The Body in Bodega Bay (13 page)

“It might, though it won't hurt to see if Tom's got an alibi for last night.”

“We ran into him last night at River's End,” I said. “He was pretty drunk. Some friends took him home.”

“What time was that?”

“Around dinner time, about six.”

“And afterward?”

“I assume he went home to sleep it off.”

“What time did you leave the restaurant?”

“It may have been close to nine,” I said.

“So he could have gone over to your house while you were at dinner.”

“Do you think so?” I said. I doubted it.

“I'll look into it. And the same goes for Andrew Federenco.”

“You've talked to him?”

“Not about last night. But yes, I tracked him down yesterday, which wasn't hard to do, since he gave you his cell-phone number. He does have an alibi for the night of Charlie's murder, but there are reasons to keep him in the picture. He's been staying at the motel in Jenner. I ran him through our computers and found an old arrest record, which may or may not mean anything. He had a couple of scrapes with the law years ago when he was a young guy in his twenties—assault and battery, malicious mayhem, petty stuff. He got in with a rough crowd. But that was forty-some-odd years ago, and since then he's cleaned up his act. He's a retired businessman and a pillar of the Russian Orthodox Church in San Francisco. The fact that he gave you his name and number suggests that he doesn't think he has anything to hide.”

“What about Rose Cassini's story about the cousin of her boyfriend who threatened him in order to get back a family icon?”

“I ran that story by him. He granted some of it was true. In fact, he was open about the quarrel. Swears he never threatened his cousin Peter, though, and it would be difficult to prove he did. In any case, Federenco claims that Peter's side of the family had no right to the icon, which went missing when Peter died in 1962. He's been looking for it ever since. Not because it may be valuable. He says he doubts it is. But because it has sentimental value to the family. Of course, there's no reason to believe him on that point.”

“So why is he here?”

“He says he never knew that Peter had a girlfriend. But when he heard about Charlie's murder and the description of an icon that may have been stolen in connection with it, he thought he might pick up the trail he lost in '62. So he's been staying in Jenner and checking out all the art and antiques galleries in the area, asking about icons. I told him to go home and stay out of our way but to keep himself available for further questioning.”

“And that's it?”

“So far. We haven't come up with anything solid against Kohler, the poker king, and Tom Keogh's been firm in his denials.”

A little while later, Ken and Gloria arrived, and while Gloria went into the kitchen to help Toby, Ken joined our discussion in the living room. Ken's a sweet, roly-poly guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a messy moustache. Apparently, he already knew the basic details of the case through conversations with Toby. “I was going to tell you about this Federenco guy myself,” he said to Dan. “He came into my gallery too, asking lots of questions about icons, which raised my suspicions. And he left his card, just like with Toby.” Ken had no additional information about Federenco. But what he said next sent a chill down my spine.

“Funny thing. He wasn't the only one nosing around. Another guy came into the gallery today also asking about icons. A big, tough-looking customer with long hair and a pushy manner. Reminded me of a wrestler. He hadn't shaved for a few days, and he had an accent, maybe Russian. He was hard to understand. He almost gave me a heart attack. Came up behind me without my hearing him and—boom!—there he was, in my face.”

“That's the same creep who was staring at me this morning in the parking lot of Whole Foods!”

Dan sat up, alert. “Tell me about it.” I did. There wasn't that much more to tell.

Dan turned to Ken. “Did you get a name, any information from him?”

Ken shook his head. “Sorry.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Whether I had any icons for sale or knew of any other local gallery that might. Whether any had come through the shop lately. He was gruff, only asked a couple of questions, then he turned and left. No ‘thank you' or other pleasantries.”

“Dan,” I said, “the auctioneer at Morgan's told me a man with a Russian accent called him the day after the auction, asking for information about Charlie—that is, wanting to know who bought the icon and how to reach him. The auctioneer relayed his name and number to Charlie. It has to be the same guy.”

“It's interesting that this guy hasn't been to Toby's gallery asking for information.” Dan pursed his lips.

“I wonder why?” asked Ken.

“My guess is because he's already searched it.”

Now I was truly alarmed. “He must be the one who broke into the gallery. And our house as well.”

Dan turned to Ken. “If he comes in again, see if you can get a name or number where he can be reached. Tell him you may be able to help him find what he's looking for. Make something up.”

“Definitely. I'm sorry I didn't come up with something at the time.”

“What else can you remember about him? Age? Height? What was he wearing?”

“Thirties or forties, I'd say. Over six feet tall, husky but solid build. He was wearing a brown leather jacket.” That description matched my recollection of the man in the parking lot, though he wasn't wearing a jacket at the time. “Oh, and one other thing,” Ken added. “He had a gold tooth up front.”

Dan got out his notepad. “Did either of you see what kind of car he was driving?'

“I did,” I said. “A black sedan, new-looking. An Audi, I think, but I'm not sure.”

“Okay,” said Dan, jotting a note. “Big guy in his thirties or forties, speaks with an accent, long hair, has a gold tooth, last seen wearing a leather jacket and driving a late-model sedan, color black. Shouldn't be hard to spot if he's still around. I'll put out a bulletin on him in the morning: wanted for questioning.”

“I'm glad you said in the morning.” The mock-stern voice belonged to Colleen, who had just come through the front door, balancing a tray crowded with bowls of dessert fixings. “You're not still talking shop, I hope,” she huffed. “You're off duty, for crying out loud. We're here to make a dinner! Give me a hand, will you?”

“Yes, dear,” Dan cringed with pseudo-meekness, as if he were a henpecked husband in a '50s sitcom. He shot Ken a wink. It wasn't the first time I'd heard Dan and Colleen go through this routine.

