Hattie Ever After (6 page)

I got off the bench and picked it up. Somehow it had managed to avoid the armies of feet marching all around the fountain. It was still pristine white. That was a small miracle.

All right. I might be feeling a bit like Jonah, and this city might seem like that whale, ready to swallow me whole. But miracles were still possible. Tucking the feather into my pocketbook, I said a quiet prayer: “Dear Lord, with your help, Jonah made out okay, so I’m trusting I will, too. Amen.”

Somewhere, a church bell chimed the hour. Time to make my way to the theater. I stuck my shoulders back. I hadn’t been so naive as to think I’d break into the newspaper business my very first week. So why feel blue? I needed to give it time. Besides, there was another reason I’d been drawn here, and I must not forget that.

As soon as I could, I would make my way to Union Street and make the acquaintance of Ruby Danvers and, through her, come to know my uncle.

Ruby and Pearl

Not that I was a swimmer, but I’d heard that there was no sense in wading when planning a dip in the ocean. It was best to dive in and get the business of getting cold over with all at once. Today was my diving-in day. I was going to mail a post card to Charlie and then call on Ruby Danvers, and in that very order.

I gathered my things, reading over what I’d written one last time:

I sighed. There had been no answer to my two earlier cards. Perhaps the third time would be the charm. I could only hope.

The elevator door clanked open. When I stepped into the lobby, I bumped into Maude, off to have tea with her brother, Ned, before he went to work. She introduced us, saying, “Oh, I’m so glad you two have finally met. Ned’s promised me he’ll give you a tour of the
Chronicle
.”

On the train to San Francisco, Maude had discovered me scribbling and badgered me until I showed her some of my writing. From that moment on, she had contrived to introduce me to her reporter brother.

“I couldn’t impose,” I told him.

“Not an imposition at all.” He winked at me. “Even if it were, I’m used to being imposed upon. I am Maude’s brother, after all.” He ducked her swinging pocketbook with a chuckle.

“He’s impossible,” Maude said. “I wish we could stay and chat, but we’re running late.”

“
We’re
late?” Ned raised his eyebrows. “I would like it duly noted that I have been pacing this lobby for a full twenty minutes.”

“Oh, but I’m so worth waiting for, aren’t I?” Maude took her brother’s arm and they were off. I smiled after them. Their teasing brought to mind Charlie and me, at least the younger versions of Charlie and me.

“Good morning, Miss Hattie.” Raymond greeted me from behind the front desk.

I returned the greeting, holding out the post card. “Would you please mail this?”

“Sure thing.” He took it from me and then looked around for a moment.

“Outgoing mail slot. There.” I pointed. I hadn’t yet decided whether Raymond’s confusion was due to age or to the bottle he sipped from with alarming regularity. “I’ll be back later.”

“Did you want to send a reply to that message?” he asked.

“Message?” I felt as confused as Raymond.

“The phone message?” At my blank look, he felt around in his pockets, then pulled out a slip of paper. “Guess I forgot to give it to you.”

I took it from him. The
Chronicle
had finally called. Could I please drop by the newspaper at my earliest convenience? I certainly could! After my visit to Ruby Danvers. And—I avoided looking at myself in the lobby mirror—after some shopping. At the very least, I needed a new hat. Back in Vida, my shabby wardrobe was no different from anyone else’s. Here, I stood out like a square of gingham in a fancy silk quilt.

Thanking Raymond, I took a deep breath and commenced my mission. The sidewalks seemed quite spirited, with American flags fluttering from storefronts in anticipation of the Fourth of July holiday. Several hotels were decked out with enormous red, white, and blue buntings. I would have enjoyed the sights even more had I not been carrying, in my moist hand, a slip of paper on which was written out Ruby Danvers’ address. Maude had advised the most direct way to go, a kind gesture I did appreciate, but I now wished I had a more winding route to follow. Nervous at the thought of finally meeting Ruby Danvers, my stomach percolated like a pot of coffee.

Covington Apartment Hotel, where she lived, was less than a mile from the Cortez, but I splurged on the nickel fare to ride the cable car up to Union from Mason. No sense undoing my freshened-up hair and clean shirtwaist with a sweaty walk up a hill. First impressions iron permanent
creases, Aunt Ivy had often warned me. If I must bring sad news, it wouldn’t do except to look my best. Though my best was hardly beguiling; no one my age wore such long skirts.

“Union!” the grip called out, and I quickly shook off my fashion daydreams and stepped down from the cable car. In for a penny, in for a pound; I would not turn back now.

Not ten steps from the cable car tracks, I found another gull’s feather, pure white along the shaft but deepening to the gray of Rooster Jim’s horses along the vane. I glanced up. It was almost as if someone—Uncle Chester?—was up there, scattering feathers before me like bread crumbs. With a lighter heart, I tucked the treasure into my pocketbook.

The two- and three-story flats lining either side of Union Street looked like grand ships, with bay-window prows sailing out over the sidewalks. In several of the windows, contented felines curled up on becushioned seats. I moved at a snail’s pace as much to take in the new sights as to try to calm my nerves, but each step set my heart to skittering faster and faster. Too soon I was crossing Jones. There it was: 1074 Union. The address from which the letter in my pocketbook had been sent.

The solid brick building and heavy entry doors furnished a dramatic contrast to my image of Ruby Danvers’ daintiness. Inside, the foyer was garlanded with faded crepe-paper streamers and the aroma of many years of onions cooking. My shoes tap-tapped across the worn tiled floor to the directory.
R. DANVERS
was the name next to apartment 302. Third floor.

