Rose's Last Summer

by Margaret Millar

  “Why should she?”

  “For a long time I’ve had the idea that Lora intended some day to try and find her mother. During the past year she talked about Rose a great deal, and once she even mentioned the possibility of a reunion with her. I told her it was ridiculous, and the subject was dropped. I’m afraid Lora picked it up again.”

  “You have no proof of that?”

  “None. Yet the more I think of it, the more obvious it seems. Lora believed—and, as a matter of fact, so did I— that Rose was well provided for after her career and her series of husbands. We had no idea she was on her up­pers.”

  “So you came here to see Rose.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you?”

  “I tried to. She wasn’t listed in the phone book or city directory or credit bureau, and she wasn’t at either of the hospitals here in town. I intended to make further in­quiries, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to.” He set his empty glass on top of the radio. It came down with a de­cisive thud and a sharp impatient clink of ice. “How did she die?”

  “Apparently of a heart attack.”

  “She was strong as an ox.”

  “People change with time,” Frank said. “Rose lived pretty high, I guess.”

  “These people, the Goodfields, in whose garden Rose was found. Who are they? What do you know about them?”

  “Just what Greer told me while we were driving down to Malgradi’s place. Goodfield and his wife and mother are from San Francisco. The mother is in bad health, and they’ve spent the last few months or so traveling around the country to find a climate that would agree with her. They finally decided on La Mesa, rented a place, hired a maid, etcetera. They’ve only been here for two weeks, but according to the maid and the next-door neighbor, Goodfield is a devoted son and his wife Ethel is a devoted daughter-in-law, and that’s about all there is to the Goodfields.”

  “I wonder.”

  So did Frank, though he didn’t say so. Instead, “It seems to be just an unfortunate accident that Rose was found on the Goodfields’ premises. It could have happened any­where.”

  “Perhaps it could. I merely wanted to check. Life has taught me to be suspicious.”

  It had taught him well, Frank thought.

  5

  Willett showed the effects of a bad night. His eyes were rimmed with pink, and his breakfast stuck halfway between his stomach and his throat and refused to budge. When the front door chime sounded he dropped his spoon. Leaning over to pick it up, he bumped his head against the table and then clutched his heart dramatically.

  Ethel watched these maneuvers with her customary detachment. “Did you hurt yourself, dear.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, how many times do I have to re­mind you to get those chimes fixed? They’re loud enough to wake the—they’re too loud. They’ve got to be toned down.”

  “What do I know about chimes.”

  “You can wrap a handkerchief around them or some­thing.”

  “Your handkerchiefs are bigger than mine,” Ethel said, sounding very pleased at her ability to score a point, how­ever small.

  Willett could not allow this triumph to go unchallenged. “What’s that got to do with it? Couldn’t you use one of my handkerchiefs?”

  “You know I never pry into your things.”

  “It’s impossible to talk to you anymore.”

  “Then why try?”

  “We can’t live in total silence.”

  “I can.” To a large extent this was true. Ethel could go for days without talking. It drove Willett, whose satisfac­tions were almost entirely verbal, to distraction. “Anyway we shouldn’t quarrel at a time like this,” Ethel added. “It’s disrespectful to the dead, isn’t it.”

  Willett looked furious, but he didn’t say anything be­cause Murphy had come into the room.

  Murphy was a very thin, arrogant young woman with short, black hair and a great deal of what Willett de­scribed as class. Murphy’s right to this description was unassailable. She knew her place, which was high, and her duties which were few. From a practical viewpoint she was the worst maid Ethel had ever had; but Ethel, who was raised on a farm in Wisconsin, was impressed by Mur­phy’s niceties and quite willing to do most of the work herself as long as she was addressed as milady.

  Murphy was, in her way, a jewel, and like most jewels she showed off well in the drawing room but was of little value in the kitchen.

  “Captain Greer to see you, sir,” Murphy told Willett, making the sir sound like your lordship. “I took the liberty of showing him into the drawing room.”

  “Thanks, I’ll see him right away.”

  “I believe he also wants to talk to Mrs. Goodfield.”

  “Me?” Ethel said.

  “No, milady. The older Mrs. Goodfield. I explained to him that she wasn’t well but that I thought he might see her for a few minutes.”

  “What in God’s name did you do that for?” Willett said, forgetting his lordshipdom. “I’m surrounded, surrounded by imbeciles.”

  He went storming out of the room, and Ethel and Mur­phy exchanged glances.

  “What’ll we have for lunch?” Ethel said.

  “I’m very fond of shrimp, milady.”

  “All right, I’ll make a shrimp salad. Willett’s an aw­fully hard man to live with, isn’t he? I mean, you know what I mean.”

  Murphy knew what she meant. His lordship was hell on wheels.

  “What I mean is,” Ethel added, “you can’t take him seriously, and yet you can’t take him not seriously either. You know?”

  “Quite.”

  “It would be nice, wouldn’t it, if people with bad tem­pers could just take a pill or something and become quite cheerful and sunny.”

