Beyond the Grave

FOUR

Monday noon I arrived at the museum, the marriage coffer once more wedged into the passenger side of my car. The parking lot of the nineteenth-century adobe in the city's historical district looked strangely deserted; there were only three cars, all of which belonged to volunteers. Leaving the chest where it was, I entered the building by the door off the loading dock and went down the tiled corridor to the office wing. The secretary's desk across from my office was cleared, the typewriter covered. I stopped and frowned until I remembered that Emily-like me-was on vacation.

Neither Susana Ibarra nor Rudy Lopez were in their cubicles, and the door to the office of Linda Trujillo, our education director, was closed. Where was everyone? I wondered. It was lunchtime, but the staff took their breaks at staggered intervals. Concerned, I made a quick tour of the galleries; they, the gift shop, and the entrance were all manned by our ever-reliable volunteers. It seemed they took their duties more seriously than my staff.

I crossed the inner courtyard, noting that no one had bothered to turn on the water in the little blue-tiled fountain, and checked the office wing again, lit turned out Linda was there after all; I could tell by the strains of the classical music she often played while writing copy for the fact sheets we make available to our visitors. But where were Susana and Rudy? Apparently while el gato was away, los ratones had decided to play. And el gato was not at all pleased with that.

I went into my office and sat down in my padded leather chair, then took John Quincannon's investigative report from my tote bag, and locked it securely in the drawer of my desk. Shortly after I'd been named director, I'd developed the habit of keeping important papers and valuables here at the museum where they were protected by an alarm system, rather than at home. My neighborhood is reasonably crime-free, but there had been just enough break-ins in the last year to make me continue the practice. The report wasn't exactly valuable, but I have a great respect for historical significance, and I didn't want to chance losing it through fire or theft.

Next I reached for a stack of little pink message slips piled on the blotter. The writing on them was Susana's; at least she had not taken the morning off. I thumbed through them, seeing nothing that needed to be tended to immediately. Then I swiveled the chair around and stared through the heavy wrought-iron bars of the window at the azalea plants in the courtyard, thinking about Mama.

I'd talked with Dr. George when I'd gone to the hospital the evening before, and he'd said she was progressing nicely. And Mama had seemed in much better spirits. Nick had finally got hold of Carlota, and she and Mama had had a long phone conversation in which Mama had convinced her not to fly out. I heard all about that and then reciprocated with my story of dinner at Sam Ryder's. Mama was interested enough to ask if Arturo Melendez was single. Yes, I said, and very talented. But was he handsome? she asked. Well, maybe un poco. Well, then, she said, did he make any money? Artists, after all….

I'd been glad to close the subject by saying Arturo was as poor as a churchmouse. But then Mama had gotten on the subject of Dave. When was that policeman coming to see her? Dios knew she didn't relish the idea of an Anglo son-in-law, but all the same she did enjoy the young man….

I'd put her off by saying Dave was still out of town. Our breakup wasn't something I felt I could discuss right then. It might make Mama feel relieved, because she strongly disapproved of intercultural marriages, but if she saw how hurt I was, she would become upset and then angry-not a good thing so soon after surgery. I have never been good at hiding my feelings from my mother, and she seemed to sense something was wrong, but she just eyed me suspiciously and didn't say anything.

I'd gone home from the hospital yesterday evening feeling sure that Mama was on the road to recovery both physically and emotionally-which was why her state of mind this morning had surprised and dismayed me. She had been back in her stare-at-the-ceiling mood, and even Carlota, who called shortly after I got there, couldn't get through to her. Nick had arrived around eleven-thirty, bringing one of the special thick peach milk shakes she liked, but she'd barely looked at it-or him. It was then that I'd left, because I couldn't bear to watch her withdraw into herself any more, couldn't stand to see the hurt and anxiety on Nick's face.

This wasn't like Mama, not at all. If something was bothering her, she liked to get it right out in the open. I hadn't always appreciated her direct approach, because usually what bothered her was some transgressi on of mine, but now I would have welcomed it-

There was a knock on my door, and Rudy Lopez spoke my name. I swiveled the chair around. My curator stood in the doorway: tall, stocky, and curly-haired, wearing an outrageously bright purple shirt. His round face was pitted with scars from teenage acne, but when he smiled-as he did now-you didn't notice any imperfection; Rudy's warmth and obvious interest in other people made him nearly handsome. Mama had been very excited when she'd met him, proclaiming him muy guapo. And she'd been very disappointed when I'd told her he was gay.

Rudy said, “What are you doing here? This is supposed to be your vacation.”

“Yes, and you all seem well aware of that. Where were you?”

“At lunch.” He held up his wrist and tapped his watch. “I go from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty.”

It was twelve-twenty-five. I felt ashamed. No wonder my staff sometimes accused me of being a slave driver or, as Susana often put it, una osa negra-a black bear. “Well, what about Susana?” I asked defensively. “She's supposed to go from twelve-thirty to one-thirty. Who's taking care of the phones?”

“Susana had an appointment, so Mrs. Ramirez is answering.”

“Por Dios, Mrs. Ramirez needs all her concentration just to make change when a visitor buys a postcard! What was Susana's appointment, anyway?”

Rudy looked amused. “She went to have her legs waxed.”

“What?”