Too jangled to latch myself into a metal cage for an elevator ride, I opted for the stairs. With each tread, I rehearsed my introduction:
Mrs. Danvers? I am Hattie Brooks, and I bear sad news about my uncle. Mrs. Danvers? I am Hattie Brooks, and I bear—
Wait. Perhaps instead, I should say
my
late
uncle
. That way she’d know right off that Uncle Chester was gone.

No. Too harsh. I would stick with my original script. Like the actors in the Varietals, I practiced my lines as I climbed up and up on increasingly rubbery legs.

I found myself in front of apartment 302. I knocked. And waited. Knocked again. Waited again.

“She’s at work,” a female voice behind me announced.

I turned to see a tiny old woman, no taller than a fence rail. Her white braid wound around her head in a flyaway tangle.

“I should have called ahead.” Just because I had the day off was a foolish reason to assume Ruby Danvers would be at home. “Is there somewhere I could leave a message?”

The old lady squinted at me. “When’s your birthday?”

What a question! But I wasn’t about to be rude to this granny. “October twenty-eighth.”

She sucked in her ill-fitting teeth. “Who keeps an arrow in his bow and if you prod him lets it go? A fervent friend and subtle foe. It is the Scorpio.”

“Yes. Well. I best be going.”

“You. You’re a Scorpio. Many great writers are.”

Now she had my interest. “Like who?” I didn’t know much about astrology except that Aunt Ivy called it unchristian.

“Voltaire. Robert Louis Stevenson. Stephen Crane.” She chuckled. “And Marie Antoinette.”

My hand went to my throat. “Well, three out of four isn’t bad.”

Her head tipped back and a lion’s roar of a laugh escaped. “You’ve got wit, that you have.” She motioned me close. “Scorpios are trustworthy. Not like some as have rapped on that very door.” She jigged her white head toward apartment 302. “So I can tell you. She’s got herself a fancy job for that Mr. Stuart Wilkes. Personal assistant, mind you.” Her eyebrows waggled. “La-di-dah.”

Was my astrologer friend in her right mind? The odds seemed against it, but what did I have to lose? “Where is Mr. Wilkes’ office?”

“Pacific Building. Downtown.”

It wasn’t far from the Orpheum. I recalled passing it. “Thank you. I’ll try her there.”

“You can try her, but not as much as she will try you.” The old lady held her hand up, as a pastor might when giving a blessing. “But you’re a scorpion. You’ll manage just fine.”

I smiled uneasily and backed away, giving my new friend an uncertain wave from the elevator car. As the door slid between us, she turned and I could hear her mutter, “Figaro, you darned cat. Where have you got off to this time?”

Out on the street, I consulted my Owl Drug map to make certain I was headed in the right direction. I opted to save the nickel carfare this time; I would rather apply it to the purchase of a cool soda at the end of my wanderings. As I walked, I puzzled over that peculiar little old lady. I’d
certainly never met anyone like her before! And that is precisely why you came to San Francisco, I reminded myself. To do the unusual. And meet the unusual.

After a brisk walk, I found myself at the Pacific Building and stepped inside to study the directory. Accountants. Brokers. Detective agencies! Not one but two were listed:
WEST COAST DETECTIVE AGENCY, THOMAS L. GRAY, GENERAL MANAGER, CHARGES REASONABLE
, and
GIGNAC SECRET SERVICE BUREAU, LUCIEN K. GIGNAC, PRESIDENT, DETECTIVE BUSINESS TRANSACTED THROUGHOUT THE WORLD
. Imagine two detective agencies in the same place. Back in Arlington, there wasn’t even one. Truth to tell, such services weren’t needed, not with Aunt Ivy and the Ladies’ Guild keeping watchful eyes and sharp ears trained on the rest of the community.

I kept scanning the list. Could my old-lady friend have sent me on a fool’s errand? Insurance. Underwriters. There!
WILKES, STUART, ESQ. 7TH FLOOR
. Now I hesitated. Perhaps I should simply send a note. What if Ruby was in the middle of something? The news I had was hardly fit to share in a public place like an office. I reached into my pocketbook, feeling around for the letter, my fingers brushing the feather I’d found on my way to Ruby Danvers’ apartment. Okay, Uncle Chester. I’ll do it.

“Seventh floor,” I said to the elevator operator, squeezing into the nearly full car.

Three quick stops and we were there. I stepped out, glancing first right and then left.

“What office are you looking for?” the elevator operator asked. When I told him, he said, “Around the corner. End of the hall. You can’t miss it.”

And I couldn’t. The office door was the fanciest portal I’d ever seen in my life. All oiled rosewood, carved with curlicues and oak leaves. It would take a giant’s knock on that door to be heard inside. I took a deep breath and turned the gleaming brass knob.

The interior was as elaborate as the door, decorated with dark ornate woods and glass-fronted bookcases and statues and framed citations and diplomas. A blond woman wearing pince-nez spectacles glanced up from her work.

“Are you Ruby Danvers?” I asked.

She pointed to a nameplate on her desk that said
MRS. HOLM
. “Mrs. Danvers is on her way to lunch. Do you have an appointment?”

I shook my head and patted my pocketbook. “I have something to return to her.”

At that, Mrs. Holm picked up some sort of handset, and the next thing I knew, I was being escorted into an office as light and feminine as the outer sanctum was ponderous and masculine. Her back was to me, and she was slipping into hat and wrap, obviously preparing to leave, but she was just as I had imagined: delicate and small, a dainty magnolia flower to my coarse gumbo lily. The only thing I hadn’t imagined was the red hair.