Down by the River Read Free Page B

shops, the occasional restaurant or tasting room, but these were commonly near the highways and not in the heart of town.
    Industry didn’t bring the new folks to town, but rather entrepreneurship supported by those new folks and new tourism. Once someone realized several artists and crafts artisans had relocated to the peace and beauty of the valley, a gallery would suddenly appear. After a rash of tourists were noticed poking around the little towns, a few bed-and-breakfasts sprang out of refurbished old houses like spring tulips. As vineyards expanded their crops, tasting rooms would emerge. And as traffic along the highway increased, so did the number of quaint restaurants.
    There were those whose income did not come from the town or the land. Myrna Hudson Claypool was a very successful novelist and Sarah Kelleher was just one of several well-known artists. And then there were rich folk who built between the shadow of the mountains and the vast beauty of the Pacific Ocean just because they could.
    But there were others who came to the valley not so well fixed. With growth came opportunities in construction, logging and farming, and with opportunity came people in search of work. Or people passing through on their way to the cities in search of a paycheck because their seasonal work had dried up in some other town. It was an unfortunate fact that plenty of people sought work of an illegal sort, poaching fish or wildlife, or growing marijuana. The draw to such professions would be the promise of easy money.
    The young man in the back of June’s truck, huddled against his flat tire, was just such a case. His name was Conrad Davis, and by the looks of him, it would appear the money hadn’t come as easily as he had hoped. Jim was in a hurry to get this young man’s tire fixed and send him on his way. After working undercover for the DEA all these years, his nose was good and his instincts better. This guy had a thin, hapless, no-account look about him, but Jim sensed there was something more going on. Conrad was slow moving, which could be accounted for if he was high, but he had an angry grimace on his facethat belied pot smoking. Potheads were usually lackadaisical, not ill-humored. Jim suspected there was more at work than just marijuana. Maybe he was going up and down…a little pot, a little crystal meth.
    Jim pulled into the gas station. He hadn’t spent enough time in and around Grace Valley to know that there were more than the usual number of cars present on Valley Drive, mostly around the café. The garage door was open and Jim spied a tall, tanned and formidable man inside. Though his hair was completely white, his shoulders were broad and his face had a youthful appearance. He held a broom in one hand and a fishing pole in the other, as if trying to decide which to employ. As Jim got out of the car and walked toward him, the man retired both against the wall.
    “I figured this for a busy day,” Sam said. “Busier than usual.”
    Jim stuck out his hand. “I’m Jim Post. I’m…ah…”
    “Sam Cussler,” he said, taking the hand. “I know who you are, son. More or less.”
    The pieces fell into place immediately. June had related many stories about the town and its people. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Cussler.”
    “If you’re going to stand on ceremony, it’s going to take us a long time to get around to fishing. You do fish, don’t you, son?”
    “Whenever possible, Mr…Sam.”
    “Good. There’s a need for that around here.” Sampeered past Jim to spy Conrad struggling to get the heavy tire out of the back of the truck. “He’s a tad puny for that big old thing, ain’t he?”
    Jim had almost forgotten about Conrad. He moved quickly to get the tire from him and rolled it toward Sam. “I was coming into town with June this morning when we happened past this young man and his family and their disabled truck. The missus was having a baby. June delivered the baby, took the young woman, baby and