near the Angelus, isn’t it?” I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the area. “It’s not on the shore, so it’s out of Coastal Commission jurisdiction. But it’s on a slight rise, so anything built there still could be ocean view, especially if you made it tall enough. And unlike most of the other proposed sites, there is a high rate of vacancy in the area-which is partly what’s killing PVA. With fewer tenants to move, if you put the convention center there, you wouldn’t get many complaints.”
“Bingo!” Murray said.
“So Hill and his friends buy the property for low prices in the 1970s, sell it to PVA for a profit, and then buy it back when they get some indication that things might not go well with the Coastal Commission. A commission that’s looking at plans that Allan Moffett could influence.”
“Easily,” Murray agreed. “Even if he didn’t draw up the plans himself, his lackeys wouldn’t ignore his suggestions. Knowing that certain elements of any waterfront plans might cause the Coastal Commission to balk, he could use his influence to ensure those elements were included.”
“Or purposely exclude elements the Coastal Commission would want. And he probably oversees the cost projections on fighting the Coastal Commission’s decision as well.”
Murray nodded. “Determining that it would be better to move the project away from the shore.”
“But Hill and his friends couldn’t have planned this from the late 1970s, could they?”
Murray shook his head. “While it’s not impossible-there has been talk of a convention center for many years- my guess would be that they steered toward opportunities wherever they saw them. They got out of the Angelus area when it didn’t look like it would go anywhere, put their capital to better uses. They got back in when new opportunities were on the horizon.”
“Or they decided to head back to these properties when inside information was given to them.”
“Yes, well, that is always a possibility,” he said, then smiled and added, “Not that I would ever imagine such a thing happening in our fair city.”
“Not in a billion nanoseconds. Thanks for the information, Murray. Now, I believe I owe you a favor.”
He didn’t deny it, and his look of anticipation caused me to laugh. “Yes, Jack Fremont will talk to you. Want me to have him call you?”
“You need to ask?”
IWENT BACK TO the newsroom and pulled out the Riverside phone book again. Stuart Angert was openly curious about my meeting with John; I told him that he’d have the whole story by that afternoon and repressed the urge to tell him to page me if he had any questions after the staff meeting.
At my desk, I covertly copied my pager number down, a series of digits that seemed to defy mnemonics. I opened the phone book to the
I called the Riverside number, knowing she would not be back home yet. When her answering machine picked up the call, I said, “June, I need to ask you a couple of questions,” and left my pager number.
I leaned back in my chair for a moment, thinking about the list of things I wanted to follow up on. I hoped the records office at the college came through. If I could talk to Nadine Preston, I might get closer to understanding what had gone on with Lucas Monroe’s thesis.
I called Claire.
“I’ve got a lot to talk to you about,” I said.
“Are you free for lunch?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Would you mind coming out to the house? I know it’s a long way from work for you, but it’s so hard for me to be out in public right now…”
“I understand. It won’t be a problem for me to be away from the office,” I said, wondering if maybe I could get used to the pager idea.
Naw. I knew I couldn’t. Especially not after I met Wrigley on my way out of the building.
“Irene!” he called out, with more bonhomie than Santa. He was acting like we were old pals. I knew what had inspired this. I once quit the paper, and every time Wrigley worries that he’s insulted me enough to get me to jump ship again, he gets avuncular at best and downright kissy at worst.
He crossed the building lobby to come closer, but kept a respectful distance. He’s an ass-pincher, but he’s never tried that with me. Maybe it’s because I once circulated a tall tale around the building about breaking someone’s nose for doing that. By the time Wrigley heard the story, I think I had supposedly put someone in the hospital.
“I hope you aren’t too upset about the pager,” he said. “It’s really the mark of a professional journalist these days.”
“Really? I thought I had to make that mark in ink.”
“You know what I mean! Look, I carry one of them myself.” He pulled back his suit coat to reveal the pager on his belt. “See?”
“I’m thrilled for you,” I said, but already, evil thoughts were forming.
“Where are you going?”’ he asked.
“That’s the neato-fab thing about these gadgets, isn’t it? You don’t need to know where I am, because you can always page me!”
“Well, I don’t know about that…”
I almost left without telling him, but realized he would be jealous, so I said, “I’m having lunch with Claire Watterson.”
“The widow?”
“We probably have more than one in town.”
“I’d love to meet her.”
I’ll just bet you would, you slimeball, I thought. “I’ll tell her,” I said, and pushed the door open, but then paused on the threshold. “No, wait. Maybe she’d be willing to have you join us a little later. Shall I have her page you?”
“Oh, sure.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a business card and a six-hundred-dollar fountain pen. He flipped the card over and jotted his pager number on it.
I even kept a straight face when he handed the card to me.
AUNTEMELINE OPENEDthe front door when I arrived at the Watterson house. I was glad to see her; it seemed to me that she was one of those sturdy people who would be good to have at your side in a crisis, and I was relieved to know Claire wasn’t staying in this big house alone. Finn came from the back of the house to remind me that Claire still had his company as well, dancing around me in great circles and barking. Aunt Emeline said, “Hush now, Finn,” and he obeyed immediately.
It was then that I heard a rumbling noise that seemed to be coming from the back of the house. “Construction workers,” Emeline said. “Claire is out there with them. She must have left the back door open for it to be so loud.”
I followed Emeline to the back of the house. Claire was standing outside, watching something going on in the backyard. When I reached her, I was puzzled to see a bulldozer at work behind the house-until I realized that it was leveling the ground where the cabana had stood.
Claire saw me, came back inside with me, and closed the door before attempting conversation. She was wearing a navy blue silk dress that seemed a little big on her-then I realized that she looked thinner to me. There were dark circles under her eyes. But her voice was firm when she said, “I didn’t want to look out there and see that building every day.”
“Of course not,” I said, doubting it would be so easy to level the memories of what had happened there. I thought again of Ivy, still uneasy over Jeff’s death a decade or more ago.
We sat down to lunch together-Aunt Emeline’s chicken salad. “It’s the best in the world,” Claire had said, and as far as I’m concerned, that was the truth. Claire didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, but no one fussed at her over it. Aunt Emeline led the conversation, which meant that it was centered on recipes, books we had recently read, people she had known back home, and gardening. I didn’t doubt that this woman could have held a conversation on almost any subject. I suspect she chose her topics with more care than was apparent in her easy
