Bill Pronzini: Beyond the Grave

He said, “I know this is sudden, Elena, but I think it's the best move for both of us. You and I… well, it just hasn't been working out.”

I stared at him, a panicky, fluttery feeling in my stomach. “What?”

“I really think it's for the best,” he said. “And I also think it would be wise if we didn't see each other again before I leave.”

“It hasn't been working out,” I repeated flatly.

The tension in his jaw relaxed somewhat. “I'm glad you agree with me.”

Was he deliberately misinterpreting my comment? I wondered. Couldn't he see how stunned I was? What did he mean, anyway-not working out?

Dave went on, “I'll always remember the times we've had together. They've been good times. And I'll always remember you.”

I put a hand to my forehead, feeling dizzy and hot and cold at the same time. I wanted to shout, to protest, to insist this couldn't be happening. I wanted to demand explanations: What wasn't working out? How long had he felt this way? Was there someone else? But he sounded so definite. And I had my pride. I didn't want to let him see how much he was hurting me.

I said, “Yes, I feel the same way, Dave. And I certainly wish you luck with the new job.”

Relief flooded his face then, and he smiled-the warm, crinkly grin I'd always loved. Loved? No … yes … yes, dammit, I loved him! And he was just walking away and leaving me as if I were some casual date.

Tears rose to my eyes, and when Dave saw them, the smile faded. He put out a hand. “Elena, don't.”

I brushed at my lashes and looked away, a painting on the wall blurring to a meaningless swirl of colors. I would not let Dave see me cry, would not allow him to know how much pain he was causing me.

“Oh, Dave,” I said thickly, “you know I'm no good at saying good-bye. When I was a kid, we'd go to the airport and watch the planes take off, and I'd end up bawling my head off because a bunch of strangers were going away on them.”

He laughed, a lightness and freedom in the sound, and I knew he believed me. I was glad I'd lied to him, glad he couldn't know what pain was gathering inside of me.

“You'd better go now,” I said.

He stepped forward, took my hand, kissed me on the cheek. Then he turned and went through the screen door. On the front walk, he started to whistle tonelessly.

I backed up, weak-kneed. Sat in my old rocking chair. Waited until I heard his car pull away from the curb. And then I started to cry.

I couldn't understand it. Everything had been fine with us. We hardly ever argued. We'd been good together in bed. We'd laughed and done enjoyable things. My mother and Nick had forgiven him for being an Anglo; all my friends liked him. His friends and colleagues at the department liked me. I was learning to eat pancakes for breakfast; he'd come to appreciate Mexican art. So what on earth had gone wrong? Why did he think it wasn't working out?

I sat there gripping the arms of the rocker and crying. In a few minutes my pain over Dave got all mixed up with my worry about Mama, and I rocked and cried and hiccuped and mumbled both of their names. Soon I could feel my eyes becoming hot and swollen. Maldito! I tried to stop crying, and when I realized I couldn't, I got up, went into the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and got into the shower. Under normal circumstances that would have calmed me, but today nothing was normal. But at least I was being ecological, mingling my tears with the city water supply.

After a while the hot water ran out, and so did my tears. I felt dull, shaky, and a little sleepy. As I toweled off and put on my jeans and shirt, I realized I was also ravenously hungry.

In the kitchen, I took out peanut butter and spread it on a banana. After that I had a glass of milk and a cup of spiced apple yogurt. There were English muffins in the freezer; I toasted two of them and ate them with strawberry jam. I contemplated the jug of cheap white wine, but was afraid alcohol might make me cry again. Finally I ate half a cantaloupe and a handful of cashew nuts. Then I went back to the living room and sat down in the rocker.

Well , I told myself, you've behaved like un puerco gordo. Now if you can just get mad and throw something, you'll be on the road to recovery .

But I couldn't get mad. All I could do was huddle in the chair and feel very small and sad and alone. The sun had gone down, and the room was filled with shadows. I sat there until it was completely dark, and then I got up and turned on a light. And when I did, the marriage coffer caught my eye again.

I went over and stroked it, thinking back to the auction. At the time I'd been worried about Mama, but I'd still enjoyed myself, with no inkling of the further misfortune that was about to befall me. I sniffled, wondering if I'd ever have a good time again-and quickly realized I was being melodramatic.

I opened the lid of the chest, took the rusty hairpin out, and threw it in the wastebasket. There was a lot of dust in the compartment, so I went to the kitchen for a rag and began to clean it out. As I was scrubbing along the rear of the space, the edge of the rag caught on something. I gave it a tug, and it tore. Poking with my fingernail, I removed the fragment of fabric and saw that there was a crack in the wood. Not only had the auction house neglected to tell prospective buyers that the key was missing, but they'd also omitted the fact that the chest had been damaged. I sighed in exasperation and probed with my fingers to see how bad the crack was.

But it wasn't a crack at all; its edges felt smooth, beveled. I pushed my fingernail into it. The nail tore to the quick and I swore, putting my finger in my mouth and tasting blood. After a few seconds, I got my nail clipper from my purse and trimmed the nail's ragged edge, then used the fold-out file portion of the clipper on the crack in the chest. I wiggled it back and forth a little, and then a narrow three-inch-long piece of wood came loose and clattered to the bottom of the compartment.

I dropped the nail clipper next to the wood fragment and pushed my fingers through the little opening. They encountered a cylindrical metal object. When I pulled it out, I saw it was a brass key.

How clever of the cabinetmaker, I thought, and also how typical of furniture of that era. I remembered reading somewhere that the dons had been big on secreting their treasures, tucking away even inconsequential things like this key in well-concealed hidey-holes. Maybe there was more treasure in the drawer.

The thought was a fanciful one, and I expected the drawer to be empty. But when I unlocked it and looked in at a flat brown-leather folder, I started in surprise. I set the key down and took the folder over to my desk to examine it in better light.

The cracked leather was rough-grained, probably cowhide, and the folder had been bound together by a now-frayed brown cord. I opened it and found a sheaf of papers. They were yellowed, on a once-fine vellum letterhead that read in ornate script, “Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, Flood Building, Market Street, San Francisco.” Below was what appeared to be a detective's report, dated April 1894. The hand in which it was written was angular and fine, incorporating all the whorls and flourishes popular before the turn of the century.

What a find! I thought. What a fascinating relic of the past! Dave would love this; I should call him-

And then I stopped, remembering I would never call Dave again. Gloom descended on me, threatening to destroy my pleasure in my discovery. To fend it off, I went back to my rocker and began reading.

Report of Investigator John F. Quincannon, in the Matter of Religious Artifacts Belonging to the Family of Don Esteban Velasquez