Rose's Last Summer

by Margaret Millar

  Mrs. Cushman, the landlady, dressed elegantly for the occasion in flowered chiffon, identified the body. The pathologist, Dr. Severn, read his detailed report of the autopsy to the jury, and Ortega, in a hushed voice, de­scribed how he set out to plant the larkspur Tuesday morning and found Rose instead, lying in the sun beside the lily pool.

  The Sheriff, Angell, doubled as coroner. “Did you touch her, Mr. Ortega?”

  “No sir. I couldn’t touch her, I had this flat of larkspur in my hands. It was heavy; I had my hands full.”

  “Yes, yes. What did you do?”

  “I run up to the house and told the man what I found. That man.” Ortega pointed at Willett, who was sitting in the second row. Everybody turned and stared at Willett curiously, and he tried to appear less visible by slumping in his seat. Noticing this, one of the jurors made a mental resolution to watch Willett like a hawk for further signs of guilt.

  “Now I’d like you to think back to Monday,” Angell said. “My reasons for this will become clear in a moment.”

  A male juror raised his hand and announced that he would like the reasons to be made clear right away, inas­much as he was having trouble following the witnesses who wouldn’t speak plain English a man could under­stand. He sat down, with a reproachful glance at Dr. Severn.

  Angell faced the juror. “Dr. Severn established the time of Miss French’s death as being eleven o’clock Mon­day morning at the earliest and one o’clock in the after­noon at the latest. Since she was not found until Tuesday morning, I want the jury to know why.”

  “I know why,” Ortega cried with an air of triumph.

  “All right, Mr. Ortega, tell us.”

  “On Mondays I don’t work for that man”—he indicated Willett again—“Just on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. On Monday and Wednesday I work for Mrs. Pond. She grows cymbidium orchids.”

  “Then you were not in the garden at 2201 Ventura Drive on Monday at all?”

  “No sir.”

  “Describe this garden to the jury, will you, Mr. Ortega?”

  Ortega merely looked baffled.

  “How large is it, for instance?”

  “It’s not so large but there’s always work to be done.”

  “Has it a fence around it? A hedge?”

  “Oh sure, you got to have a fence and a hedge.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the road goes right past at the back, the road to the beach and the highway. People would be tramping all over if you didn’t have a fence and a hedge.”

  “What kind of hedge?”

  “Eugenia. Very old, very big. In the fall my mother makes jam from the berries.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Angell said, and one or two of the jurors laughed. “Is it possible for an average person to see over or through this, hedge?”

  “No sir, not without a ladder.”

  “Is there any break in this hedge, say from the road at the back?”

  “Yes sir, where the gate is. There’s a little iron gate back there.”

  “Is it kept locked?”

  “No sir, I never saw it locked.”

  “Then it’s quite possible that Miss French was walking along this back road, carrying her suitcase and heading perhaps to the highway, perhaps to the railroad station— and that she saw this garden, decided that it would be a good place to rest, and came in through the little iron gate. Would you say that was possible, Mr. Ortega?”

  “Golly, I don’t know. If you say it’s possible, it’s possi­ble.”

  “All right, Mr. Ortega. Thank you.” Angell consulted his notes. “Mr. Willett Goodfield, will you please step into the box?”

  Willett gave his name, address, occupation, and ex­plained that he was living in La Mesa temporarily for the sake of his mother’s health.

  “Yesterday’s events must have been quite a shock to her,” Angell said.

  This approach was a great surprise to Willett. He had expected to be bullied, or, at the very least, roughly cross-examined, and this unforeseen friendliness threw him into such a state of confusion that he didn’t know what to say.

  “Were you acquainted with the deceased, Mr. Goodfield?”

  “I was—not. No sir, I was not.”

  “Probably you were familiar with her name, however?”

  “She was very well known at one time. But I didn’t recognize her as Rose French when I went out with the gardener and found her. I had no idea what—who she was. It’s been a dozen years or more since I’ve seen one of her pictures.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Goodfield, the extent of your household.”

  “There’s my mother, my wife, myself and one maid. We’re living very simply.”

  “You were all in the house at 2201 Ventura Drive on Monday?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “All day?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did you go out into the garden at any time?”

  “No sir. My mother is bedridden, and my wife and I and the maid are still trying to get settled in the house.”

  “You recall the spot where Miss French was found. Is this spot visible from any of the windows in the house?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never tried to look out at one particular spot from one particular window. Never had reason to.”

  “That will be all, thanks, Mr. Goodfield. Please don’t leave the room until the evidence is completed in case you are recalled to the stand. Captain Greer, you’re next.”

  Greer told the jury that he was James Rudyard Greer, he had been a policeman for twelve years, and a resident of La Mesa for over twenty. On Tuesday, May 22nd, at 8:16 a.m., he received a telephone call from Willett Goodfield, 2201 Ventura Drive, stating that a dead woman had been discovered on his premises. Greer then pro­ceeded to that address in a prowl car along with Sergeant Fiske and Patrolman Halderman, arriving at approxi­mately 8:30. The dead woman was identified by means of the contents of her suitcase and handbag.

