Third, there are interviews with various local people. No one says anything particularly telling one way or another. They’re mostly versions of “She was quiet and kept to herself” but in this case a few people come out and say they thought Colette overdid the keeping to herself. One woman—I must find a way of asking Mira about her—seems to have been Mira’s tutor for a while. Anyhow, this tutor’s name is Hortense Ramsbottom. She was quite waspish on the subject of Colette. Refers to her as an empress with her own little empire within the walls of that house.
Another person quoted is the man who apparently did groundskeeping. His name is Martino Navidad. That surname seemed weird but familiar to me and I looked it up. It means “Christmas”! I guess it’s not a weird name for a Spanish person. I understand they sometimes name their children “Jesus” and don’t think anything impious about it. There I go again …
Okay. What Martino Navidad said that caught my attention was that although he kept the grounds for the house for many years, he was never, ever invited inside, not even into the kitchen. He didn’t bring this up to whine or anything, but apparently the reporter asked him if he knew Mira and he said he didn’t, explaining he didn’t have anything to do with the household.
Maybe that isn’t strange. Lots of people don’t want muddy-footed gardeners in their houses. It just seemed strange to me, so I’m noting it down here.
Another interesting thing is that this set of clippings contained some other pictures of Colette. They really bear out the grand dame image—and I think they confirm something I’ve suspected for a while. She must have preferred more elaborate styles of dress. A couple of the pictures—one was a group shot from some gala, another of citizen’s at some outdoor fete—gave me a good look at her dresses. Not a one wasn’t full-length, and while it isn’t easy to tell fabrics from a newspaper photo, I think I now know where Mira gets her taste for silk, lace, and velvet. It’s getting so I can’t imagine Colette in something as simple and practical as a shirtwaist.
What I find really fascinating is that no one in any of the articles mentions this eccentricity. It’s as if they took her strange choice of fashion as a matter of course. Or maybe out West people still dress like that. I wonder how I could find out? I wonder if it’s at all important or if I’m just being a woman and too interested in superficial matters.
Oh. And most important! The Las Vegas paper mentions the chief of police by name, and gives the general impression that he had put himself in charge of the investigation. I don’t know if that’s good or bad or whether I even dare to write him about it. Still, I like having the name. If I do figure out a way to follow up, it will beat writing “Dear Sir …”
INSIDE THE LINES
I remembered seeing a couple of envelopes in the metal box, and now I went and dug out the one containing the newspaper clippings Aunt May had just been referring to. The newsprint had faded and yellowed, cracking in places when I unfolded the various articles. The whole had a slightly sour smell that wasn’t precisely unpleasant.
Aunt May’s journal entries had mentioned all the salient points, but it was still fascinating to read the yellowing clippings and catch from their faded lines some of the immediacy of the events. Occasionally a line or two was missing, folded into oblivion, but oddly these breaks made the parts that survived all the more real.
I found myself referred to as “the tragically abandoned child.” There were several reproductions of what had to have been that year’s school photo. Aunt May was right. Side by side with pictures of Colette, I looked very pale and rather insipid. Colette had all the life and vibrancy.
Carefully, I placed the envelope of clippings on the bed. I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror searching the lines and angles of my face for any resemblance to my mother. I saw none. Of course, I was at least twenty pounds heavier. If anything, I looked like Aunt May. This made sense in a way. After all, hers were the mannerisms that had been my subconscious model for most of my life.
I stood staring at my face, looking for something, anything that would connect me to my mother. I found nothing. I began to panic. My heart thudded so fast and hard I could see the fabric of my tee shirt shaking.
I tried to reassure myself. I was probably at least twenty years older now than my mother had been when she—vanished, died … . The thing to do would be to compare pictures of me from my early thirties with these photos. I could buy one of those programs beauty salons use to show customers potential new looks, then use the computer to shade my hair into black, to tint my eyes, to pluck my brows into that ironic arch Colette favored, even to shave off a few pounds.
That thought drove me into further panic. I was there again, kneeling on the floor in my mother’s room, watching her color in her face, seeing it all through the mirror’s double reverse. The memory was so acute that I could feel the fabric of my dress against my skin, feel how the pads of my knees were numbing slightly from pressing against the hardwood floor. I remembered how even at the time I’d known I was leaving shiny patches on the velvet, but I was too on edge to care. It was a small violation in contrast to the trespass I had already committed.
A dull thunk brought me to myself. I found myself kneeling on the bathroom floor. The “thunk” had been me hitting the tiled floor, but I hadn’t felt the impact, only heard it. I sat there, leaning my head against the pedestal base of the sink. I knew the detachment I was feeling was probably shock. I’d been through a lot these last few months, now, here I was, forcing myself to take more.
