“Speaking of such things, have the police spoken to you about the other day? They seem quite curious about you.”
I looked around to see if anyone could overhear our conversation. The store was full of folks meandering through the aisles, laughing while they tried on hats and jackets. They seemed absorbed in their own business. Still, I decided to change the subject.
“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been sick,” I said. “Are you feeling better?”
She waved it off. “Must have been something I ate. I could stand to lose a few pounds, anyway,” she said with the conspiratorial smile known to women who understand the slimming potential of the stomach flu. “Speaking of newspaper articles, I saw the big spread about your store.”
“I think everyone must have. The place has been jammed.”
“Lily, this might not be the time and place for this, but we have some business we need to discuss,” Delores said, her tone suddenly serious. “Would you prefer to come to my office, or do you have a minute now to talk privately?”
“Oh, of course,” I said. I told Bronwyn I was stepping into the back room for a moment and led the way through the heavy velvet curtain to the old green table. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Juice?”
“No, thank you.” She collapsed into a high-backed faded purple velvet chair. “Ahh, it feels good just to sit down. I love these shoes, but they sure don’t love my feet.”
Delores was wearing the kind of sophisticated high-heeled pumps I could never get used to, though I admired the look. One thing I liked about my vintage outfits was that so many of them looked good, in a funky way, with comfy shoes like Keds and sandals. Footwear that let me sell clothes on my feet all day, and outrun the occasional spirit at night. All in a day’s work.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Delores said, leaning forward and fixing me with her soft brown eyes. “Frances Potts amended her will the night before she died. She left everything to you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She left you her entire estate.”
“But . . . that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want her estate.”
“All I can do is make sure it goes to you. Afterward, it’s yours to do whatever you like with.” Delores shrugged and brought a slim file out of her maroon leather portfolio, handing it to me. “If you want to give it to that sad-looking man sitting on the curb outside your store, be my guest.”
“How is this even possible? I only met Frances once, on the night she died.”
“Technically it was the night before she died—the medical examiner placed the time of death at sometime around dawn the next day. Not that it matters. The night you and Maya visited, Frances and I had dinner. She asked me to change it at that time. It was a simple enough thing to do, a one-page document I printed off and had her sign right then and there.”
I opened the file and read the paper, noting Frances’s wobbly signature at the bottom of the page. Had I unconsciously influenced her somehow?
“I still don’t understand. Why would she do such a thing?”
“She was quite impressed by you. She said something about your financing Maya’s oral history project, doing something worthwhile with the money.” She studied me for a moment, then gave me a quizzical smile. “Most people are happy to hear they’ve inherited. Does it matter why?”
“Yes, it matters. If Frances wanted Maya to have money for her project, why not give it to her directly? And what about her own daughter? She mentioned grandchildren, as well.”
Delores shrugged. “Her daughter Katherine is . . . an interesting character. She’s the one who found her mother, you know, poor thing. I feel terrible—I called Katherine after I left that night, suggesting that she drop by. First time she visits in years, and . . .” She shrugged. “Anyway, now she won’t talk to me. Perhaps you’ll have better luck. Here’s her information.” She handed me a piece of notepaper with Katherine Airey’s phone number and address.
“You mean she lives right here in San Francisco?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“I guess I assumed she lived farther away, and that’s why she wasn’t around more.”
Delores just shook her head and sorted through a few other papers in her attaché case.
“Do you know anything about a redevelopment plan in the neighborhood?” I asked.
“All I know is, Frances didn’t want to sell. One of your neighbors here in the Haight, Sandra Schmidt, met with her about it several times. She even came to me once.”
“Why do you think she wanted it so badly?”
“She’s involved in a neighborhood association nearby that’s working with the city on a broad redevelopment plan for that whole area. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, it could use the help.”
“And Sandra wanted the house?”
“I believe she wanted to tear it down, use the property for a park or some such. I didn’t get into the details—Frances said no, so I relayed that to Schmidt.”
“Could I ask . . . why are you representing Frances? What with running for office and all, it seems rather small potatoes for you.”
“She and my mother were close,” she said, gathering her papers and tucking them back in her briefcase. “I do a certain amount of pro bono work, and a lot of older folks have a hard time finding lawyers they feel comfortable with. Plus, I love a home-cooked meal from time to time. Slim-Fast shakes can only take a person so far.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I added. “I forgot she was an old family friend.”
“Oh, by the way, Frances was very explicit about her burial in her will. She already had a plot picked out, so presuming the police release her body in time, the funeral will be tomorrow at eleven, in case you’d like to attend. Please invite your young friend Maya as well.”
She took the notepaper back and wrote the name and address of the cemetery, the date, and the time. It was an Oakland address.
As we stood, I asked, “Have you heard anything more about Jessica?”
“Who?”
How could she have forgotten? “Little Jessica, Frances’s neighbor?”
A pained expression passed across her face. She seemed so sad that I pushed aside my momentary misgivings. “Jessica. No, nothing. I grieve so for her family.”
