“I’m just trying to think like you, Peter. Seeing the world through your eyes.”
Not many people riding west. So Peter and Evangeline got seats on the outside platform.
The guy in the SF cap sat on the other side, took out his phone, started texting.
The gripman threw his big lever, and the gears grabbed the cable running under the street. The car jerked, then rattled on past the Pacific Union Club.
Peter pulled out his phone. “Let’s put ourselves in the history, with the P.U. Club and the Fairmont for background, the only two buildings left up here after the fire.”
“Oh, Peter, no selfies.” She pretended to be annoyed, but when he held out his arm, she gave the screen a big smile.
He angled the iPhone so the guy in the Giants cap wouldn’t be in the picture, but the guy moved his head just as Peter pressed the button. Accidental photo bomb. But a re-shoot? Peter didn’t even ask. Evangeline would only tolerate one selfie at a time.
The cable car rolled past the Grace Cathedral, then down, past apartment houses and businesses, into the swale between Nob Hill and Pacific Heights.
She said, “Can you see the history here? The Earthquake history?”
“Smoking ruins. Broken sidewalks. Twisted cable lines. Once the Great Fire got going, it burned from downtown, up and over Nob Hill, all the way to Van Ness.”
That was also where the cable line now ended. The guy in the Giants cap jumped off and hurried toward Polk, making a call as he went.
Peter and Evangeline walked to the corner of Van Ness, three lanes on each side of a tree-lined median, the most direct route from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate, always jammed with commuter traffic. Add local businesses—car dealerships, restaurants, groceries—and it was always jammed with local traffic, too.
Peter pressed the “Walk” button on the traffic light. “This is where they set up the dynamite line.”
“Dynamite?”
“To create firebreaks. They made a last stand at Van Ness. They’d declared martial law by then, so soldiers from the Presidio just came in and threw people out of their houses and started blowing them up.”
“The poor always get screwed,” she said.
“Poor? Not on Van Ness. This was a street of dreams in 1906.”
Evangeline stepped into the crosswalk, and Peter grabbed her elbow.
“What?”
“Be careful. Maryanne Rogers got run down a few blocks from here.”
“And got this whole business started?”
“The ‘lost journal’ business has been going on for longer than the hit-and-run business, I think.” Peter looked both ways, then up California Street, because the Rogers hit-and-runner had come down the hill and around the corner.
All clear. No white panel trucks, no speeding cars, just an Asian kid in a hoodie curb hopping on one of those small-wheeled Dahon bikes. So across the street they went.
“Did they stop the fire at Van Ness?” asked Evangeline.
“Two miles of fancy mansions made the supreme sacrifice to protect Pacific Heights, although the fire jumped Van Ness at California and burned up to Franklin.”
“Had to make room for Whole Foods.” She pointed up the hill, on the left.
But Peter and Evangeline were going farther, up to a block of rarefied old Victorians standing oblivious behind wrought-iron gates and hedges just above Franklin. Apartment buildings rose around them and the traffic roared like a ceaseless river, but that fantasy island of turrets, gables, pillars, and Palladians defined old San Francisco, a mythical place that had all but disappeared during those three awful days in 1906.
They passed the Coleman House, once owned by an Englishman who bought a played-out mine and built a fortune. Then they came to Arbella House, Queen Anne gone wild, with matching turrets on the front, little balconies, arched windows, and a bouquet of colors—yellow clapboards, mustard trim, red highlights. Evangeline hoped it was as beautiful on the inside. Peter squared his shoulders and rang the bell.
* * *
A MOMENT LATER, THEY were standing in a foyer as big as an indoor tennis court. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling. A staircase descended from the left, as if pursuing the rays of sunlight pouring through a stained-glass window on the landing. And at the foot of the stairs, an enormous gilt-framed mirror reflected the colors right back up.
Evangeline glanced into the parlor, all bright yellow. Her eye went to the portrait of a woman in green silk over the fireplace. And beyond, in the dining room, was the portrait of a man in a brown suit, butterfly collar, and red cravat.
