Another big question was what I’d wear to the ball. I’d spent so much time on decorations for the town (and on my miniatures hobby, in general, truth be told) that I hadn’t thought about a costume. We still had Friday and Saturday to cruise the Springfield Boulevard shops, all of which had Victorian offerings at this time of year. I’d worn crinolines to last year’s ball, which Maddie wasn’t around for. I wondered what kidspeak epithet Maddie would come up with if I tried to dress her in a set of white ruffled undergarments.
My Eichler home, bought with Ken many years ago, was a source of great joy for me. Typifying the California lifestyle, at the entrance of many homes of this type was a large atrium with a skylight, surrounded by a living room, kitchen-family room combination, and four bedrooms, all with predominantly glass exterior walls. I never had to check a weather report.
Maddie and I entered the atrium, to be greeted by Beverly and Skip, making as much party noise as two people could achieve. A CD of the jolliest Christmas music I own was playing, and Beverly had found noisemakers in the party store. She’d covered the Happy New Year message on a tin trinket with a label that read, “Welcome Maddie.” (Maybe it wasn’t too late to get Beverly interested in crafts, too.)
I wondered when Maddie would consider herself too old for this ceremony. Not this evening, certainly, as attested to by her beaming face. She hugged Beverly and Skip, then went to the large Christmas tree in the corner of the atrium. She found all the ornaments she’d made over the years— Styrofoam balls, drums of felt and sequins, gold foil stars, inedible dough Santas, macaroni angels—and all the presents with her name on them.
“Mom and Dad are bringing your presents in the car next week, but I have”—she reached into an outside pocket of her large suitcase and pulled out three tissue-wrapped items— “these!”
Ritual number four. Or was it five? We all made ornaments for each other, putting the date somewhere on its surface. Maddie was hanging the one she’d made for me (a tiny gingerbread house, in honor of my famous cookies, she said) when Skip’s cell phone rang. “Hail to the Chief” was still his tune of choice, I noticed.
“Now would be a great time,” we heard him say. “Come on over.”
Beverly and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“I invited June to join us. I didn’t think you’d mind,” Skip said. Was that a twinkle in his eye, or was Santa on my mind?
A moment of silence while we processed the information. June Chinn lived in the Eichler next door to mine, the one with green trim. Beverly and I had been trying to get Skip and June together since she arrived in California from Chicago at least three years ago. And now here it was?
We all talked at once.
“I like June. She lets me talk about my soccer team,” from Maddie, who knew her grandmother had no patience for stories of goals and home runs.
“When did this happen?” from Beverly.
“Nothing ‘happened,’ Mom,” from Skip.
“How nice,” I said lamely, because I’d been waiting for Skip to get a different call.
What have I become? I thought. Usually I’d be thrilled that Skip was interested in a woman I liked, such as June Chinn. But here I was wishing the call had to do with the murder of the Nancy Hanks gardener. I’d been hoping to hear that the police had found something or someone to exonerate Sofia Muniz.
Were they doing anything to help this poor old woman? Was I going to have to investigate the case myself?
I laughed at the thought.
Maddie entertained us with stories of her life in L.A.; June was her most attentive listener. She’d babysat Maddie a few times, so they fell naturally into playful interaction.
“Cool ornament,” June said, reaching to the branch where Maddie’s ornament for Skip hung. The slightest movement caused June’s short peach-colored sweater to ride up, widening the gap between it and the top of her low-slung, wide-belted jeans. Her tiny body could pull off the look, but I couldn’t help thinking back to the days when even a miniature slice of displayed flesh would be a source of great embarrassment. Like having one’s slip (did anyone even wear them anymore?) show beneath the hem of a skirt, as opposed to the current practice of baring all straps on purpose. Indeed, some of June’s summer outfits would have passed for underwear when I was her age.
Skip’s new ornament was shaped like a blue ribbon, reading Best Uncle. Clearly, it was the Porters’ year for superlatives.
