Just Over the Mountain

  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 f
or 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.”

  June had gasped. “How can you talk about that possibility so calmly?”

  Myrna had patted her arm gently. “I guess I just see it all as research.”

  And, sure enough, a couple of books later a husband-and-wife con-artist team were rubbing out little old ladies for their fortunes, but eventually found themselves captured by one of their victims, herself a skilled murderess. Myrna was getting more shocking by the year.

  On her way home from the clinic June dropped by her aunt’s house. Amelia’s car was still in front of the house and it was she who opened the door. “Is my aunt Myrna receiving?” June asked.

  Amelia simply turned and walked into the great house, leaving the door open so that June would know to follow. The Barstow twins were not only the biggest grumps in town, they bickered so fiercely with each other that Myrna only allowed one of them to work for her at a time. Essentially, they job-shared.

  The door to the den that Myrna used as an office was ajar and she peeked in. Myrna was hunched over her laptop computer. June tapped lightly and Myrna glanced at her watch as she looked up to see June. “Gracious! Where has the day gone?” She pulled off the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, pulled the pencil from behind her ear and stood slowly. Stiffly. She took a moment to stretch out the kinks.

  “You must be on a roll,” June observed.

  “Darling, sometimes they just write themselves. This one isn’t going to let me sleep till it’s over.”

  “If you’re too busy…”

  “Nonsense. I have to stop. I don’t want to burn out, you know. Besides, I think it might be time for my martini. Join me?”

  “Maybe for half a glass of wine. If you’re sure you’re not too busy.”

  Myrna laughed, her loud, joyful cackle. “There are two things I’m never to busy for. My five o’clock martini and you, my dearest.”

  “It’s almost six,” June pointed out.

  “So it is. I might have to have two martinis.” Myrna looped her arm through June’s. Her steps were slow and creaky as they walked toward the kitchen.

  “You shouldn’t sit so long at the computer,” June said. “Get up and walk around, at least once an hour.”

  “Lord, June, don’t you think I do? I’m eighty-four! I can stiffen up in ten minutes. Amelia!” she called toward the kitchen. The woman stuck her head out. “Bring us drinks in the sunroom. June will have a glass of merlot.”

  “Chablis,” June corrected.

  “She’ll have merlot. It’s better for her heart.”

  “Merlot,” she accepted, knowing she’d only have a few sips anyway. “I did stop by to talk to you about something specific.” They came into the sunroom, an addition to Hudson House that was only fifteen years old. It stuck out of the north end of the house, seventy-five percent glassed-in porch, so that it caught the morning and afternoon sunshine. At six, the sun was slanting over the tall trees to the west and casting a soft light into the room. Dust motes floated in the soft rays of dusk light. Amelia and Endeara, for all the hours they spent at Hudson House, weren’t much for housekeeping.

  Myrna took another leisurely stretch before sitting in a large wicker chair. “Specifically, what?” she asked.

  Amelia arrived with drinks on a tray and a little bowl of Goldfish snack crackers.

  “Tom called me earlier today. He said he’d run some bird-watcher off your property. He’d parked on the road and—”

  “Yes, I met him.” Myrna closed her eyes and took a tiny sip of her martini. She smacked her lips, then opened her eyes. “Faraday. Nice fellow. I told him he could bird-watch, but not around the house. The Barstows get all excited if they see anyone lurking about. And I told him to take special care by the hydrangeas. They’re delicate.”

  “You talked to him?” June asked.

  “Yes, June. He knocked at the door.”

  “You shouldn’t be answering the door!”

  Myrna looked both bored and annoyed. “June, I don’t even lock the door.”

  “Well, you should definitely lock the door!”

  “You don’t lock your door!”

  June made a face. She was locking it now, now that she had a secret lover who sometimes appeared as though out of the mist. Her secret lover might be an expert lock picker, but her father wasn’t. “Well, you’re a famous author. You remember that couple, what was their name?”

  “I’m not famous. Everyone but the neighbors thinks I’m dead. They think other writers are writing my books. Why, at my last signing in Garberville, there were only two people I haven’t known for over twenty years!”