LJ Fallon came up behind the stern-faced Chinese butler, Mr. Yung. Long past was the son’s resentment of his dad’s girlfriend. He gave her a hug and led them into the library, where a Tiffany pendant chandelier hung above a Mission-style table. Books lined the walls. Heavy draperies kept out the light. A desk filled the turret at one end of the room. At the other, an arrangement of leather furniture beckoned readers to the fireplace.
Johnson “Jack” Barber was admiring a painting above the mantel. He pivoted as they entered. The key light on the painting glinted off his bald head. He wasn’t tall—five-six, maybe—but his quick movements filled the space around him.
“One of my favorites,” he said. “‘The Mother Lode, Viewed from El Dorado.’”
“Looks like a Bierstadt,” said Evangeline.
“Very good,” said Barber. “Thought to be lost in his studio fire but right here the whole time. You must be the on-again–off-again girlfriend.”
Way to start off on a bad note, thought Peter.
Evangeline shot a look at LJ, who rolled his eyes as if to say, Sorry, he’s my boss.
Barber came around the sofa to offer a fake grin and dead-fish handshake.
Evangeline smelled Aramis, big stuff back in the seventies, when men’s colognes were a thing, along with double-knit suits and male permanents. She wondered if this guy ever had enough hair for the disco ’do.
Peter, however, was noticing the bespoke suit, a true fashion statement. And the statement was, I can afford a $3,000 suit. Can you? Gray glen plaid with subtle red stripes and a red tie to highlight them. Nice.
Barber offered the dead fish to Peter, who dead-fished him right back and said, “I have no skill at appraising paintings.”
“I do,” answered Barber. “It’s worth about seven million. It’s the view that the Gold Rushers had as they crested a ridge and looked across the Cosumnes River toward the Sierras. James Spencer actually saw that view. But … you’re here to appraise the books.”
“That’s what my son said.”
LJ stood by the library table and watched his father and his boss mark their turf.
Barber strolled over and patted LJ on the back. “Your son is a fine young man.”
Fathers liked hearing that, even from guys they had taken an instant dislike to.
Barber said, “He also assures me you’re the best in the business. Are you?”
“Am I what?” said Peter.
Beat. Beat. Evangeline watched Peter.
“The best?”
Peter’s eyes shifted. Beat. He licked his lip. Beat. He leaned forward, just to emphasize that he was taller than Barber, whose name was appropriate for a man who shaved his head on what appeared to be a daily basis.
Evangeline jumped in before it turned ugly. “Peter Fallon is the best or you wouldn’t have asked for him.”
“She’s sticking up for him,” Barber told LJ. “I guess she’s on-again.”
“So,” said Peter, “let’s get down to business.”
“Not until the executor gets here,” said Barber.
“But we can look at the books,” said LJ.
“An amazing collection,” said Barber.
LJ handed his father a copy of Roughing It. “Twain’s adventures in California.”
Peter looked it over. “Morocco with a gilt stamp. There are only two first editions of this book in this binding.”
“Three,” said LJ.
Barber gestured to the book. “Now, open it.”
Peter saw the inscription. “Very nice.”
“How much?” asked Barber.
“With a Twain signature, in a rare binding, a presentation copy inscribed to an old Gold Rusher? Sotheby’s would love it.” Peter closed the book and gave it back to his son. “Of course, there are a dozen Bay Area booksellers who could tell you this.”
Barber nodded. The light glinted on the place where his skull bones meshed.
Peter said, “I’m not here to appraise paintings or books, am I?”
Barber looked at LJ. “Your father is very sharp.”
“Tell me about the journal,” said Peter.
“We may not be able to determine who stole the transcription,” said Barber, “or why, but Maryanne Rogers believed that we owe it to California to reconstruct it.”
“Is Maryanne Rogers the lady in the portrait in the parlor?” asked Evangeline.
“That’s Janiva, James Spencer’s wife,” said Barber, “and Spencer himself is in the dining room … both painted by John Singer Sargent.”
