Rose's Last Summer

by Margaret Millar

  Ethel spent most of the afternoon in Mrs. Goodfield’s bedroom playing gin rummy. It was nearly six o’clock when she went down to the kitchen to start preparing supper, feeling rather relieved that Murphy was absent and the meal could be quite simple.

  The heat of the sun had begun to decrease and a hint of mist in the air had turned the mountains to violet. Ethel loved to watch the mountains. They changed from hour to hour. In the morning they were grey, and at noon they were green with streaks of brown, and now, just before evening, they seemed to be shrouded in layers of violet-colored chiffon.

  Her glance fell on the lathhouse. It stood empty, abandoned by the sun and the trysting lovers. But from some place directly behind it, a thin column of smoke twisted skyward like the magic rope of an Indian conjuror.

  Ethel’s first notion was that Murphy and Ortega were still there, and that Willett, with his perverse talent for doing the wrong thing, might go out into the garden and find them. With a sigh that was half-anger and half-envy, Ethel put down the skillet she had just taken out of the cupboard, and for the second time that afternoon headed in the direction of the lathhouse to give Murphy warn­ing.

  This time she had no lines prepared. No lines were necessary. Ortega was lying on his back on the grass be­hind the lathhouse, spread-eagled, eyes closed, mouth half-open. Cigarette butts were strewn all around him, one of them still smoldering.

  For one terrible moment Ethel thought he was dead, and her legs felt so weak that she staggered and almost fell on top of him. Regaining her balance, she looked at him more closely and saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest under the gaudy red and blue shirt.

  Her voice was high and uncertain. “Ortega? Are you asleep?”

  Ortega stirred and smiled slightly.

  “You’d better wake up? You’d just better?”

  With a sudden unexpected movement Ortega’s arm reached out and his left hand grabbed her ankle, and held it, not tightly or cruelly, but in a soft caress. She meant to scream but she felt suffocated, as if Ortega’s hand was around her throat instead of her ankle. She had no breath, no strength, no will.

  “No,” she whispered. “Stop. Help. Please.”

  Ortega murmured something that she couldn’t under­stand.

  “What? What did you say?”

  She leaned over so that she could hear him better, and then she saw that he was still asleep. His embrace, his words, were not for her.

  “Get up,” she said harshly. “Get up, you.”

  She kicked free of his hand, the toe of her shoe cracking against his wrist bone. Ortega flung himself over on his side with a cry of pain. Groggily, still dazed from sleep, he got up, first to his knees and then to his feet. His flan­nel slacks were wrinkled, and stained with grass. Around his eyes there were dirt marks like the marks on the face of a child who had wiped away tears with a grubby hand.

  He looked first, not at Ethel, but at the sun that was slowly falling toward the sea.

  “She never came,” he said. “Ada never came.”

  By nine o’clock that night, when Frank arrived home from San Francisco, at least twenty people knew that Ada Murphy had disappeared.

  15

  By nine-thirty Greer himself was on the job, tired, irritable, and inclined to dismiss the whole episode. He would have dismissed it, at least for the night, if it hadn’t been for Ortega’s insistence.

  The fluorescent lights in Greer’s office seemed to have dissolved Ortega’s tan and made his face look chalky.

  “She never came,” he said. “Last night when I took her home, she told me to meet her at one-thirty this after­noon in the garden. We were going to go down to the harbor and rent a boat. She’s crazy about boats, always wanted to walk along the wharf or out to the end of the breakwater.”

  The words struck a chord in Greer’s mind, and it took him only a moment to put the chord in its place. Rose French had walked along the breakwater several days before her death, according to Mrs. Cushman’s report. Many other people walked there, too, but in Rose’s case it was unusual because she professed to hate the sea, and she certainly hated exercise. Mrs. Cushman’s assumption was logical and Greer agreed with her: that Rose had gone to the breakwater not to admire the wonders of na­ture or walk off a pound or two, but to meet someone.

  Greer looked at Ortega with renewed interest. It was quite possible that Dalloway and Frank had been on the wrong track, and that the connection Rose had with the Goodfield family was not with the Goodfields themselves but with Murphy. He said, “Did you ever accompany Murphy to the breakwater?”

  “Yes sir, three times.”

  “Did she meet anyone down there?”

  “No sir. Ada’s a stranger in town. She didn’t know any­one except the Goodfields and me.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  “Los Angeles. She had very good references. She showed them to me one day.”

  “Do you remember any of the names of her employers?”

  “No sir. I just looked at the references to please Ada.”

  “You and Murphy were going around together—that right?”

  “We’re going to be married when—when she comes back.”

  “You’re just a boy, aren’t you?”

  “I’m nineteen,” Ortega said stubbornly. “Ada is—she’s a little bit older.”

  Ada, Greer knew, was a hell of a lot older. Aloud he said, “Look, young fellow, I’m no specialist in these affairs but I know Ada Murphy. She’s no ordinary servant. She’s pretty sharp, she’s been to college and probably quite a few other places where they don’t give degrees. You’re fighting out of your class.”

