The Color of Light (22 page)

“He seems to think your mom has been to see him,” I said as ­warning.

Beto's smile was rueful. “He's been talking to her for a while now. I have a feeling that she's coming to get him soon.”

“What do the doctors say?” I asked.

“He has a leaky aneurysm in his brain. It's a race between a blood clot and a blowout.”

“Oh, Beto.” I reached for his hand.

“It's okay,” he said, squeezing my hand and working up a game smile. “I think Papa's ready to go with Mom. I think he's been ready for a long time.”

I was stepping into the shower
, eager to wash away the grime of the day before we began making dinner, when Jean-Paul walked into the bathroom holding the red leather jewel box I had sent home with Susan. I was mystified; I thought I would never see the box again.

“Where did you find that?” I asked him.

“On my pillow,” he said. “I was curious.”

“Is it empty?”

“No.” He opened the box and showed me the brooch inside. “I remember that when you took off the dragonfly after the reception on Friday you said it was to go to your cousin. I know you are very fond of the brooch but you were quite clear that it should be Susan's. And here it is. What changed your mind?”

“I didn't change my mind,” I said. “I gave it to Susan last night.”

“Then she has made it a gift to you,” he said, closing the box again. “A very fond and generous gift, yes?”

“C'est un beau geste,”
I said.

“Bien sûr.”
He patted my naked bottom, smiled, and walked back out of the room.

When I went downstairs, shiny and clean again, I found Jean-Paul in the kitchen washing lettuces he had picked out of the garden. He handed me the dripping colander of greens. “Ever since you told me your uncle was going out for steak tonight, I have been thinking about steak. Big, red, bloody steaks. The grill is started, potatoes are baking in the oven, and the salad I leave in your hands.”

“You've been busy,” I said, taking a redwood salad bowl out of the cupboard. “Anything else I can do to help?”

He paused from peppering the meat. “Open some wine?”

“I can manage that.” I uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured two glasses. He clinked his glass against mine, took a sip, and nodded his approval.

During the drive home from the hospital, I had given him, in broad strokes, a summary of the events of the last day and a half. I had almost convinced him that he shouldn't beat himself up for going home Sunday afternoon and leaving me to find Larry alone. Whether he had been there or not, the outcome would have been the same. When I reminded him that Larry probably was put into the Dumpster not long after he walked out of our garage on Saturday night, very likely at about the same time that Jean-Paul and I were enjoying each other on rose petal-festooned sheets, he conceded that what happened to the man was nothing we could have either foreseen or prevented.

“The important thing,” I said, tearing radicchio into the bowl, “is that except for some last odds and ends, we're finished here. The cleaning crew comes in the morning. When they leave, we hand the keys over to University Housing, and we're gone.”

“Finished?” The question sounded loaded. “All finished here?”

I looked around the kitchen as I took out plates and silverware and stacked them on the tray that he had already loaded with various condiments. There were no boxes stacked anywhere, and no more cupboards to sort or empty. I said, “Yes, finished.”

“I wasn't referring to the house.”

“Ah.” I sighed, feeling weighted. “That other thing.”

“The murder of your friend's mother.”

“I think Beto and I are the only people who want to know what happened to her,” I said. “Everyone who knows something is stonewalling me in the same way I was stonewalled about Isabelle.”

“Then one day Isabelle walked up and introduced herself to you.”

“I doubt that whoever shot Trinh Bartolini is going to walk up and say hello.”

“Maybe next summer at the Hungry Ghosts celebration she'll speak to you herself.”

“Enough about that, Jean-Paul,” I said. “You told me you had some news.”

“Three things, yes,” he said, cocking his head, watching me. “How do you say it? What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?”

“How bad is the bad and how good is the good?”

“That depends, I think.”

“Let's get the bad news over with, then. Should we drink a lot of wine first?”

“We should keep clear heads.” He took both of my hands in his and looked into my eyes. “
Chérie
, I made a call or two and I found Thai Van for you, but he will be no help.”

“I should know by now that when you say you'll make some calls, the earth will move.”

