Looking for Yesterday (15 page)

Before I could get to my phone messages, the damned thing rang. I was tempted to let the call go to the machine, but picked up at the last minute.

“Ms. McCone?” a woman’s voice said. “This is Nina Weatherford.”

Who? Oh, yes, Jethro Weatherford’s daughter. “Ms. Weatherford, my condolences again—”

“I’m on the way to Sonoma County to make arrangements for my father’s burial, but decided to spend the night in the city. Since you were the one who last saw him, I’d like to talk with you, if you’re willing.”

“Of course. Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Vitale.”

One of the Embarcadero area’s better lodging places. “I can meet you in the lounge in, say, half an hour.”

“Thank you, Ms. McCone.”

7:07 p.m.

The Americano Restaurant and Bar at Hotel Vitale was warm and comfortable, with big plush chairs and leather banquettes, excellent city views, and soft-colored pine flooring.

Nina Weatherford had told me she would be wearing a black pantsuit with turquoise-and-silver earrings. I spotted her immediately on one of the banquettes, nervously toying with the stem of a wineglass.

She recognized me, had probably looked me up on Google. “Ms. McCone, thank you for coming.”

I sat in the chair opposite hers. “It’s good to meet you.”

A waitperson came; I ordered a glass of pinot grigio.

Weatherford said, “Tell me what you know about my father’s last hours.”

“We’d talked for a while at the Jimtown Store, and he went back home to locate something for me. By the time I got there, he was dead.”

“Did he suffer much?”

“I think death was instantaneous.”

“Thank God.” She took a large swallow of her wine. “Jethro—I thought he’d live forever when I was a kid. After I learned such things don’t happen, I figured he’d be there for me all my life.”

“But you’d been out of touch.”

“Yes. My work keeps me in LA. I begged him to move down there so I could take care of him, but he wouldn’t leave the valley. He was angry with me for not coming back. I tried to bridge the gap, but, well, he was a stubborn man. How did he seem before the end?”

“Pretty happy. Of course, the alcohol encouraged that.”

“Yeah, Jethro was always fond of the sauce. But he was an amiable, gentle drunk.”

“So you’re planning services?”

“Well, I don’t know how many people would attend. Daddy was pretty much a hermit since my mother died twenty years ago. I think a quiet, private burial will suffice.”

“Where will that be?”

“On his little quarter acre. He never wanted to be anyplace else… Well,” she added with a rueful smile, “maybe the Jimtown Store.”

“That quarter acre of his—someone described it to me as worthless.”

“Actually, it’s pretty good land. Daddy just didn’t want to work it. Didn’t want to work at all.”

“The Waldens—the new neighbors with the winery—claimed a corner of his land was theirs, but were proved wrong in court.”

“Yes, he told me about that in one of our infrequent phone conversations.”

“This was a couple of years ago, right?”

“Right. I wanted to refer him to a good lawyer I know here in the city, but as usual he got his back up and used somebody from up there.”

“Do you remember which corner was in dispute?”

“Yes, I do.”

I gave her a pen and she drew a map on a cocktail napkin. “This,” she said, making an x, “is where the drainage tunnel from the Godden—now Walden—vineyards ends.”

“Show me where it goes on the Walden property.”

She drew a line between one of the Waldens’ fields and the corner. “I used to creep around in there when I was a kid. Scared the hell out of Jethro by poking my head out of his end of it.”

Now what could be so important about a drainage tunnel?

10:10 p.m.

Mick finally contacted me at home.

Irritably I asked him, “Where the hell have you been now?”

“Well, I emailed that
San Jose Mercury
writer, Rebecca Regan. The one who did that story on where are they now, and she asked me to come down for a breakfast meeting.”

“Which lasted until well after dinner time?”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me. I found out some good stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Caro never bought the Glock the gun dealer testified she had—that’s why it didn’t show up in state records.”

“They weren’t expunged?”

“Never existed.”

“So the dealer, Levinson, lied.”

“It would appear so.”

“Why didn’t Regan come out with that fact at the time of the trial?”

He laughed. “Because she was in college back East then. She only became aware of the case when she was assigned that piece on the principals’ whereabouts. But she got fascinated and dug deeper.”

“So whose weapon was it?”

“I’ve tried to access the information, but had no luck.”

“Try harder.”

“I intend to.”

“Did Regan tell you why Dave Walden was included in the piece?”

