We turned right, went straight up a hill so steep I had to shift into first, made another turn down an impossibly tight street, and finally nosed into a driveway of an older Mediterranean home with white stucco walls decorated with brightly painted tiles. The entrance was on the top floor, while the rest of the house was on descending floors following the grade of the hill.
A lovely elderly woman answered the door. Her pure white hair was thick and artfully styled in a relaxed bob; her eyes were a deep, startling sapphire blue.
“Come in, come in. Do excuse the mess, but the place is in quite the uproar,” she said, gesturing to various cardboard boxes and items strewn about. “We’ve been working all morning.”
In the entryway hung a large, riveting oil portrait, obviously Eugenia Morisett as a young woman. There was no mistaking those eyes.
“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” I said as Eugenia led the way to a glass-enclosed garden room. We passed through a living room studded with original art work, sculptures, as well as paintings, both classical and modern.
Eugenia gestured for us to take seats on comfy overstuffed couches covered in floral chintz. Quaint leaded windows overlooked the town of Sausalito and out to the bay.
“Don’t mention it. I’m happy to unload these items; I’ve spent weeks just cleaning out the closets. I’m thinking I’ll probably sell the house as soon as the market improves. Now that my husband, Richard, has passed, it hardly seems worth the time and energy to keep it up. Only in the summertime when the kids come with the grandchildren—that’s when I truly enjoy it. But one can’t shape one’s entire life around three weeks in the summer, can one? I might just move into the Nob Hill apartment full-time.”
Must be nice, I thought.
“It’s such a fabulous place,” said Susan. “But I can see how it would be a lot of work to maintain. Still, it’s the perfect place to display all your artwork.”
“Isn’t it just?” Eugenia said, preening. “I like to think of myself as a patroness of the arts. I’m on the board at the MOMA. I think art is essential to any civilized town, don’t you?”
“Is some of it your work?” I asked. “You’re an artist as well, aren’t you?”
“Oh, good gracious, that was a long time ago.”
“When you were at the School of Fine Arts?” I asked.
“Yes. Such a long time ago.”
Susan leaned forward, a delighted look in her eye. “Oh, do tell! What was it like, back in the day?”
I watched with interest as Susan coaxed Eugenia into talking about her days at the school, and I realized for the first time why Susan was such a successful journalist. She had a way of simultaneously flattering and acting so interested that a person wanted to tell her everything—even I, who never confided in anyone, felt like spilling my secrets when she gave me her undivided attention and probed.
Perhaps Eugenia really had been a talented artist, I thought after she had gone on for some time about how gifted she had been, and how popular. She certainly had a way of painting herself in a good light.
“I hear there was a sad incident, regarding a young man?” I asked when she started to wind down.
“Dear, sweet John,” Eugenia said with a dramatic sigh, looking out over the ocean. “He painted that portrait of me that hangs in the entry.”
“It’s lovely.”
“He adored me.”
“I heard you two were engaged?”
“He gave me a ring, but it was a tiny thing,” she said with a laugh. “He hardly had enough money to support himself, much less a wife. We talked about getting married, but it was mostly idle daydreaming. Among other things, at the time I thought it might be too bourgeois. The bohemian ideology was strong back then. Ah, we had such fun right there in North Beach. I really enjoyed that area, but now it’s so dirty, overrun with tourists, such a pity. Oh, and the homeless . . .” She gave a delicate shiver of her slender shoulders.
“I like North Beach,” said Bronwyn.
“Me, too,” I said.
“Ah,” Eugenia said, sitting up. “Here’s Amanda now.” A tall woman entered the room, lugging two bulging plastic garbage bags. My own arms ached in sympathy—it never ceased to amaze me how heavy clothing was in bulk.
“I can’t tell you how much work there is to be done,” Eugenia exclaimed. “Amanda, bring us some iced tea, will you? Please, don’t stand on ceremony; look through the clothing.”
I started rummaging through the big bags. It didn’t take much investigation to determine that Eugenia’s clothing was quality stuff.
“It looks wonderful,” I said. “We don’t have to unpack the bags, I’m happy to take it all. Even if I can’t sell it, I’m sure we can find needy folk who would appreciate it.”
Amanda came back in the room, carrying a tray of four glasses of iced tea garnished with thin slices of lemon.
“It is so exhausting taking care of this place,” Eugenia repeated with a grand sigh as she helped herself to tea. “And now we’re cleaning out the closets. There’s just so much to do.”
I met Amanda’s eyes. We shared a smile. I was willing to bet that the lion’s share of the work around here was done by Amanda and her colleagues. But perhaps issuing orders was exhausting as well. I wouldn’t know.
“Those were magical times, though, back at the school,” Eugenia continued. “We traipsed around North Beach, listened to the Beat poets. . . .”
“What happened with John?” I asked.
She gestured with her hand, as though waving away emotions. “He was desperately in love with me, but I wasn’t really ready to settle down. And I was distracted by another man.”
“This was Richard, your late husband?”
“Good heavens no.”
“You fell in love with another man?” Bronwyn asked.
