Margaret millar, p.10
Margaret Millar, page 10
He didn’t wave back.
When he returned through the Hyatts’ avocado grove the dogs came running to greet him, the shepherd barking hysterically, the Newfoundland silent and placid as usual. They both looked neglected. Newf’s feathered legs and plumed tail had collected dozens of burr clovers and Shep’s underbelly was shafted with foxtails. Burr clover was a relatively harmless nuisance to animals but foxtails could do serious damage, digging farther and farther into the skin as if they were alive. Michael picked them all out carefully, keeping them in his hand until he could find a trash can to prevent them from reseeding.
The palace too looked neglected, its windows smudged, its patch of lawn dried out, the barbecue pit choked with eucalyptus pods and pine needles and sycamore leaves. There were no fish in the fishpond and only an inch or two of dirty water.
The front door was partly open as though someone had forgotten to lock it and it had been pushed inward by the wind or one of the dogs or a reconnoitering possum. When Michael went to close it he saw that sycamore leaves were scattered around the room, on the small davenport and dining set and stove, even on the bunk beds where Marietta and Luella Lu lay awaiting their mistress. Marietta’s half-bald head was partly covered by a leaf that looked quite like a perky new hat. Luella Lu had been turned on her side and her glued eye was staring straight at Michael and beyond.
The two dogs, Shep strangely silent, sat outside the door, as though they had forgotten they were ever allowed inside as the royal attendants. Michael, who’d never owned a dog, had felt no real kinship with one until this moment when he wondered how much of Annamay was still alive inside their heads, a voice, a touch, a smell, a laugh.
He closed the door and began walking along the path toward the main house with the dogs following. If they hadn’t suddenly bounded off in the direction of the koi pond he would have missed the old man sitting beside it.
“Good morning, Michael,” Mr. Hyatt said.
“Good morning, Mr. Hyatt.”
“Then it was you thrashing around in the avocado grove.”
“I didn’t realize I was thrashing.”
“But you were. I have very good hearing. It’s lucky you chose the profession you did. You would have made a very poor Indian scout.”
“I quite agree.”
“Of course some leaves are very numerous and noisy this late in the year, at least until the first rain. Then they go soft and cling to the earth until they are a part of it again.” Mr. Hyatt’s face was almost hidden by a crudely woven straw hat, the kind the Mexican pickers used. “It was that unseasonal rain in late July that prevented her from being found sooner. The leaves became soft and pliant and clung to her. And the earth claimed her for its own without us even knowing about it. You said it well at the funeral. Would you repeat it for me, please?”
“Of dust we are made and to dust we shall return.”
“Yes. Yes, even the koi here can’t live forever. But how they do try. In Japan where they are passed along from generation to generation like heirlooms, koi are much admired for their longevity and courage. One requires the other, you know. It isn’t easy to grow old. I believe the record among koi is two hundred and twenty-eight years. The magoi here, the black fellow, is already older than I am.”
“I can’t see him.”
“He’s lying at the bottom, perhaps sleeping, certainly not thinking. They’re very stupid, actually. Some people think that because they will come to the side of the pool when you clap your hands and offer them food that they are trained. Not so. They’re only eating. Watch.” Mr. Hyatt clapped his hands, then brought from his pocket some bits of what looked like dog kibble. He tossed them into the water. The brighter-colored koi came immediately to eat. Then the magoi appeared and the others moved aside to make way for him.
“Some people might think,” Mr. Hyatt said, “that they are showing respect for their elders in the Oriental tradition. Nonsense. He is simply bigger than they are. Notice the slow grace with which he moves, as if he had all the time in the world. And certainly he has a great deal, perhaps another hundred years. And what for? It doesn’t make sense. He serves no useful purpose in the scheme of things, his brain is minimal. Nature has made some dreadful errors, allowing valuable human beings to die so young, and this creature to go on and on.”
The black magoi ate a couple of pellets of food. He was as large as a turkey and had a fat sad face with two drooping whiskers on each side of his O-shaped mouth. In the center of his forehead was a spot the exact size and color of a five-dollar gold piece. The old man looked at the magoi bitterly as though he were begrudging it the years that had been taken from Annamay.
Michael said, “The fishpond at the palace is empty.”
“Yes. I emptied it myself. Raccoons ate all the goldfish. They’d get the koi too but the water is too deep. A raccoon must have water shallow enough for him to stand upright in order to catch fish.”
“Mr. Hyatt—”
“Useless,” the old man said. “Not even beautiful unless you count the gold piece on his head. All creatures become useless as they grow old. Someone should have an answer.”
“Perhaps there isn’t one.”
“You should work on it, Michael.”
“I’ll try,” Michael said. He hesitated to bring up the subject of the palace door’s being open, but decided it was necessary. “I found the door of the palace open, Mr. Hyatt.”
“You don’t mean actually open, do you? You must be referring to the fact that the Sheriffs Department removed the seal some time ago.”
“The door was open.”
“That’s impossible. I locked it myself the day I emptied the fishpond.” The old man sounded calm enough but his hands had begun to tremble. “Did you look inside?”