“I would have done one for you if I knew you were coming, June,” Maddie said. “Best neighbor.”
“Maybe we can have an ornament session this week and make special ones for each other,” June said.
I looked at Skip: she’s a keeper, my face said. His own expression said he knew what I was “saying” and agreed.
Who would have guessed that my running out of milk would help steer Skip’s attention to the Sofia Muniz case?
I was setting the table for dinner when I realized the milk carton was nearly empty.
“I guess I’ll have to have a soda,” Maddie said, feigning resignation.
“Not on your first night,” I said. “I need to at least start out following your mother’s wishes.”
“Let’s walk down to Gettysburg Boulevard and pick up a quart,” the wonderfully athletic June said to Maddie.
“It’s too long a walk,” said my Angeleno car-dependent granddaughter.
I threw back my shoulders, which had been hunched over the silverware drawer. “Of course it is,” I said, mentally slapping my head. “How far do you think it is from the Mary Todd Home to the apartments in Nolin Creek Pines?” I addressed my question to Beverly, who was better than a map as far as knowing the streets of Lincoln Point. Her work as a civilian volunteer for the LP Police Department took her to every part of town at one time or another. She stood on corners for seat-belt surveys and cruised around on an official moped seeking out abandoned cars. She helped out when traffic lights failed and took off at a moment’s notice to any street or strip mall.
Now she had the answer before anyone could say “log cabin in Kentucky.” “That would be two miles, give or take.”
I turned to Skip. “Two miles. How can a ninety-year-old woman walk that distance?”
“She’s eighty-seven, maybe eighty-eight, according to her file.”
“Skip!”
“Sorry. We have no idea what time she started out. It’s possible she walked all night, stopping many times to rest on the way. We know her granddaughter called to say good night after dinner, around seven thirty. We’re just starting interviews and so far we can’t find anyone who saw her after that.”
I thought about mentioning Sandy Sechrest’s claim that she’d seen Sofia being taken away in the middle of the night. But how much stock would Skip put in the observation of a woman probably even older than Sofia? Come to think of it, I didn’t put much stock in it myself.
“What’s all this about?” June asked.
I gave June a quick briefing on my morning adventure.
“Wouldn’t someone have checked on the woman during the night?” June asked.
“It’s not that kind of facility,” I said, feeling defeated. “To be accepted into the Mary Todd, you simply have to be over fifty-five and ambulatory, not needing special medical attention. Once you’re there, if—more like, when—you start to need extra care, you get it. You might be moved to their assisted-living wing, or permanently assigned to their care center, but you won’t be evicted. Anyway, it’s not like there are bed checks.”
“Aunt Gerry, you’d be surprised how far someone can walk who is not . . . how can I say this? Not all there,” Skip said.
“Dolores’s grandmother is still very sharp. She does crossword puzzles and she takes my crafts class.”
Skip rolled his eyes.
By now we were seated at the table in my dining room, having abandoned the milk procurement project. I noticed Maddie quietly sipping from a can of soda and gave her a surprised look. “My fruit for the
day,” she said, pointing to the orange label.
I knew it was wrong to reward cleverness of that kind, but I ruffled her hair in the way that (still, I hoped) made her feel good.
“Wouldn’t someone see an old lady walking all that way alone?” Maddie asked between bites of Beverly’s delicious rice-and-cheese casserole.
I turned to Skip. “Good question, isn’t it? Why didn’t anyone in that stretch of streets approach her and take her home or to the hospital, or call the police?”
Maddie grinned at the compliment. Her teeth had evened out in the time since I’d seen her so she no longer needed to cover her mouth with her fist when she laughed.
Skip sighed, as if I were ruining his date, which, in a way, I was. Beverly and June were wisely busying themselves with cutting extra bread (homemade walnut sourdough, June’s contribution), pouring wine and water, and chatting about the ball to come on Saturday evening.
“Can we talk about this later, Aunt Gerry?” Skip asked.
“Excellent idea,” I said. “How about nine o’clock tomorrow morning in your office?”
