either one.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me…”
He watched her walk away. She had the kind of loose, rolling walk that makes a man wonder what a woman would be like in bed. Horny Cape, ever hungry to make up for all those faithful years. He almost felt ashamed.
Rubicon Bay.
One of a bunch of little enclaves strung along the lakeshore, along an inlet with the same name. Highway 89 hugged the shoreline here, running in twisty loops through trees and around vast protrusions of granite. Heavily forested slopes came down close on the west: Bliss State Park. There was woodland on the lake side to shield a few score year-round and summer homes. On the south side of the park, he’d passed through a couple of hamlets. None over here, though. Not even a roadside store where he could stop to ask directions.
Cape took the first side road that opened east off the highway. It led him down through pine and fir, past short dead-end lanes and driveways that accessed half-concealed houses. Some of the mailboxes had names on them, but none was Vanowen. He kept driving around, backtracking, until he spotted another car just swinging into one of the driveways. The car stopped at the box there, and the driver, a youngish brunette, got out to pick up her mail. Cape pulled over, put on the salesman’s smile as he poked his head out the window.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for the Vanowens, and I seem to have gotten myself lost. It’s like a maze in here.”
The Corvette as much as the smile put her at ease. In her world, strangers driving beat-up old cars were a threat, but strangers driving expensive sports cars were just plain rich folk. She told him, readily enough, that the Vanowens lived in the last house on Waterwing Drive, right on the lake.
Cape followed her directions, found Waterwing Drive, and drove along it for two hundred yards or so to where it dead-ended at a steep, gated driveway. The gate was open, so he drove on through. Halfway down, the drive jogged, and he could see the house. Big, made of cut pine logs and redwood shakes, thick woods crowding in on both sides. T-shaped pier and a boathouse behind it. A carport on the near side was empty, but an older-model black Mercedes with Nevada plates sat slewed on a pine-needled parking area in front.
He stopped alongside the Mercedes, walked up on a narrowstoop, and rang the bell. No answer. After a minute he rang it again. Nothing. The third push finally produced results. Footsteps, the rattling of a lock, and the door opened and a woman stood there looking at him.
He’d been measured, dissected, and categorized by any number of less attractive women than this one. Seldom quite as fast or as thoroughly, though. There was a resemblance to the face in the photographs, but she wasn’t Stacy Vanowen. Older, thirty or so. Dark-haired, sloe-eyed, wet-lipped. Wearing a one-piece black Spandex bathing suit and a sheer beach wrap. Long legs, narrow hips, smattering of freckles that trailed down into the front of the suit. In one hand was a tall glass of clear, bubbly liquid with ice and lime. The shine in the sloe eyes said she had a lot more gin or vodka tonic inside her.
He rated high enough to win a slow, loose, slightly crooked grin. “Well,” she said. “And what’re you selling?”
“What makes you think I’m selling something?”
“You have that look. Don’t tell me you’re not a salesman?”
“I used to be. No more.”
“Everybody’s a salesman, in one way or another.”
“Maybe so,” Cape agreed. “I’m looking for Stacy Vanowen.”
“Uh-huh. Lots of people do.”
“Do what?”
“Look for Stacy. Look
at
her, too. She’s a prettier piece than I am, dammit.”
“Is she here?”
“Nope. Nobody’s here but me.”
“When will she be home?”
“Who knows? Whenever she gets here.”
“I’d like to talk to her. What’s a good time to catch her?”
“If you want to catch Stacy, you’d better be a fast runner. What’s your name,
“Then if you’ll excuse me…”
He watched her walk away. She had the kind of loose, rolling walk that makes a man wonder what a woman would be like in bed. Horny Cape, ever hungry to make up for all those faithful years. He almost felt ashamed.
Rubicon Bay.
One of a bunch of little enclaves strung along the lakeshore, along an inlet with the same name. Highway 89 hugged the shoreline here, running in twisty loops through trees and around vast protrusions of granite. Heavily forested slopes came down close on the west: Bliss State Park. There was woodland on the lake side to shield a few score year-round and summer homes. On the south side of the park, he’d passed through a couple of hamlets. None over here, though. Not even a roadside store where he could stop to ask directions.
Cape took the first side road that opened east off the highway. It led him down through pine and fir, past short dead-end lanes and driveways that accessed half-concealed houses. Some of the mailboxes had names on them, but none was Vanowen. He kept driving around, backtracking, until he spotted another car just swinging into one of the driveways. The car stopped at the box there, and the driver, a youngish brunette, got out to pick up her mail. Cape pulled over, put on the salesman’s smile as he poked his head out the window.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for the Vanowens, and I seem to have gotten myself lost. It’s like a maze in here.”
The Corvette as much as the smile put her at ease. In her world, strangers driving beat-up old cars were a threat, but strangers driving expensive sports cars were just plain rich folk. She told him, readily enough, that the Vanowens lived in the last house on Waterwing Drive, right on the lake.
Cape followed her directions, found Waterwing Drive, and drove along it for two hundred yards or so to where it dead-ended at a steep, gated driveway. The gate was open, so he drove on through. Halfway down, the drive jogged, and he could see the house. Big, made of cut pine logs and redwood shakes, thick woods crowding in on both sides. T-shaped pier and a boathouse behind it. A carport on the near side was empty, but an older-model black Mercedes with Nevada plates sat slewed on a pine-needled parking area in front.
He stopped alongside the Mercedes, walked up on a narrowstoop, and rang the bell. No answer. After a minute he rang it again. Nothing. The third push finally produced results. Footsteps, the rattling of a lock, and the door opened and a woman stood there looking at him.
He’d been measured, dissected, and categorized by any number of less attractive women than this one. Seldom quite as fast or as thoroughly, though. There was a resemblance to the face in the photographs, but she wasn’t Stacy Vanowen. Older, thirty or so. Dark-haired, sloe-eyed, wet-lipped. Wearing a one-piece black Spandex bathing suit and a sheer beach wrap. Long legs, narrow hips, smattering of freckles that trailed down into the front of the suit. In one hand was a tall glass of clear, bubbly liquid with ice and lime. The shine in the sloe eyes said she had a lot more gin or vodka tonic inside her.
He rated high enough to win a slow, loose, slightly crooked grin. “Well,” she said. “And what’re you selling?”
“What makes you think I’m selling something?”
“You have that look. Don’t tell me you’re not a salesman?”
“I used to be. No more.”
“Everybody’s a salesman, in one way or another.”
“Maybe so,” Cape agreed. “I’m looking for Stacy Vanowen.”
“Uh-huh. Lots of people do.”
“Do what?”
“Look for Stacy. Look
at
her, too. She’s a prettier piece than I am, dammit.”
“Is she here?”
“Nope. Nobody’s here but me.”
“When will she be home?”
“Who knows? Whenever she gets here.”
“I’d like to talk to her. What’s a good time to catch her?”
“If you want to catch Stacy, you’d better be a fast runner. What’s your name,
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