Trophies And Dead Things

seem eager for further conversation. She stood, stretching her rangy body much as the cat had stretched its furry one.

'When you go see D.A., don't-well, don't take anything he says too seriously.'

'What do you think he might say?'

'God knows. The man's off in another world, has been for years. He… well, you know what that kind of abuse can do to a person's mind.' She reached down and took the cat off my lap, a clear hint.

As we walked toward my car, Ross said, 'What do I have to do to claim the money?'

'Nothing. Hilderly's attorney is going to enter the will into probate, and he'll contact you.'

'Good. Like I said, I can damn well use it.'

When we reached the MG, however, Ross suddenly seemed unwilling to let me go. She leaned against it, cradling the cat to her down jacket and staring out over the headland toward the lagoon. The two riders who had been here earlier had reached the end of the trail and sat on their mounts beside the glassy water. The pintos' mottled coats were reflected on its surface.

'That lagoon,' Ross said, 'it's named for a man who ran cattle on this land back in the mid eighteen hundreds- Carlyle Abbott. The story is that Abbott was a heroic type. A ship-the Sea Nymph-was wrecked out there off the coast in eighteen sixty-one. Abbot tied himself to some bystanders with lariats and went into the surf after the crew. Saved them all, except for the ship's steward. Steward was the first recorded drowning victim off Point Reyes.'

She paused, gaze fixed on the distance. 'I'm not much on history, but that story's always stuck with me. Guess I find it symbolic. I came out here to save D.A., but I couldn't. Now he's sort of a drowning victim.'

Ten

I retraced my route to Highway One, I went over my interview with Libby Ross. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that she had recognized Tom Grant from my description. Perhaps if I played it right with D.A. Taylor he would not only reveal more about the connection among Ross, Hilderly, Ruhl, and himself, but also tell me something about Grant-provided he wasn't too far gone to remember.

At the highway I turned north toward Point Reyes Station, once a stop on the long-defunct North Pacific Coast Railroad that operated between Duncan's Mills and Sausalito from the late 1800s to the Great Depression. Most of the buildings lining its main street are of turn-of-the-century vintage, and the town has a rustic feel that belies the presence of its Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper, The Point Reyes Light. As I passed through it I saw signs of progress since my last visit-spruced-up older buildings and a number of new ones, including a small shopping center where the Light had moved its offices. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the surrounding hills became covered with tracts. The dairy ranches that I passed on the other side of town looked profitable, however; perhaps the demand for their products would outstrip even the greed of real-estate developers and the influx of those seeking escape from urban pressures.

The winding road led me inland, then back to the bay, which was mostly mud fiats at this end. Oyster beds began to appear-geometrically arranged rows of stakes poking up from the water, within which the seed mollusks feed and grow, protected from predators. Oystering, I knew, was the only real industry besides dairy ranching in the Tomales Bay area, and I saw signs that it was not a particularly thriving one. I passed an oyster farm that was up for sale; a medium-sized boat yard with fishing craft in dry dock seemed strangely deserted. In the tiny hamlet of Marshall, the oyster restaurant was closed, its broken windows boarded. Cottages-most of them old-fashioned clapboard, but also a few of those oddly angled structures with windows in strange places that people seem compelled to build near the water-stood on the narrow strip of land between the road and the drop-off to the bay. When I passed Nick's Cove, my favorite restaurant for fried oysters, the road began to wind uphill through a thick stand of wind-warped cypress. I consulted my odometer.

In a little less than two miles a faded sign supported by two tall poles appeared: TAYLOR'S OYSTERS. A crushed-shell driveway angled down the slope from the road and ended in a parking lot. I turned the MG and bounced through ruts and potholes.

The parking lot looked like a junkyard: there were dead cars pulled over to one side in a field of straggly anise weed; a couple of rusted trailers with laundry lines strung between them sat next to a mound of oyster shells that spilled down the hillside like tailings from an abandoned mine. Old machinery, truck axles, a corroded automobile engine, and two rotted-out rowboats were strewn about, and among them lay three of the mangiest mongrel dogs I'd ever laid eyes on. The restaurant was straight ahead on the water's edge.

I pulled up in front of the sagging gray-white frame building, between an old red pickup truck that looked like something out of The Grapes of Wrath and a newish camper with Oregon plates. The windows of the restaurant were coated with so much grime that it dulled the lighted Coors and Oly signs. I got out of the car, leaning into the crisp wind from offshore, and looked around.

To the left of the restaurant was a path that led past a row of tiny cottages-possibly a defunct tourist court. Their rooflines sagged, their metal chimneys tilted, and many of the windows were covered with plywood or patched with cardboard and tape. More dogs lounged on the path, their matted fur riffling in the breeze. A small boy and smaller girl were playing at the foot of another mound of shells; their voices were borne to me on the wind- cheerful, despite their dismal surroundings.

I went over to the kids and squatted down, smiling. They regarded me solemnly. Both had black hair and dark shoe-button eyes; their clothing, while old and patched, was clean. They couldn't have been more than five and six. I said, 'Hi, what're your names?'

The girl stuck her finger into her mouth and merely stared. The boy-who was the older of the two-finally spoke. 'That's Mia. I'm Davey.'

D.A. Taylor's children, then. People who name their offspring after themselves always make me wonder. Too much ego, or too little? In Taylor's case, I thought I knew.

Remembering Ross's caution that I should try to talk to Mia Taylor before approaching her husband, I asked, 'Is your mom around?'

Davey shook his head. Mia Junior took her finger out of her mouth and said, 'She went to Petaluma with Aunt Chrissy. Aunt Chrissy's having a baby, maybe right now.'

'Well, that's nice,' I lied, feeling a flash of sympathy for the newborn who would be brought home to this place. 'Is your dad here, then?'

The two exchanged a look. It said, Daddy. Uh-oh.

I said, 'It's okay. Do you know Mrs. Ross?'

Davey nodded. 'Libby.'

'I'm a friend of Libby's. She asked me to come see your dad.' My job necessitates a fair amount of fabrication, but I'm always vaguely uncomfortable when I have to do so to children.

Mia and Davey exchanged another look. This was the 'can we trust this adult?' one. Finally Davey pointed toward the row of cottages. 'Ours is at the end.'

'Thank you.' I got up and started down the path.

I hadn't gone more than a couple of yards when two men materialized from the first cottage. Heavyset men with shaggy black hair, wearing the oilskins of fishermen. They stood together, blocking my way.

'What you want, lady?' the heavier one asked.

'D.A. Taylor. Are either of you him?'

Silently they shook their heads and remained in front of me.

'Look, Libby Ross sent me.'

'Sure she did,' the man said.

'Call her and ask her if you don't believe me.'

'Why would that bitch send somebody?' the other man, who sported a straggly mustache, asked. 'She checking up on D.A. again?'

'No. I don't think she's too interested in him these days. She told me where to find him, though.'

'What's your business with him?'

'Private.'