J is for Judgement

Telemarketing Incorporated? How are you today?"
    "Is this a sales pitch?"
    "Absolutely not, Mrs. Huff. I can guarantee it. We're doing market research. The company I work for is interested in your leisure pursuits and discretionary spending. These forms are filed by number, so your answers are completely anonymous. In return for your cooperation, we have a nice prize already set aside."
    "Oh, right. I bet."
    Jesus, this lady wasn't very trusting. I said, "It will only take five minutes of your valuable time." Then I kept my mouth shut and let her work it out on her end.
    "All right, but make it brief, and if it turns out you're selling something, I'm going to be annoyed."
    "I understand that. Now, Mrs. Huff, are you single, married, divorced, or widowed?" I picked up a pencil and started doodling on a legal pad, thinking ahead frantically. What did I really hope to learn from her?
    "Married."
    "And do you own or rent your home?"
    "What does this have to do with travel?"
    "I'm getting to that. Is this a primary or vacation residence?"
    Mollified. "Oh, I see. It's primary."
    "And how many trips have you taken in the past six months? None, one to three, or more than three?"
    "One to three."
    "Of the trips taken in the past six months, what percentage were business?"
    "Look, would you just get to the point?"
    "Fine. No problem. We'll just skip some of these. Do you or your husband have plans to travel any time in the next few weeks?
    Dead silence.
    I said, "Hello?"
    "Why do you ask?"
    "Actually, that brings us to the end of my questionnaire, Mrs. Huff," I said, speaking rapidly and smoothly. "As a special thank-you, we'd like to provide you, at no cost, two round-trip tickets to San Francisco and two nights all expenses paid, at the Hyatt Hotel.
    Will your husband be home soon to accept the compli-entary tickets? There's absolutely no obligation on your part, but he will have to sign for them since the :, survey was in his name. Can I indicate to my supervisor 'when you might like to have us drop those off?"
    "This is not going to work," she said, her voice tinged with irritation. "We expect to be leaving town momentarily, as soon as . . . I'm not sure when he'll be here and we're not interested." With a click, she disconnected.
    Shit! I banged the phone down on my end. Where was the man, and what was he up to that might "momentarily" motivate his departure from Perdido? Nobody's heard from him. At least, nobody I knew of. I couldn't believe he'd talked to Carl Eckert, unless he'd done so within the last half day. As nearly as I could tell, he hadn't been in touch with Dana or Brian. I wasn't sure about Michael. I'd probably have to check that out. What the hell was Wendell doing? Why would he come this close to his family without making contact? Of course, it was always possible he'd managed to talk to all three of them, and if that was the case, they were better liars than I was. Maybe it was time for the cops to put a tail on Renata Huff. And it might not hurt to run Wendell's picture in the local papers. As long as he was running, we might as well sic the dogs on him.
    Meanwhile, come suppertime, I was going to have to make yet another trip to Perdido.
    15 I SET out for Perdido again after supper that evening. The drive was pleasant, the light at that hour a tawny yellow, gilding the south-facing mountain ridges in gold leaf. As I passed Rincon Point, I could still see surfers out in the water. Most were straddling their boards, rocking in the low swell, chatting while they waited, ever hopeful, for a wave. The surf was mild for the moment, but the weather map in the morning paper had showed an eastern Pacific hurricane off the California Baja, and there was talk that the storm system was moving up the coast. I noticed then that the horizon was rimmed with black clouds like a row of brushes, sweeping a premature darkness in our direction. The Rincon, with its rocky projection and its offshore shoals, seems to act like a magnet for turbulent weather.
    Rincon is the Spanish term for the cove formed by a land point projecting seaward. Here, the coastline is molded into a series of such indentations, and for a stretch, the ocean butts right up against the roadway. At high tide the waves erupt along the embankment, sending up a white wall of frustrated water. Beyond, on my left, fields of flowers had been cultivated on several terraces where the underlying earth was slumping toward the sea. The vibrant red, gold, and