  “You have a list of these contents, Captain?”

  “Yes, I have a list and the contents themselves.”

  “Show the court, please.”

  The handbag and suitcase were brought out and emp­tied on the long mahogany table, and the members of the jury filed past one by one. Some hurried, some delayed, some were nervous; but they were all curious. When they returned to the box, fifteen minutes later, they wore an air of subdued excitement. Greer, watching them, knew they were anxious to get home to tell their relatives and friends and neighbors about their experience.

  Silence settled on the courtroom like snow.

  “Tell me, Captain, what is the significance of these half- dozen penny postcards addressed to Mr. Frank Clyde?”

  “Mr. Clyde is in court, sir. I suggest you ask him.”

  “All right, we’ll recall you later, Captain. Will Mr. Clyde please step up?”

  Frank was an experienced witness at commitment trials in Superior Court. This inquest was different; it was in­formal, there were no lawyers involved, and no arguments back and forth about points of law.

  After the routine identification, Frank told the jury that he had known Rose French for over a year.

  “She considered you a friend, Mr. Clyde?”

  “I believe she did, toward the end anyway.”

  “When did you hear from her last?”

  “On Monday afternoon she telephoned me to say that she had found a job as housekeeper to an old friend and was leaving town. I asked her to keep in touch with me now and then, and she agreed.”

  “That was on Monday afternoon at what time?”

  “I thought it was around three.”

  “You realize that your thinking contradicts the facts as presented by Dr. Severn?”

  “I realize that, but—well, I might be mistaken, I sup­pose.
I receive a lot of calls and there are always people in my office.”

  “Have you usually a good time sense?”

  “Not particularly, but—”

  “Do you wear a watch?”

  “I have a pocket watch.”

  “Is there a wall or desk clock in your office?”

  “No sir.”

  “Without consulting your watch, what time would you say it is now?”

  “I suppose it’s about a quarter to eleven.”

  “It’s exactly seven minutes after ten.”

  Frank glanced at Greer. Greer merely shrugged his shoulders and looked up at the ceiling.

  “You admit,” Angell said, “that you could have been mistaken about the time of that phone call?”

  “I could have been, but I don’t think I—”

  “That will be all, thank you, Mr. Clyde.”

  Frank stepped down from the box without argument. He knew—and Greer knew—that the verdict would be what Angell wanted it to be.

  At three in the afternoon the jury made its decision. The deceased, Rose Elizabeth French, had, after over­exertion, died of natural causes, a heart attack.

  On hearing the verdict, Mrs. Cushman, who had con­ducted herself with dignity and decorum for the whole day, burst into tears, and had to be escorted out into the corridor by Frank.

  “With the evidence they had, no other verdict was possible,” Frank said.

  “It isn’t the verdict that bothers me.” Mrs. Cushman wiped her eyes on her flowered chiffon sleeve. “It’s her poor heart, and her with never a word of complaint, and me badgering her the way I did sometimes.”

  “Don’t let it get you down.”

  “And the way I spoke sharply to her about not keeping her room neat like Miss Henderson’s, and her all the time ready to drop dead from a heart attack. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Cheer up. Rose considered you her best friend.”

  “She did? Honest?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m not so sure. You know what she called me? An old bat, that’s what. When I think of all I done for that woman and her turning around and calling me an old bat, it makes my blood boil.”

  “You were very kind to Rose.”

  “You bet I was.”

  “No one could have been a better friend.”

  “No one else would of been such a fool.”

  “Let me drive you home.”

  “All right.” Mrs. Cushman glanced vaguely around the corridor as if she was trying to locate the guilty conscience she had temporarily mislaid. Frank knew what she was looking for but made no attempt to help her find it.

  “I got a feeling,” Mrs. Cushman said, frowning, “I got a feeling I forgot something. I better go back in and take a look around.”

  She went back in and examined the bench she had been sitting on, and the floor around it, but she didn’t find any­thing except a discarded copy of the Los Angeles Times. She took that instead.

  7

  Over a cup of hot, strong tea in Mrs. Cushman’s front parlor, Frank heard considerably more about Mrs. Cush­man’s trials and tribulations with life in general and Rose in particular.

  It appeared that, for the entire week before her death, Rose had been acting secrety.

  “Now if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s secrety peo­ple,” Mrs. Cushman explained, “people that go around all the time without telling other people what they’re thinking or doing. To give credit where credit is due, Rose wasn’t always secrety.”

  “Just for that one week,” Frank prompted.

  “Well, no. It began quite a while ago but the past week especially, I knew something was on her mind be­sides men and liquor. Men and liquor I could understand, knowing Rose, but this going out all the time and not telling a soul where she’d been, that worried me. And always dressed up, too, fit to kill.”

  “She might have had a date with a man.”

  “I thought of that, first thing. Only can you imagine a woman like Rose having a date and not bragging about it all over the place? Bragging was Rose’s worst fault, God rest her soul, except for vanity. Rose was vain as they come. Why, many’s the time she’s taken up the whole supper hour telling about how this man ogled her on the street and that man tried to pick her up at a bus stop. It was dis­gusting, at her age. And speaking of age, did you hear what that Dr. Severn said at the inquest? He said Rose was between sixty and sixty-five. She claimed she was only fifty-two. That goes to show, don’t it?”

