“DON’T LET HER STAY TOO LONG,” I TOLD JOE Franklin.
We were on the patio in back of the Franklins’ home in Alameda. It was the second Saturday in September, late in the afternoon on a sun-splashed day with a clear blue sky, the kind of day we Bay Area residents have in mind when we tell visitors that the best weather is in September and October.
I sat in a lawn chair, sipping a cold beer while Joe examined the coals on his barbecue grill. Judging them to be ready, he removed the lid from a plastic container. With a spatula, he arranged fat red hamburger patties on the surface of the metal grill.
I looked across the yard to where Ruth sat by herself, cross-legged on the lawn. Her back was to us, her head down as though she were examining the blades of grass before her.
The Raynor case was still pending, only the suspects had changed. Wednesday morning I met with the Oakland police and the District Attorney to outline Harlan Pettibone’s movements the night of the murder. I also turned over the evidence against him. The paper trail that led from Sam Raynor’s bank accounts on Guam and in San Jose to Harlan’s multiple accounts provided ample motive, and the D.A. agreed.
Serendipity provided some physical evidence placing Harlan at the murder scene. It was a tiny scrap of a partial print, lifted from the underside of the handle of the trash chute at Ruth’s apartment building. The partial matched Harlan’s left index finger. By Friday he’d been charged with Sam’s murder.
Meanwhile, the charge against Ruth had been dropped and Bill Stanley had moved on to his next case. If Harlan had asked for the criminal lawyer’s services, I’m sure Bill would have obliged. But Harlan would have to avail himself of the public defender. Bill Stanley had been retained by a wealthy Piedmont entrepreneur charged with shooting his partner, a high-profile, high-drama case involving embezzlement, infidelity, and junk bonds, splashed all over the past few days’ editions of the Oakland Tribune. Bill called me late Friday to inquire whether I was available to do some investigating, but I had other plans.
For Ruth, the Raynor case should have been over, but it wasn’t. The scars remained. Whether they were permanent scars would only be revealed in time.
“It was her idea.” Joe sighed. He glanced across the yard at his daughter, then used the spatula to lift one of the burgers, examining it for doneness.
Ruth quit her job at Kaiser. She’d given up the apartment on Howe Street and moved back into her parents’ house, to live in that pink and white bedroom that looked the same as it had when she was in high school. If Joe and Lenore weren’t careful, Ruth would stay there, fearing to venture out into the world again.
“I know it was her idea. It’s a normal reaction. She’s shell-shocked, frightened. Ruth’s been through a lot. But she can’t hide in that bedroom forever. She has to get out eventually and go on, for Wendy and for herself.”
“I agree.” Joe reached for his beer and gave me a sideways half smile. “When it’s time, I’ll boot her out.”
He pressed each burger against the grill before flipping it over. The sizzle and smell of roasting meat made my mouth water.
“You want yours plain or with cheese?” he asked.
“Cheese.” I got up and handed him a plate piled with sharp cheddar, and he dealt slices onto the sizzling burgers. As the heat of the coals melted the edges of the cheese, I reached into a bag of buns, separating each one and placing the bottom half on each burger.
The back door opened and Kevin came out onto the patio. He carried a large tray loaded with dishes, cutlery, and glasses, and Wendy followed him, bearing bottles of mustard and ketchup. Kevin set the tray on one end of the red-and-white-checked cloth that covered the picnic table. Then he stepped past Wendy, headed back inside for another load, just as Lenore came out of the kitchen with a big pitcher of iced tea in one hand, the other carrying a large bowl filled with potato chips.
Wendy reached up and set the bottles she carried on the corner of the table. Then she walked to the edge of the patio and stared at her mother. I still thought the child looked more solemn than any four-year-old should normally be. Perhaps my contribution to dinner, a half gallon of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, would help me coax a smile from her, as I’d done that Friday afternoon before the murder.
“Mommy, come help set the table.”
Wendy’s voice piped like a reed. Ruth gave no sign she’d heard. I saw Lenore and Joe exchange glances. Wendy called to her mother again, and I thought I saw Ruth’s head move. Then Wendy set out across the lawn, propelled by determination. She took her mother’s right hand and tugged insistently. “Mommy, burgers almost ready. Come help set the table.”
Ruth slowly got to her feet. Her right hand still held Wendy’s, and with her left she stroked the little girl’s fluffy red-gold hair. All of us watched in silence as Ruth and her daughter walked together to the patio. When they reached the picnic table, Ruth picked up the stack of plates and set five places. Wendy climbed onto the bench and began sorting out the cutlery, handing her mother a fistful of forks.
