. Paul Faraday. San Jose address. He copied the information onto his small tablet and handed the billfold back. “Not that I’m aware
of, Mr. Faraday. I just like to know who’s come to town. Where are you camping?”

“I’m actually thinking of visiting your bed-and-breakfast tonight. I could do with a cup of hot tea and a soak.”

“Have you been camping around here?”

“I spent one night in Redwood Valley. In search of a crafty little bobolink.”

“What campgrounds?”

He shrugged and smiled, his teeth large. “I can’t remember, frankly.”

“Maybe you have a receipt?” Tom asked.

“I wouldn’t have saved it, Officer. I get the impression you’re quite annoyed with me for something, and I can’t imagine what.”

Neither can I, Tom almost said. But instead he put out his hand to shake with the gentleman. “I like to meet the visitors,” he repeated. “You be careful not to wander too far back into the forest, now. We have bears and mountain lions, and it’s not at all unusual to run into enclaves of squatters, from mountain folk to pot growers. I wouldn’t vouch for the friendliness of either.”

“I’ll be wary.”

“And mind fire laws to the letter. It’s been a dry summer.”

“You have my word,” Mr. Faraday said, getting into his truck to make his escape while he could. “Thank you for your time, Officer.”

“Watch those No Trespassing signs, Mr. Faraday.
There is a misdemeanor charge for ignoring them. It would be inconvenient for you.”

“I’m sure.” He laughed. “I’m sure. Good day to you then,” he said, starting his engine. He stuck his arm out the window to wave as he drove away.

Tom watched him go, then lingered in the area for a while to make sure the man wasn’t skulking around. When Tom got home, he found that the long wooden table used to feed his wife, five children, mother and father was set with only two places. He smiled in satisfaction. Ursula brought in their lunch on a tray—sandwiches, salad, tea and chips for Tom.

“Your father has taken your mother to Rockport to buy fish for dinner and the children have all eaten and run off. Johnny has made new friends—the Forrest twins. He’s proudly showing them his fort and the woods.”

“Are we really alone?” he asked.

“As alone as one can be with five children on the loose. Tanya is baby-sitting on the other side of the valley, but the others and all their friends cannot be trusted to stay away.”

He bit into his sandwich and said, “I’ll savor the moment anyway.”

“The nicest part of my summer is having lunch with you,” she said. “I can’t believe the season is about to end so soon.”

“You love to teach,” he said.

“I love to spend time with you as well. Tell me about the criminals you’ve apprehended so far today.”

“I gave a bird-watcher some trouble on the way home. He was creeping around Myrna Claypool’s property. I didn’t like the looks of him. I had half a mind to tell him he could find that pesky little ruby-crowned kinglet on the other side of town, but then he’d know I know as much as he does.”

“He’s looking for a ruby-crowned kinglet?” she asked, puzzled.

Tom nodded and said, “And a bobolink.”

Ursula sat back in her chair, her mouth open in disbelief. “They’re everywhere,” she said, and he nodded. “He’s up to something,” she added, and he nodded again. “He’s not very smart, either.”

“You’d think he’d at least name a bird that isn’t indigenous to the area.”

“What an idiot,” Ursula said, picking up her sandwich.

Tom shrugged, but his thoughts had wandered back to the years his father spent making him memorize every bird, plant, star and animal. All of Tom’s siblings had been so taught and then Tom’s children and wife, for Ursula’s education had not been linked to the land and sky.

“You’re obviously Native,” she went on, “and that foot-long ponytail might suggest some old tribal ways, including an education in nature. What a dope. I hope you got a license number.”

Tom chuckled. “Yes, Ursula.”

But that afternoon he called June. “I have a favor to ask,” he started. At her groan he said, “Just a small one. I found an alleged bird-watcher skulking around near
your aunt Myrna’s house. He was as phony as a wooden nickel, complete with fake accent. At least I think it was fake. I ran him off and told him he was getting too close to private property, but I wonder if you’d drop in on Myrna, tell her to keep an eye out for him and to call me or one of the boys if he seems particularly drawn to her property.”

“How do you know he’s a phony?”

“He was looking for a kinglet and a bobolink. He might as well have been hunting sparrows.”

