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As he asked that so touchy question, Father's grip on my
shoulder tightened. I was going to have to deal with this, I could
not escape it, and so Michael's leaving, all the days and nights
alone, had been for nought. I bit my lip briefly, drew in my
breath, and answered: "Yes. He has. But I have refused. I do not
wish to marry, Father. You know that. I do not wish it now any more
than I did when I was living at home with you. Though of course my
home is here now."

"Yes, I have seen that it is, and a clever arrangement it is,
too. One must assume that you and Michael get along well, to live
and work in such proximity."

I nodded, and turned a bit toward Father so that I could better
see his face. What was he getting at?

"You are in love with him, and apparently he is with you, or he
would not be asking you to marry. Yet you will not do it. Why,
Caroline?"

I ignored Father's inadvertent use of my first name; under the
circumstances that was the most unimportant thing he'd said. "I
don't believe in marriage. I told you that long ago, and it hasn't
changed. J-just because I've found the man I love, who loves me,
doesn't mean my beliefs have changed a bit." My chin went up
reflexively, defensively.

Father's eyes went soft; he removed his arm from around me and
with the back of that hand he stroked my cheek. "My little girl,"
he said, almost in a whisper, "I would like to see you married
before I die."

My voice stuck in my throat. Something very painful, and
inevitable, something that had been growing there since I'd first
seen how much Father had physically changed, cracked my heart.

"Think about it. That's all I ask," Father said.

A sudden gust of wind off the Bay stirred my skirts and tugged
at his bowler hat. The thrum-thrum of the approaching ferry's motor
filled my ears, and tears filled my eyes. Wordlessly I reached for
my father and embraced him, he with one arm around me and one hand
removing the wayward hat from his head, then that arm around me
too, and both my arms about his neck.

"Daddy," I said, the childhood name I had given up with a
certain scorn in adolescence, "Daddy!" I did not want ever to let
him go, couldn't think how I'd been able to bring myself to leave
him all those years ago.

"Caroline, my only child."

I pulled away. Though tears streamed uncontrollably down my
face, there was something I had to ask. I knew by the bustle all
around us that the ferry had pulled into the dock but my focus was
only on Father. I asked the question: "Am I a great disappointment
to you?"

"Ah, no. You're unique. You are yourself, Fremont, as you've
always been. I wouldn't want you to be any different. Closer,
perhaps, not so many miles away-but not different." He managed a
smile, though it was as difficult for him as it was for me.

But I smiled too, even through my tears.

"I will come and see you," I said, "in a few months, in Boston.
Now that I have the means there is no reason why I should not
travel. I'm grateful for what you've done, Father."

He tucked my hand into his arm once more and we joined the end
of the queue for the ferry. "It's my very great pleasure to see you
set up now as a woman of means in your own right. I know you will
use the money wisely. And I hope you'll think on what I said."

"About Michael?"

"Yes."

"Father, I will."

I stood waving at that ferry until long after the people on
deck, Father included, were no longer discernible to me. I still
had the most awful feeling that I would never see him again.

"OOO LA-LA!" said Edna Stephenson, waving her hand in front of
her face like a fan, '"your father is handsome, Fremont. And he
seems like such a nize man. Pity he couldn't stay longer. Your
mother's passed on, you said?"

I could see the wheels turning behind Edna's bright little eyes,
and it didn't take much deduction or imagination to know which way
her thoughts were headed. "That's right, Edna, but Father married
again the same year I came out to San Francisco. Which is why he
couldn't stay longer. His wife needs him at home."
Wants
him
at home was more like it, but I didn't like to imply that Augusta's
every wish had to be my father's command. Sometimes I wondered,
though.

I changed the subject by asking: "Where are the others?"

Edna rocked back and forth in her desk chair, swinging her feet,
which as usual did not quite reach the floor. "Let's see," she said
contentedly, "Aloysius has, gone off to work on that special
project of his, whatever it is, he never will say. So mysterious he
is, sometimes. Oh well, but what's a mother to do when he's a good
boy otherwise? And your friend Miss Frances-well, I know she's Mrs.
McFadden, but the way she's acting, sure as I'm born you never
could tell she was a married woman-well, she's gone out somewheres.
Just breezed right on by without a word, she did." Edna stopped
rocking, leaned back in the chair, raised her eyebrows, and gave me
a wise-old-owl look. "She looked mighty sharp in her new clothes.
Mighty sharp. Peach-colored, her dress was today. Lotsa lace. Nize.
Too bad her manners isn't."

"Um-hm," I nodded. I went over and sat at Wish's desk, thinking.
I remembered that peach-colored dress, which had indeed been
remarkably becoming to Frances's skin and hair coloring. "We shall
have to do something about Frances," I said, "but exactly what, I
do not know. I'm not sure she's safe here in the City. If I had
relatives in the country, or even just an acquaintance with whom
she could stay, I swear I'd send her out of town."

"Dunno as she'd go."

Good point, I thought. The telephone rang, and Edna pounced on
it, answering in her usual efficient fashion. When it came to
business, she was all business. I did hope Michael would be pleased
with her. And then, with a glow of pleasure, I realized that if he
were not it would scarcely matter. I could pay Edna myself
now
¹
. Of course, one would prefer to pay her out of
profits, but if lean times persisted . . .

"Oh my, yes," said Edna into the telephone, "I'm sure Miss Jones
would like to speak with you, but she's in conference with a client
at the moment. Will you give me the number where she can ring you
back?"

I frowned mightily, shook my head, and started to get up and
cross the room to take the telephone, but Edna motioned me back
down with a firmness that would not be brooked. What was going
on?

