SIXTEEN

I was up at eight o’clock on Sunday morning and in a better frame of mind: ten hours’ sleep and a new day. Most of the storm seemed to have blown inland during the night; the rain had slackened to an intermittent drizzle. The overcast was still thick and at a low ceiling, but it did not seem quite as oppressive as it had yesterday afternoon and evening.

When I finished shaving I went out to hunt up breakfast and a Sunday newspaper. No luck. The Wharf Bar and Restaurant was not open this early, nor was anything else in the immediate vicinity. I bought a copy of Saturday’s Santa Rosa Press-Democrat from a coin-operated machine in Bodega, took it back to the motel, settled for another cup of free instant coffee, and enlightened myself with day-old news.

At ten I gathered my things together and checked out. It was ten-thirty on the nose when I pulled up in front of the Darden house. If nothing else, I was at least punctual.

Mrs. Darden answered my knock and admitted me. She was wearing a tweed suit today, with a blue scarf at the throat, and her graying hair had been neatly brushed for church. Handsome woman, all right. The smile she let me have was warm, as if I were an old friend come to pay a social call.

We went into the parlor, where a girl about eighteen was standing near the fireplace. You could see right away that she was Mrs. Darden’s daughter: same short hair, hers being a tawny brown, same attractive features, same hazel eyes, same infectious smile. Besides age, the major differences between them were height and chest development; Sharon was about four inches taller and two bra sizes smaller, which gave her a somewhat willowy look. She was dressed in an ankle-length wool skirt and a bulky knitted sweater.

Her mother introduced us and then excused herself and left the room. Sharon and I sat down. She said, “Mom told me about your talk yesterday. I can’t tell you much more about Jerry than she did, I’m afraid.”

“This article of Jerry’s-he never gave you any clue as to what it was about?”

“No. The only thing he ever said was that it was something which would establish his career as a journalist.”

“He seemed positive about that?”

“Oh yes, very positive.”

“Can you think of any sort of unusual occurrence in this area recently?” I asked. “Anything that might inspire him?”

“No, there’s just nothing. Not much ever happens in Bodega.” She said that last sentence not as if she were unhappy about the fact, but as if she were rather proud of it.

Mrs. Darden came back in carrying a tray laden with a porcelain coffee service and a plate of homemade breakfast pastries. She put the tray down on the coffee table, poured a cup for me, and urged that I help myself to the pastries. I did that, not so much to be polite as because I was pretty hungry. And within five seconds, despite using a cake plate and a napkin, I managed to get powdered sugar all over my pants and on the carpet as well. The slob strikes again.

“Oh please, it’s all right,” Mrs. Darden said when I apologized. There was an almost wistful note in her voice, as though she had once been used to having things spilled on the carpet and was recalling other times it had happened. Maybe her husband had been messy, too; that would explain it.

I put the pastry down for the time being, before I dropped it and the plate too, and sipped some coffee. Then I said to Sharon, “You talked to Jerry before he left last Sunday night?”

“Yes. Only for a minute.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he was going to the post office. I asked him if he had finished his article, if that was what was in the envelopes he had, and he said yes. The only other thing he said was to leave the key out for him.”

“Key?”

“To the front door.”

“It’s our policy not to give out keys to boarders,” Mrs. Darden said. “But we do put one under a flower pot on the porch whenever no one is home, or if we know a boarder is going to come in after we’re in bed.”

I thought that over. “Then you always lock the front door when you retire?”

“Yes.”

“What time do you usually go to bed on Sundays?”

“Around eleven.”

“And it was after nine when Jerry left?”

“Yes,” Sharon said. “Just after.”

“About how long would it take him to walk from here to the post office and back again?”

“Well-thirty minutes or so.”

“Which indicates he was headed somewhere else besides the post office,” I said. “Otherwise he would have expected to be back by ten, when you were both still up, and he wouldn’t have asked for the key to be left out. Is there any sort of taxi service in the village?”

“No. None.”

“Bus service on Sunday night?”

“No.”

“So Jerry either planned to walk to where he was going or he was being met by someone.” I did some more ruminating. “He was excited, intense, when he left here?”

Sharon nodded.

“Yet he’d just finished writing his article,” I said, “and was about to put at least one copy in the mail. And he’d spent all day at the typewriter. He should have been relieved, exhausted-but not still excited. It had to be whatever he was going to do after leaving the post office, or whoever he was going to see, that made him that way.”

“But it could still have something to do with the subject of his article, couldn’t it?” Mrs. Darden asked. “Even though he’d finished it?”

“Yes. It probably did. How many places in the village are open on Sunday night?”

“Just the tavern. Everything else closes by six.”

Sharon said, “Doesn’t Mr. Ingles stay open until ten, mom?”

“You’re right, I believe he does.”

“Mr. Ingles?” I said.

“He owns the Sonoma Cafe. It’s on the road just outside the village. You may have noticed it as you drove in.”

I hadn’t noticed it, but I nodded anyway. And then tackled the pastry again, this time without embarrassing myself, and drank the rest of my coffee. Immediately Mrs. Darden refilled the cup.

I asked, “Do you know where Steve Farmer lives?”

“Across the bay,” Sharon said. “On Salmon Creek Road, above the marina.”

That was a long walk from Bodega-more than five miles. But if it was Farmer that Jerry had been going to see, for whatever reason, Farmer could have met him here at the post office. Or anybody else could. Or he could have hitchhiked somewhere.

“Do Steve and Jerry get along well?”

“Sure. They’re pretty close.”

“Did either of them ever speak about a girl named Bobbie Reid?”

“No-o. Is that somebody they know in San Francisco?”

“It’s somebody they knew,” I said, “and who knew Christine Webster.” I did not see any reason to go into detail. “What can you tell me about Gus Kellenbeck?”

“We don’t know him very well,” Mrs. Darden said. “He only moved here about four years ago, when he bought out what used to be Bay Fishery; and he seldom comes into Bodega. I do know that he’s a good businessman. The past couple of years haven’t been a boom for anyone in the fishing business-mostly because of poor salmon runs. But he’s managed to keep the plant operating at a profit. Or so the talk is. He pays the fishermen top dollar for their

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