Marcia Muller

Marcia Muller always had the makings of a first-rate storyteller but her recent books show just how much an author can grow in style and authority. Marica’s books are no longer simply first-rate mysteries-they’re first-rate novels. And the critical establishment is finally starting to understand this.
Few writers yield the pleasure that Marcia does. There’s her hard but forgiving eye for the human condition; her quiet but occasionally lacerating humour; and her ability to fuse the rules of the mystery with the freedom of a very personal style.
Marcia Muller is not only one of the world’s most successful mystery authors, she’s also one of the very best.

The Broken Men

1

Dawn was breaking when I returned to the Diablo Valley Pavilion. The softly rounded hills that encircled the amphitheatre were edged with pinkish gold, but their slopes were still dark and forbidding. They reminded me of a herd of humpbacked creatures huddling together while they waited for the warmth of the morning sun; I could imagine them stretching and sighing with relief when its rays finally touched them.
I would have given a lot to have daylight bring me that same sense of relief, but I doubted that would happen. It had been a long, anxious night since I’d arrived here the first time, over twelve hours before. Returning was a last-ditch measure, and a long shot at best.
I drove up the blacktop road to where it was blocked by a row of posts and got out of the car. The air was chill; I could see my breath. Somewhere in the distance a lone bird called, and there was a faint, monotonous whine that must have had something to do with the security lights that topped the chain-link fence at intervals, but the overall silence was heavy, oppressive. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my too-light suede jacket and started toward the main entrance next to the box office.
As I reached the fence, a stocky, dark-haired man stepped out of the adjacent security shack and began unlocking the gate. Roy Canfield, night supervisor for the pavilion. He’d been dubious about what I’d suggested when I’d called him from San Francisco three quarters of an hour ago, but had said he’d be glad to cooperate if I came back out here. Canfield swung the gate open and motioned me through one of the turnstiles that had admitted thousands to the Diablo Valley Clown Festival the night before.
He said, “You made good time from the city.”
“There’s no traffic at five a.m. I could set my own speed limit.”
The security man’s eyes moved over me appraisingly, reminding me of how rumpled and tired I must look. Canfield himself seemed as fresh and alert as when I’d met him before last night’s performance. But then, he hadn’t been chasing over half the Bay Area all night, hunting for a missing client.
“Of course,” I added, “I was anxious to get here and see if Gary Fitzgerald might still be somewhere on the premises. Shall we take a look around?”
Canfield looked as dubious as he’d sounded on the phone. He shrugged and said, “Sure we can, but I don’t think you’ll find him. We check every inch of the place after the crowd leaves. No way anybody could still be inside when we lock up.”
There had been a note of reproach in his words, as if he thought I was questioning his ability to do his job. Quickly I said, “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Mr. Canfield. I just don’t have any place else left to look.”
He merely grunted and motioned for me to proceed up the wide concrete steps. They led uphill from the entrance to a promenade whose arms curved out in opposite directions around the edge of the amphitheatre. As I recalled from the night before, from the promenade the lawn sloped gently down to the starkly modernistic concert shell. Its stage was wide-roughly ninety degrees of the circle-with wings and dressing rooms built back into the hill behind it. The concrete roof, held aloft by two giant pillars, was a curving slab shaped like a warped arrowhead, its tip pointing to the northeast, slightly off centre. Formal seating was limited to a few dozen rows in a semi-circle in front of the stage; the pavilion had been designed mainly for the casual type of concert-goer who prefers to lounge on a blanket on the lawn.
I reached the top of the steps and crossed the promenade to the edge of the bowl, then stopped in surprise.
The formerly pristine lawn was now mounded with trash. Paper bags, cups and plates, beer cans and wine bottles, wrappers and crumpled programs and other indefinable debris were scattered in a crazy-quilt pattern. Trash receptacles placed at strategic intervals along the promenade had overflowed, their contents cascading to the ground. On the low wall between the formal seating and the lawn stood a monumental pyramid of Budweiser cans. In some places the debris was only thinly scattered, but in others it lay deep, like dirty drifted snow.
Canfield came up behind me, breathing heavily from the climb. “A mess, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes. Is it always like this after a performance?”
“Depends. Shows like last night, where you get a lot of young people, families, picnickers, it gets pretty bad. A symphony concert, that’s different.”
“And your maintenance crew doesn’t come on until morning?” I tried not to sound disapproving, but allowing such debris to lie there all night was faintly scandalous to a person like me, who had been raised to believe that not washing the supper dishes before going to bed just might constitute a cardinal sin.
“Cheaper that way-we’d have to pay overtime otherwise. And the job’s easier when it’s light anyhow.”
As if in response to Canfield’s words, daylight-more gold than pink now-spilled over the hills in the distance, slightly to the left of the stage. It disturbed the shadows on the lawn below us, making them assume different, distorted forms. Black became gray, gray became white; short shapes elongated, others were truncated; fuzzy lines came into sharp focus. And with the light a cold wind came gusting across the promenade.
I pulled my jacket closer, shivering. The wind rattled the fall-dry leaves of the young poplar trees-little more than saplings-planted along the edge of the promenade. It stirred the trash heaped around the receptacles, then swept down the lawn, scattering debris in its wake. Plastic bags and wads of paper rose in an eerie dance, settled again as the breeze passed. I watched the undulation-a paper wave upon a paper sea-as it rolled toward the windbreak of cypress trees to the east.
Somewhere in the roiling refuse down by the barrier between the lawn and the formal seating I spotted a splash of yellow. I leaned forward, peering toward it. Again I saw the yellow, then a blur of blue and then a flicker of white. The colours were there, then gone as the trash settled.
Had my eyes been playing tricks on me in the half-light? I didn’t think so, because while I couldn’t be sure of the colours, I was distinctly aware of a shape that the wind’s passage had uncovered-long, angular, solid-looking. The debris had fallen in a way that didn’t completely obscure it.
The dread that I had held in check all night spread through me. After a frozen moment, I began to scramble down the slope toward the spot I’d been staring at. Behind me, Canfield called out, but I ignored him.
The trash was deep down by the barrier, almost to my knees. I waded through bottles, cans, and papers, pushing their insubstantial mass aside, shovelling with my hands to clear a path. Shovelled until my fingers encountered something more solid...
I dropped to my knees and scooped up the last few layers of debris, hurling it over my shoulder.
He lay on his back, wrapped in his bright yellow cape, his baggy blue plaid pants and black patent leather shoes sticking out from underneath it. His black beret was pulled halfway down over his white clown’s face hiding his eyes. I couldn’t see the red vest that made up the rest of the costume because the cape covered it, but there were faint red stains on the iridescent fabric that draped across his chest.
I yanked the cape aside and touched the vest. It felt sticky, and when I pulled my hand away it was red too. I stared at it, wiped it off on a scrap of newspaper. Then I felt for a pulse in his carotid artery, knowing all the time what a futile exercise it was.
“Oh, Jesus!” I said. For a moment my vision blurred and there was a faint buzzing in my ears.
Roy Canfield came thrashing up behind me, puffing with exertion. “What... Oh, my God!”
I continued staring down at the clown; he looked broken, an object that had been used up and tossed on a trash heap. After a moment, I touched my thumb to his cold cheek, brushed at the white makeup. I pushed the beret back, looked at the theatrically blackened eyes. Then I tugged off the flaxen wig. Finally I pulled the fake bulbous nose away.
“Gary Fitzgerald?” Canfield asked.
I looked up at him. His moonlike face creased in concern. Apparently the shock and bewilderment I was experiencing showed.
“Mr. Canfield,” I said, “this man is wearing Gary’s costume, but it’s not him. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

