The Devil's Interval (26 page)

D
o you know what the witching hour is?” I asked Andrea a few days later.

“I know what the triple witching hour is,” she replied promptly. “It's some confluence-of-timing phenomenon in the stock market.”

“It is?”

“Third Friday of the month four times a year, when contracts on options and futures expire at the same time.”

“How is that witchy?”

“I think all that activity at once makes the stocks act weird, go up and down—fluctuate, you know.”

“How do you know that?”

“My father, my brothers, my uncles, my cousins, my grandfathers—all guys on Wall Street.”

“It's all about witches,” I said. “I woke up at 3 a.m. a few days ago, with some improbable
Hansel and Gretel
witch left over from my dream, and I haven't been able to shake it.”

“Maybe you're thinking of Grace as some kind of witch. An enchantress,” she said.

I shook my head. “I'm just growing sadder and sadder about Grace, the more I learn about her. She was no witch.”

“I know what you mean,” said Andrea. “I'm starting to feel like we're in some remake of
Laura
. The movie where the detective falls in love with the dead woman. Who was that detective, anyway?”

“Dana Andrews, and Vincent Price played that really creepy guy who hid the gun in the grandfather clock. But you're exactly right. We're getting to know this dead woman, and we're getting enchanted by her.”

“Well,” said Andrea, “unlike
Laura
, I think there's virtually no chance our dead woman is going to walk in the door.”

“Before you go,” I said. “What's up with Carol Ann? Did you get a chance to talk with her?”

“I did,” said Andrea, “and I'll e-mail you my notes.” She fingered her pearls. “Another sad story. She really believed she's come as far as she has in her life because of Grace.”

“She finished school, right?” I asked

Andrea nodded. “Finished high school, is just a few credits away from her undergraduate degree, married a nice young man who's in law school. Oh, and two adorable little girls. I went with her to pick them up at day care after she finished work at the Ocean View Day Spa, so we could keep talking.”

Andrea's eyes welled with tears. She swiped at them impatiently. “Her second daughter was born just six months after Grace died. They named the baby Grace.”

“How sad that the grown-up Grace never knew,” I said.

“She didn't even know Carol Ann was pregnant,” said Andrea.

“Funny,” I said. “You'd think she'd share that kind of good news right away with Grace.”

Andrea shrugged. “I guess she didn't get a chance. She said she was going to tell Grace the night she died.”

“That night? That very night?” I asked, sitting up straight and catching Andrea by the arm.

“Calm down, Maggie,” said Andrea. “That's what she said. I know it's sad, but I don't know what you're getting so worked up about.”

“Because if she was going to tell her that evening, maybe she tried to call Grace that night. Or went over there and saw something.”

Andrea looked skeptical. “She didn't say anything like that,
and I'm sure the police questioned her and it would have come up. In fact, I know the police questioned her; she told me. She said it was very upsetting for her husband.”

I looked at my hands. “Will you just look at these raggedy nails?” I said.

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “You have no nails at all, Maggie. You cut them off to play the piano.”

I ignored her. “I think a mani-pedi is the perfect indulgence, don't you?”

“I knew you wouldn't be satisfied with whatever I found out,” said Andrea. “Just do me the kindness of looking at my notes so I feel that it was worth my while to go through the charade of talking with Carol Ann myself.”

“Not a charade,” I said, trying to sound chastened. “You turned up an interesting piece of information—that Carol Ann was about to tell Grace she was pregnant just before she died. I just want to have a chance to talk with her myself.

“Besides,” I added, “I need a little grooming tune-up. I'm going to be at the Junior League fashion show, watching you strut your stuff and making your mother feel welcome at the
Small Town
table.”

Andrea paused, and turned around. She narrowed her eyes at me. “I'd hoped you'd forgotten we had a table at the show,” she said. “And don't try to pull a fast one on me. You are not going to be there to watch me. You're not even interested in seeing anything on the runway.”

“How do you know?” I protested.

“Because you're going to be there watching Calvin and my mother together. Or, you've got some nefarious detecting planned.”

“Or both,” I said. “That's a possibility. We women are multitaskers, you know.”

When I walked into Ocean View Day Spa later that afternoon, I actually started to believe the indulge-oneself philosophy women's magazines spout. The hectic hours between coffee with Andrea and stepping into the taupe, cream, and brown understatement that
was Ocean View Day Spa seemed to disappear. Apologizing to a theater company about wrong information and a vicious review—gone; explaining six ways to Sunday why we were paying a kill fee instead of accepting a lame-brained feature on some wacky, herbal alternative to Botox—gone; gobbling a carton of yogurt and a KitKat while sitting through an excruciating budget meeting, with time out to field a call from Josh's teacher about the increasingly risqué jokes he seemed to be telling on the playground—gone. Well, the last item wasn't gone, but it seemed less urgent when I realized that I could make an excellent case for Michael dealing with the problem.

Little matter, I thought, as I sank into the sueded easy chair, with my feet up on an ottoman, sipping unexpectedly delicious herb tea, while I waited for my mani-pedi adventure. From the waiting room, a series of picture windows opened onto dramatic ocean views—ocean, not bay, with the rocky coastline just below, and the afternoon sun starting to edge toward the western horizon. Gulls wheeled outside the windows. Best of all, instead of the predictable spa soundtrack—goopy New Age harp music—I could hear the late Beethoven string quartets softly pouring from the speakers. It was so blissful just sitting there, I was somewhat startled when Carol Ann came out of her office to greet me and apologized profusely for the “aesthetician,” who was running just a little behind.

