by Janet Dawson
“Miss Megarris,” he said, with a nod.
A smile teased Claire’s mouth. “Oh, that sounds so very formal. How about I call you Rod, and you call me Claire?” She picked up Annabel’s green mug and took a sip.
Annoyed, Annabel removed the mug from Claire’s hands. “You’re always helping yourself.”
“Oh, all right.” Claire rolled her eyes. “You put too much cream in your coffee anyway. I like mine to bite back.” She poured black coffee into the orange mug. “Lindsey made brownies for breakfast.” She dug a square from the pan and draped herself over one of the porch chairs, making pleasurable moans as she tore off moist chunks and stuffed them into her mouth, licking gooey chocolate from her fingers. A woman of appetites, Rod thought. She put him in mind of a sleek cat, stretching her long legs out to the sun, washing herself after a meal.
The front door opened and the fourth resident of the house stepped onto the porch. Gretchen froze, staring at Rod. She looked as though she’d had a bad night, and whatever had precipitated it wasn’t going to be cured by coffee and brownies. Her red-rimmed eyes invited him to leave.
“I’ll have a look around, inside and out,” Rod said, taking out the key that fit both the front and back doors. “I’ll check the backyard first.”
He turned as Claire said, “Gretchen? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“Doug and I had a fight,” Gretchen said, voice ragged.
Time I got out of that conversation, Rod thought. He rounded the corner of the house and walked up the driveway. The thick privet hedge to his left separated this lot from the rooming house. A six-foot-high redwood fence surrounded the backyard. There was a gate wide enough for a car, now secured by a padlock, and a smaller gate with a deadbolt lock. Rod unlocked this, stepping into the backyard, where a detached single garage was used for storage.
Rod walked the perimeter of the yard, checking the padlock on the garage doors and making sure there were no loose boards on the fence. The garden at the back of the yard waited to be turned and planted anew. The roses had been pruned and the canes sprouted new growth above the cuts. He glanced up at the rooming house on the other side of the fence, at the windows of the two second-floor rooms that Max Brinker had rented. His new boss had chosen well. Both the patio and the back stairs were visible from the rooms where the security guards would be staying. A man with a moustache looked down at Rod—Carl, his new partner.
When the house had been converted from a single family home into four apartments, metal stairs had been added to the back, for access to the upstairs hallway as well as a fire escape. A square concrete patio outside the back door held a barbecue grill, picnic table, lawn and lounge chairs. More wind chimes hung outside Annabel Dunlin’s bedroom window.
Rod climbed the metal stairs. The curtains of Lindsey Page’s bedroom were open, revealing a neatly made double bed with a colorful patchwork quilt, books piled on the nightstand. He unlocked the second-story entrance. Claire’s apartment was to his right, Gretchen’s to the left. He walked down the inside stairs. The front door was ajar. He heard Gretchen say, “We love each other. I want to get married. He wants to wait until he finishes law school. If I push him he might break it off.”
“I’ll knock some sense into the guy,” Claire said.
“They need to work it out for themselves,” Annabel said.
“Give it time. You’ll figure things out.” Lindsey pushed the door wider, looking startled to see Rod in the hall.
“Sorry,” Rod said.
Lindsey unlocked her apartment. “I guess we’ll have to get used to it.”
Rod stepped out to the porch. Gretchen wiped away tears and turned her head so Rod couldn’t see her face. “Everything looks fine,” Rod said. “Just make sure the doors are closed and locked when you’re inside. I’ll be going to class with you on Monday, Miss Dunlin.”
She smiled. “Please, call me Annabel. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
25
The restaurants on Clement Street reflected the diverse demographics of this part of town—Asian, Russian, and everything else. Lindsey entered a Chinese restaurant, its tables covered with pink cloths. The front counter held a cash register and a collection of Phalaenopsis orchids, with pink, white and magenta blossoms like fat butterflies, on tall thin stems. An older woman sat at a corner table, dressed in blue slacks and a beige silk sweater.
“Lily Hsu?” Lindsey asked.
The woman nodded. “Lindsey Page. Finally we meet, after all these years. Please, sit down.” Mrs. Hsu reached for the pale green teapot, poured tea into Lindsey’s cup and freshened her own.