“Love had very little to do with it,” Eugenia said with a laugh. “I was attracted to him. Incredible body, very manly. Very aggressive. John, on the other hand, was a dreamer, an artist.”
“Did this other man go to the school also?”
“Not exactly. Believe it or not, it was the delivery boy. I know, I know, it sounds like a cliché. But he used to bring rolls of canvas, other supplies to the school. Drove the truck, hoisted the goods. I can still recall how I used to love watching those biceps gleam in the sunshine.”
Bronwyn, Susan, and I exchanged glances.
“I was the belle of the ball in those days, I can tell you that. I was beautiful, and they were all in love with me.” She sighed. “John, Jerry, Richard . . .”
“Jerry?”
“Jerry Becker. The delivery boy.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“He ran off shortly after John killed himself. I guess it was all too much, and he realized he didn’t really have a chance with me. I enjoyed our time together, but what was I going to do—live like a bohemian my whole life? If I wanted that, I could have married John, after all.”
She took a drink of her tea, shrugged a delicate shoulder, and continued. “I was raised in privilege. I know people don’t like to say it, but I wasn’t used to anything else. This is the lifestyle I was accustomed to. I couldn’t stay a student forever. Oh, look!” She reached over to a nearby bookcase. “I unearthed an old album from my student days.”
She flipped through large pages of aging snapshots, showing us numerous pictures of herself with a few other students, including a very young, long- haired, beatnik-looking Jerry Becker. He had been handsome and buff back in the day, she was right about that.
“Do you have any pictures of John Daniels?” I asked.
“No. He never let anyone take his picture. He had a superstition about it; said it would steal his soul.” She laughed again. The high-pitched sound was beginning to annoy me. “Silly boy.”
“Then what happened to Jerry?” Susan asked.
“He went off and made a fortune—he established a line of hairdressing schools, if you can believe it. He came back a
t one point and declared his love for me, but it was too late. I’d already set my cap for my Richard. Richard’s father was a U.S. senator, you know.”
“This is going to sound odd,” I said, “but did you ever have a sense that the bell tower at the School of Fine Arts was haunted?”
“Ghosts? Pfff.” She gave a dismissive breath and waved her hand. “I’ve heard that. After the . . . incident, people said it was John’s ghost. As though he would be the type. The only ghost stories I knew came from the sealed closet they opened up under the eaves.”
I choked on a big swallow of iced tea. “The what?”
She seemed amused by my reaction.
“It was just a tale we students used to tell to scare one another, though I do believe that Jerry believed it—I remember once finding him poking around in that dusty old closet, looking through the old corsets, of all things. He even wanted me to try one on and admire myself in the mirror.” She let loose yet another peal of laughter. “I refused, of course. Then there was some tale about a nun fighting off a demon. . . . Supposedly there was a group of novices that came from France and brought something spooky with them when they arrived. I guess, strictly speaking, they were more a coven than a group of nuns, but in any case, you were never supposed to go in because the demon was somehow trapped in there. And then something happened. I remember the school was closed for a few days after John’s sad death, and when we came back, the closet was all sealed up.”
Chapter 11
My mind raced. A coven of nuns? Did she mean that literally, as in a group of witches, or was she using the term as a derogatory reference to a group of women bent on evil? What was the “spooky” thing they brought with them?
The women’s conversation had moved on while I was lost in thought. Eugenia started regaling Susan and Bronwyn with tales of student hijinks back in the day, including a fad for panty raids in the residence halls.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “if we could go back to the story about the nuns just for a second—do you know anything about what kind of demon it was supposed to be? Anything at all?”
“Just your everyday closet demon, so far as I know.” Eugenia smiled and shrugged. “You don’t actually believe in this stuff, do you?”
I ignored that question. “What happened to the French nuns?”
“I have no idea. This was all before the 1906 earthquake, you know, a very long time ago. The building was damaged in the quake, and closed for a time. When it reopened, it became the art school. I imagine the nuns went wherever it is they go . . . to a nunnery somewhere else.”
“San Francisco’s not a very Catholic city,” Susan mentioned. “Perhaps they found an area more accommodating.”
“You know, it’s so odd . . .” Eugenia said with a faraway look in her eye. “I talked about this not long ago, for the first time in years. Some fellow who teaches there now—Landau is it? He called to ask about it. Isn’t it funny how you can go ages without thinking of something, and then it’s absolutely everywhere—just in the air, I guess.”
In the air and on Walker Landau’s mind. That was the second instance of his setting out to interview folks about the odd goings-on at the school. Had I missed something when I talked to him? Why was I so convinced he was innocent? Could he be cloaking his intentions somehow? I was usually quite confident in my assessments of such things, but not so long ago I had been led astray, so I knew I was fallible. I needed to speak with Landau further.
Susan, Bronwyn, and I gathered up the bags of clothes, and I wrote Eugenia my standard check in return. It seemed strange—usually I was paying elders and humble folk who really needed the cash. I had half expected Eugenia to suggest I give the money to charity in her name, but she seemed more than happy to accept the check. I suppose that’s how rich people stay wealthy.
“Wait,” Eugenia said. She left the room and returned a moment later with a leather and cloth letterman’s jacket.
