Recycle
Marcia Muller

On their fortieth birthday, most women want a little romance, right? Be taken out to dinner, given a present, maybe some flowers. Not McCone, though. She's one of a kind. On her fortieth, she wanted me to go with her to the dump.
Sure, I know we're supposed to call it a refuse-disposal site, but politically correct doesn't always cut it with me. A dump's a dump, and the proof of that's in the smell.
The dump we're talking about was in Sonoma County, some forty-five miles north of the Golden Gate, out in the middle of a lot of farmland near the town of Los Alegres. A long blacktop road led uphill from the highway; at the top, earthmovers worked on the edge of the landfill, and seagulls perched on a mountain of recycled yard waste.
"Nasty little scavengers flew twenty miles inland to feast at this fancy establishment," I commented.
McCone gave me a look that said she wasn't impressed with the gulls' navigational talents and then slammed on the brakes inches short of the bumper of a van crammed with plastic garbage bags—the last in a line of vehicles that were stopped at the gate waiting to pay the entrance fee.
"I know, Ripinsky, I know," she muttered, even though I hadn't said anything. "Eyes front." Then she steered her MG around the van and took a side road toward the recycling sheds—a row of board shacks surrounded by busted furniture and rusted appliances, where a hand-lettered sign advertised:
RECYCLED MERCHANDISE!
LOW PRICES! HOUSEWARES, BOOKS, CLOTHING AND MORE!

Books? The morning was looking better. Maybe while she took care of her business, I'd lay hand to an old western for my collection.
We'd come north from San Francisco on a lead one of McCone's operatives had turned up, to hunt for a man calling himself Nick Galway. Not his real name; she had good reason to believe he was really the well-known sculptor Glenn Farrell. Ten years ago, Farrell had disappeared from his farm in Vermont, leaving behind his wife and child and taking with him the gold for three pieces of sculpture commissioned by a wealthy client who invested in precious metals and wanted some of his holdings put to esthetic use. Recently a friend of the client had spotted Farrell in Northern California, and the client hired McCone to find him and either take back the gold or turn Farrell over to the authorities.
It was odds-even that Galway/Farrell still had the gold. At least, if you took into account the condition of the caretaker's cottage he rented on a small ranch west of Los Alegres, where we'd stopped earlier. It was sagging and in bad repair, overgrown by ivy and surrounded by weeds and a collection of junk—not the sort of place anybody with the wherewithal to live the good life would've chosen.
When nobody came to the door we drove up to the main house, and McCone spoke with the white-haired landlady, Mrs. Mallory, who identified Glenn Farrell's photo as that of her tenant. She said he was probably scavenging at the dump as he did most mornings.