“His name came up in an old article and an interview with Jake Green. He said she should talk with Walden, but she couldn’t reach him and was on a tight deadline.”

And, conveniently, Jake Green was dead.

“About this Rebecca Regan…?”

“Okay, okay. We talked a long time over breakfast. So then we went back to the Merc’s offices and looked through her notes. It was late by the time we finished, so I took her out to lunch.”

“And dinner?”

“I
like
her, Shar. She’s easy to talk with, and there’s not all this baggage that I have with Alison getting in the way.”

“Baggage, such as a possible pregnancy?”

“Don’t get on my case. Please. Not now.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like I’m going to run off on Alison with a woman I’ve met once.”

“And don’t get defensive with me. Please.”

“Okay. I’ll call you when I’ve got more information.”

“Mick? I love you.”

“Me too, you.”

I turned off my phone, gathered the cats, and went to bed.

4:45 a.m.

I
was drifting on the waves, rising, falling, plunging. The sensation was pleasant, soothing me, but I warned myself not to go to sleep. I could drown.…

But these waves, they weren’t water. Something softer, like air.

The plane. I was in the plane—not the new one, but our old Citabria, Seven-Seven-Two-Eight-Niner.

I wanted to slow down to enjoy the feeling a while longer, but when I reached for the throttle, it wasn’t there. I went to pull back on the yoke, but it wasn’t there either.

I spread my arms out, realized I wasn’t in the plane at all. Instead, I was free-falling.

I looked up for my parachute. It wasn’t there either. Panicked, I looked down at the ground. Nothing. All I could see was a swirling grayness. It came at me and its fumes enveloped me and I took in a choking breath.

Smoke!

I woke quickly, sitting up in bed. Definite smell of smoke; I hadn’t been dreaming it. On Hy’s pillow the cats sat rigid, sniffing the air, their eyes wide and afraid.

Fire!

Where was it? Outside? In the house? Why hadn’t the alarms gone off?

I scrambled out of bed and ran toward the sliding glass door. Next to it smoke billowed down the spiral staircase. I stared at the swirling gray in disbelief, and then my reflexes kicked in; my first thought was to grab the cats. I got hold of Alex, but Jessie darted under the bed.

“Damn useless animal!” I shouted at her as I tossed Alex out the door into the backyard.

The smoke was thickening enough to start me coughing. I stumbled around the bedroom, disoriented, trying to locate one of the light switches. When I found one, nothing happened—the power had gone out. Damn! Why had I bought plug-in detectors instead of the battery-operated kind?

Flattening on the floor beside the bed, I felt around for Jessie. She had backed into the far corner, and when I touched her she shrank out of my reach. I ducked my head lower and inched toward her, feeling the bedsprings rake at my scalp. When I was almost to her, she ran out from under the bed and straight through the door into the backyard.

Cursing the feline population in general, I dragged myself out and ran across the room too. As I passed the spiral staircase, what I saw made me cringe—at its top was a wall of flame: red and yellow and gold, tinged with green and black soot; angry, licking up toward the roof.

Phone!

The one down here was cordless, wouldn’t work without electricity.

Cell!

Upstairs in my bag that I’d left on the kitchen table.

In the distance I heard sirens. Somebody had seen the smoke or the flames, called in an alarm.

Don’t stand here like an idiot, McCone—get yourself out!

But I’m naked—

Stupid thing to think of in a life-threatening situation, but still I took the time to feel around for something to cover myself with. An old sweatshirt of Hy’s hung on one of the chairs; I grabbed it, pulled it over my head as I plunged through the door.

The gravel under the upper deck lacerated my feet as I sprinted for the grass. Above, the deck railing collapsed, spewing sparks and burning fragments: one of the flaming posts fell directly on my shoulder, singeing my hair and setting my sleeve on fire.

I managed to slap out some of the flames, then threw myself down on the grass and rolled around till they were all out. My arm tingled, but it didn’t feel badly burned. Finally, coughing and gasping, my heart pounding, I lay on my back, staring up at the smoke-palled sky.

Fire engines were out front now, men and women milling around and shouting. Jets of water spurted onto the roof and cascaded down the sides of the house. The engines’ pulsing lights formed a lurid background to the flames.

Booted feet thundered on the walk to the side of the house. A male voice called, “Anybody here?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You injured?”

I tried to sit up, then settled for a weak, “I’m okay,” ignoring the increasing pain in my arm.

