The Incumbent (30 page)
It had been well over a day since Allen disappeared; I hoped the police were finished with the house. I reminded myself that I was leaving my city and that although my title might bring polite conversation from the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department, it would garner little more. The sheriff’s leadership flowchart did not connect to mine.
The drive went smoothly until I hit the city limits. Then the typical Santa Barbara bottleneck slowed me down. The blue ocean on my left sparkled under an intense sun that sat like royalty in a cloudless sky. Hills covered in native shrub and grass framed my right. That’s where the beauty stopped. In front of and behind me was a coagulated mass of cars, creeping along the clogged asphalt artery. I sighed and summoned my patience.
It took thirty minutes longer than I had planned for me to pull in front of Allen Dayton’s wide home. Two years had passed since I last set foot on the property. For all other meetings we met in my campaign office. His firm had a central office in Santa Barbara, but Allen had once told me he preferred working out of the office in his home. “Less interruptions and I can watch
M*A*S*H*
reruns at lunch.”
The only indication that a police investigation had taken place there was a small remnant of yellow tape stuck to the frame of the front door, compliments of a less than conscientious policeman.
I parked in the driveway and worked my way toward the side of the house to my left. The police would have locked the front door but that was fine with me. I didn’t want to go into the house. I was interested in the backyard. Hoping not to appear guilty, I looked around. The neighborhood was quiet. A breeze through the cottonwood trees made the only noise. The house appeared normal, as it should have. Still, I had expected that it would look different, as if it could convey through its wood siding, stucco, and red-tile roof the crime that had been committed inside.
At the front edge of the garage was a redwood fence with a narrow gate. An uncertainty stabbed me. What if the gate was locked? How would I get in? The image of me climbing the fence didn’t sit well. It’s hard to look as if you belong when doing burglar gymnastics.
Taking a deep breath, I strolled to the gate as if I had done it a hundred times before, and found a simple, self-closing metal latch. It looked identical to the one on my own gate.
Form follows function.
How many different kind of latches can there be?
To my relief, there was no lock on the gate. I pushed up the latch and pressed through the gate, closing it quietly behind me.
The side yard was narrow. To my right was the stucco garage wall, to the left the redwood fence. Three large plastic trash cans were set snug against the fence. Their lids were askew and an odious aroma was crawling out. The neighbors would be complaining about that soon. I wondered if the police dug through the cans looking for clues, then left the lids just resting on top.
A concrete walk led to the backyard. I followed it.
Something hit the fence with a bang. I choked off an involuntary scream and leaped back. It hit the fence again, this time with a cacophony of yapping. Through the slats of the fence, I could see a dog the size and shape of a dust mop, with a little black nose and wet round eyes, protesting my presence. It shook, either from delight or irritation.
I laughed at myself and moved on, hoping the owner didn’t feel compelled to investigate the commotion.
The backyard was deep and wide by Southern California standards. Next to the house was an open patio with expensive-looking yellow outdoor furniture. A barbecue as wide as a small car sat to one side. What is it about men and barbecues? A flat roof hung above the Spanish-tile floor. There was no house behind the lot, just an expansive canyon. Between the back fence and the porch was a plaza of thick grass in need of a trim. It was a beautiful backyard.
It was the grass that intrigued me. What I was looking for would be in the lawn. I stepped from concrete to the thick pile of turf. I looked down at my feet. I was wearing a pair of bone-colored business pumps, the kind that professional women prefer: pretty enough to say footwear matters but plain enough to be understated. They were great for work, but I was skeptical about their efficacy in the garden—and around ants.
Most people have some form of paranoia, something that sets their teeth on edge. Some people despise snakes. My irrational fear is bugs. I hate bugs. I’m a bug bigot. Always have been and always will be. As far as I’m concerned, they’re just minute monsters. Of course, some bugs are worse than others. Ants don’t generally bring a terror response, but I still don’t like them. I noticed my pulse quickening as I took another step on the grass, feeling the blades surrender to my weight.
If there are ants, then there should be ant mounds.
