Mudlark (7 page)

I helped her load the crabs into two empty cardboard boxes from a stack of boxes in a corner of the
pantry. Tom was into recycling as well as gourmet delicacies. Long white-wrapped packets lay a foot deep in the
bottom of the freezer.

"Salmon." Ruth was not very tall and she bent almost double over the chest, prodding the top layer. "I
guess these are still okay, but we'd better move them soon."

Chinook salmon, I reflected, dollar signs obscuring my vision. Not quite as expensive by the pound as
crab but also gourmet fodder. Salmon I had cooked. Once a week since we moved to the peninsula, broiled, with
lemon or dill sauce. I wondered what several hundred pounds of prime Chinook salmon would fetch on the open
market.

I dragged three of the largest boxes over to the freezer, and we loaded the salmon in. The boxes were
too heavy for Ruth to lift. I staggered under them when we began carrying our spoils to the pickup, though I trusted
spoils was the wrong word. We tossed the melted ice cream into the garbage can behind the house.

At that point Tom apparently registered our efforts. He came out of the house, trailed by the glum
adjustor, and handed me the keys to the truck.

I explained that I could store the still-frozen salmon for him.

"Thanks." He looked relieved. "Sure it won't crowd you?"

"Nope. Crab for dinner tonight, though."

He smiled. I wondered if he knew how to back crab. And whether he would be available for
consultation. Dale Nelson was bound to want to interrogate Tom as soon as the insurance man had made his
inspection.

I backed the Toyota with exquisite care past the insurance man's passenger van. When I found the
windshield wipers, I pulled onto the road and drove over to the house. My upright freezer, which had come with
the place, stood in our decrepit garage. That made downloading the salmon easy. I just backed in, opened the
freezer door, and slid the damp stuff from the bed of the pickup to the shelves. The salmon took up most of the
empty space. I should have dried the freezer-paper off again, but we were in a hurry. I'd have a defrosting job
later.

Ruth came in to admire my kitchen while I stowed crabs and sacks of vegetables in the refrigerator.
Freddy was sitting in the breakfast nook. I introduced Ruth, who shook hands and explained our mission. Freddy
was unmoved by the thought of thawed veggies.

"Are they going to let Tom bring the computer over?"

I admitted I'd forgot to ask.

He took a moody sip of coffee.

"He was pleased with the printout, Freddy."

"Maybe I should go over and offer to bring the machine here for him."

"You could try. The adjustor's still there. I suppose Tom will have to let him examine the computer first.
In case the repairs are costly--"

"I'll fix it for free."

"Are you sure you can?"

He took a final gulp of coffee and rose. "If I can salvage the motherboard--"

"That's great," I interrupted, not wanting to get embroiled in a discussion of computer innards. "You
may have to get the deputy's permission to remove it. He's at Bonnie's house."

"Okay." Freddy gave Ruth a polite smile and clomped out, so intent on his mission I didn't have a chance
to tell him about Bonnie's break-in.

I told Ruth instead, as we climbed back in the pickup and headed out into the storm.

She made distressed noises. "Regular crime wave, ain't it? Take a left here. It's that blue trailer with the
windsock."

I told her about the seagulls and Bonnie's threatening message as I parked on the grassy verge in front
of the small mobile home.

"That's downright shameful!" She sounded honestly shocked. "Welcoming a new neighbor that way--I
never heard of such a thing. Why, there's people come in here from California and Canada and Seattle and all kinds
of places. It ain't Christian."

I set the brake and switched off the ignition. "We haven't had any trouble."

She shook her head sadly and climbed out.

We made five stops on the flat, all at mobile homes. The owners were elderly, about Ruth's age, I
thought, and happy to relieve us of our groceries, though two declined clams on the grounds that they'd already
stocked up. Blackberries, beans, and broccoli were popular. I had to admire Ruth's tact. All of our customers
seemed to be in what the English call reduced circumstances, but Ruth managed to suggest their taking the food
would be a favor. All of them knew Tom.

At each stop Ruth retailed Bonnie's sad story. I could have sworn her auditors were shocked, too. I had
met none of them before, and they seemed friendly enough, even when I admitted I'd come up from California.