“I don't know about moving the earth,” he said with a little laugh. “But making the right call can sometimes open a door. It is the business I am in, yes?”

“I'm not exactly sure what your business is. Or was, before you were appointed consul general,” I said. “But, what did you find out about Thai Van?”

“Maggie, he died a very long time ago.”

I mulled that over before I asked. “In Vietnam?”

“You knew?” he said, brows furrowed.

“No,” I said. “But I began to suspect it. Earlier today, I was talking with Beto's Aunt Quynh—you met her.”

“Shrimp spring rolls?”

“Yes. And tonight's dessert,” I said, moving her pink pastry box toward him. “Anyway, Quynh told me that she was kidnapped from a re-education camp in Vietnam and held in the mountains for ransom. One day Thai Van came in like Indiana Jones, she said, with men armed with M-16s, and rescued her. He fell off everyone's radar at about that same time. It would have been difficult, probably dangerous, for him to go to Vietnam then, and very difficult for him to get back into the U.S. I wondered if he just stayed there.”

“When was that?” he asked.

I gave him a rough idea of the time frame and he nodded.

“Thai Van died in a firefight around then.”

“How did you find that out?” I asked.

“If I told you my sources,” he said, smiling his upside-down French smile, “I'd have to kill you.”

“I'll take that risk.”

“I made a call to a friend, who called a friend,” he said with a little shrug, picked up a long barbecue fork and headed for the back door. I grabbed the wineglasses and followed him out.

“You're CIA,” I said, handing him his glass. “I've always suspected it.”

“It would be DGSE in France,” he said, as he prodded flaming coals in the barbecue. “
Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure
. But no. Please don't be disappointed, but it's simply a matter of having connections.”

“Maybe so, but they're pretty hefty connections.”

“You know I attended one of the
grandes écoles
.” That little self-deprecating shrug again. “Most of the upper echelon of the French civil service attended the same university. A very small club, if you will. It was because of connections with certain people I became friends with in school that, after Marian died and I moped around like a wounded duck, they arranged for my appointment as consul general to Los Angeles. I don't know whether my friends were hoping a change of scenery would cheer me up, or they just got tired of seeing my sad face.”

“I think I like your friends,” I said.

“I hope that you will,” he said, setting the fork aside. “The coals won't be ready for the meat for another half hour.”

I asked, “How does your contact know about Thai Van?”

“You know that Vietnam was once part of French Indochina,” he said. “Our troops came out a very long time ago, 1955 to be exact. But like any messy divorce, there were property entanglements to resolve and long relationships that were not severed. Remnants of our intelligence apparatus remain in place to this day.”

He took my hand and walked with me over to the garden, where the last of the day's sun lingered. While I snipped basil for the salad, he told me that Thai Van's father, Thai Hung, had been a leader in an organization of Vietnamese refugees down south in the Orange County community now called Little Saigon that raised money, recruited support and trained men to launch an invasion of Vietnam and overthrow the People's Republic. A Bay of Pigs sort of endeavor, as it were. The FBI planted informants in the organization to keep close watch on the father and the son and their cohort.

“There were reports that Thai Van split with his father,” Jean-Paul told me. “The regime in Vietnam had its own spies in the U.S., so they knew what Thai Hung was up to. Word got back to Van that his relatives were being punished for his father's activities. For their sake, Van begged his father to step away, but he refused.”

“Did you learn anything about what happened to Quynh?”

“No, not specifically her. Probably she was sent for re-education because of her family's position before the takeover,” he said. “But the kidnapping for ransom was a different matter. There were those in positions of authority in the regime who used intelligence gathered by the state for their own criminal enterprise, kidnapping and extortion being one of several. Desperate acts in desperate times, yes?”

“Don't be too generous,” I said. “Extortion is a vicious game any way you play it.”

“Bien sûr.”

“Quynh also told me that the ransom money was deposited into an account here. Is there anyone you could call to find out about that?”

A little shrug while he considered. “I can try. And that brings us to topic next.”

“Is this good news or bad?”