Kevin bustled out of the kitchen with another tray, this one with bowls of sliced tomatoes, onions, lettuce, pickles, and relish. He set down the tray and reached for a handful of chips.
“Don’t let the burgers burn, Dad,” he warned Joe, whose attention had been on Ruth instead of the grill.
The Admiral harrumphed as he turned back to his duties. “I’m not going to let the burgers burn. I never do. In fact, they’re ready. Jeri, I’ve got one here that’s medium rare.”
“I’ll take it.” I picked up one of the plates and met him halfway as he lifted the hamburger from the grill.
I returned to my apartment later Saturday night, replete with cheeseburgers, chips, and ice cream, a full stomach making me drowsy and content. Abigail greeted me at the door, tail up and in full cry, so I spooned up a bowl of cat tuna and filled her water dish. Then I stripped off my clothes and got ready for bed. I was propped up against the pillows, book in hand, when Alex called.
“I got orders. The Pentagon. It’s a terrific job, a real career-enhancer. I leave in January.”
“Congratulations,” I said, and meant it. Alex’s career was as important to him as mine to me. I suspected he harbored ambitions to be the first Filipino-American admiral. “I know you’ll do well. We’ll have to make the most of the next three months. Any plays or movies you want to see?”
“That’s the other reason I called. You ever been to the Asian-American Theater Company, over in San Francisco?” When I answered in the affirmative, Alex continued. “This guy I went to school with, he wrote a play. About Filipino immigrants. This company is putting it on. It opens next week. He sent me a pair of tickets to opening night. Want to come with me?”
“I’d love to. My calendar’s still clear, this week. After that I’m going to Monterey.”
“Aha,” he said, chuckling. “You’re finally going to see your mother.”
“I’m going to see family. And friends.”
“You always qualify it. Why can’t you just admit you’re going to see your mother?”
“Alex, don’t start.”
I ran my fingers through my hair and stretched one leg out under the sheet, poking a toe at my cat, who had joined me on the bed. She’d washed herself from ears to tail and was now settling in for the night. Abigail opened one eye, then shut it and tucked her nose under her paws. Alex wisely didn’t start what he couldn’t finish. Instead we talked about where we’d have dinner before attending the play.
I called Monterey Sunday morning. I was having coffee and bagels along with my Sunday comics, but Mother was still in bed. Her voice sounded sleep-fuzzed but it sharpened when she recognized mine.
“Well, after three tries, I’d given up on you.”
“I was busy.”
I spread cream cheese on half an onion bagel. I’d also splurged on some lox, but if I didn’t keep an eye on that plate, Abigail intended to steal it from under my very nose. In fact, she’d abandoned her favorite toy, the yellow yarn mouse, and her round tabby body was perched on one of the dining room chairs. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a pair of ears rise slowly and a set of whiskers twitch. I reached for the plate and moved it out of paw range. Then I added salmon to the bagel and took a bite. Pure heaven.
“Yes, I thought as much,” Mother said. “The murder investigation, right?”
“That’s all wrapped up, as of Friday.” I didn’t go into any detail and she didn’t ask.
“We had quite a picnic on Labor Day. Everyone missed you. I guess I should fill you in on all the family gossip.”
“Save it until I get there.” I wiped a bit of cream cheese from my lips. Abigail made her move, up onto the table, feinting for the lox, and I swatted her paw. She retreated to the chair.
“You’re coming to Monterey after all?”
“If I’m still invited.”
“Of course you’re still invited. You’re always welcome, Jeri. When can I expect you?”
“I’m having dinner with Dad next Saturday,” I told her, “so I’ll drive down the following week. I don’t know how long I can stay.”
“Stay as long as you like.” Now Mother’s voice sounded wide-awake and cheerful. “It’ll be good to see you.”
After I hung up the phone, I toasted the other bagel half and reached for the cream cheese. As I spread on a thick layer, Abigail stared at the lox.
“Do you know how much this stuff costs?” I pointed the knife at the salmon. “More than a can of kitty tuna, that’s for sure.” I layered salmon on my bagel. “It’s too rich for you. The vet says you’re too fat. You’re spoiled rotten.”
Abigail twitched her whiskers and stared at the last piece. Then she stared at me and brought forth a pitiful quavering meow.
“And I’m a pushover,” I said. I cut the remaining salmon into tiny pieces and set the plate on the floor.