Peter and Evangeline looked at each other and thought the same thing: Bierstadts, Sargents, Tiffany, and all those books? This was a museum, not a house.
Evangeline asked, “Is there a portrait of Maryanne Rogers?”
“In her sitting room, upstairs.” Barber flicked his eyes toward the ceiling and his voice dropped, as if she was still up there. “She married at twenty. A naval lieutenant, killed in Vietnam. Never remarried. Never had children. Became one of San Francisco’s leading citizens, patroness of the arts, prime mover in AIDS charities, dowager queen to a generation of descendants … a wonderful woman.”
“Too bad she had to die in a hit-and-run.” Peter threw that out and watched for a reaction.
“She died as she lived,” said Barber. “Enjoying her life in the city she loved.”
Smooth, thought Peter, as if Barber had said that before, maybe in a eulogy … or a witness report.
But Evangeline said, “Nice to hear you drop the smart-ass lawyer act.”
Barber looked at LJ. “She sees right through me. She knows I’m just a big softie.”
“Softie. Yes, sir.”
“And Mrs. Rogers would be unhappy if I didn’t offer you a bit of refreshment after your flight. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
Evangeline said, “I’ll have a white wine.”
A voice entered the library: “It better be viognier from Manion Gold Vineyards.” In the doorway stood a tall man with silvering hair and a tan more suited to L.A. than the City by the Bay. He was wearing a double-breasted blazer and linen slacks, and he entered a room as if he expected that everyone knew exactly who he was and why he was there. He swooped straight for Evangeline, kissed her cheek, then held her at arm’s length. “As gorgeous as ever. And so dignified. So … so Boston.”
“I moved to New York almost twenty years ago.”
Manion Sturgis said, “You can take the girl out of Boston, but you can never take that strong Yankee bone structure and sharp eye out of the girl.”
She shot her sharp eye toward Peter.
Manion swung a hand in the same direction. “And you can take the Boston boy out of Southie, but”—Manion turned after the hand—“you can never take that chip-on-the-shoulder attitude out of the boy.”
Peter gave the hand a long look before he shook it. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we pride ourselves on honesty in Boston, too.”
“Don’t confuse ‘opinionated’ with ‘honest,’ Peter,” Sturgis said. “Now … I hear you’ve come to put the humpty-dumpty journal back together again.”
“Maryanne Rogers had a different opinion,” said Barber. “And who invited you?”
“Sarah Bliss. She should be here soon.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang, Mr. Yung answered, and in came an old San Francisco hippie. That’s what she looked like: about sixty-five, frizzy gray hair, long peasant skirt, just as gray and almost as frizzy, striped socks and Birkenstocks encasing wide feet, backpack over an orange hoodie with the SF logo on the front. She dropped the backpack and announced, “I am executor of this will, and I call bullshit.”
Barber pressed the intercom to the kitchen. “Mr. Yung, I think we’ll need something stronger than white wine.”
“I’ll bring in the whole cart, sir,” answered the disembodied voice of the butler.
Sarah Bliss waddled a bit when she walked and filled the room with a presence quite different from Sturgis’s. He was a polished surface. She was all lumps and bumps, and she made the leather club chair sigh when she sank into it.
Barber sat down next to her and flipped open the folder on the table. “You’ll have to sign these documents so we can hire Mr. Fallon.”
Sarah Bliss twisted around and looked at Peter. “I’ll bet you’re expensive.”
“You’re getting my friends-and-family rate,” said Peter.
She looked at Evangeline. “And the pretty lady? Does she work cheap?”
Barber offered her the pen. “Your signature, please, Mrs. Bliss.”
Manion Sturgis said, “That’s probably how he did it with poor Maryanne. Just shoved the pen at her when she didn’t know what she was signing.”
Barber said, “Maryanne’s will was witnessed and notarized.”
“Any undo influence by her lawyer?” asked Manion.
Barber said, “You’re giving our visitors the wrong impression.”
“No,” said Peter, who had drifted over to one of the bookshelves and was perusing the volumes, “I’m finding it entertaining. But I’m easily entertained.”
