Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

could see how tempting it was. I paused a moment, trying to stem my mendacious urges, and finally blurted out, “I heard he had an accident on a cable car.”
    She looked terribly distressed. “Look, I’m afraid I don’t know where to find him.”
    “Do you know anyone who would? I really need to talk to him.”
    “His mother, maybe, but I don’t know her name. All I know is she’s from Turlock. She came down to take care of him after he—I mean, I always just called her Mrs. Mathison.” The distress suddenly left her face. “Oh, there she is. Thank God.” I looked around, half expecting Mrs. Mathison herself, but the only human in sight was a teenage girl. The babysitter.
    I left elated, pretty sure I was on the right track. Les’s neighbor, I thought, had pegged me for an old friend and didn’t want to be the one to tell me bad news—either about Darlene or about Les’s assault on the cable car. At any rate, there was
something
she didn’t want to tell me; if this was a different Les, he’d had his share of bad luck, too.
    Now I had to figure out how to approach Mom Mathison. On practical grounds, I decided against driving to Turlock. I might have all day Saturday to myself, but that was ridiculous.
    In the end, I phoned, using one of Rob’s favorite tactics for getting people to talk. He claims experience has taught him it’s what they really want to do, anyway—just give them a chance and they’ll probably go at it full tilt. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if Mrs. Mathison asked any difficult questions—like why did I want to find Les—but I felt that after berating Rob for lying to get information, I ought to try to avoid doing it myself.
    There were four Mathisons in Turlock, and the third time I asked for Les a woman spoke up hopefully: “Les? He’s not here right now—did he tell you he would be?”
    “Is this Mrs. Mathison? His mother?”
    “Yes, it is. Are you a friend of Les’s?”
    “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Mathison. But I need to talk to him, and his neighbor told me he might be there. My name is Rebecca Schwartz,” I added, hoping she wouldn’t recognize it.
    “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well, I haven’t heard from Les in—oh, maybe a year or more. Before that, only every once in a while. Ever since his accident he’s stayed away. I so much wanted him to come home, too—he never had a worry in the world till he moved to San Francisco.”
    I was starting to get goose bumps. Controlling myself, I said, “You mean the accident on the cable car?”
    “Yes. Unless—don’t tell me there’s been another! I couldn’t stand it.”
    “Not that I know of. It’s just that I don’t know what he’s been doing lately.”
    “Trying to find himself, I imagine. I pray to God every night that nothing else has happened to him and that he’ll come home to us soon. And come home to Jesus, too.”
    The last sentence sounded so heartfelt I could almost feel Mrs. Mathison’s pain myself. “I didn’t know he was a religious man.”
    “Went to church every Sunday of his life until he left Turlock. Active in Sunday school, too. And the 4-H and the Boy Scouts and president of the Future Farmers of America. We brought him up to lead a good, healthy life and he did, too—a model boy. They still remember him over at the high school.”
    “So Les grew up on a farm.”
    “More like a ranch, really. I never saw a boy that cared so much for his animals. Hated it when he had to slaughter ’em—but he did have to, of course; they teach ’em that in 4- H; what’s the point of raisin’ ’em if you don’t slaughter ’em? But he was always a sensitive boy. Said they hadn’t done anything to anybody, so why should he hurt ’em? My husband had to whip him till he’d do it; hurt him more than it hurt Les, but he had to—only way to teach him. We never believed in sparin’ the rod, but there was a lot of love here and Les knew it. He’d never have left home if we hadn’t lost the ranch. He said there was nothing for him in Turlock anymore—he had to go to San Francisco and try to make it on his own.” She started to sob. “I’ve wished so many times he’d stayed here, but I know it was God’s will that he had to go. That’s what our pastor said when I went for counseling and I know he’s right. I pray every night I’ll learn to accept it someday.”
    “Did he move to the city with his wife?”
    “Say, are you a girlfriend of his?”
    “No. I’m a lawyer and