Ramona

The doors to the balcony were open, letting in the morning sun and the screech of seagulls. Rachel stood there, dressed in a thin white nightgown, leaning on the jamb, facing the sea. Tom rolled on his side to have a better view. Five days in and he still wasn’t used to the idea that they were Mr. and Mrs. Keegan. For real now and not to satisfy some suspicious hotel receptionist’s sense of propriety. If anybody challenged them—it happened before, and Tom had to be more persuasive than he ever was with a reluctant witness—they had the rings and a piece of paper to prove the legality of it all.

He didn’t mind being off balance. The feeling would disappear as soon as they were back in San Francisco. The demands of their respective jobs would bring both of them back to earth soon enough. All it would take was one stack of crime scene photographs dropped on his desk and the Hotel Del Coronado would immediately look as nostalgic as the faded turn-of-the-century pictures for sale in the shop downstairs. And Rachel would be yanked back to reality as swiftly. The Chronicle newsroom and its sarcastic denizens were allergic to daydreaming, or pretended to be. If Rachel appeared the least bright-eyed and bridal she’d be eviscerated. Reporters were even worse than cops.

“You’re awake,” she said, and turned from the sea view.

“Don’t move.” He smiled. “The light’s doing nice things to you.”

She looked at the folds of her transparent gown fluttering in the breeze and stepped away from the door. “Holy cow … there’s people walking down there.”

“For my eyes only. I’m in the right place with the right angle.”

She sat on the bed and leaned over to give him a long kiss. “I bought this lovely thing, and I haven’t had the chance to wear it yet. A bit of a waste, frankly.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s like Christmas. The fun is in the packaging.”

Rachel laughed. “If I were your editor, I’d ask you to clarify the double entendre. What are we doing today?” She put a finger on his lips. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Yes, that, absolutely. I was also going to tell you that I arranged a boat trip. Sail along the coast, see the island from the sea. A little fishing, a little swimming, working on suntans. A picnic and cocktails. The captain expects us at eleven.” Her nightgown had a series of little bows in front, very convenient. He pulled at them, one after the other, starting from the top. “We have plenty of time.”

***

The boat was an elegant Chris-Craft cruiser with a roomy foredeck that Rachel immediately plonked down on, leaving Tom and the captain to talk about design, engines, and maintenance.

“I’ll get us out of the harbor and along the coast. I’m sure you’ll want to give her a whirl.”

Tom enjoyed learning navigation basics, and the captain didn’t mind teaching them. They rigged a couple of fishing poles and mixed drinks. The captain’s conversation was interesting, and the fish were biting, but Rachel in a blue strapless swimsuit was a lot more attractive than whatever Tom got flapping on his line.

“She’s a dish.” The captain nodded at the glossy wedding band on Tom’s finger. “New?”

“The ring is.”

The man chuckled. “Once you sport one of these baubles, things feel different. Quite a trick. You don’t have to keep me company, son. What the girl needs right now is a tall young man bringing her a tall cold drink. We’ll cruise for a while. We’ll stop in a nice cove, a good spot for a swim.”

The afternoon was lazy and sensual, a bobbing drowsiness that could go on forever.

By the time they got back to the hotel, they were both sun heavy, a little baked and not only by the heat, and going out for dinner seemed like too much of an effort. The white nightgown with all the little bows was definitely overkill.

***

Tom was in the bathroom, shaving, when he heard a knock on the door. Rachel was on the balcony reading the San Diego Union, to check on what her colleagues were writing about.

“I’ll get it,” she said.

The sound of the door being unlocked was followed by an exclamation.

“Van, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Checking on a couple of cooing doves. I thought I’d catch you before you left the nest. You look good, girl. Caught a bit of sun, eh?”

Tom emerged from the bathroom, wiping his face. “Deering?” He was instantly on guard. The veteran reporter and Rachel’s mentor didn’t appear out of the blue without a motive. He was one wily customer. Besides, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen him in a while. Van Deering was at the wedding; he’d even made a move to escort Rachel to the altar. Honorary father of the bride, he joked.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Dapper Detective. You look almost civilized without the shoulder holster and the warrant.”

“What happened?” Rachel frowned.

“Nothing newsworthy. You’ve had breakfast? I just grabbed a cup of coffee and I’m starving.” He sat on the stool in front of the vanity. “Why don’t you get dressed, kids?”

Tom turned to Rachel. “He’s not going to tell us what he’s here for unless we beg.”

“It’s in character. You mind waiting downstairs in the restaurant, Van?”