  “Hot rolls would go very well with the shrimp, milady.”

  “Would they? Yes, I guess they would.” Milady sighed. She hated making rolls but Murphy refused to eat the bakery kind.

  All of his life Willett had been immobilized by self-doubt, plagued by uncertainty over the most trivial mat­ters like whether or not it was proper to shake hands with a policeman like Greer. When he finally decided that it was proper, he performed his duty with nervous reluctance and afterwards he unconsciously wiped his hand on the side of his trousers. Greer noticed the action and misinterpreted the reason for it. And so Willett was once again in the position of having incurred animosity without knowing why. The self-doubt, the action finally taken, wrong and late, and the ensuing unpopularity which bred more self-doubt—it was a circle of errors and Willett ran panting around in it wondering where the end was.

  “I thought this business was settled yesterday,” Willett said. “The poor woman’s dead and all that. What more is there to do?”

  “This.” Greer handed him a subpoena and Willett looked at it with grave suspicion.

  “What is it?”

  “A subpoena. The coroner’s inquest will be held to­morrow morning. You’re to testify, just tell the jury what happened.”

  “I don’t want to. I’ve never had anything to do with this sort of thing before. It makes me nervous. I’m not a well man by any means. I have a kidney stone.”

  “Be reasonable, Mr. Goodfield.”

  “Reasonable? Is it reasonable to drag an innocent by­stander into court? I have a good notion to break my lease and go back home. Surely I have grounds for breaking the lease—having a dead woman found in—”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much to do with leases.” Greer didn’t argue about the subpoena. He just put it down on the glass coffee table while Willett stared at it as if he expected it to come alive, grow wings or legs or teeth.

  “I hate sordid things,” he said finally. “Do you—do you suppose it will be very sordid?”

  “Oh, not very.”

  “No question of suicid
e or murder, anything like that?”

  “That’s for the jury to decide.”

  “I see.” Willett coughed. “Well, I suppose I have my duties as a citizen.”

  “That’s a good way to look at it.”

  “The poor woman who died—my wife and I were dis­cussing it last night—I hope she’ll have a proper burial with flowers and all that?”

  “I don’t guarantee the flowers, but she’ll be buried ac­cording to regulation. The county will foot the bill if no one else does.”

  “It seems so cold-blooded, having no flowers.”

  “Rose won’t know the difference.”

  Willett turned quite pale. “I wonder—my wife and I were wondering—we feel a certain sense of responsibility in this affair. We’re not wealthy by any means, but we’re comfortably well off and I thought—Ethel thought—per­haps a check for a hundred dollars—?”

  “You’re offering to bury Rose?”

  “I—yes, you might put it like that. Ethel’s very soft­hearted, you know.”

  Greer didn’t know. “You’ll have to take the matter up with the County Administrator.”

  Willett had no idea what or who the County Adminis­trator was, but he nodded wisely. “I see. There’s red tape involved. You think it might be better to forget the whole thing? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want my generous im­pulses to get me into trouble. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “There are lots of worthy causes to give money to,” Greer said shortly. “Flowers are fine, but Rose can’t smell them.”

  Willett took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He hated this callous policeman with such intensity that he felt nauseated. “I—if you’ll excuse me—I’m not well.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “We—we’re not a strong family. Things upset us.”

  Greer believed it. “I just want to talk to your mother for a few minutes. I’ll try not to disturb her.”

  Willett felt too weak and sick to argue. “Murphy will take you upstairs,” he said and headed for the door, press­ing the handkerchief against his mouth.

  Greer sat down to wait for Murphy. The day was al­ready becoming warm and the atmosphere in the room was depressing. From the open windows came a too-sweet scent of flowers which Greer could not identify. Greer was not an intuitive man but he had the impression that the Goodfields were concealing something, perhaps about Rose, perhaps only about themselves. He felt that, by talking to the old lady, he might have this impression con­firmed or denied. It was obvious that she—and Murphy —dominated the household.

  “This way, sir,” Murphy said.

  Greer rose. “How long have you worked for the Goodfields, Murphy?”

  “Two weeks, sir.”

  “How were you hired?”

  “I inserted an ad in the local paper.”

  “Many replies?”

  “Certainly, sir. I chose the Goodfields because they didn’t expect me to perform any menial duties. Ortega does the gardening, a cleaning woman comes in twice a week, the laundry is sent out, and Mrs. Goodfield does all the cooking.”

  “That must leave you with a fair amount of time to yourself.”

  “It might seem that way to a casual observer,” Murphy said shortly, and led the way upstairs, walking very stiffly as if she were balancing a book on her head.

  “It’s a curious job for a woman of your talents, isn’t it?”

  “Is it, sir?”

  “I think so. You’ve been to college, haven’t you?”

  “Certainly I’ve been to college. That’s where I learned that good domestics make more money than good teachers, and they even have an opportunity sometimes to marry the boss. If you follow me, sir?”

  “I follow you.”

  “When the Goodfields return to San Francisco, I will go with them. There are more, shall we say, possibilities in a larger city.”

