Michael had another opportunity to admire the way Ms. Leigh could look amused without moving a single facial muscle. “How do other kinds of weather affect her?”
“Fortunately we don’t have much thunder and lightning around here because that’s what really drives her batty. The santanas do too, these dry dirty winds that blow in from the desert. She’s scared to death of them. She tears around the house closing all the windows and drapes and screaming that they’re out to get her.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“I wish I knew. I’d invite them in and say, take her, she’s yours. Mostly though, it’s not a bad job. We even get a little excitement now and then when Firenze escapes. We usually let her stay out for an hour or so and have her fun, then send someone after her. It’s a change for all of us.”
“Where does she go when she escapes?”
“Down to the creek. She plays in the water like a kid and brings back little bouquets of flowers, or what she pretends are flowers. Sometimes, it’s only a handful of grass or foxtails, once even poison oak. We all thought she’d be a real mess afterward but she fooled us again. It turned out that she’s immune to it. There wasn’t a blister or red mark on her. She could probably make a salad of the stuff and it wouldn’t do her any harm.”
The young maid Michael had seen carrying the breakfast tray down the hall appeared in the doorway. “Madam just buzzed that she’s ready.”
“Thanks, Miriam. We’ll go right up.”
Miss Firenze was propped up on half a dozen pillows in the center of a king-sized bed. Her body was completely hidden under a black garment that resembled the robes worn by members of a church choir.
Age had left her skin relatively unlined but rearranged the hair on her face. She had no eyebrows or lashes, but a profusion of gray-black hairs grew out of her upper lip almost as thick as a moustache. Under it she wore a slash of bright red lipstick. Her still-black hair was arranged in a single braid at the back of her neck. Her eyes were her most striking feature, as bright and iridescent as drops of oil.
She addressed her visitor in a voice that was hoarse, as if her vocal chords had lost their elasticity from overuse.
“So what have we here?”
“I’m Michael Dunlop, Miss Firenze.”
“Don’t mean a thing to me. Wait. That’s thirteen letters. Bad luck. You’re bringing me bad luck.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s your sign?”
“Sign?”
“When were you born?”
“December thirteenth.”
“Thirteen again. Two thirteens. I don’t like this. Take him away. He’s bad luck.”
“Madam is forgetting,” Ms. Leigh said smoothly, “that two thirteens make twenty-six and twenty-six is a good round lucky number.”
“Who says so?”
“Your book on numerology.”
“It says right there in print that twenty-six is lucky?”
“Right there in print.”
Miss Firenze’s bright gaze shifted back to Michael. “Come on over here where I can get a look at you. Stand by the window.”
Michael stood by the window. It had iron grillwork across it like the iron grilling on the front gate. He was not sure whether it was intended to keep people out or to keep Miss Firenze in.
“You’re not a bad-looking fellow. A bit too skinny. A man should be on the heavy side, robust, strong. You like flowers?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Carnations,” Ms. Leigh said. “He told me on the way up here how much he admires carnations.”
“Now ain’t that a coincidence? Carnations are my favorite too. Nice spicy smell, not too sweet like jasmine or roses. You like roses?”
“Not particularly,” Michael said.
“Good. Sit down.”
Michael sat down in a pink velvet chair that matched the trio he’d seen in the hall. As Miss Firenze watched him the skin around her eyes crinkled and the slash of lipstick under her moustache moved in what appeared to be a smile. It was more mischievous than friendly, as if she were recalling someone else who’d sat in that chair, or a long succession of someone elses.
“So. You’re a minister.”
“Yes.”
“What’s that thing you’re wearing?”
“A clerical collar.”
“No, no, no. I mean the black thing that looks like a vest on backwards.”
“It’s called a rabat.”
“I’ve often wondered about that. I’ve seen quite a few of them in my day. You fellows don’t always practice what you preach, you know. But then who does? I remember telling my girls to always brush their teeth three times a day, and all the time I was only brushing mine twice a day. I should have listened to myself. Oh, I still got all my teeth, yes sir, but they’re in a cigar box along with my gallstones and wedding ring.”
From Ms. Leigh’s corner of the room came what was unmistakably a laugh. “What’s so funny?” Miss Firenze said.
“I’m sorry. I intended to cough.”
“Then why didn’t you? You laughed.”
“Is that how it sounded? I’ve always had a very peculiar cough, probably environmental.”
“She has an explanation for everything,” Miss Firenze told Michael. “And she uses big words to impress me. Well, I ain’t impressed. One of these days I’m going to kick her out on her ass… Do you have good teeth, Mr. Minister?”
“Good enough.”
“How often do you clean them?”
“Whenever I have the chance.”
“Smile.”
He smiled uneasily, aware that somehow in the past few minutes he had lost control of the situation and the old lady, crazy or not, had taken charge.
“Does Madam wish me to tape this?” Ms. Leigh said.
“This what?”
“For lack of a better word, conversation.”
“You see?” The old lady appealed to Michael again. “She’s being sarcastic as usual. Beats me how I stand her around. I could never figure out these Orientals. Their face does one thing while their brain does another. What’s more, they’re all flat-chested.”
Ms. Leigh let out another of her peculiar coughs, excused herself and left the room.
“Now,” the old lady said. “Now you and I can talk. What’s on your mind?”
“I—”
“You didn’t come here to save my soul, did you? Waste of time, boy, waste of time. I don’t have one. A chaplain told me that once. He didn’t have much of a soul himself, just a hankering like any swabbie. He was a navy chaplain. Were you ever in the navy?”
“No.”
“Do you hanker?”
“Yes.”
“Got a wife?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“I haven’t had much of a chance.”
“Okay, it’s your turn. Say something.”
There was a brief silence before Michael spoke again. “I suppose I could claim that this is strictly a social call but it isn’t. I came here in the hope of getting some information.”
“What about?”
“You do some exploring around the neighborhood, I’m told.”
“Sure I do, whenever they’re not looking. I don’t know why I’m penned up like this anyway. I think it’s that guy at the bank. He’s got some fancy title but what it boils down to is money. My money. He’s afraid I might throw it away or something. And you know what he does with it? He throws it away on a pack of lawyers and this bunch of nuts who’re supposed to be looking after me. Does that make sense?”
“When you put it like that, no.”
“Then you’re on my side.”
“I believe I am,” Michael said, sounding a little surprised.
The old lady raised herself from the pillows and sat up, clasping her knees with her hands. Her fingernails, painted the same red as her lipstick, were so long they curled inward like claws.