If the head waiter let him in. Deering was his usual shabby self, in a wrinkled tropical suit that he might have sweated through all the way from Argentina, and shoes that hadn’t seen a shine since World War I.

The reporter hauled himself up with reluctance. “All right. Don’t make it too long.”

The door closed behind him with a subdued puff that still managed to sound ominous to Tom. Deering was a talented muckraker. He had a nose for trouble like beagles for truffles.

“What kind of game has he flushed out now?” Rachel said, her thoughts in sync with Tom’s.

“Something he needs us for. Say the word and I’ll tell him to get lost.”

She was buttoning her dress, hunting under the bed for shoes. “I’m curious, aren’t you?”

Of course, he was, and Deering was a good friend to have in a pinch. He was honest too, in his world-weary conniving ways. “There’s no harm in listening.”

***

Deering had scored a round table in a prime spot by the windows. The head waiter was fawning over him and a curvy blonde in a tight black uniform was busy filling champagne glasses from a pitcher. Ice-cold mimosas, looked like.

“I took the liberty to order,” the reporter said. “Sit, sit. After what you’ve been doing for the past few days, I’m sure you can use solid sustenance.” He drained his mimosa and grabbed the pitcher from the waitress for a refill. “We’ll be fine, thanks doll, you’re a peach.”

The girl turned red and retreated.

“The San Francisco Chief of Police is off my back. Rachel’s editor is blessedly out of the picture. For the first time in ten years, I have more than two days off, and, for once, Rachel isn’t running after a headline.” Tom pointed a stiff finger. “Now you appear. You found a fresh bone to chew on, and you’ve decided to slobber all over us.”

Deering pushed his chair back to create some distance. “Tommy, hold on. I only have good intentions, I swear.”

“Don’t swear,” Rachel said. “It’s bad luck when you break your word.”

“You’ve been married what?” Deering pondered a moment. “Six days. Aren’t you getting a little bored?”

“Bored?” Rachel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Well … it’s a bit repetitive, isn’t it?”

“Speak for yourself, buddy.” Tom took a sip of the mimosa. It packed a punch under its innocent orange juice cover.

Deering cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh … I thought you’d be interested in a mystery. To vary the pleasures, I mean.”

The food arrived. Perfect timing. Maybe it was a coincidence but with Deering doing the choreography, Tom doubted it.

The reporter inhaled his eggs benedict, Rachel ate a couple of muffins and a piece of banana bread, and Tom wiped clean his omelet and bacon plate. He was hungry. A new mimosa pitcher materialized, and a coffee pot, in an attempt to make things somewhat even.

“All right,” Rachel said. “What’s the mystery?” She raised her coffee spoon. “And don’t dare string us along.”

“No, ma’am, wouldn’t dream of it.” He steepled his hands and assumed a serious countenance that didn’t match his dancing eyes. “I’m not on a regular beat at the Chronicle anymore, but I’m not retired either. I do these special projects, interesting features, that sort of thing. Lately, I’ve been going through archives looking for forgotten crimes.” He nodded at Tom. “Cold cases with a side of intrigue. Bizarre stuff. Have you heard of Ramona?”

“The book?” Rachel said.

“The song?” Tom hummed a few bars.

Deering grinned. “You’re both right and wrong. Ramona is a town about an hour northeast of here. It got its name from the book, and the song came from the book, so that’s the connection. Anyway, there was a gruesome murder up there six years ago. A young couple, Ben and Ruth Nelson, shot to death. All the evidence points to the wife’s brother, a Pacific war veteran, paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair. He lived with the couple. They’d taken him in after his release from the hospital. No clear motive.”

“He wasn’t right in the head?” Tom got his cigarettes and lit one. He offered the pack and the lighter to Deering. Rachel didn’t smoke.

“He was banged up in Iwo Jima, physically and mentally. The mystery is that nobody knows where he is. The wheelchair and the gun were in the parlor. No trace of the guy. Ray Harkness is the name.”

“Was he really paralyzed?” Rachel said.

“Without a doubt.”

“Somebody picked him up,” Tom said.

“That’s what the police investigation concluded, but there’s no evidence. The Nelson property is remote, one road in, no neighbor in a ten-mile radius. The cops talked to everybody in range. People saw Ben Nelson’s car drive by on the way to the house in the evening, no other traffic after that, except the postman who discovered the bodies the next morning. Ray Harkness’s picture was widely distributed and published in the press. The man vanished. And it isn’t like he can blend in a crowd.”

Tom grunted. “He could be kept by somebody somewhere. He doesn’t have to show his face, ever. It isn’t unheard of.” He knew of people who lived in attics or basements, for years. These stories rarely ended well. “The Nelsons, they had money?”

