Then I called home again. Thankfully, the family now had its stomach full and Jeff was available for talking — listening, rather, which he does poorly, being an ad man who always has to have the triple word. “She isn’t home?” he said. “Well, like I told you, she probably took off on one of those trips she’s been talking about... You didn’t look under the beds? Oh, for Pete’s sake... No, I will not drive down there to help you look under the beds. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow... Of course the police can’t do anything. If you suspect foul play, get some evidence and then they can help you. But my advice is, go turn off those damned lights and come on home and wait for word from your mother...” So I sneered over the phone and hung up.
After a restless night on a motel mattress made for people who need to sleep on boards, I had a sketchy breakfast and drove on up to Mama’s. I peered through the windows as I walked around the house, and by cupping my hands, I could see the glow of electric bulbs through the faint light of day in shadowed rooms.
The street was quiet except for a boy cycling toward the high school two blocks away. I waited until he passed before I got out my credit card.
I switched off the hall light and left the door open. The Santa Anas had blown themselves out, so it should stay that way. I investigated the rooms, turning off lights, opening draperies wide, looking under beds, into closets and cabinets, searching everywhere except the basement, and I suddenly thought of that.
It was a half-basement, built under the part of the house on the slope, with nothing down there but a furnace, some stored boxes, a couple of trunks, and several pieces of luggage. The basement stairs led down from the kitchen, the door secured by a slide bolt. I switched on the light at the top of the stairs and leaned over the wooden banister. The low-wattage naked bulb lit the basement dimly, leaving the corners in shadow. I put one foot on the second step, then backed up hurriedly, slammed the door shut and shot the bolt. There was no body down there, no shadow large enough in that small space to hide a body unless, of course, one were to consider the dark pocket under the stairway — but I would not consider it, not for a minute!
I went back to the front hall to make sure the door was still open with the sun streaming in. It was then that I saw the shadow of the pedestal, a very faint shadow against the delicate scenic wallpaper — a blurred outline seen from only a certain position to mark where the marble pedestal and bronze bust had stood for so many years. I turned icy in the warm sun of the hall and wrapped my arms around myself. This house had always seemed cold even in the smothering atmosphere of too many things — too, too many things — and now I knew what was wrong, what was different. Some of those things were missing.
I went through the house again, this time trying to remember what my eyes had been accustomed to all my life, to particularize objects that should be there and now were not: a vase, an urn, a figurine, of Wedgwood, cloisonné, Dresden; jewel boxes, cut crystal... I don’t know that Mama truly loved them, but they were her backdrop, a part of her image, tinkling-voiced conversational pieces, prized for their rarity, for they were her vanity.
She would not, willingly, be separated from them.
I ran, then, for the front hall and the telephone. I yanked open the drawer of the stand. The telephone directory lay there, open to the yellow pages, headed on the left AMBULANCE-ANSWERING, on the right ANSWERING-ANTIQUES. I held the place with the flat of my hand while I searched for Mr. Merrick’s office number.
I dialed and asked him questions. Did Mama need money? Had she asked him for extra funds?
The questions caused him to rise defensively belligerent in justification of his position as trustee and executor, explaining the duties of his office in wordy righteous condescension. Mama, according to the terms of the will and the trust account, had been allotted a generous monthly income. Should she desire additional funds, she needed only to apprise Mr. Merrick of her wants and the amount, a stipulation set down for the purpose of protection — her protection. Mr. Merrick’s already high voice rose with the outrage of a man whose veracity and honor have been viciously attacked.
I finally said, “Oh, hell,” and hung up.
Then I returned the directory to its original position, open at the yellow pages, and ran my finger down the three antique dealers listed under antiques. The sun had reached its eleven o’clock position, so that it shone through the open front door directly onto a thumbnail crease under the Main Street address of Truesdell’s Treasure Trove. I closed the directory, shut the front door, and climbed the steps to my car up above.
The Treasure Trove turned out to be an elegantly unobtrusive slot between a cutesy gift shop and a brazen furniture store. I found a parking place, walked inside, and was stopped dead by the bronze bust atop the marble pedestal so familiar to me in these very unfamiliar surroundings. The proprietor (probably Mr. Truesdell) advanced upon me, rubbing his hands together, murmuring greetings. I waved him off as I wandered through his trove of treasures, noting here and there remembered objects. Then I turned and asked how he had acquired my mother’s belongings.
After a first shocked silence, followed by guarded argument, Mr. Truesdell blinked his eyes and swallowed his alarm as he told me about the man of just two days ago who brought to his shop a car full of art objects. “Young, not yet thirty, about five feet ten, slim. Can’t remember whether he was cleanshaven or not. Curly brown hair, sideburns. Well-dressed. Name? Oh, no, I didn’t get his name. It was a cash transaction.” He looked at me with despair as he added, “His knowledge of antiques seemed to be fairly extensive, so why would I think he didn’t belong to those treasures he brought, especially since he brought them in that big old Cadillac?”
Why indeed, I thought, remembering Mama’s ever-constant tinkling-voiced descriptions over the objects that formed her backdrop and made her image — remembering too, with startling abruptness, the big old Cadillac she had set out to learn to drive...
I was out of the shop and into my own car, edging my way from the parking spot, knowing I should seek a telephone directory to look up the driving schools in town, when I saw the sign, ADULT DRIVER EDUCATION, and swung into the parking lot.
It was noon, and the girl in the office was eating her lunch from a brown paper bag. She stuffed the bag into a bottom drawer and rose when I asked my questions about Mama.
“What was that name again?” she asked. “Mrs. Mossby? Mrs. Veronica Mossby?” and drew out an account book from under the counter. “Yes,” she said, “she did take our driving course,” and looked up. “But she didn’t finish. Many of them don’t. You see, most of the students we get are older women just learning to drive, like widows and stuff who’ve always had someone to get them around and now they don’t.”
I nodded.
“Well, they cop out. They decide they’ll use their legs after all — take taxis...”
“Or get someone else to do their driving for them,” I said.
“Right.”
“Who taught her?” I asked.
The girl’s finger traveled. “That was the new man. His name was Ralph...”
My heart began to beat hard and fast against my chest.
“Ralph Overholst. He walked in here with some good references from up north at a time Mr. Barnard needed another instructor, so he put him on. He wasn’t here long, couple of months, then he just didn’t show one day...”
“And that was?”
“About a month ago. No, month and a half. Same time Mrs. Mossby phoned and said she’d decided not to take more lessons...” She looked up, startled. “Hey, is that why...”