I make eggroll and tea,” she said, with a little bow. “Very hot.”
“Thank you,” I said. She came in, hesitated when she saw Flint, then went through and set the tray next to the sofa. As she uncovered the eggrolls and poured tea, she kept looking over at him, something building in her mind.
“Smells wonderful,” I said.
She handed me a cup of tea, then pointedly recovered the pot with a starched linen napkin without offering anything to Flint. Instead, she pointed a finger at him and scolded, “You no good police, Michael, this happen for Emily.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lim,” he said, looking abashed. “Believe me, I’m sorry.
“No good police, Michael.” She jabbed her finger in his direction once more, looked to make sure I was drinking my tea, stopped to adjust the radiator, then turned and padded out the door.
“She blames me for Emily,” Flint said, chagrined, when she was gone.
“She’s upset, she needs to blame someone,” I said. I went to the kitchen to get him a cup. “I’m just glad she’s mad at you and not me.”
“I’ve known her for years. She’ll calm down.”
“You seem to know everybody in town.”
“Basically.” He poured himself tea and sipped it as he made a slow circuit around the room. “You haven’t checked the messages on Doc’s answering machine.”
“They may be personal.”
“Maybe.” He punched the replay button and I went over and stood beside him to listen. He seemed a lot taller all of a sudden, now that I was in stocking feet. I stood as straight as I could while we waited for the machine to rewind. There were a lot of messages, so it took a while.
My mother was first. “Good morning, sweetheart. Dad and I were thinking about you. Give us a call. I love you.”
There were a couple of calls from someone named Jose at County General delivering incomprehensible lab information, something about hemocytes.
An almost familiar man’s voice: “Four o’clock, Em. Chill the wine.”
“She did,” I said, pausing the tape.
“What?” Flint asked.
“Chill the wine. It’s in the refrigerator.”
“So, did they meet at four?”
“If they did, they didn’t open the wine. I wish I knew who that was.”
“Yeah.” He restarted the tape.
Most of the messages were business, delivered in the sort of shorthand evolved by people who speak together frequently. Some left names and times, some didn’t.
The first call I found ominous came from someone named Leroy Bates, from Health and Human Services in San Pedro. “Dr. Duchamps, it’s one-ten now. Did I get our appointment time wrong? I have a two o’clock flight to Sacramento. I’ll be back tomorrow. Call me and we can reschedule.” Where had Emily been?
He was followed by a very familiar voice. “Emily, you’re nuts. Don’t do a damn thing until you talk to me. I have a room at the Bonaventure now, and I’m waiting for your call. I love you like crazy.”
Flint played that one again.
“It’s my uncle, Max,” I said. “He’s Emily’s attorney.”
“You know what he’s talking about?”
“I intend to ask him.”
I heard my own voice next, the first message I had left that afternoon.
“What time was that?” he asked.
“Around three-thirty, a little before. I called from the airport.”
“Cutting it close, weren’t you?”
“It was the only flight I could get.”
He nodded and listened through two hang-up calls before Emily’s four o’clock date made a second calclass="underline"
“It’s almost five, Emily. Where are you? I’m still waiting.”
Then I called again. “Come home, Em. I’m in the booth across the street. I’m cold, I’m wet, I’m hungry. And get out the penicillin-I had to use the bathroom at the Chevron station on the corner and I know I picked up something lethal.”
Max again. He sounded angry, said it was after six and he was tired of being room mother. The tape ran out before I could make sense of the comment.
Flint lifted the tape out of the machine. “Damn it, Emily. Where were you?”
“May I have the tape?” I said, holding out my hand.
“Later. It has to go downtown first. You’ll get it back, I promise.”
I was going to argue, but the telephone rang.
“Hello,” I said.
“Emily, thank God you’re there.” The four o’clock date. “What’s happened?”
To Flint I mouthed, “It’s him.” Into the telephone, I said, “What could happen?”
“Why didn’t you come?”
“Where?”
There was a long pause. “Emily?”
I was afraid he would hang up if I played this any further. “This is Emily’s sister. Please, who are you?”
“Maggot?” It was almost a sob. I wished I could place his voice. I was sure I had heard it somewhere, sometime. He sounded desperate. Emily had been giving sanctuary to desperate people for a long, long time. He could easily be one of them. He called me Maggot. A lot of her friends from the old days called me Maggot.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
‘Yes. How are you, Maggot?”
“So so.”
“Where is Emily? I have to talk to her.”
“Emily can’t come to the phone now. I’ll relay a message for you.”
“Just tell me that she’s all right.”
“She isn’t all right.” I started to cry. It made me mad, but there was nothing I could do about it. The pain inside simply took over. Then he was crying into the telephone, too, in short choking gasps, the way my father, and probably a lot of other men, cry. When I could, I said, “Who are you?”
“Not yet, Maggot. Not yet.” Then the line went dead.
I stood there, sobbing. It felt good to let go, but I was still embarrassed that Flint had seen me come apart. He handed me the linen napkin from Mrs. Lim’s tea tray.
“You’re a real brick,” he smiled.
“Fuck you,” I gasped, wiping my face and blowing my nose into the napkin.
“A real brick and foul-mouthed.” He put a tentative arm around my shoulders and held me stiffly. He patted my back. I thought he was being so nice because I was Emily’s sister. Maybe he hurt, too. He crooned, “Go ahead and cry.”
“I’m finished.” But I let my head drop against his lapels. It wasn’t very comfortable; all the paraphernalia on his belt-holster, beeper, shield-came between us. But I could hear his heart beat, hear the air going in and out of his chest, and that made me feel better. I started to breathe regularly after a few minutes.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“If you’re sure you’re okay,” he said, “maybe we could talk about that phone call.”
“I’m okay.” I moved away from him, blew my nose again, and managed a steady breath. I sat down on the sofa and thought about what the man had said.
“So?” Flint asked.
My voice sounded shaky and thick, but it served. “I don’t know who the caller is, but he knows me. Or knew me a long time ago.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The way he reacted when I told him who I was. He called me Maggot.”
“That’s significant?”
“Very,” I said. “There’s something about his voice that’s familiar, and at the same time, it isn’t. I wish I could place him. Maybe it was just the tone of the conversation that was familiar. He seemed very nervous. He wouldn’t say anything that would identify him, as if maybe he thought the conversation was being overheard. I used to take a lot of nonmessage messages for Emily, from people who wouldn’t leave their names.”
“Married men who take lovers don’t leave their names, either.”
“A lover?” I thought about the bottle of wine, Em’s beautiful new breasts. “That’s a possibility.”
“Anything else about him?”
“Just impressions. He’s not especially young, not especially old. No strong regional accent. He sounds educated, but not academic, not like the stiffs on the faculty with my father. The rest you know: He had a date with Emily at four, and she missed it. About that, he seemed worried, maybe frightened, rather than angry. One other thing,” I said. “He asked awfully quickly whether she was all right. When I said she wasn’t, he cried.”