A Dame with a Past - Part 7

Continued from Part 6

I must say, given what Harry had learned about Mike McGraw, I wasn’t all that surprised to see him in the lobby of the Bernice Arms. In fact, I wasn’t all that surprised to see his sporting a black eye. Like Harry said, the guy’s a loose cannon.

I ask, “What are you doing here, Mike?”

“What am I doing here?” Mike jumps to his feet and pushes his chest in my direction. “I have every right to be here. I have as much right to be here as you do. In fact, I have as much right to be here as Bernie. She’s my wife! This building is half mine!”

“I think you’d best back off, Mr. McGraw,” Al says, walking toward McGraw. The menace in his voice is unmistakable.

I hold up my hand. “It’s okay, Al,” I say, and turn toward McGraw.

“Actually, Mike, that’s not technically true,” I say, backing out of swing distance. Last thing I need is to get into a fist fight. “Bernie’s mother left the building to her in a trust. The trust is solely in Bernie’s name and is protected from community property laws.”

“But, but…” McGraw sputtered, pacing back and forth. His face is flushed with anger. After more pacing and muttering, he turns to me.

“I want to see my wife,” he demands. “She’s here, right?”

Kimball attempts to put a calming hand on McGraw’s arm, but the angry man shakes it off.

“Get your hand off me! Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Keeping his voice calm, Kimball replies, “I’m Joe Kimball, the building manager. To answer your question, yes, Bernice is here. Marty, why don’t you go talk to her?”

Good idea. I excuse myself, and head for the elevator. As the doors are closing, I hear Kimball trying to reason with McGraw.

“Before you see your wife, Mr. McGraw, I think you’d better calm down. Why don’t you sit here for a while? Can I bring you some coffee?”

Yeah, good luck with that.

~

I hit the buzzer on the gate outside Bernie’s apartment, and she comes out to open it. “I know there must be a way to release this from inside the apartment, but I haven’t discovered it yet.” She laughs as she unlocks the gate.

“I’m glad you’re back, Marty. Wait ‘til I show you…” She notices my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Mike is here, Bernie. He’s a bit, um… upset.”

Bernie pales. “Oh, no.”

Taking her hand, I lead into the living room. We sit on the overstuffed couch and I turn to face her.

“Bernie, I think we should talk. I want to help you, but I can’t if I don’t know what’s going on.”

At that, she bursts into tears. Great. Looking around, I spot a box of tissues on an end table, and hand them to her.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’m going to go find us some tea or something.”

I’m surprised to find a well-stocked kitchen. On the counter, next to a covered plate of cookies, there’s a note from Louise Fennimore.

 

Nice touch. Sounds like Bernie has more friends here that she thought. Good thing. I think she might need them.

I fill the kettle sitting on the stove and turn on the burner. While the water heats, I rummage around and find some tea bags, a sugar bowl, cups, and a tray. I load everything on the tray, add the plate of cookies and the note, and head back to the living room.

As I set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, I’m relieved to see Bernie has stopped crying. I have a hard time with weeping women, like most guys, I guess.

I settle down next to her. “So…”

~

For the next hour, we sip the Darjeeling and munch cookies, which are a delicious shortbread, by the way, my favorite. And Bernie talks. And talks some more. She holds nothing back. I’m envisioning McGraw throwing hissy fit in the lobby, but I don’t want to rush Bernie. Besides, I’m confident that, between the two of them, Joe and Al can control him.

Seems old Mike hasn’t been quite so successful at hiding his true nature as Harry thought. Bernie is well aware of his past.

“But I thought he’d changed, Marty. He was so sweet and charming to me at first,”

Yeah, aren’t they all, I think to myself.

“It wasn’t until we’d been married for about six months that I began to wonder if he really had changed.”

She went on to describe their disintegrating relationship. It was an all too familiar story.

"The man I thought I married is disappearing before my eyes. There’s never enough money, and we fight a lot about that. We’re not wealthy, by any means, but there is no reason we can’t make it on our salaries. I think he gambles it away, Marty.

"Then it got worse. He’s hardly ever home, and there are more and more late nights. And I smell perfume on his clothing.

“I asked about it, and he said it was from his women clients. Right. I knew there was more to it. And more than one woman. The scents vary. Expensive scents, too. During college, I worked at the perfume counter at Macy’s, so I recognize a lot of them. Joy, Armani, L’Air du Temps.”

She pauses to pull another tissue from the box to wipe the tears that are rolling down her cheeks again.

“Ha! L'Aire d’Evanescence! The way my marriage is disappearing, that should be my signature scent,” she says grimly.

“And since that letter from Mr. Worthington, Mike’s gotten really weird. He’s super nice to me one minute, and really mad at me the next. I mean, I’m guessing you saw what I’m talking about downstairs. A couple of times, I thought he was going to hit me, Marty!”

Poor kid. She deserves better.

“Why do you stay with him, Bernie? It doesn’t sound like there’s much in it for you.”

“I guess I’ve been afraid. I have no family. I don’t have much money and besides, the house is in his name. Where would I go?”

I can’t help myself. I raise an eyebrow at her, then cast my eyes around the room.

“Oh!"

