The Madness of Mercury (27 page)

I shook off my mood. There were practical things I could do. I said goodbye to Dorothy before lugging my overnight bag to the car. I stowed it in the back and headed out.

When I reached my grandmother’s house, no sign hung on Kuan’s door. I knocked, and a moment later he stood in the doorway smiling. Wizard meowed piteously from his carrier. “I decided to take you up on your offer.”

Kuan glanced at the cat carrier and then at me. “Come in, Julia. You look frazzled. Have some tea.”

I followed him wordlessly into his immaculate and spartan kitchen. Bundles of herbs lay on the counter; he was preparing to hang them on a rod in the window to dry. I sat at the small kitchen table overlooking the back garden he’d created. Tall hedges of pale green outlined the perimeter. A gravel path wound through plantings of indigenous bushes and flowers, leading to a stone bench and small koi pond in the center. Herbs and vegetables were planted among the flowers, in scattered spots, and Kuan harvested these for his teas.

He took another cup from the shelf and poured a steeping brew from a stoneware pot, then placed it in front of me.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.

“I do.” Kuan lifted his teacup to his mouth and took a small sip. His hands were strong, with long delicate fingers. “Although I’ve never seen one personally. Have you?”

“No.” I shuddered. “Although I may have heard one speak last night.”

“I keep an open mind,” he said. “The material universe we inhabit is only one very small portion of existence.” He smiled. “Frankly, I don’t rule anything out. Some people believe ghosts are trapped energies of the no longer living. I prefer to believe they are simply not focused in our linear time or physical reality. Perhaps they never lived, as we think of living.”

“Supposedly this woman did.”

“Don’t worry your head about it, Julia. Astrology is enough of a discipline in itself.”

“You’re right. Thanks for taking Wizard in. I’ll be back in a day or so to pick him up.”

“He’ll be fine with me. We get along. Your man Jerry called. He’s installing the new furnace tomorrow. I’ll be here to oversee. It’s a quiet week for me.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ve got enough on my plate without waiting for a furnace to show up.”

“Where are you going? Back to your apartment?”

“No. Mendocino County.”

Kuan raised an eyebrow. “To visit a ghost?”

“I hope not.”

T
HIRTY-
S
IX

T
HE RIBBON OF THE
101 northbound stretched out before me. A ray of sunshine shot across the road, breaking through the storm clouds that had been plaguing the northern part of the state for days. The more I drove, the lighter I felt. The exits for Novato and Petaluma sped by, the surrounding terrain climbing imperceptibly higher as I drove. By the time I passed Santa Rosa, the air had warmed, a false hint of spring. Rolling green and brown hills stretched into the distance.

I hit the button on the car radio and heard only static. My stations were all tuned to the city and my CD player was out of commission. I made a mental note to get it fixed when I returned. As I drove, the tension in my neck lessened and my shoulders relaxed. I kept hitting buttons and finally found a country western station that came in loud and clear with twanging guitars and lyrics of love lost. I’d driven this road before a few times, and each time had the sense that I’d been transported to an alien universe. If someone were to tell me I’d been dropped in Utah or South Dakota or New Mexico, I’d probably believe them. Had my world narrowed? Had I been in San Francisco so long that any other vista seemed strange?

We’re isolated on a narrow peninsula surrounded by water. It’s easy to forget what the rest of the state looks like. Easy to forget that agriculture is California’s largest and most important industry. Our politicians and real estate developers have a tendency to forget as well. Over the years, developers have industriously poured concrete over the most valuable topsoil on the planet to create expensive housing developments and gated communities with pretentious names in Spanglish, like Park Granada and Ensenada Acres.

I glanced down at the map with one eye on the road. I’d covered a lot of ground. The turnoff to Ardillas was ten miles away. My cell phone rang and I glanced at the number. It was Don. I hit the button to answer.

“Julia. Where are you?”

“On the 101 about ten miles from Ardillas.”

“Listen. I’ve dug up some newspaper articles from the New Orleans area about a couple who got involved with the Prophet. Then I discovered they’d written a book—an exposé, really—about six years ago.”

“That’s great. I’d love to get my hands on that.”

“Julia …
”

“
Maybe I could locate them and talk to them.”

“That might be difficult.”

“Why?”

I was greeted by silence. “Don? You there?”

“I’m here, Julia.” Don was silent but I could tell the line was still open. “They were murdered about a year after the book came out.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. “Murdered? How?”

“Home invasion. At least that was the official verdict. No one was ever charged. A lot of people still harbor the suspicion it was an execution for betraying the Reverend Roy.” Don was quiet for so long, I wondered if I had lost reception. “I think you should turn back.”

I wasn’t used to being worried about, much less someone asking me not to do something. Don had a point, but I know what a stubborn cuss I can be. Just his asking nicely felt like an order, and it put my back up. It’s not a trait I’m proud of, but I have an irresistible tendency to do the exact opposite of what I’m told to do. Sheer contrariness, I guess. Don’s pleas were falling on deaf ears.

“I can’t. I can’t see the point of turning around now that I’m almost there. Don’t worry. I plan to talk to the sheriff and scope things out. Maybe I can get help from that quarter. Mostly I just want to locate Eunice. And if I can get in and talk to her, then I can at least tell Dorothy where things are at.