  “But you let him in? You talked to him? I don’t think he’s really a—”

  “Actually, no, I didn’t invite him in. I felt badly about that. I told him I was quite too busy to have him in, but he should feel free to bird-watch on Hudson land, as long as he didn’t hurt anything and stayed off the hydrangeas. He said the police had run him off, so he wanted to be sure to ask permission. He seems a perfectly nice young man.”

  “But Tom doesn’t think he’s really a bird-watcher, so now will you lock your doors?”

  Myrna sipped her martini and said, “If it’ll make you feel better, June.” By her expression, she had absolutely no intention of doing so.

  Tom was almost home for dinner when he was radioed by Deputy Ricky Rios that Ray Gilmore had called the police department, irate. Ray had a modest garden and henhouse that someone had raided, robbing him of eggs and ripe tomatoes.

  Tom was nonplussed. “What does he want me to do? Read a fox his rights?”

  “He says some kids have been throwing eggs and tomatoes at vehicles on 482, just about two miles north of Rainbow.”

  That perked his interest. “That so?” he asked as his foot came down harder on the gas pedal. “I’m not far from there now.”

  A road heavily traveled in the country, 482 cut through a hill that rose up sharply on each side of the road. Tom slowed to look around just as he entered the pass. Before ten seconds had gone by there was a large splat on his windshield. Runny yolk ran down into the wiper tray.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” he swore in disbelief. He slammed on the brakes, spun the Range Rover around and jumped out of the car in time to see the foliage ripple all the way to the top of the hill as the culprits made away. “That’s balls,” he said aloud.

  But no one knew the hills and roads better than Tom. He drove his SUV down the road a bit before he pulled it over to the side, got out and locked the door. He picked up a path that would cut around to the opposite side of the hill. He crouched a little, keeping low, as he crept along the path. He saw a flash of light-colored clothing—a shirt or a jacket—as a kid darted across the stones of the creek bed, coming right for him. Tom put himself behind a tree and just waited. When the moment was right he stepped out and scared ten years off the life of the vandal, who dropped the eggs he carried in his pulled-up shirttail. They splattered on his shoes and washed down the stream between the rocks.

  “Dad!” cried Johnny Toopeek.

  It was an instinctive move on Tom’s part, a combination of shock and anger. He reached right out and grabbed his son’s shirtfront and gave him a shake. “You?” He couldn’t believe this!

  “Dad, hey!” Johnny yelled.


  “You’d throw things at moving vehicles? Like you don’t know how dangerous that is?”

  “No way, Dad! Gimme a break here!”

  Tom let go. Johnny was getting pretty big. At fourteen he was tall, and his feet were already size elevens. Tom looked at those feet. “The evidence may be circumstantial, but it’s all over your shoes.”

  “Yeah, well, I was taking the eggs back. But thanks to you…”

  “Back where?” Tom wanted to know.

  “To Mr. Gilmore’s house, although I don’t know how old they are or when they got taken. Let’s just say I put a stop to it, okay?”

  “Who’d you stop, exactly.”

  “It ain’t important, okay?”

  “It’s my main concern at the moment.”

  “Well, I don’t snitch, so I guess I’m grounded or something.”

  Tom tapped his foot and seethed. “Whoever you’re protecting just hammered the police car.”

  “No way! Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack, buster. Now, who are your friends. As if I don’t know.”

  “Sorry, Pop. I don’t snitch. But I guess me telling them we don’t do that here wasn’t real convincing, so I reckon they’ll get themselves caught pretty quick. And I’ll wash your car.”

  “Yup.” Tom turned and began to walk back to the Range Rover. He knew precisely who the culprits were, but he wasn’t about to let on in front of Johnny. Later they would have a little talk about snitching. Holding a confidence to keep a friend out of trouble was one thing. Clamming up as a matter of principle even if someone could get hurt, was another. Tom needed to be sure Johnny knew the difference.

  June was just about ready to leave the clinic, when the phone rang. She was the last one to go and she could have let the machine pick up—there were emergency numbers on the recorder—but she answered, hoping it might be Jim.

  But it was Charlie MacNeil. While June wouldn’t wish ill on anyone, it was fortuitous that Charlie had a bad sinus infection. She offered to keep the clinic open for a little while longer and give Charlie some free antibiotic and decongestant samples because she wanted a chance to talk to him about Clarence.