“He named common birds to a Native?” she asked, astonished. “Isn’t that sort of like naming organs to a doctor?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Why didn’t you stop in and see Myrna yourself?”

“I could have done that, but to tell you the truth, I was a little afraid she might go looking for him, have him in for tea…or martinis.”

“Yeah, I see the dilemma. I’ll drop in on her, make sure she understands she should be careful. Do you think he could be a bothersome fan?”

“I wouldn’t rule out anything,” he said. Except that he’s a bird-watcher, he thought.

Myrna Hudson Claypool was Elmer’s older sister and had raised him since he was an orphaned two-year-old. She had been only fourteen at the time, but seventy years ago it wasn’t so odd for a fourteen-year-old girl to be a mother. Their parents had left not only the big house on the hill overlooking all of Grace Valley, but plenty of money.

Myrna didn’t herself marry until Elmer was through medical school and settled with his own wife, and then it was a traveling salesman named Morton Claypool whom she chose. She never had a problem with Morton’s travels, which took up four to five days of every week. It was almost as though she didn’t want anyone who was going to be around too much so that it might distract her. Myrna had, late in life, turned from an avid reader to a writer of Gothics and mysteries and, finally, suspense novels. It was sometime during June’s senior year of high school, some twenty years past, that Myrna was either widowed or abandoned or quietly divorced. No one knew which. All they knew for certain was that Morton was gone and Myrna had assured her family that he wouldn’t be coming back. No one pried because it seemed fairly obvious that Morton had run off…or wouldn’t she have at least held a memorial? She was rather proud of the large monument-type headstones she’d supplied her parents, so surely she’d have wanted a similar thing for her spouse. But pressing her on the subject seemed destined to humiliate her, so when she expressed her desire to not discuss it further, they—the family and close friends—allowed the subject to drop.

The town talked, plenty. But not to Myrna. Everyone loved Myrna. And even though she didn’t talk about Morton’s disappearance, there was a recurring theme in her novels of a philandering husband being killed by his scorned wife, the wife most often getting away with the crime. Each time Myrna revisited a variation of that plot, the poor husband suffered a death worse than the
one before. Elmer had even confessed to June, in complete confidence, that he’d walked around the grounds at Hudson House in search of any freshly turned soil.

Myrna was a sweet old thing, still getting out a suspense novel every year despite the fact that she was eighty-four. She still drove a 1979 Cadillac, drank a martini or two a day, played poker with a bunch of old-timers and won more than anyone else, and employed the elderly twins Amelia and Endeara Barstow simply because no one else would.

She was also as eccentric as a peacock and Tom was right to fear she’d go looking for the fake bird-watcher. Myrna was not dense or forgetful or naive. In fact, she was as sharp as a tack with what Elmer referred to as a “dangerous memory.” However, she did happen to lack cynicism—a strange thing for the author of so many grisly murder stories.

A few years back a couple portraying themselves as her most ardent fans and a brilliant writing team themselves had shown up at Hudson House with a back seat full of every book she’d ever written—over sixty. They’d insinuated themselves into her home where they were going to presume upon her hospitality for as long as she’d allow it. They were clearly taking complete advantage, going through her things, asking her questions about her wealth and ringing up lots of long-distance charges. While they didn’t exactly fool Myrna, she allowed herself to be manipulated by a couple of pros.

It was Amelia and Endeara who blew the whistle on
them. They refused to wait on them and went to June, who went to Elmer, who went to Tom. Otherwise, who knows what might have happened. The enterprising writing couple was ousted, and fortunately for them, they were gone before Tom found out they had a long record for conning rich elderly people.

“Aunt Myrna, you
must
be more careful,” June had scolded.

“I was being
completely
careful,” she replied. “They were fascinating! You can’t believe how stupid they thought me, or the wild tales they told me to keep me off their scent. I’m not exactly sure what their long-range plan was, but in the short term, they were trying to figure out just what I was worth. I crept around the house planting old bank statements, canceled checks and investment records for accounts closed years ago.” She cackled happily. “Must’ve made them drool. I wonder if they were going to try to get into my will, or if they were just going to kill me and rob me.”