“
Then your wish
—
and mine, too
—
has been granted, doll.
”
His smile was more than half leer.
“
You found him.
”
In his fifties, she thought. Probably nice-enough-looking man before he sagged. He was pillow-soft and sloping. Even his hair was feathery, too fine and sparse to assume a shape. Couldn
’
t be the man Penny ran away with, whose car was older than he was.
“
You
—
you
’
re Stephen Tassio?
”
“
Have been all my life.
”
Then maybe Stephen wasn
’
t Penny
’
s Luke or Wesley
’
s Stewart, after all. But the receptionist had said his car was older than he was.
“
And you drive a yellow hearse?
”
His smile and all its component parts faded.
“
What
’
s he done now?
”
he said.
“
I
’
m Stephen Senior. You
’
re looking for Junior. Why do you care what he drives? Was he in a collision?
”
If he thought that might be the reason for her call, why didn
’
t he ask if his son was injured?
“
Who is it?
”
a sharp-edged voice called out.
Stephen Senior ignored the sound.
“
He hasn
’
t done anything,
”
Billie said.
“
Nothing
’
s wrong. We have a mutual friend I
’
m trying to reach. I lost her address and I think she
’
s staying with him awhile. That
’
s all.
”
The owner of the voice appeared behind the senior Tassio. She looked as razor-edged as she
’
d sounded.
“
What
’
s going on?
”
she demanded.
“
We don
’
t accept door-to-door solicitors. We have a notice posted, so it
’
s illegal to come here.
”
“
She
’
s not
—”
“
I
’
m looking for
—”
“—
selling anything,
”
Senior said.
“
Why didn
’
t you say so?
”
“
Look, Marie
…”
“
What does she want, then? Is she a visitor?
”
He considered this, then nodded.
“
More or less.
”
“
Then why haven
’
t you invited her in? Show a little common decency!
”
This seemed a practiced routine the woman had to complete before she did what she was furious with her husband for not having already done. This was the machinery that primed them for the next step.
Senior sighed, then gestured to Billie to enter.
Perhaps she shouldn
’
t judge on first impressions, but even if the couple had been less abrasive, their door and entry-hall decor were enough to convince her that she couldn
’
t like them. She thought of Stephen in a job that never required clothing more dressy than a flannel shirt, driving a thirty-year-old hearse, and she approved. This was a family whose best hope would be a misfit.
“
This is lovely,
”
she lied.
“
You certainly have a beautiful home.
”
Billie liked this part of her job
—
seeing the stages people erected for their personal dramas. This one was a still life. Embalmed shrine to success. A property statement, not a home.
Mrs. Tassio
’
s nod was in acknowledgment of the praise her home deserved as she directed Billie and her husband into a room of watercolored silks, fragile side tables, embroidered runners, and gilded accessories.
The sofas and chairs were so far apart, interaction below a scream would be difficult. The coffee table was distant enough from the sofa so as to make retrieving an actual cup from it hazardous, liable to spill and stain a pink-and-cream rug, too delicate to endure the pressure of shoes. Guests would socialize here only because they had to, not because they wanted to. You couldn
’
t live in this living room.
She paused at a small table filled with silver-framed photos, one of which was of a smiling young man in cap and gown.
“
Your son?
”
she asked Mr. Tassio. He nodded.
Junior was nice-looking. Open-faced, inviting. She wondered if he always looked that way, or if graduation
’
s promised freedom from these people was what had lit his face.
Billie sat gingerly, refusing the offer of a beverage.
“
And you are?
”
Mrs. Tassio asked.
“
I never caught your name.
”
She shot an accusatory glance at her husband.
“
Billie August.
”
No need for Audrey here. She told the truth, at least partially. She explained that she was looking for a female friend of Stephen
’
s who had inherited money but didn
’
t know about it.
“
Another girl, then.
”
His mother sealed her mouth so tightly she had no lips, only lines radiating from where they had been. Girls, then, were bad. Stephen
’
s girls were bad.
“
Truth is,
”
Senior said,
“
Stephen
’
s close-mouthed about his whereabouts lately. He hasn
’
t lived here in a while.
”
“
Only right after college,
”
his mother said.
“
While he was job-hunting, but it didn
’
t work out. Not at all. Stephen himself, well, that might have worked, but there were all these girls, a parade of them, and his friends. Strange people.
”
“
Who, Marie?
”
Senior asked.
“
Who was strange?
”
“
Remember Alicia Malone?
”
Her husband nodded and smiled.
“
Pretty child,
”
he said.
“
I always liked her.
”
Mrs. Tassio sniffed.
“
After high school she became weird and then she infected Stephen. He was normal till then. She
’
s the one dragged him in with her crowd. People who think it
’
s still the Middle Ages, or should be. Pretend to be lords and ladies. Thanks to her, he arrived here with a wild bird. Filthy thing that sat on his wrist, on a leather band. It ate mice. My freezer was filled with them.
”
She shook her head. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, pulled back into a twist. Attractive on anybody else, as would have been her black turtleneck and slacks, but the style only emphasized the steeliness of her temperament.
