Banshee

Chapter Six

That night Michael Dunlop lay awake for a long time planning how and when he should approach Miss Firenze in her villa. He finally decided on early morning because in his rather wide experience with disturbed people he’d found this was when they were most rational and alert.

But in the morning the old Buick wouldn’t start. Lorna said he knew nothing about cars (true), that he’d forgotten to have the oil changed (probably true), and that she could and would start it herself (not true). When the tow truck finally arrived he hitched a ride with the driver as far as Howard’s house.

Howard, who always went to the office at six, had been gone for hours but Kay was backing her station wagon out of the garage with Chizzy in the front seat and the two dogs in the back.

All four looked happy to see him, although only the German shepherd indicated it vocally.

“What are you doing here?” Kay said when Shep’s greeting had subsided.

“I thought I’d take a walk.”

“A walk? Where?”

“Oh, through your avocado grove.”

“Well, make sure your shoes aren’t carrying root rot,” Chizzy said.

Michael glanced at his shoes. They didn’t appear to have any root rot, whatever that was. “I’m clean.”

“Where did you leave your car?” Kay asked him.

“At the garage.”

“And you came all the way over here to walk through our avocado grove?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“A number of reasons.”

“I told you,” Chizzy said to Kay. “Didn’t I tell you? He and Mr. Howard are playing detective. Like a couple of kids who’ve been watching too much television. It wasn’t hard to figure out, what with them staying up till all hours and having a secret telephone installed.”

“It’s not a secret telephone,” Michael said. “It has an unlisted number, that’s all.”

“Same difference.”

Kay was watching him somberly. “Why are you wearing your collar?”

“I thought it might be useful.”

“For walking through an avocado grove?”

“That too.”

“You don’t intend to answer any of my questions, do you?”

“I’d rather not.”

“It’s a sneaky business, if you ask me,” Chizzy said.

“Nobody asked you,” Kay told her, and turned back to Michael. “Whatever you and Howard are up to, please be careful.”

“There’s no danger.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to either of you.”

“There’s no danger,” Michael repeated.

It had never even occurred to him that there could be. He was merely going to visit a crazy old lady.

The villa was surrounded by a white stucco wall and its entrance guarded by an eight-foot iron-grillwork gate. On one side of the gate there was a voice box connected to the main house but Michael saw little point in trying to use it. No human voice could have been heard over the noise of the gasoline-powered blower being operated by one of the gardeners. He wore the gas tank on his back like a hump, a strange new mutation in a strange new world of splitting atoms and eardrums.

The blower was scattering leaves and dirt from one side of the driveway to the other and back again. The operator, wearing earphones to protect his hearing, seemed to be enjoying the game. He looked disappointed when he had to acknowledge Michael’s presence, turn off the motor and remove his earphones.

“Good morning,” Michael said.

The man’s perfunctory nod indicated that this might or might not be true.

“I’d like to see Miss Firenze.”

“She don’t see a whole bunch of people but you can try if you want. Press the button on the voice box and wait for someone to answer, then tell them who you are and what you’re after. I see you’re a man of the cloth.”

“Yes.”

“First one to come here that I can recall. Is the old lady dying?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Must be close to it. Ninety if she’s a day.”

“Seventy-three.”

“She’d had more than ninety years of experience judging from the stories I hear.”

Michael pressed the button on the gate and when there was no response pressed it again. Another half minute passed before a woman’s voice said brusquely, “Ms. Leigh here. Who’s there?”

“I am the Reverend Michael Dunlop.”

“The who?”

“The Reverend Michael Dunlop. I’d like to see Miss Firenze if I may.”

“Is this some kind of gag?”

“No. Every month or so I try to get around to making a few community calls on people whose names are presented to me.”

“Well, whoever presented Firenze’s name must have a weird sense of humor. Anyway she’s still in bed eating her breakfast. Do you reverend people pay social calls on ladies in bed?”

“Frequently. I make regular hospital rounds.”

“She’s not sick. She simply stays in her room a lot because that’s where we work. I’m her ghost-writer, collaborator, amanuensis, you name it.”

“It sounds like interesting work,” Michael said. “I’d like to hear about it.”

“I don’t buy that. But it’s been a dull week so come on in.”

The gate opened almost immediately and Michael went inside. When he heard the gate close behind him he suffered the same feeling he always had when he visited the jail, that the electrical system would fail some day and he would be trapped inside, a prisoner no better than the others.

Walking up the driveway he passed two gardeners clipping a privet hedge, an Oasis Pool Service truck and a white-coated attendant carrying a stack of magazines. No greetings were exchanged. The power blower had started up again, monopolizing the air like the manic roar of a new world tyrant.

The intricately carved front door was opened by Ms. Leigh herself, a tall young Chinese woman with short geometrically cut black hair. She wore steel-rimmed glasses and a green-plaid skirt and green sweater with white collar and cuffs. She looked so efficient that Michael suspected she wasn’t.

