And so Chizzy hung over the rail with a handkerchief provided by Michael held to her mouth. Standing beside her, Quinn alternately sobbed and threw up. She had come on board carrying a single white rose but it had disappeared during her first upheaval, and so there were no flowers.

  There was no eulogy. Kay put her hand on the plastic box and said, “Good-bye, Ben.” The box was dropped overboard and almost immediately disappeared among the whitecaps.

  A crewman provided towels for the two seasick women and told them to breathe deeply and pinch their left ear-lobes.

  “That’s silly,” Chizzy said, but she obeyed instructions because she would have done anything, within reason or without, to improve her condition.

  Quinn kept gasping and sobbing about the white rose she had bought for Ben at a real florist’s and lost overboard.

  “A rose won’t do him any good if he’s guilty,” the crewman said. “And if he’s got a clean slate he won’t need flowers.”

  “Guilty? Guilty of what?”

  “There’s talk.”

  There was talk. From the sagging frame dwellings of the barrio to the mansions on the bluffs overlooking the sea.

  When Howard went to work in the mornings a sudden hush fell over the office as if he had interrupted a secret session, a kangaroo court. When Kay’s friends called they said the right things but some of their voices carried half-tones of suppressed excitement, and others sounded tight as though questions were being swallowed.

  There was talk.

  Ernestina, the maid next door to the Hyatts, heard about it at La Casa de la Raza and came over to ask Chizzy for the real truth.

  Chizzy was severe with her. “You mustn’t listen to gossip.”

  “I no listen. My ears, they listen.”

  “Okay, I’m talking to your ears, so pay attention. Benjamin York was a fine young man, pure as the driven snow.”

  “Snow, huh? White stuff?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You know what snow is. You Mexicans waste a lot of time pretending you don’t understand.”

  “I understand good,” Ernestina said, and proved it that night at the Casa by informing her friends that Ben was a cocaine addict who could afford to buy the pure stuff which had then driven him to crime.

  Dru heard the talk at school and at home.

  At school the talk was direct. She was sought out in the halls before classes began and in the cloakrooms at recess where the older girls gathered to smoke and discuss sex and its deviations.

  “Did you really know him?”

  “I saw him all the time.”

  “Oh, my God, maybe you were almost murdered.”

  “Maybe,” Dru said. “Almost.”

  “Just imagine, almost being murdered.”

  Everyone imagined, shuddered, puffed and blew the smoke out the windows with a hair dryer.

  “Were you ever alone with him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did he ask you to take your clothes off?”

  “I think he sort of hinted.”

  “Did he ever touch you in any of those places you’re not supposed to let anyone touch?”

  Dru, torn between the truth and her new celebrity status as the girl who was almost murdered, chose to compromise:

  “I didn’t let him.”

  “Couldn’t you tell he was a sex maniac?”

  “My parents never allow me to go to movies about sex maniacs so I don’t know what one looks like.”

  In the discussion that followed it was agreed that parents were grossly unfair and stupid not to permit young people to attend whatever movies they wanted to in the interests of furthering their education.

  The talk Dru heard at home was indirect. Ben’s name was not mentioned in her presence, but she was well aware they talked about him after she went to bed. And so, when reminded of bedtime, she dutifully went up to her room, put on her nightclothes and turned up the volume of her television set. Then she crept back downstairs in the dark.

  Vicki and John were in the den where they often went to hold conversations they meant to be kept private behind the heavy oak door. But tonight the fire John had set in the fireplace burned too fast and overheated the small room so the door had to be opened. It was a stroke of luck for Dru. Barely halfway down the steps she could hear their voices quite clearly, mostly Vicki’s with its high-pitched twittering persistence:

  —from Darien Angelo whose first cousin works in the D.A.’s office so it must be true.”

  “Why? What does she do in the D.A.’s office, read minds?”

  “She pays attention. She listens.”

  “And tells.”

  “She doesn’t tell just everybody, only her relatives.”

  “And they tell everybody.”

  “Stop being so negative and you might learn something,” Vicki said. “Officially, the case of Annamay’s death is still open. But unofficially there isn’t a person in the department who’s not convinced that Ben killed himself out of remorse for his crime.”

  “Which one, speeding or drunk driving? That’s all that can be proved against him.”

  “Are you going to keep on like this, taking his side?”

  “I’m trying to be fair.”

  “Fair? What’s fair anymore in this world? The word doesn’t have any meaning.”

  “Not with Darien Angelo’s first cousin in the D.A.’s office.”

  “Very well, if you won’t listen, I won’t talk,” Vicki said, and for nearly half a minute she didn’t. Then, “I spent the afternoon over at Kay’s house. She and Howard refuse to discuss Ben’s death, even with me, Kay’s own sister. But I can’t help feeling it’s the best thing that could have happened as far as their marriage is concerned.”

  “That’s your opinion, is it, that Ben did everyone a favor by driving over a cliff?”

  “Not everyone, of course. I’m sure that Quinn woman is suffering to a certain extent. But on the whole, I think it’s all for the best.”

  “You,” John said, “are a very crude little lady.”

