Trophies And Dead Things

'A related matter.'

'I see.' He seemed intrigued by my reticence. 'Well, as near as I recall, the first time I ever heard of Grant was when I unfolded the paper this morning.'

'What about David Arlen Taylor-D. A. Taylor?'

'Oh, sure. He was a close friend of Perry's, probably his closest.'

'And Libby Heikkinen?'

'Taylor's girlfriend.'

'What about Jenny Ruhl?'

'Ruhl. Ruhl. Yes, I remember her. Tiny girl, long black hair.'

'And chance she was romantically linked with Perry?'

'Oh, I don't think so. Perry liked women, but he was basically shy around them. He wouldn't have taken up with someone like Jenny.'

'Why not?'

'How can I put this without-Jenny liked men, in quantity. For a while, around sixty-four or five, she was living with a guy, a real sleazebag hanger-on. One of those guys who was just in Berkeley for the sex and drugs and rock and roll, as they used to put it. Then he disappeared from the scene about the time she turned up pregnant. She had the baby, and I guess she put it up for adoption. After that she just drifted from guy to guy, never staying with anyone very long.'

'What was her connection to Hilderly, then?'

'Just as one of a group that hung out together. Very involved with the protests.'

'This… sleazebag Ruhl was living with-what was his name?'

'I don't think I ever knew.'

'Can you describe him?'

'Other than as a typical drifter, no. You remember the type-long unkempt beard, the same with the hair, generally grimy-looking, a little older than most students.'

'Nothing at all memorable about him?'

'Not that I remember. Those people were all of a kind, and not too many of us trusted them. Their motives weren't pure, you see.' Widdows laughed-both amused and self-mocking. 'We had a long list of people who weren't to be trusted. Anyone over thirty, of course. The university administration and most of the faculty. Politicians, if they were of a major party. The military-industrial complex, including scared second lieutenants in the National Guard. There were spies lurking behind every tree: the Berkeley cops, narcs, the FBI, the campus police, and-when bombing became the thing-the ATF, Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.'

'A hotbed of paranoia?'

'Right. And not totally drug-induced. But one thing about the spies: not too many of them worked out, no matter what agency they were from. Button-down collars and cordovan shoes did not go down too well at SDS meetings. And the ones who did manage to worm their way into the counterculture usually went over to the other side-got hung up on drugs or women. The FBI, I've heard, had to periodically call them in from the field for a sort of deprogramming. It was a bizarre time, all right.'

'What happened to Perry's group of friends, do you know?'

'Either got kicked out or dropped out of school. I think he told me that a bunch of them had moved to the city, set up as a commune. Political action shifted around sixty-eight or -nine-to S.F. State. Perry was in contact with them, that much I know. Once he said they might make a good story for us, but nothing came of it.'

'What kind of story?'

'Who knows? Perry was very independent-minded; I never knew what he was going to turn in until it was on my desk. But by then communes were a dime a dozen, and when he thought it over, he probably decided it was a story whose time had gone.'

I was silent, reviewing what Widdows had told me. Finally he asked, 'Have I helped?'

'Yes, you have. I didn't come to Berkeley until years later, and you've given me a feel for those times. And now I won't keep you from your work any longer.'

'I'm not sure you're doing me a kindness.'

Widdows walked me to my car, pointing out the prize tomato plant of his vegetable garden. I confessed to having a black thumb even when it came to houseplants, and he smiled and suggested that it helped if one watered them. After I got into the MG, he leaned on its doorframe, looking down at me through the open window.

'Would you like to go out sometime?' he asked.

I hesitated, thinking I preferred men who lived more in the real world than he seemed to. Then I thought, what the hell. 'Yes, I would.'

'Great. I'll call you soon, or you call me. We could see a play or take in a concert. Go on a picnic, whatever. Or,' he added, 'I could always pay a house call on your plants.'

Fifteen

When I left Berkeley, I didn't feel like going back to the office; only routine chores awaited me there, and I was primed for more active pursuits. So I decided to drive over the Richmond Bridge to Marin County and pay a call on Mia Taylor.

The fog had remained in abeyance, and although the wind still gusted across the West Marin headlands, the sky's clear blue was reflected brilliantly on the rippling water of Tomales Bay. The sun made the cypress and eucalyptus groves a deeper green, the summer-burnt hills a warmer shade of tan. As I drove I made absent note of the natural beauty- not without appreciation, but with only a small part of my attention. My mind was on the past, and the possible ramifications of its events on the present.

When I arrived at Taylor's Oysters, there were a couple more operational-looking vehicles in the parking lot than on my past visit, but the restaurant was again devoid of customers. A slender, blue-jeans-clad young woman with waist-length black hair was scrubbing with a rag at one of the oilcloth-covered tables. She turned when she heard the door close behind me, her hair swaying. Her face was bronze, with prominent handsome features.

I asked, 'Are you Mia Taylor?'

She nodded, studying me and frowning slightly. For a moment the intensity of her gaze puzzled me; then I realized she was probably trying to place me on some remote branch of the family tree. As I'd told Libby Ross the other day, I only have one-eighth Shoshone blood, but it shows in my hair color and high cheekbones. I seldom think of myself in terms of either my Indian heritage or the Scotch-Irish blood that makes up the remainder of my genetic composition. My attitude is a symptom of what's happened to ethnic groups in America, and I suppose in some ways the blurring of differences is a good thing. But on the other hand, there's an inherent sadness in the loss of consciousness of our roots, the loss of touch with the history and traditions that make us who we are.

To spare Mrs. Taylor further confusion, I said, 'I'm Sharon McCone, the investigator with All Souls Legal Cooperative. Is your husband available-'

'No,' she said quickly. 'D.A.'s sick.' Her nostrils flared in disgust. 'Passed out, if you really want to know.' She went behind the bar, flung the rag into the sink. Her body was rigid with tension; she grasped the edge of the counter, fighting for control. After a moment she spoke in less harsh tones. 'Look, you want some coffee?'

'That sounds good. Thank you.'

She shrugged and poured two cups from a pot on a warmer. 'Black?'

'Please.'

She carried the coffee over to the table she'd been cleaning and motioned for me to take a chair. When she sat across from me, her face was impassive, all emotion reined in.

I asked, 'D.A.'s been drinking heavily?'

'Yeah. He's been awful upset for a couple of days now. Yesterday he took Jake's truck'-she motioned out the window at the antiquated red pickup I'd seen on my previous visit-'and went running off to see Libby Ross. When he came back he got into the beer. It always starts with beer. Jake took the truck keys away from him, but he must of had another set made sometime, because next thing we knew he was gone again.'