She proved it immediately. “What did you say your name was?”

“Is. It was Michael Dunlop when you asked me before and it still is.”

Ms. Leigh looked slightly annoyed. “Oh, you’re one of those grammar freaks, are you? You’ll have a field day with Firenze. It’s my job to correct her grammar.”

“Am I going to be permitted to see her?”

“Why not? She perked up when I told her there was a minister here for a visit. Maybe she’s all ready to be converted, but don’t bet the rent on it. She’s having, by the way, a lucid day. Which is to say she’s not as nutty as she was yesterday.” Ms. Leigh looked him up and down carefully before she closed the door. “I presume you’re aware she’s not playing with a full deck.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure how many cards are missing.”

“It varies from moon to moon. Also from man to man. You may get lucky.” Not a mucle moved on Ms. Leigh’s smooth impassive face but she seemed to be amused. “Depending on your idea of luck and what’s on your mind.”

The hall was almost as large as a ballroom. Its polished tile floor reflected the lights of two crystal chandeliers. Along one wall was a trio of pink velvet chairs that looked as if they had come from Miss Firenze’s past and their gold-braid trim belonged on some officer’s uniform. The rest of the furniture was in the Spanish tradition of old Santa Felicia, dark wood and stiff-backed benches and chairs that made no concessions to the human frame.

The floor was so slippery Michael could hardly walk on it. This explained Ms. Leigh’s jogging shoes and the peculiar gait of the maid who was carrying a breakfast tray down the hall.

“We’d better give Firenze a few minutes to primp,” Ms. Leigh said. “There’s a nice little solarium off the library. It’s the only cheerful room in the place so I often use it as an office… Do you like plants?”

“Should I?”

“I see we understand each other,” Ms. Leigh said. “Yes, you should. They’re Firenze’s hobby. What’s your favorite?”

“Roses.”

“Firenze hates roses. She says they’re too much like women, always demanding to be admired and then turning around and scratching you when you come near them.”

“Miss Firenze evidently doesn’t think much of women.”

“No. Odd, isn’t it? Or perhaps not so odd. She doesn’t think much of men either.”

The solarium was a glass-walled room filled with plants of various sizes and shapes in all kinds of containers. The tile floor slanted down to a drain in the center of the room and the air was heavy with moisture. The only furniture was a desk in one corner and two white wicker settees with yellow vinyl cushions.

Ms. Leigh examined the underside of a red-leafed plant, then pulled a leaf off and showed it to Michael. “Notice that fine webbing? You can’t see the nasty little beast responsible for it but he’s there all right, and so are all his relatives. Red spider mites. Hard to get rid of. Sit down.”

Michael sat down on one of the wicker settees. It crackled and creaked in protest under his weight. “I’d like to hear about your job, Ms. Leigh.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never met a ghost-writer before.”

“Actually I’m not a ghost-writer, I’m a real writer. At least I think I am. Anyway, I’m only ghosting until my husband gets a break in Hollywood. He’s an actor.”

“Meanwhile, what do you do for Miss Firenze?”

“Listen. Change tapes. Transcribe what’s transcribable. Sometimes it’s fairly sensible and interesting. Other times it’s profanity or gibberish and I have to clean it up or make sense out of it or ignore it. I do a lot of ignoring.”

“Then the rumor is true, that she’s writing her memoirs?”

“They can’t really be called memoirs because she gets mixed up about names and dates and places. But I suppose it all happened one way or another at one time or another. Her language is often quite picturesque, probably because she’s not inhibited by rules of grammar or by common sense or discipline of any kind. None of it will ever be published, of course, but as long as she keeps talking, Larry and I keep eating and paying for his drama lessons. The money isn’t the only reason I’m staying, though. Her book will never be published but maybe mine will.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Mine will be a book about trying to write her book. It could be quite funny. I’ve kept notes on some of the things she does and says, so I have plenty of material. I also have a title. Madam. Oh, I know Madam has been used in dozens of titles, Madame Bovary, Madame X, and so on. But this is different, don’t you think? I mean, it’s provocative. Isn’t it?”

“I find the whole idea provocative.”

“You do? Really?”

“Yes indeed,” Michael said. “You have a day-to-day chronicle on what’s happened around the villa?”

“Chronicle is too big a word. It’s a collection of haphazard notes, some of her reminiscences, her fits and foibles.”

“What causes her fits?”

“Practically everything, even the weather. Fog is a good example. It depresses her so badly she shuts herself up in her room and mopes for hours. That leaves the staff with considerable time to kill. The attendants read or play cards or watch television. I work on the diary. I can’t simply go home because she might snap out of it at any minute if the fog lifts. She equates fog,” Ms. Leigh explained, “with ectoplasm, the spirit world trying to get in touch with her, ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. San Francisco was her place of business so I’m sure there was a lot of fog in her life. Also a lot of things that went bump in the night.”

Michael had another opportunity to admire the way Ms. Leigh could look amused without moving a single facial muscle. “How do other kinds of weather affect her?”