11

The man I was looking for was half of an internationally famous clown act, Fitzgerald and Tilby. The world of clowning, like any other artistic realm, has its various levels-from the lowly rodeo clown whose chief function is to keep bull riders from being stomped on, to circus clowns such as Emmett Kelly and universally acclaimed mimes like Marcel Marceau. Fitzgerald and Tilby were not far below Kelly and Marceau in that hierarchy and gaining on them every day. Instead of merely employing the mute body language of the typical clown, the two Britishers combined it with a subtle and sophisticated verbal comedy routine. Their fame had spread beyond aficionados of clowning in the late seventies when they had made a series of artful and entertaining television commercials for one of the Japanese auto makers, and subsequent ads for, among others, a major U.S. airline, one of the big insurance companies, and a computer firm had assured them of a place in the hearts of humour-loving Americans.
My involvement with Fitzgerald and Tilby came about when they agreed to perform at the Diablo Valley Clown Festival, a charity benefit co-sponsored by the Contra Costa County Chamber of Commerce and KSUN, the radio station where my friend Don De Boccio works as a disc jockey. The team’s manager, Wayne Kabalka, had stipulated only two conditions to their performing for free: that they be given star billing, and that they be provided with a bodyguard. Since Don was to be emcee of the show, he was in on all the planning, and when he heard of Kabalka’s second stipulation, he suggested me for the job.
As had been the case ever since I’d bought a house near the Glen Park district of San Francisco the spring before, I was short of money at the time. And All Souls Legal Cooperative, where I am staff investigator, had no qualms about me moonlighting provided it didn’t interfere with any of the co-op’s cases. Since things had been slack at All Souls during September, I felt free to accept. Bodyguarding isn’t my idea of challenging work, but I had always enjoyed Fitzgerald and Tilby, and the idea of meeting them intrigued me. Besides, I’d be part of the festival and get paid for my time, rather than attending on the free pass Don had promised me.
So on that hot Friday afternoon in late September, I met with Wayne Kabalka in the lounge at KSUN’s San Francisco studios. As radio stations go, KSUN is a casual operation, and the lounge gives full expression to this orientation. It is full of mismatched Salvation Army reject furniture, the posters on the walls are torn and tattered, and the big coffee table is always littered with rumpled newspapers, empty Coke cans and coffee cups, and overflowing ashtrays. On this particular occasion, it was also graced with someone’s half-eaten Big Mac.
When Don and I came in, Wayne Kabalka was seated on the very edge of one of the lumpy chairs, looking as if he were afraid it might have fleas. He saw us and jumped as if one had just bitten him. His orientation was anything but casual: in spite of the heat, he wore a tan three-piece suit that almost matched his mane of tawny hair, and a brown striped tie peeked over the V of his vest. Kabalka and his clients might be based in L.A., but he sported none of the usual Hollywoodish accoutrements-gold chains, diamond rings, or Adidas running shoes. Perhaps his very correct appearance was designed to be in keeping with his clients, Englishmen with rumoured connections to the aristocracy.
Don introduced us and we all sat down, Kabalka again doing his balancing act on the edge of his chair. Ignoring me, he said to Don, “I didn’t realise the bodyguard you promised would be female.”
Don shot me a look, his shaggy black eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch.
I said, “Please don’t let my gender worry you, Mr. Kabalka. I’ve been a private investigator for nine years, and before that I worked for a security firm. I’m fully qualified for the job.”
To Don he said, “But has she done this kind of work before?”
Again Don looked at me.
I said, “Bodyguarding is only one of any number of types of assignments I’ve carried out. And one of the most routine.”
Kabalka continued looking at Don. “Is she licensed to carry firearms?”
Don ran his fingers over his thick black moustache, trying to hide the beginnings of a grin. “I think,” he said, “that I’d better let the two of you talk alone.”
Kabalka put out a hand as if to stay his departure, but Don stood. “I’ll be in the editing room if you need me.”
I watched him walk down the hall, his gait surprisingly graceful for such a tall, stocky man. Then I turned back to Kabalka. “To answer your question, sir, yes, I’m firearms qualified.”
He made a sound halfway between clearing his throat and a grunt. “Uh... then you have no objection to carrying a gun on this assignment?”
“Not if it’s necessary. But before I can agree to that, I’ll have to know why you feel your clients require an armed bodyguard.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Is there some threat to them that indicates the guard should be armed?”
“Threat. Oh... no.”
“Extraordinary circumstances, then?”
“Extraordinary circumstances. Well, they’re quite famous, you know. The TV commercials-you’ve seen them?”
I nodded.
“Then you know what a gold mine we have here. We’re due to sign for three more within the month. Bank of America, no less. General Foods is getting into the act. Mobil Oil is hedging, but they’ll sign. Fitzgerald and Tilby are important properties; they must be protected.”
Properties, I thought, not people. “That still doesn’t tell me what I need to know.”
Kabalka laced his well-manicured fingers together, flexing them rhythmically. Beads of perspiration stood out on his high forehead; no wonder, wearing that suit in this heat. Finally he said, “In the past couple of years we’ve experienced difficulty with fans when the boys have been on tour. In a few instances, the crowds got a little too rough.”
“Why haven’t you hired a permanent bodyguard, then? Put one on staff?”
‘”The boys were opposed to that. In spite of their aristocratic connections, they’re men of the people. They didn’t want to put any more distance between them and their public than necessary.”
The words rang false. I suspected the truth of the matter was that Kabalka was too cheap to hire a permanent guard. “In a place like the Diablo Valley Pavilion, the security is excellent, and I’m sure that’s been explained to you. It hardly seems necessary to hire an armed guard when the pavilion personnel-“
He made a gesture of impatience. “Their security force will have dozens of performers to protect, including a number who will be wandering throughout the audience during the show. My clients need extra protection.”
I was silent, watching him. He shifted his gaze from mine, looking around with disproportionate interest at the tattered wall posters. Finally I said, “Mr. Kabalka, I don’t feel you’re being quite frank with me. And I’m afraid I can’t take on this assignment unless you are.”
He looked back at me. His eyes were a pale blue, washed out-and worried. “The people here at the station speak highly of you,” he said after a moment.
“I hope so. They-especially Mr. Del Boccio-know me well.” Especially Don; we’d been lovers for more than six months now.
“When they told me they had a bodyguard lined up, all they said was that you were a first-rate investigator. If I was rude earlier because I was surprised by your being a woman, I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.”
“I assume by first-rate, one of the things they mean is that you are discreet.”
“I don’t talk about my cases, if that’s what you want to know.”
He nodded. “All right, I’m going to entrust you with some information. It’s not common knowledge, and you’re not to pass it on, gossip about it to your friends-“
Kabalka was beginning to annoy me. “Get on with it, Mr. Kabalka. Or find yourself another bodyguard.” Not easy to do, when the performers needed to arrive at the pavilion in about three hours.
His face reddened, and he started to retort, but bit back the words. He looked down at his fingers, still laced together and pressing against one another in a feverish rhythm. “All right. Once again I apologise. In my profession you get used to dealing with such scumbags that you lose perspective-“
“You were about to tell me...?”
He looked up, squared his shoulders as if he were about to deliver a state secret to an enemy agent. “All right. There is a reason why my clients require special security precautions at the Diablo Valley Pavilion. They-Gary Fitzgerald and John Tilby-are originally from Contra Costa County.”
“What? I thought they were British.”
“Yes, of course you did. And so does almost everyone else. It’s part of the mystique, the selling power.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I discovered the young men in the early seventies, they were performing in a cheap club in San Bernardino, in the valley east of L.A. They were cousins, fresh off the farm-the ranch, in their case. Tilby’s father was a dairy rancher in the Contra Costa hills, near Clayton; he raised both boys-Gary’s parents had died. When old Tilby died, the ranch was sold and the boys ran off to seek fortune and fame. Old story. And they’d found the glitter doesn’t come easy. Another old story. But when I spotted them in that club, I could see they were good. Damned good. So I took them on and made them stars.”
“The oldest story of all.”
“Perhaps. But now and then it does come true.”
“Why the British background?”
“It was the early seventies. The mystique still surrounded such singing groups as the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. What could be better than a British clown act with aristocratic origins? Besides, they were already doing the British bit in their act when I discovered them, and it worked.”
I nodded, amused by the machinations of show business. “So you’re afraid someone who once knew them might get too close out at the pavilion tonight and recognise them?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think it’s a long shot-after all these years?”
“They left there in sixty-nine. People don’t change all that much in sixteen years.”
That depended, but I wasn’t about to debate the point with him. “But what about makeup? Won’t that disguise them?” Fitzgerald and Tilby wore traditional clown white-face.
“They can’t apply the makeup until they’re about to go on-in other circumstances, it might be possible to put it on earlier, but not in this heat.”
I nodded. It all made sense. But why did I feel there was something Kabalka wasn’t telling me about his need for an armed guard? Perhaps it was the way his eyes had once again shifted from mine to the posters on the walls. Perhaps it was the nervous pressing of his laced fingers. Or maybe it was only that sixth sense that sometimes worked for me: what I called a detective’s instinct and others-usually men-labeled woman’s intuition.
“All right, Mr. Kabalka,” I said, “I’ll take the job.”

