Silent Partner

She grimaced. “Finals. Tests aren’t my specialty. More coffee?”

“Sure.” I sipped. “Kind of quiet today.”

“Every day. During picking season, September through January, we get a handful of tourists on weekends. But it’s not like it used to be. People know about cherry picking in Beaumont but we haven’t gotten much publicity. It didn’t used to be that way- the village was built in 1867; people used to go home with bushel baskets of Spartans and Jonathans. But city people came and bought up some of the land. Didn’t take care of it.”

“I saw dead orchards on the way up.”

“Isn’t it sad? Apples need care- just like children. All those doctors and lawyers from L.A. and San Diego bought the orchards for taxes, then just let them die. We’ve been trying- my family and me- to get the place going again. The Orange County Register might run a piece on us- that would sure help. Meanwhile we’re getting the jam and honey going, starting to do real good with mail order. Plus, I cook for the rangers and aggie commissioners passing through, get my independent study taken care of. You with the state?”

“No,” I said. “What’s with the Ilama?”

“Cedric? He’s ours- my family’s. That’s our house behind his pen- our village house. Mom and my brothers are in there, right now, planning out the zoo. We’re going to have a full-fledged petting zoo by next summer. Keep the little kids busy so the parents can shop. Cedric’s a doll. Dad got him in trade- he’s a doctor, has a chiropractic practice down in Yucaipa. That’s where we live most of the time. There was this circus coming through- gypsies or something like that, in these painted wagons, with accordions and tape machines. They set up in one of the fields, passed the hat. One of the men sprained his back doing acrobatics. Dad fixed him up but the guy couldn’t pay, so Dad took Cedric in trade. He loves animals. Then we got the idea for the petting zoo. My sister’s studying animal husbandry at Cal Poly. She’s going to run it.”

“Sounds great. Does your family own the whole village?”

She laughed. “I wish. No, just the house and Cedric’s pen and these back shops. The front shops are owned by other people but they’re not around much. Granny- from the gift shop- died last summer and her family hasn’t decided what they want to do. No one believes the Terrys are going to turn Willow Glen around, but we’re sure going to try.”

“The population sign said four thirty-two. Where’s everyone else?”

“I think that number’s high, but there are other families- a few growers; the rest work down in Yucaipa. Everyone’s on the other side of the village. You have to drive through.”

“Past the trees?”

Another laugh. “Yeah. It’s hard to see, isn’t it? Set up kind of to trap people.” She looked at my plate. I gobbled in response, pushed it away half-finished. She was undeterred. “How about some deep-dish? I baked some just twenty minutes ago.”

She looked so eager that I said, “Sure.”

She set a big square of pastry before me, along with a spoon, and said, “It’s so thick, this is better than a fork.” Then she refilled my coffee cup and waited again.

I put a spoonful of pie in my mouth. If I’d been hungry, it would have been great: thin, sugary crust, crisp chunks of apple in light syrup, tinged with cinnamon and sherry, still warm. “This is terrific, Wendy. You have a bright future as a chef.”

She beamed. “Well, thank you much, mister. If you want another piece, I’ll give it to you on the house. Got so much, my hog brothers are only going to scarf it down without thanking me, anyway.”

I patted my stomach. “Let’s see how I do with this.”

When I’d struggled through several more mouthfuls, she said, “If you’re not the state, what brings you up here about?”

“Looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Shirlee and Jasper Ransom.”

“What would you want with them?”

“They’re related to a friend of mine.”

“Related how?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe parents.”

“Can’t be a very close friend.”

I put down my spoon. “It’s complicated, Wendy. Do you know where I can find them?”

She hesitated. When her eyes met mine they were hard with suspicion.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing. I just like folks to be truthful.”

“What makes you think I haven’t been?”

“Coming up here talking about Shirlee and Jasper maybe being someone’s parents, driving all the way up here just to send regards.”

“It’s true.”

“If you had any idea who-” She stopped herself, said, “I’m not going to be uncharitable. Let’s just say I never knew them to have any relatives- not in the five years I’ve lived here. No visitors either.”

She looked at her watch and tapped her fingers on the countertop. “You finished, mister? ’Cause I have to close up, do more studying.”

I pushed my plate away. “Where’s Rural Route Four?”

She shrugged, moved down the counter and picked up her book.

I stood up. “Check, please.”

“Five dollars even.”

I gave her a five. She took it by the corner, avoiding my touch.

“What is it, Wendy? Why’re you upset?”

“I know what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Bank man. Looking to foreclose on the rest of the village, just like you did with Hugh and Granny. Trying to sweet-talk all the other deed holders, buy up everything cheap so you can turn it into some condo project or something.”

“You’re a terrific cook, Wendy, but not too hot as a detective. I have nothing to do with any banks. I’m a psychologist from L.A… My name is Alex Delaware.” I pulled ID out of my wallet: driver’s license, psychology license, med school faculty card. “Here, see for yourself.”

She pretended to be bored, but studied the papers. “Okay. So what? Even if you’re who you say you are, what’s your business here?”

“An old friend of mine, another psychologist named Sharon Ransom, died recently. She left no next of kin. There’s some indication she’s related to Shirlee and Jasper Ransom. I found their address, thought they might want to talk.”

“How’d this Sharon die?”

“Suicide.”

That drained the color from her face. “How old was she?”

“Thirty-four.”

She looked away, busied herself with cutlery.

“Sharon Ransom,” I said. “Heard of her?”

“Never. Never heard of Jasper and Shirlee having kids, period. You’re mistaken, mister.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.”

She called after me: “All of Willow Glen is Rural Route Four. Go past the schoolhouse about a mile. There’s an old abandoned press. Turn right and keep going. But you’re wasting your time.”

I exited the village, endured fifty yards of potholes before the dirt smoothed and the RURAL ROUTE 4 sign appeared. I drove past more orchards and several homesteads graced by sprawling wood houses and fenced with low split rails, then a flag on a pole marking a two-story stone schoolhouse shaped like a milk carton and set in the middle of an oak-shaded, leaf-carpeted playground. The playground bled into forest, the forest into mountain. Name-tagged mailboxes lined the road: RILEY’S U-PICK AND PUMPKINS (CLOSED.) LEIDECKER.