I heard his exasperated sigh. “Stay in touch, okay?”

“I will.” I clicked off just as the sign indicating the town’s one exit sped closer. I flicked on my turn signal even though no other cars were near—force of habit—and moved over to the far right lane. The exit appeared and I turned off, heading east onto a two-lane road. On the left, an old farmhouse appeared, protected from the road by a stand of ancient oaks. A dilapidated truck full of chicken cages, its front bumper tied up with a rope, passed in the opposite direction. Somewhere in the last few miles I’d crossed the county line from Sonoma to Mendocino. If there’d been a sign, I’d missed it.

The road toward Ardillas was lined with scrub oaks and chaparral. I passed small industrial shops—an auto repair operating out of a garage, a rambling barn with dusty windows, and an “Antiques” sign hanging lopsided by the door. Eventually I passed a gas station and, another half mile on, arrived on Powell Street.

The main drag boasted a Frosty Freeze, another gas station, a one-story concrete block building that housed municipal offices, a diner, a motel called the Bide-a-Wee, and a bar aptly named Cowboy’s End. I cruised slowly down the street and spotted the local firehouse, a two-story building with a large automatic door at street level. When I got to the end of the municipal attractions and saw more scrub oaks lining the two-lane road, I knew I’d gone too far.

I made a U-turn, drove down the main street again, and parked in front of the concrete block building. I had no idea where the Prophet’s Paradise was located and this place seemed the most promising for my inquiry. I turned off the motor, stretched, cracked my neck, and climbed out of the car. A sign inside the glass double doorway announced the hours of the office of Mendocino County Sheriff/Coroner Leo X. McEnerny. I was willing to bet the X stood for Xavier. I’ve always wondered why Xavier crops up as a middle name for so many of Irish extraction. Was he a Catholic saint? I’d have to look that up. For me, the name conjures up visions of Cuban conga players in poofy-sleeved outfits.

Inside, a long counter separated the large room from civilians. A middle-aged woman in a gray sweater, with matching hair cut in a short bob, looked up.

“Can I help you?” Her edgy tone seemed to imply she had no intention of doing so.

“Yes. I’d like to talk to the sheriff.”

“And the nature of your business?”

“It’s private.”
It’s certainly none of your business.
For all I knew, she worshipped at the Reverend’s altar herself.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to explain your request.”

Why was I surprised that bureaucracy didn’t end at the city limits? I debated how much to tell this woman whose creed was obstruct and obfuscate.

“I need some information about a local group.”

“And what group might that be?”

I could feel the beginnings of a raging headache. “Look, just tell me if the sheriff is available or not.”

She passed a message pad across the counter. “Please leave your name and number and when he’s available, he’ll call you.”

A door opened at the side of the large room and a tall man, well over six feet, with huge arms and a beefy but pleasant face, stood in the doorway.

“It’s all right, Millie. Send her on back.”

Millie gave me a fixed smile and hit an invisible release under the desk. A gate opened in the counter, allowing me entry. Sheriff McEnerny didn’t look like a man who stood on ceremony. He smiled as I approached and held out a hand the size of a large ham. We shook hands and he stood aside politely as I entered his office.

“Don’t mind Millie. She does her best to protect me.” He shut the door behind him as I took a seat. “Sometimes she takes her job too seriously. What can I do for you, miss?”

“I’m looking for a place called the Prophet’s Paradise.”

“Hmm.” The sheriff scratched his chin. “Hmmm.”

“Something wrong?”

“Can I ask what this is about?”

I gave him the short version of my connection to Dorothy’s family and the disappearance of Eunice. He paid close attention. From the concerned frown on his face, I could tell it was news to him. It was obvious he hadn’t been contacted by the San Francisco police.

“Well … ” Sheriff Leo scratched his chin once more. “I’m not sure what I can do for you, other than to tell you how to get there. If the San Francisco Police can’t bring her home, I’m not sure I can either. Their community is on private property. I don’t have any right to enter unless they agree, or unless I have a warrant. And they’re a very private group.”

“Any trouble with them up here?”

“Trouble? Oh, no. Couldn’t be better citizens. Wish everyone obeyed the law the way they do. I’m real sorry about your friend, but unless her aunt was taken there against her will … not much I can do.”

The exhaustion of the last few days and the drive swept over me. It must have shown on my face. Sheriff Leo looked sympathetic.

“Look, here’s what. Today isn’t possible, but maybe tomorrow I can take a ride out there and ask about this little lady. Can’t force my way onto the property, but I can ask if she’s there, and maybe I could speak with her.”

“Tomorrow?” I squeaked. I couldn’t imagine spending the next ten minutes in Ardillas, much less another day. And I really didn’t want to wait until the sheriff managed to amble over. I wanted to know if Eunice was there now, and if so, I hoped to talk her into coming home.

“You need to understand a few things. That church group donates money and the food they grow to the community. There’s a lot of poor folks up here. No employment to speak of. The only industry in this damn area is marijuana.”

I was taken aback. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, not at all. Sixty percent of the population is in the growin’ business. Legally, I mean. Unfortunately, a lot of ’em grow more than they’re allowed and that’s where I come in. And even worse, they don’t stop with weed. There’s a war going on up here, if you don’t already know.”

“I didn’t. I had no idea.”