“You the owner?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody else get out?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, look, I’m gonna move you back toward the fence line. This is a bad one, and when the house collapses, we don’t want you hurt.” He picked me up as if I were a feather pillow and deposited me on the grass under the pines that grew there.

“Are the neighboring houses going to be okay?” I asked him.

“Looks like it. Everybody’s outside and they’re helping us by wetting down their roofs and walls.”

“Thank God!”

From the front of my house there was a thunderous explosion; even from where I was I could feel its heat. Somebody yelled, “Watch out!” and there was a jarring crash that fouled the air with more smoke and sparks. Then the deck gave what I could only define as a sigh and crumbled.

I could do nothing but lie watching a vital part of my life burn to the ground.

The firemen did what they could, but they’d gotten there too late. When they finally had the blaze under control, the roof was gone and the rest of the house leaned in on itself. One upstairs wall groaned and collapsed into what had used to be the kitchen.

I closed my eyes and wept like a baby.

I had loved this house, had bought it when it was a decrepit wreck left over from the post–1906 quake era and made it a home. An earthquake house it was called by historians and architects, one of those small structures that had been put up here, in what was at that time the far reaches of the city, for the quake’s survivors.

The previous owners hadn’t tended to it in decades. Ceilings had caved in; floors were rotting; the toilet was in a cold cubicle on the back porch and didn’t work all that well anyway. Refrigerator and stove: shot to hell. Tub and shower: not functional. But I’ve always been one to see potential in places, and over the years I’d made it a lovely place to live.

As much as I also loved Touchstone and the ranch in the high desert, this house was the first I’d ever owned, and the memories associated with it were precious.

“Shar? Thank God, Shar!”

The voice belonged to Michelle Curley, one of the young women from next door.

“Chelle,” I said dully as she gathered me into her arms.

“We were so afraid!” she sobbed. “Mom saw the fire and called it in. Then she tried to call you, but she couldn’t get through. And then the firefighters wouldn’t let me past the barricades to look for you, so I came over the fence from our backyard. Are you okay?”

“I’m alive.”

“Hurt?”

“Not much, physically. I’ll have to get a haircut, though.” I showed her the singed side of my head and laughed, trying to make a joke of it.

“Stop clowning around! You’ve got to be hurting bad inside. This house, all your stuff…”

“It can be replaced.”

“You don’t have to act brave in front of me,” she said. “I’ve seen you brave before. But this…”

“Oh, shit.” I started to cry again.

“Where’s Hy?”

“Africa, somewhere.”

“How do we get hold of him?”

“I don’t know. I’ve told you about RI—they’ve got that damn need-to-know policy.”

“Well, he needs to know. You want to go to emergency? Get checked out?”

“Chelle, I’ve had enough of hospitals to last the rest of my life.”

“Then come home with me. Mom can put ointment on your burns, and I can make you soup. Then you can take one of Mom’s pills and sleep.”

“No sleeping pills. I’ve got to track down Hy. RI’s staff is going to qualify this as a need-to-know situation. They’ll damned well put me in touch with him.”

Suddenly Chelle frowned. “The cats…?”

“Are outside, probably went over the back fence.”

“I’ll find them for you.”

I stood up. The pain from the gravel lacerations was sharp. As we went down the walkway beside the ruins of my house I turned my head away. On the street I saw that both entrances to my short block of Church were cordoned off. The pavement was wet and glistening in the lights from the fire trucks, and the firemen were clearing up their equipment. Neighbors in bathrobes milled about; a few patted me sympathetically as Chelle and I moved toward a captain.

“You the owner?”

“Yes. Sharon McCone.”

He told me his name was McCullough. “You’re not injured?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Any idea of how this happened?”

“No. I had the furnace cleaned last fall, the ducts too. The hot water heater was new. The house was fully rewired a couple of years ago when we put on an addition. We don’t store flammable substances in the garage.”

The garage. My car. Oh, shit.

And then I thought of everything else I’d loved and lost: photographs; my old Nikkormat camera; quilts made especially for me by my sister Patsy; a steamer trunk that had been in my family forever. My grandmother’s garnet earrings that I wore only on special occasions were in a US Navy ammo box anchored to the floor in the upstairs bathroom. My fish were by now boiled in their aquarium.

McCullough looked away, understanding what I was going through. A sudden wind brought whiffs of oily smoke to my nostrils and I hunched over, coughing and spitting phlegm. Chelle held my shoulders.

