“Go see Aunt June,” she said. “She’s Adrian’s closest relative. Mom disapproves of her. Go see her.”
If it didn’t save me so much trouble, I’d hate the way she puts things together. I stood up and headed for the door. “Thanks, Shar!”
She waggled the nail file at me and swiveled back toward the window.
II
Adrian’s aunt’s full name was June Simoom—no kidding - and she lived on Tomales Bay in western Marin County. The name alone should have tipped me off that Aunt June was going to be weird.
Tomales Bay is a thin finger of water that extends inland from the Pacific forty-some miles northwest of San Francisco. It’s rimmed by small cottages, oyster farms, and salt marsh, and the largest town on its shores—Inverness—has a population of only a few hundred. The bay also has the dubious distinction of being right smack on top of the San Andreas Fault. Most of the time the weather out there is pretty cold and gloomy—broody, I call it—and it’s a hefty drive from the city—across the Golden Gate Bridge, then through the close-in suburbs and rolling farmland to the coast.
It was after seven when I found the mailbox that June Simoom had described to me over the phone—black with a silver bird in flight and the word WINGSPREAD stenciled on it, another tipoff—and bounced down an unpaved driveway through a eucalyptus grove to a small cottage and a couple of outbuildings slouching at the water’s edge.
My car is a 1964 Rambler American. A couple of years ago when I met my current—well, on again, off again—boyfriend, Willie Whelan, he cracked up at this first sight of it. “You mean you actually drive that thing?” he asked. “On the street?” No matter. The Ramblin’ Wreck and I have gone many miles together, and at the rate I’m saving money, we’re going to have to go many more. Barring experiences like Aunt June’s driveway, that is.
The cottage was as bad off as my car, but I know something about real-estate values (money is my biggest fascination, because I have too little of it), and this shoreline property, bad weather and all, would have brought opening offers of at least a quarter mil. They’d have to demolish the house and outbuildings, of course, but nature and neglect seemed to already be doing a fine job of that. Everything sagged, including the porch steps, which were propped up by a couple of cement blocks.
The porch light was pee-yellow and plastered with dead bugs. I groped my way to the door and knocked, setting it rattling in its frame. It took June Simoom a while to answer, and when she did…Well, Aunt June was something else.
Big hair and big boobs and a big voice. My, she was big! Dressed in flowing blue velvet robes that were thrift-shop fancy, not thrift-shop cheap (like my clothes used to be before I learned about credit and joined millions of Americans who are in debt up to their nose hairs). Makeup? Theatrical. Perfume? Gallons. If Marin ever passed the anti-scent ordinance they kept talking about, Aunt June would have to move away.
She swept—no, tornadoed—me into the cottage. It was one long room with a kitchen at the near end and a stone fireplace at the far end, all glass overlooking a half-collapsed deck. A fire was going, the only light. Outside I could see moonshine silvering the bay. June seated me—no, forced me down—onto a pile of silk cushions. Rammed a glass of wine into my hand. Flopped grunting on a second cushion pile nearer the hearth.
“You have news of Adrian?” she demanded.
I was struggling to remain upright in the soft nest without spilling the wine. “Umpfh,” I said. “Mmmm-r!”
Aunt June regarded me curiously.
I got myself better situated and clung to the wineglass for ballast. “No news yet. Her mother has hired me to find her. I’m hoping you can—”
“Little Donna.” She made a sound that might have been a laugh—hinc, hinc, hinc.
“You’re Donna’s sister?” I asked disbelievingly.
“In law. Sister-in-law. Once removed by divorce. Thank God Jeffrey saw the light and grabbed himself the bimbo. No more of those interminable holiday dinners—‘Have some more veggies and dip, June.’ ‘Don’t mind if I do, Donna, and by the way, where’s the gin?’” Now she really did laugh—booming sound that threatened to tear the (probably) rotten roof off.
I liked Donna Conway because she was sensitive and gentle and sad, but I couldn’t help liking June, too. I laughed a little and sipped some wine.
