McCone And Friends

door. “Thanks, Shar!”

She waggled the nail file at me and swiveled back toward the window.

II

Adrian’s aunt’s full name was June Simoom-no kidding – and she lived on Tomales Bay in western Marin County. The name alone should have tipped me off that Aunt June was going to be weird.

Tomales Bay is a thin finger of water that extends inland from the Pacific forty-some miles northwest of San Francisco. It’s rimmed by small cottages, oyster farms, and salt marsh, and the largest town on its shores- Inverness-has a population of only a few hundred. The bay also has the dubious distinction of being right smack on top of the San Andreas Fault. Most of the time the weather out there is pretty cold and gloomy-broody, I call it-and it’s a hefty drive from the city-across the Golden Gate Bridge, then through the close-in suburbs and rolling farmland to the coast.

It was after seven when I found the mailbox that June Simoom had described to me over the phone-black with a silver bird in flight and the word WINGSPREAD stenciled on it, another tipoff-and bounced down an unpaved driveway through a eucalyptus grove to a small cottage and a couple of outbuildings slouching at the water’s edge.

My car is a 1964 Rambler American. A couple of years ago when I met my current-well, on again, off again- boyfriend, Willie Whelan, he cracked up at this first sight of it. “You mean you actually drive that thing?” he asked. “On the street?” No matter. The Ramblin’ Wreck and I have gone many miles together, and at the rate I’m saving money, we’re going to have to go many more. Barring experiences like Aunt June’s driveway, that is.

The cottage was as bad off as my car, but I know something about real-estate values (money is my biggest fascination, because I have too little of it), and this shoreline property, bad weather and all, would have brought opening offers of at least a quarter mil. They’d have to demolish the house and outbuildings, of course, but nature and neglect seemed to already be doing a fine job of that. Everything sagged, including the porch steps, which were propped up by a couple of cement blocks.

The porch light was pee-yellow and plastered with dead bugs. I groped my way to the door and knocked, setting it rattling in its frame. It took June Simoom a while to answer, and when she did…Well, Aunt June was something else.

Big hair and big boobs and a big voice. My, she was big! Dressed in flowing blue velvet robes that were thrift-shop fancy, not thrift-shop cheap (like my clothes used to be before I learned about credit and joined millions of Americans who are in debt up to their nose hairs). Makeup? Theatrical. Perfume? Gallons. If Marin ever passed the anti-scent ordinance they kept talking about, Aunt June would have to move away.

She swept-no, tornadoed-me into the cottage. It was one long room with a kitchen at the near end and a stone fireplace at the far end, all glass overlooking a half-collapsed deck. A fire was going, the only light. Outside I could see moonshine silvering the bay. June seated me-no, forced me down-onto a pile of silk cushions. Rammed a glass of wine into my hand. Flopped grunting on a second cushion pile nearer the hearth.

“You have news of Adrian?” she demanded.

I was struggling to remain upright in the soft nest without spilling the wine. “Umpfh,” I said. “Mmmm-r!”

Aunt June regarded me curiously.

I got myself better situated and clung to the wineglass for ballast. “No news yet. Her mother has hired me to find her. I’m hoping you can-”

“Little Donna.” She made a sound that might have been a laugh-hinc, hinc, hinc.

“You’re Donna’s sister?” I asked disbelievingly.

“In law. Sister-in-law. Once removed by divorce. Thank God Jeffrey saw the light and grabbed himself the bimbo. No more of those interminable holiday dinners-‘Have some more veggies and dip, June.’ ‘Don’t mind if I do, Donna, and by the way, where’s the gin?’” Now she really did laugh-booming sound that threatened to tear the (probably) rotten roof off.

I liked Donna Conway because she was sensitive and gentle and sad, but I couldn’t help liking June, too. I laughed a little and sipped some wine.

“You remained close to Adrian after the divorce, though?” I asked.

“Of course.” June nodded self-importantly. “My own flesh and blood. A responsibility I take seriously. I tried to take her under my wing, advise her, help her to deal with…everything.” She flapped her arms, velvet robe billowing, and I thought of the name of the cottage and the bird on her mailbox.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Now, June’s expression grew uncertain. She bit her lip and reached for a half-full wineglass that sat on the raised hearth. “Well. It was…of course! At the autumnal equinox firing.”

“Huh?”

“I am a potter, my dear. Well, more of a sculptor in clay. I teach classes in my studio.” She motioned in the direction of the outbuildings I’d seen. “My students and I have ceremonial firings on the beach at the equinox and the solstice. Adrian came to the autumnal firing late in September.”

“Did she come alone, or did Donna come, too?”

June shook her head, big hair bobbing. “Donna hasn’t spoken to me since Jeffrey left. Blames me for taking his side-the side of joy and loving, the side of the bimbo. And she resents my closeness to Adrian. No, my niece brought her boyfriend, that Kirby.” Her nose wrinkled.

“And?”

“And what? They attended the firing, ate, and left.”

“Do you know Kirby well?”

“I only met him the one time.”

“What did you think of him?”

June leaned toward the fireplace, reaching for the poker. When she stirred the logs, there was a small explosion, and sparks and bits of cinder flew out onto the raised stone. June stirred on, unconcerned.

“Like my name,” she murmured.

“What?”

“My name-Simoom. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“A fierce wind of Africa. Dry. Intensely hot. Relentless. It peppers its victims with grit that burns and pits the skin. That’s why I took it-it fits my temperament.”

“It’s not your real name?”

She scowled impatiently. “One’s real name is whatever one feels is right. June Conway was not. Simoom is fitting for a woman of the earth, who shelters those who are not as strong as she. You saw the name on my mailbox-Wingspread?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand. What’s your last name again?”

“Kelleher.”

“Well, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s just an Irish name.”

“You see my point? You’re alienated from who you are.”

“I don’t feel alienated. I mean, I don’t think you have to proclaim who you are with a label. And Kelleher’s a perfectly good name, ever thought I’m not crazy about the Irish.”

June scowled again. “You sound just like Adrian used to. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you young women?”

“What do you mean-about Adrian, that is?”