A sensible, reasonable voice in my head told me that tomorrow I should call Domingo and tell him to board the house back up. Then I should drive over to Mrs. Morales and get her advice on who to use to appraise the place and put it on the market. Her commission would assure that she got me a fair price.
Would the house sell better with furnishings? No. I should sell those separately. There were estate agents who handled that sort of stuff. I’d arrange for one. Domingo could get a commission by being my representative during the inspections and such. And I’d get out of here.
I’d go back to Ohio and adjust to being Mira Fenn again. I’d move into Aunt May and Uncle Stan’s house. It was larger than mine, and held so many good memories. The yard was nicely fenced, perfect for a puppy. I’d get a kitten and raise the two together. Then back to teaching art, back to helping young people grow into their best potential.
That’s what the sensible voice said, and it soothed me sufficiently that I rose from the bathroom floor, put away the journals and clippings, got myself washed and ready for bed. I slept without dreams.
I woke early and ate in the hotel dining room, listening to the locals discuss the drought. Then I went up to my room and picked up the phone. I punched in Domingo’s cell-phone number and heard him answer.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied. “This is Mira Fenn.” My next words came from somewhere other than my sensible self. “Can you get the boards down from the windows? I want to see Phineas House in daylight.”
“No, problem,” he said. “I can get my sister’s son to help me. He owes me after the window yesterday.”
“I can help, too,” I said, wondering where my sensible self had gone. “And since the electricity and water are on, I think I’ll move in. I’ll call the gas and telephone companies from here before I check out. I can sweep out the front parlor or something and camp there.”
“Bueno.”
I was surprised to hear Domingo sounded genuinely pleased. My sensible self had thought he would resent this invasion of what had been effectively his property for so long.
“Can I give the gas and phone people your number?” I asked. “You’d be better at answering any questions they might have than I would.”
“That would be fine.”
“See you in a bit then,” I said and rang off.
On the way to Phineas House, I stopped by the real estate office. Luck was with me. Mrs. Morales was in an
d not busy.
“I’ve decided to move into Phineas House,” I said. My sensible self forced me to add,” … at least for now. I need to find what’s there and think about what I’m going to do with it.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Mrs. Morales replied, though something in her tone told me she wouldn’t stay there for anything, not if she could afford a comfortable hotel room.
“It’s probably in the paperwork somewhere,” I went on, “but could you tell me what exactly is the arrangement with Mr. Navidad? He said something about having tenancy in the carriage house in return for being caretaker. Is there a lease or something?”
She shook her head. “Nothing so formal. If you wish the carriage house for yourself, you should simply give Domingo notice. A few weeks, at least, would be polite.”
I mirrored her gesture. “Nothing like that. I just wanted to know if the carriage house and property was still mine, or if it had been deeded to him.”
“It is yours.” Mrs. Morales paused, biting into her upper lip with very good teeth. “Are you planning to let Domingo go? He is a bit of a fool … Not mentally impaired or like that, just oddly focused. The way he talks … especially about Phineas House. Maybe you have noticed?”
Mrs. Morales’s dark gaze was pleading, and I strove to reassure her.
“I have. Domingo Navidad reminds me of many artists I have known, but instead of clay or paint or stone, that house has become his medium. Don’t worry. I’m not going to throw him out into the streets.”
Mrs. Morales relaxed. “There would be many willing to take him. Both Highlands University and the United World College have offered him positions, but he has refused. I am pleased you will keep him on.”
“For now,” my sensible self said. “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, but whatever I do, Domingo will have ample warning.”
Mrs. Morales sent me on my way with a friendly smile and a copy of a sheet of paper listing good eating and shopping establishments in the area. It was probably nothing more than she gave to every stranger coming through, but I found the gesture warming.
After a stop at a grocery store where I loaded up on a wide variety of provisions, I rechecked the directions Mrs. Morales had given me the day before, then turned the red truck in the direction of the place that once I had called “home.”
It wasn’t home now, but when I pulled the truck up in front of the house and Domingo came to meet me, I saw there had already been changes. The boards had been removed from some of the front windows, and the front door stood open, except for a double-paneled screen door.
“Señora Fenn,” Domingo said.
I leaned out the window of my truck and interrupted him.
“Mira.”
“Mira, then.” He gave a slight smile. “If you wish, you can park your truck in the carriage house garage. There is room.”
I looked rather dubiously at the twisting wrought-iron fence and the yard. There was no driveway, and certainly the grass under the spreading elms had never been driven on.
“This is going to sound stupid,” I said at last, “but how do I get there? The car was always brought around front.”
Domingo crossed to my truck, Blanco dancing behind him.
“If you will permit, I will come with you and give directions.”
“Hop in,” I said. “Forgive the litter. I haven’t cleaned out the trash from my drive out here.”