  Frank wasn’t sure what it went to show, but he nodded.

  Mrs. Cushman took the nod as a sign of approval and encouragement. The fact was that, while Rose was alive, Mrs. Cushman had always been a little afraid of her. She had thought many nasty thoughts about Rose which she couldn’t put into words because Rose was armed against attack not only by past prestige but by a present tongue as sharp as a razor. Now that Rose had no chance for a rebuttal or a return match, Mrs. Cushman for the first time felt free to speak her mind. Frank was the perfect audience, quiet, interested, and of the opposite sex.

  “I’m not bitter, never’ve been bitter but when she started going out all the time and wouldn’t play canasta anymore—not that she could play canasta any better than a six-year-old child, she had no head for figures. I often had to let her win just so’s she’d keep her temper and wouldn’t walk out on the game.”

  Frank covered his amusement with a little cough. He had heard a good deal about these canasta games from Rose. In Rose’s version Mrs. Cushman was an unmitigated cheat who would stop at nothing to win a paltry game of cards.

  “I could beat her with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back,” Mrs. Cushman said briskly. “More tea?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’ll take a drop more myself. Rose couldn’t stand tea. One of her husbands was an Englishman and after that she couldn’t stand tea.”

  “About these excursions of hers—”

  “Well, like I said, she went out every morning after breakfast all dressed up. A couple of times I asked her, I said, Rose, are you going shopping? She said yes, she was, but when she came home she didn’t have any par­cels so I knew she hadn’t been shopping. Besides, there was nothing new in her room when I went to clean it up.” Mrs. Cushman flushed, but only slightly and mo­mentarily. “Maybe you think I oughtn’t to of gone through her things, but if I didn’t clean up once in a while, who would? And anyway she was behind in her rent and I thought, well, if she’s got enough money to go shopping she’s got enough money to pay her rent. So I just checked to make sure. She had no new clothes, no new anything except a lipstick from the dime store and a whole bunch of maps.”

  “Maps?”

  “Yes, maps, and I don’t wonder you’re flabbergasted. So was I. It was the first notion I had that she was planning a trip somewhere. There must of been twenty maps alto­gether, of different parts of the country and of different cities.”

  “Were they new?”

  “Brand new, like she’d just suddenly decided to go away someplace and got a whole bunch of maps from a travel agency.”

  “Did you ask her about them?”

  “In a sort of way, I did. I said, Rose, are you thinking of going on a trip? And she gave me one of those sly secrety looks and said, my dear Blanche, one never knows what the future holds in store for one.”

  “Did she seem pleased?”

  “Pleased as punch, but trying not to show it. The thing is, where would she get the money for a trip?”

  That was the thing all right, but as yet it had no shape, size or identity. Frank said, “Rose was an impulsive crea­ture. If she did decide to take a trip, I can’t picture her planning it carefully with a lot of maps.”

  “Impulsive, that’s the word all right. Whatever Rose wanted to do she did, and it al
ways seemed right to her at the time she was doing it. Later when it was all over she could look back and see her mistakes and admit them. But at the time she always thought she was right.”

  “That’s a good analysis.”

  Mrs. Cushman flushed and said shortly, “It’s not mine. Rose said it about herself.”

  Frank was not surprised. Rose had admitted her faults with the cheerful unconcern of someone who has no inten­tion of trying to change them. This is me, Rose said, in effect. This is what I did and why I did it and tomorrow I may do it again.

  He said, “What did she do on Sunday after I left?”

  “Stayed in her room for a while. About two o’clock she had a phone call and right after that off she went, looking kind of worried.”

  “Who took the call?”

  “She did. When the phone rang, she came running down the steps like a bat out of hell, shouting, it’s for me, I’ll get it. That’s not the first time it happened, either. You see now what I mean about her acting secrety?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s more, too. Last week—Wednesday it was, I remember distinctly—Wednesday night Miss Henderson came home from work and said she’d seen Rose walking by herself out on the breakwater. Now you know Rose, she just hated the ocean, never had a good word to say for it. What was she doing out there?”

  “Meeting someone, perhaps.”

  “Exactly what I thought. Exactly. So the next morn­ing at breakfast I said to her, meaning to be funny, I said, well, I didn’t know you was so fond of physical culture, Miss French, that you go prancing up and down the break­water of an evening. You know what she did then?—told me to mind my own business. And that’s not all. She said if a lot more people did a lot more walking, they wouldn’t get fat as pigs. Meaning me. Real venomous she said it.” Mrs. Cushman reached for her tea as an antidote. “I’ve taken a lot of things from that woman, but that was the unkindliest blow of all because it so happens that I’ve lost two pounds in the last month. If you’re born skinny the way Rose was, it’s no credit to stay skinny.”

  Frank, who was born skinny, agreed. He ate like a horse and Miriam gained weight.

  “Well, I oughtn’t to take up your time like this,” Mrs. Cushman said. “But I just felt I had to tell somebody about how peculiar she was acting.”