  “And you science freaks are so skeptical you won’t face facts until all the i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed.”

  “Toss me a fact.”

  “I already did. Ben’s death is drawing Kay and Howard closer together. I could see it happening right in front of my eyes.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t got your t’s dotted and your eyes crossed?”

  “Make all the sardonic remarks you like. Kay and Howard are acting like—well, like married people again. They seem to be back where they started. Maybe they’ll even adopt a child, though frankly I can’t see why people are so hyped on having kids. I mean, look what can happen.”

  And Dru, crouched on the steps listening, thought, She means me. I’m what happened.

  She went upstairs to her room, turned off the television set and climbed into bed. There was a cold hard lump in her throat like an ice cube that couldn’t be swallowed, couldn’t be coughed up, wouldn’t melt. Look what can happen. She means me.

  Dru pulled the covers up over her head, over her ugly face, her stringy brown hair, her beady little eyes, her nose that was too big and her chin that was too small.

  She means me. I happened.

  Chapter TWELVE

  Madam Firenze was in a foul mood. Unable to locate her hoard of raisins, she accused Ms. Leigh of stealing them for her own use.

  “What raisins, madam?”

  “You know what raisins. The ones I pick out of my cereal in the mornings to save for the champagne in case it goes flat. You took them.”

  “I don’t drink champagne,” Ms. Leigh said imperturbably. “Neither, as a matter of fact, do you.”

  “I would if they let me.”

  “Face it, madam. They’re not going to let you. You’re hard enough to deal with when you’re sober.”

  “They might give me some for my birthday.”

  “If they do, it’ll be the two-buck-a-bottle kind you can pick up in a grocery store, not worth wasting your raisins on. Besides, your birthday was last month. You have eleven whole months to start a new collection.”

  “I want my old collection.” Madam’s watery voice was heating up like a steam whistle and getting ready to blow. “Give them back right this minute.”

  “I don’t have them. I have no reason to have raisins.”

  “You give them back or get out of this house. Forever.”

  “Forever is a long time.”

  “Not long enough, you thief. Leave this house immediately. You hear me?”

  “Madam, everyone this side of the Colorado River can hear you.”

  “Get, get, get!”

  Ms. Leigh got.

  From a phone booth at the nearest gas station she called one of the two numbers Michael Dunlop had given her. There was no answer so she called the second.

  A man’s voice said, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Dunlop?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Tai Leigh, Madam Firenze’s companion, for want of a better word. I have the material you asked me to gather for you. Do you still want it?”

  He had forgotten about it but he managed to say with conviction, “Of course I do. Shall I come over and pick it up?”

  “No, no. Firenze just ordered me off the premises forever, which means I have a couple of free hours before she starts yelling for me again. I can bring the stuff over to you now.”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you live in that house connected with the church? What’s a place like that called, by the way?”

  “When the roof doesn’t leak and the plumbing works, I call it a house. I have other names for other occasions.”

  “Have people ever told you you talk funny for a minister?”

  “People have and I do,” Michael said. “When can I expect you?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  She arrived within a minute of the specified time, looking cool and elegant in a green suede coat with matching boots. As soon as she stepped into the hall she made the place appear smaller and shabbier, and Michael somehow felt the need to apologize.

  “Excuse the way things look,” he said. “I’ve been baching it for a while. My wife’s away.”

  “Home to mother?”

  “Aunt.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought I was being funny.”

  “And you were,” Michael said. “There’s certainly an element of humor in having one’s future decided by a spinster aunt with a low opinion of men.”

  “Gosh, I really goofed, didn’t I?”

  “Forget it. Come in the living room and show me the material.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too little and too late.”

  “Too little, maybe. Too late, why?”

  She seemed surprised by the question. “I thought Mr. York’s death made it obvious that he—”

  “There is a presumption of innocence in this country’s legal system. Mr. York’s death makes it impossible to prove he is guilty so he must be considered innocent. Isn’t that reasonable?”

  “Sure. But it doesn’t stop the talk going round. People don’t want to be reasonable. It’s dull. Believing Mr. York is a murderer perks up the drab little image they see in their mirror. That’s the way it works. Sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  Ms. Leigh unzipped the leather case she was carrying and removed some sheets of paper containing lines of typing with handwritten notes in the margins.

  “I repeat, there’s very little here, considering the amount of trash I had to wade through, gibberish, profanity, clichés, old burlesque jokes, you name it. But here are the parts I thought were pertinent. Can you read my handwriting in the margins?”

  In contrast to her appearance and manner, Ms. Leigh’s handwriting was wildly unpredictable. Words ran together or were separated in the middle. No letters were capitalized and punctuation was mainly confined to question and exclamation marks.

  “I think I can make it out,” Michael said.

