FIRE AND FOG (21 page)

I shook my head again. "He doesn't know how I feel, and I doubt
I will ever tell him. I'm not going to marry anyone, Anson."

Another silence. I drank the rest of my sherry. Anson stared at
the wall. When at last I could stand it no longer, I said, "I
suppose, after what you've told me, we cannot even be friends
now."

He glared at me, which I thought was quite a healthy sign. Then,
in the manner of a mild man who has at last been pushed too far, he
exploded. "How can you ask that of me? What do you think I'm made
of? Doctors have feelings, you know, we just have to keep shoving
them down all the time. I thought you were so understanding, so
compassionate, so brave. . . . Ah, the hell with it!" He picked up
his sherry and tossed it down in one astonishing go. "I'm leaving.
Goodbye, Fremont Jones. I hope I never see you again!"

I sat sniveling for longer than I like to admit. Why does life
have to be so complicated? Why do people have to go around falling
in love with the wrong people when it can never possibly work out?
How can we have such good intentions and still end up hurting one
another?

After a while I got up and threw out the daisies. I hated to do
it, but I couldn't stand their bright little faces looking at me,
reminding me what an awful person I am. Then I did what I always do
when I need to change my mood: I took a bath. What is it they say:
a clean body makes a clean mind? No, it's
a healthy mind in a
healthy body,
or something like that. Oh, well. At least the
bath did its job, which was fortunate, because I had much work yet
to do. It was entirely possible that I would not sleep at all.

Wearing the old once-viridian robe for both comfort and courage,
I clenched my teeth and entered the study. In my pocket I had the
small key I'd found in Alice's room. Somewhere in this room I would
find something significant, I had to! There was nowhere else to
look. I was no longer looking only for clues as to who had killed
Alice, but also for clues about the aunt's fate. I had the most
ghastly suspicion, nigh onto a conviction . . .But no, I would not
allow myself to entertain these thoughts, I would keep an open
mind. Who knew what I might yet find?

The study had been put together by someone who had never
intended to spend much time in it. The thick, handsome rug (which
was no longer here) had given the room some dignity; without it,
the hodgepodge nature of the furnishings stuck out like a sore
thumb. The types of wood did not match, nor did the styles of the
various pieces, nor were the colors of the upholstered furniture in
harmony with one another. Indeed, it looked a good deal like a
display room in a used-furniture store.

There were two large bookcases of dark wood, constructed in a
utilitarian style, with glass-fronted shelves filled with books.
There was a small desk of pale fruitwood in more or less a Queen
Anne style, rather pretty, rather useless if one were serious about
desks. Pulled up to the desk, a walnut chair with a padded seat and
back (faded green), and straight legs that were a bad match for the
desk's curving lines. Three more chairs that had the look of side
chairs from long-gone dining sets were placed randomly against the
walls. In front of the window sat a drum table that might have been
a squat companion to the Monstrosity in the hall-it was ringed
about with hideously elaborate carving and sat on three splayed
pedestal legs ending in clawed feet. To either side of the drum
table were two shabby overstuffed chairs, one deep pink brocade,
the other mouse-gray plush, with crocheted antimacassars pinned on
to cover the worn patches. One of those sword-leafed palms, the
kind that never really flourishes nor ever gives up and dies, took
up an entire corner. A few undistinguished paintings in dull frames
hung on the walls where someone had decided something was
needed.

I began by looking behind the paintings; I also examined their
backs. It would have been nice to find a hidden safe, but of course
I didn't, nor anything stuck to the backs of the paintings. Next I
opened each drawer of the desk. None were locked. None contained
anything at all-in other words, someone had cleaned out the desk.
Once I would have thought Alice's murderers had done it, but now I
was not so sure.

On top of the drum table was a collection of knick-knacks, among
them a wooden chest shaped like a small casket.
Aha!
I
thought, pouncing. But the little key did not fit its lock. It was
unlocked anyhow, and contained the sort of things one picks up
idly, such as a badly tarnished silver button in the shape of an
acorn, a lovely blue bird feather, and other items not worth
attention.

