Secondhand Spirits (22 page)

Once again, I had the new-for-me sensation of not wanting to be alone. This friendship thing was addictive.

“This is sort of out of the blue,” I said, my eyes sliding over to Maya, who was folding a pile of jewel-colored velvet scarves at my side, “but would you come with me to meet Frances's daughter?”

“Like a condolence call? That's thoughtful.”

“In part. But there's more to it than that. Delores Keener came by earlier today. Remember her?”

“The lawyer?”

I nodded. “She told me that after we left that night, Frances changed her will and left her entire estate to me.”

Maya cocked her head, frowned slightly, and gazed at me. “I thought that was the first time you met Mrs. Potts.”

“It was.”

“Why would she do that?”

“That's what I said. If she was going to leave it to someone so suddenly, why not to you, for instance?”

“Well, that part's easy. Because my family's from the 'hood.”

I stopped folding scarves and looked at her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Frances was pretty cool in lots of ways, but she was hung up on the color thing. I think the neighborhood changed around her so quickly that she had a hard time dealing with it. She got mugged once. And overall she's a little, you know, odd. I still liked her, though, for some reason. She reminded me of my Grammy.”

“Funny, she reminded me of mine, as well. How long have you known Frances?”

“You know my sister lives over near there, and my aunt. My mom grew up just a few blocks away as well, so I guess they've known about the family in the big house for a while.”

“The big house?”

“That's what they call it.”

We both worked on the scarves in silence for a few moments more.

“Some people say . . . that she was even stranger,” Maya continued. “Those guys who mugged her? They both wound up disappearing. She's not what you would call well liked. On the other hand, some kids played jokes, broke in there on Halloween—that place is so big someone could live in there and you'd never know it.” She shivered, her shoulders pulled up. “I never did understand why she stayed so long.”

I checked my watch. It was after two.

“I called her daughter and she invited me to come by,” I said. “I want to talk to her about the inheritance—I'm not going to accept it.”

“Sure, I'll go with you. I just have to see if I can get off work. It's my first day and all.”

“I think your boss will understand,” I said with a smile. “Though I hear tell she can be as mean as a skil letful of rattlesnakes.”

 

San Francisco's Pacific Heights neighborhood owes its name to soaring hills that offer residents views of Angel and Alcatraz islands, the Marin County villages of Sausalito and Tiburon, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the mouth of the bay opening onto the Pacific Ocean. Historic mansions and carefully detailed townhomes sat crowded in on narrow lots; small but formal well-tended gardens offered burbling fountains and European-style topiaries.

As I parallel-parked, an open-topped minivan tourist bus passed us, a guide on a megaphone pointing at houses and spewing unintelligible proclamations.

At my quizzical look, Maya explained. “This is one of the fanciest neighborhoods in the city. Danielle Steele's house is somewhere around here, and the Gettys', and one of our senators and a congresswoman live here, too.”

“Frances Potts's daughter must have done very well for herself.”

Maya nodded as we crossed the street to the address I had written down. “I doubt there's a house in sight worth less than several million dollars.”

The only other people on the street were construction workers and gardeners. Two small bulldozers were loudly excavating the hill behind a house that was sheathed in scaffolding. The alleys between the houses were a scant three feet across, so the equipment was accessing the backyard through the garage. Next door a woman in an apron came out with a bucket and mop in hand and started to scrub the driveway free of invisible dirt. A man in faded gray coveralls rolled garbage cans into the street, marring the neighborhood's otherwise pristine beauty.

Though Katherine Airey, née Katherine Potts, had grown up just on the other side of this compact city, she now lived worlds away from the creaky old home of her youth. Her house was either brand-new or had been renovated to within an inch of its life. As with most modernist buildings, it was constructed of steel, concrete, and glass. It put me in mind of a corporate headquarters.

The door sat right on the sidewalk beside the garage, with no stairs or stoop. Six abstract sculpted plates were the patterned door's only adornment. I stared at them for a moment, but noted nothing sinister. I rang the bell beside it.

The dog barked, his voice deep and full. Katherine and I had something in common already, I tried to tell myself. Still, a shared love for canines didn't quite make up for my inheriting her mother's estate. My stomach quailed at the idea of Katherine's reaction to such an unfair and, I was sure, unanticipated development. I was grateful to have Maya at my side, her calm demeanor steadying me. I was becoming a true convert to the buddy system.

After a few moments a man answered the door. He was tall and thickly muscled; his hair and eyes appeared jet-black. He was dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, but he had an air of self-possession that made me imagine that this wasn't the gardener answering the door.

“I'm here to see Katherine Airey.”

“You're Lily Ivory?” he asked in the heavily accented voice I remembered from the phone.

I nodded. “And this is my friend Maya Jackson.”

His eyes flickered over Maya, then back to me. I supposed I should have checked to see whether it was appropriate to bring a friend. On the other hand, Maya was wearing a skirt and T-shirt, and I was still in my vintage polka-dot wiggle dress. We were both on the small-to-average side. We might not make the most businesslike impression, but neither could I imagine this muscled man would see us as any kind of threat.

“Come on in,” he said with a nod.

He turned and led the way up a narrow stairway. The main living area was located on the second story. It had an open floor plan, what designers like to call a great room. Our feet sank into the thick, plush, cream-colored carpet. Silk throw pillows in muted tones of taupe, putty, and beige offered the only color in the room. The rest of the upholstery was white, as were the walls and ceiling. Glass floor-to-ceiling shelves lined one wall, showcasing stark black abstract ceramics. Not a book in sight.

