She blushed again. "Then there was that business
about Ted Peltz and the pot farm this spring. Lydia said Dai came up for a few days then."
"How long have the Peltzes lived in their cabin?"
"It's not their cabin. Dai let them stay there. To keep an eye on the lodge." She
glanced at me and back to Jay. "Lydia says he did it to spite Angharad's mother. She didn't
approve of the marriage." Janey frowned. "I don't see it, though."
"Why not?"
"Dai wasn't spiteful." She teared up. "Gosh, I can't I believe he's gone."
"It was sudden," Jay said gently, "but he was an elderly man, and he had a long
productive life."
He wasn't ready to talk murder, I supposed. I felt uncomfortable, listening in on their
conversation because Jay was interrogating Janey, and she didn't know it. I wished he'd warn her
or something.
On the other hand, he didn't know for sure that the wine was poisoned. He was just
doing a little fishing while he waited for the hospital toxicologist to phone.
The earlier call had been Kevin Carey, Jay's second in command, reporting that the
medical examiner had already begun the autopsy. The fact that it was Saturday and the Fourth of
July weekend made everything awkward. The state forensics lab in Sacramento was in a holding
pattern during the holiday.
Maybe Jay decided he shouldn't push too hard, because he turned the conversation to
wind surfing, and Janey cheered up. She was heading north again in another week and could
hardly wait to get out on the river.
At that point we were interrupted by the cook who burst into a speech I knew was hostile
without understanding a word. We had invaded his territory. Janey and I refilled our cups, and we
slunk out to the lounge. Jay claimed the man was speaking Tagalog--he hadn't understood a word
either.
Bill Huff came down at seven. When he heard the news of Llewellyn's death, he said a
few conventional phrases and went off to the hall.
We heard him rummaging around for awhile, swearing. He returned with a pile of
creamy stationery and a plebeian looking ballpoint. Reportorial instincts. He began roughing out
a news story for the San Francisco Chronicle and an obit for his own weekly. I thought
that was cold-blooded, but he was just doing what came naturally--like Jay with Janey. I
reflected, cynically, that if Llewellyn's death from natural causes was a story, his murder was
going to be hot stuff. When Bill found out about it.
Miguel came in with a big coffee urn on a wheeled cart and announced that Domingo
was setting up a breakfast buffet. There would be food in half an hour. Not a minute too soon. I
was starving.
" Señor ..." He was addressing Jay.
"What is it?"
"Is it true el patr?n is muerte ?"
Jay drew a breath. "I'm afraid so, Miguel. I'm sorry."
" Ay, Jesus !" His hand flew to his mouth.
Jay said something in soft Spanish. After a moment, Miguel nodded and trailed out
looking like a whipped dog.
"You speak really well," Janey said. "I had two years in college, and I can barely say huevos rancheros ."
"I grew up in one of the barrios ."
That was not quite true. Jay had grown up at the edge of one of the barrios with
bilingual classmates in the days before bilingual education became respectable. He grew up
speaking street Spanish, but he also studied it for three years in high school and four in college.
For the second time in two days I wondered why Jay was being so loquacious about his
background. Maybe he wanted to distance himself from the privileged.
He succeeded in making Janey uncomfortable. Conversation languished. Bill was on a
second draft when Lydia walked in wearing white slacks and her lilac tunic.
Bill glanced up from his scribbling. "You'd better wake Denise. Llewellyn died last
night. Somebody will have to break the news to her."
Lydia's hands flew to her throat in a curiously theatrical gesture, but there was nothing
fake about her pallor. She sat down slowly on the nearest chair. "That's terrible."
"Yes." Bill crossed out a line.
about Ted Peltz and the pot farm this spring. Lydia said Dai came up for a few days then."
"How long have the Peltzes lived in their cabin?"
"It's not their cabin. Dai let them stay there. To keep an eye on the lodge." She
glanced at me and back to Jay. "Lydia says he did it to spite Angharad's mother. She didn't
approve of the marriage." Janey frowned. "I don't see it, though."
"Why not?"
"Dai wasn't spiteful." She teared up. "Gosh, I can't I believe he's gone."
"It was sudden," Jay said gently, "but he was an elderly man, and he had a long
productive life."
He wasn't ready to talk murder, I supposed. I felt uncomfortable, listening in on their
conversation because Jay was interrogating Janey, and she didn't know it. I wished he'd warn her
or something.
On the other hand, he didn't know for sure that the wine was poisoned. He was just
doing a little fishing while he waited for the hospital toxicologist to phone.
The earlier call had been Kevin Carey, Jay's second in command, reporting that the
medical examiner had already begun the autopsy. The fact that it was Saturday and the Fourth of
July weekend made everything awkward. The state forensics lab in Sacramento was in a holding
pattern during the holiday.
Maybe Jay decided he shouldn't push too hard, because he turned the conversation to
wind surfing, and Janey cheered up. She was heading north again in another week and could
hardly wait to get out on the river.
At that point we were interrupted by the cook who burst into a speech I knew was hostile
without understanding a word. We had invaded his territory. Janey and I refilled our cups, and we
slunk out to the lounge. Jay claimed the man was speaking Tagalog--he hadn't understood a word
either.
Bill Huff came down at seven. When he heard the news of Llewellyn's death, he said a
few conventional phrases and went off to the hall.
We heard him rummaging around for awhile, swearing. He returned with a pile of
creamy stationery and a plebeian looking ballpoint. Reportorial instincts. He began roughing out
a news story for the San Francisco Chronicle and an obit for his own weekly. I thought
that was cold-blooded, but he was just doing what came naturally--like Jay with Janey. I
reflected, cynically, that if Llewellyn's death from natural causes was a story, his murder was
going to be hot stuff. When Bill found out about it.
Miguel came in with a big coffee urn on a wheeled cart and announced that Domingo
was setting up a breakfast buffet. There would be food in half an hour. Not a minute too soon. I
was starving.
" Señor ..." He was addressing Jay.
"What is it?"
"Is it true el patr?n is muerte ?"
Jay drew a breath. "I'm afraid so, Miguel. I'm sorry."
" Ay, Jesus !" His hand flew to his mouth.
Jay said something in soft Spanish. After a moment, Miguel nodded and trailed out
looking like a whipped dog.
"You speak really well," Janey said. "I had two years in college, and I can barely say huevos rancheros ."
"I grew up in one of the barrios ."
That was not quite true. Jay had grown up at the edge of one of the barrios with
bilingual classmates in the days before bilingual education became respectable. He grew up
speaking street Spanish, but he also studied it for three years in high school and four in college.
For the second time in two days I wondered why Jay was being so loquacious about his
background. Maybe he wanted to distance himself from the privileged.
He succeeded in making Janey uncomfortable. Conversation languished. Bill was on a
second draft when Lydia walked in wearing white slacks and her lilac tunic.
Bill glanced up from his scribbling. "You'd better wake Denise. Llewellyn died last
night. Somebody will have to break the news to her."
Lydia's hands flew to her throat in a curiously theatrical gesture, but there was nothing
fake about her pallor. She sat down slowly on the nearest chair. "That's terrible."
"Yes." Bill crossed out a line.
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