“You remained close to Adrian after the divorce, though?” I asked.
“Of course.” June nodded self-importantly. “My own flesh and blood. A responsibility I take seriously. I tried to take her under my wing, advise her, help her to deal with…everything.” She flapped her arms, velvet robe billowing, and I thought of the name of the cottage and the bird on her mailbox.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Now, June’s expression grew uncertain. She bit her lip and reached for a half-full wineglass that sat on the raised hearth. “Well. It was…of course! At the autumnal equinox firing.”
“Huh?”
“I am a potter, my dear. Well, more of a sculptor in clay. I teach classes in my studio.” She motioned in the direction of the outbuildings I’d seen. “My students and I have ceremonial firings on the beach at the equinox and the solstice. Adrian came to the autumnal firing late in September.”
“Did she come alone, or did Donna come, too?”
June shook her head, big hair bobbing. “Donna hasn’t spoken to me since Jeffrey left. Blames me for taking his side—the side of joy and loving, the side of the bimbo. And she resents my closeness to Adrian. No, my niece brought her boyfriend, that Kirby.” Her nose wrinkled.
“And?”
“And what? They attended the firing, ate, and left.”
“Do you know Kirby well?”
“I only met him the one time.”
“What did you think of him?”
June leaned toward the fireplace, reaching for the poker. When she stirred the logs, there was a small explosion, and sparks and bits of cinder flew out onto the raised stone. June stirred on, unconcerned.
“Like my name,” she murmured.
“What?”
“My name—Simoom. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“A fierce wind of Africa. Dry. Intensely hot. Relentless. It peppers its victims with grit that burns and pits the skin. That’s why I took it—it fits my temperament.”
“It’s not your real name?”
She scowled impatiently. “One’s real name is whatever one feels is right. June Conway was not. Simoom is fitting for a woman of the earth, who shelters those who are not as strong as she. You saw the name on my mailbox—Wingspread?”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand. What’s your last name again?”
“Kelleher.”
“Well, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just an Irish name.”
“You see my point? You’re alienated from who you are.”
“I don’t feel alienated. I mean, I don’t think you have to proclaim who you are with a label. And Kelleher’s a perfectly good name, ever thought I’m not crazy about the Irish.”
June scowled again. “You sound just like Adrian used to. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you young women?”
“What do you mean—about Adrian, that is?”
“Well, there she was, given a wonderful name at birth. A strong name. Adrian, of the Adriatic Sea. The only thing Donna did right by her. But did she appreciate it? No. She wanted to be called Melissa or Kelley or Amanda—just like everyone else of her generation. Honestly, sometimes I despaired.”
“You speak of her in the past tense, as if she’s dead.”
She swung around, face crumpling in dismay. “Oh, no! I speak of her that way because that was before…before she began to delight in her differences.”
“When was that?”
“Well…when she started to get past this terrible thing. As we gain strength, we accept who and what we are. In time we glory in it.”
/> In her way, June was as much into psychobabble as her sister-in-law. I said, “To get back to when you last saw Adrian, tell me about this autumnal equinox firing.”
“We dig pits on the beach, as kilns. By the time of the firing, they’ve been heating for days. Each student brings an offering, a special pot. The gathering is solemn but joyful—a celebration of all we’ve learned in the preceding season.”
“It sounds almost religious.”
June smiled wryly. “There’s also a great deal of good food and drink. And of course, when the pots emerge from the earth, we’re able to sell them to tourists for very good money.”
Now that I could relate to. “What about Adrian? Did she enjoy it?”
“Adrian’s been coming to my firings for years. She knows a number of my long-term students well, and she always has a good time.”
“And this time was no different?”
“Of course not.”
“She didn’t mention anything being wrong at home or at school?”
“…We spoke privately while preparing the food. I’m sure if there had been problems, she would have mentioned them.”
“And what about Kirby? Did he enjoy the firing?”
Wariness touched her face again. “I suppose.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s an adolescent boy. What’s to think?”
