Margaret Grace: Murder In Miniature

Maddie enjoyed playing hostess on these evenings and tonight she seemed to have fun refilling glasses of ice tea and plates of cookies, running back and forth between the kitchen and the atrium of my Eichler home. It took the record-breaking heat we were experiencing to get us to move all our supplies from my crafts room to the cooler atrium, and this week had qualified.

For her own project Maddie had chosen to build a miniature soda fountain. She’d worked diligently on a sign that named flavors after her own friends and relatives. In her red-striped shop, one could “buy” Ginger Grandma, Pistachio Porter, Strawberry Skip, Tutti-Frutti Tracey, and so on.

“Does this mean your goal for the year is to eat all the ice cream you can?” Karen asked.

“For now,” Maddie said.

I was happy that my granddaughter considered her life so good that all it needed was more ice cream. I also loved that she worked the spectrum of creativity, from computer programming in the morning to crafting tiny ice cream sodas in the evening.

Of all the projects, Rosie Norman’s was the most interesting and packed with meaning-she was building a half-scale room box replica, one-half inch to one foot, of the hallway of lockers at Abraham Lincoln High School.

“It’s where David Bridges, the star quarterback, kissed me,” was her only explanation the first week.

Rosie, who owned the bookstore in town, was a student of mine during my first years teaching English at ALHS, right after Ken, our three-year-old son, Richard (Maddie’s father), and I moved to California from the Bronx. Rosie had also become a good friend who sometimes watched Maddie when I had undisclosed errands at the police station across the street from her shop.

Rosie’s class was holding its thirtieth reunion at the end of the week. At first I questioned the math, but finally grasped the reality-it had been three decades since I helped distribute diplomas to my first graduating class. Faculty, current and retired, like me, were also invited to the gala weekend, most of which would be spent at the beautiful, old Duns Scotus Hotel in San Francisco. (Apparently, no one wanted to party at Abe’s Beard and Breakfast, the only motel in Lincoln Point.) Rosie had talked me into going so she wouldn’t have to walk into the opening cocktail party alone on Friday night.

“Why are y’all bothering to go?” Susan Giles asked, her heavily accented “y’all” referring only to Rosie. “You always say how you weren’t very popular in high school.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Rosie told her.

Rosie was probably right. Susan’s voice betrayed a lack of understanding, and I pictured her as a class officer and prom queen of her Tennessee high school. Rosie, on the other hand, had had a reserved personality and an almost matronly body even as a teenager. Thick glasses and a slight lisp hadn’t helped.

“Well, I just think you have to be realistic,” Susan said. “People don’t change, and if you think you didn’t fit in then, you probably won’t now.”

Harsh words from someone whose “realistic” hope was to win a trip around the world. Susan was working on a set of miniature luggage, using tweezers to manipulate in place tiny pieces of floral brocade and minutely thin strips of leather. I hoped the trip would be all expenses paid; otherwise the life-size version of this seven-piece luggage set would cost a fortune to check at the airport.

Over the summer weeks, as Rosie had added scuffed sneakers and spiral binders to the three-inch-tall (six feet in real life) lockers, and posters, photos, and mirrors to the insides of their doors, she’d revealed more and more about her history with David Bridges.

“I had a huge crush on him,” she’d told us. “And one date, almost, which had a sorry end, but it wasn’t his fault.” She promised us all more details on that later. The important thing was that now, out of the blue, after thirty years, David was sending her presents and notes about how eager he was to meet her again during the reunion weekend. He’d sent flowers, candy, and jewelry. “I don’t want to wear the bracelet he sent until the reunion weekend, but I’ll tell you it’s really, really beautiful. Tiny emerald and diamond stones. David did not spare any expense.”

Sooner or later in their four years at ALHS, every student, some more memorable than others, passed through one of my English classes. My memory of David Bridges was of a good-looking and popular young man. A star athlete, but not a very engaged student. He was immature for his age, as were the boys in his crowd, if I remembered correctly. For Rosie’s sake, I hoped that the responsibilities of adulthood had brought him more wisdom and perspective.

The chatter during this last crafts meeting before the big weekend seemed to be completely devoted to what Rosie would wear to the opening cocktail party on Friday night. Something classic, but not dowdy. Flattering, but not trashy. Bright, but not gaudy. We talked as much about Rosie’s dress as we did when one of us needed help designing a canopy for a miniature Victorian bed or a yarn rug for a log cabin kitchen.

Rosie had been invited to David’s room for a private party on Friday night after the cocktail party. I, of course, would be her guest. That gave me only two days to come up with an excuse for getting out of it.

“What’s David doing with his life now?” Karen said.

That question, intended or not, sparked a very long response from Rosie. “David has the title of chief engineer at the Duns Scotus, which you all know is the premier hotel in San Francisco.”

This was a very responsible job, Rosie explained, often meaning he was the only manager on duty for days at a time. How else did we think her class was getting such a good rate on rooms? He’d been married briefly but was now divorced, with one son, Kevin, whom he hadn’t seen in a long time. He lived in South San Francisco.

“I thought you lost track of each other a long time ago. How do you know all this?” I asked.

Rosie blushed. She lowered her head to apply a sealant to the floor of her room box. She’d achieved a decent semblance of the ALHS first-floor hallway, with ugly linoleum on the floor and steel gray lockers lining one wall. “I haven’t talked to him in all this time, but I volunteered to put together the booklet that has information on everyone’s life at the present time. It’s like a yearbook, but updated.”

“And you got that input from him? Even the part about his being estranged from his son?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. He filled out the form I sent to everyone in the class and he just drew a line next to the question about children’s occupations. So, I’m assuming they’re estranged.”

“Maybe the kid’s just unemployed,” Susan offered.

Rosie waved her hand as if to say, “So what?” She smiled broadly. “I want you to know he didn’t just fill in the blanks; he added a personal note that said, ‘Thanks, Rosie.’”

One thing crafters were good at-talking and working at the same time. Fingers were busy gluing, cutting, trimming, painting, and sewing while questions and answers continued to fly. There was also a fair amount of snacking from the potluck bowls that had arrived with my guests.

“And these presents-do they come with a note, or a phone call, or anything?” Karen asked.

“How do y’all know these presents are from David?” Susan jumped in.

“You both sound like my dad. He’s the only other one who knows about this. I’ll tell you what I tell him. I know it’s David, that’s all there is to it. And besides, there’s a card with each present, signed Love, D. B. That’s for David Bridges.” Rosie rolled her eyes. “Who else?”

I saw that we were all tiptoeing around a warning to Rosie that there was something not quite right about this reunion within a reunion. Mabel gave it the best try.