“I’m glad I located you.” Lindsey sat down and picked up the delicate porcelain cup, sipping the hot fragrant brew.
Lily Hsu appeared to be in her seventies, small and fine-boned, with short silver hair brushed back from her wrinkled face. Deep brown eyes regarded Lindsey across the table. “This morning I went to see Annabel. She’s getting better.” She picked up a menu. “The food is good here. Do you like hot things?”
“I do, but not too hot. What would you recommend?”
Mrs. Hsu pointed out her favorites, advising which entrées were mild or moderately spicy, as opposed to incendiary. Then she beckoned to the server, ordering in Chinese.
“I feel as though I already know you,” Mrs. Hsu said. “Your daughter Nina is the same age as Tess. You were a history professor in San Luis Obispo. Then you retired. You live in Berkeley and you write books.”
“I don’t know anything about you,” Lindsey said. “I didn’t even know you existed until Annabel mentioned you last week.”
“That’s the way Annabel wants it.” Mrs. Hsu sipped her tea. “Our relationship is a secret. We talk on the phone, we meet for lunch. But no one else knows.”
“Why the mystery?” Yet another puzzle, Lindsey thought.
“Annabel feared we might be prevented from seeing one another. This arrangement began when she was still in high school. Things were different then.”
That seemed unnecessarily cautious, even for Annabel. But Lindsey recalled Annabel’s words from a week ago. “She lost you, and then she found you again.”
“In nineteen sixty-seven. The Summer of Love, they called it, those hippies who came to the city.” Mrs. Hsu smiled briefly. “Although it wasn’t summer. It was spring. Annabel and Claire cut school, to go to the Haight. My husband and I lived there. Annabel saw me coming out of a store and followed me home. I almost didn’t recognize her, she’d grown so much. Since then, we have kept in touch.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Her whole life. I started working for the Dunlins when Annabel was a baby. Now she has grown children of her own. And I’m an old woman.”
The server set two platters and a covered lacquer bowl in the center of the table. Lindsey removed the cover from the bowl and spooned steamed rice onto her plate. Her lunch entrée, a combination of chicken and garlicky eggplant, was supposedly mild, but the spices and peppers brought tears to her eyes. She ate some rice to put out the fire.
“Annabel’s mother, what was she like?” Lindsey asked.
Mrs. Hsu wielded chopsticks over her prawns and snow peas. She didn’t respond right away, her face guarded, her eyes less welcoming. “Why do you ask?”
“I have a box of Annabel’s things,” Lindsey said. “Address books, datebooks, file folders. When I was looking for your phone number, I found a folder with photographs and newspaper clippings about Mrs. Dunlin and her death. Annabel kept them all these years. I guess she’s curious about her mother, since she died when Annabel was so young. Now I’m curious, too. The photographs and articles tell me Mrs. Dunlin was beautiful and much younger than Mr. Dunlin. She was from a wealthy family in El Salvador.”
“Rich people are different.” Mrs. Hsu’s voice and expression turned vinegary. “Rich people are waited on, hand and foot. That’s the way she grew up, in that rich family in El Salvador. She never picked up
after herself. I don’t think she knew how. She’d always had someone to clean up after her. For the last nine years of her life, it was me.” The older woman shrugged. “I got used to it. When you need a job, you get used to lots of things.”
Lindsey remembered the things she’d gotten used to, a single mother adapting to the demands of a job while juggling the demands of a child. Unappreciative, unmotivated students, the ones who cut class, didn’t do the work, then whined because they got a bad grade. Academic politics, the endless meetings and committees and commitments that ate time and interfered with research and instruction. Turf wars over offices and perks and pecking order. Petulant, sniping, back-stabbing colleagues. The constant search for grant money to do research. No wonder she’d retired early.
“So you took care of Annabel as well, from the time she was a baby.”
“Who else was going to take care of that little girl?” Indignation flared in Mrs. Hsu’s eyes. “Mr. Dunlin ignored her, because she wasn’t a boy. He wanted a son. He didn’t get one. When Annabel was two Mrs. Dunlin got pregnant again, then miscarried. She was more interested in clothes and parties. She had a baby because he expected it. She didn’t know how to be a mother any more than she knew how to keep house. I took care of Annabel, so they didn’t have to pay any attention to her. Unless they needed to show her off. Then they’d dress her up and display her. People like that shouldn’t have children. I was Annabel’s mother.”
