“Yes, I would.”
“And you and he were happy together?”
“Quite happy. We had a lovely marriage. He was devoted to me, you know. And I to him.”
“No problems of any kind between you?”
“Oh no. No.”
“But he did have other problems,” I said gently. “Would you know what they were?”
“Problems?” she said.
“That led him to take his own life.”
She sat motionless, still smiling slightly; she might not have heard me. “I think it was ‘Never Argue with a Woman,’” she said at length.
“Pardon?”
“The story of Harmon's that I liked in The Saturday Evening Post. Yes, it must have been ‘Never Argue with a Woman.’”
“Mrs. Crane, do you know why your husband shot himself?”
Silence. A little brown-and-yellow bird swooped down out of one of the kumquat trees and landed on the porch railing; she watched as it hopped along, chittering softly to itself, its head darting from side to side. Her hands, folded together just under her breasts, had a poised, suspended look.
“Mrs. Crane?”
I moved when I spoke, startling the bird; it went away. The last of her smile went away with it. She blinked, and her hands settled on top of the copy of Ladies' Home Journal. Unconsciously she began to twist the small diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.
“No,” she said. “No.”
“You don't know why?”
“I won't talk about that. Not about that.”
“It's important, Mrs. Crane. If you could just give me some idea…”
“No,” she said. Then she said, “Oh, wait, I was wrong. It wasn't ‘Never Argue with a Woman’ that I liked so much. Of course it wasn't. It was ‘the Almost Perfect Vacation.’ How silly of me to have got the two mixed up.”
She smiled at me again, but it was a different kind of smile this time; her eyes seemed to be saying, “Please don't talk about this anymore, please don't hurt me.” I felt her pain-that had always been one of my problems, too much empathy-and it made me feel like one of the sleazy types that prowled Telegraph Avenue.
But I didn't quit probing at her, not just yet. I might not like myself sometimes, but that had never stopped me from doing my job. If it had I would have gone out of business years ago.
I said, “I'm sorry, Mrs. Crane. I won't bring that up again. Is it all right if I ask you some different questions?”
“Well…”
“Do you still see any old friends of your husband's?”
She bit her lip. “We didn't have many friends,” she said. “We had each other, but… it wasn't…” The words trailed off into silence.
“There's no one you're still in touch with?”
“Only Stephen. He still comes to see me sometimes.”
“Stephen?”
“Stephen Porter.”
“Would he be any relation to Adam Porter?”
“Why, yes-Adam's brother. Did you know Adam?”
“No, ma'am. He was mentioned to me as a friend of your husband's.”
“More my friend than Harmon's, I must say.”
“Adam, you mean?”
“Yes. He was my art teacher. He was a painter, you know.”
“No, I didn't know.”
“A very good painter. Oils. I was much better with watercolors. Still life, mostly. Fruit and such.”
“Do you still paint?”
“Oh no, not in years and years.”
“Is Stephen Porter also a painter?”
“No, he's a sculptor. He teaches, too; it's very difficult for sculptors to make a living these days unless they also teach. I imagine that's the case with most artists, don't you?”
“Yes, ma'am. Does he have a studio?”
“Oh, of course.”
“In what city?”
“In San Francisco.”
“Could you tell me the address?”
“Are you going to see Stephen?”
“I'd like to, yes.”
“Well, you tell him it's been quite a while since he came to visit. Months, now. Will you tell him that?”
“I will.”
“North Beach,” she said.
“Ma'am?”
“Stephen's studio. It's in North Beach.” She smiled reminiscently. “Harmon and I used to live in North Beach-a lovely old house near Coit Tower, with trees all around. He so loved his privacy.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“It's gone now. Torn down long ago.”
“Can you tell me the address of Stephen's studio?”
“I don't believe I remember it,” she said. “But I'm sure it's in the telephone directory.”
Inside the house, the vacuum cleaner stopped its screeching; there was a hushed quality to the silence that followed. I broke it by saying, “I understand Thomas Yankowski was also a friend of your husband's.”
“Well, he was Harmon's attorney.”
“Did your husband have any special reason to need a lawyer?”
“Well, a woman tried to sue him once, for plagiarism. It was a silly thing, one of those… what do you call them?”
“Nuisance suits?”
“Yes. A nuisance suit. He met Thomas somewhere, while he was doing legal research for one of his books, I think it was, and Thomas handled the matter for him.”
“Were they also friends?”
“I suppose they were. Although we seldom saw Thomas socially.”
“Does he ever come to visit you now?”
“Thomas? No, not since I refused him.”
“How do you mean, ‘refused him?’”
“When he asked me to marry him.”
“When was this?”
“Not long after… well, a long time ago.”
“And you turned him down?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Harmon was the only man I ever loved. I've never remarried; I never could.”
“You and Mr. Crane had no children, is that right?”
She said demurely, “We weren't blessed that way, no.”
“But your husband did have a son by a previous marriage.”
“Michael,” she said, and nodded. “I was quite surprised when he came to see me. I never knew Harmon had a son. Michael never knew it either. Michael… I can't seem to recall his last name…”
“Kiskadon.”
“Yes. An odd name. I wish he'd come back for another visit; he was only here that one time. Such a nice boy.
