Remember Me, Irene

by Jan Burke

  “What have you got for me?” I asked.

  He smiled and opened a desk drawer. “I don’t know how you found out about this before I did,” he said. “Swear you’ll keep me posted on your progress?”

  “Girl Scout’s honor? Or may I simply cross my heart?”

  He tugged at a manila clasp envelope, pulling it out of the drawer but keeping it in his hand. “Here are the records on the area near the Angelus. You wanted the redevelopment projects for 1974–78 with Tyler, Hill, Dage, and Watterson, right? I did that, but I also looked up a couple of other items, including the current status of ownership in the area. This has turned out to be very interesting,” he said, opening the clasp. “Right now, the building next to the Angelus is owned by Hill and Associates.”

  “Roland Hill’s company. I remember seeing construction work being done on it.”

  “Hill owns several of the buildings surrounding it. If there’s construction being done on any of them, Keene Dage’s company is doing the work. He owns one or two of the properties himself, as does Corbin Tyler.”

  He pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was the current list. The name at the top of the list surprised me.

  “Keene Dage owns the Angelus?”

  “You sound shocked. He hasn’t owned it for very long; officially, just for a couple of weeks. That’s not the most important thing you can learn from that list, anyway.”

  I studied it. “Most of these were purchased within the last month,” I said.

  “Keep that in mind. Now look at the list of owners for these same properties a year ago.”

  He handed another sheet of paper to me. There was only one owner listed for all of the properties. Pacific View Associates.

  “Pacific View Associates? Didn’t you write about them recently? They’re on the verge of bankruptcy, right?”

  He smiled. “Yes. Most of PVA’s properties are going cheap, although that may change soon. But we’ll come back to that in a moment. There’s the list of owners for the years you asked for. Take a look.”

  I studied this list for a moment, then said, “Hill owned almost all of the properties that PVA owns now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would Hill sell it to PVA, then buy it back again?”

  “Hill, Dage, and Tyler—the businessmen on your list. Sometimes Hill brings in other investors, but very few others are involved. Let’s just say Hill for now. He has an uncanny ability, wouldn’t you say? Buys very cheap, sells higher, buys cheap again. He has an eye for choice properties.”

  “You said ‘choice properties.’ Forgive me if I don’t see this section of town as ‘choice.’”

  “Irene, you disappoint me! You’re never going to make the kind of money these people do if you don’t learn to use your imagination. Where did Las Piernas plan to build a convention center?”

  “I’ll never make that kind of money anyway. But to answer your question—until recently, down on the waterfront.”

  “And?”

  I frowned, thinking over what I knew about the project. “The plans for the convention center have become a big disappointment to a lot of folks; those waterfront properties belong to a mixture of owners, including the city itself. But the California Coastal Commission put the kibosh on the plans last week, and it’s not clear if the city will spend the time and money fighting it because—Oh, hell.”

  “My faith in you is about to be restored,” Murray said.

  “I should have thought about the area less than a block away from the Angelus. Las Piernas may not fight the Coastal Commission, because there are alternative sites. One of the alternative sites for the convention center is near the Angelus, isn’t it?” I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the area. “It’s not on the shore, so it’s out of Coastal Commission jurisdiction. But it’s on a slight rise, so anything built there still could be ocean view, especially if you made it tall enough. And unlike most of the other proposed sites, there is a high rate of vacancy in the area—which is partly what’s killing PVA. With fewer tenants to move, if you put the convention center there, you wouldn’t get many complaints.”

  “Bingo!” Murray said.

  “So Hill and his friends buy the property for low prices in the 1970s, sell it to PVA for a profit, and then buy it back when they get some indication that things might not go well with the Coastal Commission. A commission that’s looking at plans that Allan Moffett could influence.”

  “Easily,” Murray agreed. “Even if he didn’t draw up the plans himself, his lackeys wouldn’t ignore his suggestions. Knowing that certain elements of any waterfront plans might cause the Coastal Commission to balk, he could use his influence to ensure those elements were included.”