111

I checked in with Don to find out when I should be back at the studios, then went home to change clothing. We would arrive at the pavilion around four; the show-an early one because of its appeal for children-would begin at six. And I was certain that the high temperature-sure to have topped 100 in the Diablo Valley-would not drop until long after dark. Chambray pants and an abbreviated tank top, with my suede jacket to put on in case of a late evening chill were all I would need. That, and my .38 special, tucked in the outer compartment of my leather shoulderbag.
By three o’clock I was back at the KSUN studios. Don met me in the lobby and ushered me to the lounge where Kabalka, Gary Fitzgerald, and John Tilby waited.
The two clowns were about my age-a little over thirty. Their British accents might once have been a put-on, but they sounded as natural now as if they’d been born and raised in London. Gary Fitzgerald was tall and lanky, with straight dark hair, angular features that stopped just short of being homely, and a direct way of meeting one’s eye. John Tilby was shorter, sandy haired-the type we used to refer to in high school as ‘cute.’ His shy demeanour was in sharp contrast to his cousin’s straightforward greeting and handshake. They didn’t really seem like relatives, but then neither do I in comparison to my four siblings and numerous cousins. All of them resemble one another-typical Scotch-Irish tow-heads-but I have inherited all the characteristics of our one-eighth Shoshone Indian blood. And none of us are similar in personality or outlook, save for the fact we care a great deal about one another.
Wayne Kabalka hovered in the background while the introductions were made. The first thing he said to me was, “Did you bring your gun?”
“Yes, I did. Everything’s under control.”
Kabalka wrung his hands together as if he only wished it were true. Then he said, “Do you have a car, Ms. McCone?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest we take both yours and mine. I have to swing by the hotel and pick up my wife and John’s girlfriend.”
“All right. I have room for one passenger in mine. Don, what about you? How are you getting out there?”
“I’m going in the Wonder Bus.”
I rolled my eyes. The Wonder Bus was a KSUN publicity ploy-a former schoolbus painted in rainbow hues and emblazoned with the station call letters. It travelled to all KSUN-sponsored events, plus to anything else where management deemed its presence might be beneficial. As far as I was concerned, it was the most outrageous in a panoply of the station’s brazen efforts at self-promotion, and I took every opportunity to expound this viewpoint to Don. Surprisingly, Don-a quiet classical musician who hated rock-and-roll and the notoriety that went with being a DJ.-never cringed at riding the Wonder Bus. If anything, he took an almost perverse pleasure in the motorized monstrosity.
Secretly, I had a shameful desire to hitch a ride on the Wonder Bus myself.
Wayne Kabalka looked somewhat puzzled at Don’s statement. “Wonder Bus?” he said to himself. Then, “Well, if everyone’s ready, let’s go.”
I turned to Don and smiled in a superior fashion. “Enjoy your ride.”
We trooped out into the parking lot. Heat shimmered off the concrete paving. Kabalka pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Is it always this hot here in September?”
“This is the month we have our true summer in the city, but no, this is unusual.” I went over and placed my bag carefully behind the driver’s seat of my MG convertible.
When John Tilby saw the car, his eyes brightened; he came over to it, running a hand along one of its battle-scarred flanks as if it were a brand new Porsche. “I used to have one of these.”
“I’ll bet it was in better shape than this one.”
“Not really.” A shadow passed over his face and he continued to caress the car in spite of the fact that the metal must be burning hot to the touch.
“Look,” I said, “if you want to drive it out to the pavilion, I wouldn’t mind being a passenger for a change.”
He hesitated, then said wistfully, “That’s nice of you, but I can’t... I don’t drive. But I’d like to ride along-“
“John!” Kabalka’s voice was impatient behind us. “Come on, we’re keeping Corinne and Nicole waiting.”
Tilby gave the car a last longing glance, then shrugged. “I guess I’d better ride out with Wayne and the girls.” He turned and walked off to Kabalka’s new-looking Seville that was parked at the other side of the lot.
Gary Fitzgerald appeared next to me, a small canvas bag in one hand, garment bag in the other. “I guess you’re stuck with me,” he said, smiling easily.
“That’s not such a bad deal.”
He glanced back at Tilby and Kabalka, who were climbing into the Cadillac. “Wayne’s right to make John go with him. Nicole would be jealous if she saw him drive up with another woman.” His tone was slightly resentful. Of Nicole? I wondered. Perhaps the girlfriend had caused dissension between the cousins.
“Corinne is Wayne’s wife?” I asked as we got into the MG.
“Yes. You’ll meet both of them at the performance; they’re never very far away.” Again I heard the undertone of annoyance.
We got onto the freeway and crossed the Bay Bridge. Commute traffic out of the city was already getting heavy; people left their offices early on hot Fridays in September. I wheeled the little car in and out from lane to lane, bypassing trucks and A.C. Transit buses. Fitzgerald didn’t speak. I glanced at him a couple of times to see if my manoeuvring bothered him, but he sat slumped against the door, his almost-homely features shadowed with thought. Pre-performance nerves, possibly.
From the bridge, I took Highway 24 east toward Walnut Creek. We passed through the outskirts of Oakland, smog-hazed and sprawling-ugly duckling of the Bay Area. Sophisticates from San Francisco scorned Oakland, repeating Gertrude Stein’s overused phrase, ‘There is no there there,’ but lately there had been a current of unease in their mockery. Oakland’s thriving port had stolen much of the shipping business from her sister city across the Bay; her politics were alive and spirited; and on the site of former slums, sleek new buildings had been put up. Oakland was at last shedding her pinfeathers, and it made many of my fellow San Franciscans nervous.
From there we began the long ascent through the Berkeley Hills to the Caldecott Tunnel. The MG’s aged engine strained as we passed lumbering trucks and slower cars, and when we reached the tunnel-three tunnels, actually, two of them now open to accommodate the eastbound commuter rush-I shot into the far lane. At the top of the grade midway through the tunnel, I shifted into neutral to give the engine a rest. Arid heat assailed us as we emerged; the temperature in San Francisco had been nothing compared to this.
The freeway continued to descend, past brown sunbaked hills covered with live oak and eucalyptus. Then houses began to appear, tucked back among the trees. The air was scented with dry leaves and grass and dust. Fire danger, I thought. One spark and those houses become tinderboxes.
The town of Orinda appeared on the right. On the left, in the centre of the freeway, a BART train was pulling out of the station. I accelerated and tried to outrace it, giving up when my speedometer hit eighty and waving at some schoolkids who were watching from the train. Then I dropped back to sixty and glanced at Fitzgerald, suddenly embarrassed by my childish display. He was sitting up straighter and grinning.
I said, “The temptation was overwhelming.”
“I know the feeling.”
Feeling more comfortable now that he seemed willing to talk, I said, “Did Mr. Kabalka tell you that he let me in on where you’re really from?”
For a moment he looked startled, then nodded.
“Is this the first time you’ve been back here in Contra Costa County?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll find it changed.”
“I guess so.”
“Mainly there are more people. Places like Walnut Creek and Concord have grown by leaps and bounds in the last ten years.”
The county stretched east from the ridge of hills we’d just passed over, toward Mount Diablo, a nearly 4,000-foot peak which had been developed into a 15,000-acre state park. On the north side of the county was the Carquinez Strait, with its oil refineries, Suisun Bay, and the San Joaquin River which separated Contra Costa from Sacramento County and the Delta. The city of Richmond and environs, to the west, were also part of the county, and their inclusion had always struck me as odd. Besides being geographically separated by the expanse of Tilden Regional Park and San Pablo Reservoir, the mostly black industrial city was culturally light years away from the rest of the suburban, upwardly mobile county. With the exception of a few towns like Pittsburgh or Antioch, this was affluent, fast-developing land; I supposed one day even those north-county backwaters would fall victim to expensive residential tracts and shopping centers full of upscale boutiques.
When Fitzgerald didn’t comment, I said, “Does it look different to you?”
“Not really.”
“Wait till we get to Walnut Creek. The area around the BART station is all highrise buildings now. They’re predicting it will become an urban center that will eventually rival San Francisco.”
He grunted in disapproval.
“About the only thing they’ve managed to preserve out here is the area around Mount Diablo. I suppose you know it from when you were a kid.”
“Yes.”
“I went hiking in the park last spring, during wildflower season. It was really beautiful that time of year. They say if you climb high enough you can see thirty-five counties from the mountain.”
“This pavilion,” Fitzgerald said, “is it part of the state park?”
For a moment I was surprised, then realised the pavilion hadn’t been in existence in 1969, when he’d left home. “No, but near it. The land around it is relatively unspoiled. Horse and cattle ranches, mostly. They built it about eight years ago, after the Concord Pavilion became such a success. I guess that’s one index of how this part of the Bay Area has grown, that it can support two concert pavilions.”
He nodded. “Do they ever have concerts going at the same time at both?”
“Sure.”
“It must really echo off these hills.”
“I imagine you can hear it all the way to Port Chicago.” Port Chicago was where the Naval Weapons Station was located, on the edge of Suisun Bay.
“Well, maybe not all the way to Chicago.”
I smiled at the feeble joke, thinking that for a clown, Fitzgerald really didn’t have much of a sense of humour, then allowed him to lapse back into his moody silence.

IV

When we arrived at the pavilion, the parking lot was already crowded, the gates having opened early so people could picnic before the show started. An orange-jacketed attendant directed us to a far corner of the lot which had been cordoned off for official parking near the performers’ gate. Fitzgerald and I waited in the car for about fifteen minutes, the late afternoon sun beating down on us, until Wayne Kabalka’s Seville pulled up alongside. With the manager and John Tilby were two women: a chic, fortyish redhead, and a small, dark-haired woman in her twenties. Fitzgerald and I got out and went to greet them.
The redhead was Corinne Kabalka; her strong handshake and level gaze made me like her immediately. I was less sure about Nicole Leland; the younger woman was beautiful, with short black hair sculpted close to her head and exotic features, but her manner was very cold. She nodded curtly when introduced to me, then took Tilby’s arm and led him off toward the performers’ gate. The rest of us trailed behind.
Security was tight at the gate. We met Roy Canfield, who was personally superintending the check-in, and each of us was issued a pass. No one, Canfield told us, would be permitted backstage or through the gate without showing his pass. Security personnel would also be stationed in the audience to protect those clowns who, as part of the show, would be performing out on the lawn.
We were then shown to a large dressing room equipped with a couch, a folding card table and chairs. After everyone was settled there I took Kabalka aside and asked him if he would take charge of the group for about fifteen minutes while I checked the layout of the pavilion. He nodded distractedly and I went out front.
Stage personnel were scurrying around, setting up sound equipment and checking the lights. Don had already arrived, but he was conferring with one of the other KSUN jocks and didn’t look as if he could be disturbed. The formal seating was empty, but the lawn was already crowded. People lounged on blankets, passing around food, drink and an occasional joint. Some of the picnics were elaborate-fine china, crystal wineglasses, ice buckets, and in one case, a set of lighted silver candelabra; others were of the paper-plate and plastic-cup variety. I spotted the familiar logos of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Jack-in-the-Box here and there. People called to friends, climbed up and down the hill to the restroom and refreshment facilities, dropped by other groups’ blankets to see what goodies they had to trade. Children ran through the crowd, an occasional Frisbee sailed through the air. I noticed a wafting trail of iridescent soap bubbles, and my eyes followed it to a young woman in a red halter top who was blowing them, her face aglow with childlike pleasure.
For a moment I felt a stab of envy, realising that if I hadn’t taken on this job I could be out front, courtesy of the free pass Don had promised me. I could have packed a picnic, perhaps brought along a woman friend, and Don could have dropped by to join us when he had time. But instead, I was bodyguarding a pair of clowns who-given the pavilion’s elaborate security measures-probably didn’t need me. And in addition to Fitzgerald and Tilby, I seemed to be responsible for an entire group. I could see why Kabalka might want to stick close to his clients, but why did the wife and girlfriend have to crowd into what was already a stuffy, hot dressing room? Why couldn’t they go out front and enjoy the performance? It complicated my assignment, having to contend with an entourage, and the thought of those complications made me grumpy.
The grumpiness was probably due to the heat, I decided. Shrugging it off, I familiarised myself with the layout of the stage and the points at which someone could gain access. Satisfied that pavilion security could deal with any problems that might arise there, I made my way through the crowd-turning down two beers, a glass of wine, and a pretzel-and climbed to the promenade. From there I studied the stage once more, then raised my eyes to the sun-scorched hills to the east.
The slopes were barren, save for an occasional outcropping of rock and live oak trees, and on them a number of horses with riders stood. They clustered together in groups of two, four, six and even at this distance, I sensed they shared the same camaraderie as the people on the lawn. They leaned toward one another, gestured, and occasionally passed objects-perhaps they were picnicking too-back and forth.
What a great way to enjoy a free concert, I thought. The sound, in this natural echo chamber, would easily carry to where the watchers were stationed. How much more peaceful it must be on the hill, free of crowds and security measures. Visibility, however, would not be very good...
And then I saw a flare of reddish light and glanced over to where a lone horseman stood under the sheltering branches of a live oak. The light flashed again, and I realised he was holding binoculars which had caught the setting sun. Of course-with binoculars or opera glasses, visibility would not be bad at all. In fact, from such a high vantage point it might even be better than from many points on the lawn. My grumpiness returned; I’d have loved to be mounted on a horse on that hillside.
Reminding myself that I was here on business that would pay for part of the new bathroom tile, I turned back toward the stage, then started when I saw Gary Fitzgerald. He was standing on the lawn not more than six feet from me, looking around with one hand forming a visor over his eyes. When he saw me he started too, and then waved.
I rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to stay backstage!”
“I just wanted to see what the place looks like.”
“Are you out of your mind? Your manager is paying good money for me to see that people stay away from you. And here you are, wandering through the crowd-“
He looked away, at a family on a blanket next to us. The father was wiping catsup from the smallest child’s hands. “No one’s bothering me.”
“That’s not the point.” Still gripping his arm, I began steering him toward the stage. “Someone might recognise you, and that’s precisely what Kabalka hired me to prevent.”
“Oh, Wayne’s just being a worrywart about that. No one’s going to recognise anybody after all this time. Besides, it’s common knowledge in the trade that we’re not what we’re made out to be.”
“In the trade, yes. But your manager’s worried about the public.” We got to the stage, showed our passes to the security guard, and went back to the dressing room.
At the door Fitzgerald stopped. “Sharon, would you mind not mentioning my going out there to Wayne?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it would only upset him, and he’s nervous enough before a performance. Nothing happened-except that I was guilty of using bad judgment.”
His smile was disarming, and I took the words as an apology. “All right. But you’d better go get into costume. There’s only half an hour before the grand procession begins.”