All of them were curious about our plans for the old Jorgenson place. The last, a sharp-faced woman
who had been a grade-school teacher, expressed frank relief that we were going to refurbish, not tear the bungalow
down to build a modern beach house. I assured her the thought had not occurred to us.

"It's happening all along the dunes, Mrs. Dodge. Perfectly good houses--not shacks by any means--being
torn down and replaced with big monstrosities like something out of
Sunset Magazine
. Pretty soon we'll
look like Los Angeles. The new houses block the view for the people on the crest, too." She shook her head. "I don't
know why anyone would need a house that big to retire to."

I ventured the possibility the owners weren't thinking of retirement.

She snorted. "Thinking of renting the places out by the week, more likely. It used to be quiet around
here, no traffic, no crime. Now we've got murder and arson and idiots driving sixty miles an hour up and down that
road from town."

Ruth cut in at that point, on the grounds that we still had thawing food in the back of the pickup, and we
made our escape. I wondered how I'd react if someone tore down Bonnie's little house and replaced it with a two
story palace with cathedral ceilings. Or with condos.

Ruth directed me up the road to a small, handsome house on the crest. "Clara Klein lives up there. She's
a painter. Tom said to take her a crab and some huckleberries." Ruth was hoarding the huckleberries.

I decided I wanted some, too. I am not a baker, but I recalled the existence of frozen pie shells. Might as
well give it a try and stun Jay with my domesticity. We had been married six years, and I was beginning to learn
how to cook.

Clara Klein didn't answer the doorbell at once, so I had time to look the place over. It was small and
discreetly landscaped with native evergreens in bark dust mulch, and the architecture fit the pine-covered slope.
The view over the dunes was a panorama, wider than ours and almost as dramatic. I could see the insurance man's
van pulling away from the old McKay place a quarter mile below to the south. I thought Tom was standing on the
porch.

The door opened to reveal a stately woman of about my mother's age. She wore a paint-smeared smock
over the ubiquitous sweat suit, and she had drawn her grizzled hair back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She was
smoking a cigarette.

Ruth introduced me and explained our mission.

Clara Klein's eyes widened. "Tom had a fire? I went to a showing in Cannon Beach yesterday, and I
didn't get back until this morning." She came out onto the encircling deck and walked to the edge, peering west
through the billowing curtains of rain. "Yes, yes, I see. How terrible for him. I hope he didn't lose the book he's
working on."

Ruth looked confused.

I said, "I think it can be saved. The main damage seems to be confined to the kitchen and front bedroom.
He said the computer was in the back bedroom."

"Yes, he works there--has a view of the beach and that iniquitous resort they're building."

I cleared my throat. "Did you hear about the murder?"

That got her full attention. She said slowly, "I heard something on the radio coming home, but I was
switching stations. Who--"

"Cleo Cabot Hagen."

She crushed the cigarette out in a planter box. "Tom's ex-wife? My God, what a complication."

"A friend and I found the body. It was in the dunes, but fairly close to his house."

"No! No, that's awful. Tom wouldn't--" She seemed to gather her wits or perhaps the still-gusting rain
penetrated her awareness. "Come in and have a cup of coffee."

Ruth said, "I'll get the crab and the berries, Clara. Leave the door open."

"Okay, thanks." Clara Klein led me through a truncated hallway to a room that seemed all glass. It was
one of those spaces that serve the functions of living room, dining room, and recreation room in one open plan. A
high bar with teak stools separated the small, casual kitchen from the living area. She directed me to a stool and
poured coffee. Her easel was sitting by the huge west-facing window.

"Tell me about it," she demanded, and poured a cup for herself.

I gave her a terse account of the previous day's events while I looked the room over. There was a lot of
bare wood, and the floors were dotted with found objects and area rugs in shades of cream and beige. The north
wall had a franklin stove with a grouping of easy chairs in interesting fabrics. A low bench edged the west and
south walls. It was cluttered with comfortable cushions, papers, baskets, books, and sculptural odds and ends.
Nothing disturbed the ocean view except the easel. The clutter convinced me Klein was a real artist, not a dabbler.
Most creative people I've known, including my mother, like to live in mild chaos. It was a comfortable place and
attractive in a funky, unplanned way.