~

Continued in Part 8




Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5, Muse 7: "An Air of Evanescence"

A Dame with a Past - Part 6

Continued from Part 5

 "Whn u gt a chnc, cll. I thnk ur bng fllwd. H."

I’ve known Harry longer than the lifespan of cell phones and texting.  A quick glance at the particular form of gibberish he calls a text is all it takes for me to look around the lobby in alarm, illogical as that is. The only people in sight are Bernie and Kimball standing in front of a bank of mailboxes set discreetly into an alcove, the manager pointing out something to Bernie, and Al the doorman behind his desk.

Being followed? What the…?

“Please excuse me for a minute,” I say to Bernie and the building manager. “Go ahead without me. I have to make a call. I’ll be right with you.”

I wave off Al’s help, push though the brass doors, punching the speed dial for Harry as I go. He answers immediately.

“Oh, good. I was hoping you’d call right back. We’ve got a monkey in the chicken pile, my friend.”

“What’s up?”

“Well,” Harry says, “remember the guy I told you about, the one who plays at McGraw’s club?”

“Yeah…”

“He called me, said there was something I might want to know. Apparently our esteemed golf pro had himself a bit of a meltdown at work this morning. My pal said he was ranting and raving about something, punched a locker, and walked out.”

“Ranting and raving? Did your friend say what it was about?” I ask.

“Not really. But he heard McGraw say something about ‘not being cut out of things,’ and ‘I’m gonna knock her off her high horse.”

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah, right? My buddy said that if he weren’t such a good golf instructor, he’d probably lose his job. He might lose it anyway if he put on this little display in front of the customers, you ask me.

“And the worst part? When he left, he said he had to get to San Francisco. ”

Involuntarily, I find myself scanning the stream of people passing me on the sidewalk.

“That it?”

Harry huffs into the phone. “Isn’t that enough? I’m worried about Bernie, Marty. I think that guy’s a loose cannon. She might be in danger.”

“OK, thanks for the heads-up. Don’t worry. I won’t let her out of my sight.”

 

~

 

I catch up with the others as they’re standing in front of the etched steel elevator door. The design shows a woman sitting on the back of a bull. If I remember my Greek mythology, it depicts Zeus’ rape of Europa.

“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re back.” Bernie says, her face lit like a child’s on Christmas morning. “We’re going up to the top. Joe is going to show us a surprise.”

The elevator doors slide open and we get on.

“What I’m going to show you is something you’d more expect in a hotel or a New York apartment building. It’s not typical of your average apartment building in San Francisco,” Joe says as he pushes the button for the eleventh floor. “but it was very typical of your great-grandfather, Bernice.”

“Eleven? I thought I counted twelve floors from outside,” I comment.

“Right you are. There is a twelfth floor, but you can’t get to it on this elevator.” He laughs at the expression on our faces. “You’ll see.”

The doors open, and we step out into a small lobby. Across from us, there are glass doors that appear to lead out to a garden. Joe hold the door open for us. “After you. Welcome to the Elysian Fields.”

We’ve stepped into another time and space. It is surreal, disorienting, and absolutely breathtaking.

Bernie gasped. “Oh, this is…” Her voice drifts to a stop.

I finish the sentence for her. “Awesome. I think ‘awesome’ is the word you’re looking for.”

The garden is magnificent. Directly in front of us, in what I take to be the center of the building, is a tall, round fountain. Its burbling completely obscures the sounds of the city below us. Unbelievably, all I can hear is birdsong. A wide brick path stretches before us to the fountain, and more fan out from the fountain into lush vegetation. Standing serenely here and there are statues of gods and goddesses. Around the perimeter, there are arched glass windows that face the hallway. Above me, I can see the sky.

“Wow. Just… wow,” I say.

Bernie is speechless. She is wandering down the path to the fountain, and she stops and sinks onto a bench set into a fragrant rose arbor as if she can’t stand another minute. Joe and walk up to join her.

“It’s really something, isn’t it? Joe asks.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” I reply. “But how? Who?”

Joe laughs. “Not me, that’s for sure. I have a black thumb. But Al – he’s the doorman; you met him downstairs – is not just a pretty face. He’s a magician when it comes to plants. He maintains the garden. We are so fortunate to have him. He's been here since before I took the job.”

“It’s wonderful,” Bernie exclaims. “Is it open to the public?”

“No, no,” Joe says. “This is solely for the use of our tenants. I must say, though, I don’t think many of them come up here very often.”

“I meant to ask,” Bernie says. “How many tenants are there? What kind of people live here?”

“There are 18 rental units in the building, two per floors two through ten, all of them rented. You can see what’s on the eleventh floor. There are no rental units on the first floor, but there are two apartments where Al and I live, in additions to the office and other spaces used for storage, equipment, and the like. And, of course, there is the owner’s apartment; we’ll see that in a moment. In the basement, there’s a laundry room, and each apartment has a storage room.

“The tenants are great. Many have been here for decades. We have a doctor, a couple of lawyers, and so forth. They range from young professionals to some retired folk. Not many children, but those who are here are well-behaved. And, oh, yes, a few dogs, cats, and other small pets.”

“That sounds perfect.” Bernie says. "Why would anyone want to leave? This is so magical."

He winks at Bernie, and says, “You bet. Now, let’s go check out your digs.”

