"You don’t have to knock," she said crisply. "Just come in."
Dori wondered how a British girl ended up working in the history room of the National City Public Library. Instead she walked inside. "Thanks."
"So what can I do for you today?"
"I’m just researching family history."
"Really?" The librarian scanned Dori from head to toe and back as if she were highly doubtful. "How far does your family go back?"
"The 1930’s or thereabouts."
"Who exactly are you looking for?"
Dori rolled her shoulders back, remembering she was a detective and she could lie to the best of them. "My great grandmother."
"And what was your great grandmother’s name?"
Anna's name burned in Dori’s throat. She cleared her throat and managed, "Anna Vazquez."
"Well, let’s see." The librarian turned on her Victorian style heeled boot and then sat down behind a painfully tidy desk that was in stark contrast to the dreadlocked hair twisted at the nape of her neck. Clear plastic folders were labeled and laid in ruler-straight lines. Unlike Dori’s desk at work, there were no coffee rings on the paperwork or sticky notes pasted along the edges of the monitor.
The librarian pushed her glasses up higher on her nose. As she typed, Dori noticed she wore a tiny tea pot ring on her left middle finger with a matching tea cup on her ring finger.
"She’s not in our oral history list," the librarian said crisply. "Was that her married or maiden name?"
"Maiden name."
"Do you know her married name? Most women, unless they were widows, were listed under their husband’s name in the city directory."
"Oh. I don’t know."
The librarian lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "She’s your great grandmother, you said?"
"Yeah." Dori shrank within herself. She had no idea where Anna lived, when she was born or even where she had been waiting for Vicente to return. Dori could tell the librarian what Anna had looked like, what people thought of her and that she smelled like candy. But she had nothing factual.
Then again, she was a detective being questioned by a librarian for God’s sake. It wasn’t like the woman was going to put her in library jail.
The librarian stood up and gestured at Dori to follow. She took her to a bookshelf crowded with hardbound books, all listed in chronological order from 1899 to 1984.
"Try the city directories. See what you find."
Dori wished Vicente had told her the year he'd come to National City. She randomly chose 1926 and then sat at one of the tables. The clacking of a keyboard filled the silent room, and the librarian stared intently at her monitor.
She opened the book at the letter V. Three entries down her finger stopped at Vazquez, Jakob. Dori held her breath at the cold jolt of recognition.
He and his wife, Emilia had lived at 1929 Harding Ave. His profession was listed as proprietor. Anna's name wasn't listed, but holy crap, there were names that matched Vicente's story. She looked up Sorrolla, but found no listing. He'd only referred to his grandmother as "the old lady."
She jotted down Jakob and Emilia's names and address in her notebook. Then for the hell of it, she looked up Orihuela. With a chill she spotted her real great grandmother listed under Orihuela, Francisca (wid). Her profession was listed as laundress. Dori smiled to herself. If that woman did any laundering, it was money.
"Find what you're looking for?"
Dori looked up from the book. The librarian had snuck up on her, perching one hip on the edge of the table.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh." The librarian's hurt tone made Dori wish she'd been a little less defensive.
"Sorry," Dori said, softening her tone. "Yeah I did."
"Was there a death in your family? Because most people who come in here are researching family histories after someone has died." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "I don’t know why death always stimulates interest in the family history. It just does."
Dori took in the woman’s dreads, the black dress with a fitted gray vest and the oddly tarnished silver jewelry. "I bought an old house," she said, closing the book. "I’m doing research on someone who might have lived there."
"Your great grandmother lived there?" the librarian asked.
"Not quite," Dori said, clearing her throat. "She might have known the person who owned it."
"Where is your home, if you don’t mind my asking?"
Dori hesitated. As a cop she never told anyone where she lived. "It's off 24th Street."
"No shite," Meg said.
Dori blinked. Were librarians allowed to say "shite" in the library?
"Meg Yardley." She stuck out her hand.
Dori took her hand, and Meg squeezed. "Dori Orihuela."
"We don’t have much information on that particular house in the collection."
"Do you have any files on bootleggers?" Dori asked.
"In National City?" She brightened and held up a finger as if calling up a lecture in her head. "Well, there was a rather famous murder in 1929 but-" She waved her hand dismissively. "It was an armored car robbery. This town already had a prohibition in place that I believe started in…"
Meg turned and headed to the bookshelves.
"You don't have to look it up."
"1908," she called out. "Yes, that year the city passed an anti-alcohol law, which was typical of the period. Have you seen the Ken Burns' documentary?"
That was a good idea, Dori thought. She wished she'd thought of it before. "Thank you. You've given me a good start."
"You don’t have to leave. Not that many people come up here anyway."
"Should I put this back?"
"Please no," Meg said. "I always reshelve materials. That way nothing slips into a backpack, if you know what I mean."
Dori left the book on the table, feeling as if she’d left a part of herself in it. "What information do you have on my house?"
"Oh here's something." Meg hurried over and pulled out a thin pamphlet. "It was built for Wallace Boal by his father who lived in that yellow pile across the street."