"Oh, well now, dear, that is a problem, isn't it? Because I just
can't interrupt her, it wouldn't be fair to the client who's
already here and paying for her time. You can see that, now can't
you? So why don't you just make an appointment yourself and come on
down to our office on Divisadero Street? You know where it is? No?
Well, I can give you direc-" She broke off and turned to me,
beaming. "He rung off. Thought he would."

"I don't know why you're so proud of yourself. Sounds like you
just lost us a customer." But a smile was tugging at the corners of
my mouth. When Edna looked that pleased with something she'd done,
it was always with good reason.

"That customer, dearie, is one you don't want to have to deal
with. He was in-ee-bree-ayted, oh my, yes, he was! Let him sleep it
off or work it off and then call back. That's for the best, I'm
sure." She scooted her chair up to the desk in rapid, efficient
little motions that I could not have duplicated no matter how hard
I tried. "Now if there's nothing else, dearie, I've got some of
your letters to type."

"Just one thing." I stood up, though I was myself uncertain as
to what I should do next. "Who was that inebriated person on the
phone?"

"Just that nazty man Higgins. Conrad or something. Ingrid
Swann's husband that was. And a real mess he sounds like, too."

"Oh, Edna!" No longer amused, I could cheerfully have throttled
her. "He might have had something important to tell me. I'm all at
a loss on this case, it's simply impossible, and I had so much
hoped to have it all nicely wrapped up by the time Michael came
back!"

"Michael?" She snapped her head up and tossed me a very curious
glance over her small shoulder. "Coming back? Any time soon? You've
heard from him?"

"No, I haven't, but I know he was planning to come back after
Father's visit."
And he will have found out how long Father
stayed, I know he will, he has his ways, he's probably right here
in the City even now.
... It gave me an odd feeling to think
that my friend and lover might be somewhere nearby without my
knowing. But then, I'd often had odd feelings about him in the
past. The constancy and trust between us now was of much shorter
duration than my former suspicions.

That was not a good direction for my thoughts to be running. I
shook my head a little and said rather severely, "Edna, don't
change the subject. I would have liked to speak to Conrad Higgins.
You really should not have put him off like that!"

"Dearie, don't be annoyed with old Edna. Believe you me, you
don't want to talk to anybody in the condition that body was in,
and that's a fact. Can't trust anything they say when they're like
that. Besides, he sounded like one of them as could be dangerous
when they get likkered up, if you know what I mean."

"I suppose I do," I said reluctantly, "but in the future, I'd
prefer that you let me decide these things for myself." I wandered
slowly through the deep alcove and into the conference room; but
then turned around and went back. "Did Mr. Higgins say what he
wanted to talk to me about?"

Edna cast me an exasperated look. "He said he saw something
would interest you. Hinted he wanted money before he'd tell. Likely
it's nothing, Fremont. Just him wanting money. Nothing good
a-tall."

She was probably right about that; still, I was feeling
desperate enough that I'd have been willing to grasp at straws. I
made some noncommittal sounds, for I didn't want her to think I had
or had not forgiven her, and went on into the conference room.
There I sat at the table that was now my desk, thinking, for much
too long a time. I wasn't getting anywhere with this case I'd
counted on to put us on the map, I was harboring a woman who had
made someone angry enough that he'd tried to kill either me or her,
my father was dying (or so I suspected), and I felt as if Michael
had been away far too long . . . even though I really would have
preferred to prove myself by solving the case before he returned,
so I supposed I couldn't complain about that. I wanted to complain,
though; I wanted to complain about everything.

Instead, I went upstairs and changed from the blue silk dress
into my working costume of skirt and blouse-dark green and white
respectively-and then I set out in search of Frances. I took the
Maxwell, as I had a good idea where to find her and was inclined to
waste no time about it.

Patrick Rule came to the door of the house that was now his, on
Octavia Street. He appeared relaxed, well rested, without that
haunted and haunting hollowness to his eyes.

"Good morning," I said, somewhat mollified by his undeniable
handsomeness. "Is Frances here? If she is, kindly do not deny it,
because I need to talk to you both."

He smiled, quite genuinely, one might say almost incandescently.
"Yes, she's here. Do come in, Fremont. Did you know she's left her
husband? They are to be divorced. Isn't that splendid?"

"I suppose that depends on how one looks at it," I replied,
pausing in the vestibule while he closed the door behind me, "but I
will say I'm glad she's not with Jeremy any longer. No matter what
kind of reputation the man may have around town, I know he was
harsh with her, and that sort of thing is never good."

"Certainly not. She and I are in my dear departed Abigail's
private drawing room. It's toward the back of the house, if you'll
follow me."

"Still," I persisted while I followed him down a short hall,
"she is in a precarious position. She has no money, no means of any
sort, which will be difficult for her. Jeremy has taken complete
care of her since she was quite young, I believe."

Patrick turned around and stood blocking my way, looking down at
me, and said with quiet intensity, "She does not have to worry.
I'll take her away from here, to the East. I'll work with Abigail's
former contacts there, set up some private bookings for us. Frances
is an excellent somnambulist, and beautiful besides- when working
with the public that never hurts, you know-and we will do well.
I'll take care of her now. She will want for nothing. You aren't
going to stand in our way, are you, Fremont Jones?"

Like lightning the thought flashed through my mind:
But what
if he is the one who killed Abigail, and Ingrid too?
Could a
man look so relaxed and happy, and yet be guilty of such a heinous
crime? Perhaps. Particularly if he had now gotten what he wanted,
and so was enjoying himself.