Kimball leads us back into the hallway. Instead of calling the elevator, he turns right.

“We could have gone left just as easily,” he says. “Both directions lead to the same place.”

After a couple of turns, we come to an ornate floor-to-ceiling fence, a locked gate in its center. He pulls a key ring from his pocket and inserts one of the keys into the lock.

When the gate is open, he turns and hands the key ring to Bernie. “Welcome home, Bernice.  The apartment door is down there on the left.” He indicates a small alcove a short distance down the hall. "Beyond it, you can see another gate just like this one. The key fits both."

“Oh, thank you. This is all just so… so unexpected and overwhelming.”

She walks a short way down the hall to the apartment door.

“The key is on your key ring,” Kimball tells her.

With trembling hands, she unlocks the door and swings it open. A foyer welcomes us. At one side is a staircase.

“And that,” Joe says, “is how you get to the twelfth floor. There are two bedrooms up there, both with en-suite baths.

“You probably noticed that the garden is open to the sky. The twelfth floor is built around its periphery, and the bedrooms overlook the garden. There are city views as well though the eyebrow windows at the top of the building. Marjorie used the remaining space on the other side of the twelfth floor, which is much smaller, for storage.

"The apartment is not large. As you can tell, it's built on only one side of the building, to accommodate the garden, you know. Down here, we have a living room, dining room, and kitchen. Marjorie also had her own laundry room added off the kitchen."

He leads us into a living room. It has sweeping views of the city and the Bay Bridge beyond.

Bernie walks to the window.

“Oh, Marty, isn’t it beautiful? And look,” she says, pointing off to the left, “Alcatraz!”

She turns to us, and says, “Pinch me! I must be dreaming! This is all so surreal.”

Just then, Kimball gives a little rendition of the cell-phone dance, and pulls his buzzing phone from his pocket. “Yes?” He frowns. “Right away.”

He says to us, “Al needs me in the lobby. I’ll leave you to look around.”

As he turns to leave, I say, “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind. Bernie, you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, of course. Go ahead. I’ll be here when you get back. I can’t wait to explore.”

 

~

 

I follow the building manager back out to the elevator. I want to talk to him about Mark Mitchum and the others. There was clearly something behind those strange phone calls Bernie got, and maybe he knows what it is. But as we ride down, I decide to wait until he deals with whatever has called him away. He looks very distracted.

When the doors open, I am surprised to see a very stormy looking Al standing over a man slouched in one of the chairs.

“Al, what’s the problem?” Kimball asks as he strides over to the two men.

“This moke charged in here, demanding to see Ms. McGraw. He threw a couple of punches – ha! as if! – and was on his way to the elevator when I convinced him that wasn’t such a good idea.”

As I look at Al, I can see a splotch on his left cheek purpling into a bruise as I watch. But no need to question what happened to the other guy. Mike McGraw scowls up at me from his chair, the beginnings of a magnificent shiner attesting to Al’s powers of persuasion.

 ~

 

 Continued in Part 7




Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5, Muse 6: "In Surreal Time"
  

A Dame with a Past - Part 5

Continued from Part 4

With images of the Mark Hopkins and Fairmont hotels filling my head, my imagination is running wild as the cab brings us to Bernie’s apartment building. But when the cab pulls to the curb and we get out, I discover our destination is somewhat more modest. The twelve-story building is probably a contemporary of those two grand hostelries, but she has not had the advantage of the many facelifts they’ve no doubt received over the years. She’s a bit time-worn, but behind all the age spots and wrinkles, she’s still a beauty. I’m surprised to see there are nearly identical buildings on either side. They each have their own characteristics, but there is no doubt that they are from the same family. Like architectural siblings.

 

The building in front of us is mostly brick, which has faded to a soft pinkish glow with age. There are horizontal accent bands of what look like carved limestone between floors at the third, sixth, and ninth levels, but they are so darkened with soot and dirt, it’s all but impossible to see what the design is. A good sandblasting facial would do wonders.

 

There is a strip of dentil crown molding, also of limestone, at the top just below the roof. The roof itself features a row of somewhat baroque-looking eyebrow windows, and I wonder what’s behind them. I’m always drawn to the unusual spaces within a building.

Flanking the front door are limestone eagles set into the façade.  The wide entrance has a small columned portico over the double glass doors with aluminum accents that give it an appealing art deco look. To my delight, I see the words “Bernice Arms” set into its face.

Bernie grabs my arm. “Marty! Look at the name!” Her face glows.

“Seems you’ve been immortalized in stone, milady,” I say, sweeping my imaginary hat before me as I make a Sir Walter Raleigh bow.

She laughs in delight. The sound makes me happy. She’s been pretty glum lately. Between the phone calls from her newly-found brother Mark Mitchum and her husband’s weird reaction to her inheritance, she’d been so stressed out, it was making her physically sick. She’d shaken it off, thank goodness. She told me on the flight up that she’d decided she wasn’t going to let anyone spoil this for her.

 

~

We walk under the portico. Before I can grab the brass handle of one of the doors, which has been polished to a soft gleam despite the rest of the building’s apparent neglect, it’s pushed open with a flourish by a uniformed doorman. His name badge identifies him as “Al.” About 60 and slightly portly, he is the picture of courtliness as he holds the door open for us. I’m reminded of an old 1930s movie. He stands aside as we enter the lobby.