“All right, then,” said Colleen, calling a halt to their spousal game. She was an attractive redhead with an infectious smile. Her cheeks were pink, which meant the wind was up again outside. With Dan's help, she settled her tray on the sideboard and slipped out of her coat. Then she joined Gloria and Toby in the kitchen. “Mmm! That duck smells good.”

Toby's main course was in fact a triumph. At the table there was no more talk about the Russian. The wine flowed freely, and I felt myself beginning to relax. It pleased me that Angie seemed to be enjoying herself too, though she was among people she didn't know. She followed the chitchat with interest and even joined in when the conversation took a philosophical turn. That's often a feature of our dinners, thanks to Ken, who's a great reader and whose tastes include physics and astronomy. Sometimes Toby is the only member of our group who goes along with Ken on these excursions, but this time Angie added her convictions to the mix.

“So, I'm reading this new book on the cosmos,” Ken began. “And it starts out with a terrific question, which is, why is there something rather than nothing?”

“What kind of question is that?” protested Colleen.

“It's a real question,” said Ken. “Obviously the universe exists. But why does it exist instead of nothing? Well, the author argues that there may have been nothing to begin with, but from a physics point of view, nothing is unstable, so it had to give rise to something, namely the universe.”

Colleen pursed her lips. The only sound was the scraping of silverware. “But I have a simpler explanation,” Ken went on.

“I hope so,” said Colleen.

“Okay,” said Ken. “So why does the universe exist instead of nothing?”

“I'll tell you why,” Angie piped up. “It exists because God created it.”

Ken looked a bit crestfallen. “All that does is take the question back a step. Why does God exist instead of nothing? Where did God come from?”

“That's simple. He's always existed,” said Angie.

“That's possible,” conceded Ken. “But here's my solution. If you assume there was nothing to begin with, then, yes, there had to be a cause for something to exist. But why assume that there was nothing to begin with? Isn't it a fifty-fifty proposition that something might have existed all along?” He turned to Angie. “You don't even have to invoke God. The something could just as easily have been a set of physical laws, or quantum fluctuations, or who knows what, that gave rise to the universe.”

“In other words,” said Toby, “your answer to the question of why is there something rather than nothing is, why not?”

“That's the gist of it,” Ken beamed.

“Hmm,” said Colleen. Angie crinkled her brow. We ate for a while without talking. It seemed to be a conversation stopper.

“Okay,” Ken said. “Here's another puzzle.”

“Ken,” warned Gloria in a cautionary tone.

“I know, honey. Just one more. Here's the question: how old is time?”

Toby raised his fork. “I think I know the answer to that one.” Toby reads
Scientific American
.

“Please,” said Gloria, exasperated. “I agree with Colleen. It's another trick question.” Gloria, who in contrast to her soft-bodied husband is skinny and high-strung, propped her chin in one hand, elbow on the table. Dan was shaking his head, too. He didn't see much point in these flights of fancy.

“Toby thinks he knows the answer. Okay, tell her.” Ken waved a finger at his wife.

“Well,” Toby began, “if everything in the universe, including space and time, started with the Big Bang, then space has been expanding ever since and so has time.”

“Right,” said Ken. “And astronomers can date the Big Bang as occurring 13.8 billion years ago, so that's how old time is. It's 13.8 billion years old, the same age as the universe.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Angie. “Time is forever.”

“Is it?” asked Ken.

“It's logical. If the Big Bang happened whenever it did, there was a time before it happened.”

“Maybe not,” Toby replied in a let's-be-reasonable tone of voice. “If time came into existence with the Big Bang, then the question of what existed before time isn't meaningful.”

“Right-o,” said Ken, pouring himself another glass of wine.

Angie pushed her chair back from the table. “So you're saying that the Big Bang was the start of everything, is that right?” Ken and Toby nodded in the affirmative. “And all this stuff happened after it?” She raised her arms palms upward, taking in the room, the house, Bodega Bay, the planet, and the stars. “Well, how can you have an after without a before?” That stymied them. Sensing an advantage, Angie pressed on. “So there must have been a time before the Big Bang.” She folded her arms.

“Well …,” Ken began.

“She's got you there,” said Gloria.

“We can't really say if there was a before,” Ken limped along.

“Of course there was a before,” said Angie. “If you can imagine 13.8 billion years ago, then you can imagine 13.9 billion years ago, can't you? So wasn't that before?”

Ken looked down at his plate. “Maybe there was another universe before this one that expanded and contracted and then expanded again. More like a Big Bounce. So maybe time began … a second time.” He foundered.

“I don't see why it has to be so complicated,” said Angie. “Why don't you just admit that time is forever? Just as God is forever, which he obviously is. And if the universe started 13.8 billion years ago, all that means is that's when God created it. That's the time he picked. He could have picked an earlier time or a later time, but God picked that time. What's the problem?”

Ken scratched his ear, looking perplexed. Toby's cheeks creased into a broad smile.

“Pass the bread, please,” said Angie, mentally dusting off her hands.

T
HE FOGHORN WOKE ME.
I lay in the dark, counting the seconds between its eerie notes: ten, as usual, never varying. Finally, I fumbled for my clock and saw it was just past five. The call of the foghorn wasn't necessarily bad news for my day's plan. In fact, it's a constant feature, day and night, all year long, because of the dangerous rocks off Bodega Head. But last night's news had forecast morning fog, and it's not wise to take the winding road up to Fort Ross in that kind of weather. I might have to cancel my research at the fort's library. With this worry nagging at me, there would be no more sleep. I gently rose and crept into the kitchen.