Dietz and I had dinner up at Rosie’s. William was working behind the bar again. At the age of eighty-seven, this was like a whole new career for him. Since their marriage, the two of them had settled into a comfortable routine. More and more, Rosie seemed to be turning management over to him. She’d always maintained tight control of the day-to-day operation, but William had persuaded her to pay decent wages and as a consequence, she’d been able to hire better employees. And she’d begun to delegate responsibility, which gave her more time to spend with him. William had given up some of his imaginary illnesses and she’d surrendered some of her authoritarianism. Their affection for each other was obvious and their occasional spats seemed to blow over without incident. Dietz was talking to William about Germany, but I was only half attentive, wondering if the two of us would ever reach an accommodation. I pictured Dietz at eighty-seven, me a comparatively youthful seventy-two; retired from the stresses of private-eye work, riddled with arthritis; bereft of our teeth. What would we do, open a private detective school?
“What are you thinking? You look odd,” he said.
“Nothing. Retirement.”
“I’d rather eat my gun.”
At bedtime, Dietz offered to hobble up the spiral stairs. “My knee’s killing me again so I’m probably not much good except for company,” he said.
“You’re better off downstairs. My bed’s not big enough, especially with that knee of yours. I’d just lie there worrying I’d bump you wrong.”
I left him below opening up the sofa bed while I ambled up the stairs, talking to him over the rail.
“Last chance,” he said, smiling up at me.
“I’m not sure it’s smart getting used to you.”
“You should take advantage while you can.”
I paused, looking down. “That’s the difference between us in a nutshell, Dietz.”
“Because I live in the moment?”
“Because for you that’s enough.”
First thing Friday morning, Dietz took his car and headed over to the Santa Teresa Dispatch offices while I drove to Paul Trasatti’s house. Hopper Road was located midway between the Maleks’ and the country club. The neighborhood was small, the street lined with elm trees and dappled with shade. The house was built in the style of an English country cottage, the sort you’d see pictured on a deck of playing cards; gray stone with a thatched roof that undulated like an ocean wave where the gables appeared. The windows were small paned, leaded glass, the wood trim and the shutters painted white. Two narrow stone chimneys bracketed the house like a pair of matching bookends. The yard was enclosed with a white picket fence, pink and red hollyhocks planted along the front. The small yard was immaculate, thick grass bordered in dark ivy with small flowerbeds along the brick walk leading to the door. Birds twittered in the young oak growing at the corner of the property.
I’d called the night before, of course, wanting to be certain Trasatti would be home. Even on the porch, I could smell bacon and eggs and the scent of maple syrup. My whimper probably wasn’t audible above the sound of the mower two doors down. In response to my ring, Trasatti came to the door with his napkin in hand. He was tall and thin, as bald as a light bulb. He had a large nose, thick glasses, and a jutting chin. His chest was narrow, slightly sunken, swelling to a thickened waistline. He wore a white dress shirt and a pair of stovepipe pants. He frowned at me, looking at his watch with surprise. “You said, nine.”
“It is nine.”
“This says eight.” He held his watch to his ear. “Shit. Come on in. You caught me at breakfast. Have a seat in here. I’ll be back in a second. You want coffee?”
“I’m fine. Take your time,” I said.
The living room was small and perfectly appointed, more like a doctor’s office than a place to put your feet up. The furniture had a vaguely Victorian air, though to my untutored eye, it didn’t appear to be the real thing. The chairs were small and fussy, rimmed with carved wooden fruit. There were three dark wood tables topped with pink-veined marble slabs, an array of Sotheby’s catalogs neatly lined up on one. The carpeting was a short-cut wool pile, pale blue with a border of Chinese dragons and chrysanthemums. Two cloisonné vases were filled with artificial pink and blue flowers of some generic sort. A clock on the mantel had a second hand that clicked distinctly as it inched its way around. I leafed through a Sotheby’s catalog, but didn’t see much of interest except a letter from the Marquis de Sade, which was being offered at two thousand dollars. The passage quoted was in French and seemed petulant. There was also a pretty little greeting from Erik Satie to Mme Ravel with “decorated borders and raised blind relief heading showing in Colour two hands held in front of a rose . . .” Lots of talk about “jolies fleurs” and “respecteusements.” My thoughts exactly. I’ve often said as much.
I strolled the perimeter, taking in numerous framed letters and autographs. Laurence Sterne, Franz Liszt, William Henry Harrison, Jacob Broom (whoever he was), Juan Jose Flores (ditto). There was a long, incomprehensible letter bearing the signature S.T. Coleridge, and some kind of receipt or order blank signed by George Washington. There was another letter written in a crabbed hand, dated August 1710, fraught with brown ink and cross-outs and looking crumpled and stained. Who’d had the presence of mind to save all this litter? Were there people with foresight going through the dustbins back then?
Across the hall, I could see what must have been a dining room done up as an office. There were bookshelves on every wall, some extending across the windows, which greatly diminished the incoming light. Every surface was stacked ten deep, including tables, chairs, and floors. No typewriter on the premises as far as I could see. I had no reason to think Trasatti was involved, but it would have been nice to have a piece of the puzzle fall into place. The air smelled of old dust and book mold, glue, aging paper, and dust mites. A large tortoiseshell cat picked its way daintily across a desk piled with books. This creature had only a stump for a tail and looked like it might be searching out a place to pee.
“Making yourself at home?” came the voice behind me.
I started, making ever so slight a leap.
“I was admiring this enormous cat,” I said casually.
“Sorry if I startled you. That’s Lady Chatterley.”
“What happened to her tail?”
“She’s a Manx.”
“She looks like a character,” I said. Animal people seem to love it when you say things like this. Trasatti didn’t seem to warm to it. He gestured me into the office, where he took a seat at his desk, pushing aside an irregular stack of hardback books.
“No secretary?” I asked.
“Business isn’t big enough for clerical help. Anything I need done, I use the Mac upstairs. Go ahead and make a space for yourself,” he said, indicating the only chair in the room.
“Thanks.” I placed some books, a briefcase, and a pile of newspapers on the floor, and sat down.
“Now what can I help you with? I really can’t add to what I’ve already given you in regard to Jack,” he said.
“This was in regard to something else,” I said while the fifteen-pound cat hopped onto my lap and settled between my knees. Up close, Lady Chatterley smelled like a pair of damp two-week-old socks. I scratched that little spot just above the base of its tail which made the back end of the cat rise up until its rosebud was staring me in the face. I pushed the back end down. I peppered my preface with lots of reassuring phrases “off the record,” “just between us,” and other felicitous expressions of confidentiality-before getting down to business. “I’m wondering what you can tell me about the Maddisons-Patty and her sister, Claire.”
He seemed to take the question in stride. “What would you like to know?”
“Anything you care to tell,” I said.
Paul straightened the stack of books in front of him, making sure all the edges were aligned and the top right-hand corners matched. “I didn’t know the sister. She was older than we were. She was off at college by the time the family moved into the area and Patty started hanging out with Guy.”
“The Maddisons were new in town?”
“Well no, not really. They’d been living out in Colgate and bought a house closer in. They never had the kind of money we did, the rest of us-not that we were wealthy,” he added. “Bader Malek did well back in those days, but he wasn’t what you’d call rich.”