“Again, that depends on what you make of it,” he said. “You wanted to know if your father's Colt is traceable, so I asked a friend to trace it. He learned that your gun was part of a large order placed with the manufacturer by the United States Army and it was then shipped to the National Armory in San Francisco. From there, it was allotted to a National Guard unit where, as far as I can ascertain, it remains.”

“Except that it doesn't,” I said. “It's in a drawer upstairs.”

“A mystery, yes?”

“But there's someone we can ask.” I put my hand through his arm. “How long until your coals are ready?”

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

“Shall we call on the neighbors?”

“Dear George? Certainly. Shall I go upstairs first and collect some fire power?” He was smiling so I laughed, but I wasn't at all sure if he was serious or not about getting the gun out of the drawer.

As we walked next door, I asked, “You said you had three pieces of news. The last one, good or bad?”

“Depends.”

“Of course it does,” I said, laughing. “So?”

“A question for you first: How long will you be in Normandy?”

“Through the fall, at least.” We reached the Lopers' front porch and started up the steps. “I'll probably make at least three more trips later so that we can capture all four seasons at the farm.”

“Would you consider staying for the entire year?”

“I think you'd better tell me your news now.”

“It's official.” Jean-Paul rang the Lopers' doorbell. “I have been recalled to France.”

I hoped no one would be home: recalled to France? We had a lot to talk about. But we heard voices and some scuffling and then George opened the door. He seemed surprised to see us but he quickly gathered himself and plastered on his men's-club welcoming smile.

“Come in, come in, neighbors.” He offered his hand to Jean-Paul. “Karen and I saw you drive up, sir, and we were hoping you'd take us up on that rain check for a drink.” As he led us into the living room, he called out, “Karen, we have visitors.”

The preliminaries were somewhat painful, lots of smiling, some stilted small talk. While George went off to the kitchen to make martinis, Karen caught us up on her family news and the news of several other families, some of whom I did not recognize, but I smiled and mm-hmm'd as if I did, clutching ever harder to Jean-Paul's arm. In return, I gave Karen as little information about my family as I could without sounding rude. Yes, those were piano movers at the house this morning. Mom had her piano shipped to her new place so she can give lessons again. I did not mention that Mom's new place was going to be the Tejedas' casita. Casey is just fine, enjoying college, and yes, she's still as tall as my sister, Emily. I am fine, and I understand that my programs can be uncomfortably thought-provoking. Thank you for your condolences for my husband's untimely passing, and no I don't mind that you didn't send a card at the time. I changed the subject when her inquiries veered toward Jean-Paul.

The topic Karen was dying to get into was the policemen's circus at our house that morning. She told us we could not talk about any of
that
until George came back with drinks or he would never forgive her. But Karen, being Karen, couldn't keep herself from nipping around the edges of it, like the kid who loosens the tape on his Christmas presents beforehand so he doesn't waste time when the Go signal sounds on Christmas morning.

“We have heard all sorts of stories from the neighbors,” she said. “But of course, it's all just rumor and gossip, you know. Very unreliable. The police aren't saying anything until they've notified the next of kin. You can understand that we're curious. I mean, a dead man, right under our noses.”

She didn't offer that last as a joke.

George came back carrying a tray with crystal martini glasses, a frosty silver cocktail shaker, olives on toothpicks, and a bowl of salted nuts. As he poured the drinks, he wasted no time getting right into the topic du jour.

“Maggie, who was it the police dragged out of the Dumpster over at your place this morning?” he asked, extending a glass toward me. “A vagrant?”

“It was Larry Nordquist,” I said, watching his reaction closely. He froze in place, stooped over, glass halfway to my hand. I reached up and took it from him, but he still needed a moment for that nugget to sink in before he could unfreeze and stand upright again. Either he was a magnificent actor or he was genuinely surprised. I thought that the latter was more likely.

“I'll be damned,” he said finally, remembering what he had been doing and getting back to his hosting duties. “I will be damned. Karen, did you hear that? It's the guy, that juvenile delinquent, who's been such a pest all summer. What happened to him? Overdose maybe? He crawl up in there to shoot up and never wake up again?”