“That’s right. You want to talk to Mr. Blessing?”
What would I say to him? Good morning, I’m Kerry Wade’s significant other and I’d like to know if you’re screwing her and how serious things are between the two of you in any case. Oh, and by the way, was that your wife I just spoke to?
“Hello?” the woman said. “You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay, I’ll get him for you—”
“No, that’s not necessary. Are you Mrs. Blessing?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Blessing, Paul’s wife.”
“Me?” She made a noise that was either a snort or a laugh. “I’m the housekeeper.”
“Is Mrs. Blessing home?”
“There isn’t a Mrs. Blessing. No more.”
“Oh? Divorce?”
“She died,” the woman said. “Last year.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
“I have work to do,” she said. “What’s your name? I’ll tell Mr. Blessing and you talk to him—”
“Thanks, but don’t disturb him. I’ll call again later.”
I hung up feeling like a fool. So now I knew the Paul Blessing in Tiburon was the right one and that he was a widower. So what? What was I going to do with the knowledge? Confront him — get in his face, tell him to leave Kerry alone? Threaten him, pound on him... the Mr. Macho, Eddie Cahill approach? For Christ’s sake, I had no claims on Kerry, and Blessing was as legally unattached as she was, and we were all adults here anyway, right? These things happened and you had to accept them, bow out gracefully if it came to that, que será, será. That was the only civilized way to deal with it, the only intelligent way. Even if you were hurting and scared right down to the marrow.
Damn office was cold, even though I’d put the heat on when I came in. Fog capered outside the skylights, running and tumbling under the lash of an icy ocean wind. The wind would banish the fog later on and there’d be sun most of the day, but right now there was the cold and the gray. I got up and put my overcoat back on and sat down again. And stared at the phone. And picked up the receiver and tapped out Kerry’s number.
Click, and a humming, and: “Hello. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number I’ll return your call as soon as—”
I banged the receiver down, the first time I had ever disconnected without talking to her machine. There wasn’t any point in leaving a message. She knew I wanted to see her, and the fact that she hadn’t called meant she was avoiding me. Guilt, fear, whatever.
I stared at the phone some more. God, I wished there was somebody I could talk to about this. Cybil? Kerry wouldn’t have told her mother she was having an affair. Cybil was back on my side after months of shunning me; and Kerry wouldn’t have wanted to upset her now that she had finally recovered from the year-long depression caused by her husband Ivan’s sudden death. And if I broke the news to Cybil, it would do more harm than good. I did not want to burden her any more than Kerry did.
Bobbie Jean? She and Kerry were still friends, but I doubted that Kerry would confide in her about a thing like this. I couldn’t either. I had spoken to Bobbie Jean only once since Eberhardt walked out, right afterward; she’d called to say how sorry she was. It had been an awkward conversation, and a brief one. She was too tightly linked to Eberhardt for us to go on being comfortable with each other, and we both knew it.
Who else was there? Nobody else. Not Barney Rivera, that little prick; the way I felt now I would never deal with him again, personally or professionally. Not Joe DeFalco. Not any of my other acquaintances.
Kerry was the only one.
Well, she wouldn’t hide out for long; she wasn’t made that way. Still, I was not going to just hang and rattle. Better for both of us if it came from her, straight out, so I’d give her the weekend — no more. If she was still avoiding me come Monday, I’d force it. Any longer than that and I might not be emotionally capable of handling it the right way.
One more call, business this time, then I’d get out of here, get some people around me. Worst place for me right now was alone in a room, any room.
Annette Olroyd’s number. Four rings, and an elderly female voice said formally, “Yes? May I help you?”
“Ms. Olroyd?”
“No, this is her mother. Annette is out of town just now.”
“When do you expect her back?”
“Sometime this evening. May I take a message?”
“Yes, please.” I gave my name and profession. “Tell your daughter I’d like to talk to her on an urgent matter concerning Nedra Merchant.”
“Oh. She isn’t in any trouble, is she?”
“Your daughter? No, not at all—”
“I meant Nedra. Annette will be terribly upset if she is.”
“Do you know Nedra, Mrs...?”
“Mrs. Davis. I don’t know her well, but I met her once and liked her.”
“Is she a close friend of Annette’s?”
“Not close, no. She was a godsend.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well... her counsel helped Annette through a very difficult time, you know.” Mrs. Davis seemed to think I had some knowledge of the relationship between her daughter and Nedra Merchant; that was one reason she was being open with me. Another was that she was probably the chatty, unassuming type. “Much more so than Dr. Muncon’s, I must say.”
“Dr. Philip Muncon?”
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met. Is that how your daughter met Nedra, through the doctor?”
“At his office, yes. She was so devastated when Bob left her, it seemed that therapy was the only solution. We didn’t dream that another of his patients would be the one to provide it.”
Right. Who knew men and how to deal with the breakup of a male-female relationship better than a woman like Nedra Merchant? She must have taken pity on Annette Olroyd. She may not have had any women friends — may not have liked women much, as her ex-husband had testified — but the role of sage and mother confessor is difficult for anyone to resist.
I asked, “How long has it been since Annette last saw Nedra?”
“Oh, several months,” Mrs. Davis said. “Nedra left the city suddenly, you know.”
“Yes. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Annette was upset at first; she thought something might have happened to Nedra. You can imagine how relieved she was when she found out that wasn’t the case.”
“How did she find it out?”
“Nedra wrote to her.”
“Wrote to her. A postcard, by any chance?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“More than one?”
“Two, I believe.”
“Can you tell me where the cards were mailed?”
“A resort area... a lake somewhere. I don’t recall which one.”
“Lake Tahoe?”
“No, I don’t think it was Lake Tahoe.”
“Did you see any of the cards, Mrs. Davis?”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”
“Did Annette tell you what they said?”
“Oh, you know, the usual things people write on postcards. She was fine and expected to be away for quite a while.”
“Would you know if your daughter saved the cards?”
“I expect she did. Annette inherited my packrat tendencies.”
“Would you be able to find them?”
“...You mean now? Without Annette’s permission?”
“Yes, ma’am. I wouldn’t ask except that it’s very important I locate Nedra as soon as possible. The name of the lake and the town or towns where they were mailed would be a great help.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. I don’t have any idea where she might have put them and I don’t believe in invading anyone’s privacy, even in a good cause. No, I’m sorry, but I think it’s best if you talk to Annette about this when she gets back.”