  “Or purposely exclude elements the Coastal Commission would want. And he probably oversees the cost projections on fighting the Coastal Commission’s decision as well.”

  Murray nodded. “Determining that it would be better to move the project away from the shore.”

  “But Hill and his friends couldn’t have planned this from the late 1970s, could they?”

  Murray shook his head. “While it’s not impossible—there has been talk of a convention center for many years—my guess would be that they steered toward opportunities wherever they saw them. They got out of the Angelus area when it didn’t look like it would go anywhere, put their capital to better uses. They got back in when new opportunities were on the horizon.”

  “Or they decided to head back to these properties when inside information was given to them.”

  “Yes, well, that is always a possibility,” he said, then smiled and added, “Not that I would ever imagine such a thing happening in our fair city.”

  “Not in a billion nanoseconds. Thanks for the information, Murray. Now, I believe I owe you a favor.”

  He didn’t deny it, and his look of anticipation caused me to laugh. “Yes, Jack Fremont will talk to you. Want me to have him call you?”

  “You need to ask?”

  I WENT BACK TO the newsroom and pulled out the Riverside phone book again. Stuart Angert was openly curious about my meeting with John; I told him that he’d have the whole story by that afternoon and repressed the urge to tell him to page me if he had any questions after the staff meeting.

  At my desk, I covertly copied my pager number down, a series of digits that seemed to defy mnemonics. I opened the phone book to the M’s, looked up June Monroe’s number again, wrote it down, and put the phone book back, still refusing to give in to Stuart’s pestering.

  I called the Riverside number, knowing she would not be back home yet. When her answering machine picked up the call, I said, “June, I need to ask you a couple of questions,” and left my pager number.

  I leaned back in my chair for a moment, thinking about the list of things I wanted to follow up on. I hoped the records office at the college came through. If I could talk to Nadine Preston, I might get closer to understanding what had gone on with Lucas Monroe’s thesis.

  I called Claire.

  “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about,” I said.

  “Are you free for lunch?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Would you mind coming out to the house? I know it’s a long way from work for you, but it’s so hard for me to be out in public right now …”

  “I understand. It won’t be a problem for me to be away from the office,” I said, wondering if maybe I could get used to the pager idea.

  Naw. I knew I couldn’t. Especially not after I met Wrigley on my way out of the building.

  “Irene!” he called out, with more bonhomie than Santa. He was acting like we were old pals. I knew what had inspired this. I once quit the paper, and every time Wrigley worries that he’s insulted me enough to get me to jump ship again, he gets avuncular at best and downright kissy at worst.

  He crossed the building lobby to come closer, but kept a respectful distance. He’s an ass-pincher, but he’s never trie
d that with me. Maybe it’s because I once circulated a tall tale around the building about breaking someone’s nose for doing that. By the time Wrigley heard the story, I think I had supposedly put someone in the hospital.

  “I hope you aren’t too upset about the pager,” he said. “It’s really the mark of a professional journalist these days.”

  “Really? I thought I had to make that mark in ink.”

  “You know what I mean! Look, I carry one of them myself.” He pulled back his suit coat to reveal the pager on his belt. “See?”

  “I’m thrilled for you,” I said, but already, evil thoughts were forming.

  “Where are you going?”’ he asked.

  “That’s the neato-fab thing about these gadgets, isn’t it? You don’t need to know where I am, because you can always page me!”

  “Well, I don’t know about that …”

  I almost left without telling him, but realized he would be jealous, so I said, “I’m having lunch with Claire Watterson.”

  “The widow?”

  “We probably have more than one in town.”

  “I’d love to meet her.”

  I’ll just bet you would, you slimeball, I thought. “I’ll tell her,” I said, and pushed the door open, but then paused on the threshold. “No, wait. Maybe she’d be willing to have you join us a little later. Shall I have her page you?”