Billie had a moment
’
s pleasure imagining Stephen
’
s hawk defecating digested mouse upon this living room.
“
Last time we knew his whereabouts it was with this girl Yvonne,
”
his father said.
Mrs. Tassio inhaled loudly, then let the air escape in a ragged exhale.
“
I
’
m glad that one
’
s over,
”
she said.
“
She was not
…
You could tell how far downhill he was sliding if he was with her. She was different. Not
…
educated. Not refined. Cheap, if you understand what I
’
m saying. And after they broke up, she had the nerve to come here and accuse us of causing the rupture because we didn
’
t approve of her! What a piece of work! There
’
s no law says I have to let whatever my son picks up
—
mangy friends who don
’
t own a decent suit, a hawk, or Yvonne
—
into my house. A woman
’
s home is her castle, too.
”
“
Then you don
’
t have his new address or phone number?
”
“
I wouldn
’
t have known he
’
d moved if that
…
person hadn
’
t come here and carried on that way. Stephen is not your ideal son. He lacks social niceties, like telling his parents where he lives, calling sometimes, even visiting. Without the bird.
”
“
Did Stephen ever mention Penelope Redmond?
”
“
You might be getting the idea that Stephen mentions very little to us, Miss August,
”
Senior said.
“
You
’
d be correct in that.
”
“
Is this Penelope the girl who
’
s inherited something?
”
his wife asked.
Billie nodded.
“
At least his taste in women has improved since Yvonne.
”
An interesting judgment since the only information she
’
d been given was that imaginary money floated on her imaginary horizon.
“
Then I thank you for your time and consideration.
”
Billie stood up.
“
Please let me know if you do hear from Stephen. It
’
s important that I notify Penelope.
”
She handed them one of her cards, the one that simply said,
Investigator.
It was interesting what you gleaned while searching for something else altogether. Peel back the fronts of those tidy homes and see how they
’
ve organized their lives, how closely they resemble their facades and landscapes. Learn a lot.
What she hadn
’
t learned, however, was the only thing she
’
d been hired to find out. Where was Penelope Redmond?
Seventeen
Penny crouched behind a fan of green
leaves at the far end of the dock. The end of the walkway was edged by potted cymbidiums, all heavy with about-to-burst buds. From here, she had a clear view of an entire line of houseboats including the small one three down. The one where her father was when he should have been at the office or the store.
“
Just Kidding,
”
he called his company. A good name because it was obviously a joke, nothing he had to pay attention to.
Penny sat quietly, knees to her chin, a baseball cap on her head with its visor tilted down. She watched a woman come out of a boat and unlock a shopping cart from her front wall. Then she went back in and reemerged with bulging trash bags. When the cart was full, she wheeled it toward the parking lot.
Penny didn
’
t try to hide. Nobody would notice her or if they did, she
’
d be taken for a kid playing hooky. Which, actually, she was.
Arthur was also playing, not hooky, but around. She knew what it was costing her
—
literally and figuratively, as her English teacher would have said
—
to have him give these strangers champagne and tiny violins and new sofas while Penny saved for the tuition he wouldn
’
t pay, the prom dress he wouldn
’
t buy, and her mother did his books, took care of his office, helped in the store. He traveled so much, was on the road so often, her mother said, the least she could do is take care of the scutwork. Penny was no longer sure that he was ever on the road, except for the freeway to Sausalito.
The car with its JUS KIDN vanity plate was already in the lot when she got there. She could wait. Whenever he came out, she was confronting him, letting him know he couldn
’
t get away with this any longer. She
’
d threaten to tell his boss at the store, the manufacturers who thought he worked for them.
In return for silence, she
’
d make him promise that he wouldn
’
t hit Wesley or her mother anymore, that he
’
d give them more money. Pay her college. And, of course, he
’
d have to stop doing this. She watched a pelican skim over the bay, its wings inches from the glassy surface mirroring its flight. A noise interrupted
—
two large men in blue jumpsuits wheeling a dolly with only blue quilted cloths draped over it. They entered the little houseboat.
A few minutes later, they emerged with three sections of a black leather sofa. No relationship to the green velvet she
’
d seen moved in. The woman must have multiple personalities.
On their next trip, the men carried a stiff-looking white sofa with pale wooden legs and framework. It looked like the Barishes
’
furniture, which they always referred to as being Louis the something. Half the time she sat for them it was because they were
“
going antiquing.
”
Their kids weren
’
t allowed in the living room.
Her mother was always talking about what
“
went with
”
their house, what the
“
look
”
of the place was supposed to be. She thought her mother went overboard with
“
the look
”
thing, but still, she had a point, and what kind of
“
look
”
went with green velvet, then a black leather sectional, then a Louis? What kind of person changed her mind every few days? The houseboat was small, perhaps two rooms on deck and one or two bedrooms below, where windows showed above the water line. It couldn
’
t house two living rooms, or a den or family room plus a living room, plus two bedrooms, one for the little violinist.