catches.”
“One of those fishermen being Andy Greene?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your opinion of Greene?”
“Not very high,” Sharon said. “He has a nasty mouth.”
“And a nasty disposition,” Mrs. Darden added.
“Has he ever been in trouble of any kind?”
“Not that we know about.”
“Did Jerry get along with him?”
“I believe so. He never said anything against the man.”
“And he also got along with Kellenbeck?”
“Yes. He seemed to.”
I tendered a few more questions, without learning anything else of interest and then finished my second cup of coffee and rose to go. In the foyer both Sharon and her mother wished me luck, and I thanked them for their help, and Mrs. Darden let me out. She seemed almost disappointed to see me leave; her parting smile struck me as even warmer than her welcoming smile. Maybe I reminded her of her husband in more ways than one. Maybe she found me attractive and desirable and wished she could get to know me better.
Maybe I was an idiot.
Too much libido, that was my problem these days, brought about by too long a period of celibacy. What I ought to do pretty quick, even if I had to pay for it, was get my ashes hauled-as we used to say in the good old days. Otherwise I was going to start salivating every time a woman looked at me with anything except revulsion.
I drove down into the village and parked near the tavern. It was not far from the post office; somebody going in or out could have seen Jerry Carding last Sunday night. Longshot, but it might pay off: It didn’t. The tavern had just opened for business and the bartender on duty only worked until six on Sundays; he did give me the name and address of the night barman, but when I hunted up the place and talked to the guy a few minutes later, he had nothing to tell me. He knew about Jerry’s disappearance-it was evidently a major topic of conversation in the Bodega Bay area-but did not know the kid by sight. Last Sunday had been a slow night, he said. Just a few regulars, all of whom had come in early and stayed until around eleven or so. He could not remember anyone arriving or leaving between nine and nine-thirty.
So all right. If Jerry had met someone at the post office and been driven away in a car, I was out of luck; I could not go around knocking on every door within a five-mile radius on the off-chance that someone had been passing by at an opportune moment. Which left me with Mr. Ingles at the Sonoma Cafe. And an even longer longshot: Jerry would have had to leave the village on foot in order to be seen passing the cafe, and Ingles would have had to look out at just the right time in order to see him.
The Sonoma Cafe turned out to be a standard roadside diner-small frame building set back some distance from the highway, facade unadorned by anything except a sign bearing its name. It was open but not doing any business; the lunch counter and a row of brown vinyl booths were deserted. The only person in there was a guy in his sixties, fussing over a pot of something on the stove that had the aroma of fish stew.
He kept on fussing until I sat down at the counter: then he turned and came over to me. He was wearing a white shirt, a bow-tie, and an apron, and he had a shrewd bright-eyed look about him. On his scalp were tufts of hair as thin and fine and colorless as dandelion fluff.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Afternoon. That stew smells good.”
“You bet. Like a bowl?”
“Sure.” Mrs. Darden’s pastry had not done much for my hunger.
He ladled some into a bowl, put the bowl and a couple of packets of crackers on a plate. When he set the food in front of me I said, “Would your name be Ingles?”
“It would. How’d you know?”
“Mrs. Darden mentioned that you owned this place.” I went on to tell him who I was and what I was doing in Bodega.
He looked more than a little interested: the village-gossip type, I thought. He leaned on the counter and studied me with his shrewd eyes. “Read about you in the papers,” he said. “Private eye, eh? Never met a private eye before. Don’t look nothing like Jim Garner, do you?”
“Jim Garner?”
“ ‘The Rockford Files.’ Mean you don’t watch that show on TV?”
“No.”
“Ought to. Got lots of action, lots of cars getting smashed up.”
“Uh-huh.” I tasted the stew. A little salty but otherwise not bad. “Do you know Jerry Carding, Mr. Ingles?”
“Sure do. Used to eat in here once in a while. Damned funny the way he disappeared; damned funny. Got the whole town buzzing.”
“I was hoping you might have seen him last Sunday night. Say between nine and ten?”
“Nosir,” he said immediately. “I’d of remembered it if I had. How come you’re asking me? Police didn’t come around when they was here.” He sounded disappointed that they hadn’t.
“This is one of the few places open on Sunday nights,” I said. “And there’s a chance he left the village on foot. Is it possible one of your customers saw him?”
“One of my customers? Well now.” Ingles scratched his scalp and seemed to do some memory cudgeling. “Zach Judson, maybe.”
“Oh?”
“Zach stopped in for a cup of coffee around nine, as I recall. On his way home from some lodge doings in Tomales. Stayed about a half hour. Could be he saw the boy; ain’t talked to him since.”
“Does Judson live in Bodega?”
“Nope. Jenner.”
Jenner was a tiny place about fifteen miles up the coast. I said, “Could you give me his telephone number?”
“Nosir.”
“Pardon?”
“I said nosir, I won’t give you his number.”
“Why not?”
“Because he don’t have a telephone,” Ingles said, and cackled at his own humor. “Old Zach’s deaf as a post in one ear and half deaf in the other. Wouldn’t hear a phone ringing if he was sitting on it.”
“You can give me his address, can’t you?”
“Sure. Cost you a buck, though.” He winked at me. “Service charge.”
A buck. And a thirty-mile round trip to Jenner that would probably turn out to be a waste of time; for all I knew Judson could be in Tomales again for more lodge doings, and it was doubtful that he had seen Jerry Carding anyway. But what else did I have to do? Hunt up Steve Farmer and try to pump him again about Bobbie Reid? That was about it-and it struck me as a last resort, the thing to do before tossing in the towel and heading home to San Francisco.
I sighed and got my wallet out and put a dollar bill on the counter. Ingles made it disappear in two seconds flat, as if he was afraid I might change my mind. Then he grinned at me and said, “Zach’s is the last house on the west side of the highway, just before you get into Jenner. Big old gingerbready place, looks like it’d fall down if a good wind come along.”
“Thanks.” I finished my stew, gave him some more money for that, and slid a dime tip under the plate when he wasn’t looking. The stew had not been all that good and neither had he.
As I started out he called after me, “Tune in ‘The Rockford Files’ one of these nights. That Jim Garner’s a real good detective. ”
Me too, I thought wryly. Even if I don’t have my own TV show.
I headed the car north on Highway 1. The winding two-lane road had little traffic for a Sunday afternoon, but