  “Oh, sure.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a business card and a six-hundred-dollar fountain pen. He flipped the card over and jotted his pager number on it.

  I even kept a straight face when he handed the card to me.

  AUNT EMELINE OPENED the front door when I arrived at the Watterson house. I was glad to see her; it seemed to me that she was one of those sturdy people who would be good to have at your side in a crisis, and I was relieved to know Claire wasn’t staying in this big house alone. Finn came from the back of the house to remind me that Claire still had his company as well, dancing around me in great circles and barking. Aunt Emeline said, “Hush now, Finn,” and he obeyed immediately.

  It was then that I heard a rumbling noise that seemed to be coming from the back of the house.

  “Construction workers,” Emeline said. “Claire is out there with them. She must have left the back door open for it to be so loud.”

  I followed Emeline to the back of the house. Claire was standing outside, watching something going on in the backyard. When I reached her, I was puzzled to see a bulldozer at work behind the house—until I realized that it was leveling the ground where the cabana had stood.

  Claire saw me, came back inside with me, and closed the door before attempting conversation. She was wearing a navy blue silk dress that seemed a little big on her—then I realized that she looked thinner to me. There were dark circles under her eyes. But her voice was firm when she said, “I didn’t want to look out there and see that building every day.”

  “Of course not,” I said, doubting it would be so easy to level the memories of what had happened there. I thought again of Ivy, still uneasy over Jeff’s death a decade or more ago.

  We sat down to lunch together—Aunt Emeline’s chicken salad. “It’s the best in the world,” Claire had said, and as far as I’m concerned, that was the truth. Claire didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, but no one fussed at her over it. Aunt Emeline led the conversation, which meant that it was centered on recipes, books we had recently read, people she had known back home, and gardening. I didn’t doubt that this woman could have held a conversation on almost any subject. I suspect she chose her topics with more care than was apparent in her easy manner. We didn’t talk about Ben or Lucas during lunch, which is probably why Claire managed to eat at all.

  At the end of lunch, Claire asked Aunt Emeline to excuse us, but before we left she said, “We’re going to talk in the library, but don’t you do those dishes, now. It’s my turn.”

  “What happened to your help?” I asked when we were alone.

  Her mouth drew into a tight line. “Gossip became a problem. When certain people wanted to buy information, my housekeeper and cook each invented something to sell. None of it true in the least, mind you.”

  “Did they live in?”

  “No. That’s why they weren’t here when… they weren’t here that night, although the police questioned them anyway. And what they told the police was quite different from what they told the media. What they told the police was just what everyone else said. Ben talked of retiring. Never mentioned illness or suicide.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. I never mistreated anyone who worked here, never even spoke sharply to them. But they actually hinted that I… that I could have …” She drew a shaky breath. “I’m so glad the police put an end to that, anyway. I know there will still be gossip. But I don’t have to have people like that in this house.” She looked up at me. “To be honest, I’d just as soon do the work myself. Aunt Emeline and I take turns fussing over each other. She’s been wonderful. She likes you.”

  “Probably because she doesn’t really know me.”

  “Nonsense. You said you had something to tell me?”

  I brought her up to date on what I had learned from Lucas’s mother about the photographs, and what I had learned of Nadine from my conversation with Ivy. I didn’t mention Jeff, but Claire must have known the story.

  “How could I have forgotten about Ivy? Her friend—what was his name?”

  “Jeff.”

  “Jeff,” she repeated absently, gazing out a window. “That’s right, Jeff.”

  “I just learned the story today. I wasn’t living here when he died.”

  “All these years. My God, how has she managed?”

  “Maybe you should ask her someday. When you’re ready,” I added quickly. I was going to say more, but it was obvious that Claire didn’t want to dwell on it.

  “I have something for you,” she said, going over to the desk.