“He worked for a building company in San Diego, she stayed home. All their fortune was in the house. Ray was eligible for a pension, for his service and disability. No checks were cashed after the murder.” Deering took a puff of the cigarette followed by another slug of mimosa. “Yeah, I checked financials.”

Rachel looked at Tom. Tom looked at Rachel.

“What do you expect us to do?” she said.

“The best homicide detective in San Francisco and the smartest crime reporter I know. I’d like to take you to Ramona. Have a look at the place. Read the police report. See if something jiggles your brain cells.”

Deering had forty years of story digging behind him. Tom knew first-hand how persistent he was. When the man was on a case, you practically had to slap him senseless to make him let go. “You’re not exactly a slouch in the investigation racket. Did you notice anything?”

“No, and it irritates me, because I can smell a whiff of something.”

Ramona was an hour away … “Road trip?” Tom said.

Rachel smiled. “Why not? You’ll have to drive, Van. We don’t have a car. We took the train down.”

“Ah, love on wheels, so romantic.”

***

After the blue sea and sandy beaches, the landscape around Ramona was a stark reminder that the desert and the mountains weren’t that far inland.

“I bet there are critters in these canyons,” Tom said.

“When you go in the house, be careful. I stepped on a couple of scorpions.”

Rachel had made herself comfortable on the backseat of Deering’s Ford sedan. “Nobody lives there?”

“Ray is the sole heir, and he’s disappeared. The property is in limbo. The banks would love to lay their hands on it, but they have no claim. Ben and Ruth Nelson owned it free and clear. I don’t know if anybody would want it anyway. Murder houses don’t sell too well.”

“Can I see the police report?” Tom said.

“Rachel, hand him my briefcase. It’s on the floor.”

Tom read the notes while Deering drove. The cops had done a thorough job. Ray Harkness’s medical report was included as well as his military record. Pacific theater. Iwo Jima. Tom had been on the other side of the world when that was going on, but he’d heard of the ‘meatgrinder’. That’s where Ray was injured. Despite what some high-minded mouthpieces said, some survivals were no blessing at all.

Tom leafed through photostats of bank records and pay slips. The Nelsons were hardworking and thrifty. He put the pictures of Ben and Ruth side by side on his lap, checked the dates of birth. She was eight years younger than her husband and they both had the same calm determined stare; the look of people prepared for life to be rough. Ray was two years older than his sister, with a thin mocking smile in his enlistment photo and a blank expression in his medical file picture. Tom knew kids like that, sucked empty, lives like dry husks. The aftermath of war made him angry all over again and he closed the file.

He cranked a window open and lit a cigarette. He turned to look at Rachel; she was asleep in the back seat.

“Anything jumped at you in the file?” Deering said.

“It must have been misery in that house. Ray should have been in a hospital, under professional care.”

“That’s misery too.”

“But the Nelsons might still be alive.”

They were silent the rest of the way. Deering focused on the twisty potholed road, and Tom strained to find beauty in the raw landscape. It would be better at sunrise or sunset. Or in a storm. The sun glare flattened the ridges and leached the color out of the rocks. It turned everything a drab disillusioned brown, not unlike ragged uniforms.

“Here’s the fence,” Deering said. “The gate is latched.”

Tom stepped out and swung the metal barrier open. The white clapboard house was up on a rise, with a barn to the side. The Nelsons had animals. He wondered what happened to them.

The car stopping had wakened Rachel. “Good-looking house,” she said.

“Ben Nelson did most of the work on it. It wasn’t much more than a cabin when he bought it.”

Deering parked the car near the three steps leading to the front door. He pointed to the side. “They built a ramp for Ray’s wheelchair. There’s a patch of grass there and a flower garden. It’s gone wild now. The view of the valley is pretty good.”

Tom winced. He found it infinitely sad. A round brick structure, waist-high, sat next to what remained of the flower garden.

“The well?”

“It was dry when the Nelsons bought the place. The functioning one with the pump and the pipe connection is to the right of the house, midway to the barn.” Deering searched his pockets. “I have the key. I’ll show you inside.”

It felt awkward. Like he was a realtor showing a property to potential buyers, a couple of newlyweds looking for their first home. The air inside the house was stifling and musty. The smell of a place where no one had lived for a long time. Tom spotted mice droppings and desiccated roaches, dead flies on the windowsills, cobwebs in every corner, a layer of dust, and motes shimmering now that visitors had displaced the still air.

Rachel went to look upstairs, careful on the steps.

