Murder in Lascaux (40 page)

“What would Charlie have been doing out on that boat?” he asked, frowning.

“Let's see who it is before we start worrying. We don't know yet if it's him. I hope it's not.”

“Me, too,” said Toby, peering at the scene unfolding in the harbor.

A motorboat bearing Dan and two others was making its way toward the tilted sailboat, first bearing north through a marked channel, then swinging round to reach the stranded vessel. The tide was now high enough for them to pull a little closer than the first launch had done. We watched as Dan clomped through the mud, climbed over the rail, and disappeared into the cabin. Across the harbor on the far shore opposite the restaurant, a crowd was gathering at the marina to follow the action.

Charlie Halloran—was it possible? And what would he, or anyone else for that matter, be doing on a boat stuck out there in the harbor? As I thought about Charlie, I realized how little I knew about him. It was only a short time that he and Toby had been working together. Until a few months ago, Charlie was running a gallery with a partner in Guerneville, but they had come to a parting of ways. Toby's business wasn't going very well—is still dragging, due to the financial downturn—so as a favor to Charlie, whom he knew through the trade, Toby took him in—that is, offered to share space with him until things sorted out. There was plenty of room. Toby hadn't been buying much, and his showroom was half-empty. Strictly speaking, I suppose they weren't fully partners. Each continued to buy and sell his own stock, but they pooled resources on a few purchases, and they were sharing the rent. Toby's line is antique furniture and, since he married me, the occasional painting. Charlie's wares are more eclectic, including jewelry, prints, and collectibles, but some furniture too. As Toby says, you never know what he might bring into the shop.

Charlie wasn't a close friend, at least not yet—I had been meaning to invite him over to dinner—but Toby enjoyed his company. “You know, I've really started to like him,” he said. “Charlie's smart, knows the trade. He's easy to have around. I sure hope there's been a mistake.”

Worry lines creased Toby's forehead as he stared out the window. In the strong light, I noticed he was looking haggard, though still to me as handsome as ever, with his chiseled features and dark brown hair. Toby has a sunny disposition, but lately I've missed his usual high spirits. The recession has taken its toll not only on his business but on his parents' financial health, and he's been brooding about it. Recently his father suffered major losses in an investment firm that collapsed, putting his parents' retirement in jeopardy. That's given Toby insight into my side of the family, as my parents' income has always been modest. My dad works for the post office and my mom clerks part time in a gift shop in Rockport, a seaside town north of Boston. The fact that I went to college, then grad school, and then landed a job as an academic was a huge source of pride in my family. I sometimes tease Toby about his upscale breeding, and he comes back at me with a crack about my peasant stock. We hadn't been doing that lately. I missed it.

The waitress finally came by to clear the table. We ordered coffee and waited in silence. Perhaps half an hour went by. Then, as we kept our eyes on the scene across the harbor, two officers emerged from the cabin of the stranded boat and hefted a sagging body bag over the railing, lowering it into the arms of two others, who hauled it to the launch. The engine kicked up spray as the boat started moving in our direction. A few minutes later, Dan climbed out of the cabin, lowered himself into the shallows, and waded toward his motorboat. He looked up and signaled Toby with a wave. We moved toward the bar and headed out to the dock.

It was windy outside. Officers formed a cordon blocking onlookers as the body was carried from the dock and quickly transferred to an ambulance stationed in the parking lot. Dan was right behind his men, ushering Toby with him into the ambulance. It only took a minute before Toby climbed out again on shaky legs. “It's Charlie, all right,” he said, wincing.

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry,” I said. I moved toward him and put my arms around his shoulders. He was stiff with shock.

Dan emerged from the ambulance and joined us. “I've got a bunch of questions for you, but this isn't the spot. We need some privacy. I was thinking of your place.”

“Fine,” I said, consulting Toby with a glance. We were only ten minutes away on the other side of the harbor, on the hill above the marina. I could make out our house from here. From our deck we had often looked out at the beached sailboat and wondered about its owner. “We'll meet you there.”