“Fortunately we don’t have much thunder and lightning around here because that’s what really drives her batty. The santanas do too, these dry dirty winds that blow in from the desert. She’s scared to death of them. She tears around the house closing all the windows and drapes and screaming that they’re out to get her.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“I wish I knew. I’d invite them in and say, take her, she’s yours. Mostly though, it’s not a bad job. We even get a little excitement now and then when Firenze escapes. We usually let her stay out for an hour or so and have her fun, then send someone after her. It’s a change for all of us.”

“Where does she go when she escapes?”

“Down to the creek. She plays in the water like a kid and brings back little bouquets of flowers, or what she pretends are flowers. Sometimes, it’s only a handful of grass or foxtails, once even poison oak. We all thought she’d be a real mess afterward but she fooled us again. It turned out that she’s immune to it. There wasn’t a blister or red mark on her. She could probably make a salad of the stuff and it wouldn’t do her any harm.”

The young maid Michael had seen carrying the breakfast tray down the hall appeared in the doorway. “Madam just buzzed that she’s ready.”

“Thanks, Miriam. We’ll go right up.”

Miss Firenze was propped up on half a dozen pillows in the center of a king-sized bed. Her body was completely hidden under a black garment that resembled the robes worn by members of a church choir.

Age had left her skin relatively unlined but rearranged the hair on her face. She had no eyebrows or lashes, but a profusion of gray-black hairs grew out of her upper lip almost as thick as a moustache. Under it she wore a slash of bright red lipstick. Her still-black hair was arranged in a single braid at the back of her neck. Her eyes were her most striking feature, as bright and iridescent as drops of oil.

She addressed her visitor in a voice that was hoarse, as if her vocal chords had lost their elasticity from overuse.

“So what have we here?”

“I’m Michael Dunlop, Miss Firenze.”

“Don’t mean a thing to me. Wait. That’s thirteen letters. Bad luck. You’re bringing me bad luck.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s your sign?”

“Sign?”

“When were you born?”

“December thirteenth.”

“Thirteen again. Two thirteens. I don’t like this. Take him away. He’s bad luck.”

“Madam is forgetting,” Ms. Leigh said smoothly, “that two thirteens make twenty-six and twenty-six is a good round lucky number.”

“Who says so?”

“Your book on numerology.”

“It says right there in print that twenty-six is lucky?”

“Right there in print.”

Miss Firenze’s bright gaze shifted back to Michael. “Come on over here where I can get a look at you. Stand by the window.”

Michael stood by the window. It had iron grillwork across it like the iron grilling on the front gate. He was not sure whether it was intended to keep people out or to keep Miss Firenze in.

“You’re not a bad-looking fellow. A bit too skinny. A man should be on the heavy side, robust, strong. You like flowers?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Carnations,” Ms. Leigh said. “He told me on the way up here how much he admires carnations.”

“Now ain’t that a coincidence? Carnations are my favorite too. Nice spicy smell, not too sweet like jasmine or roses. You like roses?”

“Not particularly,” Michael said.

“Good. Sit down.”

Michael sat down in a pink velvet chair that matched the trio he’d seen in the hall. As Miss Firenze watched him the skin around her eyes crinkled and the slash of lipstick under her moustache moved in what appeared to be a smile. It was more mischievous than friendly, as if she were recalling someone else who’d sat in that chair, or a long succession of someone elses.

“So. You’re a minister.”

“Yes.”

“What’s that thing you’re wearing?”

“A clerical collar.”

“No, no, no. I mean the black thing that looks like a vest on backwards.”

“It’s called a rabat.”

“I’ve often wondered about that. I’ve seen quite a few of them in my day. You fellows don’t always practice what you preach, you know. But then who does? I remember telling my girls to always brush their teeth three times a day, and all the time I was only brushing mine twice a day. I should have listened to myself. Oh, I still got all my teeth, yes sir, but they’re in a cigar box along with my gallstones and wedding ring.”

From Ms. Leigh’s corner of the room came what was unmistakably a laugh. “What’s so funny?” Miss Firenze said.

“I’m sorry. I intended to cough.”

“Then why didn’t you? You laughed.”

“Is that how it sounded? I’ve always had a very peculiar cough, probably environmental.”

“She has an explanation for everything,” Miss Firenze told Michael. “And she uses big words to impress me. Well, I ain’t impressed. One of these days I’m going to kick her out on her ass… Do you have good teeth, Mr. Minister?”

“Good enough.”

“How often do you clean them?”

“Whenever I have the chance.”

“Smile.”

He smiled uneasily, aware that somehow in the past few minutes he had lost control of the situation and the old lady, crazy or not, had taken charge.

“Does Madam wish me to tape this?” Ms. Leigh said.

“This what?”

“For lack of a better word, conversation.”

“You see?” The old lady appealed to Michael again. “She’s being sarcastic as usual. Beats me how I stand her around. I could never figure out these Orientals. Their face does one thing while their brain does another. What’s more, they’re all flat-chested.”

