Rose's Last Summer

by Margaret Millar

  “She was thrilled to pieces. Contrary to Willett’s opin­ion, Mother thrives on excitement, especially if it brings disaster to someone like a loose woman. She was a loose woman, wasn’t she?”

  “Not in my opinion.”

  “Well anyway, Mother was thrilled. It seemed to pep her up.”

  “I don’t suppose you still have that letter.”

  “I don’t suppose I’d let you read it if I had.”

  “I think you would.”

  Shirley laughed again. “I guess I would. But as a matter of fact, I never keep letters. I chuck them out right away because I never have time to answer them and I hate them hanging around weighing on my conscience.”

  “Did you know Rose French?”

  “I knew of her. Everyone did.” A pause. “I think I’m beginning to see the light. You’re trying to connect us with her.”

  “It would be an interesting connection.”

  “Would it?” she said shortly. “Not to me. I have no concern with a woman dropping dead four hundred miles away. I’m just glad that it wasn’t Mother. I am not,” she added, “very fond of my mother, but I like the idea of her living to a ripe old age.”

  “Why?”

  “She keeps Jack and Willett in line. If it weren’t for Mother, neither of them would go near the factory. Even as it is, things are getting pretty run down. You must have seen that.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’ve thought of taking it over myself. I’m a pretty good businesswoman, I think. Maybe when the children are a little older, I will. If it’s still there and if I care.”

  She gave her head a sudden, almost violent shake, as if she felt herself sinking into a dream of despondency and had to wake herself up before she sank too far. The exist­ence of the factory, though it was essential to their own existence, seemed to irritate and depress the Goodfields, like a gifted child that had failed to live up to expectations.

  Shirley poked at the fire again. Her cheeks had taken on the deep flush of suppressed aggression, and Frank knew now that his first estimate of her as an essentially cheerful person had been too hasty. She had in her all the force and drive that should have been allotted to her brothers. Physically she was a very feminine woman de­voted to her children; morally she was the head of the Goodfield clan. It was Shirley who should have been run­ning the factory, keeping Willett and Jack in line, and ordering the new paint job for Sweetheart. As Charley had pointed out, Shirley was the only one with a head on her shoulders.

  The head was still here, all right, but Frank had the im­pression that it wasn’t held as high as it used to be.

  Shirley lit a second cigarette from the final half-inch of the first. “Well, have I answered all your questions, Mr. Clyde?”

  “I have no complaint with your answers. Just the ques­tions. Frankly, I didn’t know, and don’t know, what to ask.”

  “In other words, you had no specific object in coming here at all?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid I don’t believe that. However—” She rose from the hassock, taking a long, deep pull on her cigarette. It was clear to Frank that she was disturbed, but she covered her nervousness well, keeping her hands active to conceal their trembling, and smiling with her mouth to distract attention from her worried eyes. “You must excuse me now, Mr. Clyde. I don’t very often have an afternoon free from the children. I think I’ll use it to—better advantage.”

  She led Frank back through the long, damp hall to the front door. A dismal ending for such a promising begin­ning, Frank thought, certain that it was the mention of the factory that had changed Shirley’s attitude. When the Goodfield children were young, the place must have seemed to them an enchanted toyland, and the great wooden doll, Sweetheart, a symbol of magic and a figure­head of grandeur and privilege. He wondered how often Sweetheart turned up in Shirley’s dreams.

  The door opened and a gauze curtain of mist blew deli­cately down the hall and disappeared.

  Shirley rubbed her hands together, shivering. “Gloomy climate. It’s a wonder anyone stays here. I guess they stay for the same reason as I do, they have to. It’s all very well for Willett to travel around the country. But I have chil­dren, I can’t take them away from their school and their friends. I must give them some kind of continuity in their lives.” She seemed to be talking not to Frank but to her­self, arguing over a point that she had argued over many times before. “They need security. How can you give anyone security when you have none yourself? But you wouldn’t know. You’re loaded with the stuff, aren’t you?”

  The question was deliberately offensive. Frank walked out without answering.

  This time it wasn’t Sweetheart who watched him leave, it was the little silver Buddha on the front door. His jew­eled eyes twinkled. He looked more interested in the de­parture than Sweetheart.

  Shirley waited in the hall until she heard the sound of a car starting. Then she walked briskly down to the end of the hall and called up the wide, marble staircase. “Jack?” Her voice echoed faintly and somberly against the high walls. “Jack.”

  Jack appeared at the head of the stairs, white-faced and nervous. “Has he gone?”

  “He’s gone.” She watched him with a kind of cynical detachment as he descended the stairs. He was wearing a hat and topcoat, and carrying a Gladstone bag in one hand and a large briefcase in the other. “Why all the panic?”

  “For God’s sake, I told you, he’s a detective. He was asking Charley all kinds of questions about me. What did you tell him?”

  “Oh, I was very ingenuous. Or is it ingenious? Probably both. I pretended I wasn’t on your side.”

  “Pretended. That’s a laugh.”