“I didn’t care for him,” I said.
“You know him?”
“I’ve spoken with him. I also spoke with a classmate of his and Adrian’s. He said Kirby is always into one scam or another, and that Adrian might have been involved, too.”
“That’s preposterous!” but June’s denial was a shade weak and unconvincing.
“Are you sure Adrian didn’t hint at problems when you spoke privately with her at the firing?”
“She’s a teenager. Things are never right with teenagers. Adrian took her father’s defection very badly, even though he and I tried to explain about one’s need for personal growth.” June gave her funny laugh again—hinc, hinc, hinc. “Even if the growth involves a bimbo,” she added.
“June,” I said, “since you were so close to Adrian, what do you think happened to her?”
She sobered and her fingers tightened on the shaft of the poker. “I can’t tell you. I honestly can’t hazard a guess.”
Her eyes slipped away from mine, but not before I saw something furtive in them. Suddenly she started stirring the fire, even though it was already roaring like crazy.
I said, “But you have suspicions.”
She stirred harder. Aunt June wasn’t telling it like it was, and she felt guilty.
“You’ve heard from her since she disappeared, haven’t you?” Sharon taught me that little trick: no matter how wild your hunch is, play it. Chances are fifty-fifty you’re right, and then their reactions will tell you plenty.
June stiffened. “Of course not! I would have persuaded her to go home. At the very least, I would have called Donna immediately.”
“So you think Adrian’s disappearance is voluntary?”
“I…I didn’t say that.”
“Assuming it is, and she called you, would you really have let Donna know? You don’t seem to like her at all.”
“Still, I have a heart. A mother’s anguish—”
“Come off it, June.”
June Simoom heaved herself to her feet and faced me, the poker clutched in her hand, her velvet-draped bigness making me feel small and helpless. “I think,” she said, “you’d better leave now.”
When I got back to All Souls, it was well after midnight, but I saw a faint light in Sharon’s office and went in there. She was curled up on her chaise lounge, boots and socks lying muddy on the floor beside it. Her jeans, legs wet to the knees, were draped over a filing cabinet drawer. She’d wrapped herself in the blanket she keeps on the chaise, but it had ridden up, exposing her bare feet and calves, and I could see goosebumps on them. She was sound asleep.
Now what had she gotten herself into? More trouble, for sure. Was she resting between stakeouts? Waiting for a call from one of her many informants? Or just too tired to go home?
I went down the hall to the room of an attorney who was out of town and borrowed one of his blankets, then carried it back and tucked it around Sharon’s legs and feet. She moaned a little and threw up one hand like you do to ward off a blow. I watched her until she settled down again, then turned off the Tiffany lamp—a gift long ago from a client, she’d once told me—and went upstairs to the attic nest that I call home.
Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll turn out like Sharon: illusions peeled away, emotional scars turning white and hard, ideals pared to the bone.
Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t turn out like her.
We’re already alike in some ways. Deep down we know who we are, warts and all, and if we don’t always like ourselves, at least we understand what we are and why we do certain things. We often try to fool ourselves, though, making out to be smarter or nobler or braver than we are, but in the end the truth always trips us up. And the truth…
We both have this crazy—no, crazy-making—need to get at the truth, no matter how bad it may be. I guess that’s how we’re most alike of all. The withheld fact, the out-and-out lie, the thing that we just plain can’t understand—none of them stands a chance with us. For me, I think the need began when my grandmother wouldn’t tell me the truth about the car wreck my parents were killed in (they were both drunk). With Sharon, I don’t know how the need got started—she’s never said.
I didn’t used to feel so driven. At first this job was a lark, and I was just playing at being detective. But things happen and you change—Sharon’s living proof of that—and now I’m to the point where I’m afraid that someday I’ll be the one who spends a lot of nights sleeping alone in her office because I’m between stakeouts or waiting for a phone call or just too tired to go home.
I’m terribly afraid of that happening. Or not happening. Hell, maybe I’m just afraid—period.
