by Mary Daheim
It was unlikely that Lucifer had swept Sweetums away. Obviously, Phyliss had opened the window to air out the room. A huge camellia bush grew halfway up the exterior wall of the second story. It was an easy jump for Sweetums. Judith looked outside, where she saw an orange-and-white form slinking through the dahlias. Lucifer was nowhere in sight.
With a sigh, she took down the curtain panel that Sweetums had ripped. Fortunately, it could be mended. She’d have to do it before her guests started arriving. The room was taken by a widow who was traveling with her sister and brother-in-law.
Adjusting the curtain rod, Judith lost her balance and banged against the chest of drawers next to the window. As she caught herself, her arm flew up, dislodging the dresser scarf. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
Judith picked it up and stared. Two words were written on the notebook-sized paper: “Meacham” and “Revenge?”
The handwriting and the ink were the same as that of the word “Meacham” written on the old, faded slip of paper that Renie had retrieved from the hospital.
It figured. The last occupant of Room Two had been Alfred Ashe.
FIFTEEN
“IT KEEPS COMING back to Alfred Ashe,” Judith asserted over the phone to Renie. “The link has to be the Hasegawas, of course. But why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Renie shot back. “They’re his in-laws. They got sent off to a detention camp. He’s helping his wife find her—”
“Treasure,” Judith interrupted. “What do you bet that Charlie Schnell stole that jewelry from the Hasegawas?”
“I was going to say roots,” Renie murmured, “but you’re right. So why does Alfred keep making notes about the Meachams?”
“’Meachams’ with a question mark this time,” Judith noted. “The Hasegawas knew the Meachams, they were neighbors. I wonder if Mrs. Ashe’s—or Hiroko Hasegawa’s—parents are still alive?”
“Ask her,” Renie said. “I imagine she’ll be coming up here from San Francisco to sit by her husband’s bed.”
“You’re right,” Judith replied. “I think I’ll try to reach her right now.”
Hiroko Hasegawa belonged to a large firm that sounded as if it covered the ethnic map: Olson, Epstein, La Fleur, Chang, Lincoln, Habib, Brownbear, Cassetti, Hasegawa, Quandi, Fabersham, and Smith had offices in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. They also, Judith figured, had a very large letterhead.
An austere female voice took Judith’s call. “Ms. Hasegawa is unavailable,” said the voice. “May I tell her who’s calling?”
Judith identified herself, adding that she was a friend of Ms. Hasegawa’s husband. “I’d like to know if Hiroko is coming here to be with her husband.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Flynn,” the voice said in a tone that conveyed no regret whatsoever, “but I’m not at liberty to reveal Ms. Hasegawa’s personal plans. At the moment, she’s in court on a very important case.”
“Oh, of course,” Judith said in her most confidential manner. “I know she’ll come out on top. It’s vital that she does.”
“You know about it?” the voice said, a trifle shaken.
“Of course,” Judith replied, lying through her teeth. “I told you, Alfred and I are very close. He was staying with my husband and me up until he suffered his accident.”
“Then you know who has right on their side,” the voice said, warming audibly. “The injustice of it all! And of course Hiroko has a personal stake, since her parents and her two older siblings were shipped off to one of those awful camps. The government owes them much more than money, but what else can you ask for but restitution at this point?”
“Yes,” Judith said, enlightened. “Yes, it’s the least—and unfortunately the most—that can be done. Which reminds me, I’ve misplaced Hiroko’s brother’s address.”
“Goodness,” the voice said, sounding chagrined, “I don’t have either of her brothers’ addresses, not since Ozawa moved to London and Hashimoto was transferred to Buenos Aires.”
“Oh.” Judith may have gotten lucky guessing that Hiroko had at least one brother, but she wasn’t about to try to track down people living abroad. Nor did she push her luck by inquiring after a sister. “That’s all right. Let’s just hope that Alfred’s condition improves.”
“We’re all pulling for him,” the voice said. “By the way, Hiroko’s parents have their sons’ new addresses. Would you like their number?”
“Yes, yes, I would,” Judith said, brightening.