Ms. Leigh let out another of her peculiar coughs, excused herself and left the room.

“Now,” the old lady said. “Now you and I can talk. What’s on your mind?”

“I—”

“You didn’t come here to save my soul, did you? Waste of time, boy, waste of time. I don’t have one. A chaplain told me that once. He didn’t have much of a soul himself, just a hankering like any swabbie. He was a navy chaplain. Were you ever in the navy?”

“No.”

“Do you hanker?”

“Yes.”

“Got a wife?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“I haven’t had much of a chance.”

“Okay, it’s your turn. Say something.”

There was a brief silence before Michael spoke again. “I suppose I could claim that this is strictly a social call but it isn’t. I came here in the hope of getting some information.”

“What about?”

“You do some exploring around the neighborhood, I’m told.”

“Sure I do, whenever they’re not looking. I don’t know why I’m penned up like this anyway. I think it’s that guy at the bank. He’s got some fancy title but what it boils down to is money. My money. He’s afraid I might throw it away or something. And you know what he does with it? He throws it away on a pack of lawyers and this bunch of nuts who’re supposed to be looking after me. Does that make sense?”

“When you put it like that, no.”

“Then you’re on my side.”

“I believe I am,” Michael said, sounding a little surprised.

The old lady raised herself from the pillows and sat up, clasping her knees with her hands. Her fingernails, painted the same red as her lipstick, were so long they curled inward like claws.

“You and I will work together, boy. Between the two of us we’ll beat the bank, the cops, the lawyers, we’ll take on the whole damn navy. How about it?”

“I don’t think I’m equipped for that big a job.”

“Okay, let’s start nice and easy at the beginning. First we get the hell out of here.”

“Well, I—”

“What’s the matter, losing your nerve before we even start?”

“Having me along would cramp your style,” Michael said. “Besides, a less direct approach might be more successful.”

“Stop the wishy-washy talk. What do you mean?”

“I’m referring to the book Miss Firenze is writing.”

“Oh that, sure. Sure, that’ll teach the navy a thing or two, but it’s taking so long. I want action now. Today.”

“What day is it, Miss Firenze?”

“Oh, maybe Tuesday, Wednesday, somewhere along in there.”

It was Thursday. “What month is it?”

“It’s cold, maybe winter. Why are you asking me? Go look at a calendar.”

Her nails picked at her black robe as if they were scratching the earth for insects.

“Miss Firenze.”

“Why are you asking me a bunch of dumb questions?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to the little girl who lived in the house across the canyon.”

“How should I know? I never took on little girls, never a one less than fourteen years old and then only if some of my bitches tried to go in business for themselves leaving me short-handed.”

“Annamay Hyatt was eight years old.” But even as he spoke he realized how useless it was to ask any further questions. She didn’t know what day it was, or what month, probably not even what year. How could she remember seeing Annamay at any particular time? Perhaps she had never seen her at all.

“I hate kids, always have,” Miss Firenze said confidentially. “Ms. Leigh warned me never to say that in front of anyone, especially those cops who were crawling all over the place. But it’s true. She said I’d better shut my mouth or they’d put me in prison. They can’t put me in prison for hating kids, can they?”

“No.”

“Besides, where the hell do you think I am now, with bars on the windows and gates kept locked? I’m thinking of running away and getting married.”

“How will you manage that?”

“Never you mind. I’m a practical woman. Cheap, some call me. Let them.” She reached for a folded paper napkin on the night table beside the bed. “Guess what’s in here.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“A piece of jewelry, perhaps?”

“You think I’m stupid or something, keeping jewelry lying around in a house with a pack of thieves in it? This” — she waved the napkin at him — “is something left over from breakfast. That’s your clue.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t help much.”

“Give up?”

“Yes.”

She opened the napkin which contained what appeared to be several dark stones. For a moment he thought they might be part of her collection of gallstones she kept in the cigar box along with her teeth and wedding ring.

“Raisins,” she said triumphantly. “Ha, fooled you, didn’t I? Raisins. I saved them from my bran cereal this morning. You never can tell when the champagne’s going to go flat. I watched many a buck disappear in thin air until I discovered the secret of raisins.”

“I wasn’t aware raisins had a secret.”

“Oh yes. I found out from one of my girls. When a magnum of champagne goes flat you drop in a couple of raisins and like magic up come the bubbles again.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Usually. Sometimes you hit a rotten raisin. But these look pretty good, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Now about the little girl who disappeared—”

“Many little girls disappear,” Miss Firenze said sternly. “Many more should. Also dogs, horses, cats, cows. The world’s getting too damn full. There isn’t enough champagne for everyone.” She rewrapped the raisins in the napkin and hid them in a drawer of the night table. Because, she explained, you never knew when that flat-chested Oriental might discover the magic power of raisins and no cereal would ever be safe from her again. “If I got married again,” Miss Firenze said, “I wouldn’t have to put up with all this disrespect. My husband would be in charge of my affairs and that silly ass at the bank could go poop in his soup. The last time I asked him for a few thousand dollars to go to Europe to trace my roots he turned me down flat. My name sounds Italian but I think I’m Turkish or Roumanian or something along in there. I’ll never find out for sure until I get married.”

