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I said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Bettina Thurgood. I drove down from Lompoc, hoping to divert any further trouble.”
“Who’s causing trouble?”
She hesitated. “Your cousin, Tasha.”
“What’s she have to do with it?”
“She’s been pla
“Sure. I received it last week.”
“She needs the old family photographs for a big display she’s making, but when she asked Cornelia for the album, it was nowhere to be found. Tasha got very snippy and now Cornelia blames me.”
“When you say Cornelia, I assume you’re talking about Grand.”
“Your grandmother, yes. Tasha thinks Cornelia’s just being stubborn, refusing to hand over the album because she’s so possessive about the family history. The two got into quite a tangle.”
“Why didn’t Aunt Susa
“Oh no, dear. Susa
“You did?”
She nodded. “Last April.”
“Why would you do that? You don’t know me from Adam.”
“Cornelia told me to. I argued until I was blue in the face, but she ordered me to send it to you and that’s what I did. Of course, now she’s forgotten the entire incident. She turned the house upside down in search of the album and when she couldn’t lay hands on it, she accused me of sneaking it to Tasha behind her back. That’s when I decided I’d had enough.”
I squinted at the woman, trying to figure out what she was talking about. I understood what she’d said, but I’d never met Grand and I had no idea why she’d send me the family album. “Are you sure about this?”
“Oh my, yes. You don’t have to take my word for it. I have the proof right here.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a green postcard that I recognized as a return-receipt request. She passed it to me and I glanced at the notations that indicated the date and time the parcel was sent and provided a line for the person who’d signed for it. I recognized Henry’s writing. He often signs on my behalf if I’m gone, as long as delivery isn’t restricted. There was also a note that the package had been mailed from Lompoc, all of which coincided with what I knew. Why would the woman lie? How would she know about me or the album if she hadn’t mailed it in the first place?
“Why would Grand order you to send it to me?”
“I have no idea. None of us dare question anything she does. Now that she’s forgotten, there’s no point in quizzing her.”
Well, that was a comforting thought. Sending the album was the only gesture my grandmother had ever made toward me. Now not only was she taking it back, but she’d erased the incident from her mind. Here I’d been feeling all warm and gooey about Aunt Susa
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Is there any way I might take advantage of your facilities?”
“You need a bathroom.”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you come in?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I can make you a cup of tea while you’re here,” I said.
“Really, dear. That would be lovely.”
Bettina followed me through the gate and around to the rear where I unlocked my front door and ushered her in. My studio’s perpetually tidy, so I wasn’t worried about disgracing myself with dirty dishes in the sink. I worried I was out of tea bags and my milk would be old enough to smell like spit-up. I suggested she use the downstairs bathroom to “freshen up,” which is old-people talk for pissing like a race-horse after a long drive.
Once the door closed behind her, I scampered into the kitchen to check on my supply of tea bags. As I opened the cupboard door, a little white moth flew out, which was either an evil omen or evidence of bugs. I opened the tea canister and discovered I had three tea bags left. A quick look in the refrigerator revealed that I was out of milk altogether, but I did have a lemon, the juice of which I’d intended to mix with baking soda to clean the inside of a plastic storage container that was dark with tomato stains. This was a tip from my Aunt Gin, who was famous for household remedies with little or no application to problems in the real world.
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, turned on the burner under it, and sliced the lemon. I got out cups and saucers, placing a tea bag and a paper napkin neatly beside each cup. When Bettina emerged we sat down and had tea together before returning to the subject at hand. By then I was reconciled to handing over the album, which was sitting on my desk. I had no real claim to it and from what she’d said, my returning it was as good as saving her life. That issue out of the way, I thought I might as well pump her for information.
I said, “What happens when you put the album back? Won’t Grand smell a rat?”
“I have that all worked out. I can tuck it under the bed or in the little trunk she keeps in the closet. I might even leave it someplace obvious and let everyone assume it was right there under her nose. There’s a short story about that.”
“ ‘The Purloined Letter.’ Edgar Allan Poe,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“I’m still stumped about why she sent it in the first place.”
Bettina made a gesture, waving the question aside. “She got a bug in her ear. When she comes up with one of her notions, you’d better do as you’re told. She hates to be thwarted and she refuses to explain. Once she issues an order, you’d better hop to it if you know what’s good for you. Not meaning to give offense, but she’s a hellion.”
“So I’ve heard. Why do you put up with her?”
She waved that question down as well. “I’ve kowtowed to her so long, I wouldn’t have the nerve to stand up to her now. For one thing, I live on the property and I’d never hear the end of it.”
“You’re her assistant?”
Bettina laughed. “Oh no. You couldn’t pay me to do a job like that. I help her out of gratitude.”
“For what?”
“Cornelia may be difficult, but she can be kindhearted and generous. She did me a great service many years ago.”
“Which was what?”
“I was abandoned as a child. I grew up in an orphanage. She and your grandfather took me in and raised me as their own. She fostered other children, too, but I was the first.”
“Good news for you. I’m an orphan myself and she didn’t take me in.”
Bettina’s smile faded and she looked at me with concern. “I hope you’ll forgive my saying so, dear, but you seem bitter.”
“No, no. I’m bitter by nature. I always sound like this.”
“Well, I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Not at all. Why don’t you tell me the story? I’d be fascinated.”
“There’s not much to it. From the ages of five to ten I lived in an institution, the Children’s Haven of Saint Jerome Emiliana. He was the patron saint of orphaned and abandoned little ones. My parents both died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Any orphanage creates a loose association of pseudo-brothers and -sisters, so I suppose I had a family of sorts. We were fed and we had shelter, but there was little love or affection and no real bond with others. As harsh as this sounds, the nuns were cold. They entered the convent, leaving their families behind, for who knows what reasons. The devout ones didn’t always make it. They became novitiates out of a passion for the church, but the life wasn’t as they imagined it. They were often miserable: home-sick and frightened. Passion doesn’t carry you far, because it’s transitory. The nuns who stayed, those who felt truly at home there, had little to give. Distance suited them.
“When your grandparents plucked me out of that environment they changed the course of my life. I don’t know what would have become of me if I’d remained in the institution until I was of age.”
“You’d have been marked for life like me,” I said.