“Briefly.”
“Was there evidence of an intruder?”
“Some leaves and dirt had been blown in by the wind. Whether anything is missing I don’t know.”
“Someone broke in,” the old man whispered. “Someone broke into my Annamay’s palace.”
“It’s more likely that you forgot to lock it, Mr. Hyatt.”
“No, no. I did not. People are always accusing me of forgetting this and forgetting that and sometimes they are correct. I do forget things now and then. But never, never would I forget to lock the palace.” He shook his head so vigorously that the straw hat slid down his face and fell on the grass. He didn’t seem to notice. “It is my most important duty. My son, Howard, thinks up all kinds of duties for me because he thinks they will make me happier. And I do them because that makes him happier. It is a game we play, pretending I am still of some value in this world.”
“That’s not the way—”
“Please, Michael, don’t argue the point. It would be a waste of time. I have done more thinking about this business of age than you have, perhaps more than you’ll ever have a chance to. My son and daughter-in-law love me, true. But if I died tomorrow I would leave no noticeable gap because I have no real place in the world, no real duties to perform. My only real duty is to keep the palace as Annamay left it. I allow no one in, not even Dru. Dru used to come sometimes and peer into the windows as if she thought Annamay might be in there hiding from us all. She knows better now. She was at the funeral.”
“The lock on the door is a simple one,” Michael said. “Nearly anybody could pick it.”
“Do people no longer respect a locked door?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Hyatt.”
“The world has become a rough place. Perhaps it is better that Annamay never found that out. To her every day was sunny, every stranger was her friend.” He put the battered straw hat back on, pulling it well down on his forehead so Michael couldn’t see the moisture in his eyes. “We’d better go and have a look at the palace. It must be kept as Annamay left it.”
Mr. Hyatt rose unsteadily from the redwood chair, refusing Michael’s offer of an arm to help him.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t start treating me the way Howard does. I’m not decrepit. Indeed, only the other day I helped an elderly woman across the creek. I felt like a boy scout again, especially when she offered me a bouquet of flowers.”
“Did you know the woman?”
“I’ve seen her.” He nodded in the direction of the villa. “She lives over there and they say she is quite mad. But they say things about everyone. Who is to judge?”
“In this case a judge,” Michael said. “She has been declared incompetent by the court.”
“Incompetent to do what?”
“Handle her own affairs. Financial affairs, I presume.”
“Bless you, Michael. I know hundreds and hundreds of people who are incompetent to handle their own financial affairs. Pillars of society, politicians, educators, they bet on commodities like racehorses and can’t tell a stock from a bond. But are they declared incompetent? No indeed. . . . They are reappointed, reaffirmed, reelected.”
“Miss Firenze’s incompetence goes beyond financial matters, I assure you.”
“You’ve seen her, talked to her?”
“Yes.”
The two men had begun walking toward the palace but now Mr. Hyatt stopped and grabbed Michael by the arm. “Did you ask her about Annamay?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know anything?”
“No.”
“No one knows anything. A little girl disappears and her body is not found for months. This is incompetence. Why doesn’t the court do something about this kind of incompetence?” He lowered his voice. “You and Howard are working on the case, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I heard you talking last night when I passed the guest cottage and the windows were open.”
The previous night had been cold and Michael distinctly recalled Howard’s closing the windows on both sides. But if Mr. Hyatt chose to remember it another way there was no use correcting him.
“Why don’t you and Howard take me into your confidence, Michael?”
“There is nothing to confide so far.”
“But you will take me into your confidence when the time comes?”
“That will depend on Howard. It’s his decision.”
“Then I’ll be kept in the dark,” the old man said sadly. “If I ask questions Howard will merely send me away on one of my so-called duties, charting a bunch of silly boats passing in the channel, or driving to the post office or anything else to get me out of the way because I am a nuisance. I am as useless as the magoi, taking up space, killing time until it kills me.”
“Howard loves and respects and admires you, Mr. Hyatt.”
“He used to. At one time I deserved respect and a certain amount of admiration, perhaps even some love.”
“I hate to hear you talking like this, Mr. Hyatt.”
“Of course you do, Michael. Ministers are the last people in the world who want to hear the truth. It so often disputes their version of the world.”
When they reached the palace Mr. Hyatt opened the front door. Leaves stirred and rustled like living creatures scurrying away to hide from danger.
“Someone has been here, Michael. There are signs. One of the dolls is lying on her side and I left her on her back. And the cushions on the davenport are out of place. And look here, a teacup in the sink. All the dishes were stored in the cupboard when I left. There are other signs, little things I can’t quite put my finger on. But I know. I know.”
He was breathing so hard and fast by this time that Michael, afraid he was going to have a heart attack, tried to persuade him to sit down. But he refused to sit. He began opening and closing drawers and cupboards and closets. In the main closet with the sliding door several of Annamay’s dresses were still hanging, as well as larger-sized clothes (Kay’s? Chizzy’s?) used to play grown-up. There were a couple of mismatched sneakers, some socks and a sweater, and, tossed into a corner, a pair of high-heeled sandals. They were both large and wide, with rhinestone straps and heels narrow as nails.