We kept a sad silence as Toby drove through the center of town, if you could call it that, with just a gas station, a convenience store, a few roadside shops and eateries, and an older neighborhood of fishermen's cabins set uphill from Highway 1. At the kite shop, we turned left and, hitting the shoreline, turned right onto Bay Flat Road, which loops around the harbor, splitting off from the shore road just before the marina. The shore road takes you out to Bodega Head. Bay Flat Road mounts to a little bluff, which holds a cluster of wood-framed houses. If there's a middle-income neighborhood in Bodega Bay, this is it. The houses here are larger than the rickety bungalows on the east side of the harbor but much more modest than the posh condos that dot the Bodega Harbour Golf Course. Our cedar-sided ranch house sits high up against a sandy dune whipped by long grasses and looks over the marina, out across the harbor toward the golf course on the eastern shore. In the summer you noticed how green the course was in contrast to the dry, brown hills surrounding it, but now in the wet months at the end of winter, all of Bodega Bay looked gloriously green.

Twenty minutes later, we sat in our living room with Dan across from us. A formal element had entered into our usually casual relationship. Dan had seated himself in the low leather reading chair with its back to the glass doors, which give out onto a small deck with a wide view of the harbor. That put us on the couch, with the light on our faces. Dan could see us well, but I found it hard to see his expressions.

“First of all,” said Dan, “I need to know about Charlie's next of kin. Wife, children, and so on.” He took a sip from the mug of coffee I'd made for him.

Toby had composed himself on the short drive home. “Charlie wasn't married,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Dan started scribbling in his notepad.

“Was he seeing anyone?” he asked.

“I don't think so,” said Toby. “Charlie was gay and comfortable with that. But there wasn't anyone special in his life right now, as far as I know. No children either. He has a brother somewhere in the state, but I don't know his address.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Jim, I think.”

“We'll find him. Parents alive?”

“That I don't know.”

“All right. What about enemies? Do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt Charlie?”

“No,” said Toby, “but … well, you probably should talk to his ex-partner, Tom Keogh.”

“Romantic or business partner?”

“Both. I think their business broke up when the relationship soured.” Toby gave Dan the location of their shop, just off the main street in the center of Guerneville.

“Are you saying there was bad blood between them?”

“Some—but no, I shouldn't say that,” said Toby, backtracking. “That's more than I know. They were arguing about the business, but lots of partners quarrel without killing each other. I just meant that Keogh knows more about Charlie than I do, not that I suspect him of a crime like this.”

“I'll check him out. How well do you know this Keogh?”

“We've met over the years, but we've never done business together. I don't know him well at all.”

“When was the last time you saw Charlie alive?”

“He was fine Friday at the shop.”

“What time was that?”

“About five, when I was getting ready to leave. Charlie was going to watch the shop over the weekend.”

Dan jotted down the information. That meant that Charlie was killed sometime after closing Friday and this morning, which was Sunday.

“So when you saw him Friday, did he seem nervous, worried about anything?”

“No, just the opposite. He was in an upbeat mood, seemed excited about some stuff he'd bought at auction the week before. I remember he bragged about some movie memorabilia that he picked up for a song. Not ‘bragged.' You know what I mean. He was happy about what he'd bought.”

“Did he say anything about plans for the evening? Say, meeting anyone, or going out somewhere?”

“He did mention something about a customer.”

“Was he expecting to meet someone after you left?”

“That wasn't clear. Maybe. Or maybe he meant Saturday.”

“Did he say anything else about this customer?”

“No, I didn't ask. It was more like a possibility that somebody might be by, not a definite appointment.”

Dan drummed his fingers on the coffee table. “Tell me, how well off was Charlie? Did he carry much cash?”

“Hardly. He was just scraping by. That's why I offered to share space with him.” Toby explained the terms of his business agreement with Charlie. Dan continued to take notes.

