‘Tea would be most acceptable if you have some, but I didn’t come to put you to any trouble.’
She shook her head. ‘You won’t do that, I’m sure. Mr. Hardaker can brew a pot of tea while you and I talk. You don’t mind, Charles? I shall be quite all right with this young man. You know where the canisters are? You’ll find the Earl Grey in the willow-pattern one.’ Practically before Hardaker had left on his errand, she leaned toward Dryden and said, ‘Don’t mind Charles. He’s what we used to call a dude when I was younger, but he has my interests at heart. Lawyers will ask for pieces of paper all the time. I know from what you just told me that you’re not the FBI or anything. Darn it, they couldn’t possibly know all the facts you’ve just given me.’
‘Would they want to?’ said Dryden, mystified.
‘I hope not.’ She looked toward the kitchen door and said in a whisper, ‘You see, the adoption was a little irregular, and we’ve had some scares since.’ In her normal voice, she continued, ‘What exactly do you want to know, Mr. Hofmann?’
‘First, can you confirm that we’re both talking about the same child?’
‘No question of it,’ said Mrs. Van Horn.
‘In that case, could you tell me how long she was with you, and what happened to her?’
‘I don’t have any records here, Mr. Hofmann, but I remember that it was the summer of 1964 when she came to us at Tamarisk. We gave her a birthday party a few days after she arrived, but I don’t believe it made much impression. She was still in a state of shock. By Christmas, she had got over it enough to take a much livelier part in our celebrations.’
‘And after that?’
Mrs. Van Horn’s brow puckered. ‘The adoption. A couple had visited the Lodge sometime in the fall and asked questions about Dean. They must have gotten her story from someplace. I don’t know where, but they were clever people, both doctors. I liked the woman. She seemed genuinely warm toward Dean. You can tell.’
‘And the man?’
The old lady screwed her face into an expression of dislike. ‘He was more interested in the child’s bones than her personality. I’ll never forget it. I picked her up in my arms and he started touching her legs, not unpleasantly, I mean, but holding them in his hand like he was picking out a grapefruit in a supermarket. She didn’t care for that one bit. Kids know, even at three years old. Damn. Charles is pouring. D’you hear? This will be the weakest cup of tea you’ve had in your life.’
It looked as if it might be Dryden’s last chance for information off the record. ‘Was there something odd about the adoption?’
Mrs. Van Horn hesitated. ‘I think it was all smoothed over with the lawyers, but the way it was arranged was unlike any other adoption in my experience. People can’t go around homes picking out children as if they were unclaimed strays, can they? It wouldn’t do, Mr. Hofmann. But these folk were doctors, as I mentioned, and somehow they squared it with the welfare authorities.’ Her eyes darted toward the kitchen again. ‘They sent us a garden swing two weeks after the papers were signed. If it had been money, I’d have sent it back, but what can you do about a darned swing? The kids saw it right away, and I was sunk.’
Hardaker returned, tray in hand.
‘Oh, Charles!’ cried Mrs. Van Horn. ‘You’ve slopped it in the saucers. Mr. Hofmann is from England. They know about tea. Put it on the table here and make yourself inconspicuous. We’re having such an interesting conversation. Sugar, Mr. Hofmann?’ Before Dryden could say he didn’t take it, she clicked her tongue and said, ‘Charles, you forgot the sugar. It’s in the pantry. Second shelf, I’m almost certain.’ When Hardaker had gone through, she smiled and murmured, ‘Top shelf, but no matter. Where were we?’
‘The adoption,’ said Dryden. ‘Did you hear any more about Dean after that?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs. Van Horn with a sigh. ‘They were Bakersfield people, you see. That’s eighty miles north of here.’
‘You don’t recall what brought them to Ventura, then?’
‘Oh, the man had some story. What was it now? I believe he claimed to have some interest in the family. A survey, would it be? Yes, he had been working on a survey into the way people grow, of all the darned silly things, and he’d managed to trace Dean from her grandparents. They would be your aunt and uncle, I guess.’
Dryden nodded.
‘That was what he claimed,’ said Mrs. Van Horn skeptically. ‘I’ll say this for his story: he was looking the child over like she was a laboratory specimen. You know, I had nightmares about that adoption for years after. And I never liked that swing. We got rid of the thing the fall before last. Darn it, here comes Charles.’
‘I brought the biscuits, too — in case,’ said Hardaker, with an ungracious smile at Dryden.
‘My, that was thoughtful,’ said Mrs. Van Horn. ‘Now, Mr. Hofmann, was there anything else you wanted to ask me?’
He didn’t want to queer the old lady’s pitch with Hardaker, but this chance wouldn’t come again. ‘You said a few minutes ago you’d had some scares since the adoption. What exactly did you mean, Mrs. Van Horn?’
Hardaker almost threw up his hand. ‘That isn’t a question Mrs. Van Horn can answer.’
‘Why not?’ queried Mrs. Van Horn.
‘Lavinia, I urge you to take care. We don’t know Mr. Hofmann. You might regret—’
‘You won’t gag me, Charles,’ Mrs. Van Horn said firmly. ‘Mr. Hofmann is a fine young man, can’t you see that? He’s the cousin of the child’s mother. He wants to help Dean if he can. For Lord’s sake, let’s be candid with him.’
‘Against my advice, remember,’ Hardaker said, his face the colour of the poinsettias at the window.
‘Drink your tea, Charles, and don’t fuss. Yes, Mr. Hofmann, I got a little distressed about two years back, when a man telephoned saying he was a newsman doing an article on children’s homes. That didn’t scare me at all, but when he got here, all he wanted to know about was Dean, and I could tell he was no reporter, because he didn’t write a thing down. The questions frightened me. He was very abrupt. I could only suppose he was from the police, or something, and that they had turned up something awful on Dr. Serafin. Darn it, I wasn’t going to say his name. Don’t look at me with that death’s-head expression, Charles.’
‘What was this man like?’ asked Dryden.
‘A little older than you. Short. A small man, but forceful. What’s the word they use? Machismo. Yes, he had machismo, all right. And he was a smart dresser. Do you have some idea who it was?’
‘I don’t know. Was he dark?’
‘Swarthy, I’d say. He didn’t have much hair, though. Oh, but he had two beautiful rings. Rubies, they were.’
Gino Valenti. Two years back. The time the consortium was being formed. Trust Valenti to make his own check on Serafin’s story.
‘He was no cop, anyway,’ said Dryden. ‘They don’t wear rings like that. And you told him what you’ve just told me?’
‘If I recall it correctly, yes,’ said Mrs. Van Horn. ‘He was very insistent, you see, and I didn’t have Charles here that time to speak for me.’ She gave Hardaker a warm glance. ‘It worried me for a long time after. That was when I had the swing moved out. I was getting this recurrent dream that Dr. Serafin had neglected the child until she died and then dissected her and kept her limbs in bottles of Formalin. It was very scary. If you find her, Mr. Hofmann, I’d like to know that she’s all right. Would you let me know?’
Twelve
Toward the end of Tuesday morning Dryden picked up a felt-tip pen and started listing potential merchandising outlets for Goldengirl. It took an effort to make a start; up to now he had brushed aside the detail, but it couldn’t be shirked any longer. From July, he was giving the pitch, not Serafin. And without the backup of a film and a family saga dating back to pre-war Germany. A campaign had to be prepared, if only in outline.