People who clean our houses and diaper our children know a lot about us, Lindsey thought, more than we would like them to know. “Thank goodness Annabel had you. But you left at some point.”
“Six weeks after Mrs. Dunlin died. They fired me,” Mrs. Hsu said. “Him and that sister of his. For negligence. I put a pot roast into the pressure cooker and went out for a visit. The meat boiled dry and burned, set the kitchen cabinets on fire. But it wasn’t an accident. I didn’t make a mistake like that. There was plenty of water in that pot, and the stove burner was set on low, to simmer. I checked before I left and I was gone half an hour. Someone poured off the water and turned the stove setting to high.”
Why start a fire? To provide an excuse to fire Lily Hsu? Why get rid of the housekeeper? Unless... “You were there the day Mrs. Dunlin died,” Lindsey said. “What happened?”
Caution erased Mrs. Hsu’s resentment. “She fell down the stairs.”
“Was there more to it than that?” Lindsey asked. “There’s a hint of something in the newspaper clippings. Speculation, questions unanswered.”
“Why do you want to stir up old things better left to gather dust?”
“What happened then plays a part in who Annabel is now,” Lindsey said. “I found other things in that box. Metal wind chimes, with a tag inscribed with Chinese characters. Did you give her those?”
Mrs. Hsu smiled. “For her ninth birthday. She saved them all these years?”
“Her ninth birthday would have been about three months before her mother died. Were you there that day?”
Mrs. Hsu’s smile vanished. “When you look into the past, sometimes you find things that are better left there. Careful what you wish for, you might get it. Are you prepared for what you might get?”
“The truth is what I hope to get.”
“The truth can be unpleasant. It can hurt you, and other people.”
Lindsey thought about her own unpleasant truths. “Believe me, I know. Why would Annabel keep a piece of broken crystal and a little silver pineapple?”
Mrs. Hsu lifted the lid of the teapot, then signaled the server, who brought another teapot, full and steaming. She poured fresh cups for both of them. “Mrs. Dunlin had a collection of pineapples, on a table at the foot of the stairs. Dust catchers. There was a big crystal one.” She stopped and compressed her lips. “So Annabel kept the silver one. She must have picked it up when she found...”
Lindsey finished the sentence for her. “The body. Please tell me about that day. Was there something odd about the way Mrs. Dunlin died?”
“Annabel asked me that question many times. I put her off. But she kept asking. Finally I told her.” Mrs. Hsu sipped her tea. “I baked almond cookies that morning. Annabel loves my almond cookies.”
26
San Francisco, California, April 1961
Lily Hsu put the last batch of almond cookies into the oven. She set the timer, then washed the bowl and utensils. Outside the kitchen window, a gray sky held a hint of rain. Wind stirred the metal chimes near the back door. Lily switched on the radio. “I guess I’ll have to change my plan,” she sang along with Mel Tormé. She put the teakettle on the stove. When the timer dinged, Lily turned off the oven and removed the cookies, plump and golden-brown, with slivered almonds on top.
The teakettle whistled. Lily switched off the burner. She spooned black tea into a pot and poured boiling water over it, letting the tea steep until it was good and strong, then she poured herself a cup and relaxed for a moment, humming along with Rosemary Clooney and Frank Sinatra. Soon the clothes dryer buzzed, out on the enclosed back porch. She folded the sheets, stacking them in a wicker basket. Two doors led out of the kitchen, one to the dining room, another to the hall, where a door under the stairs led to Mr. Dunlin’s study. Lily balanced the basket on her hip and carried it up the hall. The pineapple figurines on the little half-moon table at the bottom of the stairs needed dusting again. She trudged up the stairs and put the clean sheets away in the linen closet.
Mrs. Dunlin came out of the master bedroom, wearing a gray linen suit and gray high heels, with a peach silk blouse and pearls. Her dark hair was pinned into a bun. “I thought you’d gone. You do the marketing on Friday.”
“I’ll go soon. Do you need the car?” Lily used Mrs. Dunlin’s Ford for errands.
“Not today. Let me know when you leave.” Mrs. Dunlin went downstairs.