“It’s four-one-five…” the voice began as Judith grabbed a piece of paper and began writing.
Three minutes later, Judith was speaking with a sprightly voiced woman in San Francisco who assured her caller that she was Mrs. Hasegawa. “You’re a detective?” she asked with the faintest of accents. “Do you know who hurt poor Alfred?”
“Not yet,” Judith confessed. “My husband’s working on the case. I sort of…help. But the doctor is quite optimistic.”
“Good,” Mrs. Hasegawa said. “Alfred has a very hard head. I’ve told him so many times.”
“What I’m really calling about,” Judith went on as Phyliss appeared from the basement, “is in regard to a previous murder investigation at the Alhambra.”
“Murder!” Phyliss burst out. “Carnage! Bloodbaths! Are you perjuring your soul with some of those big whoppers again, Mrs. Flynn?”
Judith made a face at Phyliss and shook her head in denial. In San Francisco, Mrs. Hasegawa was making some strange noises of her own. “The Alhambra!” she exclaimed. “Such a nice place! I never want to see it again!”
Momentarily, Judith felt as if she were talking to Arlene Rankers, who was often given to contradicting herself in the same breath. “Is that so? How come?”
“There were some very bad people living there,” Mrs. Hasegawa declared. “Thieves. Adulterers. Traitors.”
“Really?” Judith’s surprise was genuine.
“That’s right. Of course, you live in an apartment house, you live with all sorts of odd people. Take the Whiffels, for instance.”
The Whiffels were the last tenants that Judith wanted to discuss, but she patiently listened to Mrs. Hasegawa’s assessment of the family’s religious mania. Obviously, such obsessions were still alive and well as Phyliss passed through the kitchen, announcing that Satan had blown a fuse in the dryer, but the Angel Gabriel had tripped the circuit and all was well.
“What about the Meachams?” Judith asked when Mrs. Hasegawa was finally done with the Whiffels.
“Very strange doings,” the old lady declared. “That man had two wives.”
“Oh?”
“That’s right. One blond, one brunette,” said Mrs. Hasegawa. “Both were quite good-looking, in their way. I thought it was scandalous. I said so. Anyway, that’s probably why Mr. Meacham told the authorities we were Japanese spies.”
“He did?” Judith gasped. “How awful!”
“How wrong,” Mrs. Hasegawa asserted. “We’d both come to this country when we were very young, we were both citizens, we loved America. Why, my husband and I practically went to every baseball game during the summer. Of course, the team was only Triple AAA back then, but the quality of the players was big league. All this expansion! It’s diluted the game. How often do you see a pitcher go nine innings these days?”
“Only when the team hasn’t got a bullpen,” Judith said, then got the conversation back on track. “Are you sure it was Harry Meacham who accused you of being spies?”
“Yes,” the older woman answered. “Who else? I think he did it to cover up for his wife—the blond wife—who was probably a German agent. To divert attention, you know.”
“The blond Mrs. Meacham was German? By birth?” Judith queried, trying to sort through Mrs. Hasegawa’s information and allegations.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Hasegawa said firmly. “Alfred confirmed this on the phone. He looked her up in an old reverse directory at the library. Then he checked through one of those genealogical things
. She was born in Berlin, wouldn’t you know it? I always figured her for a spy. She had an accent, very slight, but there it was. Anyway, I ought to know, I still have a bit of an accent myself. Imagine—after over sixty years.”
“It’s hardly noticeable,” Judith commented as Phyliss returned again from the basement.
“Beelzebub put those new red towels in the washer and your husband’s undies are all pink,” she said as she bustled through the kitchen and into the dining room.
Judith kept from groaning out loud. Joe wouldn’t like having pink underwear. “Tell me,” Judith said into the receiver, “how did Harry Meacham manage with two wives?”