My nephew’s “fine” was less than enthusiastic.
Maddie made up for it, however. “Yeah, we’re on a case again!” she squealed.
Skip glared at me.
Uh-oh. What have I wrought?
“I’ll see you in the Bronx,” Maddie said as we went our separate ways to take showers and change for bed.
I’d seen her “in the Bronx” earlier, rustling around the model of our apartment, so I knew she’d already placed her “surprise” in the model. Ken had built the structure before he became ill and I’d finally been able to return to the project when Maddie became interested in working with me.
Twenty minutes later, showered and relaxed, we played Maddie’s “find the new thing” game. I peered into all the rooms to figure out what piece she’d added to the furnished rooms.
“It’s really small,” she said, then laughed at the obviousness of her remark.
“Is it in the kitchen?”
“No.”
“The dining room?” (By this time I’d seen it in the living room, but I wanted to stretch the game out.)
“No.”
“The bathroom?”
“Nooooo.”
“The attic?”
“N . . . there’s no attic!”
“The living room?”
Silence.
“Okay, the living room!” I looked around the small living room. Our entire life-size apartment had been less than seven hundred square feet, the living room ten feet by twelve feet. The model living room, therefore, was ten inches by twelve inches.
I lifted the two-inch loveseat. “Nothing,” I said to Maddie. The same with the easy chair and the table lamp (a pipe-cleanerbase and the cap of a toothpaste tube for a lampshade).
I picked up the end table. “Aha,” I said, examining a lovely silver (putty) picture frame, about one inch by three-quarters of an inch. An excellent representation of a frame for a standard eight-by-ten photo.
What I hadn’t seen from a distance was the photograph in the frame. A stranger wouldn’t know what scene Maddie had captured, but I knew. It was our wedding picture. I stared at the tiny image of Ken in a black tux and me in full bridal regalia. On one side of the happy couple was my maid of honor, nineteen-year-old Beverly; on the other side was Ken’s friend and best man, Daryl Matthews. All so young. In fact, everyone in the photo was younger than Skip’s age now.
Maddie could hardly contain herself.
“Dad had the old photo. I scanned it and then I had to keep shrinking and shrinking and shrinking it. I know it’s not very clear, but I had to make it small enough to fit the frame. Dad helped me a little, but I’m the one who had the idea.”
“It’s the best idea I’ve ever seen.”
I didn’t even try to hold back the tears.
Maddie loved to sleep in her father’s old bedroom, the corner room next to my primary crafts room. (The whole rest of the house was my secondary crafts room.) It might have been because I still kept Richard’s old baseball motif sheets and comforter on the bed.
“Grandma, who’s the old lady you’re so worried about?”
I explained who Sofia was, trying at the same time to remind myself why it was I couldn’t let the case go. I felt sorry for Dolores, and Sofia, after all, was one of my students. Someone who had recognized my pain at one time and had responded to it with great compassion. Maybe those were reasons enough to do what I could.
Maddie’s (reading my mind?) last words before falling off to sleep: “Can’t wait till tomorrow, Grandma. When we can collect some clues.”
I smiled. Not that I’d actually investigate. But I did have class tomorrow at the Mary Todd, and it would hardly be my fault if talk of the murder and Sofia’s pending arrest came up among her crafter friends.
Back in the living room, still wired from the intense (I was easy to excite) evening, I straightened up from the party. June (as always, a helpful guest) had done most of the dishes and Beverly had seen to her usual task of wrapping leftovers. All that remained for me to do was put away a few things and collect the trash—the tissue and assorted ribbons from the Christmas ornament exchange.
Among the papers was a crumpled envelope. I remembered seeing Maddie pull one of her ornaments out of it. Something about it looked familiar. I smoothed it out. The logo in the corner read: STANFORD MEDICAL CENTER. A red shield dominated the image, with the staff of Asclepius pictured on the right side. I’d come to dread that logo, associating the world-famous center only with Ken’s illness and his many months of treatments there.
