Guilt

he continued watching a financial show on the now muted TV. Still canted away from me, he gave an obligatory wave.

Grace Monahan said, “Felix.”

He quarter-turned. “Sorry, just a second.”

“Felix?”

“A sec, sweetie, I want to see what Buffett’s up to, now that he’s a celebrity.”

“You and Buffett.” Grace Monahan completed the three steps required to transition to a tiny kitchenette. She fiddled with a drip percolator.

I sat there as Felix Walker Monahan attended to stock quotes scrolling along the bottom of the screen. Above the numbers, a talking head ranted mutely about derivatives. Watching without sound didn’t seem to bother Felix Monahan. Maybe he was a good lip-reader. The same tolerance applied to TV reception that turned to snow every few moments. The set was a convex-screened RCA in a case the size of a mastiff’s doghouse. Topped by rabbit ears.

The room was warm, slightly close, filled with well-placed furniture, old, not antique. Three small paintings on the walls: two florals and a soft-focus portrait of a beautiful, round-faced child. Great color and composition and the signature was the same; if these were real Renoirs, they could finance another show car.

The blowhard on the screen pointed to a graph, loosened his tie, continued to vent. Felix Walker Monahan chuckled.

His wife said, “What can you get out of it without hearing it?”

“Think of it as performance art, sweetie.” He switched off, swiveled toward me.

Unlike his wife, he’d changed a lot since Pebble Beach: smaller, paler, less of a presence. Scant white hair was combed back from a wrinkled-paper visage that would’ve looked good under a powdered wig or gracing coinage. He wore a gray silk shirt, black slacks, gray-black-checked Converse sneakers sans socks. The skin of his ankles was dry, chafed, lightly bruised. His hands vibrated with minor palsy.

He said, “Jimmy Asherwood, fine man. Better than fine, first-rate.”

“Did you buy the Duesenberg from him?”

He grinned. “Even better, he gave it to us. To Gracie, actually. She was his favorite niece, I lucked out. When I met her I knew nothing about cars or much else. Jimmy’s collection was quite the education.”

His wife said, “I was his favorite niece because I was his only niece. My father was Jack Asherwood, Jimmy’s older brother. Jimmy was the doctor, Dad was the lawyer.”

Felix said, “If Jimmy had twenty nieces, you’d still be his favorite.”

“Oh, my.” She laughed. “I already give you everything you want, why bother?”

“Keeping in practice for when you finally say no.”

“Scant chance-here’s coffee.”

“Let me help you,” he said.

“Don’t you dare be getting up.”

“Oh, boy,” he said. “Starting to feel like a cripple.”

“The difference, Felix, is that cripples remain crippled while you can be up and around soon enough. If you follow orders.”

“Hear, hear,” he said. To me: “Had surgery five weeks ago. You don’t want to know the details.”

Grace said, “He certainly doesn’t.”

“Let’s just say plumbing issues and leave it at that.”

“Felix.”

He rotated his arm. “They cored and bored me, like an engine. Roto-Rooter wasn’t picking up their messages so I had to go to a urologist.”

“Fee-lix! TMI.”

“What’s that mean, sweetie?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, young man. The grandkids always say it when you’re overdoing.”

“Ah,” he said. “Too Many Issues.”

“Exactly.” She brought a silver tray holding three coffees and a box of cookies. “Pepperidge Farm Milano Mints, Doctor. Cream?”

“Black’s fine.”

Pouring, she sat down next to her husband. They lifted their cups but waited until I’d sipped.

I said, “Delicious. Thanks.”

Felix said, “Here’s to another day aboveground.”

“So dramatic,” said Grace, but her voice caught.

I said, “Nice paintings.”

“They’re all we have room for, I don’t like crowding, art needs room to breathe.” She sipped. “In Santa Fe we have oodles of wall space but not being there much of the year we don’t like to hang anything too serious.”

“In S.F., we patronize the local artists,” said Felix. “Nice level of talent but not much in the way of investment.”

“Life’s about more than compound interest, dear.”

“So you keep telling me.”

I said, “Have you lived here long?”

“Ten years.”

“Bought the building fifteen years ago,” said Felix. “Followed it up by buying the rest of this side of the block.”

“There you go again,” said Grace. “Making like a tycoon.”

“Just citing facts, sweetie.” Working to steady his hand, he put his cup down. Bone china rattled. Coffee sloshed and spilled. His lips moved the same way Milo’s do when he wants to curse.

Grace Monahan bit her lip, returned to smiling at nothing in particular.

Felix Monahan said, “The original plan was to tear the entire block down and build one big luxury condo but the city proved obdurate so we kept the block as is and went into the landlord business. The last thing on our minds was actually moving here, we had a fine Wallace Neff on Mountain Drive above Sunset. Then our daughter moved to England and we said, what do we need thirty rooms for, let’s downsize. The house sold quickly, those were the days, caught us off-guard and we hadn’t found a new one. This apartment was vacant so we said let’s bunk down temporarily.”

Grace said, “We found out we liked the simplicity and here we are.”

“Tell him the real reason, sweetie.”

“Convenience, darling?”

“Walking distance to shopping for someone who’s not me. By the way, Neiman phoned. They’re prepared to offer you a daily chauffeur if strolling three blocks proves too strenuous.”

“Stop being terrible, Felix.” To me: “I buy only for the grandkids. We’re in our post-acquisitional stage.”

I said, “Perfect time to sell the car.”

Felix said, “On the contrary, perfect time to keep it. And all the others. One day the entire collection will go to a deserving museum, but Blue Belle is taking her leave because we believe cars are to be driven and she’s gotten too valuable for that.” His eyes softened. “She’s lovely.”

I said, “Dr. Asherwood was a generous man.”

“Generous doesn’t do him justice,” said Grace. “Uncle Jimmy was selfless and I mean that literally. Nothing for himself, everything for others. He left every penny to charity and no one was resentful because we respected him, he’d given us so much during his lifetime.”

“I read about the donations in his obituary.”

“His obituary doesn’t begin to describe it, Dr. Delaware. Well before Jimmy passed he was giving away money and things.”

I said, “I used to work at Western Pediatric and I noticed the hospital on the list of beneficiaries. Did he attend there?”

“No,” she said, “but he cared about the little ones.” Scooting back on the couch, she sat up straight. “Why are you curious about him?”

Her voice remained pleasant but her stare was piercing.