better days. The grounds, while not completely overgrown, had an unkempt appearance, roses running rampant up trellises and onto the roof of the main building, and the cottages looked as if they could use several coats of paint.
I parked in a graveled area out front and went inside. The large common area was filled with old-fashioned rattan furniture cushioned in faded floral prints, and a stone fireplace was soot-blackened and choked with ashes. Glass-paned doors to the dining room were closed and curtained on the inside. There was no reception desk, but a sign next to a door at the rear read “Office.” I knocked and waited.
After a moment the door opened and a man with unruly brown hair peered out at me. “You’re the lady who’s looking for her friend?”
“Yes. My name’s Sharon McCone. You’re Mr. Ferris?”
“That’s right.” He opened the door wider and motioned me into a room that was filled to overflowing with books, newspapers, and magazines. Two TVs, three VCRs, two DVD players, and numerous tapes and discs sat on shelving that took up an entire wall, and a computer with two oversize screens, two scanners, and two printers covered a nearby desk. Ferris saw me looking at them and said, “Backups. You never know when one of the damn things’ll die on you. Now, about this friend of yours-I understand you have a photograph of her.”
I produced it and he looked it over carefully before he handed it back to me. “Your friend’s run out on her family?”
“Yes. Everyone’s frantic with worry. We need to know if she’s all right.”
“Well, that would depend on your definition of ‘all right.’ Have a seat, why don’t you?”
I glanced at the chair he motioned to, removed a stack of
“The term ‘all right’ covers a lot of ground,” Ferris went on. “Mrs. Greenwood shows no evidence of alcohol or drug abuse, but something about the lady feels wrong.”
“Excuse me-Mrs. Greenwood? Jennifer Greenwood?”
“No. Laurel. Isn’t that correct?”
“Her name is Jennifer Aldin. Laurel Greenwood was her mother.”
Ferris frowned. “Some sort of neurotic identification, perhaps.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She told me her mother and father stayed here on their honeymoon, and that her mother had painted a picture of the place. I wouldn’t know about that; I only bought the resort nine years ago. At the time I’d just sold my commercial real estate holdings in San Jose, and my wife and I were looking for a business that would pay the bills and allow us to live comfortably on our savings. We came down here and operated profitably for a time, but then business dropped off. Four years ago, my wife died suddenly, and since then I haven’t put much effort into the place. I don’t get a lot of guests, just older people who have been coming year after year, but I like it that way.” Momentarily his gaze turned inward.
I said, “Is my friend here now?”
“No. She’s out on her appointed rounds.”
“And they are…?”
He spread his hands. “I have no way of knowing. She leaves in the morning around eight. Returns around four, always with a bag of groceries-I’ve installed microwaves and little refrigerators in the cottages since I no longer operate the restaurant-and she always has her sketchbook in hand. One time I asked her what she was drawing, and she gave me a strange smile and said, ‘The past.’ Then she looked embarrassed and said she was something of a historian.”
“And she’s staying in one of the cottages?”
“Yes. I’ve closed up the rooms in this building. She’s in cottage three.” His gaze shifted to his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me now; there’s a film I want to watch.”
I stood. “You won’t tell her I’ve been here? I think it’s best if she’s not expecting me when I come back this afternoon.”
“Of course I won’t.” He began searching for the remote control to whatever TV he planned to use. “When you come back you can wait for her in the cottage-they’re never locked.”
I hurried along flagstone steps that scaled a small rise toward cottage three. It was fronted by a small deck with an old redwood hot tub and a couple of plastic chairs. Inside, I found the same kind of furnishings as in the main building-outdated rattan, shabby but comfortable-looking. The double bed was unmade, but the rest of the unit was tidy. On the glass-topped dining table that sat next to the tiny galley kitchen photographs and charcoal drawings lay scattered.
The photographs: informal shots of Laurel, Roy, Jennifer, and Terry; a formal portrait of the entire family. Candids of Laurel with Sally Timmerman, Josie Smith, and other people whom I didn’t recognize. A studio portrait of Mark Aldin.
The drawings: the Greenwoods’ former home in Paso Robles, as seen from four different perspectives; four scenes that I vaguely recognized as lying along Highway 46 between Paso Robles and the coast; four sea views that resembled the ones from the overlook where Laurel had made her final oil painting; the Cayucos pier, the beach adjoining it, a liquor store with a mailbox in front of it, and a biker astride a motorcycle, his face obscured by his helmet; four different views of the waterfront park in Morro Bay.
And one drawing that didn’t fit with the others, done over and over again in dark, angry slashes of charcoal: the building on Fell Street in San Francisco. Not so much a representational portrait of an ordinary building as an expression of rage.
I hurried from the cottage, down the steps, and along the path to the parking area.
If my intuition was correct-and it was, it had to be-I knew where I would find Jennifer.
She was at the overlook north of Cayucos: a slender figure dressed all in black, sitting on an aluminum folding chair, one foot propped on the low retaining wall, the sketch pad supported by her knee. Her neighbor’s silver Porsche was parked a short distance away. She didn’t look around as I drove in, but she wasn’t immersed in her drawing. Instead she stared out to sea.
I parked and got out of the car. The weather was the same as it had been when I’d first come here-fog burning off above the hills. The same as it had been when Jacob Ziff had stopped here to speak with Jennifer’s mother all those years ago.
I crossed toward her, gravel crunching under my feet. Still she didn’t seem to notice me. Finally, when I was beside her, she looked up. For a moment her gaze didn’t focus on me. How had Ziff described the look on Laurel’s face when he’d approached her?
After a moment Jennifer recognized me. “Sharon. How did you know I was here?” Her tone was curiously unsurprised.
“I guessed where you would be.” I glanced down at the sketch pad. Blank, although she held a stick of charcoal in her hand. “The work’s not going so well today?”
“Work? Oh, this.” She flipped the pad shut, dropped the charcoal on the ground. “It’s not work, it’s just…”
“Just?”
“Craziness.” She stood, handed me the pad, began folding the chair. “I suppose Mark asked you to drag me back home.”
“I can’t make you go home if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Shall we talk about it? Maybe I can help you decide.”
“Yes. Maybe.”
“Why don’t we go back to Creekside Springs? We can take my car, come back for yours later.”
She hesitated. “It’s not my car. I don’t feel right about leaving it here.”
“Okay, then we’ll take it. But I think I should drive. You look… tired.”
To my surprise, Jennifer smiled. “I’m not so crazy that I can’t drive, but if it will make you feel better, go ahead.”