The envelope was addressed to Richard. My heart skipped. What was wrong with my son? Had he been to Stanford without telling me? Not to worry me. It wasn’t working. I took a breath and calmed down. Richard was a surgeon. Of course he’d have dealings with Stanford.
There was nothing to worry about.
I fell asleep dreaming up ways of asking Richard why he was communicating with that awful red logo.
Chapter 7
I had bad news for Maddie at breakfast on Friday morning. She took it even worse than I expected, reverting to behavior unbecoming a ten-year-old.
“How about a visit to Willie’s for bagels?” I’d started out trying to put a positive spin on my plans.
“Sure,” she’d said, before she realized she’d be visiting Willie’s without me, while I kept my appointment at the police station. Then, “Nuh-uh. I don’t think so.”
“Or maybe you’d rather go to Rosie’s bookstore. You know how much Mrs. Norman looks forward to your visits. She’ll be happy to keep an eye on you.”
“No, please, Grandma. You can’t leave me. Last time you left me at Mrs. Norman’s bookstore I missed everything.” She kicked her skinny legs under the table. “You have to take me to Uncle Skip’s office. You have to.”
“You can take your books and sit in the back of the store, or Mrs. Norman might even let you help out at the register.”
Maddie bit her lip and shook her head. “Nuts,” she said (her favorite expletive of the last year).
I tried another tack. “It’s better this way. Uncle Skip might not tell me everything if you’re there, and this way I’ll tell you the whole story when I pick you up.”
More wailing. I hated to disappoint her on the first day of her visit. I was keeping her not only from an uncle she adored, but from fulfilling her Nancy Drew-like dreams. We were at a stalemate. I finished my second cup of coffee across the table from her, while Maddie fumed. She had her arms across her chest and as deep a frown as a child could make.
After what seemed like an hour, but was more likely two minutes, her face relaxed.
“I have an idea,” she said, after spooning cold cereal (with milk, thanks to a morning run by the lovely June) into her mouth. She probably figured eating her nutritious breakfast would help in the negotiation I was sure was on the way. “I can go to the broken room.”
“The what?”
“You go to Uncle Skip’s office, and I can wait in the broken room where the cops have coffee and doughnuts and a big refrigerator with sodas. And juice.” The latter was added for effect.
Ah, the break room. Hmmm.
“And you would just stay in that room and not complain?”
“Uh-huh.”
I thought a minute. What was she up to? “And you wouldn’t try to sneak out to find us?”
She screwed up her mouth. No doubt sneaking out had been part of her plan.
“Where’s the little redheaded squirt?” Skip asked.
“Right in front of me, I could say.”
“Touché.” Skip pointed to a security monitor high in the corner of the room. “I thought I saw her come in the building with you.”
Skip had changed cubicles since I’d last visited him at his place of business. This one seemed a little larger, but the partitions were no sturdier, the colors no less dull, and the noise level no lower.
“What a good detective you are. You’ll see Maddie later. She’s waiting in the broken room.” (I explained the malapropism.)
“So did you come to ask my intentions with June?”
I noticed a photo of June tacked on the flannel wall behind his desk, a candid with what looked like Lake Tahoe behind her.
I was happy he still kept the old family picture of his mother, Maddie, and me posted as well. It was a sign that my recent nagging hadn’t completely destroyed our relationship. He even offered me the good chair, as usual, so all was well. Skip’s father died when Skip was eleven years old. He’d become a second son to Ken and me, a brother to Richard. I adored him almost as much as Maddie did.
“Things must be desperate if you’re willing to talk about your love life with me.”
Skip laughed. “I really don’t have a lot to tell you about this case.”
“Have you interviewed Sofia?”
“Coming up today. I’ve heard from the guys who brought her in that she claims she just got out of jail and she doesn’t want to go back. I don’t know what that’s all about, since she certainly doesn’t have a record. I think she’s gone around the bend, if you know what I mean.”
Mayhem in Miniature Page 6