  “I’ve been hearing talk like that all my life. It never changed my mind.”

  “Has it occurred to you that Murphy couldn’t face giving you the brushoff in person, so she just lit out to avoid trouble?”

  “Ada would never do that.”

  “You can’t tell. She might have got fed up suddenly with her job or you or life in general and decided to take a bus down to L.A.”

  “She didn’t take a bus,” Ortega said with quiet in­tensity. “All her clothes are still in her room.”

  It was true. The small closet in Murphy’s bedroom—which was at the rear of the house behind the kitchen —was crammed with dresses and uniforms and odds and ends of underwear. In contrast to Murphy’s neat appear­ance, her private habits were slovenly. She seemed to have used the closet as a catchall; anything she’d wanted out of sight, she’d tossed into the closet. Once the door was opened, it couldn’t be closed again.

  The room was furnished, not with leftovers from other rooms like many domestics’ quarters, but with matched maple furniture and chintz drapes that duplicated the design on the bedspread, and a small cherry-red loveseat.

  On the loveseat, looking very pale against the brilliant red, sat Ethel. There was no doubt that she was extremely disturbed. She’d discarded her graceful floating move­ments and vague airs as a snake discards its old skin. Peeled down to her essentials, Ethel presented a different picture to Greer. She wasn’t either feeble-minded, as he’d thought at first, or sluggish.

  She addressed Greer in a voice sharpened by anxiety. “Well? What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know.” He indicated the bulging closet with a jab of his thumb. “I don’t see how you can be sure noth­ing is missing, with that mess.”

  “Because Willett’s mother saw her leave. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and happened to glance out the window. Murphy was just going down the front walk. She had no suitcase or anything, not even a coat. She just—just walked away.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “One of her ordinary cotton dresses, a turquoise-colored chambray.”

  “Had there been any disagreement between Murphy and you, or Murphy and Mr. Goodfield?”


  “No, not really. Murphy had mentioned something to me about having a garbage disposal unit installed, and I told her I didn’t think Willett would agree to it since it isn’t our house, after all. She certainly wasn’t angry, if that’s what you mean. Ortega says she has a tem­per, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it. Even when Willett’s mother spoke roughly to her, she just smiled in that superior way of hers, as if nothing that anybody else said or did made the slightest impression on her.”

  “Murphy’s the kind of woman who can look after herself,” Greer said. “Isn’t she?”

  “She seems to be. She acts that way. But now—I’m not sure. No one can be sure. You’re not,” she added, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Greer made no attempt to deny it. He was not at all sure what kind of woman Murphy was, and even less sure that he’d ever find out. Which was Murphy, the crisp and controlled young woman in the immaculate black and white uniform, or the undisciplined child who tossed her belongings helter-skelter into a closet and closed the door; the ingenuous and romantic lover who planned trysts in the garden, or the hard-headed realist who had explained to Greer at their first meeting that she’d become a domes­tic because the job gave her an opportunity to marry the boss?

  And now there was still another Murphy, a young woman in a turquoise cotton dress who had walked away and not come back.

  Greer’s gaze fell on Ethel, who was folded up on the loveseat taking quick, nervous bites at her right thumb­nail.

  “Everything possible is being done,” he assured her. “I have men checking the depots, hospitals, cab stands and so on. My own feeling is that Murphy will turn up some time tonight, wondering what all the fuss is about.”

  “That’s what Willett thinks, too. I don’t. I think,” she added slowly, “that instead of checking bus depots and cab stands, you’d better check Mr. Dalloway.”

  “Why?”

  “Whenever he’s around things seem to happen, don’t they? Dalloway comes to town and his first wife is mur—dies. Dalloway comes creeping around our yard and my maid disappears.” Ethel’s voice was rising like a siren. “Maybe she’s dead, too. Maybe while you’re standing there thinking what a charming fellow Dalloway is, he’s out somewhere slitting her throat! And you, you just stand there!”

  “Calm down, Mrs. Goodfield. I don’t believe Murphy’s having her throat slit, certainly not by Dalloway. I hap­pen to know where Dalloway is, right at the moment.”

  Ethel glared at him, mute and obstinate, as if nothing in the world would convince her that Dalloway was not in some dark alley or grove of trees finishing Murphy off.

  “He’s over at Frank Clyde’s house,” Greer continued. “He phoned me before he left.”

  “Really? Does every Tom, Dick and Harry in town keep you informed where he’s going and why and when?”

  “Dalloway didn’t have to tell me why. I already knew. He hired Clyde to go to San Francisco and check up on the Goodfield family.”

  “Why, that old goat. The nerve of that old—”

  “I told you just so you’d know that Dalloway is as sus­picious of you as you are of him.”

  “We didn’t hire anybody to check up on him.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m doing it.”

  “You? Why?”

  “Oh, let’s just say that suspicion is contagious and I’ve been exposed.” Ethel looked a little mollified, and Greer thought it was a good time to change the subject before she asked any more questions. “Tell me, how did you happen to hire Ada Murphy?”

  “Through a want ad in the local paper.”

  “Her ad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go to her hotel, or wherever she was staying, to interview her?”