“How will that help you?”

“I told you before, my husband will take charge of my affairs. And I don’t have to ask the bank or the lawyer for permission to get married either. I’m over twenty-one, in case you haven’t noticed.” She giggled into her cupped hands like an embarrassed teenager. “Don’t you think marriage is a good idea?”

“That would depend on the man involved.”

“Oh, he’s very proper. A gentleman, and at least as old as I am. Don’t imagine for a minute I have my eye on any of these young pipsqueaks around here out looking for a fortune. I told you, I’m a practical woman.”

Michael was accustomed to dealing with people who were disturbed to some degree and Miss Firenze didn’t faze him. But trying to pick his way through her facts and fantasies made him a little dizzy. He said, “Does the gentleman know of your intentions?”

“There is an unspoken agreement.”

“Why is the agreement unspoken?”

“Because we’ve never had a chance to talk. I can’t get out through this pack of nitwits and he can’t get in. But he’s ripe and ready.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He spies on me all the time through a telescope. Sends me passionate glances from his spy tower.”

Michael realized with a shock that she was referring to Howard’s father. “How do you know this, Miss Firenze?”

“Because I can see him. I’ve got these binoculars a vice admiral gave me years ago. They’re very powerful, ten by fifty he told me, and so heavy I can hardly lift them. I keep them on the windowsill. The gentleman waves to me over the treetops and I wave back to him over the treetops. It’s very romantic.”

“What is his name?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t know mine either. Oh, we’ll exchange names before we’re married, of course, because he’ll have to sign a heap of blah-blah papers for the lawyers. He seems like a nice old chap. Likes fish. Sits beside the pond and stares at fish. Well, I can overlook that. I’m a little peculiar myself at times.”

“Mr. Hyatt is the little girl’s grandfather.”

“What little girl?”

“The one I referred to before.”

“I don’t know any such girl. You keep accusing me of using little girls in my business and I never did. I never used one that was less than fourteen, never. Don’t you bad-mouth me, minister man, hypocrite, liar. You get out of here. Get out or I’ll scream. I’ll scream rape, you son of a bitch.” And she threw back her head and opened her mouth and screamed.

The sound chased him out the door and down the stairs like a siren in pursuit.

Ms. Leigh was waiting for him in the tiled hall, along with a muscular young white-coated attendant. Neither of them looked in the least perturbed.

“Jeez, he really is a minister,” the attendant said, raising his voice so he could be heard above the old lady’s continued screams. “Okay, I owe you five.”

“If you didn’t bet on everything, George, you wouldn’t lose so often.”

“I thought you were bluffing again, or kidding.”

“I’ll take the five now.”

“I haven’t got—”

“You got.”

“Nobody trusts me anymore.”

“Nobody ever did, George.”

“It’s not fair. I thought you were trying to bluff me the way you always do. You came back to the kitchen and said Madam had a caller and you thought he was a minister. And I said, five bucks he’s not. I thought I had a sure thing.”

“You do have a sure thing, George. It’s called terminal gullibility. Pay up.”

George paid up and departed in the direction of Miss Firenze’s room. His lack of haste indicated that the situation was not uncommon.

“Soooo,” Ms. Leigh said, pursing her lips, “your rapport with Firenze didn’t last very long. That’s the trouble with flaky ladies. They never flake and unflake on schedule. What happened?”

“I asked her a question she didn’t like.”

“About her past?”

“Evidently she thought so but it wasn’t. It concerned Annamay Hyatt.”

“Oh.” Ms. Leigh took off her glasses and rubbed them on the sleeve of her green sweater as though to clean up some invisible spots that were blurring her vision. “No, she wouldn’t like that. The case affected her very badly right from the beginning. Whenever anything about it was shown on television she’d throw a fit. And if she overheard any of us talking about it around the house she’d fire us. I must have been fired twenty times at least but since she hasn’t the power to hire or fire I’m still here.”

“Why did she react so violently?”

“It’s her nature to react violently to anything which displeases her. She had no relationship with the little girl, at least to my knowledge. I doubt she’d ever even seen her. The attendants are careful to keep children away because Firenze doesn’t like them. They make her nervous. She often refers to them in her fits of fear. Children are part of the ‘they’ who are out to get her. There are many such references in my notes, especially on days when she’s escaped and something has frightened her like a sudden storm or the fog rolling in.”

“Could you look up some of these references for me?”

“I could. It would take time.” Ms. Leigh replaced her glasses. “My husband Larry’s drama lessons are very expensive.”

“You’ll be paid for your time, of course.”

“Like how much?”

