Страница 52 из 90
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tasha said.
“No big loss. She wus crabby to the end. I’m getting wine now. You sit and I’m bringing right beck.”
“Looks like you’ve made a conquest,” I remarked, as Rosie moved away. I took a seat again on my side of the booth and Tasha slid in across the table from me.
“She’s adorable,” she said.
“That’s one word for it.”
“She speaks English well. How long has she been in this country?”
“Sixty years, give or take.”
We confined ourselves to chitchat until Rosie returned with the wine in a dusty bottle with an actual cork. For me, she’s quick with a screw-top jug and wine so close to vinegar you could use it to clean windows. The wine she poured for Tasha was like drinking elixir from an orchard-soft, subtle, with a fragrance of apples, pears, and honey.
We let Rosie order for us, which she’d have done anyway. It was better to give her permission to be bossy and thus retain a modicum of control. She was otherwise a food dominatrix. The carp with sour cream turned out to be lovely. Maybe I’d have di
As is the case every time we meet, I couldn’t help making a secret study of her. She looks not the way I look, but the way I think I look when I’m at my best. We have the same square teeth, the same nose, though mine has suffered a few indignities where hers has survived in its original state. My eyes are hazel where hers are dark brown, but the shape is the same. I could tell she plucked her eyebrows, and I envied her both the skill and the courage. Sometimes I try, usually closing my eyes while doing so in hopes it won’t hurt. Inevitably, I pull out the wrong hair, which makes my brows look patchy and incomplete. Then I have to use eyebrow pencil to fill in the blanks, which gives me the fierce demeanor of a Kabuki.
When we’d finished our meal and Rosie had removed the plates, Tasha reached into her tote and pulled out a bulky manila envelope. I expected her to hand it across the table to me, but she held it against her chest.
“I’ve been sorting and cataloging Grandfather Kinsey’s papers for the historical preservation group that raised the money to move the house. Grand asked me to take charge because his files are so voluminous and so disorganized. She’s never had the patience to tackle them herself. She wants me to put together a chronological account of the house-when it was built, the architect, the plans, and that sort of thing. Grandfather Kinsey kept everything-and I mean everything-so with a bit of digging I’ve been able to come up with summaries of his meetings with the builder, various construction proposals, invoices and receipts documenting the project from begi
“Well, you’ve got my attention.”
“I hope so,” she said.
I held out my hand and took the envelope. While she watched, I unfolded the clasp, opened the package, and peered in. There were three or four sheets of letterhead stationery and a series of letters bound together with two thick rubber bands, old ones apparently, because both snapped when I tried removing them. I did a finger walk through the envelopes, some of which were addressed to me and some to Virginia Kinsey, my Aunt Gin. The postmarks were assorted dates in the latter half of 1955-the same year my parents were killed-starting in June and extending through the next two calendar years. One had been opened but the rest were still sealed. Across the front of each envelope there was either an emphatic “RETURN TO SENDER!! ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN!” in Aunt Gin’s unmistakable bold printing or equally forceful messages delivered by way of post office rubber stamps with a purple-ink finger pointing accusingly at the return address. You’d think a federal crime had been committed from the savagery expressed.
I knew what I was looking at. In one of my last conversations with Tasha, we’d argued this very point. Her mother, my Aunt Susa
I found myself without a word to say. I might have mustered a weak protest, but what would have been the point? I’d been wrong in my assumption. Grand wasn’t to be faulted for neglect. Aunt Gin had refused her letters, thus cutting off communication. I cleared my throat. “I appreciate this.”
“Go ahead and open them if you want.”
“I’d prefer to be alone if it’s all the same to you. Unless the letters turn out to be too personal or too painful, I’ll be happy to make copies and get them back to you.”
“Take your time.”
“Will you tell Grand you found them?”
“I don’t know yet. If you return the letters, I won’t have much choice. The minute Grand sees the seals are broken, she’ll know the secret’s out, whatever it may be.”
“And if I don’t return them?”
“Let’s put it this way, she’s never going to ask. She might not even realize they were sitting in the files. Actually, there’s something else that may prove more important.”
I stared, unable to imagine what could trump the ace she’d laid on the table the moment before.
She took the envelope from my hand and pulled out a thin sheaf of letterhead stationery. She offered me the pages, which I read through rapidly. They were invoices submitted to Grand by a private investigator named Hale Brandenberg, with an office address in Lompoc. The information was sketchy-no reports attached-but a cursory look at his charges suggested he’d been in her employ for more than a year. He’d billed her four thousand bucks and change, not a trivial amount given his rates, which were low by today’s standards.
Tasha said, “Grandfather Kinsey was still living when this was done, so she either browbeat him into paying for it or she did this behind his back. In any case, the work was done.”
“I don’t see any reference to what he was hired to do.”
“It’s possible the invoices became separated from his reports or maybe the reports were destroyed. Grand hates to lose and she hates being thwarted, so nothing of this was leaked to the rest of us. I believed Mom when she said Grand tried to make contact, but I was startled to see the proof. I have trouble believing she’d go so far as to hire an investigator, but there it is. I’m guessing when all those letters came flying back, Hale Brandenberg was the next logical step.”
I said, “Well.”
I thought she was on the verge of taking my hand, but she made no move. Instead, she watched me with a sympathy I chose to ignore. She said, “Look. I know this is hard for you. Once you’ve read the letters, you might end up feeling the same alienation, but at least you’ll know more than you do now. If you’re like me, you’d rather deal with hard facts than speculation and fantasy.”
“That’s been my claim,” I said, with a pained smile.