again, then, finally, turned the knob and entered.
The fountain splashed cheerfully in the tiled pool. The pale-rose Italian marble floor glistened with cleanliness.
“Mother?”
My voice echoed softly.
A door slammed at the back.
I began to walk down the broad hall with the Florentine paneling and the dark Spanish canvases hanging just above eye level. The swinging door from the kitchen burst open. Ophelia plunged toward me.
“Oh, Miss K.C.” She looked relieved. “Is Amanda with you?”
“Amanda? No. I’ve come to see her. Isn’t she in bed?”
Ophelia’s face clouded. “Oh, Miss K.C., I don’t know what to think. I took up a nice luncheon tray, with soup and an avocado and fresh tea, but she isn’t there.”
“Did you check the bathroom?” I asked, hurrying toward the stairs. “She may have fainted.”
Ophelia trotted at my heels. “I looked in the bathroom, but she wasn’t there. And she made the bed and her bathrobe and gown are in the closet.”
I stopped and stared at Ophelia. “You mean she’s dressed?”
“Yes. She’s dressed and I can’t find her anywhere.”
Twenty minutes later I knew that Ophelia was right. The house was empty except for the two of us. Grace was at her Tuesday bridge luncheon and Jason was at his regular job at the La Luz Hotel.
“Perhaps she’s gone into town, to Rudolph’s office,” I suggested though it seemed unlikely.
When I called, Rudolph was as puzzled as we. I called Rudolph’s wife, Mary Kate. She was puzzled, then worried. “I talked to Mother this morning. She sounded tired and she promised to stay in bed all day. We were going to come and see her tonight. Where in the world could she have gone?”
I went back upstairs to Amanda’s room. I stared at the high narrow bed, the coverlet drawn up over the pillows, tucked just so, as Amanda had always made any bed. I opened the closet. Her gown and robe hung on a hook to the right. Her clothes hung neatly from their hangers.
She had dressed, sometime before twelve-thirty, walked across the room and out the door to . . . Where could she have gone? And why? What could have called her out of the house? She was still weak, must still have been weak, from last night’s attack.
Once again, I looked around the room. Such a simple shining room. A studio portrait of Rudolph, unnaturally solemn in his cap and gown, sat atop the narrow chest of drawers. The bulletin board, with its myriad pictures of all of us, hung next to the window. An old-fashioned footpress sewing machine sat next to a worn French Provincial desk that Grace gave Amanda the year the interior decorator redid the drawing room in Spanish baroque. Amanda was so proud of the lovely old piece. All she ever permitted on its top was her Bible.
Nothing lay atop the desk.
I walked slowly across the room. The desk top was bare.
Amanda had dressed and left, carrying her Bible with her.
I think I knew then.
I ran out of the house and pounded down the brick walk to the garage. The garage had been built for another era, the world of town cars and station wagons. I yanked up the first of the seven overhead doors and flicked on a panel of lights. All of the stalls were empty, including the last one where Amanda parked her Chevy.
She had driven away, carrying her Bible.
I ran to my car and drove, too fast, to the Paradise Valley Baptist Church and the cemetery that spread up the hill behind it. I knew where Amanda’s husband was buried. I hurried up a twisting path to the plot bordered with a thin ridge of cement. A slender headstone carried the inscription, MORTON BRIDGEWATER, BELOVED HUSBAND OF AMANDA, B. 1905, D. 1945.
“Amanda?” As I called, fog began to swirl around the tree trunks, glisten against granite stones. “Amanda?”
A creaking wheel sounded behind me. I turned to see an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with fresh dirt. I called out, “Have you seen a woman, an old woman, not very tall?”
How hard it is to
The fountain splashed cheerfully in the tiled pool. The pale-rose Italian marble floor glistened with cleanliness.
“Mother?”
My voice echoed softly.
A door slammed at the back.
I began to walk down the broad hall with the Florentine paneling and the dark Spanish canvases hanging just above eye level. The swinging door from the kitchen burst open. Ophelia plunged toward me.
“Oh, Miss K.C.” She looked relieved. “Is Amanda with you?”
“Amanda? No. I’ve come to see her. Isn’t she in bed?”
Ophelia’s face clouded. “Oh, Miss K.C., I don’t know what to think. I took up a nice luncheon tray, with soup and an avocado and fresh tea, but she isn’t there.”
“Did you check the bathroom?” I asked, hurrying toward the stairs. “She may have fainted.”
Ophelia trotted at my heels. “I looked in the bathroom, but she wasn’t there. And she made the bed and her bathrobe and gown are in the closet.”
I stopped and stared at Ophelia. “You mean she’s dressed?”
“Yes. She’s dressed and I can’t find her anywhere.”
Twenty minutes later I knew that Ophelia was right. The house was empty except for the two of us. Grace was at her Tuesday bridge luncheon and Jason was at his regular job at the La Luz Hotel.
“Perhaps she’s gone into town, to Rudolph’s office,” I suggested though it seemed unlikely.
When I called, Rudolph was as puzzled as we. I called Rudolph’s wife, Mary Kate. She was puzzled, then worried. “I talked to Mother this morning. She sounded tired and she promised to stay in bed all day. We were going to come and see her tonight. Where in the world could she have gone?”
I went back upstairs to Amanda’s room. I stared at the high narrow bed, the coverlet drawn up over the pillows, tucked just so, as Amanda had always made any bed. I opened the closet. Her gown and robe hung on a hook to the right. Her clothes hung neatly from their hangers.
She had dressed, sometime before twelve-thirty, walked across the room and out the door to . . . Where could she have gone? And why? What could have called her out of the house? She was still weak, must still have been weak, from last night’s attack.
Once again, I looked around the room. Such a simple shining room. A studio portrait of Rudolph, unnaturally solemn in his cap and gown, sat atop the narrow chest of drawers. The bulletin board, with its myriad pictures of all of us, hung next to the window. An old-fashioned footpress sewing machine sat next to a worn French Provincial desk that Grace gave Amanda the year the interior decorator redid the drawing room in Spanish baroque. Amanda was so proud of the lovely old piece. All she ever permitted on its top was her Bible.
Nothing lay atop the desk.
I walked slowly across the room. The desk top was bare.
Amanda had dressed and left, carrying her Bible with her.
I think I knew then.
I ran out of the house and pounded down the brick walk to the garage. The garage had been built for another era, the world of town cars and station wagons. I yanked up the first of the seven overhead doors and flicked on a panel of lights. All of the stalls were empty, including the last one where Amanda parked her Chevy.
She had driven away, carrying her Bible.
I ran to my car and drove, too fast, to the Paradise Valley Baptist Church and the cemetery that spread up the hill behind it. I knew where Amanda’s husband was buried. I hurried up a twisting path to the plot bordered with a thin ridge of cement. A slender headstone carried the inscription, MORTON BRIDGEWATER, BELOVED HUSBAND OF AMANDA, B. 1905, D. 1945.
“Amanda?” As I called, fog began to swirl around the tree trunks, glisten against granite stones. “Amanda?”
A creaking wheel sounded behind me. I turned to see an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with fresh dirt. I called out, “Have you seen a woman, an old woman, not very tall?”
How hard it is to
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