Now as we got out of McCone's MG, a dark-haired woman with a weather-beaten face and a grimy T-shirt came from the first of the sheds, carrying something that looked like part of a plane's prop. She saw us, did an about-face and tossed the thing into a refuse barrel. Then she asked, "Help you?"
McCone said, "I'm looking for Nick Galway. His landlady told me he'd probably be here."
She gave us an odd look, as if she couldn't imagine anybody wanting Galway. "Haven't seen him today. You a friend of his?" "A friend of a friend asked me to look him up." "Why? The lunatic owe him money or something?" "Lunatic?"
"Well, what else would you call a guy who spends half his life scrounging for stuff?"
"What kind of stuff?"
"Anything. Everything. So long's it's free or dirt-cheap."
"What does he do with it?"
"Claims he's a sculptor. Says he used to be famous under another name. Made expensive art for rich folks, but now his art's in his junk. Weird way of putting it, huh?"
"Well, artists . . ."
"Yeah, artists. Conies around nearly every day, yaps at me the whole time. Nonsense about runnin' away from crass commercialism and middle-class values. I mostly don't listen."
"Well, if he comes in today, will you give me a call?" The woman nodded, and McCone wrote her cell-phone number on a scrap of paper, wrapped a twenty around it. "But don't tell him somebody's looking for him—okay?"
The dump lady grinned at the twenty. "He comes in, you'll hear from me."
In case Galway had turned up at home, McCone decided to check the ranch again, but nobody answered her knocks at the door of the cottage. She was just trying the knob and finding the door unlocked when an old sedan pulled up next to where I was sitting in the MG, and I recognized Mrs. Mai-lory, the landlady. She leaned out her window and asked me. "You didn't find Nick at the dump?"
"No, ma'am." I glanced at McCone. She'd turned away from the door, had her hands clasped innocently behind her. "The woman who runs the recycle shop says he hasn't been there today."
"Strange." She shut off her engine and got out of the car, spry and slim in her work shirt, jeans and mud-splattered boots—the kind of tough old bird that a lifetime of ranching breeds. She reminded me of my dead mother.
Shaking her key ring, she isolated a key and called to McCone, "We better check inside. Nick never stays away this long unless he's at the dump or—"
"The door's not locked," McCone said, and stepped inside.
I got out of the MG and followed at a distance. The case was McCone's, and I knew from long and sometimes hellacious experience to maintain a hands-off attitude.
The cottage was pretty dingy inside: matted pea-green shag carpet, scarred paneling, furniture that belonged at the dump—and had probably come from there. Mrs. Mallory went through the place calling out for Gal-way, while McCone followed close on her heels and I cooled mine in the front room. They came back, Mrs. Mallory shaking her head. "Not here. Worries me."
McCone asked, "Can you think of anyplace else he might've gone?"
"Did you check his studio?"
"I didn't know he had one. Where is it?"
"The barn. It's not used anymore, so I let him have it."
"So he's still sculpting?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it that. Don't know what I would call it. Maybe putting together atrocities. Huge, horrible things that're a mishmash of what he drags home from the dump. Let's see if he's there."

I wouldn't've let that barn stand two minutes on my ranch in Mono County. Of course, one good windstorm and it probably wouldn't be standing here much longer. The door was open, hanging crooked on weak hinges, and a rust-spotted pickup was nosed inside.
"Galway's?" McCone asked Mrs. Mallory.