  “My dear Jack, please stop fluttering like a nervous bride. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Away. I can’t stand being hounded like this.”

  “Who’s hounding you?”

  “Hiller. Evangeline’s husband. He’s hired detectives to get something on me.”

  “What a waste of time and money when all he’d really have to do is peek over the transom sometime when you’re giving dictation.” Her smile was full of contempt. “If you must indulge in these sordid little affairs, you must expect to have sordid little men following you around.”

  He was too disturbed to take offense at her words and tone. “Evangeline says he’s got a terrible temper. She says he may kill me.”

  “Well, if he does I’ll do everything in my power to see that he pays the penalty.”

  “My God, will you quit making a joke of this? I’ve got to get out of town, I tell you.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  Jack hesitated for a moment, looking down at the floor. “Well, frankly, old girl, I was counting on you for—”

  “Well, frankly, old boy, you’re not getting any because I haven’t got any.”

  “You must have something.”

  Shirley laughed. “Must I?”

  “What do you do with your money?”

  “I feed and clothe my children, which is somewhat more commendable than your practice of feeding and clothing every blonde floozy who walks across your path.”

  “Evangeline happens to be a natural brunette.”

  “No doubt you’ve examined the roots of her hair. Re­volting thought.”

  “Don’t you talk like that about Evie. I love her. This is the first time I’ve ever been in love.”

  “First time since last Tuesday, anyway. Are you going to take the girl with you, wherever you go?”

  “No. She says she can handle Hiller all right.”

  “I’ll bet she can. He probably examines the roots of her hair, too.”

  He was quiet a moment. Then he said, painfully, “You have a nasty tongue.”

  “It has quite a lot to be nasty about.”

  �
��I had no idea until recently that you had become such a—shrew.”

  “Shrews are made, not born. Maybe you had a hand in the making, Jack.”

  “I hope not,” he said in a sober voice. “I really hope not.”

  “As for money, much as I’d enjoy speeding your depar­ture, I’m afraid I can’t. Try Mother. Or Willett. You and Willett have always been such pals, I’m sure he wouldn’t let you down. Except into a nice, deep hole.” She turned away, adding, over her shoulder, “I wrote Willett’s num­ber on the phone book under Mother’s name.”

  “Shirley. Wait.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess I said some unpleasant things. I apologize. I’m sorry.”

  “Really?” She flashed him a steely smile. “The answer is still no. You’re not getting any money from me because I haven’t any.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jack, I know what you meant. I’ve been on to you since I was three.”

  “Shirley, listen. Do you suppose—would it be possible to sell some of this museum ware?”

  “Mother would miss it when she comes back.”

  “If. If she comes back.”

  Shirley’s face had turned a dusty pink. “She’ll be back, she’s got to be.”

  “Just don’t bet on it, old girl.”

  “She’s got to be back,” Shirley said again, and stood directly in front of him with her chin out and her feet planted squarely as if daring him to knock her off balance.

  Jack took a backward step, propping himself against the banister for support. Though he was two years older than Shirley he had always been a little afraid of her. Even when they were children, she had exercised a power over him which he resented but couldn’t understand or explain.

  “There’s always one way of raising money,” he said. “Isn’t there?”

  “Borrow from the bank.”

  “I have borrowed from the bank. Ad nauseam. It’s reached the point where they lock the place up when they see me coming. No, the bank is out. I was thinking of some­thing a little more drastic.”

  “Pandering for Evangeline?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, and don’t pretend you don’t care. If Willett won’t lend me enough money to get to Mexico or perhaps Hawaii, I’ll sell my stock in the factory.”

  “You’ll sell that stock over three dead bodies, mine and Willett’s and Mother’s.”

  “That’s an interesting thought, but it’s not very realis­tic. That stock happens to be mine, an outright gift from my unsainted mother.”

  “On condition that you keep it in the family.”

  “All right, I’ll keep it in the family. Want to buy it, old girl?”

  The only sign of her anger was the sudden and violent clenching of her fists. Her voice was steady. “You know I can’t raise that much money.”

  “Perhaps Willett can.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “I’ll sell to someone else.”

  “Mother will kill you if you do that.”

  “Mother’s not in a position to kill anyone.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re a violent little thing, aren’t you?” he said with a lightness he didn’t feel.

  “I can be, if I have to. You’re not selling that stock, Jack.”

  “No?”

  “No. The factory is outs, it always has been and it al­ways will be.”

  “You’re living in a dream.”

  “It’s a good solid dream with an income attached.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Then you’re a fool. Where would you be without an income? What kind of a job could you hold? Sell your stock and you’ll piddle the money away in a year. Evange­line will be wearing mink but you’ll be wearing a barrel.”

  It was calculated to strike hard and it did. Jack was ex­tremely particular about his clothes, and the image of him­self clad in a barrel, even a well-tailored barrel, shook him to the very core. All sorts of ghastly pictures ran through his mind: escorting Evangeline to the Top of the Mark and being refused a table because of his costume; trying to board a cable car and being unable to squeeze inside; Evangeline, haughty in mink and diamonds, rejecting him openly in the Embassy Club; small boys and large dogs chasing him down the street, and medium-sized women jeering at him from windows and doorways.

