woman’s voice, breathless and angry, said, “Yes, hello? This is Sally-” Sharp door-slamming sound in the background. “God, I don’t know why I married him. He can be such an asshole!”
Runyon made no comment.
“You’re a detective? Calling about Erin?”
“That’s right. My name is Runyon.”
“Oh God, I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened. She and I… we were really close… it makes me sick every time I think about it… but I don’t know anything, I hadn’t seen her for months before it happened, it must’ve been some crazy person…”
He told her why he was calling.
“Fatso?” she said. “Oh, sure, I remember him. But that was what, more than two years ago, and there was no hassle or anything. He was just this big sloppy fat guy. You don’t think he-?”
“Checking possibilities,” Runyon said shortly. “You were with Erin at Stow Lake the first time she saw him?”
“Yes, right, Stow Lake. It was a Saturday, we went up there to ride the paddle boats, you know, just goofing around. We were at the snack bar when he came up and said hello to Erin. I remember he looked at her the whole time, like I wasn’t even there.”
“Did he introduce himself, give his name?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so. Not that day, and not the other time, either. The only other time I saw him, I mean.”
“Where was that?”
“At this bar we used to go to, an Irish pub on Geary.”
“McRoyd’s?”
“Right, McRoyd’s.”
“How do you suppose he knew Erin hung out there?”
She thought that over. “I think maybe he overheard us talking about it at Stow. We’d been at the pub the night before, one of the guys was celebrating his birthday and got blasted and did a bare-ass strip… it was hilarious and we were laughing about it when Fatso came over.”
“Any idea what kind of car he drove?”
“Fatso? No, all I ever saw him in was the delivery truck.”
“Delivery truck?”
“At Stow. That’s what he was doing there, making deliveries to the snack bar.”
“What kind of deliveries?”
“I’m not sure, let me think… No, I just don’t remember.”
“How about the truck? Big, medium, small?”
“Sort of medium, I guess.”
“Open bed or closed shell?”
“Closed shell? You mean like a van?”
“Yes.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, a kind of medium-sized van.”
“What color?”
“White.”
“The same as his uniform?”
“That’s right, that was white, too.” Sally Johnson let loose a sudden small giggling sound. “Erin thought he looked like a fat shaggy dog, one of those English sheep dogs, you know? But to me… well, I thought he looked like the Pillsbury doughboy-”
Runyon had no more patience for that crap; he cut her off with a sharp question. “The type of uniform with the company name on the back?”
“… I think maybe. But it was such a long time ago…”
“Painted on the side of the delivery van, too?”
“Um, yes.”
“Close your eyes, think hard, try to picture it. The company name, the type of product.”
He waited through close to a minute of humming silence before she said, “I’m sorry, I really am, but I just can’t remember…”
The weather was good today, mostly clear, and a number of citizens were taking advantage of it when Runyon arrived at Stow Lake. Joggers, a few paddle boaters and canoers, people wandering the paths, others seated on benches and strips of grass reading, taking in the sun, watching the ducks and seabirds floating on the dirty brown water.
He followed the loop road to the parking area behind the boathouse at the western end. He’d been here once before, as he’d been to a great many locales in the city and the surrounding communites since his move down from Seattle-cataloging his new territory so he could move around freely without having to look at a map and he’d know what to expect from each place if and when his work took him there. Stow Lake was man-made, built around the base of Strawberry Hill, a four-hundred-foot wooded elevation turned into an island centerpiece accessible by a pair of pedestrian bridges. A network of paths and the boathouse and dock on this side, more paths, a waterfall, even a Chinese pagoda on the islet. Colleen would have liked it here. Quiet, nice scenery, good spot for a picnic.
He went around to the combination snack bar and boat-rental counter. Two kids on duty, one selling hot dogs, sodas, ice cream, the other handling the rentals. Neither had an answer to his questions; the longest either of them had been working there was eleven months, and no, none of the deliverymen they knew weighed three hundred pounds and wore their hair in ponytails. White uniforms? Sure, lots of delivery guys wore uniforms, they just never paid much attention.
The double doors to the repair and maintenance shop adjacent were open. Runyon spent two minutes with the man on duty, and came out again with nothing more than he’d gone in with. He stood for a time scanning the bench-sitters in the vicinity. Two possibilities, one man and one woman, both older than sixty and with the relaxed look and posture of regulars. The woman had nothing to tell him. He moved on to where the man sat at the end of the dock area, near the small flotilla of canoes and multicolored paddle boats.
White-haired, heavily lined face, seventy or more. He lifted his head when Runyon sat down next to him, peered through thick-lensed glasses. Mildly annoyed at first at being disturbed, but he was the naturally gregarious type and he showed interest when Runyon identified himself and asked his questions.
“Yep. Weather permits, I’m usually here.” His voice was clipped, the sentences short as if he were conserving words and punctuated with little clicks from a set of loose-fitting dentures. “Years now.”
“You look like a man who notices people. Am I right?”
“Yep. Good place to people-watch.”
“Does that include deliverymen?”
“Don’t discriminate. Why?”
“I’m trying to locate a man who made deliveries here a couple of years ago. May or may not still make them. Young, very fat, long hair in a ponytail. Wore a white uniform of some kind.”
“Ah,” the old man said.
“The description strike a chord?”
“Couldn’t miss him. Big as a house.”
“What did he deliver?”
“Buns. Cookies.”
“For what company?”
“Sun something. Get it in a minute.”
“Does he still make deliveries here?”
“Nope.”
“How long since you saw him last?”
“Year, maybe two.”
“You ever talk to him?”
“Don’t talk, just watch.”
“Hear somebody use his name?”