“Maybe not enough to turn Larry into another Dustin Hoffman but a reasonable amount.”

“Larry’s taller than Hoffman and better looking.”

“Then it won’t require quite so much money, will it?” Michael said. “How about twenty-five an hour, plus a bonus for quick work?”

“Sounds fair. I’ll give it my best shot. But don’t expect miracles. Most of the stuff, or a lot of it anyway, is the ranting of a nutty old lady who’s afraid of her past catching up with her.”

“But mixed up with the ranting may be some kernels of truth. To the child’s father,” Michael added, “one kernel is better than nothing. It’s possible that Miss Firenze witnessed something on the day Annamay disappeared. She was never questioned by the police, you know, because her lawyers wouldn’t permit it.”

“Naturally not. She would have told one cock-and-bull story after another in order to remain the center of attention. They could have believed one of them. And indeed, some might even have been true. But it’s not likely. She doesn’t usually tell the truth when she’s basking in the limelight, only when she’s scared. That’s when she lets out things she normally hides, like her real age, which is seventy-eight not seventy-three, and the name of her first and last husband, Joe Willie Smith, a black army private who was killed in Korea. Official documents don’t list either of those facts.”

“How can you be sure they’re facts?”

Ms. Leigh said, with a faint smile. “All us flat-chested Orientals have ESP, didn’t you know that?”

“I’m learning.”

“Around here you need ESP. Firenze is a very convincing liar because she actually believes herself.”

“Does she ever go across the creek and into the Hyatts’ avocado grove?”

“I guess she’s covered the whole area at one time or another. We get a complaint now and then from someone in the neighborhood, but mostly she just walks along the creek and picks flowers and grass and things.”

Miss Firenze’s screaming had stopped abruptly and George appeared at the head of the stairs.

“Hey, Leigh, tote your tush up here. She wants to see you.”

“Tell her I’ll be right there.” Ms. Leigh offered her hand to Michael. “Do you mind letting yourself out? She’s often calm after one of these storms and I get some usable material. How do I get in touch with you?”

Michael gave her both his own number and that of the Hyatts’ guest cottage. “Call any time.”

“Very well, I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Dunlop.”

“Thank you.”

They shook hands again and Michael went out the door. The Oasis Pool Service truck was still parked outside the house, joined now by All-American Tree Service and Channel Hospital and Uniform Supplies. The same two gardeners were clipping the same privet hedge. The hedge appeared to go on and on, with no end in sight in either direction, and the gardeners were apparently content to go on and on with it. Perhaps they would continue right into spring when the privet bloomed and they were forced away by swarms of bees and the oversweet odor of the flowers.

Halfway down the driveway he turned and looked back at the villa. Madam Firenze had stepped out on her balcony on the second floor and was waving at him in a friendly but formal way like royalty acknowledging her subjects.

He didn’t wave back.

When he returned through the Hyatts’ avocado grove the dogs came running to greet him, the shepherd barking hysterically, the Newfoundland silent and placid as usual. They both looked neglected. Newf’s feathered legs and plumed tail had collected dozens of burr clovers and Shep’s underbelly was shafted with foxtails. Burr clover was a relatively harmless nuisance to animals but foxtails could do serious damage, digging farther and farther into the skin as if they were alive. Michael picked them all out carefully, keeping them in his hand until he could find a trash can to prevent them from reseeding.

The palace too looked neglected, its windows smudged, its patch of lawn dried out, the barbecue pit choked with eucalyptus pods and pine needles and sycamore leaves. There were no fish in the fishpond and only an inch or two of dirty water.

The front door was partly open as though someone had forgotten to lock it and it had been pushed inward by the wind or one of the dogs or a reconnoitering possum. When Michael went to close it he saw that sycamore leaves were scattered around the room, on the small davenport and dining set and stove, even on the bunk beds where Marietta and Luella Lu lay awaiting their mistress. Marietta’s half-bald head was partly covered by a leaf that looked quite like a perky new hat. Luella Lu had been turned on her side and her glued eye was staring straight at Michael and beyond.

The two dogs, Shep strangely silent, sat outside the door, as though they had forgotten they were ever allowed inside as the royal attendants. Michael, who’d never owned a dog, had felt no real kinship with one until this moment when he wondered how much of Annamay was still alive inside their heads, a voice, a touch, a smell, a laugh.

He closed the door and began walking along the path toward the main house with the dogs following. If they hadn’t suddenly bounded off in the direction of the koi pond he would have missed the old man sitting beside it.

“Good morning, Michael,” Mr. Hyatt said.

“Good morning, Mr. Hyatt.”

“Then it was you thrashing around in the avocado grove.” “I didn’t realize I was thrashing.”

“But you were. I have very good hearing. It’s lucky you chose the profession you did. You would have made a very poor Indian scout.”

“I quite agree.”