  “Maybe I’d better stay and go over it with you, “

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  “None of it’s dated. I told you, I’m not a secretary, I’m a writer. But I may be able to throw some light on a few things. For instance, here’s a paragraph in which she describes being chased and attacked by a pack of wild animals. ‘Wolves and bears snapping at my legs, their teeth red with my blood.’ The basis for that fantasy is fairly obvious. The Hyatts have a German shepherd which resembles a wolf and a very large black dog which could be mistaken for a bear by someone in Firenze’s condition. Nearly all her fearful imaginings have some reality behind them. Here’s another section where she describes being pelted by huge rocks. And sure enough, she did come home one day with a swelling and some scratches on her forehead. She was so convincing, so positive that someone had thrown rocks at her that I decided I’d better investigate. I ruined a pair of shoes walking half a mile or so up the creek and came across an area where a couple of bunya bunya trees had been planted. Are you familiar with them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “They bear pods as big as a man’s head and correspondingly heavy. Being hit by one is so serious that in county and city parks when these trees are shedding, their perimeters are roped off and warning signs posted. So I think we can safely assume that no one had pelted her with rocks. She was simply under the wrong tree at the wrong time. You agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “The origins of some of her other fears and fancies are more obscure. At one point she claims she was attacked by bats who flew into her face and got entangled in her hair. I tried to explain to her that bats are nocturnal animals and she wouldn’t be likely to run into any in the afternoon. If I had to guess at what she thought were bats I’d say sycamore leaves. They’re so large that one of them blowing into a person’s face could scare the daylights out of her providing there weren’t too many daylights to begin with. . . . Is she coming back?”

  “Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  “I don’t know,” Michael said. “Even if she does, there’ll be so many strings attached, so many conditions, provisos, whereases, that I won’t be able to live up to them anyway.”

  “Will you try?”

  “Probably not.” He paused. “Lorna was a minister’s daughter and she likes being a minister’s wife, the attention, the prestige of a sort, the various roles she’s expected to play.”

  “Then what would keep her away?”

  “I submitted my resignation several days ago.”

  “And that’s that?”

  “That’s that. Over and out. Let’s get back to Firenze.”

  “All right.” Ms. Leigh turned to another of the typewritten pages. “She complains a number of times about being shot at by a sniper trying to prevent her from finishing her memoirs. The bullets were probably eucalyptus pods or acorns from the live oak trees. But the last two references here baffle me. I’m pretty sure they refer to the day the Hyatt child disappeared because Firenze talks about the devil wind and that was the day we had our first santa ana of the season. It came up very suddenly and caught her as she was wandering along the creek. She was terrified. She came home screaming about a ghost that floated through the air, changing shape like ectoplasm. She didn’t know whether it was a man or a woman, only that it was out to punish her.”

  “It was a man.” Michael explained about Mr. Cassandra and his visits to the creek to refresh himself in the water and breathe the country air. The sight of him in his white robe at the height of a santa ana would be enough to frighten even a normal person.

  “I’m glad to hear she wasn’t just imagining the whole thing,” Ms. Leigh said. “Maybe she’s not as kooky as I thought.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “I’m afraid all this isn’t being much help to you. Shall I go on anyway?”

  “Please do.”

  Ms. Leigh had reached the last page of the typescript. She glanced over it, frowning. “The wind was the main theme. She talked of banshee noises, leaves rustling like hellfire, bullets striking her head, children screaming, children blowing out of trees, floating through the air like kites. Children play a big role in all her nightmares so I more or less discounted that part. As for the kite, she may actually have seen one but it’s most unlikely in a wind like that. Later, when I was transcribing, I asked her about it. She denied mentioning kites or children or hellfire or banshee noises or any of the rest of it. She claimed the voice on the tape was that of an impersonator. And she called me, among other things, a cheat, a liar, a flat-chested chink, a spy for the IRS and a lousy typist. . . . Ah well, nobody’s perfect.”

  Ms. Leigh put the papers back in the leather folder.

  “So there you have it. Not much, but the best I could do.”

  “You were promised a fee for your services.”

  “Forget it. The whole thing’s been a lesson to me and I’m always willing to pay for lessons.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “As I told you the day we met, I planned on writing a book about her writing a book. Now I realize, after going through all this crap, that I simply don’t have the perseverance or patience. I’d end up in a rubber room accusing myself of being an imposter.”

  “I’m glad you’ve been spared that fate.”

  “So am I. In fact, I’m quitting the job. Larry and I are moving to L.A. to be closer to the action. I think Larry has a great future in television commercials.”

  “Good luck to both of you.”

  “Thanks. What about you?”

  “I don’t see much future for myself in television commercials,” Michael said. “But I expect to survive.”

  They shook hands and Ms. Leigh stepped briskly out into the morning sun. The wind didn’t bend a line of her geometric hairdo. It reflected the sun’s rays like black glass.

  Michael watched as she backed into her miniature car, folded her long legs under the steering wheel, slammed the door shut and sped away from the curb as if she were determined to stay ahead of whatever was behind her. He wished he could go with her.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  The old man sat in the redwood chair beside the koi pond, his face almost hidden by a battered straw hat. It was his favorite hat. He’d found it in the avocado grove where it had been dropped by one of the Mexican pickers, and it was so big it bent the tops of his ears over. But it had convenient holes in the crown which allowed air to circulate. And he had not, in spite of Chizzy’s repeated warnings, contracted any scalp disorders from it, head lice or scabies or mites.

 

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