V

The next few hours were uneventful. The grand procession-a parade through the crowd in which all the performers participated-went off smoothly. After they returned to the dressing room, Fitzgerald and Tilby removed their makeup-which was already running in the intense heat-and the Kabalkas fetched supper from the car-deli food packed in hampers by their hotel. There was a great deal of grumbling about the quality of the meal, which was not what one would have expected of the St. Francis, and Fitzgerald teased the others because he was staying at a small bed-and-breakfast establishment in the Haight-Ashbury which had better food at half the price.
Nicole said, “Yes, but your hotel probably has bedbugs.”
Fitzgerald glared at her, and I was reminded of the disapproving tone of voice in which he’d first spoken of her. “Don’t be ignorant. Urban chic has come to the Haight-Ashbury.”
“Making it difficult for you to recapture your misspent youth there, no doubt.”
“Nicole,” Kabalka said.
“That was your intention in separating from the rest of us, wasn’t it, Gary?” Nicole added.
Fitzgerald was silent.
“Well, Gary?”
He glanced at me. “You’ll have to excuse us for letting our hostilities show.”
Nicole smiled nastily. “Yes, when a man gets to a certain age, he must try to recapture-“
“Shut up, Nicole,” Kabalka said.
She looked at him in surprise, then picked up her sandwich and nibbled daintily at it. I could understand why she had backed off; there was something in Kabalka’s tone that said he would put up with no more from her.
After the remains of supper were packed up, everyone settled down. None of them displayed the slightest inclination to go out front and watch the show. Kabalka read-one of those slim volumes that claim you can make a financial killing in spite of the world economic crisis. Corinne crocheted-granny squares. Fitzgerald brooded. Tilby played solitaire. Nicole fidgeted. And while they engaged in these activities, they also seemed to be watching one another. The covert vigilant atmosphere puzzled me; after a while I concluded that maybe the reason they all stuck together was that each was afraid to leave the others alone. But why?
Time crawled. Outside, the show was going on; I could hear music, laughter, and-occasionally-Don’s enthusiastic voice as he introduced the acts. Once more I began to regret taking this job.
After a while Tilby reshuffled the cards and slapped them on the table. “Sharon, do you play gin rummy?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s have a few hands.”
Nicole frowned and made a small sound of protest.
Tilby said to her, “I offered to teach you. It’s not my fault you refused.”
I moved my chair over to the table and we played in silence for a while. Tilby was good, but I was better. After about half an hour, there was a roar from the crowd and Tilby raised his head. “Casey O’Connell must be going on.”
“Who?” I said.
“One of our more famous circus clowns.”
“There really is quite a variety among the performers in your profession, isn’t there?”
“Yes, and quite a history: clowning is an old and honoured art. They had clowns back in ancient Greece. Wandering entertainers, actually, who’d show up at a wealthy household and tell jokes, do acrobatics, or juggle for the price of a meal. Then in the Middle Ages, mimes appeared on the scene.”
“That long ago?”
“Uh-huh. They were the cream of the crop back then. Most of the humour in the Middle Ages was kind of basic; they loved buffoons, jesters, simpletons, that sort of thing. But they served the purpose of making people see how silly we really are.”
I took the deuce he’d just discarded, then lay down my hand to show I had gin. Tilby frowned and slapped down his cards; nothing matched. Then he grinned. “See what I mean-I’m silly to take this game so seriously.”
I swept the cards together and began to shuffle. “You seem to know a good bit about the history of clowning.”
“Well, I’ve done some reading along those lines. You’ve heard the term commedia dell’artel”
“Yes.”
“It appeared in the late 1500s, an Italian brand of the travelling comedy troupe. The comedians always played the same role-a Harlequin or a Pulcinella or a Pantalone. Easy for the audience to recognise.”
“I know what a Harlequin is, but what are the other two?”
“Pantalone is a personification of the overbearing father figure. A stubborn, temperamental old geezer. Pulcinella was costumed all in white, usually with a dunce’s cap; he assumed various roles in the comedy-lawyer, doctor, servant, whatever-and was usually greedy, sometimes pretty coarse. One of his favourite tricks was urinating onstage.”
“Good Lord!”
“Fortunately we’ve become more refined since then. The British contributed a lot, further developing the Harlequin, creating the Punch and Judy shows. And of course, the French had their Figaro. The Indians created the vidushaka-a form of court jester. The entertainers at the Chinese court were known as Chous, after the dynasty in which they originated. And Japan has a huge range of comic figures appearing in their Kyogen plays-the humorous counterpart of the Noh play.”
“You really have done your homework.”
“Well, clowning’s my profession. Don’t you know about the history of yours?”
“What I know is mostly fictional; private investigation is more interesting in books than in real life, I’m afraid.”
“Gin.” Tilby spread his cards on the table. “Your deal. But back to what I was saying, it’s the more contemporary clowns that interest me. And I use the term ‘clown’ loosely.”
“How so?”
“Well, do you think of Will Rogers as a clown?”
“No.”
“I do. And Laurel and Hardy, Flip Wilson, Mae West, Woody Allen, Lucille Ball. As well as the more traditional figures like Emmett Kelly, Charlie Chaplin, and Marceau. There’s a common denominator among all those people; they’re funny and, more important, they all make the audience take a look at humanity’s foibles. They’re as much descended from those historical clowns as the whiteface circus performer.”
“The whiteface is the typical circus clown, right?”
“Well, there are three basic types; whiteface is your basic slaphappy fellow. The Auguste-who was created almost simultaneously in Germany and France-usually wears pink-or blackface and is the one you see falling all over himself in the ring, often sopping wet from having buckets of water thrown at him. The Grotesque is usually a midget or a dwarf, or has some other distorted feature. And there are performers whom you can’t classify because they’ve created something unique, such as Kelly’s Weary Willie, or Russia’s Popov, who is such an artist that he doesn’t even need to wear makeup.”
“It’s fascinating. I never realised there was such variety. Or artistry.”
“Most people don’t. They think clowning is easy, but a lot of the time it’s just plain hard work. Especially when you have to go on when you aren’t feeling particularly funny.” Tilby’s mouth drooped as he spoke, and I wondered if tonight was one of those occasions for him.
I picked up a trey and said, “Gin,” then tossed my hand on the table and watched as he shuffled and dealt. We fell silent once more. The sounds of the show went on, but the only noise in the dressing room was the slap of the cards on the table. It was still uncomfortably hot. Moths fluttered around the glaring bare bulbs of the dressing tables. At about ten-thirty, Fitzgerald stood up.
“Where are you going?” Kabalka said.
“The men’s room. Do you mind?”
I said, “I’ll go with you.”
Fitzgerald smiled faintly. “Really, Sharon, that’s above and beyond the call of duty.”
“I mean, just to the door.”
He started to protest, then shrugged and picked up his canvas bag.
Kabalka said, “Why are you taking that?”
“There’s something in it I need.”
“What?”
“For Christ’s sake, Wayne!” He snatched up his yellow cape, flung it over one shoulder.
Kabalka hesitated. “All right, go. But Sharon goes with you.”
Fitzgerald went out into the hall and I followed. Behind me, Nicole said, “Probably Maalox or something like that for his queasy stomach. You can always count on Gary to puke at least once before a performance.”
Kabalka said, “Shut up, Nicole.”
Fitzgerald started off, muttering, “Yes, we’re one big happy family.”
I followed him and took up a position next to the men’s room door. It was ten minutes before I realised he was taking too long a time, and when I did I asked one of the security guards to go in after him. Fitzgerald had vanished, apparently through an open window high off the floor-a trash receptacle had been moved beneath it, which would have allowed him to climb up there. The window opened onto the pavilion grounds rather than outside of the fence, but from there he could have gone in any one of a number of directions-including out the performers’ gate.
From then on, all was confusion. I told Kabalka what had happened and again left him in charge of the others. With the help of the security personnel, I combed the backstage area-questioning the performers, stage personnel, Don, and the other people from KSUN. No one had seen Fitzgerald. The guards in the audience were alerted, but no one in baggy plaid pants, a red vest, and a yellow cape was spotted. The security man on the performers’ gate knew nothing; he’d only come on minutes ago, and the man he had relieved had left the grounds on a break.
Fitzgerald and Tilby were to be the last act to go on-at midnight, as the star attraction. As the hour approached, the others in their party grew frantic and Don and the KSUN people grew grim. I continued to search systematically. Finally I returned to the performers’ gate; the guard had returned from his break and Kabalka had buttonholed him. I took over the questioning. Yes, he remembered Gary Fitzgerald. He’d left at about ten thirty, carrying his yellow cape and a small canvas bag. But wait-hadn’t he returned just a few minutes ago, before Kabalka had come up and started asking questions? But maybe that wasn’t the same man, there had been something different...
Kabalka was on the edge of hysterical collapse. He yelled at the guard and only confused him further. Maybe the man who had just come in had been wearing a red cape... maybe the pants were green rather than blue... no, it wasn’t the same man after all...
Kabalka yelled louder, until one of the stage personnel told him to shut up, he could be heard out front. Corinne appeared and momentarily succeeded in quieting her husband. I left her to deal with him and went back to the dressing room. Tilby and Nicole were there. His face was pinched, white around the mouth. Nicole was pale and-oddly enough-had been crying. I told them what the security guard had said, cautioned them not to leave the dressing room.
As I turned to go, Tilby said, “Sharon, will you ask Wayne to come in here?”
“I don’t think he’s in any shape-“
“Please, it’s important.”
“All right. But why?”
Tilby looked at Nicole. She turned her tear-streaked face away toward the wall.
He said, “We have a decision to make about the act.”
“I hardly think so. It’s pretty clear cut. If Gary doesn’t turn up, you simply can’t go on.”
He stared bleakly at me. “Just ask Wayne to come in here.”
Of course the act didn’t go on. The audience was disappointed, the KSUN people were irate, and the Fitzgerald and Tilby entourage were grim-a grimness that held a faint undercurrent of tightly-reined panic.
No one could shed any light on where Fitzgerald might have gone, or why-at least, if anyone had suspicions, he was keeping it to himself. The one thing everyone agreed on was that his disappearance wasn’t my fault; I hadn’t been hired to prevent treachery within the ranks. I myself wasn’t so sure of my lack of culpability.
So I’d spent the night chasing around, trying to find a trace of him. I’d gone to San Francisco: to Fitzgerald’s hotel in the Haight-Ashbury, to the St. Francis where the rest of the party were staying, even to the KSUN studios. Finally I went back to the Haight, to a number of the after-hours places I knew of, in the hopes Fitzgerald was there recapturing his youth, as Nicole had termed it earlier. And I still hadn’t found a single clue to his whereabouts.
Until now. I hadn’t located Gary Fitzgerald, but I’d found his clown costume. On another man. A dead man.