The landlady nodded and called out to him. There was no answer.
Quiet there. Only the rustle of a eucalyptus windbreak and flies buzzing under the eaves. And a feeling of wrongness. I felt the hair on my neck bristle, looked at McCone and saw she was getting the same warning signs. Together we moved through the doorway and stopped by the truck.
The clotted shadow was broken by shafts of light from holes in the high roof. They filtered down on a couple of eight-foot towers shaped like oil derricks, made of metal, wood, glass and plastic. Their components were all different pieces of junk: beer cans, chair legs, bottles, parts of a baby stroller, an automobile bumper, fence rails, barbed wire, a window pane, a refrigerator drawer.
"My God," McCone said. She didn't mean it reverently. My eyes had adjusted to the gloom now, and I saw other towers that were toppled and broken, lying on their sides and canted across one another as if an earthquake had hit the oil field. The one at the top of the heap was crowned by the blades from a small windmill.
"Stay here," McCone said to Mrs. Mallory. Then she started moving through the wreckage.
I followed, because I'd spotted what she had: a pair of blue-jeaned legs sticking out from under the bottommost tower. Blue-jeaned legs, and feet in shabby cowboy boots. McCone squatted down and shoved at the debris while I lifted. Together we cleared enough room so we could see the man's face.
Glenn Farrell, a.k.a. Nick Galway.
His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, the back of his head caved in and bloody.
McCone felt for a pulse, shook her head and pulled her hand away quickly. "He's cold," she said.
I heard a noise behind us, swiveled, and looked up at Mrs. Mallory. Her eyes moved from the body to us, shocked but unflinching. Yeah, a tough old bird like Ma.
"How did this happen?" she said.
I shook my head and stood up. Like he'd told the dump lady, Farrell's art was junk—or in his junk—and now his lifeblood mingled with it.
I glanced at McCone, who had stood up too. Her expression was as unflinching as Mrs. Mallory's, but I knew what was going on behind those steady dark eyes. She's seen a lot of death, my woman, but she's never grown indifferent to it, any more than I have. By all rights we should both be pretty callous: In her years as an investigator, she's had more than her share of nasty experiences, and my own past still gives me nightmares. But inside, we've got that essential spark of humanity—which was why we drew closer together now as we stared around at the wreckage.
Broken lamp globes. A vacuum-cleaner bag and part of a rusted wheelbarrow. Curved chromium chair arms. A 1973 Colorado license plate. Mason jars, shattered.
Broken mirror—bad luck proved. Chipped head of a grinning garden gnome and some paperback romance novels with holes drilled through them. A toaster's innards. Moth-eaten stuffed deer head. A busted axe. The top of a windmill with one blade missing. . . .
Behind us Mrs. Mallory asked again, "How did this happen?"
Hands-off attitude be damned! "I know how," I said. "Let's call nine-one-one."
It was an accident! An accident!" Mary Delmar, the dump lady, told the sheriff's deputy. "I snuck over there late last night to get his gold, and the crazy bastard must've seen my flashlight, because he came runnin' out to the barn and attacked me. I was defending myself when those towers started fallin' on us. I'm lucky I didn't end up like Nick!"
The deputy, whose name was Evans, rolled his eyes at McCone and me.
"Why the hell couldn't he just've stayed in bed?" Delmar added. "I'd already found the windmill blade. Why'd he have to come out there?"
Evans said, "Where is the windmill blade?"
Delmar collapsed on a bent lawn chair and put her hands over her eyes. "Why do things like this always happen to me?"
McCone tapped the deputy's arm, motioned at the refuse bin where we'd seen Delmar toss the thing that at first glance had looked like part of a plane's prop. He went to check, came back shaking his head. "Ms. Delmar, where is it?"
"Oh hell! All right! It's in there." She jerked her head at the shed behind us. "I had to paw through all that junk, scrape paint off everything till I found it. It'll probably never clean up right."
"I'll have to read you your rights," Evans said.
"My rights? Why? I already told you it was an accident. His fault anyway, runnin' out there and attackin' me."
Evans gave up, motioned to his partner to take over. Right off. Delmar started yowling about calling a lawyer.
Evans took McCone and me aside, muttering, "Galway—Farrell—is dead, but she's the injured party."
McCone shrugged and said, "Nowadays, it's always the other guy's fault."
"One thing bothers me," Evans said. "This woman's not very bright, and she doesn't strike me as an art expert. What tipped her to who Farrell was?"
"He told her he used to be a famous sculptor under another name."
"But did he tell her what name?"
McCone hesitated, frowning. "I don't know. But he certainly wouldn't've told her about the gold." She looked at me, raising her eyebrows.
I shrugged, then spotted the sign advertising recycled merchandise at low prices. "Well," I said, "maybe she's a reader."
"Oh?" From both of them.
"Come on." I headed for the shed where the books were. Maybe I'd come across an old western or two while I was hunting.
Plenty of romances, best sellers, self-help and cookbooks, but no old westerns. On the back wall, though, there was a pictorial set: Popular Twentieth-Century Artists. The fourth volume was missing, and when I checked the introductory volume, I found that Number Four was on sculptors. A glance through Number One showed that each article was accompanied by a photo of the individual.
I found the index and flipped to "Farrell, Glenn." There were several notations, but the most interesting was "theft and disappearance." I showed it to McCone and Evans.
"So," McCone said, "Mary Delmar is a reader—at least when she smells a potential profit."
"Yeah, she is. She spotted this set, decided to see if she could find out who Galway actually was. Read about the stolen gold, and figured out what he meant about his art being in his junk."
To my astonishment, McCone hugged me. "Ripinsky, what an absolutely fabulous birthday present!"
I leered down at her. "You like that one, wait till you see what else I've got for you."
She narrowed her eyes at me, then flicked them toward Evans. She's a very private woman, one of the many reasons I love her.
"McCone and I are both pilots." I said to Evans, who was looking quite interested. To McCone I said. "Think airport. Think the Citabria, fueled and ready to go. Think terrific destination."
"Oh?"
I nodded firmly. "Terrific and surprising."
Now, if I could only come up with a terrific surprising flight plan by the time we got back to the Bay Area. . . .