“Sounds like fun,” I said. “Where will you broadcast your spots?”
“We need to talk to Jean-Paul about that. Dom says that’s his area of expertise.”
“We’ll talk more about it when I get there.”
“We’ve drafted a shooting script. I’ll email it to you so you can punch it up.”
“Casey, I didn’t know you were interested in filmmaking.”
“You kidding?” she said with some heat. “No way. I’ve seen what you have to put up with. Nope, not my gig. But I am really getting into cheese making. Who knew, huh? The chemistry of it is fascinating.”
She told me that she and some of the cousins were leaving in the morning on a road trip into the Dordogne to do some kayaking and hiking. I refrained from offering a string of maternal warnings and wished her godspeed. She promised they would be back, intact, before I arrived.
Jean-Paul was in the midst of a business-related call when I said good-bye to Casey. I called Mom next.
“The piano mover is scheduled for first thing tomorrow,” she told me. “Can you be there when they arrive?”
“I’ll wait for them.”
Mom gave me the mover’s number in case there was an issue. She updated me on her plans to move into the Tejedas’ casita, and seemed very upbeat about the prospect. After I filled her in on progress with the house, I said, “I ran into an old friend of yours yesterday, a man named Khanh Duc.”
“Oh, dear. Duc. I was just thinking about him. Funny how that happens, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought about him for years, and then out of the blue you mention him.”
“I don’t remember him,” I said. “But he apparently spent a lot of time with Dad.”
“I suppose. They had roses in common.”
“Were you thinking about him because I brought up Mrs. Bartolini the other day?”
I heard her let out a deep breath before she said, “Yes.”
“Is there a story there?”
“If there is, it isn’t my story to tell,” Mom said.
“Duc told me he and Mrs. B were from the same village in Vietnam.”
“Maggie, you’re digging.”
“I am,” I said. “Shamelessly. I heard something last night that cast what happened to her in a whole new light. Was there something between her and Duc?”
“I couldn’t say,” Mom said. “I only know they lost touch after their families were evacuated to Saigon.”
“Until she ran into him at the refugee camp at the Presidio?”
“Yes.”
“Did something develop after that?”
“Can we just say that they were old friends, and leave it at that?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There was another man from their village that I think you knew.”
“Van Thai?” she asked. “Yes. A very angry man.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“None at all. Van worked for Tosh for a while. When Tosh fired him, he moved out of the area. I doubt I ever heard his name again until today.”
The conversation was making Mom very uncomfortable. She knew something. But if Mom didn’t want to talk about it, she wouldn’t, so there was no point pursuing the issue. Didn’t matter; her reluctance to answer had been answer enough. I changed the subject to Susan’s expected arrival and news about various neighbors.
After we said good-bye, I called Kevin. His phone went straight to voice mail, so I left a message: “I want to see Mrs. B’s murder book. And we need to talk. Very soon.”
I hit speed dial and connected with my assistant, Fergie. I gave her the little I knew about Thai Van and his father, Thai Hung, and asked her to go into the network’s news archives to see what she could find. And, if possible, find out where Van was now. As long as we were still connected to the network, I might as well use their resources.
A call from Uncle Max beeped the line. I ended the call to Fergie and said hello to Max.
“I’m on my way to SFO to pick up Guido,” Max told me. “Do you want me to rent you a van or a pickup while I’m at the airport?”
“Please,” I said. “I hope I’ll only need it until Tuesday.”
I looked at my watch as I calculated Max’s travel time. If Guido’s plane was on time and traffic on Bayshore wasn’t too god-awful, they would be here in a couple of hours. I said good-bye to Max, turned off my phone and put it in my pocket.
Jean-Paul had wandered over to the garden. When I joined him, he was wiping bloom dust off a perfect tomato.
“What can be done?” he said, taking a bite out of the tomato. The juice ran halfway down his arm. He shook it off. “My mother is plotting with your grandmother.”
“It’s kind of cute,” I said, wiping his chin with the tail of my shirt. “Very teenagery. Or is it dynastic? We aren’t cousins to some degree, are we?”
“Not that I am aware. And certainly there is no great fortune at stake.”
“Well, let them have their fun,” I said.
“All is well with your mother?” he asked. “I didn’t hear the usual laughter when you were speaking with her.”
“She doesn’t want me asking her questions about Trinh Bartolini.”
“But she should know that only makes you more curious.”
I laughed. “You’d think she would by now.”
He touched my cheek. “I overheard you asking Fergie to locate Thai Van. There are some resources I can call on, if you want.”
“Would you?”
“I should know better, but I will, as soon as I am back in Los Angeles.”
“What time is your plane this afternoon?” I asked.
“Too soon.” He looked at his watch. “Rafael is coming for me in the consul’s car.”
“Is there anything you want to see or do before you go?”
He smiled. “I can think of a couple of ways to pass the time that might be quite interesting, but instead, I want you to make good use of me for the little time remaining so that we can lock the door and leave here by Tuesday afternoon.”
“Well then.” I handed him a stack of sticky-note pads. “Pink is for the furniture I’m taking. Yellow is for Robnett family pieces my cousin needs to look at. Thrift store items are green and need to go to the garage for pick-up, and blue is staying here. Dad’s books also need to go out to the garage.”
We spent the rest of the morning affixing sticky notes and hauling stuff to the garage where it would be accessible for the trucks from the thrift store and the university library to haul away. Fortunately, the kitchen was finished. Roy and Lyle had sorted the kitchen cupboards when we were at the dump on Saturday, leaving full complements of dishes, pots, pans and utensils the tenants might need neatly stowed in the cupboards. The rest was carefully packed and labeled and ready to go. There was a nearly complete set of very old Wedgwood china for Susan, my parents’ wedding china for Casey one day, and a few things that I wanted to keep. Lyle and Roy had taken with them a set of brightly colored vintage Fiestaware they had always admired. The rest we carried out to the garage for the thrift store truck that was due Monday morning.
The locksmith showed up while we were moving things into the garage. He reminded me about Sunday rates and I told him to install good bolts on all the doors, and to check all the windows on the ground floor to make sure their locks were good. And then we left him to his work.
When Max and Guido arrived, Jean-Paul and I took a break for lunch.
There was a frisson in the air between Jean-Paul and Guido, most of it emanating off Guido. We were longtime co-workers, good friends and nothing more. Except for one night when we were in Central America trying to file a news report about an attempted coup while we were under fire and had only a bottle of mescal for sustenance. Whatever happened that night-both of us blamed our lack of precise memory on the mescal-was never mentioned afterward. But Guido, of the Sicilian Patrini clan, just couldn’t help being a bit possessive, and despite his efforts not to be, paternal.