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“So, that’s how he does it.”
“Does what?”
“He’s got to have a wetsuit, fins, goggles, and tools if he’s abalone diving. No one can swim in these waters without the suit; it’s too damned cold. I wondered earlier about it, and now we know. He leaves the suit and other gear here in these bags. That way, he doesn’t have to cart them back and forth, plus it’s less suspicious if anyone sees him.”
Sheffel put the sacks back where she’d found them. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you in an hour. I’ll back off into the woods above here and find a place to observe where he won’t see me. I’ll also keep in sight of how we came in, so we should be able to trade places without him seeing us if he reappears at the wrong time.”
Greta retraced their route, careful to note details, anxious that she wouldn’t find her way back. At her car, she turned on the motor and got the heat going, while she poured a cup of decaf. A dozen cars and pickups now filled half the spaces in the lot. A group of four came off the main trail, two couples in their sixties. She imagined them retired because retirees were one of the major population groups along the Oregon coast. They stood and talked a few minutes, then bid each other goodbye. Each couple went to a different car—one to a new BMW and the other to a Lexus.
Definitely not cheese factory workers, she thought. Retired bankers, professors, undertakers. Hell, plumbers. Someone who made good money.
She turned on the radio and listened to country western music. Her car radio was pathetically weak, which, along with the vagaries of reception along the coast, made it the only station currently available.
She thought about the Great Abalone Case, Toompas, her cow and dog cases, her family, the need to be more regular in her workouts, her lack of a social life, and the possibility of making a Portland trip sometime soon.
Greta checked her watch. She was supposed to relieve Sheffel in five minutes. She hustled back. She was ten minutes late when he stepped out of some brush alongside the trail.
“No sign of him,” Sheffel said before she could apologize. “Go about ten yards behind me. There’s a place to stand and see where we found the rope and the trail back out. Hope you really did leave me some of that wonderful decaf.”
“It’s there.”
She handed him her car keys, and they parted. She moved where he indicated and thought she’d found Sheffel’s spot. As he said, from that position she had a view to the edge of the cliff where Lawton must have gone down. If he climbed up the rope, she’d see him when he reappeared. She could also see back to where they’d come in, enough to know when Sheffel returned. She glanced around in vain for a place to sit, then huddled inside her clothes and watched. Fortunately, there was no wind to push the dampness through the heavy cloth.
The setting would have been peaceful, if she weren’t watching for at least a minor felon who possibly was connected to a murder. Seagulls occasionally could be heard, though were seldom seen in the fog. She shifted her position in response to water dripping on her—not real rain but drops from fog condensing on tree limbs until the drops got too heavy and fell.
Movement surprised her when she caught a glimpse of Sheffel standing upslope and waving. She looked at her watch. Almost to the minute, an hour had passed since they’d switched. She was even more annoyed at her lateness now that he was punctual.
She made her way down, and they met.
“No sign of him?” asked Sheffel.
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Okay, my turn. See you in an hour.”
Greta hiked the trails back to the parking lot and her car. A half-cup of decaf remained, still warm. She finished it and put the thermos in the back seat. She tried the radio again. This time she got two country western stations, plus a religious station with a preacher warning of the wages of sin. She opted for the first country western station. She checked her watch about forty minutes after arriving at the car and was reaching for the door handle when Sheffel came jogging off the trail. He got in the passenger side.
“He’s coming. Saw him climb up using the rope and then he pulled the rope up with his backpack tied to the end. A very full backpack. Somehow I don’t think it’s full of rocks or sea urchins.”
“Wait till he’s at his car?” she asked.
“Let me pretend I’m heading out for a hike and pass him just before he gets to his car. We’ll get him between us. He looks pretty harmless, sort of a college type, but we won’t take any chances. Definitely don’t let him get in the car.”
No more than three minutes later, Lawton appeared with the originally empty backpack miraculously filled to bulging.
“How many abalone do you think?”
“Could be thirty or forty,” said a disgusted Sheffel. “Here I go.”
Sheffel walked toward the trailhead, passing within twenty feet of Lawton. They nodded and exchanged greetings in passing.
Probably something like, “How’s the hiking?” or “See any sea serpents out at the cape?” or “How was the abalone poaching today?” Greta thought sarcastically.
She got out of her car and started walking toward the trailhead, holding her coat as if to ward off the damp air. During her previous tour, she had moved the car so that a line from her car to the trailhead passed by Lawton’s car.
He had almost reached his car and she was thirty feet away, when Sheffel called out, “Steve Lawton! Fish and Game. Mind telling me what you have in your backpack?”
Lawton stopped stone still. Something must have been going through his mind. Surprise? Fear? How to get away? An inane thought popped into Greta’s mind: whether he was considering pulling his gat. She fought a giggle.