Dori scanned the text under the photo taken in 1888. She hoped for a list of owners but it only detailed the architectural style and when the original owner moved back East.
"How can I look up the owner in the 1930's?"
"You could try the county records. Here’s my card." Meg held it out and Dori toyed with the idea of handing over hers just to see how she’d react. "How long have you owned the house?"
"Maybe a month."
"What are your plans for restoration? If you don't mind my asking."
After her meeting this morning with the contractor who told her to tear it down and subdivide, Dori didn't know how to answer that question. A week had passed since Gavin delivered his estimate. He'd never called or followed up and now, she wondered if he was her best bet.
"You know, people find all sorts of goodies when they tear out walls. You should start a blog."
"I'll think about it," Dori said, edging towards the door. "Thanks for your help."
"Would you care for a lunch?" Meg asked.
"Lunch?"
Meg sucked in her breath. "I brought enough to feed an army, but most people here think my cuisine is a touch on the exotic side. Then again, do you think it’s my accent? I thought Americans would be much friendlier but all they really seem to want to do is work. And the second I open my mouth, they ask if I’m from England, which is fairly obvious and then they shut up as if I’m about to correct their grammar. I’m banging on about, aren’t I?"
Dori thought about her lunch prospects of which there were none. She hardly knew this woman. What would they talk about and should she trust the food made by someone who wore a tiny tea set on her fingers?
"Well, I understand if you need to shove off," Meg said quietly, taking a step back as if to give Dori an escape.
To cover the awkwardness of the whole thing, Dori found herself asking: "What did you bring for
lunch?"
"I’m sorry?" Just like that, Meg’s face went from confusion to delight. "Oh! Stuffed red bell peppers. They’re a specialty of mine."
"I’d like that. Thank you."
Meg popped up on the balls of her feet, as if Dori had produced a cake with candles. "Perfect! Let’s hie to the lunch room."
Meg kept a friendly chatter as they left the history room and went down a short hallway to the lunch room. Dori tried not to think how uncharacteristic it was of her to have lunch with someone she barely knew. Most people she had lunch with were from work. Only a month ago, her days and weekends were filled with barbeques and get togethers. After the shooting Elliot and his wife visited. She got offers to go out and talk about what happened, but she turned them all down. Now her phone hardly rang and she got the occasional email.
Dori thought up conversation topics in case she ran out of things to talk about. She couldn't exactly lay down the last few weeks of her life to someone who worked in the safe, quiet world of a library.
"So how is Anna Vazquez connected to your home again?" Meg asked as they walked into the lunch room.
All of her hoarded conversation topics popped like bubbles. It took Dori a moment to come up with, "She might have had a relationship with someone who lived there."
"An illicit relationship, I hope?"
"I think so. May I help with anything?"
"Of course not," Meg said, opening the refrigerator. She bustled about, explaining how she made up her own recipes as she prepped and microwaved. Dori nodded and listened, thinking how similar this was to talking to Vicente. Except for the fading in and out parts and that she'd seen how he died, there wasn't much difference to interacting with people dead or alive. She almost reached out to touch Meg just in case.
Meg set a steaming plate in front of Dori. "It’s ground turkey with wild rice and my homemade marinara sauce. What do you think?"
Dori politely dug out a piece on her fork, blew on it and then put it in her mouth.
"Oh wow," she said, surprised as it melted deliciously on her tongue. "It’s good. Thank you."
Meg beamed as she sat down.
"How did you end up working here?" Dori asked.
"How much time do you have?"
"Plenty."
"I'm a graduate student and I'm interning here."
"You're from London?"
"Norwich."
"So why here when you live in a country with amazing history?"
Meg smiled mischievously. "My grandmother had much looser morals when she was a girl. My grandfather was an airman with the Liberators of 453rd Bomb Group and well…" She twirled her fork in the air. "He died during an attack on aircraft plants in Germany before he and my gram were properly married. My poor mum hates the story but ever since Gram told me, I've been fascinated with the whole idea."
"So how did that bring you to San Diego?"
"Well that part all began with a Naval officer I met in a Starbucks in Kuala Lumpur. Like my grandfather he was from San Diego and we had great plans until he decided not to divorce his wife."
Meg looked down at her vest, dabbing at a spot with her napkin.
"Do the lattes taste the same in Kuala Lumpur?"
"They do," she said. "I couldn't let a perfectly good green card go to waste and so here I am." She grinned but her eyes were sad. "What about your family?"
"We've been in National City since the dawn of time. I was in in Denver for five years up till two years ago."
"Doing what?"
"Law enforcement."
"A lady officer. I thought that was the case."
Dori grinned. "Did not."
"Okay, I didn’t. But I had a feeling." Meg nodded to Dori’s plate. "Would you like more?"
Drinking her iced green tea, Dori shook her head.
"I've been here in San Diego for almost a year," Meg continued. "I’ll be honest that I have no family and many acquaintances but no close friends, which is why I dragged you here at the slightest sign of interest. You didn't think I was trying to hit on you, did you?"
"If you had I would've let you down gently."
