The Devil's Interval (23 page)

“Honey, go turn that down a minute,” her husband told her. “We're practicing for our tango class,” he explained. “Competition coming up.”

Although the Hothans wanted to be helpful, especially when Calvin revealed that his great-grandmother was from Savannah, it turned out they had very little information to offer. “Oh, we read about the death of that woman in the paper when it happened,” said Mrs. Hothan. “Remember, honey? It was so sad. She seemed like a nice person. Doing charity things and what have you.”

“But you never met the grandparents?” I asked.

Mr. Hothan shook his head. “It was a probate sale. The Anderstatters were long gone.”

“Excuse me,” said Calvin. “Anybody on the block who's lived here a long time? Someone who might have known Mrs. Plummer's grandparents?”

“The Hawks, three doors down, this side of the street,” offered
Mrs. Hothan. “They've lived in that house since they were married, right after World War II. Of course, it's just Mrs. Hawk now. Mr. Hawk died several years ago. But they might have known Mrs. Plummer's people.”

“Think she'll talk to us?” asked Calvin.

“I'll call ahead,” said Mrs. Hothan, “tell her you're not Jehovah's Witnesses or serial killers.” She looked us up and down. “You're not, are you?”

We both tried to look innocent and upstanding, and I spoke quickly before Calvin could make a wisecrack and botch our chances.

“We're happy to show you identification,” I said. I dug in my briefcase and pulled out an issue of
Small Town
. I riffled the first few pages and opened it to the Editors' Note. A blissfully un-soccer-mom photo of me graced the page.

“See, there I am,” I said.

“And she looks that good because I took the shot,” said Calvin. “Turn it sideways, you'll see my credit next to the photo.”

Mrs. Hothan laughed, “Okay, okay, I believe you. Give me a few minutes and I'll call Mrs. Hawk right now.”

With the power of neighborhood watch on our side, we were soon sitting on Mrs. Hawk's chintz sofa and chatting, sipping cups of cherry-licorice tea.

“My own blend, dear,” she said to Calvin. “It will keep you regular.” She had to be close to eighty, but sat ramrod straight and regarded us with mild curiosity.

“This seems very late to be doing an obituary on that poor woman. She died two years ago,” she said.

“We're not doing an obituary,” I said. “The man who was accused of murdering her was convicted and is now on Death Row. So, since his case is on appeal, we're doing a story in the magazine on who she really was.”

Mrs. Hawk narrowed her eyes. “I don't believe in speaking ill of the dead.”

“In all candor,” I said, “we're turning up much more evidence
of what a good person Grace was.”

“I thought she was murdered by her paramour. That's the man you were talking about, the one on Death Row, isn't it?” asked Mrs. Hawk.

Hard to believe that con artists went after the elderly, I thought. Not if they were all as alert and skeptical as Mrs. Hawk.

“Yes, that's Travis Gifford,” I said. “And it turns out there's some question about whether he did—or didn't—commit the murder. For our story on Grace, though, we're mostly trying to flesh out who she was. As a human being, not just a murder victim.”

“I didn't know her very well after she was grown,” said Mrs. Hawk, relaxing slightly. A picture of Mrs. Hawk walking around a room somewhere with a book on her head flashed in my brain. Maybe that's where her great posture came from. “But she was a lovely little girl and young woman,” she continued. “Her grandparents adored her, without indulging her, if you know what I mean. And she had been so shy and frightened when she came to live with them. Horrible, horrible start to that child's life.”

Both Calvin and I sat up a little straighter ourselves. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, her father died in a motorcycle accident when she was young, and her mother…” She shook her head. “Just awful.”

I could feel Calvin fidgeting, wanting to ask questions.

“Calvin,” I said. “Why don't you shoot some photos of the neighborhood, while the light is so good?” Calvin started to protest, and I gave him a wan smile, packed with as much apology and pleading as I could manage.

Mrs. Hawk leaned forward, and picked up her teacup.

