I set out for the way back to my car.
It was in the early afternoon when I got back to my car. The drizzle and all gray had gone. The sun broke through the sky and the temperature now clearly exceeded the 50s. If you disregarded the rest, it had been a perfect day up to now.
According to the address on the invoice, Mr. Young lived in the ranching community of Santa Ysabel.
It took me about an hour to get there. When I approached, I realized the property included two parcels, one with the ranch house and one with the barn and some other outbuildings. A real estate agent would have called the property a bit of a fixer which needed TLC and some facelift.
If I wasn't a realtor, it would take a lot of euphemism to describe its condition as rundown.
The door opened and a woman aged between forty and fifty years appeared. When she had been young she probably was a looker. But now her face looked careworn and tired of the desperate struggle to survive from one day to the other. Her posture showed she had lost this struggle a long time ago.
"What's the trouble?"
"I'm sorry to trouble you. My name is Lawdon, Jacob Lawdon."
"Hell, that's you! Didn't I see you in America's Most Wanted some years ago?"
Well, my story about my colleague Coleman had worked once and I didn't feel like making up another one.
So I answered, "Could be. But to be honest, I'm looking for my colleague, Mr. Coleman."
"We had coleslaw the other day. Didn't come across the man."
This remark was at least as bright as my squirrel story, so I decided to stay polite.
"Well, my company gave me the address of his secretary, Olivia Jackson. Somebody told me she was in her cabin near Lake Calmora. But I missed her. In her cabin she left a note for me and asked me to contact Mike Young. So I came here to ask him how to find Mrs. Jackson."
She tried a touch of a smile, but it didn't work. She lacked the opportunities to practice.
"Mike is my son. He's over there fixing the roof of the chicken coop."
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Young. I guess you don't mind if I exchange some words with him, do you?"
My carefully chosen words paved the way for success. Evidently they found her approval because without another word she turned around and slammed the door. I took that as her politest way to say yes and walked over to ask Mike Young about his relation to Mrs. Olivia Jackson.
4
Mike was a rather tall lanky lad. I estimated his age around eighteen, maybe nineteen. He was about six and a half feet tall, nearly half a foot taller than I. He had a smooth and - though it was still February - rather tanned skin. His eyelashes were a bit too long and too full for a man. Together with his full lips and his dark brown eyes his face had that dreamy look which women are so fond of.
"Hi, your mother agreed, when I asked her if I could talk to you."
"I'm sure my mother didn't agree. To agree is not part of her vocabulary."
"Well, I guess, you are right. She slammed the door in my face. I thought this could be interpreted as an approval."
"It could, but you never know."
He had a pleasant and friendly voice. However, it sounded a bit tense.
"Well, my name is Lawdon. I wanted to talk to Mrs. Jackson. I was told she was cleaning up her cabin near Lake Calmora. So I went there to see her. But nobody was there, only a note with your name and address. This gave me the idea that you might be a friend of hers. Thus I decided to come here and ask you if you knew where she may be."
"As a matter of fact, I'm not one of Olivia's friends. But her daughter and me are rather good friends."
"Rather good or rather more than rather good?"
"Rather more."
"Well, I guess, you know that cabin. I wonder if you happen to have been there recently."
Even under his tanned skin you could see him blushing down to the roots of his hair. He decided to opt for a preemptive strategy.
"I went there, not today, but yesterday."
"Did you go inside?"
He dithered. He chewed my question over and over again. Finally he had made up his mind.
"Yeah, I did."
For such a lot of brainwork these three words were a heart-stopping result. Maybe he was willing to pad his story with some more details if I kept being a nice guy.
"Did you have a key?
"There's a key underneath a stone to the left of the door. Actually, everybody would find it if he wanted to."
Well, everybody but one.
"And why did you go there?"
The brainwork started again. Not quite as long as before, however, the result was a bit more luxurious.
"I guess you'll find it out sooner or later. So here's my part of the story. Emma had picked a quarrel with me. You see, actually she's a wonderful girl. I am really fond of her. But when there's the slightest critical remark concerning her mother, she would crack up. You see, I suspected that her mother had an affair with another guy. I simply said that in my opinion this affair wasn't fair as far as her father was concerned. Emma began to yell at me. In the end we yelled at each other. She completely flew off the handle. She called me names and told me not to poke my nose in things that were none of my business. She ran out and said this was the end of our relationship."
"So, why didn't you run after her?"
"I wanted to wait until she calmed down again.
As a rule, she calls me the next day and apologizes."
"And did she apologize?"
"No, she didn't. This quarrel took place three days ago. I tried to call her, but there was no answer. At first I didn't worry about her because I was sure she would get in touch with me soon. I thought she might be up in the hills in their cabin. Therefore, I went there yesterday. Neither she nor her mother was there. In the meantime I'm deeply concerned."
"You have got no idea where they might have gone?"
"I'm afraid, I haven't."
I felt I had reached a deadlock. Though he had given some quite interesting pieces of information, it actually didn't take forward my investigation.
I gave him my card, one that didn't show my occupation. I asked him to get in touch with me if he remembered anything else. We then had some small talk, among other things about the warm welcome I'd received by his mother.
We agreed that it was certainly better to call it a day while we were still friends.
So I went over to my car and drove back to San Diego. Tomorrow morning I'd ring up Mrs. Abigail Coleman and ask her how to carry on.
What a successful day was coming to an end. I got to know Mrs. Coleman. I tried to find her husband and his secretary, but failed. I met ground squirrels, a dog and his owner. I was knocked down and I still didn't know by whom, though I had my preference. I met a friendly woman who slammed the door into my face and I had an interesting chat with the friendly woman's son.
My client should be really happy with me. Her money was obviously well invested.
Well, I guess, I had to do what I mostly did when I had to deal with such a situation. I had to play it by ear, which every now and then worked, at least more or less.
I arrived home at about 10 p.m. My brass doorplate was still there.
I felt it had been a hard day and I went to sleep.