“What?”
“I’m here.” Somewhat louder.
No sounds of pursuit, and I was well down the driveway by now. “
“Well, don’t bite my head off!”
“Sorry. What d’you have for me?”
“The break we’ve been looking for on Jennifer Aldin. Her ATM card was used three hours ago-and guess where?”
I was near the road. Still no sounds of pursuit. I leaned against one of the oaks to rest. “Keim, I’m in no mood for guessing games. Where?”
Her voice was somewhat subdued when she replied, “Right down the road from you, in Morro Bay.”
Friday
Five minutes after midnight, and Morro Bay was wrapped in mist, its streets deserted.
Earlier, while I returned to my car on Paloma Road, Keim had gone to Ted’s office and found the license plate number of Estee Pearson’s silver Porsche Boxster that Terry Wyatt had earlier phoned in. Armed with that and the photograph of Jennifer that Mark had provided, I started out for the coast.
On the way, I considered relaying the information on the Porsche to the SLO County Sheriff’s Department, but decided against it. All the circumstances now pointed to Jennifer’s disappearance being voluntary, and I wanted to spare her any unpleasant publicity, as well as give myself the opportunity to talk with her.
I thought I knew what she’d tell me; I’d begun to intuit what Jennifer was doing, and why. Given enough time, I could find her.
Now I drove along the waterfront to the park where Laurel Greenwood had last been seen, checked the few vehicles parked there. No Boxster, but I hadn’t really expected to see it. Then I began a tour of lodging places: Embarcadero Inn, Bayview Lodge, Ascot Suites, the Breakers, Tradeswinds Motel, San Marcos Inn, and on and on. At each I first toured the parking lot looking for the Boxster, then went inside and showed the clerk Jennifer’s photograph and asked him or her if they’d seen my missing friend. Friend, because an ordinary person in distress garners more sympathy than a private detective, who often means trouble for the individual she’s seeking.
Most of the desk clerks said Jennifer hadn’t checked in, and a few at the higher-end establishments claimed they couldn’t give out information about guests, but I was reasonably sure Jennifer wasn’t staying with them either. There were a lot of motels in the town, and by the time I’d finished with them, it was after four a.m. and I was ready for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat.
The matronly, gray-haired waitress at the all-night restaurant I found on the outskirts of town said she thought Jennifer might have been in yesterday or the day before, but she couldn’t be sure. She recommended their BLT as the best on the coast, and quickly brought coffee. The place was deserted, so when my food was ready, she asked if she could join me; I agreed. She said, “I hope your friend’s not in trouble,” as she sat down opposite me.
“In trouble emotionally, anyway.” I bit into the BLT. “She disappeared last Sunday, and only tonight I found out she was in this area. Everybody at home is worried sick about her.”
“Well, of course they are, honey. And you look like you’re about worn out.” She reached for the photograph I’d left lying on the table. “Such a lovely young woman. Reminds me a little of my granddaughter; she’s in Los Angeles now, working in advertising. I’d go crazy if I didn’t hear from her every week or two. Why would your friend want to go and worry her people like that?”
“She has her reasons, I guess. Let me ask you this: if she’s not registered at any of the motels here in town, where might she be staying?”
“Lots of places. Plenty of bed-and-breakfasts. Everybody with an extra room seems to’ve gotten into that tax- break racket lately. Or she could’ve gone down to San Luis or up to Cayucos or Cambria.”
“No, I think she’s here in Morro Bay. She has… a sentimental attachment to the town.”
The woman frowned, drumming her fingertips on the table. “You say she doesn’t want anybody to recognize her?”
“I think she’s probably afraid her husband has reported her missing.”
“Well, then, I have a few ideas. But I don’t dare make any calls till at least six. Why don’t you finish your sandwich, have a little rest, and come back after seven? Maybe I’ll know something then.”
I thanked her and gave her the make, color, and license plate number of the car Jennifer was driving. There was no sense in checking into a motel for only a couple of hours, so after I’d eaten and paid, I went out to the parking lot and curled up on the backseat of my rental car. It was cramped and cold, but I’d left a sweater there after my meeting with Emil Tiegs. I covered myself as best I could and fell into a fitful sleep. My dreams were so unpleasant that when they were broken by the ringing of my cellular, I was grateful for the intrusion.
“McCone, what’s your ETA?”
“My… huh?”
“It’s your husband. Remember me? You never called to say when you’re picking me up this afternoon.”
“Ripinsky. Oh God… It’s so early.”
“It’s after eight.”
“You’re kidding!” I sat up, looked at my watch. “I can’t imagine how I slept so long, considering how uncomfortable it is here.”
“Where’s that?”
“The backseat of my rental car, in Morro Bay.”
“You’re alone, I hope.”
“Very funny.”
“Very gruffly.” It was our private word for grumpy, grouchy, and then some.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I ran my hand over my face, pushed my hair away from where it was stuck to my cheek. Good God, had I drooled in my sleep?
Hy said, “I take it the weekend’s in jeopardy.”
“Yeah, there’s been a break in the case.” I began pulling my twisted clothing into place. It was way past time to return to the restaurant and the nice waitress whose name I hadn’t even asked. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked mine. A heartening example of the kind of trust that sometimes develops between total strangers.
“Well, that’s good news,” Hy said. “There’s more stuff I can do here, so I’ll wait till I hear from you.”
“I hate to wreck our plans.”
“Don’t worry. Your case is important, and we’ve got lots of weekends ahead of us. Call if you need me.”
We broke the connection simultaneously. I got out of the car and went back into the restaurant.
The place was starting to fill up. The matronly waitress, who looked as if she was ready to go home, motioned to me from behind the counter and took me into a hallway that led to the restrooms.
“You must’ve caught a nap,” she said, “but you still don’t look so good, honey. Better clean up some, then go on out to the Creekside Springs Resort and talk to Bud Ferris.” She thrust a piece of paper into my hand. “I drew you a map, and in case you get lost, that’s Bud’s phone number. If you hustle, your friend might still be there.”
I peered at the penciled map. “I can’t thank you enough. And I don’t even know your name.”
“Hey, honey, I don’t know yours either. But as the Bard said, ‘What’s in a name?’” She winked at me and started back down the hallway, then called over her shoulder, “BA in English lit, UC Santa Cruz, seventy-one. How’s that for a smart career choice?”
As soon as I saw it, I recognized Creekside Springs Resort from one of the postcards in Laurel Greenwood’s collection: a white clapboard main building and several small cottages nestled in a sycamore grove at the northern edge of Los Padres National Forest. Its weathered sign advertised luxury lodging, mineral baths, and fine dining, but it was obvious to me as I rumbled over the bridge that spanned the creek in front of it that the resort had seen