“She's right, dear,” she said to Calvin. “We need a moment of girl talk.”

I sat quietly as Calvin shouldered his bag, and huffed his way outside. I knew I'd have to grovel once we were in the car, but I could feel Mrs. Hawk wanting to tell her story, and somehow not wanting to tell it to two of us.

She put her cup down, folded her hands in her lap, and
began. “I still remember the day Grace came to live with the Anderstatters. It was the Saturday before Easter, and I was putting out spring annuals in the front border, and Jakob and Petra drove up in their old station wagon. Petra had to coax Grace out of the backseat. I stood up to go say hello. I'd met the little girl before. Her mother often left her with Jakob and Petra. But this time, she burst into tears when she saw me, and buried her face in Petra's skirt. Everyone seemed very upset, so I just made some excuse and went back to my garden.”

I waited. “Later that day, Petra came to see me and apologized for the little girl's behavior. She sat down at my kitchen table, and her entire body was shivering, even though it was a beautiful, warm spring day. So, I made her some tea, and then she told me this terrible, terrible story.” She took a deep breath. “I have no idea why I'm telling you, but it's haunted me, ever since I read that Grace had been murdered.”

“I'm grateful to you for confiding in me,” I offered gently.

She reached out and clutched my arm. “This is not a story for your magazine,” she said. “You have to give me your word of honor.”

I reached over and covered her hand with mine. “You have that,” I said, once again conscious I had not one single get-the-story-at-whatever-price instinct I thought a real reporter needed.

On that Saturday, when their invitations to come for Easter dinner had gone unanswered for several days, Petra and Jakob had gone to the studio apartment where Grace and her mother lived. When they got there, no one answered the door, though they could hear faint sounds of the television coming from inside the apartment. The manager said she had not seen Grace's mother for a few days. “What the manager really said was that he had not seen ‘that whore' for several days,” Mrs. Hawk corrected herself. “You have to understand that Petra and Jakob were devout Lutherans. Their entire world revolved around the church, their Norwegian folk dance club, and Jakob's friends at Sons of Norway. It caused Petra physical pain, I could see it, to say that word.” She repeated
it, “
Whore
. To hear that word describe your daughter. Well, you can imagine.”

I could not imagine. But I gave the tiniest of nods, just to keep her talking.

“The manager let her into the apartment, and that's where they found the little girl. Tied to a heavy table in the room, by a dog leash. There was a box of cereal on the floor, but it was empty. She was asleep, lying in her own…”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.

“Petra cleaned the little girl up, took her to their doctor who said she was in remarkably good shape, just terribly dehydrated. As far as they were able to piece the story together, when they ran out of money—and drugs—her mother would leave Grace—not to do the secretarial job she told her parents she had, but to sell herself.”

“And her parents didn't know?”

Mrs. Hawk gave a short laugh, “I know I must look very unworldly to you, my dear, a silly old widow drinking tea on the sofa. But I was a sophisticate, compared to Petra and Jakob. They knew very little beyond their circle of hardworking, Norwegian immigrants and churchgoers. Grace's mother was able to tell them any story she wanted to—and they believed her.”

“Or wanted to believe her,” I said. “And what happened to her? To Grace's mother.”

“She died,” said Mrs. Hawk. “The police found her a few weeks later. She'd been beaten and discarded, like some heap of trash, in an alley in West Oakland. She died there.”

I was silent for a moment. “How did Petra and Jakob ever recover from that?” I finally asked.

She shrugged. “They had no choice. They were awarded custody of Grace, and in the beginning, she was so damaged, she took all their time and attention.”

“She eventually recovered?”

“I think so. She turned into a funny, happy little girl, to all intents and purposes. Very bright in school. Went to Mills College. But I don't think those experiences ever left her. She had
night terrors for years. And she would…” Mrs. Hawk broke off, hesitating.

“She would?” I prompted her gently.

