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foundation by the heirs of the original owners some years before. It was open for public tours and private parties such as this, but it seemed odd that van Dyne's group would hold their wine-and-cheese tasting here when they had a perfectly good mansion of their own.
Van Dyne helped herself to another glass of wine from the sideboard. She had a surprising capacity. "Our headquarters on California Street is currently undergoing redecoration and, as usual, it's behind schedule. When it became apparent it wouldn't be ready for our tour, Heritage very generously offered to let us hold the reception here. We are not rivals; we're all in the preservation effort together."
I glanced around at the crowd, most of whom were middle-aged and appeared well heeled. "How did you get into this line of work?" I asked. "Preservation, I mean."
"I'm a fifth-generation San Franciscan. My family had a mansion far more splendid than this one, on Van Ness Avenue. Unfortunately it was dynamited following the 'quake in oh-six."
As Nick Dettman had mentioned last night, Van Ness, the widest street in the city, had been used as a firebreak. The Army Engineers had dynamited all the buildings on the east side of it to stop the spread of the flames that were the real cause of the postearthquake destruction.
Van Dyne went on, "At any rate, my family has always had a sense of civic duty. Others of my means," she added contemptuously, "may prefer to spend their days at I. Magnin fashion shows, but I feel it's important to make a contribution if you have the leisure to do so."
I knew which people she spoke of: They were the ones who went to the opening night of the opera season expressly to show off their designer gowns. To bring the subject closer to my investigation, I said, "Your motivation makes me think of David Wintringham. I believe it was a family mansion that interested him in the preservationist effort."
The lines around van Dyne's mouth hardened. "The resemblance stops there."
"I don't understand. Aren't the Wintringhams another old San Francisco family?"
She raised her eyebrows, as if this were the first time it had occurred to her. "Yes, they are. Fourth generation. It's hard to understand how… Of course, David's great-grandmother was only a Schuyler. Perhaps that explains it." She seemed to be talking more to herself than to me.
"Explains what?"
She made a quick gesture of dismissal. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand. How long have you lived in San Francisco, dear?"
"About nine years, both here and in Berkeley. I'm originally from San Diego."
"Not long enough. Not nearly long enough."
The words stung. I considered myself a stable resident of the city. I certainly knew it better than most people. I had a job, I voted, I even planned to buy a house or a condominium someday. Who was van Dyne, to intimate I didn't belong? Swallowing my annoyance, I said, "But you say you differ from David Wintringham. How so?"
"Let's start with the father, Richard. He may have been fond of the family home, but at the same time he created those stucco monstrosities out in the Avenues. And do you know what he did to those other houses in the Steiner Street block?"
I shook my head.
"He carved them up into apartments. Stripped them of their original fixtures. Walled up fireplaces when he didn't just plain rip them out."
I recalled the living room of the house where I'd first met Wintringham and Charmaine. "David is restoring them to the original, though."
"So he says. If he does, he's got his work cut out for him. The worst of it is the exteriors. They've either been covered with asbestos siding or stuccoed over, all in the interest of postwar modernity, to say nothing of saving on paint."
"What will he have to do, remove the stucco and asbestos?''
"Yes. It's a painstaking process. If he's lucky, there will be scars on the wood beneath that will show where the original ornamentation was and what it was like. A good woodworker can match up old
Van Dyne helped herself to another glass of wine from the sideboard. She had a surprising capacity. "Our headquarters on California Street is currently undergoing redecoration and, as usual, it's behind schedule. When it became apparent it wouldn't be ready for our tour, Heritage very generously offered to let us hold the reception here. We are not rivals; we're all in the preservation effort together."
I glanced around at the crowd, most of whom were middle-aged and appeared well heeled. "How did you get into this line of work?" I asked. "Preservation, I mean."
"I'm a fifth-generation San Franciscan. My family had a mansion far more splendid than this one, on Van Ness Avenue. Unfortunately it was dynamited following the 'quake in oh-six."
As Nick Dettman had mentioned last night, Van Ness, the widest street in the city, had been used as a firebreak. The Army Engineers had dynamited all the buildings on the east side of it to stop the spread of the flames that were the real cause of the postearthquake destruction.
Van Dyne went on, "At any rate, my family has always had a sense of civic duty. Others of my means," she added contemptuously, "may prefer to spend their days at I. Magnin fashion shows, but I feel it's important to make a contribution if you have the leisure to do so."
I knew which people she spoke of: They were the ones who went to the opening night of the opera season expressly to show off their designer gowns. To bring the subject closer to my investigation, I said, "Your motivation makes me think of David Wintringham. I believe it was a family mansion that interested him in the preservationist effort."
The lines around van Dyne's mouth hardened. "The resemblance stops there."
"I don't understand. Aren't the Wintringhams another old San Francisco family?"
She raised her eyebrows, as if this were the first time it had occurred to her. "Yes, they are. Fourth generation. It's hard to understand how… Of course, David's great-grandmother was only a Schuyler. Perhaps that explains it." She seemed to be talking more to herself than to me.
"Explains what?"
She made a quick gesture of dismissal. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand. How long have you lived in San Francisco, dear?"
"About nine years, both here and in Berkeley. I'm originally from San Diego."
"Not long enough. Not nearly long enough."
The words stung. I considered myself a stable resident of the city. I certainly knew it better than most people. I had a job, I voted, I even planned to buy a house or a condominium someday. Who was van Dyne, to intimate I didn't belong? Swallowing my annoyance, I said, "But you say you differ from David Wintringham. How so?"
"Let's start with the father, Richard. He may have been fond of the family home, but at the same time he created those stucco monstrosities out in the Avenues. And do you know what he did to those other houses in the Steiner Street block?"
I shook my head.
"He carved them up into apartments. Stripped them of their original fixtures. Walled up fireplaces when he didn't just plain rip them out."
I recalled the living room of the house where I'd first met Wintringham and Charmaine. "David is restoring them to the original, though."
"So he says. If he does, he's got his work cut out for him. The worst of it is the exteriors. They've either been covered with asbestos siding or stuccoed over, all in the interest of postwar modernity, to say nothing of saving on paint."
"What will he have to do, remove the stucco and asbestos?''
"Yes. It's a painstaking process. If he's lucky, there will be scars on the wood beneath that will show where the original ornamentation was and what it was like. A good woodworker can match up old
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