Mrs. Hasegawa snickered. “Very carefully, I assure you. He moved in with the blond—Beth, he called her—a year or two before the war. They had a unit on the top floor, in 503. Then what do you know, the summer before Pearl Harbor, he shows up with Dorothy, who’s pregnant. They move into the second floor, 204, I think it was. My husband and I couldn’t believe it. Beth seemed to have disappeared. We figured that she and Harry had gotten a divorce. Anyway, Harry joined the army, and we were shipped off to Idaho. The government decided we weren’t spies, but we still had to leave everything and move away. Anyway, at least we didn’t end up in prison.”
“You’re sure it was Harry who was the so-called informer?” Judith asked.
“Who else?” Mrs. Hasegawa retorted. “I’d made the mistake of criticizing him and his women one day in the courtyard when I was talking to Mrs. Folger, the manager. Harry Meacham was just on the other side of the fountain. I didn’t see him until it was too late.”
Judith remained vaguely skeptical. Mrs. Hasegawa might be paranoid, and with good reason.
“I know about the body in the wall,” Mrs. Hasegawa said. “We still have friends in your area. They sent us the newspaper clippings about it. Isn’t that something? Not that I’d put it past Harry. You see, Mrs. Folger—she was the manager—kept in touch with me after we were sent to that awful camp. Have you ever tried to sweep a dirt floor? Anyway,” she continued, barely pausing for breath, “she told us about the little girl that Harry and Dorothy had had just after we were sent packing. Very cute, very sweet. Harry came home on leave a couple of times. Dorothy doted on their little girl—now what was her name?”
“Anne-Marie,” Judith put in.
“Yes, Anne-Marie. Anyway, Harry finally came back after the war. Eventually, we were freed, but because of all the bad memories, we decided to move to San Francisco. My husband had family here, a brother and an aunt and an uncle. But I kept in touch with Mrs. Folger—she kept track of what was going on in the building, it was her business to know. She wasn’t like that snoopy Mrs. Schnell who was always nosing around. Why, once I caught her going through our bedroom drawers while she thought I was making tea. How long does it take to make tea? I never learned all that tea ceremony stuff. The government should have known that anybody who didn’t know the tea ceremony didn’t care much for the old country. When I was a little girl in the twenties, I wanted to be a flapper, with rolled stockings and a gin flask on my hip. By the time I was old enough, it was the thirties and I got married. I never got to flap.”
Mrs. Hasegawa finally ran out of breath. “So you were saying about the Meachams after the war?” Judith coaxed.
“I was? Oh—yes, I guess so. Anyway, Mrs. Folger told me about Dorothy disappearing. My husband and I figured it made sense, in a peculiar sort of way. She’d been left alone for so long, maybe she’d found somebody else. Of course, we couldn’t figure out why she’d leave her little girl. That seemed queer. Anyway, the next thing we hear from Mrs. Folger is that Beth, the blond, has shown up again.”
“Where had she been during the war?” Judith asked, taking advantage of a brief pause at the other end.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Hasegawa replied, sounding faintly indignant that such a piece of information could have passed her by. “Mrs. Folger didn’t know, either. She’d moved out about the same time that Harry and Dorothy moved in. That’s why we figured that Harry and Beth had divorced. So maybe she got him back on the rebound, maybe he married her twice. Maybe,” the old lady added darkly, “Harry and Beth were never married at all. Or maybe Harry and Dorothy weren’t married. You didn’t broadcast such things in those days. Now everybody lives together in one big pig pile and they don’t care who knows it.”
“That’s true,” Judith remarked. “Did anyone know where Beth went?”
“Not far, it would seem,” Mrs. Hasegawa huffed. “Although my husband figured she’d gone back to Germany to become one of those horrible Nazis. I told him he was crazy. I figured she stayed right in town, waiting for Harry to come back.”
“From the war?” Judith asked. “Or from Dorothy?”
“Both,” Mrs. Hasegawa replied. “Only Dorothy didn’t see it that way, which, I figure, is why she ended up inside that wall at the Alhambra.”
Mrs. Hasegawa didn’t have much more to add. She couldn’t recall Beth’s last name, though she thought it might come to her, and asked for Judith’s number in case she remembered. Perhaps, Mrs. Hasegawa suggested, if Hiroko couldn’t get away to be with Alfred, Judith could act as the personal contact in town to keep the family apprised of any change in her son-in-law’s condition. Judith said she’d be glad to do whatever she could.
