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Authors: Susan Dunlap
Tags: Suspense
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area, there would have been no advantage in pretending to be straight, and such deception would have created plenty of resentment in the gay world.
A sports car swerved around me. I was doing thirty-five. Obviously, I could think or I could drive, not both. I pushed down on the accelerator and turned the radio on, loud.
By the time I got to Henderson it was raining in earnest. I pulled up in front of Thompson’s grocery. The sidewalk was raised here, up two steps from the street. Puddles from the last few days of rain surrounded it. I jumped from the truck to a dry spot four feet from the curb and walked twenty feet along the road before I found a narrow enough stretch of water to leap over.
In Thompson’s I bought a can of beef stew (inability to cook was one of my business executive attributes that stuck with me) and a bottle of brandy. But as I made my way back to the pickup, I realized that even heating the stew was more than I felt like doing. I put the bag in the cab and walked across the street to the café.
I was not hungry when I was here for breakfast, but now I was starved. Perhaps fear burned calories. One of the café’s fine qualities was their menu—it offered all kinds of food at any time of the day. That, I believe, had been forced upon them by the sewer laborers who usually wanted what was normally considered dinner at seven in the morning. Now, at four-thirty, I ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, and sauerkraut.
I sat in the same secluded corner I was in this morning, propped a discarded newspaper in front of me to discourage conversation, and returned to thoughts of Frank. If he wasn’t killed because of his social life, then why? What had he been doing at the Place to necessitate someone killing him?
I pondered that till the eggs arrived, but I came up with no more reasonable speculation than that Frank was involved in drugs. When I suggested that to Sheriff Wescott, I was merely tossing out the first thing on my mind to distract him from me. But now, considering it, with a mouth full of sauerkraut, it made a good deal of sense. There were a lot of drugs in this area. Marijuana was the biggest cash crop in Humboldt County to the north, and Humboldt was a large county. Each autumn the authorities (combinations of local, state, and federal), surveyed the area from helicopters, sprayed paraquat, and burned fields. They watched the roads for suspicious vehicles heading toward San Francisco, Berkeley, and beyond to Los Angeles. But, as I smugly pointed out to Wescott, that was all for show. So many people were involved with marijuana in one way or another that any effort to eradicate it was useless.
Suppose Frank had been involved in dealing, maybe in a minor way, when he lived in San Francisco? Suppose he had a source north of here? Suppose he had found out that he could run a profitable way station at the Place—that suppliers could bring the weed there, either for Frank to distribute to smaller dealers in the area or in larger quantity to “tourists” from the city? Suppose Frank had gotten greedy, or one of his suppliers or customers did? That would make sense. Frank wouldn’t have had any qualms about dealing drugs, at least not recreational drugs. Marijuana was the most likely contraband because of the location, though, I supposed, he might have arranged for cocaine to be smuggled off a ship in the ocean and up the Russian River. I’d have to ask Chris about that possibility.
When I finished my eggs I felt better than I had all afternoon. Drugs made a lot of sense. And the people who had been involved in the drug scene, who had been in San Francisco, and who had access to boats, were Patsy and Paul Fernandez.
It was just after five. The rain was heavy now. As I crossed the bridge I looked over the railing to check the height of the river, but it was too dark to make out anything.
South Bank Road was lower than the bridge and I turned west onto it. Paul and Patsy’s canoe rental was half
A sports car swerved around me. I was doing thirty-five. Obviously, I could think or I could drive, not both. I pushed down on the accelerator and turned the radio on, loud.
By the time I got to Henderson it was raining in earnest. I pulled up in front of Thompson’s grocery. The sidewalk was raised here, up two steps from the street. Puddles from the last few days of rain surrounded it. I jumped from the truck to a dry spot four feet from the curb and walked twenty feet along the road before I found a narrow enough stretch of water to leap over.
In Thompson’s I bought a can of beef stew (inability to cook was one of my business executive attributes that stuck with me) and a bottle of brandy. But as I made my way back to the pickup, I realized that even heating the stew was more than I felt like doing. I put the bag in the cab and walked across the street to the café.
I was not hungry when I was here for breakfast, but now I was starved. Perhaps fear burned calories. One of the café’s fine qualities was their menu—it offered all kinds of food at any time of the day. That, I believe, had been forced upon them by the sewer laborers who usually wanted what was normally considered dinner at seven in the morning. Now, at four-thirty, I ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, and sauerkraut.
I sat in the same secluded corner I was in this morning, propped a discarded newspaper in front of me to discourage conversation, and returned to thoughts of Frank. If he wasn’t killed because of his social life, then why? What had he been doing at the Place to necessitate someone killing him?
I pondered that till the eggs arrived, but I came up with no more reasonable speculation than that Frank was involved in drugs. When I suggested that to Sheriff Wescott, I was merely tossing out the first thing on my mind to distract him from me. But now, considering it, with a mouth full of sauerkraut, it made a good deal of sense. There were a lot of drugs in this area. Marijuana was the biggest cash crop in Humboldt County to the north, and Humboldt was a large county. Each autumn the authorities (combinations of local, state, and federal), surveyed the area from helicopters, sprayed paraquat, and burned fields. They watched the roads for suspicious vehicles heading toward San Francisco, Berkeley, and beyond to Los Angeles. But, as I smugly pointed out to Wescott, that was all for show. So many people were involved with marijuana in one way or another that any effort to eradicate it was useless.
Suppose Frank had been involved in dealing, maybe in a minor way, when he lived in San Francisco? Suppose he had a source north of here? Suppose he had found out that he could run a profitable way station at the Place—that suppliers could bring the weed there, either for Frank to distribute to smaller dealers in the area or in larger quantity to “tourists” from the city? Suppose Frank had gotten greedy, or one of his suppliers or customers did? That would make sense. Frank wouldn’t have had any qualms about dealing drugs, at least not recreational drugs. Marijuana was the most likely contraband because of the location, though, I supposed, he might have arranged for cocaine to be smuggled off a ship in the ocean and up the Russian River. I’d have to ask Chris about that possibility.
When I finished my eggs I felt better than I had all afternoon. Drugs made a lot of sense. And the people who had been involved in the drug scene, who had been in San Francisco, and who had access to boats, were Patsy and Paul Fernandez.
It was just after five. The rain was heavy now. As I crossed the bridge I looked over the railing to check the height of the river, but it was too dark to make out anything.
South Bank Road was lower than the bridge and I turned west onto it. Paul and Patsy’s canoe rental was half
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