 

The lobby isn’t huge, but I love it. The art deco styling suggested by the exterior is carried indoors by pillars stenciled with an art deco design and a suspended cutwork metal ceiling. There is a chandelier hanging from a beautiful round medallion in the middle of the high ceiling, and along the walls are matching art deco sconces. Scattered around, comfortable looking seating arrangements beckon invitingly.

 

Just inside is a desk where the doorman appears to hang out. He follows us in, and steps behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

 

“I’m Bernie McGraw and this is Marty Tremaine” Bernie tells him. “We’re here to see Joseph Kimball. I believe he’s the building manager? He’s expecting us.”

 

Before we made this trip, Bernie had called T. Malcolm and told him she was ready to visit the building. He gave her the name of the manager, who would show her around and give her the keys to the owner’s apartment.

 

“Yes, we all are!” Al exclaims enthusiastically, smiling broadly beneath his bushy salt-and-pepper mustache.

 

“I’m Al Unger, Al being short for Aloysius,” he adds with a grimace. “Have a seat.” He indicates a couple of interesting-looking arm chairs against the wall, a small round table between them.

 

He picks up the phone. “I’ll let Joe know you’re here.”

 

~

In just a few minutes, we hear elevator doors swish open with a sigh, and a casually dressed guy walks over to us. He’s in his late 30s, and has one of those open, friendly faces that always puts people at ease.  Given how nervous Bernie was about this whole thing, I am relieved the building manager hasn’t turned out to be a stiff.

 

With a wide smile spread across his face, he reaches out to shake Bernie’s trembling hand. “I’m Joe Kimball. Welcome to the Bernice Arms, Ms. McGraw. The old dame has been waiting a long time to welcome you through her doors.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Kimball,” Bernie says.

 

“Call me Joe. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to call you Bernice. It seems only fitting here, right?”

 

Bernie smiles and nods.

 

He turns to me and shakes my hand. “You must be Mr. Tremaine. Malcolm told me you’d be accompanying Bernice. Welcome.”

 

His handshake is firm and his smile looks genuine. I have a feeling Bernie will find a friend – and if need be, a protector – in Joe Kimball.

 

“Thank you. Call me Marty, please. This is a fabulous place,” I comment, looking around the lobby. “I’m a real fan of the art deco period. The Bernice Arms seems like a great example of the era. When was it built?”

 

“She opened in 1928, Marty. Timing was good. Another year, and the old girl might never have been finished.”

 

Kimball turns to Bernie. “Now, what say I give you the grand tour? We’ll end at Marjorie’s… sorry, your apartment. I know you must be anxious to see it and get settled.”

 

“Um, OK.” Bernie is still looking stunned at the whole idea that she owns this building, let alone has an apartment on Nob Hill in San Francisco.

 

~

“First, a little history," Kimball begins. "The building was built by Marjorie’s grandfather, Jonathan Bancroft, Jr.”

 

He pauses to look at Bernie, “That would be your great-granddad, Bernice.”

 

“This is all so confusing,” Bernie says. “I’m going to ask Mr. Worthington for a family chart.”

 

I nod. “Good idea, Bernie. I’m sure he’d be willing to do that.”

 

Kimball continues, “Marjorie’s dad was born in 1928, and the building was sort of a 'birthday present,' if you will. It was put in Trip’s... – he was called Trip by the family, since he was Jonathan Bancroft the Third, you know – in Trip's name and held in trust for him."

 

I’m curious. I say. “I assume the building wasn’t always named the Bernice Arms. How did that come about? That lintel out there above the portico looks like it’s been there forever.”

 

Kimball laughs. “You’re right, of course. That’s a more recent addition to the façade. It looks old because Marjorie wanted it to look original. Apparently she succeeded.

 

“Your great-grandfather fancied himself as something of a Titan, Bernice. There’s an office building down on Pine called the Cronos Tower where he headquartered his engineering company.

 

"You may have noticed the two buildings to either side of us?  The three buildings formed a little complex originally, with the other two deeded to Trip’s siblings. They’ve since been sold off. The complex was called Mt. Olympus, and was carved into the portico of all three buildings. The eagle -- there's one on either side of the front door -- is the symbol of Zeus, the king of the gods. Did you notice the bands of carvings around the building?”

 

Bernie and I nod. “I couldn’t make out what they were, though,” Bernie says.

 

“Yes, the building seriously needs cleaning. After Marjorie got sick, I’m afraid we let maintenance slide. She had other things to deal with. When you get comfortable with all this, we can talk about that, Bernice. I know there is an account with adequate funds for building upkeep.”

 

Bernie said, “Oh, I think Mr. Worthington told me that, but I was so overwhelmed that day, I guess I forgot.”

 

“You’ll see when we get them cleaned up. The carvings are mythological scenes. According to Greek mythology, Cronos and his Titan sister Rhea were the parents of the Mt. Olympus gods and goddesses. Your great grandfather was really into it. Thus the name of the complex. The names of the other two buildings were changed when they were sold, but this one remained the Mt. Olympus until the earthquake of 1989.”

