“It’s high, about fifteen-hundred to two-thousand-feet elevation, and Lucy talked about the pine trees. There are a few little towns scattered trough there, and a lot of small two-to five-acre pear farms and almond farms. Lucy said it was really pretty, kind of quiet and peaceful, not too many people around.”
“Isolated?” Vicki suggested.
“Well”—Gravy thoughtfully rubbed his chin—“I suppose if this Mrs. Heath wanted to find a real private location to hole up and write her book, she wouldn’t have too many neighbors to bother her in the Sierra foothills. Especially if she didn’t stay at inns, if she rented a house—”
So Lucy and Mrs. Heath were somewhere in the Sierra foothills, around the pear-growing towns! Gravy had said that was about three hours’ driving time from San Francisco. By private plane, Vicki figured, it would take much less time. If she visited and inquired at the main villages in the area, she probably would learn something about the two women. Strangers in a rural area would surely be noticed.
“That’s what I could do,” Vicki thought. “It’s not much of a trip, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to look around a bit. I did promise Mrs. Bryant I’d do my best.”
She noticed Gravy glance, with embarrassment, toward the large clock on the wall.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Graves,” said Vicki. “Mr. Hall told me I mustn’t detain you too long.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. Guess I told you everything I could about Lucy. Maybe Maggie could’ve remembered something more—”
Vicki said she hoped to meet his wife another time, thanked the painter, and went to the door.
“If you see Lucy,” said Gravy, letting her out, “tell her one more sitting will finish up the portrait. So long, now.”