"Have him stay with you tonight. Tell him you need his help. For the funeral, to take care of Juan's affairs, whatever you can think of. He's in as much pain as everybody. He just doesn't know what to do with it."
The mother had moved to the gurney where her son lay. She muttered something. Edie Dance walked up to her again and whispered into her ear, touching her arm. An intimate gesture between women who'd been complete strangers until a couple of days ago.
After a moment Edie returned to her daughter. "You want the kids to spend the night?"
"Thanks. It's probably best."
Dance said good-bye to the Millars and added, "Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?"
The father answered in a voice that seemed perplexed by the question. "No, no." Then he added softly, "What else is there to be done?"
Chapter 30
The town of Vallejo Springs in Napa, California, has several claims to fame.
It's the site of a museum featuring many works of Eduard Muybridge, the nineteenth-century photographer credited with inventing moving pictures (and--a lot more interesting than his art--he was a man who murdered his wife's lover, admitted it in court and got off scot-free).
Another draw is the local vineyards, which produce a particularly fine strain of the Merlot grape--one of the three most famous used to make red wine. Contrary to a bad rap generated by a movie of a few years ago, Merlot isn't your Yugo of grapes. Just look at Petrus, a wine from the Pomerol section of Bordeaux, made almost entirely from Merlot and perhaps the most consistently expensive wine in the world.
Morton Nagle was now crossing the town limits because of Vallejo Springs's third attraction, albeit one that was known to very few people.
Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, and her aunt and uncle lived here.
Nagle had done his homework. A month of tracking down twisty leads had turned up a reporter in Sonoma, who'd given him the name of a lawyer, who'd done some legal work for the girl's aunt. He'd been reluctant to give Nagle any information but did offer the opinion that the woman was overbearing and obnoxious--and cheap. She'd dunned him on a bill. Once he was convinced that Nagle was a legitimate writer he gave up the town the family lived in and their new name on a guarantee of anonymity. ("Confidential source" is really just a synonym for spineless.) Nagle had been to Vallejo Springs several times, meeting with the Sleeping Doll's aunt in an attempt to get an interview with the girl (the uncle didn't figure much in the equation, Nagle had learned). She was reluctant, but he believed that she would eventually agree.
Now, back in this picturesque town, he parked near the spacious house, waiting for the opportunity to talk to the woman alone. He could call, of course. But Nagle felt that phone calls--like email--were a very ineffective way of communicating. On a telephone people you're speaking to are your equals. You have much less control and power of persuasion than if you see them in person.
They can also just hang up.
He had to be careful. He'd noticed the police cruising past the house of the Bollings, the surname the family had adopted, at frequent intervals. This in itself meant nothing--Vallejo Springs was a rich town and had a large, well-endowed constabulary--but Nagle noticed that the squad cars seemed to slow when they drove by.
He noticed too that there were far more police cars out and about now than last week. Which suggested to him what he already suspected: that Theresa was a town sweetheart. The cops would be on high alert to make sure nothing happened to her. If Nagle overstepped, they'd escort him to the town line and dump him in the dust, like an unwelcome gunslinger in some bad western.
He sat back, eyes on the front door, and thought about opening lines for his book.
Carmel-by-the-Sea is a village of contradictions, a mecca for tourists, the jewel in the crown of the Central Coast, yet beneath the pristine and the cute you'll find the secretive world of the rich and ruthless from San Francisco, Silicon Valley and Hollywood. . . .
Hm. Work on that.
Nagle chuckled.
And then he saw the SUV, a white Escalade, pulling out of the Bollings' driveway. The girl's aunt, Mary, was behind the wheel, alone in the car. Good. He'd never get close if Theresa was with her.
Nagle started his car, a Buick worth the price of the SUV's transmission alone, and followed. Theresa's aunt made a stop at a gas station, filled the tank with premium. She chatted with a woman at a nearby pump, driving a red Jaguar S-type. The aunt seemed harried. Her gray hair wasn't brushed and she looked tired. Even from the edge of the parking lot, Nagle could make out dark circles under her eyes.
Pulling out of Shell, she drove through the quaint, unmistakably Californian downtown: a street adorned with plants and flowers and quirky sculptures and lined with coffee shops, understated restaurants, a garden center, an independent bookstore, a yoga place and small retail operations selling wine, crystals, pet supplies and L.L. Bean-style clothing.
A few hundred yards along the road was the strip mall where the locals shopped, anchored by an Albertsons grocery and a Rite Aid drugstore. Mary Bolling parked in the lot and walked inside the grocery store. Nagle parked near her SUV. He stretched, longing for a cigarette, though he hadn't smoked in twenty years.
He continued the endless debate with himself.
So far he hadn't transgressed. Hadn't broken any rules.
He could still head home, no moral harm done.
But should he?
He wasn't sure.