“I'm early,” I said. “This is heaven in a teacup just to sit here for a few minutes. And you're so nice to come say hello.”

“Purity told me you were doing a story on Grace,” she said. “And I talked to the writer who's working on the story the other day. I just want you to know how happy I am that you'll be saying nice things about Grace in the article.”

I was silent.

“You are, aren't you?” she asked. “Saying good things?”

“Well,” I hedged, “it's a magazine article, not a eulogy.”

She looked troubled. “I don't want to talk to you if it's not a positive story.” Trouble, on Carol Ann's creamy-skinned, perfect-featured young face, simply dimmed a little of the incandescence.

I raised my hand. “Carol Ann, I want to tell you something.” I took a deep breath. “When we began this story, I didn't know what I thought about Grace Plummer. And when I first saw the background on her, I have to admit I jumped to a pretty stereotypical set of conclusions—some spoiled socialite with more time and money than the rest of us.”

Carol Ann started to bridle. “But then,” I continued, “I began to get to know who Grace really was. I visited A Mom's Place, I talked to people like Purity and the folks at the San Francisco Botanical Gardens. And a completely different picture of Grace started to emerge.”

Her face brightened. “Thank you for telling me that. You know,” she colored a little, “I'm taking a journalism class to finish out my writing requirements at San Francisco State. I'm almost done with my degree,” she added shyly.

“Andrea, the writer who talked with you, told me,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I have to say I feel proud of myself, and I think that Grace would be proud of me as well. But anyway, in this class, as we're reading news stories, I've started to see how—well, wrong so many stories are in the media. Not just print,” she said hastily, “television and radio and online, too. I mean, sometimes you can recognize the truth in a story, but it's as if no one has the time to get things really right. They may get some of the facts, but…” she faltered.

“I know just what you mean,” I said. “Fortunately, we're a magazine, so we get to take a little longer when we're working on a story than daily newspapers do, but it's still never enough to get things exactly right. But, I'll tell you this, we're doing our best on this story, and we keep turning up new and interesting information.”

“Information on Grace?” she asked.

“On Grace and other people as well,” I said.

I looked at Carol Ann and made a decision. “You know,” I said, “I want to tell you a story about Grace's childhood that may
help explain why she was drawn to A Mom's Place.”

It was a judgment call, but I knew we couldn't use the information in the story that ran in
Small Town
, and somehow it seemed as if Carol Ann should hear the story anyway. So I told Carol Ann—about Grace's childhood, about her mother, about being raised by her grandparents.

She went from puzzled to wide-eyed to stricken in just a few minutes.

“She never told me,” said Carol Ann.

“Nothing about this story?” I pressed her.

She shook her head. “No, but it explains so much. She always told me that I could invent my own life. That whatever I wanted, I could just decide, and go after it and make it a real thing.”

“What did she mean by that, do you think?”

“It wasn't just about material things,” said Carol Ann, “though I know she wanted me to be able to earn a good living. She wanted me to get an education and feel happy. She said she knew it was possible to just—what was her phrase—‘gut through' the bad stuff and create a whole new life.” Carol Ann laughed. “Once when we planted a winter garden at A Mom's Place, broccoli and things, we woke up one morning, and all the outer leaves were gone. Some neighborhood kid's pet bunnies had gotten into the yard and nibbled everything in the raised beds down to nothing. We were so upset, but Grace just laughed. She said gardening taught her to be humble and persistent. That someone else might try to wreck what you were doing, but you always have another planting season to try again.”

A young woman in a taupe smock leaned over my chair. “Mrs. Fiori, I'm ready for you.”

Carol Ann stood up. “You know what, Charlene? I'll take care of Mrs. Fiori myself.” Charlene looked startled, and a little offended.

“It's all right,” Carol Ann said, putting her arm around the young woman's shoulder. “I'm crediting this to your account. It's just that Mrs. Fiori and I…” she paused.

“We're friends,” I said hastily. “This gives us a chance to catch up.”

“Go get yourself a coffee,” said Carol Ann. “Put your feet up for a few minutes. Think of it as an unexpected vacation.”

The young woman‘s face brightened. She hugged Carol Ann, “Thank you. I was up all night with the baby, and I'd love to sit down for a few minutes.” And in an instant, she disappeared back through the billowing, chiffon curtains.

Soon, Carol Ann had me settled at a manicure table, positioned so that whoever sat on the client side of the table could look out on the view. There were oversize arrangements of exotic white flowers everywhere—and the room was filled with fragrance I dimly remembered from a long-ago trip to Hawaii. “This feels wonderful,” I said, almost whispering, though no one could hear us. “It reminds me of staying up late with a girlfriend and doing each other's nails and discussing important issues like did we think Bobby Gage was cute or not?”

“Soak,” said Carol Ann, gently guiding my hands into a bath of warm, sandalwood-scented water. “Well, then, you'll have to do my manicure next.”

“Sure,” I said.

She shook her head. “I'm just being silly. This is fun for me, too. Mostly I do paperwork in the office these days, juggling work schedules, ordering supplies, things like that.”

I sat in silence and watched her work.

“Purity told me a story about Grace taking you for a manicure the night of your high school prom,” I said.

“She did so many things for me,” said Carol Ann. “I always wanted to do something for her.”

“Is that why you named your daughter after her?” I asked.

Carol Ann patted my hands dry, one at a time.

“I just wish she'd known.”