VI

After the county sheriffs men had finished questioning me and said I could go, I decided to return to the St. Francis and talk to my clients once more. I wasn’t sure if Kabalka would want me to keep searching for Fitzgerald now, but he-and the others-deserved to hear from me about the dead man in Gary’s costume, before the authorities contacted them. Besides, there were things bothering me about Fitzgerald’s disappearance, some of them obvious, some vague. I hoped talking to Kabalka and company once more would help me bring the vague ones into more clear focus.
It was after seven by the time I had parked under Union Square and entered the hotel’s elegant, dark-panelled lobby. The few early risers who clustered there seemed to be tourists, equipped with cameras and anxious to get on with the day’s adventures. A dissipated-looking couple in evening clothes stood waiting for an elevator, and a few yards away in front of the first row of expensive shops, a maid in the hotel uniform was pushing a vacuum cleaner with desultory strokes. When the elevator came, the couple and I rode up in silence; they got off at the floor before I did.
Corinne Kabalka answered my knock on the door of the suite almost immediately. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, she wore the same white linen pantsuit-now severely rumpled-that she’d had on the night before, and in her hand she clutched her crocheting. When she saw me, her face registered disappointment.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought...”
“You hoped it would be Gary.”
“Yes. Well, any of them, really.”
“Them? Are you alone?”
She nodded and crossed the sitting room to a couch under the heavily-draped windows, dropping onto it with a sigh and setting down the crocheting.
“Where did they go?”
“Wayne’s out looking for Gary. He refuses to believe he’s just... vanished. I don’t know where John is, but I suspect he’s looking for Nicole.”
“And Nicole?”
Anger flashed in her tired eyes. “Who knows?”
I was about to ask her more about Tilby’s unpleasant girlfriend when a key rattled in the lock, and John and Nicole came in. His face was pulled into taut lines, reflecting a rage more sustained than Corinne’s brief flare-up. Nicole looked haughty, tight-lipped, and a little defensive.
Corinne stood. “Where have you two been?”
Tilby said, “I was looking for Nicole. It occurred to me that we didn’t want to lose another member of this happy party.”
Corinne turned to Nicole. “And you?”
The younger woman sat on a spindly chair, studiously examining her plum-coloured fingernails. “I was having breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“I was hungry, after that disgusting supper last night. So I went around the corner to a coffee shop-“
“You could have ordered from room service. Or eaten downstairs where John could have found you more easily.”
“I needed some air.”
Now Corinne drew herself erect. “Always thinking of Nicole, aren’t you?”
“Well, what of it? Someone around here has to act sensibly.”
In their heated bickering, they all seemed to have forgotten I was there. I remained silent, taking advantage of the situation; one could learn very instructive things by listening to people’s unguarded conversations.
Tilby said, “Nicole’s right, Corinne. We can’t all run around like Wayne, looking for Gary when we have no idea where to start.”
“Yes, you would say that. You never did give a damn about him, or anyone. Look how you stole Nicole from your own cousin-“
“Good God, Corinne! You can’t steal one person from another.”
“You did. You stole her and then you wrecked-“
“Let’s not go into this, Corinne. Especially in front of an outsider.” Tilby motioned at me.
Corinne glanced my way and coloured. “I’m sorry, Sharon. This must be embarrassing for you.”
On the contrary, I wished they would go on. After all, if John had taken Nicole from his cousin, Gary would have had reason to resent him-perhaps even to want to destroy their act.
I said to Tilby, “Is that the reason Gary was staying at a different hotel-beacuse of you and Nicole?”
He looked startled.
“How long have you two been together?” I asked.
“Long enough.” He turned to Corinne. “Wayne hasn’t come back or called, I take it?”
“I’ve heard nothing. He was terribly worried about Gary when he left.”
Nicole said, “He’s terribly worried about the TV commercials and his cut of them.”
“Nicole!” Corinne whirled on her.
Nicole looked up, her delicate little face all innocence. “You now it’s true. All Wayne cares about is money. I don’t know why he’s worried, though. He can always get someone to replace Gary, Wayne’s good at doing that sort of thing-“
Corinne stepped forward and her hand lashed out at Nicole’s face, connecting with a loud smack. Nicole put a hand to the reddening stain on her cheekbone, eyes widening; then she got up and ran from the room. Corinne watched her go, satisfaction spreading over her handsome features. When I glanced at Tilby, I was surprised to see he was smiling.
“Round one to Corinne,” he said.
“She had it coming.” The older woman went back to the couch and sat, smoothing her rumpled pantsuit. “Well, Sharon, once more you must excuse us. I assume you came here for a reason?”
“Yes.” I sat down in the chair Nicole had vacated and told them about the dead man at the pavilion. As I spoke, the two exchanged glances that were at first puzzled, then worried, and finally panicky.
When I had finished, Corinne said, “But who on earth can the man in Gary’s costume be?” The words sounded theatrical, false.
“The sheriff’s department is trying to make an identification. Probably his fingerprints will be on file somewhere. In the meantime, there are a few distinctive things about him which may mean something to you or John.”
John sat down next to Corinne. “Such as?”
“The man had been crippled, probably a number of years ago, according to the man from the medical examiner’s office. One arm was bent badly, and he wore a lift to compensate for a shortened leg. He would have walked with a limp.”
The two of them looked at each other, and then Tilby said-too quickly-“I don’t know anyone like that.”
Corinne also shook her head, but she didn’t meet my eyes.
I said, “Are you sure?”
“Of course we’re sure.” There was an edge of annoyance in Tilby’s voice.
I hesitated, then went on, “The sheriff’s man who examined the body theorises that the dead man may have been from the countryside around there, because he had fragments of madrone and chapparal leaves caught in his shoes, as well as foxtails in the weave of his pants. Perhaps he’s someone you knew when you lived in the area?”
“No, I don’t remember anyone like that.”
“He was about Gary’s height and age, but with sandy hair. He must have been handsome once, in an elfin way, but his face was badly scarred.”
“I said, I don’t know who he is.”
I was fairly certain he was lying, but accusing him would get me nowhere.
Corinne said, “Are you sure the costume was Gary’s? Maybe this man was one of the other clowns and dressed similarly.”
“That’s what I suggested to the sheriff’s man, but the dead man had Gary’s pass in his vest pocket. We all signed our passes, remember?”
There was a long silence. ‘So what you’re saying,” Tilby finally said, “is that Gary gave his pass and costume to this man.”
“It seems so.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped you could provide me with some insight.”
They both stared at me. I noticed Corinne’s face had gone quite blank. Tilby was as white-lipped as when I’d come upon him and Nicole in the dressing room shortly after Fitzgerald’s disappearance.
I said to Tilby, “I assume you each have more than one change of costume.”
It was Corinne who answered. “We brought three on this tour. But I had the other two sent out to the cleaner when we arrived here in San Francisco... Oh!”
“What is it?”
“I just remembered. Gary asked me about the other costumes yesterday morning. He called from that hotel where he was staying. And he was very upset when I told him they would be at the cleaner until this afternoon.”
“So he planned it all along. Probably he hoped to give his extra costume to the man, and when he found he couldn’t, he decided to make a switch.” I remembered Fitzgerald’s odd behaviour immediately after we’d arrived at the pavilion-his sneaking off into the audience when he’d been told to stay backstage. Had he had a confederate out there? Someone to hand the things to? No. He couldn’t have turned over either the costume or the pass to anyone, because the clothing was still backstage, and he’d needed his pass when we returned to the dressing room.
Tilby suddenly stood up. “The son of a bitch! After all we’ve done-“
“John!” Corinne touched his elbow with her hand.
“John,” I said, “why was your cousin staying at the hotel in the Haight?”
He looked at me blankly for a moment. “What? Oh, I don’t know. He claimed he wanted to see how it had changed since he’d lived there.”
“I thought you grew up together on your father’s ranch near Clayton and then went to Los Angeles.”
“We did. Gary lived in the Haight before we left the Bay Area.”
“I see. Now, you say he ‘claimed’ that was the reason. Was there something else?”
Tilby was silent, then looked at Corinne. She shrugged.
“I guess,” he said finally, “he’d had about all he could take of us. As you may have noticed, we’re not exactly a congenial group lately.”
“Why is that?”
“Why is what?”
“That you’re all at odds? It hasn’t always been this way, has it?”
This time Tilby shrugged. Corinne was silent, looking down at her clasped hands.
I sighed, silently empathising with Fitzgerald’s desire to get away from these people. I myself was sick of their bickering, lies, backbiting, and evasions. And I knew I would get nowhere with them-at least not now. Better to wait until I could talk with Kabalka, see if he were willing to keep on employing me. Then, if he was, I could start fresh.
I stood up, saying, “The Contra Costa authorities will be contacting you. I’d advise you to be as frank as possible with them.”
To Corinne, I added, “Wayne will want a personal report from me when he comes back; ask him to call me at home.” I took out a card with both my All Souls and home number, lay it on the coffee table, and started for the door.
As I let myself out, I glanced back at them. Tilby stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking down at Corinne. They were still as statues, their eyes locked, their expressions bleak and helpless.

