“And another question, just to test you. How old were the Stover children when the family moved?”
She looked at me and moved her head slowly from side to side in puzzlement. “I don’t know what all this has to do with our neighborhood history, but I realize that you newspaper people have your methods. Oh, I suppose that the boy, Chester, was about twelve or so, and the girl was probably a few years younger — maybe eight or nine.”
“What did Mr. Stover do for a living?”
“He was an accountant of some sort up in the Loop, probably a CPA.”
“Wealthy?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not at all. I always suspected they were mortgaged to the hilt, and so did Warburton. A nice couple, I’ll grant, but if you ask me, I think they were living beyond their means. Which made it even more surprising to us that they moved to a larger house in a wealthy suburb. It has always been puzzling to me how they could have afforded it.”
“Uh-huh. That does sound quite puzzling. You said their daughter was named Nicolette — I had a girl friend by that name once,” I improvised. “People used to call her Nikki.”
“Well, I believe that’s what Tom and Wilma — those were the Stovers — called their girl, too. Cute little blonde she was, head full of curls. Or... no, I think perhaps they called her Kiki,” she said, rubbing her cheek with her hand. “Oh, well, what does it matter? That was a long time ago.”
“Yes it was,” I agreed, making sure to dodge the branch as I rose. “And I’ve been here for a long time, too. I really must be leaving. Thank you so much for your hospitality; you’ve been very helpful.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry that you have to leave,” she said, tilting her head to one side in a gesture that probably set male hearts aflutter in the Chicago society of a half-century earlier. “But I’m afraid I really haven’t been all that much help. We hardly got into the history of Beverly Hills at all.”
“Oh, but I feel it was a very good start, and I may stop back and see you again, with your permission, of course.” She told me to come back any time, and when I leaned down and took her hand in parting, Armantha magically materialized to show me out. As I left the solarium, I turned back and smiled. Edna Warburton waved vaguely and returned the smile, nestled among her flowers and foliage and memories.
Chapter 13
As I waited at the 103rd Street station in Beverly Hills for a train back to the Loop, I stuck my head into the pay telephone booth on the platform and, to my surprise, found not only a Chicago directory chained to the shelf, but also a far thinner one for a cluster of southern suburbs, Flossmoor among them.
That small community had a single Stover listing — Thomas R. I scribbled the address and telephone number in my notebook and began forming a plan for the next day.
I now felt like a seasoned rail commuter. First had been the Lake Street elevated rides out to Oak Park, then the Rock Island to Beverly Hills, and now, early on a cloudless Sunday afternoon, I rode a near-empty Illinois Central electric train south to the village of Flossmoor, some twenty miles out from the Loop.
The Stover house was four blocks from the little depot and sat on a serene and self-satisfied avenue lined with elms and poplars. The homes on the block, though newer than those I had seen in Beverly Hills, were every bit as imposing in their own way, set well back from the street and fronted by lawns as big as football fields. The architectural styles varied from English Tudor to French to Georgian to Colonial, and the biggest house of all, the Stover residence, was a Spanish-style palazzo of maize-colored stucco with a red tile roof and an arched doorway with ornamental iron gates. This hacienda, looking like a transplant from Edna Warburton’s “other” Beverly Hills, cried out for some sort of tropical trees — palms, perhaps — rather than the elms that graced its stately grounds.
Crushing the remains of a Lucky Strike with my heel and adjusting the tilt of my hat from jaunty to businesslike, I tucked my clipboard under one arm and strode up the pebbled, serpentine sidewalk. When I got to the iron gates, I found they opened into a small walled courtyard with a bed of red and yellow tulips proclaiming the season and a working fountain that gurgled discreetly.
The gates were unlocked, so I passed through the courtyard on another pebbled sidewalk leading to the front door, which appeared to be oak and had six recessed panels with carved leaves in them. When I pushed the brass button, a four-note chime sounded within.
After a few beats, the door opened just far enough to reveal a woman of perhaps fifty-five. She had a pleasant face framed by sandy hair tinged with gray and pulled back in a bun.
“Yes?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“Mrs. Stover?”
“I’m Wilma Stover. Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said in a cheerful tone, tipping my hat. “My name is Charles J. Melrose, and I represent the U.S. Bureau of Census, which of course is an arm of our federal government. I handed her a calling card proclaiming this identity in raised lettering and garnished with the Great Seal of the United States.
“As you know, Mrs. Stover, there will be a nationwide census in just two years, as of course there is every ten years at the turn of the decade. However, it is now the practice of the Bureau, as you may be aware, to undertake ‘pre-census’ surveys. A small percentage of the United States population is selected at random for brief interviews. The purpose of these is to help us — the Bureau, that is — to develop a questionnaire that better reflects the diversity of the American populace as a whole. We are always striving to improve the accuracy and depth of our information, and this is just another example of that ongoing program. Might I take just a few minutes of your time and your husband’s? I promise it will be brief.”
“Well... Tom is out golfing right now. It’s been a long winter, and when a nice day like this comes along, well...” She smiled. “However, I’d be happy to talk to you, or do you need to see both people in a house?”
“Oh, no, no, this will be just fine,” I said, trying to keep from sounding pleased. I had hoped I might talk to one of them alone, preferably the wife. I followed Wilma Stover through a dark entrance hall and into a living room with a beamed, cathedral ceiling, stucco walls, and what I took to be Spanish furnishings, including a multicolored, striped, and fringed tapestry that hung on one wall. A balcony with an ornate carved iron railing looked down on us from the upper floor, and an honest-to-goodness suit of armor stood sentinel in one corner, complete with a mace in one of its metal hands.
“This is a very impressive room,” I told her as she gestured me to a bulky sofa and took a big-backed, dark wood chair at right angles to it.
“Thank you very much,” she said, obviously pleased. “Both Tom and I love Mexico, and this room — this whole house, really — helps to remind us of the pleasant times we have had there over the years. I’m quite surprised that census people like yourself are making calls on a Sunday.” Her tone was serious and questioning, but fell well short of disapproval.
I cleared my throat. “Well, yes, that is something of a departure from our past practices, I must concede. But the Bureau felt it was easier to find people at home at this time. Having said that, however, we have strict instructions to ask people if they feel we are infringing on their day of rest or on their religious practices by our presence on a Sunday. If this is a concern of yours, I will of course depart immediately.”
“Oh, no, please don’t worry about that,” she said, waving a hand lightly. “I just found it unusual. But as I said before, I’m most willing to help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stover,” I said, poising a sharpened No. 2 yellow pencil over a sheet of paper on my clipboard. “I have a series of questions to run through, and I’ll try to be as brief as possible.”