“None that I know of.” Treacle frowned at me. “You’re not trying to suggest that Frank had anything to do with Munroe’s death? If you are… ”
He didn’t finish the sentence, and I didn’t have to answer his question, because Kerry was coming back from the john. I let her sit down again; then I finished my beer and said, “My turn to be excused. I’ve got some things to do.”
Treacle said, “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I’ll be in touch later on. You are planning to stick around Redding for a while, aren’t you?”
“Certainly.”
Kerry was letting me have one of her looks. “Where are you going?”
“I told you before-up to Shasta Lake for another talk with Frank O’Daniel. You can still come along if you want.”
“No. I feel like having another beer.”
“Suit yourself.” I got out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Then we can have dinner.”
She didn’t say anything. As far as she was concerned I was already gone. And from the expression on her face she didn’t much care when I came back.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dusk was just starting to settle when I crossed the bridge over Turntable Bay, at the southern end of the lake. The sun was gone behind the peaks of the Coast Range and the sky in that direction was a dark, smoky red, like old wine. The waterways on both sides of the bridge, dotted with boats and little wooded islets, were glass- smooth and bright with reflections of the dying daylight.
I drove on up Highway 5. On a map, Shasta Lake looks a little like a bony hand with five fingers splayed out toward the north. Hills and heavy forestland obscure parts of it from the highway; they also hide the huge bulk of Shasta Dam, the reason for the lake’s existence. Shasta Lake is the largest man-made body of water in the state and has as many miles of shoreline as a year has days. Boating, waterskiing, and fishing are its main attractions. You can get black bass, Kokanee trout, and you don’t have to work too hard for the privilege. Just the thought of a Kamloops trout pan-fried in butter made me drool a little. And itch to get this investigation wrapped up so I could hie on out into one of the fingers with my fishing gear.
Mountain Harbor wasn’t difficult to find, as it turned out; there was an exit for it right off the freeway. A narrow, switchbacked road took me down a rocky hillside, through a copse of pines, and right up against the lake. There wasn’t much to the place. The harbor was small, walled on two sides by high, barren peaks; trees grew in close to the water on the other two sides, giving it a secluded atmosphere. A combination cafe and store and boat service bulked up to the right of the road, with a couple of log cabins among the pines at the rear. In front were boat-launching ramps, and alongside those, stretching out into the placid blue-black water, was boat moorage-two rows of floating slips connected by walkways. Maybe a dozen boats were tied up, a fourth or fifth of the number that would crowd it at the height of the summer season. A few were small outboard pleasure craft; the rest were houseboats, the most popular kind of boat on the lake because they gave you all the conveniences of a small housekeeping cabin.
I parked in the lot behind the cafe. It was cool here, windless because of the sheltering peaks and trees. The sky was yellow-dark now, just a few minutes from nightfall; shadows clung to the trees and the far edges of the harbor, where the lake cut away between a pair of promontories. Lights were on in the cafe building, and nightlights strung on wire cast pale illumination over the boat slips. There weren’t many people around. The only ones I saw were two couples on the aft deck of one of the houseboats-drinking out of tall glasses, talking in mildly sloshed voices, watching night come down.
I skirted the ramps, got onto the floating walkway, and went out toward the boat with the four people on it. None of them paid any attention to me until I came up close to the taffrail and hailed them. Then they all looked at me with a kind of vague disapproval, as if I had interrupted a private communion.
“I’m looking for Frank O’Daniel,” I said. “Would you happen to know which boat is his?”
“End slip,” one of the men said. “The Kokanee.”
“Which way?”
He pointed lakeward with the hand holding his glass. Ice clinked, a sound that seemed to carry in the stillness. It was that kind of night.
“Is he on board, do you know?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“I saw him,” one of the women said. “About an hour ago, over at the store. He was buying a bottle.”
“I’ll bet you noticed what kind it was, huh, Peg?”
“Dewar’s,” she said. “White Label. A fifth.”
They all thought that was pretty funny. Their laughter rang out among the lengthening shadows, echoing a little before it died.
“He went back to his boat,” the woman, Peg, said to me. “Least, I think he did.”
“Thanks.”
“Welcome, I’m sure.” She raised her glass. “Happy New Year,” she said.
They all laughed again, and I went around their boat and over onto another walkway. There was only one boat tied up out at the end-a houseboat that looked a little bigger than the others at the moorage. Because of the curve of the shoreline, she was in close to the trees and the rocky promontory that marked the north end of the harbor. The looming pines and the high rock wall threw layers of thick shadow over her.
I walked along to the boat and squinted at the name painted on her vertically flattened stern. Kokanee. I stood for a moment looking her over. Except for size, she wasn’t much different than any of the others: squarish, with big windows and a wood-slatted superstructure painted white and some dark color that would probably be brown; hull painted the same dark color; railed sundeck on top, railed decks fore and aft. Like a small mobile home outfitted with pontoons and set afloat.
All the windows were dark. She was quiet, too, dead-still in the motionless water. There wasn’t anything to hear anywhere except for the half-drunken laughter of the people back at the other houseboat.
Maybe he went out somewhere after all, I thought. But I moved in close to the aft railing and called, “Hello, the Kokanee! You on board, Mr. O’Daniel?”
No response.
I called again, identifying myself. Still no answer. Well, what the hell, I thought. If he wasn’t here, maybe he’d just gone out for a quick supper and he’d be back pretty soon. I had time on my hands and nothing better to do than wait here a while. It was a nice night and a nice setting for a wait.
So I climbed on board and started aft, lakeward, because I could see some deck chairs set out back there. Only I stopped before I got to the chairs. There was a faint smell in the air that made my nostrils twitch-a familiar, acrid smell. Gasoline.
Something made me call O’Daniel’s name again. More silence. No sounds at all on the boat, not even the creak of joints or the mooring ropes; the water was like a sheet of black glass, dappled here and there with moonlight spilling in through the trees.
I went ahead onto the aft deck. The odor was stronger back there-and it shouldn’t have been. You shouldn’t be able to smell gasoline that strongly on board a moored boat…
A bad feeling began to move through me, bunching muscles, building unease. Gasoline-powered marine engines and generators could be dangerous; you have to be careful around them. I didn’t know much about boats but I knew that much.
Where the hell was O’Daniel?
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to go on inside, take a look around; part of me wanted to get off this boat in a hurry, away from those gas fumes. I took a couple of steps without really making up my mind, on my way to do one or the other.
A sudden muffled ringing noise started up inside the cabin.
My scalp prickled and I stopped again. The sound continued, still steady and muffled; I couldn’t identify what