VII

Of course, by the time I got home to my brown-shingled cottage the desire to sleep had left me. It was always that way when I harboured nagging unanswered questions. Instead of going to bed and forcing myself to rest, I made coffee and took a cup of it out on the back porch to think.
It was a sunny, clear morning and already getting hot. The neighbourhood was Saturday noisy: to one side, my neighbours, the Halls, were doing something to their backyard shed that involved a lot of hammering; on the other side, the Curleys’ dog was barking excitedly. Probably, I thought, my cat was deviling the dog by prancing along the top of the fence, just out of his reach. It was Watney’s favourite game lately.
Sure enough, in a few minutes there was a thump as Wat dropped down from the fence onto an upturned half barrel I’d been meaning to make into a planter. His black-and-white spotted fur was full of foxtails; undoubtedly he’d been prowling around in the weeds at the back of the Curleys’ lot.
“Come here, you,” I said to him. He stared at me, tail swishing back and forth. “Come here!” He hesitated, then galloped up. I managed to pull one of the foxtails from the ruff of fur over his collar before he trotted off again, his belly swaying pendulously, a great big horse of a cat...
I sat staring at the foxtail, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, not really seeing it. Instead, I pictured the hills surrounding the pavilion as I’d seen them the night before. The hills that were dotted with oak and madrone and chapparal... that were sprinkled with people on horses... where a lone horseman had stood under the sheltering branches of a tree, his binoculars like a signal flare in the setting sun...
I got up and went inside to the phone. First I called the Contra Costa sheriffs deputy who had been in charge of the crime scene at the pavilion. No, he told me, the dead man hadn’t been identified yet; the only personal item he had been carrying was a bus ticket-issued yesterday-from San Francisco to Concord which had been tucked into his shoe. While this indicated he was not a resident of the area, it told them nothing else. They were still hoping to get an identification on his fingerprints, however.
Next I called the pavilion and got the home phone number of Jim Hayes, the guard who had been on the performers’ gate when Fitzgerald had vanished. When Hayes answered my call, he sounded as if I’d woken him, but he was willing to answer a few questions.
“When Fitzgerald left he was wearing his costume, right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What about makeup?”
“No. I’d have noticed that; it would have seemed strange, him leaving with his face all painted.”
“Now, last night you said you thought he’d come back in a few minutes after you returned from your break. Did he show you his pass?”
“Yes, everyone had to show one. But-“
“Did you look at the name on it?”
“Not closely. I just checked to see if it was valid for that date. Now I wish I had looked, because I’m not sure it was Fitzgerald. The costume seemed the same, but I just don’t know.”
“Why?”
“Well, there was something different about the man who came in. He walked funny. The guy you found murdered, he was crippled.”
So that observation might or might not be valid. The idea that the man walked ‘funny’ could have been planted in Hayes’ mind by his knowing the dead man was a cripple. “Anything else?”
He hesitated. “I think... yes. You asked if Gary Fitzgerald was wearing makeup when he left. And he wasn’t. But the guy who came in, he was made up. That’s why I don’t think it was Fitzgerald.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hayes. That’s all I need to know.”
I hung up the phone, grabbed my bag and car keys, and drove back out to the pavilion in record time.
The heat-hazed parking lots were empty today, save for a couple of trucks that I assumed belonged to the maintenance crew. The gates were locked, the box office windows shuttered, and I could see no one. That didn’t matter, however. What I was interested in lay outside the chain-link fence. I parked the MG near the trucks and went around the perimeter of the amphitheatre to the area near the performers’ gate, then looked up at the hill to the east. There was a fire break cut through the high wheat-coloured grass, and I started up it.
Halfway to the top, I stopped, wiping sweat from my forehead and looking down at the pavilion. Visibility was good from here. Pivoting, I surveyed the surrounding area. To the west lay a monotonous grid-like pattern of tracts and shopping centers, broken here and there by hills and the upthrusting skyline of Walnut Creek. To the north I could see smoke billowing from the stacks of the paper plant at Antioch, and the bridge spanning the river toward the Sacramento Delta. Further east, the majestic bulk of Mount Diablo rose; between it and this foothill were more hills and hollows-ranch country.
The hill on which I stood was only lightly wooded, but there was an outcropping of rock surrounded by madrone and live oak about a hundred yards to the south, on a direct line from the tree where the lone horseman with the signal-like binoculars had stood. I left the relatively easy footing of the fire break and waded through the dry grass toward it. It was cool and deeply shadowed under the branches of the trees, and the air smelled of vegetation gone dry and brittle. I stood still for a moment, wiping the sweat away once more, then began to look around. What I was searching for was wedged behind a low rock that formed a sort of table; a couple of tissues smeared with makeup. Black and red and white greasepaint-the theatrical makeup of a clown.
The dead man had probably used this rock as a dressing table, applying what Fitzgerald had brought him in the canvas bag. I remembered Gary’s insistence on taking the bag with him to the men’s room; of course he needed it; the makeup was a necessary prop to their plan. While Fitzgerald could leave the pavilion without his greasepaint, the other man couldn’t enter un-madeup; there was too much of a risk that the guard might notice the face didn’t match the costume or the name on the pass.
I looked down at the dry leaves beneath my feet. Oak, and madrone, and brittle needles of chapparal. And the foxtails would have been acquired while pushing through the high grass between here and the bottom of the hills. That told me the route the dead man had taken, but not what had happened to Fitzgerald. In order to find that out, I’d have to learn where one could rent a horse.
I stopped at a feed store in the little village of Hillside, nestled in a wooded hollow southeast of the pavilion. It was all you could expect of a country store, with wood floors and big sacks and bins of feed. The weatherbeaten old man in overalls who looked up from the saddle he was polishing completed the rustic picture.
He said, “Help you with something?”
I took a closer look at the saddle, then glanced around at the hand-tooled leather goods hanging from the hooks on the far wall. “That’s beautiful work. Do you do it yourself?”
“Sure do.”
“How much does a saddle like that go for these days?” My experience with horses had ended with the lessons I’d taken in junior high school.
“Custom job like this, five hundred, thereabouts.”
“Five hundred! That’s more than I could get for my car.”
“Well...” He glanced through the door at the MG.
“I know. You don’t have to say another word.”
“It runs, don’t it?”
“Usually.” Rapport established, I got down to business. “What I need is some information. I’m looking for a stable that rents horses.”
“You want to set up a party or something?”
“I might.”
“Well, there’s MacMillan’s, on the south side of town. I wouldn’t recommend them, though. They’ve got some mean horses. This would be for a bunch of city folks?”
“I wasn’t aware it showed.”
“Doesn’t, all that much. But I’m good at figuring out about folks. You don’t look like a suburban lady, and you don’t look country either.” He beamed at me, and I nodded and smiled to compliment his deductive ability. “No,” he went on, “I wouldn’t recommend MacMillan’s if you’ll have folks along who maybe don’t ride so good. Some of those horses are mean enough to kick a person from here to San Jose. The place to go is Wheeler’s; they got some fine mounts.”
“Where is Wheeler’s?”
“South too, a couple of miles beyond MacMillan’s. You’ll know it by the sign.”
I thanked him and started out. “Hey!” he called after me. “When you have your party, bring your city friends by. I got a nice selection of hand-tooled belts and wallets.”
I said I would, and waved at him as I drove off.
About a mile down the road on the south side of the little hamlet stood a tumble-down stable with a hand-lettered sign advertising horses for rent. The poorly recommended MacMillan’s, no doubt. There wasn’t an animal, mean or otherwise, in sight, but a large, jowly woman who resembled a bulldog greeted me, pitchfork in hand.
I told her the story that I’d hastily made up on the drive: a friend of mine had rented a horse the night before to ride up on the hill and watch the show at the Diablo Valley Pavilion. He had been impressed with the horse and the stable it had come from, but couldn’t remember the name of the place. Had she, by any chance, rented to him? As I spoke, the woman began to frown, looking more and more like a pugnacious canine every minute.
“It’s not honest,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s not honest, people riding up there and watching for free. Stealing’s stealing, no matter what name you put on it. Your Bible tells you that.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t think of any reply to that, although she was probably right.
She eyed me severely, as if she suspected me of pagan practices. “In answer to your question, no, I didn’t rent to your friend. I wouldn’t let a person near one of my horses if he was going to ride up there and watch.”
“Well, I don’t suppose my friend admitted what he planned to do-“
“Any decent person would be too ashamed to admit to a thing like that.” She motioned aggressively with the pitchfork.
I took a step backwards. “But maybe you rented to him not knowing-“
“You going to do the same thing?”
“What?”
“Are you going to ride up there for tonight’s concert?”
“Me? No, ma’am. I don’t even ride all that well. I just wanted to find out if my friend had rented his horse from-“
“Well, he didn’t get the horse from here. We aren’t open evenings, don’t want our horses out in the dark with people like you who can’t ride. Besides, even if people don’t plan it, those concerts are an awful temptation. And I can’t sanction that sort of thing. I’m a born-again Christian, and I won’t help people go against the Lord’s word.”
“You know,” I said hastily, “I agree with you. And I’m going to talk with my friend about his behaviour. But I still want to know where he got that horse. Are there any other stables around here besides yours?”
The woman looked somewhat mollified. “There’s only Wheeler’s. They do a big business-trail trips on Mount Diablo, hayrides in the fall. And, of course, folks who want to sneak up to that pavilion. They’d rent to a person who was going to rob a bank on horseback if there was enough money in it.”
Stifling a grin, I started for my car. “Thanks for the information.”
“You’re welcome to it. But you remember to talk to your friend, tell him to mend his ways.”
I smiled and got out of there in a hurry.
Next to MacMillan’s, Wheeler’s Riding Stables looked prosperous and attractive. The red barn was freshly painted, and a couple of dozen healthy, sleek horses grazed within white rail fences. I rumbled down a dirt driveway and over a little bridge that spanned a gully, and parked in front of a door labelled OFFICE. Inside, a blond-haired man in faded Levi’s and a T-shirt lounged in a canvas chair behind the counter, reading a copy of Playboy. He put it aside reluctantly when I came in.
I was tired of my manufactured story, and this man looked like someone I could be straightforward with. I showed him the Photostat of my license and said, “I’m cooperating with the county sheriffs department on the death at the Diablo Valley Pavilion last night. You’ve heard about it?”
“Yes, it made the morning news.”
“I’ve got reason to believe that the dead man may have rented a horse prior to the show last night.”
The man raised a sun-bleached eyebrow and waited, as economical with his words as the woman at MacMillan’s had been spendthrift.
“Did you rent any horses last night?”
“Five. Four to a party, another later on.”
“Who rented the single horse?”
“Tall, thin guy. Wore jeans and a plaid shirt. At first I thought I knew him.”
“Why?”
“He looked familiar, like someone who used to live near here. But then I realised it couldn’t be. His face was disfigured, his arm crippled up, and he limped. Had trouble getting on the horse, but once he was mounted, I could tell he was a good rider.”
I felt a flash of excitement, the kind you get when things start coming together the way you’ve hoped they would. “That’s the man who was killed.”
“Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Horse came back this morning, riderless.”
“What time?”
“Oh, around five, five-thirty.”
That didn’t fit the way I wanted it to. “Do you keep a record of who you rent the horses to?”
“Name and address. And we take a deposit that’s returned when they bring the horses back.”
“Can you look up the man’s name?”
He grinned and reached under the counter for a looseleaf notebook.
“I can, but I don’t think it will help you identify him. I noted it at the time-Tom Smith. Sounded like a phoney.”
“But you still rented to him?”
“Sure. I just asked for double the deposit. He didn’t look too prosperous, so I figured he’d be back. Besides, none of our horses are so terrific that anyone would trouble to steal one.”
I stood there for a few seconds, tapping my fingers on the counter. “You said you thought he was someone you used to know.”
“At first, but the guy I knew wasn’t crippled. Must have been just a chance resemblance.”
“Who was he?”
“Fellow who lived on a ranch near here back in the late sixties. Gary Fitzgerald.”
I stared at him.
“But like I said, Gary Fitzgerald wasn’t crippled.”
“Did this Gary have a cousin?” I asked.
“Yeah, John Tilby. Tilby’s dad owned a dairy ranch. Gary lived with them.”
“When did Gary leave here?”
“After the old man died. The ranch was sold to pay the debts and both Gary and John took off. For southern California.” He grinned again. “Probably had some cock-eyed idea about getting into show business.”
“By any chance, do you know who was starring on the bill at the pavilion last night?”
“Don’t recall, no. It was some kind of kid show, wasn’t it?”
“A clown festival.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Clowns don’t interest me. Why?”
“No reason.” Things definitely weren’t fitting together the way I’d wanted them to. “You say the cousins took off together after John Tilby’s father died.”
“Yes.”
“And went to southern California.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Did Gary Fitzgerald ever live in the Haight-Ashbury?”
He hesitated. “Not unless they went there instead of L.A. But I can’t see Gary in the Haight, especially back then. He was just a country boy, if you know what I mean. But what’s all this about him and John? I thought-“
“How much to rent a horse?”
The man’s curiosity was easily sidetracked by business. “Ten an hour. Twenty for the deposit.”
“Do you have a gentle one?”
“You mean for you? Now?”
“Yes.”
“Got all kinds, gentle or lively.”
I took out my wallet and checked it. Luckily, I had a little under forty dollars. “I’ll take the gentlest one.”
The man pushed the looseleaf notebook at me, looking faintly surprised. “You sign the book, and then I’ll go saddle up Whitefoot.”