“Of course some leaves are very numerous and noisy this late in the year, at least until the first rain. Then they go soft and cling to the earth until they are a part of it again.” Mr. Hyatt’s face was almost hidden by a crudely woven straw hat, the kind the Mexican pickers used. “It was that unseasonal rain in late July that prevented her from being found sooner. The leaves became soft and pliant and clung to her. And the earth claimed her for its own without us even knowing about it. You said it well at the funeral. Would you repeat it for me, please?”

“Of dust we are made and to dust we shall return.”

“Yes. Yes, even the koi here can’t live forever. But how they do try. In Japan where they are passed along from generation to generation like heirlooms, koi are much admired for their longevity and courage. One requires the other, you know. It isn’t easy to grow old. I believe the record among koi is two hundred and twenty-eight years. The magoi here, the black fellow, is already older than I am.”

“I can’t see him.”

“He’s lying at the bottom, perhaps sleeping, certainly not thinking. They’re very stupid, actually. Some people think that because they will come to the side of the pool when you clap your hands and offer them food that they are trained. Not so. They’re only eating. Watch.” Mr. Hyatt clapped his hands, then brought from his pocket some bits of what looked like dog kibble. He tossed them into the water. The brighter-colored koi came immediately to eat. Then the magoi appeared and the others moved aside to make way for him.

“Some people might think,” Mr. Hyatt said, “that they are showing respect for their elders in the Oriental tradition. Nonsense. He is simply bigger than they are. Notice the slow grace with which he moves, as if he had all the time in the world. And certainly he has a great deal, perhaps another hundred years. And what for? It doesn’t make sense. He serves no useful purpose in the scheme of things, his brain is minimal. Nature has made some dreadful errors, allowing valuable human beings to die so young, and this creature to go on and on.”

The black magoi ate a couple of pellets of food. He was as large as a turkey and had a fat sad face with two drooping whiskers on each side of his O-shaped mouth. In the center of his forehead was a spot the exact size and color of a five-dollar gold piece. The old man looked at the magoi bitterly as though he were begrudging it the years that had been taken from Annamay.

Michael said, “The fishpond at the palace is empty.”

“Yes. I emptied it myself. Raccoons ate all the goldfish. They’d get the koi too but the water is too deep. A raccoon must have water shallow enough for him to stand upright in order to catch fish.”

“Mr. Hyatt—”

“Useless,” the old man said. “Not even beautiful unless you count the gold piece on his head. All creatures become useless as they grow old. Someone should have an answer.”

“Perhaps there isn’t one.”

“You should work on it, Michael.”

“I’ll try,” Michael said. He hesitated to bring up the subject of the palace door’s being open, but decided it was necessary. “I found the door of the palace open, Mr. Hyatt.”

“You don’t mean actually open, do you? You must be referring to the fact that the Sheriff’s Department removed the seal some time ago.”

“The door was open.”

“That’s impossible. I locked it myself the day I emptied the fishpond.” The old man sounded calm enough but his hands had begun to tremble. “Did you look inside?”

“Briefly.”

“Was there evidence of an intruder?”

“Some leaves and dirt had been blown in by the wind. Whether anything is missing I don’t know.”

“Someone broke in,” the old man whispered. “Someone broke into my Annamay’s palace.”

“It’s more likely that you forgot to lock it, Mr. Hyatt.”

“No, no. I did not. People are always accusing me of forgetting this and forgetting that and sometimes they are correct. I do forget things now and then. But never, never would I forget to lock the palace.” He shook his head so vigorously that the straw hat slid down his face and fell on the grass. He didn’t seem to notice. “It is my most important duty. My son, Howard, thinks up all kinds of duties for me because he thinks they will make me happier. And I do them because that makes him happier. It is a game we play, pretending I am still of some value in this world.”

“That’s not the way—”

“Please, Michael, don’t argue the point. It would be a waste of time. I have done more thinking about this business of age than you have, perhaps more than you’ll ever have a chance to. My son and daughter-in-law love me, true. But if I died tomorrow I would leave no noticeable gap because I have no real place in the world, no real duties to perform. My only real duty is to keep the palace as Annamay left it. I allow no one in, not even Dru. Dru used to come sometimes and peer into the windows as if she thought Annamay might be in there hiding from us all. She knows better now. She was at the funeral.”

“The lock on the door is a simple one,” Michael said. “Nearly anybody could pick it.”

“Do people no longer respect a locked door?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Hyatt.”

“The world has become a rough place. Perhaps it is better that Annamay never found that out. To her every day was sunny, every stranger was her friend.” He put the battered straw hat back on, pulling it well down on his forehead so Michael couldn’t see the moisture in his eyes. “We’d better go and have a look at the palace. It must be kept as Annamay left it.”

Mr. Hyatt rose unsteadily from the redwood chair, refusing Michael’s offer of an arm to help him.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t start treating me the way Howard does. I’m not decrepit. Indeed, only the other day I helped an elderly woman across the creek. I felt like a boy scout again, especially when she offered me a bouquet of flowers.”

“Did you know the woman?”