“No problem,” he said, moving the road atlas to one side and getting in. Blanco leapt up into his lap and immediately pressed his nose to the window.
I rolled up my window and switched the air-conditioning on to a higher setting.
“Go back to the end of the street,” Domingo said, “then turn left.”
His directions took me to a neat, graveled alley that ran parallel to the cul-de-sac, though with less of a curve. Like the house and yard, it was well-maintained. This last wasn’t a great surprise, since Domingo himself would need to use it for his own vehicle.
“This is the gate,” Domingo said. “I have equipped it with an electronic opener and can give you the spare, but for today …”
He hopped out, opened the gate, and motioned for me to drive in. The garage door was already open, and a space prepared for my truck. It had even been swept. I felt a little bad about the gravel my tires brought with them. A little, but not too—after all this was my garage.
“Let me help you unload your things,” Domingo offered, but I held up a hand.
“Not yet. I need to figure out where I’m going to put them. I brought a tool kit and some groceries, and for now that’s all I need.”
Domingo insisted on helping me with the groceries, showed me that the kitchen door had already been unboarded, and then left me to myself. Blanco waited a few minutes longer, perhaps hoping that one of the cookies I’d picked up in the grocery store bakery was going to get dropped. When he saw one wasn’t, he let himself out the back door. He was clever about it, standing on his back legs and pushing down the lever with his nose, then letting his weight swing the door the rest of the way open.
I started by checking to see if the elderly refrigerator still worked. It was reassuringly cool inside, so I put the perishables in, and stowed a bag of ice in the freezer compartment. Then I stuck the nonperishables in the nearest cabinet. This done, I looked around the kitchen, trying to decide where to start.
“I suppose,” I said aloud, “I should see if there are still pots and pans and dishes and things like that. There should be, but …”
I went around opening cabinets and peering inside, using my flashlight to probe into the deeper reaches. Again I was caught with a feeling that this place was both home and not. This kitchen was unfamiliar territory to me. I had no idea where anything was kept. I had never sat at the scrubbed wooden table near the garden window doing my homework and talking to my mother. Nor had I covered myself in flour while learning to bake. Those memories belonged to another kitchen, another place.
Even so, time and again as I opened those unfamiliar cabinets, I came across things that were achingly familiar. There was the everyday dishware, the bright Fiesta ware that I had always loved because of its vibrant colors. These were the very same plates from which I had eaten nearly every meal I remembered for my first nine years. I even recognized a hairline crack on the glaze of the shining red plate at the top of the stack. I’d put it there one day when I’d been in a hurry to finish my dinner so I could continue a game that had been interrupted by adult priorities like meals.
In other cabinets I found familiar casseroles and platters, an egg-cup of ruby red glass that had been the only thing which could coax me to eat soft-boiled eggs, the floral flatware, drinking glasses in amber and blue. Each item held a fragment of memory, yet each piece seemed oddly out of place here where they must have spent most of their time. My memories of them were set on tables, filled with food, or empty and being carried out by one of the silent women.
The pots and pans held fewer memories, but were reassuringly solid: cast iron, thick aluminum, enamelware. No teflon coatings or flimsy light-weight stuff made to be thrown out after a few years’ use. Everything in the kitchen cabinets seemed to be for practical, daily use. The good china and silver I faintly remembered must be kept elsewhere.
Slowly it was soaking into me what a tremendous treasure I had in this house and its contents. It was as if I were opening a time capsule—a house that had remained essentially untouched for forty years. The items that weren’t outright antiques were probably collectibles. The Fiesta ware was a good example. I’d seen individual pieces selling for about what it would cost me to buy an entire new set of dishes at one of the discount markets.
My scrounger reflexes flared up at the realization. I thought about phoning Betty Boswell and asking her to mail me a box of the reference books I had at home, books I’d accumulated because there were times that my scrounging for art supplies had led me to a real find. Eventually, I’d wanted to know how to identi
fy the next one. With those books, I could do some classifying, set up a shop on one of the Internet auction sites, make a huge killing …
Then the impulse died back, quickly as it had risen. As I understood it, estate taxes and the like had been paid back when my mother had been declared dead. Property taxes had been dutifully paid every year. I didn’t need any money, not immediately at least. I would certainly have major expenses if I decided to do anything with the house, but right now I didn’t need to—didn’t want to—look at the place merely as a repository of things to be looted and sold. I needed to know what was here, yes, but more important, I needed to know what had happened here.
Deliberately, as if making a declaration of some sort, I pulled out three plates of the Fiesta ware—one blue, one red, and one sunshine yellow—and three tall, pressed glass tumblers. I rinsed them, dried them, and made up plates of cookies and fresh fruit. Then I mixed a tall pitcher of iced tea from a powdered mix and bottled water.
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