“Those peculiar shoes,” Mr. Hyatt said. “I’ve never seen them before.”
“They’re probably Kay’s or Chizzy’s.”
“Dear me, no. Kay would never wear such trollopy things, and Chizzy couldn’t walk across a room in heels like that without breaking her neck. Besides, they’re much too big for her.”
“Annamay might have borrowed them from one of the maids.”
“The maids are all Mexican, short in stature, with small hands and feet. These look as if they might belong to a tall black woman but there are no tall black women on the staff.”
Michael took the shoes out of the closet and examined them. They were almost brand-new, bearing only a few scratches on the soles. He put them back in the closet and closed the door.
“I never saw those shoes before,” Mr. Hyatt repeated. “But perhaps I merely overlooked them and they’ve been here all along.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you think we should clean the place up a bit before we go?”
“No. A few leaves and a little dirt won’t hurt anything and I think Howard should see the room as it is.”
“Why?”
“He might want to ask the police to go over it for signs of forced entry.”
The old man was silent a moment. “No, Michael. Howard has lost his faith in the police. And who can blame him? They’ve made no arrests and even the people detained for questioning have been let go within a few hours. Yet they must know, as Howard knows, and I know in my heart, that one of those people is guilty. . . . Do you believe a person is innocent until proven guilty?”
‘The law says so and I must abide by it.”
“That wasn’t my question. I didn’t use the word abide. You abide, certainly. But do you believe a person is innocent until proven guilty?”
“No.”
“You’re aware of dozens of guilty people walking around the streets, even sitting in your congregation. Aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Hyatt locked the door of the palace and returned the keyring to his pocket. Then he began walking back toward the main house, shaking his head with each step like a mechanical man, a toy soldier without a war.
Michael left him where he’d found him, in the redwood chair beside the koi pond. The multicolored koi were still swimming aimlessly round and round but the old black giant had gone back to his hideout in the deepest darkest water.
Chapter SEVEN
Chizzy was cooking again.
While cleaning out the freezer she’d come across five pounds of hamburger which had to be used because it had passed the expiration date on the label. She cooked the whole batch in a Dutch oven, added onions and tomatoes and various spices, and divided the meat into four casseroles. To one she added rice and to another pinto beans. Noodles went into the third and bulgur into the last.
Then, faced with the four casseroles, she sat down and had a good cry because there was no one to eat them. Kay had gone to dinner with Ben York, Mr. Hyatt said he wasn’t hungry, and Howard had shut himself up in the guest cottage, leaving a note on the kitchen table that he was not to be disturbed. She knew Michael was there too because she’d heard his car on the driveway. His car was as noisy as Ben’s but not in the same way. Ben’s gave the impression of speed and power; Michael’s coughed and gasped and wheezed like an old gasoholic having one final binge.
Chizzy cried as quickly and efficiently as she did her housework, and pretty soon it was over and she rubbed her face briskly with a wet towel. Then she decided on a sensible apportionment of the casseroles. One she would deliver to Howard and Michael personally since she did not include herself in any Do Not Disturb notes. She would store one in the refrigerator and take another over to Ernestina, the maid next door, who would probably add chili powder and jalapeños and ruin the whole thing. Mrs. Cunningham down the street was considered briefly as a recipient of the fourth, but her reaction to the meat loaf had been so peculiar that Chizzy decided to eat the casserole herself. She left it in the oven to keep warm while she carried Howard’s over to the guest cottage, wearing the padded mitts she used for barbecues.
It was seven o’clock. Fog had rolled in from the sea before sunset and the gray night was somehow more sinister than any plain black one. Though she never would have admitted it, Chizzy was afraid of the night anyway. She turned on all the little lights that lined the garden paths and took the two dogs with her for protection.
The vertical Venetian blinds of the guest cottage were angled shut but light squeezed out from the sides. Though the windows were closed she could hear voices inside, Howard’s and Michael’s and a third voice, louder than the others and higher-pitched. Holding the casserole close to her chest for warmth and comfort, she knocked on the door with the toe of her shoe.
There was immediate silence, then Howard’s voice:
“Who is it?”
“Me. I brought you a—”
“Didn’t you get the note not to disturb me?”
“Yes. But I didn’t think you meant me.”
“It was addressed to you.”
“I thought you might mean, oh, sort of the public in general.”
“The public in general doesn’t have access to my kitchen.”
Someone in the room laughed, certainly not Howard and probably not Michael. That left the stranger. She didn’t know what he could be laughing at. Nothing funny had been said and there was certainly nothing funny about standing out in a cold gray night being rebuked like an ordinary servant. She felt her face redden.
“You open this door immediately, Mr. Howard,” she said in the firm tone she used on the dogs. “I brought you and the Reverend some supper and I don’t intend to stay out here all night holding it.”
The door opened about a foot. “All right, Chizzy. Thank you.”
“Put it in the oven at three hundred degrees until you’re ready to eat.”
“I’m ready now,” the stranger said and laughed again.