VIII

Once our transaction was completed, the stable man pointed out the bridle trail that led toward the pavilion, wished me a good ride, and left me atop one of the gentlest horses I’d ever encountered. Whitefoot-a roan who did indeed have one white fetlock-was so placid I was afraid he’d go to sleep. Recalling my few riding lessons, which had taken place sometime in my early teens, I made some encouraging clicking sounds and tapped his flanks with my heels. Whitefoot put his head down and began munching a clump of dry grass.
“Come on, big fellow,” I said. Whitefoot continued to munch.
I shook the reins-gently, but with authority.
No response. I stared disgustedly down the incline of his neck, which made me feel I was sitting at the top of a long slide. Then I repeated the clicking and tapping process. The horse ignored me.
“Look, you lazy bastard,” I said in a low, menacing tone, “get a move on!”
The horse raised his head and shook it, glancing back at me with one sullen eye. Then he started down the bridle trail in a swaying, lumbering walk. I sat up straighter in correct horsewoman’s posture, feeling smug.
The trail wound through a grove of eucalyptus, then began climbing uphill through grassland. The terrain was rough, full of rocky outcroppings and eroded gullies, and I was thankful for both the well-travelled path and Whitefoot’s slovenly gait. After a few minutes I began to feel secure enough in the saddle to take stock of my surroundings, and when we reached the top of a rise, I stopped the horse and looked around.
To one side lay grazing land dotted with brown-and-white cattle. In the distance, I spotted a barn and a corral with horses. To the other side, the vegetation was thicker, giving onto a canyon choked with manzanita, scrub oak, and bay laurel. This was the type of terrain I was looking for-the kind where a man can easily become disoriented and lost. Still, there must be dozens of such canyons in the surrounding hills; to explore all of them would take days.
I had decided to ride a little further before plunging into rougher territory, when I noticed a movement under the leafy overhang at the edge of the canyon. Peering intently at the spot, I made out a tall figure in light-coloured clothing. Before I could identify it as male or female, it slipped back into the shadows and disappeared from view.
Afraid that the person would see me, I reined the horse to one side, behind a large sandstone boulder a few yards away. Then I slipped from the saddle and peered around the rock toward the canyon. Nothing moved there. I glanced at Whitefoot and decided he would stay where he was without being tethered; true to form, he had lowered his head and was munching contentedly. After patting him once for reassurance, I crept through the tall grass to the underbrush. The air there was chill and pungent with the scent of bay laurel-more reminiscent of curry powder than of the bay leaf I kept in a jar in my kitchen. I crouched behind the billowy bright green mat of a chapparal bush while my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Still nothing stirred; it was as if the figure had been a creature of my imagination.
Ahead of me, the canyon narrowed between high rock walls. Moss coated them, and stunted trees grew out of their cracks. I came out of my shelter and started that way, over ground that was sloping and uneven. From my right came a trickling sound; I peered through the underbrush and saw a tiny stream of water falling over the outcropping. A mere dribble now, it would be a full cascade in the wet season.
The ground became even rougher, and at times I had difficulty finding a foothold. At a point where the mossy walls almost converged, I stopped, leaning against one of them, and listened. A sound, as if someone were thrashing through thick vegetation, came from the other side of the narrow space. I squeezed between the rocks and saw a heavily forested area. A tree branch a few feet from me looked as if it had recently been broken.
I started through the vegetation, following the sounds ahead of me. Pine boughs brushed at my face, and chapparal needles scratched my bare arms. After a few minutes, the thrashing sounds stopped. I stood still, wondering if the person I was following had heard me.
Everything was silent. Not even a bird stirred in the trees above me. I had no idea where I was in relation to either the pavilion or the stables. I wasn’t even sure if I could find my way back to where I’d left the horse.
Foolishly I realised the magnitude of the task I’d undertaken; such a search Would better be accomplished with a helicopter than on horseback.
And then I heard the voices.
They came from the right, past a heavy screen of scrub oak. They were male, and from their rhythm I could tell they were angry. But I couldn’t identify them or make out what they were saying. I edged around a clump of manzanita and started through the trees, trying to make as little sound as possible.
On the other side of the trees was an outcropping that formed a flat rock shelf that appeared to drop off sharply after about twenty feet. I clambered up on it and flattened onto my stomach, then crept forward. The voices were louder now, coming from straight ahead and below. I identified one as belonging to the man I knew as Gary Fitzgerald.
“...didn’t know he intended to blackmail anyone. I thought he just wanted to see John, make it up with him.” The words were laboured, twisted with pain.
“If that were the case, he could have come to the hotel.” The second man was Wayne Kabalka. “He didn’t have to go through all those elaborate machinations of sneaking into the pavilion.”
“He told me he wanted to reconcile. After all, he was John’s own cousin-“
“Come on, Elliott. You knew he had threatened us. You knew all about the pressure he’d put on us the past few weeks, ever since he found out the act would be coming to San Francisco.”
I started at the strange name, even though I had known the missing man wasn’t really Gary Fitzgerald. Elliott. Elliott who?
Elliott was silent.
I continued creeping forward, the mossy rock cold through my clothing. When I reached the edge of the shelf, I kept my head down until Kabalka spoke again. “You knew we were all afraid of Gary. That’s why I hired the McCone woman; in case he tried anything, I wanted an armed guard there. I never counted on you playing the Judas.”
Again Elliott was silent. I risked a look over the ledge.
There was a sheer drop of some fifteen or twenty feet to a gully full of jagged rocks. The man I’d known as Gary Fitzgerald lay at its bottom, propped into a sitting position, his right leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans-the same clothing the man at the stables had described the dead man as having on. Kabalka stood in front of him, perhaps two yards from where I lay, his back to me. For a minute, I was afraid Elliott would see my head, but then I realised his eyes were glazed half blind with pain.
“What happened between John and Gary?” he asked.
Kabalka shifted his weight and put one arm behind his back, sliding his hand into his belt.
“Wayne, what happened?”
“Gary was found dead at the pavilion this morning. Stabbed. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t connived to switch clothing so he could sneak backstage and threaten John.”
Elliott’s hand twitched, as if he wanted to cover his eyes but was too weak to lift it. “Dead.” He paused. “I was afraid something awful had happened when he didn’t come back to where I was waiting with the horse.”
“Of course you were afraid. You knew what would happen.”
“No...”
“You planned this for weeks, didn’t you? The thing about staying at the fleabag in the Haight was a ploy, so you could turn over one of your costumes to Gary. But it didn’t work, because Corinne had sent all but one to the cleaner. When did you come up with the scheme of sneaking out and trading places?”
Elliott didn’t answer.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter when. But why, Elliott? For God’s sake, why?”
When he finally answered, Elliott’s voice was weary. “Maybe I was sick of what you’d done to him. What we’d all done. He was so pathetic when he called me in L.A. And when I saw him... I thought maybe that if John saw him too, he might persuade you to help Gary.”
“And instead he killed him.”
“No. I can’t believe that.”
“And why not?”
“John loved Gary.”
“John loved Gary so much he took Nicole away from him. And then he got into a drunken quarrel with him and crashed the car they were riding in and crippled him for life.”
“Yes, but John’s genuinely guilty over the accident. And he hates you for sending Gary away and replacing him with me. What a fraud we’ve all perpetrated-“
Kabalka’s body tensed and he began balancing aggressively on the balls of his feet. “That fraud has made us a lot of money. Would have made us more until you pulled this stunt. Sooner or later they’ll identify Gary’s body and then it will all come out. John will be tried for the murder-“
“I still don’t believe he killed him. I want to ask him about it.”
Slowly Kabalka slipped his hand from his belt-and I saw the knife. He held it behind his back in his clenched fingers and took a step toward Elliott.
I pushed up with my palms against the rock. The motion caught Elliott’s eye and he looked around in alarm. Kabalka must have taken the look to be aimed at him because he brought the knife up.
I didn’t hesitate. I jumped off the ledge. For what seemed like an eternity I was falling toward the jagged rocks below. Then I landed heavily-directly on top of Kabalka.
As he hit the ground, I heard the distinctive sound of cracking bone. He went limp, and I rolled off of him-unhurt, because his body had cushioned my fall. Kabalka lay unconscious, his head against a rock. When I looked at Elliott, I saw he had passed out from pain and shock.

