the pleat was a heavy iron crucifix attached to a stainless-steel chain.
My entry rang a bell over the door and the clerk shot a look at me then glanced under the counter. Reflexively. Probably checking out the requisite pistol. Or just wanting to let me know he was armed. A sign on the wall behind him said CASH ONLY. Same message in Spanish, right below. He didn't move but his eyes jumped around and the left lid twitched. He couldn't be more than twenty-two or -three, could probably take the adrenaline surges and blood-pressure spikes for a few more years.
I showed him the badge, and he shook his head. Atop the counter was a
He said, 'Don' know nothin' ' Heavy accent.
'I haven't asked anything.'
'Don' know nothin' '
'Good for you,' I said. 'Ignorance is bliss.'
His stare was dull.
'Pierce Schwinn,' I said. 'He used to live here.'
No answer.
I repeated the name.
'Don' know nothin' '
'An old man, Anglo, white hair, white beard?'
Nothing.
'He used to work at Randall's.'
Uncomprehending look.
'Randall's Western Wear- down the block?'
'Don't know nothin' '
'What's your name?'
'Don' kno-' Lights on in the brown eyes. 'Gustavo.'
'Gustavo what?'
'Gustavo Martinez Reyes.'
'You speak any English, Mr. Martinez Reyes?'
Headshake.
'Anyone work here who does?'
'Don' know noth-'
So much for ace detective work. But I'd come this far, why not give Ojai another try- check out a place I knew Marge Schwinn had frequented. The shop where she'd bought the blue albums-
Maybe she hadn't. Or maybe Schwinn had also shopped for himself.
I continued to the next freeway on-ramp and was back on Highway 33 within minutes. The air was cold and clean, every color on full volume, and I could smell ripening fruit in the neighboring groves.
O'Neill & Chapin sat in one of those cozy commercial groupings that had sprouted along the road, this one a well-shaded segment just past the center of Ojai but several miles before the turnoff to Marge Schwinn's ranch. The shop was a miniscule, shingle-roofed, clapboard cottage dominated by live oaks. The boards were painted forest green, and the store was fronted by five feet of cobblestones running from the earthen curb to Dutch doors painted creamy mint. Gold leaf lettering across the front window proclaimed:
O'Neill & Chapin, Purveyors of Fine Paper and Pigments. Est. 1986.
Behind the windows were dark, oak shutters. A sign leaning against the slats said:
On a buying trip in Europe. Back soon.
I checked out the neighboring business. To the right was the candlery, also shuttered. Then Marta, Spiritual Counselor and the Humanos Theosophic Institute. To the left was a one-story office building faced in river rock: chiropractor's office, a notary public-cum-insurance broker, a travel agent specializing in 'nature-friendly excursions.' Next to that, in a sunnier spot, sat an adobe cube with a wooden sign over the door.
Celestial Cafe.
Gold stars danced around the edges of the signs. Lights flickered behind blue gingham curtains. It was nearly 3 P.M. and I'd fed neither my brain nor my gut. Times like this, I supposed, organic muffins and herbal tea wouldn't be half-bad.
But according to the blackboard mounted above the open kitchen, the cafe specialized in country French food- crepes, quiche, souffles, chocolate desserts. Real coffee, Lord amighty.
Some kind of New Age sound track- tinkly bells, flute, and harp- eased out of speakers set into the low, wood- beam ceiling. More blue gingham covered half a dozen tables. A woman with elaborately braided gray hair wearing a buckskin jacket over a crinkly, pink dress sat enjoying what looked to be ratatouille. No server was in sight, just a pasty-faced, heavyset, white-aproned woman wearing a blue bandana over her hair cutting vegetables in the kitchen. At her elbow was a six-burner Wolfe range, with one flame aglow under a cast-iron crepe pan. Fresh batter had just been poured into the pan, and the cook stopped cutting long enough to grab a towel and take hold of the handle. Tilting deftly, she created a perfect disc that she slid onto a plate, then topped with creamed spinach. A dash of nutmeg, and the crepe was rolled and placed on the counter. Then back to the vegetables.
The gray-haired woman got up and took the crepe. 'Beautiful, Aimee.'
The cook nodded. She looked to be forty or so, had a squashed face and downturned eyes. The hairs that had peeked out from under the bandana were light brown and silver.
I smiled at her. Her face registered no expression, and she continued chopping. I read the blackboard. 'How about a mixed-cheese crepe and coffee?'
She turned around, left the kitchen through a side door. I stood there, listening to bells and flute and harp.
Behind me, the gray-braided woman said, 'Don't worry, she'll be back.'
'I was wondering if it was something I said.'
She laughed. 'No, she's just shy. Heck of a cook, though.'
Aimee returned with a small wheel of white cheese. 'You can sit,' she said, in a very soft voice. 'I'll bring it to you.'
'Thanks much.' I tried another smile, and her mouth quivered upward for less than a second, and she began wiping the crepe pan.
The gray-haired woman finished her meal just as Aimee brought me my plate, a mug of coffee, utensils wrapped in a heavy yellow linen napkin. She returned to her vegetables and the gray-braided woman said, 'Here you are, dear,' and paid her cash. No change exchanged. No credit card signs anywhere in the cafe.
I unfolded the napkin, looked at my plate. Two crepes.
With her back to me, Aimee said, 'You only have to pay for one. I had lots of cheese.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'They look delicious.'
I cut into the first crepe and took a bite and flavor burst on my tongue. The coffee was the best I'd had in years, and I said so.
I was working on the second crepe when the front door opened, and a man walked in and headed for the counter.
Short, chubby, white-haired, he wore a purplish red polyester jumpsuit, zipped in front, with big floppy lapels. Crimson clogs and white socks clad stubby feet. His fingers were attenuated, too, the thumbs little more than arced nubs. His ruddy face was impish but peaceful- an elf in repose. A leather-thonged bolo tie was held in place by a big, shapeless purple rock. Flashing on his left hand was a huge, gold pinkie ring set with a violet cabochon.
He looked to be in his midsixties, but I knew he was seventy-seven because I knew him. I also understood why he wore a single color: It was the only hue he could perceive in an otherwise black-and-white world. A rare form of color blindness was one of a host of physical anomalies he'd been born with. Some, like the shortened digits, were visible. Others, he'd assured me, were not.
Dr. Wilbert Harrison, psychiatrist, anthropologist, philosopher, eternal student. A sweet and decent man, and even a murderous psychopath bent on revenge had recognized that, sparing Harrison as he conducted a rampage