  24

  THESE ARE BEN’S desk calendars,” she said, lifting a set of three leather binders, each binder in its own slipcase. “Every night, he would come home, talk to me for a while, and then spend a little time in here, making notes about the day.”

  She carried them over to me. The spines were labeled 1975, 1976, 1977. “They weren’t as difficult to find as I thought they might be.” She drew in a deep breath. “Ben apparently became nostalgic during those last few weeks. He must have gone through some of these. He was tying up loose ends, I suppose—he gave some historical photos of the bank to one of the men who worked there, did things like that.” She paused. “I guess I’m feeling nostalgic, too. Forgive me for keeping the one for 1974 aside. It’s the year we were married. If you need it, let me know.”

  “Don’t worry about it for now,” I said, feeling the weight of the three I held.

  “He was fairly religious about making entries,” she said. “When he was ill, or a little down, he might miss a day or two.”

  “A little down?”

  “He’d get depressed now and then. Not often,” she added quickly. “Not severely. I had no reason to believe …”

  “Of course not,” I said, tracing my fingers along the spine of 1975.

  “Before you open them, I have another request.”

  I looked up at her.

  “Promise me that you’ll just use these to help me find out why Lucas Monroe was contacting Ben. If you want to write a story about that, I won’t object. But there’s a lot of confidential information about customers of the bank in these calendars and some personal information as well. Can I trust you—as my friend—not to report on any of the rest of it?”

  Her trust was all that had brought me this far, and she clearly wasn’t going to part with the calendars without my promise. I gave it to her.

  “I think the 1977 calendar will be the most helpful,” I said.

  “The one for the year Ben sold the boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “That reminds me,�
�� she said, and went back to the desk. She opened the top drawer, searched through a thin sheaf of papers, and took an unsealed envelope from them. As she handed it to me, I saw that she had written my name on it. “This is the information on the boat.”

  I removed the handwritten note from the envelope as Claire sat on the couch next to me. It read:

  52’ Bertram sold to Andre Selman for $1000.00 on 8/15/77

  “A thousand dollars! For a fifty-two-foot Bertram? Hell, was the bottom missing out of it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “When Andre took me fishing,” I said, “it was on a little Boston Whaler. A fine craft for its purpose, but I don’t think it was fifteen feet long. A Bertram—what was the thousand for? Refueling it after a test ride?”

  “It’s bad enough without your exaggeration, Irene.”

  “I was wondering how someone making an assistant professor’s pay could afford a boat that size. It would strain his budget just to afford maintenance and taxes and slip fees. But the boat—Andre got himself a helluva deal, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Andre got himself a helluva gift,” she muttered.

  I watched her. Her eyes were lowered, her hands folded carefully in her lap.

  “Why do you think Ben gave Andre such a bargain?”

  She bit her lower lip, shrugged. “As I told you, the last time he went out on the boat, Ben got a bad case of seasickness. Came back late one day from a fishing trip with Andre looking awful. Ben said he didn’t want to set foot on it again, that he was going to sell the boat to Andre. I remember that much.”

  “Come on, Claire. A man who is nobody’s financial sucker practically donates an expensive item to a college professor? Over a bout of seasickness? I know people who’d make themselves throw up for the kind of money he lost on this deal. There’s more to this.” I watched her carefully. “No guesses?”

  “I didn’t know he had sold it for so little! I know it looks bad,” she said, then added, “Maybe that’s why Lucas Monroe sent those photos—maybe he knew why Ben sold the boat for next to nothing! He worked for Andre, right?”

  “Not by then. A lot of things had happened by August of 1977, Claire. I’ll tell you what I know so far. Around 1975, Roland Hill and a few of his friends had acquired some real estate in a seedy part of town. I haven’t checked into it yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bank of Las Piernas financed some of the purchases. Andre Selman was hired to do a study for the city, probably at Allan Moffett’s urging. The study was supposed to help the city target areas for redevelopment money, and to help the city plan for the future. Lucas Monroe was one of Andre’s assistants.”