  “I’m sure you’ll explore them.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll try.”

  Mrs. Goodfield was lying on a mountain of pillows in an old-fashioned four-poster bed with a ruffled pink canopy. The bed dwarfed her; she seemed no larger than a child, a pale and limp little girl strangely aged by a long illness. Her skin had the white translucence of paraffin, and even in the dim light that filtered through the closed Venetian blinds her short, black hair had the purplish gleam of dye. Her thin, slightly curved nose gave her a look of pride and arrogance. Even in bed she wore her jewels— diamonds and rubies on her fingers, a bracelet that tin­kled with every move she made, and pearl earrings that matched the pallor of her small delicate ears.

  “I have no use for the medical profession,” she said, giving Greer a long, hostile stare. “You might as well pack up and leave.”

  “He isn’t a doctor, milady,” Murphy said. “He’s a po­liceman, Captain Greer.”

  “A policeman, eh? I suppose Willett went through a red light. He never could handle a car, it handles him. Makes me wonder sometimes if I brought him up right. Murphy, you may leave.”

  “I think it would be advisable if I stayed, milady.”

  “I think it would be advisable if you got the hell out of here. And stop pulling that milady stuff on me. It makes me gag, understand?”

  Murphy departed with an elegant shrug.

  “Impossible, ain’t she?” the old lady said cheerfully. “Lots of people think I’m impossible, but I don’t agree. Did you ever play baseball?”

  “Shortstop on the high school team.”

  “Seems to me you’re built more like a catcher. ’Course I can’t see your legs. You got heavy legs?”

  “Heavy enough.”

  “You should have been a catcher. But I don’t suppose you came up here to talk baseball, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, now it’s your turn to say something. I talk a lot, but I’m very fair about giving the other fellow his chance. Go on, say something.”

  “I suppose you’ve been told what happened here yester­day morning.”

  She nodded. “Rose French was found dead in my backyard. It made Willett nervous.”

  “Did you know Rose?”

  “Know her, I did not. But I used to go to her pictures. Never considered her much of an actress, myself.” She thumped one of the pillows to emphasize her point. “What’s all the fuss about, anyway? If she’s dead, she’s dead. Not much I can do about it.”

  “The possibility occurred to me that you might have known her personally.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “How about your son?”

  “I’ve never allowed Willett to have any truck with actresses,” she said with severity. “When the time came for Willett to spread his wings, I picked out Ethel for him. Good, sturdy stock, Ethel. Don’t let those wispy airs confuse you. She’s strong as a horse. Now let me see, where were we? Oh yes, actresses. I explained all about actresses to Willett when he was eighteen. Does that an­swer your question?”

  “I think so.”

  “Now it’s your turn to say something again. Go on. ’Course if you can’t think of something, I’ll take another turn and then you can have two turns next time. That suit you?”

  “I think I’d better take my turn now,” Greer said dryly. “There may not be a next time.”

  The old lady grinned and stroked her rings. She was having a wonderful time.

  “Would you mind telling me, Mrs. Goodfield, how Willett makes a living?”

  “By agreeing with me. That’s how he makes a living.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I have no interest in business details. Why don’t you ask Willett or Ethel?”

  “All right, I will,” Greer said, and took a hesitant step toward the door.

  “You’re not going already, are you?”

  “I
promised not to stay too long and disturb you.”

  “Disturb me?” She propped herself up on one elbow and repeated, “Disturb me? Don’t they realize I’m lonely? I like to talk to people, outside people. Why don’t you sit down for a minute and we’ll talk about baseball? I won’t cheat on turns, either. That suit you?”

  “It would suit me another time. This morning I have work to do.”

  Mrs. Goodfield flung herself back among the pillows like a petulant child. “You won’t come back. I bet you won’t. You think I’m an old crank. But I’m not. It’s just that I’ve had so many disappointments in my life. My children were the worst. First Willett and then Jack and then Shirley. They’re not bad children, but they lack will and spirit. They’ll never amount to anything, not one of them. Jack’s a party boy, always the extra man at dinners and cocktail parties. Makes quite a fool of himself, falling all over other men’s wives. You know the kind?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Shirley, poor girl, she got married very young to a schoolteacher. He died of a stroke two years ago, leaving Shirley with four children to support.” She added al­most reverently, “Thank God for our little factory; it’s kept us all out of the poorhouse so far.”

  “What do you mean, so far?”

  “Things can happen, especially after I’m gone. Did Willett tell you that I’m supposed to be dying?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I’m supposed to be, but I’m not sure I’m going to. Not till after the World Series anyway. You don’t happen to know any bookies in town, do you? I was wondering, maybe if I take up betting on the horses, it would give me another hobby besides baseball.”

  “Officially there are no bookies in town.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  The old lady grinned again and rubbed the palms of her hands together.

  Greer departed with the strong conviction that he had been hog-tied by an expert.

  6

  The following morning, Thursday, at 9 a.m., a cor­oner’s inquest was held to determine the cause of death of Rose Elizabeth French, a human being.