“She was out on Carlos's yacht yesterday, and she noticed they weren't as smooth as she'd like them to be. So one of Carlos's rico friends suggested she try waxing-”

I held up a hand. “I don't want to know about it. Susana's getting mighty expensive tastes for the salary we pay her.”

“Well, she's going to be a millionaire's wife, so I guess she's practicing.”

“Wife? We'll see about that.”

“She has a ring.”

That startled me. “A ring? She called him her ‘fiance,’ but I had no idea it really was that serious.”

“She received it this weekend. Muy grande y caw.”

“The man's taken leave of his senses!” But Susana hadn't; she was being as pragmatic as ever. She'd been married once before, to a thieving Colombian who had run off to Bogota when his crimes had caught up with him. Susana, also a native of that country, had chosen to remain in the U.S., in spite of the fact that she had been only sixteen at the time. She would prefer, she had said, to make her way alone here rather than return to “a backward land.” So far, she was making her way splendidly.

Rudy shrugged diplomatically. “Time will tell whether it's a good match or not. You still haven't said what you're doing here on your vacation day.”

“Oh!” I got up and crossed to the door. “Come on out to my car. I brought a marriage coffer that I found at that auction on Saturday. A very good piece. Did you have any luck in L.A.?”

He waggled a hand from side to side. “Un pocito. A couple of chairs. This display is going to be more costly than we'd anticipated, I'm afraid.”

“I'm afraid of that, too, from the prices several other pieces brought at the auction I went to. We'll just have to go slowly and buy carefully. Maybe if we assemble an impressive small collection, the board will release more funds. Or perhaps we can interest one of our patrons.”

We went out to the parking lot, and Rudy helped me bring in the chest, exclaiming over its fine condition. We carried it down to the basement where the conservation laboratory was, and I left him debating whether he should use an oil soap or some heavier solvent to clean the wood.

Back in my office, I looked at my watch. It was almost one, time to call Sam Ryder for the name and address of the Velasquez descendant. I dialed his number in Las Lomas, but it rang ten times with no answer. After setting the receiver down, I began to doodle on my desk blotter, taking my mind off my troubles by thinking about John Quincannon.

His agency, Carpenter and Quincannon, had had offices in the Flood Building in San Francisco. Was it possible that the firm still existed? The report I'd found had been dated 1894; that would make the agency nearly a hundred years old. Was it possible that Carpenter and Quincannon had remained in business, been passed down to the heirs of either John Quincannon or his partner? If so, how could I find out? Dave would know …

And then I remembered that I couldn't ask Dave anything-ever again.

How long would this go on? I wondered. How long before I stopped thinking of Dave as if he were still a part of my life? How many weeks or months before I stopped wanting to ask or tell him things, before I stopped making plans for two when I was only one? I tried to remember the aftermaths of my other love affairs, but the pain of those seemed slight compared to what I was feeling now.

Stop this, I told myself. Think about Quincannon. Who else would know about tracing what happened to his agency? For one thing, there were business directories. I picked up the receiver and called the public library reference desk; they checked the current San Francisco directory for me. There was no listing for Carpenter and Quincannon.

It was disappointing, because it would have been so simple merely to contact the agency, tell them I was doing historical research about one of their former clients. They probably would have been glad to help me; I doubted the reports of the investigation would be considered confidential after all these years.

I wondered what had happened to Quincannon's files. Perhaps the agency had been absorbed by another firm, and the papers still existed in some musty cabinet. Wasn't there a state bureau that could tell me what had happened to the firm? They kept records of businesses even in those days. I'd have to think this through, figure out who to contact. But right now, I'd try Sam again.

This time he was home; he'd been visiting the old lady across the square before, and she'd given him the name of the woman who was descended from the Velasquezes: Mrs. Sofia Manuela, of Manzanita Way in Santa Monica.

“I had the city wrong but was correct about everything else,” Sam said. “She is a very old lady, the daughter of Don Esteban's son, Felipe. She does own the land down the road from here and is the last surviving heir, as she was an only child and had no children herself.”

Felipe Velasquez'si daughter! This woman was not only a family member but someone who might even remember Quincannon's investigation. “Is she willing to talk with me?” I asked.

“My friend said she would welcome the opportunity. Just call and say you got her number from Rosa Jenkins.”

I scribbled the name on the blotter and then, to be polite, asked, “Did everyone calm down after I left last night?”

“More or less. Dora stomped off in a huff, forgetting all her Tupperware. Gray went home to pass out. Arturo helped me with the cleaning up.”

“I like Arturo very much.”

“Me too. I just wish he wasn't so depressed.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Sam hesitated. “Six months or more.”

“I'm going to try to organize a showing of his work here at the museum. Perhaps it will help if he gets some positive critical attention.”

“Maybe.” Sam sounded faintly hopeful. He made me promise once more to let him know anything I might find out and then hung up. I depressed the cradle button on the phone and made a call to Santa Monica.

Mrs. Manuela told me-in a voice made high-pitched and tremulous by age-that her friend Rosa Jenkins had already called and mentioned my interest in the Velasquez family. She would be glad to talk with me and had a whole box of papers I might like to look at. When could I be there? she asked.

I said I could leave Santa Barbara right away. Would mid- to late-afternoon be all right?

Any time would be muy bueno, she said She would be expecting me.