After a moment the fireman said, “We’ll have our inspectors out at first light. They’ll determine the cause. You have someplace to stay where we can contact you?”

“Next door.” I gestured toward Chelle’s house.

She gave him the phone number.

I took a last look at what had used to be my home. A skeleton rising against the sky, and a mound of steaming rubble. I stumbled, and Chelle steadied me.

Why?
I thought.
How the hell did this happen?

When we reached the steps to her house, I had to sit down. Trish, Chelle’s mom, rushed out with an afghan and wrapped it around me. I clutched one of the banister posts and cried again.

My diplomas—high school and UC–Berkeley. The little box of photos and souvenirs from my former lovers. My favorite books. Records, tapes, and DVDs. Paperweights, now cracked or shattered. The bookends, two rabbits purchased at great cost by Hy, that supported my
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary
. The dictionary itself: I seldom used it any more, the Internet being quicker and easier, but sometimes I browsed through it, picking up esoteric lore.

How do you start over from a monumental loss like this?

I took a deep breath, leaned against Trish. All it did was pollute my lungs, and I coughed spasmodically.

Trish said to Chelle, “Go get my inhaler, please.”

To me, she added, “I have asthma, and I think the inhaler will help you.”

I thought:
Nothing will help me
. I said, “Thank you.”

But the inhaler did help. After a few minutes I was breathing and thinking more or less clearly.

Chelle and Trish leaned against me, supporting me on either side. I said, “This fire was not a freak accident. It was arson.”

A despicable crime that takes everyone and everything a person cherishes—sometimes her life.

“Why do you think that?”

“A former client—Daniel Winters—hired somebody to beat me up. The guy—Dixon Cooley—is in custody, but Winters is still at large.”

“Why does this Winters have it in for you?” Chelle asked.

“I exposed him for insurance fraud. He went to prison, and it destroyed his career.”

“Enough for him to want to kill you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve made any number of worse enemies in the criminal world over the years.”

Mother and daughter hugged me, but I finally looked at the still-smoking ruins of my house.

Rage was rising in me—the kind of fury I hadn’t experienced in quite some time. It made my muscles go stiff, my teeth grind. A harsh metallic taste flooded my mouth.

Whoever had set this fire was going to pay dearly—through legal channels or otherwise.

Frankly, I preferred the possibilities of “otherwise.”

7:11 a.m.

“I’ll be home as soon as possible,” Hy said.

RI had finally gotten through to him, and he’d called the Curleys’ number immediately. The family hadn’t been disturbed; they always rose early.

“Where are you?”

He hesitated.
Need-to-know basis.
Then he said, “Dubai.”

“I’m not sure I even know where that is,” I said. “Except that they’ve got the tallest building in the world or something.”

His voice was strained with the same sadness and bitterness I was feeling. “Doesn’t matter. The airport’s good, and I’ve got buddies who can get me out quick on a fast plane.”

“I love your buddies, Ripinsky. Someday we’ll have to give a party for all of them.”

“Only if we win the lottery and rent a stadium. But my buds and I stick together, just like you and I.”

“Just like you and I.”

7:30 a.m.

Trish brought me a cup of coffee, made soothing sounds, and sat down on the bed in their tiny guest room. “You feel like you can eat something?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“I’m so sorry about your house. But the cats are okay; they’re in the kitchen eating as if they’ve never seen food before.”

“I…I almost lost Jessie. She was under the bed, and I couldn’t get her out. And I lost everything else.” I started to cry again. Trish silently patted my arm.

Nothing about the previous night—or early morning—seemed real. But it didn’t feel like a nightmare, either. Nightmares are easily recognized, are usually explained, and fade fast. Last night would never fade.

Rae arrived, bringing some of Mrs. Wellcome’s—her housekeeper’s—blueberry muffins. I refused one, and Trish left us to be alone for a while.

“Mick let me know what happened,” Rae said. “He’s as sick about this as I am.”

“Nobody could be as sick as I am right now.”

Rae sighed. “I can’t dispute that. I want you and the beasts to come stay at our house.”

“Thanks, but your puppy…” Rae and Ricky had recently adopted a little chocolate Lab.

“Frisk is gentle—he won’t bother the cats.”

“Okay, we’ll come.”

“Hy too. He’s already on his way back from Dubai.”

“How d’you know that?”