“You mean easily distracted,” said Evangeline.
“Ooh, banter,” said Sarah Bliss. “I love banter.”
“Families squabbling over leatherbound books,” said Peter, “a laugh a minute.”
Sarah Bliss said, “This is no little squabble. This ‘find-the-journal’ codicil is signed in May, and Maryanne is killed in June.”
“In a traffic accident,” said Barber. “I witnessed it. It was terrible. But these things happen.”
“Damn fishy to me,” said Sarah, “and to my Benson, and he’s a lawyer.”
“Your Benson.” Barber scoffed. “Defending enviro-radicals who link arms around eucalyptus trees to protect them—even though they’re an invasive species filled with so much oil they explode in fires—that’s not estate law.”
“Those trees are living things,” said Sarah. “They have rights.”
Peter and Evangeline looked at each other. One look said, We are now on a fast train to crazy town. The other said, And it’s gone off the rails.
Barber said to Peter, “I hope your son gave you fair warning.”
“My lawyer agrees about undue influence.” Sturgis leaned against the mantel, as if trying to improve the Bierstadt. “Especially since my brother was the signing witness.”
“See what I told you,” said Peter to Evangeline, “family squabbles.”
Barber said to Sturgis, “We know you don’t trust your brother. What about young Fallon here? You recommended him. And he’s all-in on this journal hunt.”
“A smart boy,” said Sturgis. “No need, however, to drag his father way out from Boston to appraise the books.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” said Peter.
“Reconstructing a family journal when you can’t get the heirs to cooperate is a waste of time. So”—Sturgis picked a book off the shelf and put it into Peter’s hands—“while Evangeline comes out to Amador County to taste my wines and write a nice article, stay and play with these.”
Peter looked at the book, then at his son, then at Evangeline. He had decided on cool as the only way to play this, for LJ’s sake. Cool and closemouthed.
Mr. Yung wheeled in the liquor cart: tea, coffee, bourbon, an ice bucket with the neck of a bottle poking out of it.
Sturgis walked over and lifted th
e bottle. “Sturgis Napa Chardonnay.”
“Your brother makes fine wines, too,” said Barber.
“You drink it, then.” Manion looked at Evangeline. “The helicopter is under repair, so a car service will get you at nine tomorrow. A two-hour drive, a nice tour, a even nicer vineyard lunch.” Then he said to Peter, “You can come, too, if you behave.”
After the door closed behind him, Peter said to Evangeline, “Pick you up?”
“Banter’s getting heavy now,” said Sarah Bliss. “Mellow out, people. Have a drink. Or”—she pulled out a neatly rolled blunt—“smoke a joint.” She fished for a light.
Mr. Yung appeared under her nose with a flame in a Bic.
The others watched her inhale, then she offered a toke to Evangeline, who shook her head. “Munchies make me fat.” So, to Peter. He said no and gestured to LJ. “None for him, either, not in front of his dad.”
“Or his boss,” said Barber.
Mr. Yung poured Chardonnays, except for Barber, who took a tumbler of Wild Turkey and said, “If the executors don’t authorize it, Mr. Fallon, we can’t hire you.”
“And the executors don’t,” said Sarah Bliss. “So … nothing to do but go home.”
“Glad we didn’t get a suite,” said Evangeline.
Barber said, “The estate discretionary funds can pay for two nights at the Mark Hopkins, three if you decide to work pro bono on behalf of your son. But if you decide on doing some vineyard hopping or touring, you’re on your own.”
Peter said, “I may stick around for the entertainment. And”—he took a sip of wine—“the Chardonnay.”
“Or the viognier,” said Evangeline.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” answered Barber. “There were seven notebooks for seven sections. Spencer had six children, spread around the country.”
“That’s why I was in Boston,” added LJ, “tracking down a descendant who had the second notebook, the one who called me while we were in the Arbella Club, Dad. It’s still being transcribed.”
“Some of the notebooks are easier to find than others,” said Barber.
w“But we need to find all seven,” said LJ.
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