Bill Pronzini - Beyond the Grave

Finally she sat down across the desk from me, her hands clasped around her shapely knees, the ring positioned so it caught the light from the window behind me. “The wedding,” she said, “is to be on September fourth-my birthday.”

She would be all of eighteen, I thought. And Carlos was fifty-three. My preoccupation with my own feelings quickly evaporated and was replaced by a greater concern for Susana. How could such a marriage work, given the vast age difference? Carlos had seemed old to me ….

“We do not wish to have a large wedding,” Susana went on. “I had that with my first marriage, in Bogota. I did not enjoy it.” She paused, then wrinkled her nose. “Of course, I did not enjoy the marriage, either.”

I smiled faintly. Tony Ibarra, Susana's first husband, had been a smirking, pretentious man who always reminded me of what used to be called a “lounge lizard.” By the time she had seen through him, he had proven himself to be much worse-an embezzler.

“So,” Susana said, “it will be a simple ceremony with only our close friends present. And I wish you to be my maid of honor!”

From the way she beamed at me, I knew she thought she was presenting me with a precious gift. I forced a smile and said, “Why, Susana, I'm honored.”

She brushed the words away with a gesture of her left hand that sent out a shower of sparkles. “I would have no one else. When I was starting over all alone in this country, you gave me a chance to prove myself. Not many would have done that-not after the way I aided my husband in his wickedness. I have never really expressed it, but I am very grateful, Elena.”

Touched, I searched for words, but Susana went on. “There is only one problem. I must ask you-do you easily become seasick?” I stared at her.

“The reason I ask is that the wedding is to be held on Carlos's yacht. We want something different from the usual type of ceremony.”

Something different in a wedding: It seemed to be the California dream. People got married on beaches and in redwood groves, in hot-air balloons and on ski lifts. The settings and ceremonies were ingenious, while the marriages that resulted were often drearily the same. And now Susana and Carlos would formalize their union on the high seas. A weariness settled over me, and suddenly I wished I could say I turned green at the slightest ripple. But I couldn't do that; I have the world's steadiest pair of sea legs, and Carlos knew that from the numerous hours we'd spent together on that same yacht. “No,” I said, “I don't get seasick.”

“Bueno!” Susana clapped her hands together. I realized we'd be treated to many dramatic hand gestures before she got used to that ring.

She reached for a pen and a legal pad that lay on my desk, then said, “Now we can go on with the planning. I think pink for your dress. Or perhaps yellow-something to express the joy of the occasion.”

I look like the devil in yellow, and I hate pink. “Fine,” I said. “You choose.”

“And roses for the bouquet. In colors to match the dress.”

Roses make me sneeze. “Whatever you think best. But what will you be wearing?”

“A long dress.” She paused. “Oh, you mean the color. Well, certainly not white. But ivory, perhaps. A color that is only a little tainted.” And then she giggled so loudly I winced.

If Susana was going to be a millionaire's wife, I thought, we'd have to work on that giggle. Perhaps I could train her…. But how? I'd ask Mama. She had spent years trying to turn Carlota and me into ladies and-at least with my sister-had been moderately successful.

I was about to ask about the food and the guest list when Rudy Lopez poked his head through the door. Today his shirt was a hideous bright orange. Perhaps I could train him , too….

“Elena,” he said, “there's an Express Mail package here for you.” He held up a thick brown envelope bearing a blue-and-orange label that went surprisingly well with his shirt.

I jumped up and went to take it from him. “Thanks. The reason I came in was to pick this up.”

Rudy looked disappointed. “Oh, I thought you might be here all day.”

“Why?”

“There are some invoices I need to go over with you. And Linda said something about needing your approval on the copy for the display of Chiapas textiles before she can send it to the typesetter.”

Susana added, “And I would like your advice on the fall advertising campaign. I am having a difficult time deciding which publications to use.”

I sighed and looked down at the envelope, feeling trapped by the demands of other people. I was needed here at the museum; I had to stop at the hospital and see Mama; and I'd promised Sam Ryder I'd bring the documents to Las Lomas and read them with him. Finally I said, “I can remain here until quarter to eleven. You may decide among yourselves who gets to see me first.”

Of course, the next hour was not long enough to solve everyone's problems, and I had to promise to call Susana at home that evening-both to discuss the ad campaign and make more plans for the wedding. Then, when I arrived at the hospital, I found Mama was not in her room; she was having a number of tests run, the nurse informed me, and it would be better if I came back in the late afternoon. Fuming, I drove to Las Lomas, only to find that Sam wasn't at home.

I stood on his front porch clutching the precious envelope and debating what to do for a moment. After making the long drive up here, I hated to turn around and go back to Santa Barbara. Besides, Sam might return at any moment. Would it be cheating on my promise that we'd read the documents together if I started without him? I wondered. Of course not; Sam wasn't a child; he'd understand my eagerness.

I considered sitting down on the porch steps, but the cement would be cold, and anyway, after my experience yesterday at the ruins, I felt uncomfortable about reading there, where all the town could see me. I was about to go sit in my car when I remembered the picnic table where we'd had dinner on Sunday night; it was reasonably isolated, screened by scraggly rosebushes.

I went around the house and sat down there in the weedy bower. Tearing the envelope open with eager fingers, I pulled out its contents and spread them on the table. What appeared to be Xeroxes of the personal correspondence and diaries I set aside for later. The notes made for the report of the Velasquez investigation were what I wanted, and I began to read them first.

1894

At the Arlington stables Quincannon made arrangements to hire the claybank horse for several days. Then he returned to the hotel, changed into riding clothes, packed his warbag, and had a brief consultation with the manager, in which he said that he was going away for a few days on “grave government business” but that he might need accommodations again on his return. The manager assured him that the suite he had occupied would be held for him until further notice.

From the hotel he went to the telegraph office, where he sent a brief wire to Sabina telling her where he was going and that his investigation might require him to spend several more days in this area. He omitted any details; they would only have given her cause for concern.

He rode out of Santa Barbara to the north. When he reached Goleta he followed the old stagecoach road up into the foothills. A sea wind had sprung up at the lower elevations, but it died away as he climbed toward San Marcos Pass; the sun was warm on his back. The pungent smells of oak, madrone, pepper, filled his nostrils. In different circumstances he might have enjoyed the ride, the countryside. As it was, the murder of Luis Cordova fretted his mind-that, and the Spanish phrases on the paper scrap in his pocket.