 

“I remember that earthquake,” I say. “That was the one they called the 'World Series Earthquake' because it wreaked havoc with the World Series. It hit during the third inning, I think. Longest time-out in the history of baseball. The game didn’t resume until ten days later.”

 

“That’s the one. Anyway, this tough old gal stood her ground. The only real damage she suffered was to the portico, which was reduced to rubble by the quake. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

 

“When the portico was rebuilt, Marjorie changed the name of the building, and it’s been the Bernice Arms ever since.”

 

“That’s quite a story,” Bernie says. “I love hearing about the history.”

 

“Yep, this lady has quite a past, Kimball responds. “I’ll tell you more about her as we explore your namesake.”

 

 ~

 

As we turn to follow Kimball, I feel my cell buzzing in my pocket. Checking the screen, I find a text from Harry:

 

"Whn u gt a chnc, cll. I thnk ur bng fllwd. H."

 

~

 

Continued in Part 6

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5, Muse 5: "Children of Cronos."

 

A Dame with a Past - Part 4

Continued from Part 3

The next day, I got to the office just before nine. Steve was already behind her computer typing. She looked up as I came in.

“Hey. How’d it go?”

“Hold on a sec,” I said, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

I went into my office, dropped my briefcase on my desk chair, grabbed my cup, and went back out to the Keurig. I stuck the cup under the spout, dropped the coffee doohickey into the gizmo it sits in, and pushed the button. While the machine burbled and grunted, filling my cup with French Roast, I started to tell Steve about Bernie’s day yesterday.

I had just sat down in one of the chairs in the reception area when Harry came in.

“Oh, glad you’re here,” I greeted him. “I won’t have to tell my story twice. Grab some coffee and I’ll fill you both in. It’s quite a story. And it pretty much changed Bernie’s life, I think.”

“Harry began, “What…?” I interrupted him and said, “Sit. I’ll tell you everything.”

I gave them the long version, leaving out nothing. When I was done, they both looked a little stunned.

“It was her real mother?! She was adopted and never knew it?” Steve exclaimed. “Oh, the poor thing. She must have been so shocked.”

Almost simultaneously, Harry, said, “Wow! An apartment building… She must be have been thrilled.”

Ha, I guess that’s the Venus and Mars thing, right there in a nutshell.

I shrugged. “From what I saw, the shock of discovering you’re not exactly who you thought you were trumped inheriting a building. She didn’t even want to go look at it yet.”

Harry said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m betting old Mike the golf pro will be interested in looking at it. I did some checking and, I’m telling you, sure as Bob’s your uncle, that guy is trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“He and Bernie barely have two nickels to rub together. They have no kids and they live in an ordinary tract house in Pasadena. They both work, but never seem to move their bank account off the empty peg. I thought that was kind of odd, so I called a buddy who plays golf at the club where McGraw works, which, by the way, is pretty posh. Seems our boy has a fondness for the ponies. He’s a regular at Santa Anita, and if you want my guess, that’s where all the extra money’s going.” Harry shrugged. “Oh, and it’s not only the ponies he likes. He also has a fondness,” Harry pauses for a lascivious eye roll, “for the fillies.”

“Not good,” I say, thinking to myself that it was no wonder Bernie had seemed so stressed at our first meeting. “But it’s none of our business, Harry.”

“I know, I know, but it gets worse. My friend told me McGraw was married before, and apparently just walked out on his wife, leaving her penniless. She divorced him, but didn’t get a penny in the settlement. You know what they say about getting blood from a persimmon.” At this, Steve groaned. “It didn’t come out in court, but my buddy says there were rumors McGraw had knocked her around.”

I shook my head, really sorry to hear that. I wondered if he was treating Bernie okay.

“Sad story, but unless Bernie asks for help, it's still not our business. Besides, she’s got that building now. That should give her some security of her own.”

“Yeah, I know, you’re right. Still, I’d hate for him to get his hands on that building,” Harry said with a grimace. “So what happens next?”

“For us? Far as I know, nothing. She asked us to find out if the letter about the inheritance from her ‘mother’,” I wiggled my fingers into quotations marks, “was real or a scam. It was very much real. End of case.”

I turned to Steve, “Send her a bill.”

~

As it turned out, that wasn’t the end of it. About a week after the trip to San Francisco, I got a call from Bernie.

“Marty, can I come in to see you?” She sounded pretty strung out.

Oh-oh...“Sure, Bernie. What’s up?”

“I’d rather talk about it in person.”

That sounded ominous. I wondered if something had happened.

We arranged a time to meet later that afternoon. 

~

I settled Bernie in a client chair with a cup of chamomile tea. She looked as though she hadn’t slept much since I last saw her a week ago. Her hair bore the signs of her fingers being pulled through it and she had obviously come dressed just as she was when she called, in jeans and a plaid shirt. The whole look was a far cry from the stylish outfit she’d worn on her first visit here. As she raised the cup to her lips, I noticed her hand shaking a bit.

“Bernie, you look… Has something happened?” I asked

“You mean beside the fact that I’ve discovered I’m not who I thought I was? Or maybe that phone calls I got from my ‘brother’ snooping around my family’s business and grilling me about my ‘plans’?” She gave a humorless little laugh. “Or maybe you mean the personality change that’s come over my husband.”