“She would occasionally tie herself to something. She'd take a piece of ribbon from a gift, or a jump rope, and she'd tie it around her wrist and tie the other end around the leg of a table or chair.”

“How awful!”

“That's what I thought, and of course, it would upset Jakob and Petra terribly. But the doctor told them it might give her some comfort. She'd often curl up on the floor and go to sleep. Eventually she grew out of it.”

Suddenly visions of the police photos of the murder scene flooded over me. Was it some terrible irony that Grace ended her life tied up? I had assumed the bondage was some kind of sex play Travis had suggested. But perhaps it had been Grace.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked Mrs. Hawk. “You're very flushed.”

“I'm all right,” I said. “Just thinking about lots of things.”

She tightened her lips. “I shouldn't have told you that story,” she said. “But I've thought about it so often. Petra and Jakob did all they could for that girl, and I thought she was going to grow up and have a wonderful, happy life. She certainly deserved that. And then, to read about her murder! I'm only glad that her grandparents were already gone, and didn't have to know. They had been so proud of her.”

There was a sharp rap on the door and we both jumped a bit.

Calvin stuck his head in the entryway. “If you ladies are done with your girl talk,” he said, “I've finished shooting. And Maggie, don't I need to drop you off somewhere?”

I shook myself back into the present, away from the vivid pictures Mrs. Hawk had painted. “Just one more thing,” I said. “Did you ever tell any of this story to the police?”

“No,” she said. “I would have called if it had seemed relevant in any way. But the police seemed to have found her killer, and I couldn't imagine how something that happened all those years ago
would have to do with her death.”

She stood to walk me to the door. She took Calvin's hand in both of hers, and I could see his hurt feelings start to dissolve. “You must forgive me, young man,” she said. “I felt too uncomfortable to tell my story in front of both of you. But your colleague is free to share what I've told her, as long as you honor the same promise she made me, not to use any of this in your publication.”

Calvin glanced at me. “Scout's honor,” he said. “If Maggie's agreed, I'll agree.”

Back in the car, as we headed up to Berkeley to Dr. Mephisto's office, I filled Calvin in. “Oh, Christ,” he said when I'd finished. “What a fucking tragedy.”

“My sentiments, exactly,” I said.

“No wonder Grace wanted to help those women at A Mom's Place,” said Calvin. “She knew what kind of hell it could be if mothers got desperate to feed their kids—and their drug habits.” He shook his head, “And boy, that tying-up story was pretty freaky, huh? Think it had anything to do with how old Grace and Trav liked to get it on?”

“I don't know,” I said, “but the thought crossed my mind—and makes me think it came from Grace, not Travis.”

“Hey, ask your shrink about it,” suggested Calvin. “You're already paying for that fifty-minute hour anyway, and haven't you and Mikey worked out all those kinks by now? I mean, either he forgives you or he doesn't. How complicated can it be?”

“Gee, Calvin,” I countered. “So great to get marital advice from someone with your depth of expertise. Turn here, by the way, it's the fourth driveway from the corner.”

“My pleasure,” he said, swinging into the driveway. He peered up at the lime-green cupola. “Looks like whoever art-directed “It's a Small World” at Disneyland worked on this place, too. Hey, is it kinda like Therapy Disneyland? Are there rides and things?”

“Oh, there are wild rides, all right,” I said. “Just not the kind you're thinking about.”

Interval No. 4 with Dr. Mephisto

D
r. Mephisto was a vision in lemon-yellow and orange, down to her adorable, flower-trimmed, kitten-heeled shoes. I willed her to slip them off so I could peek inside and see if they were—as they appeared to be—whimsical Jimmy Choos. What did it say about my therapist if she could afford shoes I couldn't, I mused. Probably that she was more successful as a therapist than I was as an editor. Or didn't have kids. Or had a rich spouse? Does everyone do this, I wondered, speculate about their therapist's personal life? Search head to kitten-heel for clues?