“I’ve seen her.” He nodded in the direction of the villa. “She lives over there and they say she is quite mad. But they say things about everyone. Who is to judge?”

“In this case a judge,” Michael said. “She has been declared incompetent by the court.”

“Incompetent to do what?”

“Handle her own affairs. Financial affairs, I presume.”

“Bless you, Michael. I know hundreds and hundreds of people who are incompetent to handle their own financial affairs. Pillars of society, politicians, educators, they bet on commodities like racehorses and can’t tell a stock from a bond. But are they declared incompetent? No indeed… They are reappointed, reaffirmed, reelected.”

“Miss Firenze’s incompetence goes beyond financial matters, I assure you.”

“You’ve seen her, talked to her?”

“Yes.”

The two men had begun walking toward the palace but now Mr. Hyatt stopped and grabbed Michael by the arm. “Did you ask her about Annamay?”

“Yes.”

“Did she know anything?”

“No.”

“No one knows anything. A little girl disappears and her body is not found for months. This is incompetence. Why doesn’t the court do something about this kind of incompetence?” He lowered his voice. “You and Howard are working on the case, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you talking last night when I passed the guest cottage and the windows were open.”

The previous night had been cold and Michael distinctly recalled Howard’s closing the windows on both sides. But if Mr. Hyatt chose to remember it another way there was no use correcting him.

“Why don’t you and Howard take me into your confidence, Michael?”

“There is nothing to confide so far.”

“But you will take me into your confidence when the time comes?”

“That will depend on Howard. It’s his decision.”

“Then I’ll be kept in the dark,” the old man said sadly. “If I ask questions Howard will merely send me away on one of my so-called duties, charting a bunch of silly boats passing in the channel, or driving to the post office or anything else to get me out of the way because I am a nuisance. I am as useless as the magoi, taking up space, killing time until it kills me.”

“Howard loves and respects and admires you, Mr. Hyatt.”

“He used to. At one time I deserved respect and a certain amount of admiration, perhaps even some love.”

“I hate to hear you talking like this, Mr. Hyatt.”

“Of course you do, Michael. Ministers are the last people in the world who want to hear the truth. It so often disputes their version of the world.”

When they reached the palace Mr. Hyatt opened the front door. Leaves stirred and rustled like living creatures scurrying away to hide from danger.

“Someone has been here, Michael. There are signs. One of the dolls is lying on her side and I left her on her back. And the cushions on the davenport are out of place. And look here, a teacup in the sink. All the dishes were stored in the cupboard when I left. There are other signs, little things I can’t quite put my finger on. But I know. I know.”

He was breathing so hard and fast by this time that Michael, afraid he was going to have a heart attack, tried to persuade him to sit down. But he refused to sit. He began opening and closing drawers and cupboards and closets. In the main closet with the sliding door several of Annamay’s dresses were still hanging, as well as larger-sized clothes (Kay’s? Chizzy’s?) used to play grown-up. There were a couple of mismatched sneakers, some socks and a sweater, and, tossed into a corner, a pair of high-heeled sandals. They were both large and wide, with rhinestone straps and heels narrow as nails.

“Those peculiar shoes,” Mr. Hyatt said. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“They’re probably Kay’s or Chizzy’s.”

“Dear me, no. Kay would never wear such trollopy things, and Chizzy couldn’t walk across a room in heels like that without breaking her neck. Besides, they’re much too big for her.”

“Annamay might have borrowed them from one of the maids.”

“The maids are all Mexican, short in stature, with small hands and feet. These look as if they might belong to a tall black woman but there are no tall black women on the staff.”

Michael took the shoes out of the closet and examined them. They were almost brand-new, bearing only a few scratches on the soles. He put them back in the closet and closed the door.

“I never saw those shoes before,” Mr. Hyatt repeated. “But perhaps I merely overlooked them and they’ve been here all along.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you think we should clean the place up a bit before we go?”

“No. A few leaves and a little dirt won’t hurt anything and I think Howard should see the room as it is.”

“Why?”

“He might want to ask the police to go over it for signs of forced entry.”

The old man was silent a moment. “No, Michael. Howard has lost his faith in the police. And who can blame him? They’ve made no arrests and even the people detained for questioning have been let go within a few hours. Yet they must know, as Howard knows, and I know in my heart, that one of those people is guilty… Do you believe a person is innocent until proven guilty?”

“The law says so and I must abide by it.”

“That wasn’t my question. I didn’t use the word abide. You abide, certainly. But do you believe a person is innocent until proven guilty?”

“No.”

“You’re aware of dozens of guilty people walking around the streets, even sitting in your congregation. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Hyatt locked the door of the palace and returned the keyring to his pocket. Then he began walking back toward the main house, shaking his head with each step like a mechanical man, a toy soldier without a war.

Michael left him where he’d found him, in the redwood chair beside the koi pond. The multicolored koi were still swimming aimlessly round and round but the old black giant had gone back to his hideout in the deepest darkest water.