She put down the tea cup and struggled to open her purse. She’d obviously come prepared. She pulled out a wad of tissues just as she burst into tears.

I rose, went around the desk, and sat in the other client chair, scootching it closer to her so I could put an arm around her shoulder.

After a few minutes, during which I was extremely helpful, I’m sure, by muttering soothing noises, Bernie gave her red nose a final noisy honk, and apologized.

"I'm sorry. I've just been such a wreck since all this started. I'm not sleeping, can't eat, and I just feel sort of sick."

I patted her shoulder and returned to my chair. 

“No apologies needed. Now, tell me what’s going on. Mark Mitchum called you? What did he say?”

“Several times! Oh, he pretended to be all friendly and everything. Just checking to see how I was doing, he said. Asked what Mike and I did for a living, if we had kids, that sort of thing. But he was real interested in what I was going to do with the apartment building.” She gave a little snort. “I think it was all fake. If you ask me, he came across as nosy rather than interested.”

“Did he offer to buy the building or something?” I asked. That would actually make some sense if Bernie decided she didn’t want to keep it.

“Oh, no, not outright. I don’t know… I just got the idea there was something about my having that building that really ticked him off him.” She paused to take a sip of tea. “I can’t imagine why. Don’t you think the rest of Marjorie’s – my mother’s – estate must be worth a lot more than an old apartment building?”

“Yes, I would think so.” I answered. “We don’t know that it’s old, Bernie, but even if it is, remember, the building is on Nob Hill. That’s a pretty toney neighborhood.”

“Yeah, but still…”

I had to agree that it sounded like a bit of an over-reaction on the Mitchum kid’s part. I wondered what was up. And I really wished we’d gone and taken a look at the building last week.

“Anyway,” Bernie said, “I thought he sounded arrogant and sort of rude. One phone call might have made sense. But three calls in one week? It felt like harassment, Marty.”

“Well, don’t let him get to you. If it happens again, we’ll sic T. Malcolm on him.”

She nodded, and blew her nose again.

“Now, what’s this about your husband?” Given what Harry had learned about McGraw, I was hesitant to ask, but I had a feeling that she wanted to talk about it. I mean, why would she have brought it up otherwise?

“Oh, it’s probably nothing. He just got a little weird when I told him about the Mitchum family and the apartment building. And when he saw the pictures and letters that my… my mother left me, he seemed, I don’t know… angry. I guess I can’t blame him. It turns out his wife isn’t who he thought she was, either.”

“Bernie, that’s nonsense. You are still the same person.”

“I’m not even sure why he was upset, you know? I mean, it not like I deliberately misled him.”

“Can you tell me about the letters? Was there something in them to make him mad?”

“No! They were very sweet. I think she really hated having to give me up, but her father pretty much made her do it. She was only fifteen.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t imagine being pregnant at fifteen, and being pushed around by your own parents. Anyway, she wrote me a letter every year on my birthday. Imagine. And I loved the pictures. I look like her, Marty!”

On the phone, she’d said she needed my help. I started to ask what she wanted me to do, but before I got more than a few words out of my mouth, a laugh in the outer office announced Harry’s arrival.

I went to my door and asked him to join us.

He came in, took one look at Bernie, and he said, “What happened? You look terrible.”

That’s our Harry, master of the social graces.

To my surprise, Bernie burst out laughing. “Well, thank you, Harry. You look pretty awful yourself.”

I knew I liked this woman. No one could argue with that, not even Harry. He looked down at his wrinkled chinos and sport shirt, and shrugged.

“Sorry. I guess compared to me, you look great. It’s hot in the Valley and it took me forever to get back. Traffic was terrible.”

Yeah, right. Like his appearance was due to his car ride.

“I was just about to ask Bernie what we could do. She’s here because she needs our help.”

Harry sat in the chair next to Bernie, and said, “What do you need, hon?”

She gave him a smile “Actually, two things. I told Marty about these letters my… mother – geez, that still feels so weird – left me. One every year on my birthday.”

She turned and looked at me for a moment. “But I didn’t tell you about the last one, Marty. It was different.  She knew she was dying, and it was a sort of goodbye. She mentioned the apartment building. Harry, did Marty tell you about the building I inherited?”

Harry nodded, and she went on. “Well, in that last letter, she said she hoped I’d hold onto it, that my roots were there. She said the building had things to tell me.”

She looked from me to Harry and back. “What do you suppose that means?”

It was a mystery, one I suspected couldn’t be solved until Bernie went to the apartment building.

“I think you need to go there, Bernie,” I said. “Worthington said there was an owner’s apartment. Maybe your answers are there.”

“Would one of you come with me? I’ll pay you. I don’t want to go alone, especially after those phone call from Mark Mitchum. And Mike is… busy. He can’t go.”

Harry started to ask, "Phone calls...?" but I held up my hand.

"I'll fill you in later."

He nodded, and went on. “I wish I could go with you. I’d love to see the place but I’m involved in a case and can’t leave. I'm sorry, Bernie.”

Bernie turned to me. “Of course I’ll go. I owe you a lunch on Union Square anyway.”

“Thank you. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”

I raised my eyebrows at her in question.

“I want to find my father.”