“Here. This was John Daniels’s jacket. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years. Why don’t you go ahead and take it.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want you to regret losing it.”
There was a flicker of doubt in her deep blue eyes, but it passed quickly.
“No, no. You take it. It was a reminder of those care-free days of youth, but now it’s just one more thing cluttering up the closets. I’m having a closet designer in next week; I’ve always admired how organized they manage to make things. We don’t have room for silly memories.”
Eugenia stood at the door and waved good-bye to us as we pulled away. Our trio was silent for a good stretch, the mood almost somber.
“What a vain, pathetic excuse for a woman,” Susan finally said as we turned onto Sausalito’s charming Main Street, dodging tourists on bright red rented bicycles, some built for two.
“Maybe she was trying to cover up her feelings,” suggested kindhearted Bronwyn.
I knew from her vibrations that it wasn’t so. There was no underlying sadness there, no genuine grief. Eugenia was self-involved to the point of being self-obsessed, and probably always had been. Still, like the rest of us, she was also plagued by moments of self-doubt. None of us escaped the human condition.
“I’m starving,” I said as to avoid more dismal themes.
“Well, it seems I lured you two out here with the promise of lunch, didn’t I?” Susan said brightly, good humor restored. “I know the perfect place on such a pretty day. Let’s go to Le Garage and sit outside.”
On the way to the restaurant, Susan regaled us with stories about Sausalito, which, like much of the Bay Area—and in particular the Barbary Coast—laid claim to a rather picaresque past. Besides fishing, the town was known for harboring rumrunners during Prohibition. And Sally Stanford, the famous madam of a popular San Francisco bordello nestled on the south slope of Nob Hill, established the Valhalla restaurant in Sausalito in 1950. Some years later she won election as town mayor.
We found a parking space in a lot behind the main square and walked to Le Garage bistro, an open-air café that reminded me of the charming sidewalk cafés of Florence. Shooing away curious seagulls looking for scraps, we took our seats at a wire mesh café table.
“I’ll have a Co’cola,” I said to the waiter who asked for our drink orders.
“I love how she says that,” teased Bronwyn. “I’ll have a Co’cola.”
“Nonsense. Bring us a wine list. This is our day off,” Susan declared with a flourish. “Today we are the proverbial ladies-who-lunch.”
I had a million things to do, including getting back to my clothes washing and tracking down a demon. But the temptations were too strong to deny—the warm sun, the cool ocean breeze, the lure of new friendship. I relaxed and accepted a glass of refreshing, buttery-smooth Chardonnay.
“I tell you what, that Jerry Becker always was quite the ladies’ man,” said Susan. “He cut a swath in his day. He was a charmer, no denying that.”
“I’m still amazed that the mighty Jerry Becker started out as a delivery boy,” I said.
“Do you suppose he was so ambitious because he was trying to get Eugenia back?” Bronwyn asked.
“It sounds like The Great Gatsby, doesn’t it?” remarked Susan. “The green light at the end of the pier and all that.”
“The green light? What does that refer to?” I asked.
“You know, the light was a symbol of Gatsby’s dreams of winning Daisy over. . . .”
“Oh, I never read the book,” I said.
“How’d you get out of high school without reading The Great Gatsby?” Bronwyn asked.
“I uh . . . didn’t exactly make it through high school.”
Both of my companions gaped at me across the table.
“I mean, I studied, just not traditionally,” I hedged. “I don’t have an official diploma or anything.”
“You were homeschooled?”
“Sort of. I read a lot, but somehow I missed F. Scott Fitzgerald. But I’
m planning on going to the library soon, anyway, so I’ll check it out and read it this week, I promise. Mmm, these breadsticks sure look good,” I said in a blatant attempt to change the subject. “I bet I could eat a boot if you boiled it long enough.”
I took a big gulp of wine. Me and my big mouth. I’ve never had friends before, so I wasn’t used to having to mind what I said. Rats. This sort of thing never came up when social interaction was limited to exchanging basic pleasantries.
“What about your GED?” Bronwyn asked. “Did you get that?”
“What’s a GED?”
Again with the gaping.
“It’s the high school equivalency exam.”
“I left the country when I was seventeen.” I shrugged. “I guess I missed out on a few things.”
“I should say,” said Susan.
“Oh, honey, we really should get you a GED,” said Bronwyn.
“How do you get it?” I asked.
“Just pass a basic exam. You’re smart; you could do it.”
“I don’t know. . . . Me and tests don’t really mix. Me and math, especially.”
“I’ll help you prep for it,” said Bronwyn. “I’m good at math.”
“Me, too!” said Susan. “Ooh, a project. I love projects.”
The waiter returned. We each ordered a salade niçoise, and shared ample plates of glistening mussels and crispy pommes frites. Bronwyn began recounting some of her flower-child stories, and Susan reminisced about her own experiences during the sixties, when she was a student at Bryn Mawr, the all-girls college. After the second glass of wine I relaxed enough to forget about demons for a while, and just basked in the unfamiliar, gorgeous setting and the company of my new friends.
A Cast-Off Coven Page 14