I raised my eyes and looked the lawn over more closely. A brown pile of dirt rose above the grass. It wasn’t alone. Two others were in the planter that ran along the back fence.
“There you are,” I said, sounding more nonchalant than I felt. I approached the closest mound and bent over to study it. A wave of revulsion ran through me. My bug bigotry was working overtime. These mounds looked different than others I had seen before. They were larger and more flat. I could see the inhabitants wandering around, working feverishly at something.
The ants were about a quarter of an inch in length. Some were smaller, others a little larger. They weren’t truly red, not as I’d expected. There was a brown tint to them. I wondered how such small things could inflict such great pain, and how the little amount of venom in their bodies could have killed Lizzy. I reminded myself that she was allergic to insect venom. Still, while larger than other ants, they weren’t all that big.
The dog began yapping again. I ignored it, hoping it would go away.
“I wouldn’t stand there, lady.”
I jumped a foot and trod backward, spinning to see the unexpected visitor.
“Wha–what?”
“Didn’t mean to scare you. Please step back on the concrete patio.” He was short, round, and red-faced and was wearing a brown workingman’s uniform. On his head was a brown baseball cap with the words “Stewart Extermination.” I did as he said.
He walked over. “You don’t want to mess with those buggers. They have no sense of humor.
Solenopsis invicta.
That’s their scientific name. The last part means ‘invincible.’ Scientists named them that because the little monsters are so aggressive.”
“You’re here to exterminate them?” I tried to quiet my heart.
He nodded. “Name is Danny Stewart. Me and my brother own and operate Stewart Extermination. We’re subcontractors to the California Department of Food and Agriculture. Actually, I’m going to plant some traps. The traps have a food substance that attracts the ants which they take into the nest and share. It kills them underground.”
“Why not just spray them?” I was hoping he wouldn’t ask what I was doing there.
“Not good enough. You see those mounds? That’s one nest, not three. The state wants these guys gone, and the only way to do that is to introduce IGRs and MIs into the nest.”
I looked at him blankly.
“Insect growth regulators and metabolic inhibitors. It’s important to kill them all, including the queen. These guys don’t belong here and they’re not our friends. They came to the U.S. in the 1930s and have infested the Southwest. Now they’re starting to work in California. Been in the state for a few years and making headway. There may be as many as half a million ants under this lawn. If you had disturbed the nest, they would have come boiling out of there like lava from a volcano, all over your lovely feet. Not a pretty sight.”
“And you get called out to deal with them?”
“Yup. Usually it’s the homeowner. Don’t get many calls from the police.”
“I don’t imagine you do.”
“I read about what happened to Mr. Dayton. It’s a shame. If we was talkin’ any other kind of insect, then we might have just let things go, but like I said, the state wants them all dead before they become too big a problem to handle.” He paused and turned his attention from the dirt mounds to me. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
I smiled and held out my hand. “Maddy. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I suppose I also owe you a thank-you.”
“Naw. You didn’t know. Most people don’t. You a friend of—”
“I was just curious,” I said, short-circuiting his question. “How big a problem is this in California?” I felt somewhat embarrassed. I was willing to bet that information from the state or at least the county came through my office and I ignored it.
“Depends where you live. We’ve had only a few infestations but the number is growing. Other states have it worse; some haven’t seen the problem yet. People don’t recognize the need until someone gets hurt, and the nests grow and new nests start. Right now I wouldn’t put any money on winning the battle. If you ask me, bugs are gonna take over the world. Long after humans are gone, these guys will be around, making life miserable for other living things.”
“But how do they spread? Does someone have to transport them from place to place? I mean, like on fruit or something?”
He shook his big round head. “They fly. Some of them have wings. The winged males swarm out of the nest, usually after a rain and when the sun is shining. Pretty soon winged females join them in the air. Probably following a pheromone trail. They mate while in flight. Pretty neat trick, eh?” He winked at me. I offered a courtesy smile. “After that, the males fall to the ground and die. That’s gratitude for ya.” He laughed at his little joke. “At some point the females land, strip off their wings, and begin a new nest. The fertilized females are now queens. Each queen lays her first batch of eggs and then tends them until maturity. After that, all she has to do is lay around the house producing eggs for the other ants to care for. Then it starts all over again.”