Two mysteries in one. I was a happy camper.

 

~

  

Continued in Part 5

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5, Muse 4: "Psychosomatic Warfare."

 

 

A Dame with a Past - Part 3

Continued from Part 2


With Bernie clutching my hand for dear life, we followed Worthington out and down the hall a short distance. He led us into a paneled room that, except for the furniture arrangement, looked more like someone’s living room than a meeting room.

Hung along the walls was a gallery of portraits: some of the faces behind the names on the letterhead, I assumed. Dour looking bunch, I must say. There was a desk at one end of the room. Facing it, arranged in rows theatre style along a center aisle, were about two dozen ornate chairs. They looked like Chippendale to me, but what do I know? In a few of those chairs sat the other people I assumed had been named in Marjorie Mitchum’s will.

Worthington led Bernie over to four people sitting together on the right side of the aisle, and introduced her to her half-sisters Elizabeth and Charlotte, and her half-brother Mark and his wife, Midge (Midge?). I took Elizabeth and Charlotte to be about 25 and 20 respectively, and Mark to be about 22. They were all dressed with understated and obviously expensive style. Beside me, I could feel Bernie shrinking into herself. The group greeted Bernie without any genuine warmth, but politely, showing off the social graces I’m sure they’d had drummed into them. But there was no question; there was a definite chill in the room.

Seated a couple of rows behind the family were three people who hadn’t stood, and who looked very uncomfortable. They weren’t introduced, and I had no idea who they were.
 

From across the short aisle, an elegantly-dressed woman in her mid-forties stepped forward and introduced herself as Louise Fennimore. She startled Bernie with a small hug, and expressed her condolences. Bernie looked totally confused until the woman added that she’d been Marjorie Mitchum’s best friend since childhood.
 

“I knew all about you, my dear, she said in a kind voice. “In fact, I feel I’ve watched you grow up. Marjorie showed me pictures. She was very proud of you, you know.”
 

Bernie colored, and clearly didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, she was saved from coming up with something when Worthington took her arm and guided her to a seat in the front row. I tagged along.
 

We sat down. After the lawyer turned away, Bernie grabbed my hand again and breathed, “Marty, all these people! I feel so alone.” I gave her hand what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze, but I have to admit I was feeling a bit out of my comfort zone myself.  I could feel the daggers hitting our backs. Based on the powerful grip she maintained on my hand, I knew Bernie felt them, too.
 

 ~

The lawyer took his seat behind the desk and looked around the room at the people facing him.

“Thank you for coming, everyone. I believe you all know me now, but for the record, I am Malcolm Worthington. I was Marjorie Mitchum’s attorney all her life.”
 

I was relieved to hear that he didn't include the "T" when saying his name. I would have been forced to return him to "Pompous Ass" status.
 

He cleared his throat, and continued, his voice taking on that peculiar stentorian tone lawyers assume in such circumstances.

“As you know, we are gathered here to read the last will and testament of Marjorie Bancroft Mitchum.” He picked up a legal-looking document. You know the kind, one of those with several pages stapled to a blue cover at the top.

He began to read. It was like every legal document I’ve ever read, full of whereas, wherefore, and assorted other legalese. I’ve always thought lawyers use such grandiose language to confuse the rest of us. Job security, you know? I won’t bore you with the jargon, but this is the gist of it.

I’m not sure if this is traditional, but the will laid out the bequeaths in order of smallest to largest. The first went to the three people seated in the back, who turned out to be Mitchum’s housekeeper, cook, and gardener. She had left each what Worthington called a “small token of her appreciation,” though in my world, there was nothing small about it. Each was accompanied by glowing words of thanks for loyal service.

Then there was something for Louise Fennimore. Worthington read, “Thank you, Louise, for being my anchor and my support system, as well as my dearest friend. I have so much to say to you, but I won’t say it here.” At that point, the lawyer picked up an ivory envelope with a name written across its face in large flowing script. He took it over to Fennimore.

“Marjorie requested that this letter be given to you today,” he said as he handed the envelope to the weeping woman.

He returned to his place behind the desk, looked at Bernie with a smile, and resumed his reading.

“And that brings us to the family bequeaths.”

Bernie had my handkerchief clutched in her hands and she began twisting it nervously.

Worthington looked at each of Marjorie Mitchum's other three children, and said, “These are the words of your mother. ‘I know that my children Elizabeth, Mark and Charlotte are shocked to learn that they have a half-sister. I’ve never told them anything about her, and I’m sincerely sorry for that. I saw no other way. It is my hope that they will find it in their hearts to welcome her into our family.

“‘I was barely more than a child myself when Bernice was born, and I was forced to give her up for adoption. But I knew Sarah Lahey, her adoptive mother, was a warm and caring woman, and I am so thankful that Bernice grew up in a loving home. I am especially grateful that I was allowed to share a small part of her life from afar through the photographs and letters Sarah Lahey so generously sent to me. I couldn’t send any letters to you, Bernice, as much as I wanted to, but that doesn’t mean I never wrote any. They are part of my bequest to you, along with photographs of myself, your grandparents, extended family members, and your siblings. I hope they help you to know me, to know us, and maybe to know a little more about yourself.’”