  “Well?” Shirley said.

  “I—” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a shak­ing hand. “I guess I’ll phone Willett.”

  “Do that.”

  “Maybe if he can’t lend me a few thousand to get away until things cool off, he’ll let me stay with him in La Mesa for a while.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “After all, blood’s thicker than water.”

  My blood is, Shirley thought. She wasn’t sure about Jack’s or Willett’s. She said, “Actually there’s no hurry about your leaving, is there? If this man Clyde really is a detective, that may be exactly what he expects you to do. He’s probably parked around the corner waiting for you to make the next move.”

  “My God. Then what’ll I do?”

  “Sit tight. He’s human, he can’t stay there all night. Wait until it gets dark, take your car over to the garage and leave it there, and then first thing in the morning slip out the back way, pick up your car and start moving.”

  “That sounds all right. In fact—”

  “And above all, stay away from Evangeline. Don’t even phone her.”

  “I won’t. I mean, we’ve already said goodbye and all that. She understands, is what I mean.”

  “I bet.”

  Now that the decision had been made and the pictures of himself wearing a barrel had faded from his mind, Jack felt quite optimistic. On his way to the telephone in the library, he began to make plans. He would drive down to La Mesa early in the morning by the coast route which was slower but more scenic; lunch at Cambria Pines; and then, possibly around five or six in the afternoon, arrival in La Mesa and reunion, after six months’ separation, with good old Willett. Willett would rush out to greet him and with lavish hospitality offer him a haven from the storm or enough cash to seek another haven. Good old Willett.

  13

  Good old Willett happened to be in the shower when the call came through. At first he tried to ignore Ethel’s vigorous pounding on the bathroom door, but Ethel was so persistent that he finally decided it must be something urgent like the house being on fire. He turned off the water and reached hastily for the largest towel on the rack.

  “Hurry up and get dry, Willett. Jack’s on the phone.”

  “Jack? Jack who?”

  “Your brother.”

  “Tell him I’m in the shower.”

  “It’s long distance,” Ethel said in the reverent tone she always applied to long-distance calls, as if they were in some way connected with God. Nobody ever called long distance when Ethel was a girl back in Wisconsin, unless it was a case of death, imminent or established. “I think someone died.”

  “What?”

  “I said, do you know anyone who might have died?”

  “Who died?”

  “Well, that’s just what I was asking you, dear. I wish you’d hurry up. I hope it wasn’t Uncle Harry, he’s such a sweet old thing. But then he is old, isn’t he? Wasn’t he?”

  Willett stepped out of the bathroom wearing a terry cloth robe and a bilious expression. “Who wasn’t old?”

  “Uncle Harry, only I said he was old. You don’t even listen to me anymore.”

  “I happened to be drying my ears.” Willett walked down the hall with ponderous dignity.

  The upstairs phone was in Ethel’s bedroom. It was pink to match the ruffled curtains and the skirt on the vanity.

  Willett cleared his thro
at before he spoke. He didn’t like talking on a telephone, especially a pink one, and more especially since he was morally certain that Murphy was listening in on the plain black one in the kitchen.

  “Hello,” Willett said, keeping his voice very soft in the hope that neither Jack nor Murphy would be able to hear him, and everybody would forget the whole thing.

  “Hello, Willett, old boy. This is Jack. How are you, fellow?”

  “I am well.”

  “Great. Great. How’s Mother?”

  “She’s holding her own.”

  “Fine. Shirley’s right here beside me. She sends her best. She—I—The fact is, Willett, I’m thinking of taking a trip.”

  “They say Alaska is very nice at this time of year.”

  “I wasn’t planning on Alaska. I was thinking of saunter­ing down in your direction.”

  “You mean here? You’re coming here?”

  “What’s the matter, are you quarantined or something?”

  Willett had a wild notion to say yes and then arrange for Murphy to catch chicken pox or, preferably, scarlet fe­ver. “No, we’re not quarantined, but—well, we’re not set­tled yet. We’re most unsettled.”

  A long pause, and then Shirley’s voice, crisp and quite audible though she was talking to Jack and not into the telephone: “For heaven’s sake tell him the truth and quit shillyshallying like this.”

  “Jack,” Willett said. “Are you there, Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Shirley talking about?”

  “The fact is, I’ve got to get out of town in a hurry and I’m oof.”

  “What?”

  “Oof—don’t you remember?”

  Willett remembered. In the days when they were boys at school, Jack had been nicknamed Oof for out of funds, and Willett had been If.

  “I thought,” Jack went on, “that if I could pick up a couple of thousand from you, I’d go on down to Mexico City.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, I’m in a spot of trouble. Nothing serious yet, but it might develop if I don’t leave town. I’ve got a cou­ple of detectives on my trail. One’s parked around the cor­ner right now. Willett, for God’s sake, I need—”