Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

“Do you have contact information for Patterson?”

“Not where he is now. Sam got himself killed in a hunting accident up in the Sierras about a year ago.”

Another reason to avoid blood sports, at least to my way of thinking. “Did he live in Sonoma County?”

“No, here in Lake County. Kelseyville. But he got around pretty good, Sam did. Knew a lot of people, brought more than a few guests to the camp. The more the merrier, that’s our policy.”

“Uh-huh. Anyone else in the core group who might remember the man?”

“Jason Quinones. He owns the property, started the camp years back. He’d know if anyone does.”

“Would you ask him for me?”

“No problem. Give me your number; I’ll get back to you.”

Late afternoon when Bellini called. “The guy at the camp was Floyd Mears, all right,” he said. “Jason keeps a list of everybody comes there and how often. Mears was there half a dozen times over three seasons.”

“How many when Ray Fentress was also there?”

“Three, according to Jason’s records.”

“The last time was when?”

“Couple of years ago. Middle of May.”

“Of 2014.”

“Right.”

Middle of May. Four weeks before Ray Fentress was arrested on the drunk driving, resisting arrest, and aggravated assault charges. If there was any significance in that, I had no idea what it could be.

“Does Jason remember whether Mears and Ray Fentress buddied up?” I asked.

“No. He says Mears kept mostly to himself.”

So all I had for certain was testimony that Fentress and Mears had been in relatively close proximity on three occasions, close enough so that they’d at least had a nodding acquaintance; long weekends in the woods draw like-minded individuals together to some degree, even if they’re strangers to each other at first. Which apparently explained how the two of them had met, but nothing else. If anything, it strengthened the prima facie case against Fentress as the catalyst in the double homicide.

This was how things shaped up: At the hunting camp Fentress either was told or found out some other way that Mears grew and sold marijuana. While in prison Fentress concocted a scheme to hijack pot and cash in order to finance a move to the Southwest and the purchase of a farm; and when he got out he checked to make sure Mears was still living in the same place, then bought a Saturday night special and drove up to the Russian River to carry out the plan. Mears wasn’t home, so Fentress shot the Doberman because it was the only way he could get past the animal and into the grow shed. After he looted it, he went into the cabin looking for money and more pot. Mears came home and caught him, either was armed with the.45 or had the piece stashed where he could get at it quickly, and both of them died in a hail of lead.

Added up well enough, no evident loose ends. That was how Heidegger and his superiors viewed it, and they’d be even more satisfied when I told them of the hunting camp connection.

It didn’t satisfy me, though.

What was wrong with it was that it didn’t fit Fentress’ character. His wife, his friends, his background, couldn’t all be wrong about the kind of man he’d been. Sure, he’d committed a couple of violent felonies, but they hadn’t involved sober premeditation or firearms or pot or theft. And yes, prison can change a man, but seldom to such a radical degree in only eighteen months in a minimum-security lockup like Mule Creek.

So if the obvious explanation was the wrong one, I was right back to square one. Why had Fentress gone to see Mears that day, if not to buy or steal marijuana?

There were other nagging questions, too. Why had the dog been shot if it wasn’t to get into the shed to steal weed? Where had the Saturday night special come from if Fentress hadn’t brought it with him? Why had he been so sure he could lay hands on enough money to buy himself a farm? Where had he expected to get it and by what means, and did it have anything to do with Mears?

His little tête-à-tête with the unknown blonde in the Bighorn Tavern bothered me, too. Out of character again, unless she was somehow tied into his money plans. I’d told Pete Retzyck about it and asked if Fentress had said anything to him about her. No, and Retzyck didn’t know any woman who answered her description. He’d also seconded Joe Buckner’s declaration that Fentress never cheated on his wife — “Ray kept his dick where it belonged,” was the way Retzyck put it. So unless somebody else I talked to knew who she was, I had no way of finding out.

Dead ends looming all along the line.

Kennedy Landscape Designs was a substantial operation that occupied an entire block, had an employee roll of more than two dozen, and serviced other nearby Peninsula communities in addition to Millbrae — San Bruno, Burlingame, San Mateo. Tamara had told me this, and a sign at the entrance corroborated it. The sign also said that it was Diamond Certified, whatever that meant, and listed its specialties: Japanese gardens, ponds and waterfalls, brick and flagstone patios and retaining walls, irrigation systems, sprinkler installation and repair, complete tree service.

It was a little before noon on Monday when I got there. I’d called ahead for an appointment with the owner, Philip Kennedy, and a good thing I had, because he was busy when I walked into the cottage-style office building and I had to wait ten minutes past the scheduled time before he was free to see me. His office might as well have been a greenhouse, as full as it was of potted ferns and schefflera and a colorful array of flowering plants I didn’t recognize. Kennedy was a plump, energetic little man in his sixties; if he’d had a white beard and worn a tall red cap, given the business he was in, he’d have resembled a garden gnome.

He said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, it’s been a busy morning,” and pumped my hand and invited me to sit down.

I parked my hinder in a rattan chair next to a plant that had curved, fingerlike leaves — not too close, on the off-chance it was carnivorous. Instead of occupying the chair behind his desk, Kennedy sat close by in a chair similar to the one I was in. So his broad desk wouldn’t be between us, I thought. The companionable type, a contributing factor, no doubt, to the success of his business.

“Ray Fentress. Such a sad case. First that trouble with the police that sent him to prison, and now...” Kennedy sighed and wagged his head. “I feel sorry for his wife.”

“So do I. That’s why I’m trying to help her.”

“In what way, if you don’t mind my asking? There’s no question about what happened at the Russian River, is there?”

“There might be, but I’m not investigating the homicides. Couldn’t if I wanted to.” I told him what Doreen Fentress had hired me to do.

“Closure,” he said, nodding.

“One way or another.”

“You don’t sound optimistic.”

“Frankly, I’m not.”

“Sad,” Kennedy said again. He scooted his chair over to the desk, scribbled on a pad of paper. “Making a note to send her flowers,” he said when he turned back to me.

Good for him. Kindhearted as well as sociable.

I asked, “Did Fentress happen to get in touch with you after he was released?”

“No, he didn’t. I didn’t even know he’d been released.”

“No contact at all since his arrest, then.”

“None.”

“He was employed here seven years, is that right?”

“Sounds right. I’d have to look at the records to be sure.”

“Was he part of a regular crew?”

Kennedy wagged his head again. “Ray was a jack-of-all-trades, so to speak — good at landscaping, good at tree work, good at just about everything we do. So we put him wherever he was needed, whatever project.”