Delores told me she’d be sending me some more papers to sign within the week, and let herself out.
I stayed behind at the table for a moment, thinking. Why in the world would Frances change her will after meeting me? Had I somehow influenced her unconsciously? Great. Now I not only had opportunity for her murder, but I had clear motive. I wondered how long it would be before Inspector Romero came knocking on my door . . . this time with handcuffs.
This was ridiculous. I didn’t need the Potts estate; I didn’t want the Potts estate. I would give it back, as simple as that.
I picked up the phone extension and dialed the number Delores had given me.
A man answered the phone with a distinct Eastern European accent.
“This is Lily Ivory; I was hoping I could speak to Katherine Airey.”
“Is this a telemarketer?”
“No, I—”
“What is the business you are calling about?” he asked.
“Her mother’s lawyer gave me her number. It’s about her mother’s estate.”
“One moment, please.”
I heard a dog barking in the background, a large one by the deep, gruff sound of it. I immediately felt better about Katherine Airey. You had to like someone who liked dogs.
The man came back on the line.
“She has already receive the papers from the lawyer. This is no problem.”
“It’s not that there’s a problem, exactly. . . . Could I speak directly with Ms. Airey? It’s really a personal matter.”
“What is your name?”
“Lily Ivory.”
“One moment, please.”
He set the handset down again. I heard a woman’s voice in the distance, and though I
could not make out the words, I thought I heard a cold tone in her voice. I could only imagine what she thought of me, a complete stranger who had just inherited her mother’s estate. Not only was she grieving the violent death of her mother, but she probably thought I was a fortune-hunting scam artist who managed to worm her way into an old woman’s heart.
Still, she relayed a message through the man on the phone: I was welcome to come by anytime this afternoon after two. He gave me an address on Vallejo Street. I jotted it down and slipped it into my jacket pocket.
After pondering for another moment, I got up and rechecked the storage closet for Frances’s wedding gowns. The older I got, the more I had to look repeatedly in the same place to find things. I liked to blame the borrower imps, but it was probably nothing more supernatural than my own distracted mind.
Still no wedding dresses in the closet.
“Bronwyn, have you seen Frances Potts’s wedding dresses anywhere?” I asked as I returned to the front of the store.
“I thought you put them in the storage closet.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too. They’re missing.”
Just then Maya walked in, ready to begin her first day at work.
“Hi, Maya,” I said. “You haven’t happened to see Frances’s wedding gowns anywhere, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Who would abscond with two old wedding dresses?” Bronwyn wondered.
“They’re not old; they’re vintage,” intoned Maya, reciting the store’s slogan.
I smiled. “She’s got you there. But either way, they’re still missing. Let me know if they turn up, will you?”
In between helping customers, I showed Maya how to operate the register, and started to train her on my rather intricate inventory-control system. I kept track of what eras and styles were most popular, and liked to keep a record of where we were getting the clothes from. She caught on quickly. I watched while she checked out several customers and was impressed with her ease and efficiency. I should have hired her weeks ago.
Two hours later the shop was empty of customers and we spent our time clearing the dressing rooms and straightening the hanging clothes and the always messy scarf shelves. I kept thinking ahead to my meeting with Frances’s daughter Katherine. What should I say, exactly? I would tell her I was giving the estate back . . . but there was more: I was hoping she could tell me something about her mother, or the house, or the neighborhood that would help to explain some of what was going on.
Maybe setting up gruesome voodoo altars was an old family pastime, for example, and Katherine had stopped by to light the candles, and quite accidentally set off a chain of events that almost killed Max with a sacrificial knife. You never know.
Once again, I had the new-for-me sensation of not wanting to be alone. This friendship thing was addictive.
“This is sort of out of the blue,” I said, my eyes sliding over to Maya, who was folding a pile of jewel-colored velvet scarves at my side, “but would you come with me to meet Frances’s daughter?”
“Like a condolence call? That’s thoughtful.”
“In part. But there’s more to it than that. Delores Keener came by earlier today. Remember her?”
“The lawyer?”
I nodded. “She told me that after we left that night, Frances changed her will and left her entire estate to me.”
Maya cocked her head, frowned slightly, and gazed at me. “I thought that was the first time you met Mrs. Potts.”
“It was.”
“Why would she do that?”
“That’s what I said. If she was going to leave it to someone so suddenly, why not to you, for instance?”
“Well, that part’s easy. Because my family’s from the ’hood.”
I stopped folding scarves and looked at her. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Frances was pretty cool in lots of ways, but she was hung up on the color thing. I think the neighborhood changed around her so quickly that she had a hard time dealing with it. She got mugged once. And overall she’s a little, you know, odd. I still liked her, though, for some reason. She reminded me of my Grammy.”
“Funny, she reminded me of mine, as well. How long have you known Frances?”
“You know my sister lives over near there, and my aunt. My mom grew up just a few blocks away as well, so I guess they’ve known about the family in the big house for a while.”
“The big house?”
“That’s what they call it.”
We both worked on the scarves in silence for a few moments more.