This was really most odd. Alice had been a passable poet. Where
were her poems? Not in her bedroom, and this was the only other
place. With a sigh I began to go through the bookshelves, looking
for thin volumes either untitled or with titles written by hand. I
scanned along with such impatience that my vision blurred and I
gave myself the beginnings of a headache. I didn't really want
Alice's poems, I wanted a journal. I would have settled for a cache
of family papers, most particularly a will. A family Bible with a
genealogy in the front would have been welcome, too.
Where were
these things?

I closed a glass panel with such force that the pane rattled.
Some Sherlock Holmes I made! I was getting absolutely
nowhere,
and time was running out. I needed to think about
this, if I could get my mind to work. I stomped over to the
mouse-colored chair and collapsed into it, half sitting and half
lying in the most deplorable posture.

If I'd been sitting up properly I never would have noticed the
keyhole. Keyholes, plural. They were cunningly concealed among all
the ugly carving around the drum table. Scarcely daring to believe
my eyes, I reached out one finger and inserted its tip into what I
thought was a keyhole. It also felt like one. I took the tiny key
from my pocket and tried it, holding my breath. It fitted; the key
turned, clicked, and unlocked a drawer shaped like a pie wedge.

There were six such drawers around the table and they were deep.
The one key unlocked them all. Only one drawer had anything in it;
I might have wished for more, but with the way things had been
going I was more than satisfied. I had found Gertrude Lasley's
bankbooks.

She'd had five accounts in five different banks: Crocker's,
Wells Fargo, the Bank of California, the First National Bank of San
Francisco, and one I'd never heard of, Bay Western. The Wells Fargo
account showed the most activity, with both deposits and
withdrawals made on a regular basis. The others showed only
deposits paid in at regular intervals several months apart. The Bay
Western account was the smallest, containing only a little over
five thousand dollars when it was closed out by one withdrawal of
the entire amount on May 15, 1906. Good timing on someone's part,
and I thought I knew whose. I also thought I knew where a good
portion of that five thousand dollars was at this very minute. If I
were to go up and count it, I would know how much Alice had spent.
I could even guess what she'd spent it on: clothes. Who knew how
much of the regular withdrawals from the Wells Fargo account,
doubtless the household account, had gone the same way?

I went out into the dark hall and to my rooms, using the faint
street light that fell through the uncurtained office window to
guide me.
Tick-tock, tick-tock,
went the grandfather clock.
At the moment its sound was not companionable but emphasized my
aloneness.

Where did I put it?
I cursed the addle-brained state in
which I'd spent my first days in this house. Finally I found it
rolled up in one of my old petticoats, along with the large blue
jewel: the lace-trimmed nightcap that had been forgotten in the
corner of a drawer upstairs.

Gertrude Lasley's nightcap, I was certain. I held it in my hands
and sat on my bed with my eyes closed, as if waiting for this bit
of unwashed cloth to tell me its secrets.

I felt awful to suspect that sweet little Alice had slowly
poisoned her aunt Gertrude, but such a suspicion was unavoidable.
Sweet little Alice had also been manipulative and cunning. She was
one of those people who can appear to sit and do nothing, while
actually pulling invisible strings that make others dance around
her. I should know, I'd been a principal dancer.

I had quickly learned that the sisterly feelings I'd had at
first for Alice could not last, but I'd never thought her capable
of actual malice. She was so good at acting the victim, while in
reality she was a villainess! There were poisons in the garden
shed. I did not know much about poisons, but I had heard that rat
poison contains arsenic, and arsenic given in sufficient amounts on
a regular basis will produce a long decline and finally death.

I wondered when Lola Weeks had last seen Gertrude Lasley. It
didn't really matter; what mattered was that Lola thought she was
still alive, which meant that Alice, for some reason, had not tried
to pass off her aunt's death as natural. I supposed the earthquake
had intervened. . . . Or, because of the date the bank account was
closed, perhaps . . .

I jerked and my eyes flew open. I'd heard sounds at the front
door. I am blessed (or cursed) with exceptionally keen hearing, yet
I had to strain to make it out again. There it was, a metallic sort
of scrabbling. Someone was trying the lock.

