Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

“Letters, postcards, notes of any kind?”

“No.”

“What about files of paid bills and bank statements from eighteen months ago? Do you still have those?”

“Yes. In a box in the spare bedroom closet.”

“Did he pay the monthly bills back then or did you?”

“I did. Ray had no head for figures.”

“Do you remember anything unusual that caught your eye during the month before his arrest? An unfamiliar credit card charge, for instance.”

“No.”

“Would it be all right if I had a look at the paperwork from that period?”

The skin between her eyes and across her forehead pinched together. “I suppose so. But why?”

“I’ve been told your husband began drinking heavily around that time. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“... Yes. But I don’t see—”

“He was a moderate drinker before that, just a few beers now and then according to Joe Buckner and Pete Retzyck. Do you have any idea what led to the heavy drinking?”

“No. He wouldn’t talk about it.”

“How would you describe him during that month? Upset, worried, nervous, secretive?”

“Withdrawn most of the time,” Mrs. Fentress said. Memory caused her fingers to tighten on Tina’s ruff, the terrier to whimper in response. “When he did talk, it was about moving away, starting over. Once he said we ought to move right away, but he knew we couldn’t afford it. We were swamped with bills — we couldn’t just pack up and leave.”

“At that time he was working on a large estate in Burlingame, a lengthy relandscaping job for a man named Vernon Holloway. Did he say anything about that?”

She thought for a time before she said, “The job at first, yes. He was impressed by the property, the new landscaping plans.”

“At first, you said. But not during that last month?”

“... Not that I remember.”

“Vernon Holloway has a daughter named Melanie Joy, twenty-two at the time. Did he ever mention her?”

“Yes, once or twice. He said she and her friends were spoiled rich kids... running around half-naked, bothering the crew...” Her forehead wrinkled again. “You’re not implying the girl had anything to do with Ray’s drinking? That he made a pass at her and she rejected him?”

“No. Just asking questions, trying to fit pieces together.”

“Well, that’s not one you should consider,” she said. “Ray had his vices, God knows, but he wasn’t a chaser and he was twice that girl’s age.”

Which meant nothing, necessarily. The number of faithful middle-aged husbands who lost their heads over younger women is legion. But there was no gain in reminding Mrs. Fentress of the fact. There wouldn’t be any, either, in mentioning her husband’s afternoon tête-à-tête with the woman named Mary at the Bighorn Tavern; it was unlikely Mrs. Fentress knew who Mary was, and I had no desire to rub salt in the open wound of her grief.

I said, “Was gambling one of his vices, Mrs. Fentress?”

She blinked at the abrupt shift in questions. “Gambling? Ray? No, never.”

“So he had no interest that you know about in Indian casinos, such as the fancy new one in Sonoma County — the Graton Resort and Casino?”

“My God, no. What does that place have to do with Ray?”

“Probably nothing. Just a possibility that came up.”

The terrier uncurled out of the basket, put forepaws on Mrs. Fentress’s knees — begging for attention. She picked the dog up, cradled and cuddled her against her breast. “I don’t understand all these questions. Why are you so interested in what happened the month before Ray went to prison? What does that have to do with his murder?”

“I don’t know that it has anything to do with it. Trying to fit pieces together, as I said.” I got to my feet. “Could I have a look at those stored files now?”

She said, “Yes, all right,” and stood with Tina still cradled in her arms. The spare bedroom, at the rear of the house, was not much larger than a cell; a double bed, one nightstand, a bureau, and an old rocking chair left so little room that Mrs. Fentress stood in the doorway while I located the file box labeled “2014” and liberated it from the tiny closet. I deposited the box on the bed, sat down next to it for the search.

Easy task, because everything in the box was segregated in neatly labeled manila folders. I examined the credit card bills first, paying particular attention to those for May and June. The charges were all standard and all relatively small; the modest credit limits on both cards, Visa and MasterCard, had almost but not quite been maxed out and the monthly payments had been the minimum. Canceled checks and bank statements next. The largest monthly balance at any time during the year was six hundred dollars, the largest check amounts for the house rent and credit card payments. No checks made out to individuals and only a couple to cash for fifty dollars apiece. No correspondence addressed to or written by Ray Fentress. Nothing that even remotely pertained to Floyd Mears or the Holloway family.

Mrs. Fentress was still standing in the doorway with the dog in her arms, watching. She knew from my silence that I had not found anything useful; she remained silent herself as I replaced everything in the file box, returned it to the closet.

I said then, “Have you sorted through your husband’s possessions, Mrs. Fentress?”

“His possessions? I don’t—”

“The clothing he wore the week after he came home from Mule Creek. Whatever he might have had that he didn’t take with him to the Russian River — keys, another wallet, that sort of thing.”

“No. No, I... I couldn’t bring myself...”

“I understand. Would you mind if I looked through them?”

She didn’t mind. We went into the master bedroom, larger, with a bronze crucifix on the wall above the double bed, two cretonne chairs, and two blond-wood bureaus; the extra furniture made it seem just as cramped as the spare bedroom. She pointed out which bureau had belonged to her husband — not that it was necessary, because a man’s catchall tray and two bottles of cologne sat atop it — and then stood back in the doorway as she had before to watch me, the dog as placid as a sleeping baby in her arms.

The tray held a quarter, two dimes, and four pennies, a ballpoint pen, nail clippers, an outmoded tie clip that probably hadn’t been used in years. The drawers contained the usual array of underwear, socks, a pair of pajamas. I closed the last one, went to open the closet. The clothing on hangers was divided into about equal halves, his and hers. Two small suitcases on a shelf, shoes on a pair of racks, and a cased rifle and a well-used camper’s rucksack tucked into one corner.

“The brown checked sport coat,” Mrs. Fentress said. “Ray wore that one the day when he went to see Joe Buckner. And the jacket with the hood he wore another day when it was raining.”

The slash pockets in the jacket were empty, but there was something shoved down inside the sport coat’s right-side pocket. Crumpled piece of white paper, torn across at one end — the kind that comes off a small notepad. I smoothed it out. Scrawled in soft-lead pencil in a nearly illegible hand was what appeared to be an address: 357 or 557 Old Wood or Old Hood Rd. After that were the initials MR and, on another line, “7:00 Mon.” The address number and street name were finger smudged so that I couldn’t be sure.

Mrs. Fentress had come over next to me. I held the paper out so she could read it. “Mean anything to you?”

“... No.”

“Your husband’s handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“The sport coat. Was it dry-cleaned and then stored in the closet while he was in prison?”

“Yes, that’s right.”