The phone rang just as soon as Judith hung up. The caller requested a reservation for the Thanksgiving weekend. Judith took down the information and smiled to herself. For most of the major holidays, the B&B was always full, and at least half of the reservations were holdovers from previous years. In ten years, she had built up a loyal clientele, not just for holidays, but during other parts of the year as well. Repeat business was good business. Judith allowed herself to enjoy a small sense of pride.
But upkeep was vital. After Joe had retired from the police department and before he’d decided to work part-time as a private investigator, Judith had hoped he’d be able to do many of the odd jobs around the house. That hadn’t panned out. With fall coming on, she should tend to some needed repairs. Judith was looking up the number for her aged but highly competent carpenter, Skjoval Tolvang, when the phone rang again.
“This is Nurse Millie from Norway General,” said the chipper voice at the other end. “Dr. Bentley asked me to call and let you know that Dr. Ashe has regained consciousness.”
“Oh!” Judith cried. “That’s wonderful news! Will he be all right?”
“He’s in guarded condition,” Nurse Millie replied. “But Dr. Bentley feels his prognosis is good.”
“I’m so glad,” Judith said. “Can he speak?”
“Oh, no, he has to remain perfectly quiet for at least the next twenty-four hours,” Nurse Millie said. “Absolutely no visitors are allowed.”
“Oh.” The enthusiasm fled from Judith’s voice. “Well…certainly. I understand,” she said, cranking up all the charity she could muster. “Thanks so much for calling. I’ll let his family know about this. Or have they already been notified?”
“We left word at the courthouse for his wife in San Francisco,” Nurse Millie responded. “Apparently, she’s in the courtroom but is expected out soon for the lunch recess.”
“Good,” Judith said. “I’m sure she’ll be immensely relieved. Thanks so much.”
Judith immediately dialed Mrs. Hasegawa’s number, but this time there was no answer, just a machine message in a rather gruff male voice saying, “We’re gone. Leave your number. Please.” Judith decided not to say anything, but to wait until she got through to Mrs. Hasegawa.
For several minutes, Judith sat at the kitchen counter, staring at her computer screen and thinking. At last, she picked up the telephone and dialed Renie’s number.
“No,” Renie said emphatically. “I do not want to traipse around with a real estate person pretending to buy a condo I don’t want or need. I want to spend at least one day working at my desk and leading a life of truth and integrity. No pretense, no sham. Go away.”
“Coz…”
“Stop it.”
“It’s almost lunchtime.”
“I ate breakfast at ten-thirty. Please hang up.”
“Okay.”
Judith hung up. The phone rang almost immediately.
“Ha!” Judith exclaimed. “You are a sucker.”
“No, I’m not,” Renie asserted. “I just thought of something. Take Arlene with you. Her daughter’s in real estate. You know how Arlene loves to find out who’s asking what prices for which property.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. Judith rang off and called Arlene.
“I can’t go,” she told Judith on a note of regret. “We’re painting the guest room in the basement. What time shall we leave?”
“Uh…” It took Judith only a moment to readjust her thinking to her neighbor’s whimsies. “Now?”
“Give me fifteen minutes. The Alhambra, you say? I’ve been dying to get in there, but I understand they’re only showing mock-ups.”
“That’s right,” Judith agreed. “They’re a long way off from completion.”
“All those bodies,” Arlene murmured. “Carl and I were out of town over the weekend. Did I tell you that? Of course I did. We went to visit my cousins down south. They raise chickens, you know. All the chickens died last month. Nobody knows why. I’ll meet you in the driveway in half an hour.”
Though Judith’s head was swimming, she smiled. Conversations with Arlene could be disconcerting, even confusing, but the Rankerses were wonderful neighbors. Judith sought out Phyliss to give her last-minute instructions, then searched through the recycling bin to find the previous Sunday’s real estate listings. Sure enough, there was an ad for the Alhambra. One of Heraldsgate Hill’s crackerjack agents, Geoff Blitz, was handling the property.