Davey. Husband, lover, brother, friend? There was nothing to give him a hint — to Davey’s identity or to the reason why she’d kept the watch.
Same with the panda bear. It looked old: hers, from her childhood? Or had it belonged to a child of her own? He remembered the damaged photograph Del Carlo had told him about, that she’d taken into the bathtub with her for the last few minutes of her life. Did a child have something to do with her suicide — the loss of one, maybe? A little boy named Davey? Davey’s watch, Davey’s panda?
The depression was heavier in him now. He told himself to put everything away, get the hell out of here; the toy bear’s one remaining eye seemed to be staring at him, for God’s sake. Instead, compulsively, he unfolded the San Francisco map to see if there was anything written or marked on it (there wasn’t), even poked inside the box of saltines before he dragged over the half dozen paperbacks.
One of the books was poetry — A Treasury of American Verse. Three were thick historical romances, all set in the South before or during the Civil War. The fifth: a Western novel with a cover even more lurid than those on the romances. The sixth: a nonfiction self-help book called Coping with Pain and Grief. Odd assortment. But the last might be significant, he thought. Grief and loneliness went hand in hand, especially if a child was involved. So did grief and suicide.
Messenger thumbed through the self-help volume. No dog-eared pages, no underlining, no personal annotations; and nothing tucked in among the pages. He riffled through each of the other five books, not expecting to find anything in them, either. But on the last page of the verse treasury, something caught his eye — stamped words in faded red ink.
Beulah Public Library.
Beulah. A town, or possibly a county. But in either case not in California; he’d never heard of the name before.
He went through the other books again. None bore a similar stamp. The one didn’t have to have any direct connection to Ms. Lonesome then. Books travel in different ways, sometimes go through many hands. And this edition had been published in 1977, a lot of years ago. She might have picked it up anywhere, some place far away from Beulah, wherever Beulah was.
He wondered if Del Carlo had noticed the stamp. Even if he had, chances were he’d had similar thoughts and dismissed it. Worth discussing with him? Worth stopping first at the main library, to see if he could locate Beulah—?
No, he thought. Dammit, no.
Thousands of towns spread across the U.S., some so tiny they weren’t even on most maps; if Beulah was one of the little ones, it could take days of research. And for all he knew, more than one Beulah existed — four, five, or six of them. And even if he found just one, what then? He didn’t have the resources to follow up on such a slender lead. Del Carlo did, but like all big-city cops, he was overworked. He wouldn’t care enough to waste any more time or public funds on a simple suicide case. You couldn’t blame him for not caring enough.
The whole idea was an exercise in futility. Just as paying forty dollars for a look at these pitiful memento mori had been.
Enough, Messenger. The obsession ends here, tonight. Ms. Lonesome is dead and you’re alive — get a grip before it’s too late and you really do have a breakdown, before you wind up existing in a little vacuum of despair.
Quickly he scooped the books and bear and watch and the rest of her things into the cartons and cheap suitcases. Then he stood, turned away.
But he didn’t leave just then. Not for another minute or so.
Not until, in spite of himself, he’d turned back to the cartons and found the copy of A Treasury of American Verse and hidden it inside his coat pocket.
4
The red-haired woman’s name was Molene. Molene Davis. He asked her about it after she introduced herself, to make sure he’d heard her correctly, and she spelled it for him. No, it had nothing to do with the town of Illinois, which was spelled differently anyway. Her father had been a poet, she said. As if that explained it.
He’d noticed her shortly after his arrival with the Engstroms. Jeanne’s brother, a bearded bear of a man who was high on either ego gratification or some chemical substance, had whisked her and Phil away, leaving Messenger to fend for himself. There were sixty or seventy people already in the cavernous, paint-spattered North Beach loft, and more arriving every minute; the crush of people, the too loud voices and too hearty laughter, made him edgy — would eventually, if he stayed too long, make him claustrophobic. Crowded rooms always had that effect on him. Not enough space, not enough room to breathe.
But he was here to have a good time. Meet people — meet a live woman who interested him, if he was lucky. And from a distance the redhead had struck him as interesting. Tall, as tall as he, and he was nearly six feet. Very thin, almost hipless, but lithe in her movements, sinuous, as if she might be double-jointed. His age, or maybe two or three years older. Dressed in black jeans and a black tunic top, the red hair tumbling in tight curls halfway down her spine. Long, narrow face and big, dark, restless eyes. He watched her for five minutes or so as she got herself a glass of wine, nibbled at canapés. When he was satisfied that she was alone he forced aside his natural reticence and approached her.
He half expected to be blown off, but she surprised him. Quick smile, quick appraisal, quick connection. Up close, her eyes struck him as shoe-button — like the one eye on Ms. Lonesome’s toy panda. No, he thought immediately, not like that at all. Hers were real eyes: bright, intelligent. Alive. Yes, and interested in return.
“I’m an artist,” she said. “I create mobiles. Mobiles by Molene. Alliterative, don’t you think? I work mainly in the fourth dimension — explore the fourth dimension, you might say. You know what I mean? Not exactly? Well, there’s the dimension of length — that’s one. The dimension of breadth is the second. Depth is the third. Well, what I do in my mobiles is to geometrically extend the lines in each of those three dimensions to create a fourth, to artistically and visually enter the fourth dimension...”
She enjoyed the sound of her own voice. But that was all right. What she said was engaging enough, if not wholly explicable, and she talked with a great deal of energy and intensity. Besides, her monologues saved him from having to think up words to fill the usual conversational lulls that develop between strangers. He was poor at the game of small talk. But if there was one social amenity he was good at, it was listening attentively.
Still, she was not one of those individuals who view others as little more than sounding boards. Nor was Molene Davis the only topic of fascination for her. “Tell me about Jim Messenger,” she said before long. And when he did, briefly, she didn’t seem to consider being a CPA a dull and boring profession, as so many people did. “You sound like a very stable guy, Jim,” she said.
“I like to think I am.”
“Personally as well as professionally?”
“Yes. I’m pretty conventional.”
“Not married, are you?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“Once, in college. It didn’t last long.”
“Neither did mine. I was married too young, too.”
“Sins of our youth, I guess.”
“Brian and I didn’t have any kids. I didn’t think I wanted any, then or ever. Now... well, I’m not so sure. I can hear my biological clock ticking.”
“Not in this crowd, you can’t.”
Molene laughed. “How about you, Jim? Any kids?”
“No.”
“Regret it?”
“Once in a while. Not very often, I have to admit.”