Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

But if that was the answer, then I was looking at another dead end as far as Ray Fentress was concerned. He hadn’t been the type to appeal to a then-twenty-two-year-old rich girl; neither had Floyd Mears. Which reduced the slim links between Fentress and Melanie Holloway to a couple of coincidences after all.

Well, suppose Jacklin’s theory was only half-right. Suppose Melanie hadn’t hooked up with another man that weekend. Suppose her gambler’s luck had changed and she’d finally hit a big-time winning streak; that she was carrying a large amount of cash when she left the casino; that she’d been accosted in the parking lot or followed somewhere... mugged, robbed, hurt badly enough in the process to wind up in the hospital. There had been no police report of such an incident or Tamara would have turned it up, but the girl could have insisted her father be notified instead of the cops. The rest of the scenario — the hush-up, Melanie incommunicado, the lifestyle change — would then follow the same explanatory lines.

And suppose the perps were Floyd Mears and Ray Fentress. Mears the instigator, Fentress a reluctant accomplice. The crime wouldn’t have been premeditated; Fentress could have known of Melanie’s weekend plans, but not that she’d win a large sum of money. Spur-of-the-moment thing. Okay, but why would the two of them be at the Graton Casino that night? Fentress hadn’t been a gambler, or his widow or one of the people I’d talked to would have mentioned it. Well, assuming he and Mears had buddied up at the Lake County hunting camp, maybe they’d decided to get together at the casino, have a few drinks, and look the place over... boys’ night out. And while they were there Fentress recognized Melanie Holloway while she was on her winning streak, Mears hatched the robbery idea and talked Fentress into it—

No, dammit, it didn’t feel right, didn’t hang together. You could poke a bunch of holes in it without half-trying.

Even if Melanie had hit a hot streak, her total winnings couldn’t have amounted to much more than ten thousand dollars; by law casinos have to report winnings above that amount to the IRS, and if she’d insisted on taking the money in cash they would have insisted in return on providing a security escort when she left the casino. If a robbery had been managed and Fentress had gotten his share and stashed it somewhere, he’d have had no reason to go calling on Mears after his release from prison; he and his wife could’ve just packed up and moved immediately. And if he hadn’t gotten his share and was worried that Mears would try to cheat him out of it, it was as out of character for him to threaten Mears with a gun for a few thousand dollars in cash as it was for a few hundred worth of marijuana — not nearly enough money to put a down payment on a farm, much less buy one.

Two other things didn’t fit, either. The fact that whatever had been preying on Fentress’s mind had started him drinking heavily in June of 2014, a month before Melanie Holloway’s disappearance. And the recent presence of the mystery woman named Mary.

Robbery wasn’t the answer.

The house Doreen Fentress had shared with her late husband was a small frame that dated back to the postwar forties, its roof and off-white paint job showing signs of neglect. No garage. A tiny front yard of weed-riddled grass bordered by flower beds and decorated with an ancient, chipped garden statue of what might have been a cherub holding a bowl filled with ferns and yellow jonquils (I knew that’s what they were because jonquils are among Kerry’s favorite flowers). Mrs. Fentress had apparently done what she could to keep up appearances, but working two jobs wouldn’t have left her much time or energy for yardwork.

At one time you probably could have bought the property for under ten thousand dollars; now, given San Francisco’s ever-increasing real estate prices and the Excelsior next in line to the Mission District for gentrification, it would go for upward of five hundred thousand. No wonder longtime residents have begun to sell out and move away in droves, deeding over much of the city to the affluent. If the Fentresses had owned the place, they could have put it on the market and made a bundle to finance Ray Fentress’ dream of owning a farm. But it was a rental they’d occupied for fifteen years. The owner, unlike most landlords, wasn’t greedy; he kept the monthly nut affordable and evidently had no inclination to sell. Doreen Fentress would be able to continue living there in the short run, at least.

It was a little after four when I arrived at the house. The widow had told me at our first meeting that she’d been given some time off from her clerk’s job, and I’d called to make sure she was home before I drove out. She must have been watching for me from behind the curtained front window; the door opened before I was halfway up the cracked front path. A small black-and-white wire-haired terrier came out with her and sat peeking around one of her legs, like a kid hiding behind his mother’s skirts.

I tend to be wary of dogs, no matter what size; I’ve had run-ins with more than one breed, including a scary one not so long ago that had come close to being fatal. My expression as I glanced down at the terrier must have alerted Mrs. Fentress, because she said, “Don’t worry, she won’t bite. Tina’s a sweet dog, just very shy. Aren’t you, Tina?” Mrs. Fentress reached down to pat the animal’s head affectionately. It licked her hand in return.

The three of us went inside, Tina giving me a wide berth. Mrs. Fentress seemed more composed today, her pale skin less waxy and the aura of melancholy less pronounced — partly, I thought, because this interview was being conducted in familiar surroundings instead of a stranger’s office. She led me into a tidy living room that had a faint doggy odor beneath a liberal spraying of lemon-scented air freshener.

The room was sparsely furnished: two old-fashioned Morris chairs sided by floor lamps, a mismatched two-seat couch, a couple of end tables, and a sideboard of a darker-colored wood. Much if not all of it had probably come with the house. All the lamps and a ceiling globe were on, making the room very bright. Light to chase away more than one kind of darkness.

A pillowed basket bed sat next to the chair that was obviously Mrs. Fentress’; the dog jumped into it, put her head on her paws, and watched me with eyes that were as sad as her owner’s. The placement of the basket and the maternal way the woman talked to the dog was another attempt at keeping darkness at bay, I thought, the kind engendered by both childlessness and loneliness.

I declined the ritual offer of something to drink, and we sat down. I’d told her on the phone that I had a preliminary report for her and some questions to ask; I could have done both over the wire, but it seemed kinder to see her in person. Besides, I had another reason for coming to the house.

She sat quietly, one hand stretched down to fondle the terrier’s ears, while I told her the probable way in which her husband had come to know Floyd Mears. I finished by saying, “But I’m afraid that only raises more questions. Did your husband ever say anything to you about his trips to the hunting camp, the people he met there?”

“Very little. Hunting, even when he brought home venison... well, that’s one interest we didn’t share.”

“No mention of having made a new friend?”

“No. Not that I remember.”

“Did he keep a list of names and telephone numbers? Here at home, I mean.”

“An address book? I don’t think so, no. I never saw one.”

“Where did he keep his personal papers?”

“In the desk in the dining room. But I went through everything before I came to see you. There’s nothing new there, just his insurance policy and birth certificate, old hunting licenses, things like that.”