Worthington stopped reading, and swiveled his leather chair around to an ornate wooden chest along the wall behind the desk. From within one of the doors on the front of the credenza, he withdrew a bag. It was about the size of one of those old-fashioned train cases women used to travel with. Made of tooled leather, it was fashioned like a small trunk and was secured with two buckled straps. The lawyer picked it up by its handle and carried it over to Bernie.

Holding the bag on her lap, Bernie ran her hands over the tooling on its side. I can only imagine what she was thinking. In her hands was a portrait of a family she never knew she had. I glanced back at her newly found siblings, and the set of Elizabeth’s and Mark’s mouths as they looked at Bernie made it pretty clear what they were thinking. Displeasure clung to them like a fog. At least Charlotte appeared to have an open mind. She looked at Bernie with more curiosity than anything.

Worthington continued reading, and it turned out that bag Bernie held in her lap wasn’t the extent of her inheritance. I could hear everyone in the room gasp when the lawyer announced that Marjorie Mitchum had left Bernie an apartment building on Nob Hill.

We sat through the remainder of the will’s bequeaths, which didn’t take long. Basically, Marjorie Mitchum had left the remainder of her considerable estate to her other children, but I don’t think Bernie heard a word of that. She was too stunned.

When the meeting broke up, everyone but Bernie and I, the lawyer, and Louise Fennimore were gone in a shot. Charlotte paused on her way out the door to say to Bernie, “I hope we can get acquainted. Call me Charlie.”  Then the disapproving looks from her siblings pulled her into the hallway as if she were tethered. So much for a warm family welcome. I could tell that Bernie was a little hurt, but Louise came right over with more hugs.

“I’m so glad that Marjorie left you a reason to return to San Francisco. I hope you'll come often, and that we can get to know each other. Your mother was a wonderful person, and I’m looking forward to telling you all about her.”

Bernie smiled back at the gracious woman. “Thank you, Ms. Fennimore.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear. You must call me Louise. I know we’re going to be great friends.”

She snapped open her handbag and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my card. Please call me when you return.”

“Thank you. I will.” Bernie replied as she took the card. She looked at it before slipping it in a pocket, and I caught a glimpse. “Louise Fennimore Interior Design.”

“And, oh, Malcolm didn’t mention it, but the building includes an owner’s apartment, so you’ll have a place to stay when you’re in town. I can help you redecorate, if you’d like, but I have a feeling you might like to leave it just as it is. It was a favorite retreat of your mother’s.”

Before leaving, she turned to me. ‘Thank you for accompanying Bernice here, Mr. Tremaine. I know this was hard for her.”

“My pleasure.”

We said our goodbyes, and Louise Fennimore left the meeting room, leaving a small cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake

Holding the door open for us, Worthington said, “Please, come back to my office with me. I’ll give you the details of your inheritance.”

We spent another hour with the lawyer. He gave Bernie the business card of the building manager, who also lived on premises, and told her to contact him when she was ready. Worthington told Bernie that Marjorie had been a friend as well as a client and assured her that he was there to help should she need anything. See? I knew he was a nice guy all along.

~

As we rode down in the elevator, I asked Bernie what she wanted to do. It was a little late for lunch, but we hadn’t eaten since arriving. I was wishing I’d taken advantage of the spread at the law offices.

“I’m not hungry, Marty. Maybe just a cup of coffee?”

There was a Peet’s in the lobby of the building, so we went in. I settled Bernie and the leather bag at a table, and after giving her another shot at some food, went to the counter. In a few minutes, I returned with two coffees and a ham and swiss panini to find her looking through a small stack of photos.

“This is all so unreal, Marty. Last week, I was Sarah Lahey’s daughter, Mike McGraw’s wife, and a graphic artist with a crummy salary. Now look.”

I sat, and took a huge bite of my Panini. “Sure you don’t want half?” I mumbled around the sandwich.

She shook her head, and when I’d swallowed my mouthful and had a drink of coffee, I said, “Bernie, you are still all of those things. Nothing’s really changed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, nothing at all, except I have a mother I never knew, a family which doesn’t seem overjoyed to find out about their bastard sister – well except maybe for Charlotte -- and, oh yeah, I own a apartment building. A freaking apartment building! What am I going to do with that?”

OK, I had to admit her newly found siblings could have been a little nicer, but we had to remember that they were as shocked as Bernie was to discover Marjorie’s secret love child. But the apartment building?

“No worries, Bernie. You can keep it as an investment. Worthington said it had a building manager, and he’s there to help too if need be. Besides,” I added before taking the last bite of my sandwich, "it’ll give you a place to stay in Frisco. Nob Hill, kiddo. Pretty nice digs.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Hey, do you want to go over there now and take a look? It’s only a few blocks away, a bit uphill to be sure, but it’s a nice day. Or we could catch a cab.”

She thought a minute, then said, “No, thanks, Marty, but I’m not ready. I need some time to digest all this. Can we just go back to LA?”

“Sure, I understand.”

We finished our coffee and headed to the airport. We were back in LA by 4:30pm. I offered to drive her home, but she said she’d rather take a cab. We said our goodbyes, and headed our separate ways.

 

~

Continued in Part 4

  

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 5, Muse 3: "Alone Never Felt So Crowded."