III
The next morning it was raining—big drops whacking off my skylights and waking me up. Hank Zahn, who pretty much holds the budgetary reins at All Souls, had let me install the skylights the spring before, after listening to some well orchestrated whining on my part. At the time they seemed like a good idea; there was only one small window in the part of the attic where my nest is, and I needed more light. But since then I’d realized that on a bad day all I could see was gray and wet and accumulated crud—nothing to lift my spirits. Besides, my brass bed had gotten crushed during the installation, and although the co-op’s insurance covered its cost, I’d spent the money on a trip to Tahoe and was still sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
That morning I actually welcomed the bad weather because my rain wear being the disguise it is, it actually furthered my current plan of action. For once the bathroom (one flight down and usually in high demand) was free when I needed it, and in half an hour I was wrapped in my old red slicker with the hood that hides nearly my whole head, my travel cup filled with coffee and ready to go. As I moved one of the tags on the mailboxes that tell Ted Smalley, our office manager, whether we’re in or out, I glanced at Sharon’s. Her tag was missing—she’s always setting it down someplace it doesn’t belong or wandering off and completely losing it—and Ted would have quite a few things to say to her about that. Ted is the most efficient person I know, and it puzzles him that Sharon can’t get the hang of a simple procedure like keeping track of her tag.
The Ramblin’ Wreck didn’t want to start, and I had to coax it some. Then I headed for Teresita Boulevard, up on the hill above McAteer High School, where Kirby Dalson lived. I’d already phoned Tom Chu before he left for school and had a good description of Kirby’s car—a red RX-7 with vanity plates saying KSKAR—and after school started I’d called the attendance office and was told Kirby hadn’t come in that morning. The car sat in the driveway of his parents’ beige stucco house, so I u-turne
d and parked at the curb.
The rain kept whacking down and the windows of the Wreck kept steaming up. I wiped them with a rag I found under the seat and then fiddled with the radio. Static was all I got; the radio’s as temperamental as the engine. Kirby’s car stayed in the driveway. Maybe he had the flu and was bundled up in bed, where I wished I was. Maybe he just couldn’t face the prospect of coming out it this storm.
Stakeouts. God. Nobody ever warned me how boring they are. I used to picture myself slouched in my car, wearing an exotic disguise, alert and primed for some great adventure. Sure. Stakeouts are so boring that I’ve fallen asleep on a couple and missed absolutely nothing. I finished my coffee, wished I’d brought along one of the stale-looking doughnuts that somebody had left on the chopping block in All Soul’s kitchen. Then I started to think fondly of the McDonald’s over on Ocean Avenue. I just love junk food.
About eleven o’clock the door of the Dalson house opened. Kirby came out wearing jeans and a down jacket and made for his car. After he’d backed down the driveway and headed toward Portola, the main street up there, I started the Wreck and followed.
Kirby went out Portola and west on Sloat Boulevard, toward the beach. By the time we’d passed the end of Stern Grove, I realized he was headed for Ocean Park Plaza. It’s a big multi-story center, over a hundred stores, ranging from small specialty shops to big department stores, with a movie theater, health club, supermarket, and dozens of food concessions. It was built right before the recession hit by a consortium of developers who saw the success that the new Stonestown Galleria and the Serramonte Center in Daly City were enjoying. Trouble is, the area out there isn’t big enough or affluent enough to support three such shopping malls, and from what the head of security at Ocean Park, Ben Waterson, had told me when I’d questioned him about Adrian the other day, the plaza was in serious trouble.
Kirby whipped the RX-7 into the eastern end of the parking lot and left it near the rear entrance to the Lucky Store. He ran through the rain while I parked the Wreck a few slots down and hurried after, pulling up the hood on my slicker. By the time I got inside, Kirby was cutting through the produce section. He went out into the mall, skirted the escalators, and halfway to the main entrance veered right toward Left Coast Casuals, where Adrian had worked before she disappeared.
McCone and Friends Page 12
