“You seem all right,” said Nick.

Gunnar smiled. “He likes the Journal?”

“I think so.”

“The Wolfman pictures were wonderful,” Gunnar said.

“It was good work.”

“He came by here a few months ago with the lady friend, Teresa. To say hi and for me to meet her. He likes me to know his women. I was pretty good friends with Meredith. I wished he could have stayed with her but it was impossible. You knew that Andy was going to go out and experience the world. But she has a family now. Like she wanted.”

Nick smelled the clinical scent of vodka. Looked around for the glass or bottle but saw neither. Noted the radio playing upstairs, oddly loud. Sounded like the big-band swing music his parents used to listen to on 78s.

Gunnar told him that the Grove Drive-In Church worship programs had been completely finished and boxed by 5:15 P.M. last Tuesday. He was sitting at his desk reading the blockbuster paperback Valley of the Dolls when Mike had come to pick them up. That was about six. Gunnar said he printed eleven hundred each week now. Used to be two hundred. The Tustin Times couldn’t profit from such a small run, but Mae Overholt-J.J.’s widow-did it as a favor to God and David Becker. And Valley of the Dolls really wasn’t as bad as some people said.

A side door opened and a handsome woman came in, glanced at Gunnar and Nick with a pleasant smile. Mid-sixties, Nick figured. Had to be Mae. She waved in a way that promised no interruption. Just got something from a desk drawer and went back out. Looked like a roll of masking tape.

“Anyone else come by?” asked Nick. “Maybe to check the print run, grab a few early copies?”

Nick heard a new song start upstairs. No doubt about this one-“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” One of Max and Monika’s favorites from when they were young. Danced to it in the living room. Boys hooting and fake throwing up.

“No,” said Gunnar with a sharp little smile. “I’ve heard of people rushing the printer for an early copy of an important newspaper. But never in all my sixty-seven years have I had someone rush the printer for a worship program.”

“That’s funny, isn’t it?” asked Nick.

“It is.”

“Until you realize someone did exactly that. And gave a copy to a girl who was murdered a few hours later.”

Gunnar’s already dark complexion went a shade darker. He took a deep breath, let it out. “No, no. There is no humor at all in that.”

“Not much. Who could have gotten early copies without you knowing?”

Gunnar sighed. Looked down at the floor as if chastising himself. “This is…no, this can’t be what you mean.”

“Try me.”

“I spent forty-five minutes away from the presses that night. Between the time I finished the programs and six, when I was expecting Mike Shaffner.”

“Were those doors unlocked?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

“Right upstairs. With Mae, having an aperitif and some conversation. We do that often now. Since Mr. Overholt passed along. And I heard a car door shut. I didn’t hear a car drive up, but I heard the door shut.”

“Because of the radio?”

“Yes. Mae and I were listening to the radio. I got up and looked out the window and saw Barbara Becker get out of a blue station wagon. I think it was a Kingswood Estate. The Chevy. A bunch of kids in the back.”

Nick frowned, tried to remember the exact words of his conversation with David. He hadn’t said anything about Barbara and the flyers, had he?

“Did you go downstairs and talk to her?”

“By the time I got down there she was back in the car. I didn’t run after her. I figured it was something to do with the flyers, and how important could that be?”

“She didn’t take them?”

“No. Mike took them. Like I told you. Maybe fifteen minutes later.”

Mae came through the side door again. Another pleasant look for Nick. One a little sharper for Gunnar. She put a roll of tape back in the desk and left.

NICK CALLED Sharon from a pay phone, said he wouldn’t be over. She said fine, she was awful tired, too. They talked quietly a minute and hung up.

Then he called David and Barbara’s house. Got Barbara because David was out. Made small talk, then asked about her picking up early copies of the worship flyer last Tuesday around quarter to six.

“I sure did,” said Barbara happily. “Just a few for my youth group to send out. Nick, is everything okay?”

16

ANDY BECKER CRUNCHED along a gravel walkway toward one of the guesthouses behind Big Red in Bluebird Canyon.

Wednesday, a week after Janelle Vonn in the SunBlesst packinghouse. Light breeze, warm in the sun but cool in the shade. Seagulls crying over the beach. A hawk in the canyon pivoting just ahead of its own shadow, a flash of sun on its wings. Smell of ocean and sage and marijuana smoke.

The weather-beaten slat cottage sat at the far end of a mostly brown lawn. One of three, all similar. Wood silvered by the sun. Roof shingles warped. Stained-glass windows-hummingbirds and flowers. Small stands of plantain and giant bird-of-paradise for privacy. Beyond them rough hills sloping into the sharp blue Pacific.

Andy was about to knock when the cottage door slapped open. The window glass rattled. A young woman, batik sheet around her and nothing else, marched past, never looked at him. Bare feet on the gravel, orange hair flying, headed for the main house. Andy looked back at the girl and the big slouching home, barn red in the clear morning light. Big Red, all right. Paint peeling, blankets for curtains. Rain gutters askew.

Jesse Black stood in the cottage doorway. Hair a mess, jeans slung low and loose, a red plaid flannel shirt hanging out.

“I’m the writer,” said Andy. “Thanks for meeting.”

“You were at the ’Piper last Thursday,” he said.

Andy offered his hand and Black lightly knocked his fist against it. Black looked past him toward Big Red, then back at Andy. His eyes were dark and lively. Dark stubble on a pale chin.

“Come on in.”

Andy stepped through the narrow door into a tiny living room with a small couch. Throw rugs and beanbags. To the left a galley-sized kitchen. Sink and refrigerator and small counter. Cupboards and a window. Down a very short hallway Andy could see another room and what looked like the foot of a bed.

But mostly what he saw were instruments. The well-used Martin with the pickup over the sound hole leaned in one corner. An old f-hole Epiphone and a small amplifier in another. A white Stratocaster sitting upright on the couch. Beside the couch a Sears Silvertone electric with the amp built into the case. A ukulele stood beneath a window facing north up the coast. Maracas. A tambourine. Two recorders and a harmonica on the kitchen counter next to a plastic bag half full of grass and rolling papers.

“Busted,” Jesse said without interest.

“I’m cool.”

“I didn’t have that out when your brother was around. The whole compound was under FPA.”

Andy waited.

“Full Pig Alert,” said Jesse. Didn’t smile but his eyes did.

“That’s halfway funny,” said Andy. “It’s the cartoons of pigs dressed like cops getting shot and stabbed that bug me. Because he’s my brother.”

“Yeah, it’s all bullshit. One side against the other.”

Black motioned to the couch. Took the Strat and plunked himself onto a bright yellow beanbag. “I don’t get why you want to talk to me. Your articles about her already came out.”

“I’m interested for myself,” said Andy.

“You mean for a book or screenplay?”

“No. For me. I liked her. I’d known her since I was twelve. I mean, never well, but still…”

Black strummed the electric. Unplugged, it made a distant sweet sound like it was underwater. “She talked about you. You wrote the obit for her mother. She showed it to me. It was more than just an obituary, though. You got the mother’s misery. But you knew the difference between pathos and tragedy. I grooved on it.”