Meg smiled and leaned back in her chair. "Well, that’s good to know."
They lapsed into a comfortable quiet for a moment. Except with Sela, Dori had never been one for chatting over lunch, or having girl time. She’d always had more important things to do than shop or get manicures or gossip. The only other person she confided in was her eighty-something grandmother. Sitting her with Meg made Dori wonder if she’d been missing out on something all this time.
"Well, if you don’t mind my forwardness, I’d love to meet for a coffee or a movie."
"I’d like that, too."
"It’s done then. We’re officially mates. My, you really did like my cooking didn’t you?" Meg asked as Dori collected their empty plates.
"I’ve been eating out of bags and boxes for weeks."
"Then we should do this again. I'd hate to lose a new friend to death by manufactured food products."
"Thank you."
"As for Anna Vazquez's illicit affair, I’ll poke around some more. What else do you know about her?"
They were back on shifting ground. Dori wasn’t like Sela, who pranced through life by sprinkling white lies in her path. "Not much," she said, trying to stick to as much of the truth as possible. "Her parents owned a pool hall and lived in a big house across from St. Anthony's Church."
"Check the county records of your home. Research, I find, leads you from one point to the other and then suddenly you land on one detail that pulls it all together." She smiled at Dori. "I suppose your line of work is the same."
Dori put her hand to her aching side and then eased it back, not wanting to call attention to it. She'd take a Tylenol when she got to the car.
She glanced at the clock and realized she'd spent two hours with Meg. She didn't know where she would go now that they had finished lunch. "So have you found your grandfather's family here?"
Chapter Thirteen
The rain started again that night. Dori looked up from her e-reader on which she'd been reading James Van Praagh's Ghosts Among Us. A tapping sound pulled her out of the narrative and she expected to see Vicente.
Instead, she saw water dripping from the corner of her ceiling. She threw the e-reader down and ran upstairs to the third floor. For a moment, she remembered she should be scared at being alone in a cold, freezing house with a ghost who could appear out of the walls. But then she looked up and saw hundreds of water drips coming through her roof and then knew true terror. Dori couldn't move as she realized she didn't own enough pots, pans and bowls to catch it all.
She shut the door and went back to her bedroom where she stuck the bathroom trash can under the leak. Dori picked up her phone, weighing it in her hand to the sound of drip, drip, drip. She called Gavin's number and got his voicemail.
Dori thought about sleeping downstairs but she felt safer up here. She cleared her throat before she called out to Vicente, "Are you here?"
Only the water tapped into the trash can.
When Gavin didn't call her back the next morning, Dori drove to his office, which was a 19th Century townhome on Brick Row. Ten individual row homes were linked by a white painted porch roof. Tall, skinny windows reflected the Jacaranda trees lining both sides of the street. The wind blew cold and sweet from the lavender colored flowers that fluttered down to the ground.
She walked up to his office, located at the front corner. His truck wasn't parked in front and a sign hung in the door with his cell phone number.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Dori pulled her phone out of her purse and called him again. Hoping to get his voicemail, she scrunched up her face when he answered, "I was just about to give up on you. Enjoy the rain last night?"
She almost choked on the flare of anger. "So when can you get started? Do I write you a check or something?"
"I collect at the end of the month."
"Good. I uh, now
have an urgent project for you."
"Really?" He sounded like he was enjoying this.
"My roof leaks."
He left her dangling in silence. "So, when can you start?" Dori asked.
"Sorry but my guys are on a new job. They'll finish next Monday."
Dori wondered how much longer she could go before her ceilings and floors were irreparably damaged.
"But I'll have my roofer stop by tomorrow with some sheeting for the roof."
"Thank you," she said, relieved. "But here's the thing, I can't afford half the things on the bid."
"I figured that." He cleared his throat. "If you're going to start with anything, reinforce the foundation and save your roof."
She'd never heard anyone make the word roof sound quite like that.
"When I went into your basement," he continued, "I saw that the house is off what is left of the foundation, which is typical for a house that age. You've even got a few places where someone stuffed wood blocks to hold it up."
"Are you saying my house is about to fall into the earth?"
"Well, yeah. It's only a matter of time."
Dori felt slightly ill.
"Look, if you want the job done right-"
She took a deep breath. "Let’s just get things started."
He cleared his throat. "I’ll draw up our agreement and drop it off tomorrow. You need anything else?"
"No, we’re good."
"You don’t sound so sure about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I know the cost is a lot for a single woman like you. Maybe we can work something out."
Her mouth dropped open at his insinuation. Then again, not all of Grampy's teachings on negotiation had been lost on her. A deal was a deal.
"Like what?" Dori asked.
"You sound suspicious."
She could hear the gloating in his voice.
"Let me propose this. How about if you put in some sweat equity? Because I like your house, I'll eat some of the profit."
Her anger snuffed out, leaving her with guilt twisting her insides. She ran her fingers along the rough bricks. "Why would you do that, Gavin?"
"You have a house that's gonna fall to the ground if there's so much as a tremor in the earth," he replied as if they'd never held hands or kissed. "Where's that going to leave you?"
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