“His general cussedness, my mother used to say.”
“Did the fights ever become physical?”
“A time or two. He was free with his fists.”
“A violent man?”
“Well, you saw what he does to crows.”
“Would you have any idea who Mrs. Bertolucci ran off with?”
“Lord, no. I was only a child then.”
“So her affair wasn't common knowledge.”
“No. But people weren't surprised, the way he treated her.”
“It was common knowledge, though, that she'd run off?”
“He admitted it himself, more than once.”
“Did he seem upset by the fact?”
“I suppose he was. Who wouldn't be?”
“And he never remarried?”
“No. Never set foot out of Tomales since, that I know of.”
I took out my notebook and made some squiggles in it, mostly for show. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Bertolucci?”
“Well, let's see,” Mrs. Kramer said. “Her maiden name was Dunlap; she was Irish… but you must already know that.”
“Mmm.”
“I think Mr. Bertolucci met her through her father. He ran a plumbing supply company in Santa Rosa… no, he was a plumbing contractor, that's right. Used to hunt out here before all the land was posted, and Mr. Bertolucci made some of his trophies. He died a year or so before Mrs. Bertolucci disappeared.”
“Did she have other relatives in Santa Rosa?”
“Not that I know of. You haven't been able to find any?”
“Not so far. Did she have any close friends here in Tomales, someone I might talk to?”
“Well… her best friend was Bernice Toland, but Bernice died several years back. Kate wrote her a note before she left town, said she was going away with a man; that was the first Bernice knew about it, apparently.”
“Bernice never heard from her again?”
“No, never.”
“Is there anybody else I might see?”
“A couple of others, I suppose, but I don't think they can tell you much more than I have.”
I took their names and addresses, thanked Mrs. Kramer and her daughter, and went out to my car. For a time I sat there watching the fog swirl across the deserted highway, mulling over what I had just learned. It all seemed to fit. And what seemed to fit, too, was the way Angelo Bertolucci had dealt with his wife's disappearance-the way a man would if he had something to hide, if he'd had something to do with the disappearing.
Bertolucci was the one I wanted to talk to now; the two casual acquaintances of his wife's could wait. I started the car and swung out onto Dillon Beach Road and drove up toward Hill Street. The fog was so thick my headlight beams seemed to break off against the wall of it, smearing yellow across the gray but not penetrating it. I had to drive at a virtual crawl; I couldn't see more than twenty yards ahead.
The street sign came up out of the mist-Hill Street-and then the joining of its unpaved surface with the road I was on. Out of habit I put on the turn signal just before I started the right-hand swing.
There was a rush of thrumming sound in the fog ahead, and all at once a car came hurtling out of Hill Street, just a dark shape, no lights, like some sort of phantom materializing. I let out a yell, jerked the wheel hard right, came down on the brake pedal; the rear end broke loose and for a second or two I lost control, skidding on the rutted gravelly surface. The other driver had swerved too, which prevented a head-on collision, but as it was his car scraped along my left rear fender and booted my clunker around until it was slanted sideways across the road. The bump put an end to the skid, at least, and let me get the thing stopped. Meanwhile the other car bounced off, careened out onto Dillon Beach Road, and was almost immediately swallowed up by the gray mist. It had all happened so fast that I couldn't identify the make or model or even its color.
I shouted, “You stupid goddamn son of a bitch bastard! ” at the top of my lungs, which wasn't very smart: coming on top of my fright, it might have given me a coronary. As it was, all I got was a raw throat and no satisfaction. I sat there for a minute or so, until I calmed down. Sat in silence, with nothing moving around me except the fog. The nearest house, the one with the Confederate flag for a window curtain, showed no light; the driver of the other car, drunk or sober, crazy or just plain witless, probably lived there. Christ!
The engine had stalled; I started it again and got the car straightened out and drove it up to Bertolucci's front gate. The palms of my hands and my armpits were damp, and when I got out the fog turned the dampness clammy and cold. Shivering, I went to the rear fender and shined my flashlight on it to check the damage. Foot-long scrape and a dent the size of my fist; the paint along the scrape was black.
I tossed the flashlight onto the front seat, muttering to myself, and then gave my attention to Bertolucci's house. Dim light illuminated its front and side windows, blurred by the fog. If he'd heard the collision he hadn't been curious enough to come out to investigate. I pushed through the gate and made my way through the tangle of weeds and mist-damp lilac bushes to the porch. The same sign still hung from the door: Ring Bell and Come In. I followed instructions, just as I had on Wednesday.
Bertolucci's display room was empty except for the poised animals and birds staring blankly with their glass eyes. The musty, gamy smell seemed even stronger tonight, overlain with the moist brackish odor of the fog. It was cold in there too; the old wood-stove in one corner was unlit and there weren't any furnace vents or registers that I could see.
“Mr. Bertolucci?”
One of the old house's joints creaked. Or maybe it was a mouse or something larger scurrying around inside the walls. Otherwise, silence.
I walked past the stuffed raccoon sitting up on its hind paws, the owl about to take flight with its rabbit dinner, the two chicken hawks mounted combatively on pedestals. The sound in the wall came again; the stillness that followed it had an empty quality, the kind you feel in abandoned buildings.
“Mr. Bertolucci?”
The faint echo of my voice, nothing else.
The door at the rear, behind the rodents on display in the glass cases, stood partially ajar; more pale lamplight came from the other side. I moved through an opening between the cases and shoved the door all the way open.
Bertolucci's workroom. An organized clutter: big work-table in the middle, labeled containers on a shelf underneath that held clay, plaster of paris, varnish, something called tow; tools hanging from wall racks; battered chest of drawers with each drawer labeled in a spidery hand, one of them with the word Eyes; a chopping block, a carborundum wheel, an electric saw, a box overflowing with cotton batting, spools of thread and twine; tins of wax, paint, gasoline, formaldehyde, and wood alcohol; a tub of what looked to be corn meal. Dusty stacks of wooden shields and panels and mounts of various sizes, teetering in one corner; a jumble of old pieces of wire strewn in another. All this and more, shadowed and fusty in the pale light from a ceiling globe.
But no Bertolucci.
I called his name again, got the same faint echo and the same silence, and went at an angle to another door on my right. This one gave onto the kitchen, sink piled high with crusty dishes, ants crawling in a trail of spilled sugar on the floor. No Bertolucci here either. Two more doors opened off the kitchen, one to the rear of the house and one toward the front. I decided to try the rear one first, and started toward it, and that was when I first smelled the faint lingering stench of spent gunpowder.
The muscles across my shoulders bunched up; my stomach jumped, knotted, brought up the taste of bile. No, I thought, ah Christ, not again, not another one. But I went ahead anyway, pushed open the door and eased through it.
Narrow areaway, opening onto a laundry porch. And Bertolucci lying back there, blood all over him, blood on the floor and splashed on one wall-real blood, not the fake stuff they use in those damned death-mocking splatter movies. Torn and blackened and gaping hole where his chest had once been, and that was real too, and so was his twelve-guage shotgun on the floor to one side. Point blank range: the powder blackening said that. And buckshot,