IX

The room at John Muir Hospital in Walnut Creek was antiseptic white, with bright touches of red and blue in the curtains and a colourful spray of fall flowers on the bureau. Elliott Larson-I’d found out that was his full name-lay on the bed with his right leg in traction. John Tilby stood by the door, his hands clasped formally behind his back, looking shy and afraid to come any further into the room. I sat on a chair by the bed, sharing a split of smuggled-in wine with Elliott.
I’d arrived at the same time as Tilby, who had brought the flowers. He’d seemed unsure of a welcome, and even though Elliott had acted glad to see him, he was still keeping his distance. But after a few awkward minutes, he had agreed to answer some questions and had told me about the drunken auto accident five years ago in which he had been thrown clear of his MG and the real Gary Fitzgerald had been crippled. And about how Wayne Kabalka had sent Gary away with what the manager had termed an “ample settlement”-and which would have been except for Gary’s mounting medical expenses, which eventually ate up all his funds and forced him to live on welfare in a cheap San Francisco hotel. Determined not to lose the bright financial future the comedy team had promised him, Kabalka had looked around for a replacement for Gary and found Elliott performing in a seedy Haight-Ashbury club. He’d put him into the act, never telling the advertisers who were clamouring for Fitzgerald and Tilby’s services that one of the men in the whiteface was not the clown they had contracted with. And he’d insisted Elliott totally assume Gary’s identity.
“At first,” Elliott said, “it wasn’t so bad. When Wayne found me, I was on a downslide. I was heavy into drugs, and I’d been kicked out of my place in the Haight and was crashing with whatever friends would let me. At first it was great making all that money, but after a while I began to realise I’d never be anything more than the shadow of a broken man.”
“And then,” I said, “Gary reappeared.”
“Yes. He needed some sort of operation and he contacted Wayne in L.A. Over the years Wayne had been sending him money-hush money, I guess you could call it-but it was barely enough to cover his minimum expenses. Gary had been seeing all the ads on TV, reading about how well we were doing, and he was angry and demanding a cut.”
“And rightly so,” Tilby added. “I’d always thought Gary was well provided for, because Wayne took part of my earnings and said he was sending it to him. Now I know most of it was going into Wayne’s pocket.”
“Did Wayne refuse to give Gary the money for the operation?” I asked.
Tilby nodded. “There was a time when Gary would merely have crept back into the woodwork when Wayne refused him. But by then his anger and hurt had festered, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He threatened Wayne, and continued to make daily threats by phone. We were all on edge, afraid of what he might do. Corinne kept urging Wayne to give him the money, especially because we had contracted to come to San Francisco, where Gary was, for the clown festival. But Wayne was too stubborn to give in.”
Thinking of Corinne, I said, “How’s she taking it, anyway?”
“Badly,” Tilby said. “But she’s a tough lady. She’ll pull through.”
“And Nicole?”
“Nicole has vanished. Was packed and gone by the time I went back to the hotel after Wayne’s arrest.” He seemed unconcerned; five years with Nicole had probably been enough.
I said, “I talked to the sheriffs department. Wayne hasn’t confessed.” After I’d revived Elliott out there in the canyon, I’d given him my gun and made my way back to where I’d left the horse. Then I’d ridden-the most energetic ride of old Whitefoot’s life-back to the stables and summoned the sheriff’s men. When we’d arrived at the gully, Wayne had regained consciousness and was attempting to buy Elliott off. Elliott seemed to be enjoying bargaining and then refusing. Remembering the conversation I’d overhead between the two men, I said to Elliott, “Did Wayne have it right about you intending to loan Gary one of your spare costumes?”
“Yes. When I found I didn’t have an extra costume to give him, Gary came up with the plan of signalling me from a horse on the hill. He knew the area from when he lived there and had seen a piece in the paper about how people would ride up on the hill to watch the concerts. You guessed about the signal?”
“I saw it happen. I just didn’t put it together until later, when I thought about the fragments of leaves and needles they found in Gary’s clothing.” No need to explain about the catalyst to my thought process-the horse of a cat named Watney.
“Well,” Elliott said, “that was how it worked. The signal with the field glasses was to tell me Gary had been able to get a horse and show me where he’d be waiting. At the prearranged time, I made the excuse about going to the men’s room, climbed out the window, and left the pavilion. Gary changed and got himself into white face in a clump of trees with the aid of a flashlight. I put on his clothes and took the horse and waited, but he never came back. Finally the crowd was streaming out of the pavilion, and then the lights went out; I tried to ride down there, but I’m not a very good horseman, and I got turned around in the dark. Then something scared the horse and it threw me into that ravine and bolted. As soon as I hit the rocks I knew my leg was broken.”
“And you lay there all night.”
“Yes, half frozen. And in the morning I heard Wayne thrashing through the underbrush. I don’t know if he intended to kill me at first, or if he planned to try to convince me that John had killed Gary and we should cover it up.”
“Probably the latter, at least initially.” I turned to Tilby. “What happened at the pavilion with Gary?”
“He came into the dressing room. Right off I knew it was him, by the limp. He was angry, wanted money. I told him I was willing to give him whatever he needed, but that Wayne would have to arrange for it. Gary hid in the dressing room closet and when you came in there, I asked you to get Wayne. He took Gary away, out into the audience, and when he came back, he said he’d fixed everything.” He paused, lips twisting bitterly. “And he certainly had.”
We were silent for a moment. Then Elliott said to me, “Were you surprised to find out I wasn’t really Gary Fitzgerald?”
“Yes and no. I had a funny feeling about you all along.”
“Why?”
“Well, first there was the fact you and John just didn’t look like you were related. And then when we were driving through Contra Costa County, you didn’t display much interest in it-not the kind of curiosity a man would have when returning home after so many years. And there was one other thing.”
“What?”
“I said something about sound from the two pavilions being audible all the way to Port Chicago. That’s the place where the Naval Weapons Station is, up on the Strait. And you said, ‘Not all the way to Chicago.’ You didn’t know what Port Chicago was, but I took it to mean you were making a joke. I remember thinking that for a clown, you didn’t have much of a sense of humour.”
“Thanks a lot.” But he grinned, unoffended.
I stood up. “So now what? Even if Wayne never confesses, they’ve got a solid case against him. You’re out a manager, so you’ll have to handle your own future plans.”
They shrugged almost simultaneously.
“You’ve got a terrific act,” I said. “There’ll be some adverse publicity, but you can probably weather it.”
Tilby said, “A couple of advertisers have already called to withdraw their offers.”
“Others will be calling with new ones.”
He moved hesitantly toward the chair I’d vacated. “Maybe.”
“You can count on it. A squeaky clean reputation isn’t always an asset in show business; your notoriety will hurt you in some ways, but help you in others.” I picked up my bag and squeezed Elliott’s arm, went toward the door, touching Tilby briefly on the shoulder. “At least think about keeping the act going.”
As I went out, I looked back at them. Tilby had sat down in the chair. His posture was rigid, tentative, as if he might flee at any moment. Elliott looked uncertain, but hopeful.
What was it, I thought, that John had said to me about clowns when we were playing gin in the dressing room at the pavilion? Something to the effect that they were all funny but, more important, that they all made people take a look at their own foibles. John Tilby and Elliott Larson-in a sense both broken men like Gray Fitzgerald had been-knew more about those foibles than most people. Maybe there was a way they could continue to turn that sad knowledge into laughter.