“Some people say . . . that she was even stranger,” Maya continued. “Those guys who mugged her? They both wound up disappearing. She’s not what you would call well liked. On the other hand, some kids played jokes, broke in there on Halloween—that place is so big someone could live in there and you’d never know it.” She shivered, her shoulders pulled up. “I never did understand why she stayed so long.”
I checked my watch. It was after two.
“I called her daughter and she invited me to come by,” I said. “I want to talk to her about the inheritance—I’m not going to accept it.”
“Sure, I’ll go with you. I just have to see if I can get off work. It’s my first day and all.”
“I think your boss will understand,” I said with a smile. “Though I hear tell she can be as mean as a skil letful of rattlesnakes.”
San Francisco’s Pacific Heights neighborhood owes its name to soaring hills that offer residents views of Angel and Alcatraz islands, the Marin County villages of Sausalito and Tiburon, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the mouth of the bay opening onto the Pacific Ocean. Historic mansions and carefully detailed townhomes sat crowded in on narrow lots; small but formal well-tended gardens offered burbling fountains and European-style topiaries.
As I parallel-parked, an open-topped minivan tourist bus passed us, a guide on a megaphone pointing at houses and spewing unintelligible proclamations.
At my quizzical look, Maya explained. “This is one of the fanciest neighborhoods in the city. Danielle Steele’s house is somewhere around here, and the Gettys’, and one of our senators and a congresswoman live here, too.”
“Frances Potts’s daughter must have done very well for herself.”
Maya nodded as we crossed the street to the address I had written down. “I doubt there’s a house in sight worth less than several million dollars.”
The only other people on the street were construction workers and gardeners. Two small bulldozers were loudly excavating the hill behind a house that was sheathed in scaffolding. The alleys between the houses were a scant three feet across, so the equipment was accessing the backyard through the garage. Next door a woman in an apron came out with a bucket and mop in hand and started to scrub the driveway free of invisible dirt. A man in faded gray coveralls rolled garbage cans into the street, marring the neighborhood’s otherwise pristine beauty.
Though Katherine Airey, née Katherine Potts, had grown up just on the other side of this compact city, she now lived worlds away from the creaky old home of her youth. Her house was either brand-new or had been renovated to within an inch of its life. As with most modernist buildings, it was constructed of steel, concrete, and glass. It put me in mind of a corporate headquarters.
The door sat right on the sidewalk beside the garage, with no stairs or stoop. Six abstract sculpted plates were the patterned door’s only adornment. I stared at them for a moment, but noted nothing sinister. I rang the bell beside it.
The dog barked, his voice deep and full. Katherine and I had something in common already, I tried to tell myself. Still, a shared love for canines didn’t quite make up for my inheriting her mother’s estate. My stomach quailed at the idea of Katherine’s reaction to such an unfair and, I was sure, unanticipated development. I was grateful to have Maya at my side, her calm demeanor steadying me. I was becoming a true convert to the buddy system.
After a few moments a man
answered the door. He was tall and thickly muscled; his hair and eyes appeared jet-black. He was dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, but he had an air of self-possession that made me imagine that this wasn’t the gardener answering the door.
“I’m here to see Katherine Airey.”
“You’re Lily Ivory?” he asked in the heavily accented voice I remembered from the phone.
I nodded. “And this is my friend Maya Jackson.”
His eyes flickered over Maya, then back to me. I supposed I should have checked to see whether it was appropriate to bring a friend. On the other hand, Maya was wearing a skirt and T-shirt, and I was still in my vintage polka-dot wiggle dress. We were both on the small-to-average side. We might not make the most businesslike impression, but neither could I imagine this muscled man would see us as any kind of threat.
“Come on in,” he said with a nod.
He turned and led the way up a narrow stairway. The main living area was located on the second story. It had an open floor plan, what designers like to call a great room. Our feet sank into the thick, plush, cream-colored carpet. Silk throw pillows in muted tones of taupe, putty, and beige offered the only color in the room. The rest of the upholstery was white, as were the walls and ceiling. Glass floor-to-ceiling shelves lined one wall, showcasing stark black abstract ceramics. Not a book in sight.
The home itself had very few historic vibrations; in fact, the streamlined architecture and furniture inspired very little reaction in me, either way. But the entire front wall of the house was made of plate-glass windows, offering an unparalleled, unobstructed view of the water and the Golden Gate Bridge, and flooding the room with light.
Not exactly comfy, but undeniably impressive.
Our escort disappeared, but Maya inched behind me as a dog took his place, trotting up to check us out. He was a great black Lab, huge, his head like an anvil. Katherine must be a brave woman to have a black Lab in a city home decorated primarily in white, I thought to myself. Either that or a devoted housekeeping staff of twenty-five.
I put my hand out to the dog and he sniffed it, looking up into my face. Unlike many Labs I’ve known in my day, he had an intelligent gleam in his eye. He let me pet him for a brief moment before trotting over to his mistress, who was reclining on an ivory leather sofa.
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