There was no time to think, only to act. I fumbled under the
pillow on my bed and got the pistol. It wasn't loaded, but it was
still a deterrent. I toed off my slippers so that I might move
silently in bare feet. Keeping close to the wall (although anyone
who might look through the bay window would easily see me), I crept
into the front hall. The sounds had ceased, but my vigilance did
not. Whoever it was would now go to the back door, and so did
I.

Standing in the kitchen, I braced my feet wide apart and held
the pistol with both hands, arms stiff, as I have seen done in
stage plays. My breath came rapid and shallow. I could see a vague
outline of a human head through the sheer curtain at the back
door's window. I heard him try, and try again, to open the lock. I
knew that I was afraid, but I did not feel afraid, I felt
excruciatingly alert.

Not knowing that I was going to do it, I heard myself scream:
"Go away! I have a gun and I will use it!"

13.

A Most Frustrating Kind of Hide-and-Seek

"I repeat," I yelled, moving closer, "get away from this house
or I will fire my gun right through the door!"

The silhouetted head simply faded away without a sound. I stood
rigid as a catatonic for long enough to make my elbows ache, then
slowly I lowered the pistol. I put it in the pocket of my robe,
opened the back door, and peered out. Anyone could have remained
hidden in the shadowy yard. All my bravado was spent; nevertheless,
I made myself go down the steps in my bare feet with my right hand
on the pistol in my pocket. Crinkling through the scrubby grass, I
made a circuit of the house. I poked into the bushes. The street
side was better lit, the street itself deserted. The erstwhile
intruder had gone.

On reentering the house I began to shake all over. I felt
freezing cold-not just because of my bare feet but on account of
some sort of delayed reaction. I could not even think of getting
warm until I'd checked through all the rooms; stealthy as this
person was, he could have slipped in through the back door while I
was walking around outside.

He had not. I was quite alone, with no confidence that I would
remain that way for long. I poked up the fire in the stove and made
a fresh pot of coffee, though it was the middle of the night.
Gradually, warmed by the stove and the drink, I stopped
shaking.

I could not stay in this house for even one more day. I didn't
dare. I hope I am not given to paranoia, but it did seem that I was
in danger from all sides. The nosy neighbor, Lola Weeks, was more
than likely to appear on the doorstep again, asking after Alice and
Gertrude Lasley, neither of whom I could produce. She might very
well get suspicious and report me to the police-a thought not to be
borne.

I considered the young police officer, Wish Stephenson. I was
inclined to trust him, but my natural inclination is to trust
people, and where has that got me? "Into this mess," I muttered.
Even if Stephenson were trustworthy and took my side, he was only
the Rookie. The detestable Sergeant Franks would run over the two
of us like a steamroller. So much for that idea.

I was certain now that Alice's murderers had taken those keys I
could not find, and that one of them had used the keys just now in
an attempt to get back into the house. Therefore, whatever they had
been looking for they had not found; they must have come here for a
reason other than, or in addition to, murdering Alice. My mind
whirled unproductively: What did they want, why had they killed
her, and was there a connection to what Alice had done to her
aunt?

"Fudge!" I said, banging my coffee mug down for emphasis. The
grandfather clock struck 2 a.m. Dawn these days came early, around
five. I felt excruciatingly frustrated at the thought of leaving
this house with so much unanswered. On the other hand, it seemed
eminently wise to escape at the first opportunity.

I must work quickly.
I turned out all the lights in the
house as if I had gone to bed. Then I returned to the study. I had
broken off my examination of the bookshelves too soon; those poems
and possibly a journal should be there somewhere. Alice was too
vain by nature to have discarded them.

I had all but given up the search when it occurred to me that
sometimes people hide documents and letters and such among the
pages of books. I happened to be standing in front of a shelf that
had, at my eye level, a tripartite volume of the romantic poetry of
Byron, Keats, and Shelley. I pushed up the glass panel and took it
in hand. Riffling through the pages was not especially helpful, in
fact it was distinctly unhelpful in that I had an urge to sit down
in the middle of the floor and start reading (I am particularly
susceptible to
La Belle Dame Sans Merci).
Resisting that
urge, I held the volume upside down by its front and back covers-a
terrible way to treat a book!-and shook it. Aha! Several single
sheets of paper rained out.