“The Nelsons’ bedroom is on the second floor with a bathroom, and a small office or sewing room,” Deering said. “Ray’s room is on this level, past the sitting room.” He pointed. “Ben Nelson modified all the doors so the wheelchair could get through.”

Tom walked around, making mental notes as if he was inspecting a recent crime scene. Distance to the front door, distance from the bedroom to the bathroom, position of the light switches.

“The police report says that Ruth was shot first, in the kitchen,” Tom said.

Deering pulled a photograph from the file. “Here, by the stove.”

Tom went down on one knee. Blood had left rusty stains on the grout between the tiles. He glanced at the picture. “There was a lot of blood, and the wheelchair tracked some of it. Vegetables on the counter, she was preparing dinner. She was killed maybe an hour before her husband showed up, not more than that.”

“Probably. Ben was shot when he opened the front door. His body was found on the steps.”

“Bloody wheel tracks in the front parlor.” Tom pictured how the events unfolded. Ruth shot in the kitchen, at close range. Ben shot from a little farther away, but not much. The crime scene photographs showed the toppled-over wheelchair, abandoned by the open front door, and the gun on the floor. He turned on his heels. “The phone is in the kitchen.”

“What does it mean?” Rachel said. She stood on the lower step of the staircase.

Tom gave the pictures back to Van Deering. “I’m thinking of Ray being picked up after the shooting. Either it was planned way ahead, and his helper knew to come get him, after dark, or he called somebody after shooting Ruth, because he did not wheel back to the kitchen after gunning down Ben. I didn’t see a mention in the file about phone calls.”

“The police couldn’t find anything that indicated there was a call,” Deering said.

Tom went out of the front door. The wheelchair ramp was to his left. He walked down it, stopped at the bottom, stared at the patch of grass, the flower garden, the brick well. “It rained that night.”

Deering leafed through the police file. “It doesn’t say. Why do you think it rained?”

“Ben Nelson’s body. The blood on his shirt is all washed out. Do you have a flashlight?”

“In the glove box.” Deering trotted to get it.

Rachel came down the ramp. “You’re seeing something. What do you see?”

“Ray Harkness didn’t go anywhere.” Tom took the flashlight from Deering and crossed the patch of dry grass. “He’s in the well.”

The pale ray of the flashlight wasn’t strong enough to show anything definitive. There was debris on the bottom, deep down, dark, indistinct.

“You’re sure?” Deering said.

“Where else could he be?” Tom switched off the useless flashlight. “He pushed himself out of the wheelchair, crawled out, down the ramp, and through the grass and the dirt. Got himself up the rim of the well. Maybe he tried to lower himself in there to hide. The heavy rain overnight erased the traces of his crawling. It would have been obvious otherwise.”

“It’s easy to verify.” Deering leaned over the rim of the well. “How deep is that thing?”

Rachel took Tom’s arm and pulled him away from the opening. “Ray Harkness was mentally ill, but why would he do a thing like that?”

“Nightmares, visions. The caves, tunnels, and holes of Iwo Jima. Crawling in the dark. Terror in his head. Something he knew too well.”

They walked back to the car. Tom put an arm around her shoulders.

“You want to go home, babe?”

“Not now, not after this. It wouldn’t feel right.” She put her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want to have this in my head as the last image of our honeymoon. You know what I’d really like?”

He kissed the top of her head, held her a little tighter.

“That boat from yesterday. I’d love to spend the night on it. Look at the stars with you. Let’s get out of here, Tommy.”

“I wish we had our own car,” he said. “Here comes the super snoop, tittering and agog.”

Deering trotted toward them, gleeful. “Let’s go tell the fuzz we cracked the case.” He might as well be rubbing his hands.

“Watch where you tread, pal. Cops don’t like being taught lessons in police work by civilians, and out-of-towners like me poking at their business aren’t welcome either.”

“You may want to check the well before you start to gloat,” Rachel said. “Get some college people with ladders, anthropologists, or similar.”

“In San Diego,” Tom suggested, helpful.

Deering wasn’t fooled. “You want me to drive you back and leave you be.”

Tom hiked his shoulders. “Harkness has been down there six years.”

They got back in the car. Rachel was in the passenger seat this time.

“Do me a favor, Van, step on it,” she said.

THE END

BIO: M.E. Proctor is the author of the Declan Shaw detective mysteries (Love You Till Tuesday and Catch Me on a Blue Day), the author of a collection, Family and Other Ailments, and the co-author of a retro-noir, Bop City Swing. Her short fiction has appeared in various magazines and anthologies. She’s a Shamus Award and Derringer Award nominee. On the web: www.shawmystery.com. On Substack: https://meproctor.substack.com