The home itself had very few historic vibrations; in fact, the streamlined architecture and furniture inspired very little reaction in me, either way. But the entire front wall of the house was made of plate-glass windows, offering an unparalleled, unobstructed view of the water and the Golden Gate Bridge, and flooding the room with light.

Not exactly comfy, but undeniably impressive.

Our escort disappeared, but Maya inched behind me as a dog took his place, trotting up to check us out. He was a great black Lab, huge, his head like an anvil.
Katherine must be a brave woman to have a black Lab in a city home decorated primarily in white
, I thought to myself. Either that or a devoted housekeeping staff of twenty-five.

I put my hand out to the dog and he sniffed it, looking up into my face. Unlike many Labs I've known in my day, he had an intelligent gleam in his eye. He let me pet him for a brief moment before trotting over to his mistress, who was reclining on an ivory leather sofa.

Dressed in an immaculate white satin caftanlike gown, Katherine had blond, carefully streaked and styled hair. She had to be in her fifties, so I was sure she had some help from the salon; she had a well-preserved look about her. But what struck me most was her almost total lack of affect. Overuse of Botox, perhaps?

Without saying a word, Katherine gestured for us to take our seats in the matching love seat across a low glass-and-chrome coffee table.

“Hello, Katherine. I'm Lily Ivory, and this is Maya Jackson,” I said. “Maya knew your mother as well, and wanted to pay her respects.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” Maya said.

Katherine's light brown eyes looked me up and down before shifting over to assess Maya. Then she rose from the sofa and glided over to a small wet bar. Her movements were smooth, practiced. I had the oddest sensation that we had just stepped into a performance art piece. The only problem was, I didn't know what role Maya and I were supposed to be playing.

“Vodka tonic?” Katherine asked us over one satin-clad shoulder.

“No, no, thank you. I'm fine,” I said.

“Me neither, thank you,” said Maya.

We perched on the love seat and watched as Katherine placed ice cubes in a highball glass, poured it about half-full with premium vodka, and then added a splash of diet tonic water and a squeeze of lime. She took a generous pull on her concoction before turning back to us and walking toward the couch.

“So . . . I've been dying of anticipation,” Katherine said with an amused smile that did not reach her eyes. She arranged herself on the sofa, lying back and putting her feet up. The dog came to sit on the floor next to the couch, resting his great head on her ankles. “Do tell, Lily, darling. How did you manage to get Frances to leave everything to you?”

“I don't understand it, either. I barely knew your mother.”

“You act as though I care,” Katherine said with a dramatic flourish of her left hand, as though waving off my concern. “As you can see, I have no need of her money. That place is yours—enjoy. It's a house of horrors as far as I'm concerned.”

“A house of horrors?”

“The place is a rattrap. You saw it. It's in a crappy part of town, surrounded by crappy neighbors. You would do the world a service by burning the place down. I'm just glad I don't have to think about it.”

“But I don't want it. I plan to renounce the inheritance. It's not in great shape but it's still worth something. You have children; surely they could—”

“Leave them out of this,” she snapped.

“I just mean it rightfully belongs to y'all.”

“ ‘ Y'all'?” She smiled her tight smile again. “Where are you from?”

“Texas.”

“My mother was from New Orleans.” For the first time I noted a faraway look in her eyes, as though she were thinking of her loss.

“Yes, she told me.”

There was a long silence, only the tinkling of the ice cubes in Katherine's glass breaking the quiet. I noticed the drink was nearly gone already.

“I understand you were the one who found your mother's body.”

She nodded.

“Could you . . . I don't suppose you could tell me anything about the scene?”

“The scene? You mean the fact that she was lying in a pool of her own vomit, on the floor, in a pentagram drawn of blood?”

I opened my mouth, but found it hard to know what to say. I glanced over at Maya, who looked ashen.

“I'd rather not think about it,” Katherine added, smiling again.

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your sister's disappearance?”

“What does that have to do with anything? That was a lifetime ago.”

“I know that. But there might be some connection between—”

“My sister,” she hissed, her voice dripping with loathing. “Everything has been about her, and her disappearance, since I was a kid.”

Katherine leaned over to put her empty glass on the coffee table. As she moved I noticed a medallion fall out of the neck of the caftan. She grabbed it, slipping it back under the cloth before I could see what it was, exactly—a protective amulet?

Our eyes held for a moment.

“My sister wasn't the only one, you know,” Katherine said. “There was nothing special about Elisabeth's disappearance. It was a tragedy, just like the tragedies that befall people every day all over the world. There are some things we should just accept and move on.”

“I understand it was a very long time ago. But something's happened that might, possibly, be connected to that.”

The dog sat up and started a rumble deep and low in his broad chest. I imagined he was picking up on his human's stress. He gazed across the room at me. Again, I got the sense that he was smarter than most of his breed.

“I don't want to talk about Elisabeth's disappearance. If you don't want the house, give it away,” said Katherine as she rose and looked out the huge pane of glass to the street below. “I don't care about any of it.”

“What about the pictures, the personal items?” Maya asked. “I was collecting some stories—”

“Especially those. My mother and I did not have a particularly close relationship, as you apparently are unaware.” She studied her French-manicured nails for a moment before continuing. “Do you know that she has never, not once, acknowledged her grandchildren? I have a boy and a girl, both teenagers, and neither has ever even met their grandmother. She has plenty of time for the neighborhood children, none for them. She never wanted any of us in her house. So don't expect me to mourn for her, or for some long-dead sister.”

“I don't—”

“You know what my mother did after my sister disappeared? She couldn't move on, couldn't deal with it, so essentially she abandoned me. Went back to her precious New Orleans for months at a time. My father had a fit.”

“It wasn't a happy marriage, then?”

She looked at me in disbelief and let out a scoffing breath. “No, not precisely.”