  “No, she came here. She’d given a phone number in the ad. I called her and she wasn’t in. But later she called back and I was—well, impressed by her voice, and her refer­ences.”

  “When she came to see you, did she bring the refer­ences along?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Three.”

  “Did you keep them or give them back to her?”

  Ethel frowned. “Now let me think. We were talking in the dining room—oh yes, I remember. I laid them on the table, and later when I was straightening up a bit, I put them away in the desk drawer, intending to give them back to her when she returned with her luggage. I’m afraid I forgot to, so I guess they’re still in the drawer.”

  “I’d like to take a look at them.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, curiosity,” Greer said lightly.

  The references were in three envelopes, two of them large, white, business envelopes, unsealed, and the third a small, square, blue one with a darker blue monogram on the back. The third envelope bore a canceled three-cent stamp and an address: Miss Ada Murphy, c/o The Pines Motel, 343 Lasalle Street, Los Angeles.

  The words on the matching blue notepaper inside were written in purple ink in a script so tiny and delicate it was almost illegible:

  Miss Ada Murphy was in my employ as a personal maid for two weeks and is thoroughly efficient and trustful in all respects and I certainly recommend her highly. She is of an even disposition.

  Yours very truly,

  Luellen di Santi

  (Mrs. E. Charles di Santi)

  3516 Lakeridge Terrace

  North Hollywood

  The other two notes were typewritten:

  To whom it may concern:

  The bearer of this letter, Ada Murphy, is a young woman of fine character and excellent reputation. During her pe­riod of employment here, she exhibited close attention to her duties and always conducted herself on the highest possible level. Loyalty and integrity are her most outstand­ing characteristics. I recommend her especially as a nurse and companion to elderly people.

  It was signed, in a heavy masculine hand, Richard Robertson, III.

  The final note was even more glowing:

  Dear Sir or Madame:

  My former employee, Miss Ada Murphy, has requested a recommendation. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to comply with this request, inasmuch as Miss Murphy proved herself an ideal servant in every way, industrious, courteous and responsible. She was particularly helpful in assisting with the care of my aged mother who is an invalid and not easy to please. Miss Murphy showed both patience and skill in dealing with her. She is a young woman who can be trusted to cope with any situation in a highly competent manner.

  Harrison L. Macomber

  Mr. Macomber’s signature bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Robertson’s. So did his literary style, his inexpert typing, his choice of notepaper, and his unqualified ap­proval of Murphy.

  Greer returned Mrs. di Santi’s letter to its envelope. It was as obviously genuine as the other two were phony.

  He looked at Ethel, who was watching him uncertainly, still biting at her thumbnail. “Did you check these two references, Mrs. Goodfield?”

  “Why—why, no. I mean, they were so good I didn’t bother.”

  “They should be good. She wrote them herself.”

  “Oh dear,” Ethel said, and again, “Oh dear. I hope Wil­lett doesn’t find out.”

  “What’s more, I believe they were written especially for you. Notice that both the letters praise her skill and patience with elderly invalids, like your mother-in-law. Tell me, in the advertisement she put in the paper, did she mention this so-called skill of hers?”

  “Yes, but how could Murphy be sure that I was going to answer that ad?”

  “If I knew how,” Greer said, “I might know where she is now, why she went away and if she’s coming back.”

  One of Ethel’s hands worked nervously at the arm of the loveseat, plucking out bits of nap from the rough red wool. For a moment she had an almost uncon
trollable impulse to tell Greer everything, about herself and Wil­lett and the old lady and the silly doll factory that she wished she’d never heard of.

  Then she raised her head and met Greer’s eyes. They weren’t friendly at all. They were small, accusing eyes without sympathy or tolerance. He wouldn’t understand, she thought; he considers me a fool.

  The impulse to reveal herself passed like a storm cloud in summer, bringing no rain or relief from the heat. She wished she had enough courage to walk out of the front door, like Murphy, and never come back.

  She said, quietly, “Do you think Murphy is alive?”

  “I have no reason for presuming that she’s dead,” Greer replied.

  But when he departed a few minutes later, a cold, wet wind swept around the corner of the house and struck him like an unacknowledged fear. Shivering, he pulled up the collar of his coat and wondered where Murphy was, clad for a summer afternoon in her thin cotton dress.

  It was ten o’clock.

  In Mrs. Goodfield’s bedroom the night light was on, its green glow making the whole room look as if it was un­derwater—the pillows on the bed were stones, and the old lady half-hidden among them, a sea creature at rest.

  But her rest was uneasy. Hearing the opening and clos­ing of the front door, she got out of bed and moved noise­lessly across the room in her bare feet.

  I feel weak, she thought. They’ve kept me in bed too long. I must get out and walk around more. My legs are like matchsticks; they used to be quite pretty.

  She lifted one of the slats of the Venetian blind and saw Greer crossing the driveway toward his car. The win­dow was open and she wanted to call out to him, invite him up for a chat, to alleviate her loneliness and anxiety. But his car had already rolled down the driveway before the words formed in her throat.