Lily knew from experience the disarray she’d find in the master bedroom. Mrs. Dunlin rose late and rarely emerged before noon. Lily brought her a breakfast tray and Mrs. Dunlin sat in bed, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Now the tray sat on the unmade bed. The toast plate was next to the mounded pillows. Crumbs sprinkled pillowcases and sheets. The cup was on the nightstand, a puddle of spilled coffee marring the finish. Mrs. Dunlin’s nightgown and robe had been tossed on the carpet near the dressing table. Heaped on the floor were the blue towels she’d used to dry off after her morning bath. She’d blotted her lipstick with the napkin. Lily sighed as she wiped up spilled coffee. She gathered up the breakfast things and set the tray on the floor. She made the bed, hung the nightgown and robe in the walk-in closet, collected the damp towels from the bathroom, and replaced them with a mossy green set.
Then she noticed Mrs. Dunlin’s suitcase and makeup case on the chair near the closet door. Both cases were closed, as though packed and ready to go. On top Lily saw a hat, gloves, and handbag.
Lily frowned, irritated. Was Mrs. Dunlin going away? It would be just like her to make plans and not tell Lily, who had commitments for the weekend that didn’t involve taking care of Annabel. Tomorrow was her parents’ fiftieth anniversary. The whole family was gathering for a special celebration at a Chinatown restaurant. Lily had things to do, preparations to make. At times the Dunlins acted as though the housekeeper didn’t have a life, or a family, of her own.
Lily set the tray on top of the wet towels in the basket and carried them downstairs. Mrs. Dunlin was seated at her desk in the living room alcove formed by the bay window, pen scratching across paper as she wrote on pink stationery.
Mrs. Dunlin looked up. “You’ll do the marketing now?”
“As soon as I finish with the laundry,” Lily said. “Is there something you want?”
Mrs. Dunlin shook her head. “No. There’s nothing here I want.”
“I saw your suitcase upstairs. Are you going away for the weekend?”
Mrs. Dunlin wrote Mr. Dunlin’s name on an envelope. “Just going away.”
“I can’t stay with Anna
bel this weekend,” Lily said. “I have family obligations.”
“I’m sure Mr. Dunlin will manage. Now go do the marketing.”
She’s trying to get rid of me, Lily thought as she carried the basket to the kitchen. She wants me out of the house. Why would she do that?
She stuffed towels into the washing machine on the back porch, added detergent and turned on the appliance. The radio was still on. The Mills Brothers sang “Paper Doll” in tight four-part harmony. The last batch of almond cookies had cooled. Lily put them into a big round tin. She washed the cookie sheet and Mrs. Dunlin’s breakfast things. Then she shifted wet towels from washer to dryer. She checked the grocery list, adding a few items. Mrs. Dunlin gave Lily money for household expenses every week, crisp greenbacks Lily kept hidden in a drawer. Now she stuffed money and list into her handbag. There was something else she was supposed to do. What was it? She was so distracted these days. She switched off the radio, cutting Tony Bennett off in mid-refrain, slipped on her jacket and picked up her handbag, fishing inside for the key ring. Then she remembered. She’d promised to call her sister before noon and now it was almost one. Lily picked up the kitchen extension and heard Mrs. Dunlin’s voice. “Gray house, corner of Octavia and Washington, as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am,” a man’s voice said. “I’ll have a cab there right away.”
Lily quickly hung up. She said she didn’t need to use the car, she thought. Maybe she needs the car after all, and she thinks I’ve already left for the grocery store. I should go now. But I promised I’d call May.
Lily picked up the phone and dialed. “Why are you so late?” her sister scolded. “I’ve been standing around waiting for you to call. I have errands to run.”
“Me, too. So talk.” Lily was on the phone longer than she expected. After they discussed the anniversary dinner, her sister launched into a litany of complaints about her husband. “I have to go to the grocery store,” Lily said. It was after one.
I’d better tell her I’m going, Lily thought. She went through the dining room. Mrs. Dunlin, still at the desk, stood and propped the envelope against the telephone. Suddenly Lily realized the significance of the suitcase. She’s leaving him, leaving Annabel. Lily heard footsteps coming up the front steps. The cabbie must be here. But no, a key slid into the lock.