I finished a brief account of the fire and said that Tom was staying with us.

"I gather you know he's a writer."

I nodded and sipped coffee, watching her. She was frowning at the ocean.

Ruth entered with a paper bag at that point and had to be given coffee and thanks.

Ruth shrugged. "You can thank Tom. I brought you some vegetables, too."

Klein was sorting through the sack. "Huckleberries, yum. Thanks, Ruth, I'll make a pie and vegetable
soup. It's a soup day."

"I just open a can of Campbell's myself."

Klein smiled at her. "I do, too, when I'm in a hurry, but there's nothing like home-made soup with hot
bread when it's raining out. Half the pleasure is smelling it while it's cooking."

Ruth had to allow she was right. We drank our coffee, and the painter shook our hands and thanked us
again. "Tell Tom I'll clean that print I framed for him. I hope it wasn't scorched."

"Killerwhale?" I asked.

"That's the one. He bought it in San Francisco, of all places, but it's Tlingit work."

Not Kwakuitl after all. I assured her I'd convey her offer.

We were standing on the rain-swept deck by then. Clara peered toward the McKay place. "There's a cop
car in the drive. Poor Tom, what a mess. Why couldn't the stupid woman get herself killed on her own
territory?"

There was no answer to that, and the rain was driving almost horizontally, so Ruth and I sprinted for
the pickup. Clara waved to us from the deck.

Our next stop lay on the far side of the crest, down a wooded slope. The road down was unpaved gravel
and sand, mostly sand. I hoped I wouldn't get stuck.

"What's this about a book?"

"Tom has published two novels." I shifted down. "Didn't you know?"

"He said something. I told him he should get a regular job."

I laughed.

Ruth defogged the windshield with her sleeve. "Where--oh, yes. Turn into that road to the right."

I obeyed, and pulled up in front of a rusty shack that could not have been called a mobile home without
gross distortion of the language. It was nearly engulfed by brush and overhung by enormous spruce and cedar
trees. At some point a drunken carpenter had built a shed over the aluminum trailer. An ancient tricycle lay on its
side by the door. Only a dim light through the window suggested the presence of life within.

"The Johnsons," Ruth said tersely. "Tom said Melanie's old man left her last week. Good riddance." She
rang the bell and gave a sharp rap on the door for good measure. The wind was quieter in that dank hollow, but the
rain sheeted down through something approaching primeval darkness. I clutched my damp sack of food and
shivered.

Ruth banged on the door again and after another pause, during which I could hear a child wailing, the
door opened.

"Oh, hi. I thought it was the welfare." A dull-eyed woman of about my age stared at us without curiosity.
She was pregnant and wore a man's gray sweatshirt over her protruding belly. A toddler with a runny nose
clutched at one jeans-clad leg and sucked her thumb. "What do you want?"

Ruth went into her explanation for the seventh time and the woman held the door open.

"Yeah, I can use the food, though the brats probably won't eat clams. C'mon in."

We entered the dark, cramped space, bearing a sack apiece. A girl of about five was watching cartoons
on a snowy television screen. She didn't look at us.

Melanie Johnson cleared a space on the filthy counter with her arm, and we set our sacks down. "What's
in 'em, beans? Maybe the kids'll eat beans." She gave a short, unamused snort of laughter. "They can eat beans or
cereal, that's about all I have left."

"You got a car, Melanie?"

"Naw, Kevin took the pickup, the bastard. My mom's coming over tomorrow." She lifted the plastic bags
out and set them by the sink, which overflowed with unwashed dishes. The air in the trailer smelled sour and
almost moldy. "We can't move in with her but she'll get us some milk and stuff and take me to the welfare
office."

"Better go to the Methodists," Ruth said. "They've got canned food for emergencies. What're you going
to do?"

A spark of anger lit the woman's dull face. "How the shit do I know?" The spark faded and she shrugged.
"Time to move on, I guess. I used to work for Blanco over at the dry cleaning place in Kayport. Maybe he'll give me
my job back. But I need a car..." Her voice trailed as if finishing the sentence would take too much effort.