“What kinds of things did he bring into the gallery? Was there anything really valuable?”

“Nothing worth big money as far as I know,” said Toby.

“All the same, if you haven't been up there since Friday, you better check to see if anything's been taken.”

“Are you saying robbery was the motive?” Judging from Toby's expression, that thought hadn't occurred to him.

“At this point, we can't rule it out. Charlie's wallet is missing, but that could be a smokescreen. I'm not even sure he was killed on the boat. The medical examiner says he was stabbed through the heart, but if so, there should have been more blood than there was at the scene. That means he might have been killed somewhere else and his body dumped on the boat. We'll see what forensics tells us. Meanwhile, better make sure nothing's missing from your gallery.”

“I will,” said Toby. “But if Charlie wasn't killed on the boat, why would anyone go to the trouble of hauling his body out there?”

“Good question,” replied Dan. “I can think of a couple of possibilities.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, to send a message, the point being to make sure the body was discovered. Everybody knows the kids go out there at night. Do you suppose Charlie had any connections to the mob?”

“I can't imagine that,” said Toby, incredulous.

“We'll look into it. Okay, two, as a plant, to incriminate a third party, namely the owner of the boat. But we've already tracked the guy down, and he has a tight alibi. He's been in the hospital the past three days. And he's in enough trouble for abandoning the boat.”

“That's two,” said Toby. “What's your third possibility?”

“Three, and this one I don't like at all, our killer is deranged and the location has a twisted personal meaning for him. But frankly, none of those explanations gets us very far. And if it turns out that your partner was killed on the boat, that raises a different set of questions, starting with, why was Charlie out there in the first place?”

“I haven't the faintest,” said Toby, shaking his head.

“Me neither,” said Dan, checking his watch. “I've got a report to file. What you can do for me is to get up to Duncans Mills and let me know if anything looks suspicious in the gallery. Tell me if anything's out of kilter or if you can think of anything else I should know about Charlie. In fact, give me a call when you get there. If you don't reach me, contact the sergeant in Investigations. You've got my card. It has my number, and if I don't answer, it'll ring through to Reception. Carol will route you to the sergeant.”

“All right,” said Toby, standing and shaking hands with Dan. “And you'll keep us posted if you learn anything?”

“You can count on it. This must be hard for you. I'm sorry.” Dan put his hand on Toby's upper arm and gave him a manly pat.

“Thanks.” Toby gave Dan a grateful look and then led him out. I cleared the mugs from our California Mission coffee table. Toby sank back down on the sofa. I gave him a little breathing space as I puttered around the living room. It was a few minutes after three. Toby switched on the radio to catch the local news. He wanted to see if they had picked up the story. Through the static, it was clear that they had.

“A body was discovered this afternoon in an abandoned boat in Bodega Harbor. The Sonoma County Sheriff 's office is treating the boat as a crime scene. No further information is available at this time, pending the notification of next of kin.”

Toby clicked off the radio. He wore a pained expression and was nodding his head back and forth, as if denial could restore his equanimity.

“Are you okay?”

“If I said yes, I'd be lying. Charlie was a quiet guy. He didn't say much, but I liked being with him, after all the time I've spent working alone. I'll miss hanging out with him. I'll miss the easy way he had with people who came into the shop. And I'm angry. I'm angry something terrible like this happened to him.”

“You have a right to be.”

“Maybe this is stupid, but you know what I've been thinking of ? That line from
The Maltese Falcon
, when Bogart says, ‘When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it.' That's how I feel about Charlie. It keeps running through my head.”

I sat next to him and took his hand. “It isn't stupid. You love that movie, and you used to do a pretty good Bogart imitation.” In fact, we both like watching the classic movies channel, and Toby has a small repertoire of famous actor imitations. He does a few of the most obvious ones: Bela Lugosi, Groucho Marx, Bogie. “Go on,” I coaxed him, because I thought it might help.