“Amazing.”
“Yeah, it kinda is. Too bad they’re such vicious varmints.”
“You’ve given me quite an education,” I said. Then I thanked him and hustled out of the backyard before he started asking more questions. As I approached the side yard, the dust-mop Cujo hit the fence and started yapping again.
A few moments later I was in my car, backing out of the drive. I saw a brown van parked at the curb, the name of Stewart’s business stenciled on the side. I cranked the wheel, shifted from reverse to drive, and, peering through the passenger-side window, gave Allen Dayton’s house one more look. A beautiful home was now a monument to a tragedy. I let my eyes trace the property, then started to drive off.
Something seemed wrong—there was something I was overlooking. It happens to me occasionally. My subconscious sees something my thinking mind misses. It drives me crazy, like trying to remember the name of an actor not seen for a few years. I had just removed my foot from the brake when it hit me. Looking at the side yard, I changed my focus from Allen’s home to the house with the hairy yapper. I rolled down the window and could hear the muted yipping of the small dog.
It wasn’t the dog that was calling to me. It was something else, something that was different. I looked up from the fence to the roof of the house. There it was: a small, rectangular metal box just under the eave. It was pointing at my car. From its perch at the edge of the garage, it could see the house’s driveway, the front street, and—if it could be moved—the front yard of Allen’s home.
I looked at the other end of the garage and found another camera. That made two on the front of the garage. I pulled forward a little so I could see the home’s entry. Sure enough, there was a camera near the front porch.
I pulled the SUV to the curb, got out, went to the front door, and rang the bell. Nothing. I waited a few moments, then started to press the bell again. Before I did, I looked up and noticed that an entryway camera was gazing at me. Before, it had stared at the street. I smiled and waved. I reached for the bell, then jumped when a woman’s voice said, “No need to ring again.” It came from a speaker somewhere overhead. “Who are you?”
I looked around, trying to find a place to direct my reply. Finding none, I just spoke into the air. “My name is Maddy Glenn.” Nothing for several moments. “Hello?”
“The mayor of Santa Rita is named Madison Glenn. Did you know that?” the metallic voice said.
“I did know that. I am she.”
“Look at the camera, please.”
I did.
“You look like her, all right.”
“As I said, I am Madison Glenn. I wonder if we might talk for a moment. Face-to-face, I mean.”
A second later the door opened and I was staring at one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I had to look down to make eye contact. Her wheelchair made it necessary.
T
he woman stared at me. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders in supple waves and her blue eyes were bright but unblinking. Her alabaster skin was pure and smooth. Her naturally full lips were unadorned by lipstick. In fact, she wore no makeup at all, yet she seemed to glow. I felt old and hag ugly.
My eyes drifted down from her face. There was a slight droop in her shoulders and one hand, her left, was thin and twisted. The muscles in the arm were flaccid and the skin hung loosely, like adult clothes on a child. Her right arm looked healthy and strong. She wore an ivory shell top that looked as if it had once hung on the rack of an expensive store. She also had on a pair of jet black stretch pants—nothing to button or buckle. They draped over thin legs. Her feet were bare.
“You really are Madison Glenn.” There was depth, a resonance, in her voice that sounded familiar. Her words came easy, as if practiced.
“Um, yes, I am.” Why had I suddenly gone inarticulate? I refocused. “Not many people recognize a small-city mayor on sight.”
“Nonsense. Many in the know think you’re an up-and-comer.”
There was something familiar about the woman but recognition stayed just out of reach. “I’m sorry to bother you—”
“Where are my manners?” She gave a smile of dazzling, professionally maintained white teeth. “Come in.”
I thanked her and followed her as she backed the wheelchair away from the door. The chair was narrow and had a sleek appearance to it, unlike most wheelchairs I had seen. She operated it with a joystick on the right armrest. She moved with such fluid motions that it was obvious she had been motoring the thing for some time.