Trophies And Dead Things

'Yes. She didn't seem very upset. Apparently she and her new husband are quite well off. She was happy about the personal stuff, though-said what you did about it being nice for the boys, who will have something to remember Perry by.'

'I'd like to talk with her. If anyone might know about Hilderly's past, she's the one. Will you give me her new name and number?'

'Sure.' There was a pause, and then he read off the information to me. 'You're not planning on going out to Danville tonight?'

'If she'll see me.'

Hank was silent.

'Oh, Lord, your dinner party for Anne-Marie! I almost forgot.'

'Look, don't worry about that. Go see Judy Fleming and come by my place later. But just be sure to come.'

'I will, I promise. Is Rae around?'

'She left about fifteen minutes ago. Asked me to tell you she's turned up something on Heikkinen; she'll talk to you about it tonight.'

'Okay. Keep some chili warm for me.' I hung up and placed a credit-card call to Judy Fleming, the former Mrs. Hilderly, in the exclusive East Bay development of Blackhawk. She was cordial and agreed to see me if I didn't mind driving over there in rush-hour traffic. I said I'd be at her house as soon as possible.

As I crossed the newsroom toward the hallway, I glanced at Goodhue's cubicle. The anchorwoman was again seated at her desk, next to her co-anchor, Les Gates. Gates, whom I recognized from countless newscasts, was expounding on a script that lay in front of them. Goodhue nodded and responded, but her expression was distracted. When I passed the cubicle, she looked up, and I felt her gaze upon me all the way to the door.

Six

Blackhawk, the development where Hilderly's former wife and sons now lived, has long struck me as a phenomenon that could only have occurred in the latter decades of the twentieth century. It is an exclusive enclave of custom-built homes nestled in the foothills of Mount Diablo, and insulated from the world by high walls, a private security force, and recreational facilities that ensure no resident need seek pleasure elsewhere. Everything is designed for the ease and comfort of the busy property owners, most of whom are engaged in making fortunes in the industrial parks that cover what used to be farmland near San Ramon. A buyer may purchase a house that is fully furnished and equipped, down to the last teaspoon and guest towel; the local supermarket boasts of clocks that display the time in such global cities as London, New York, and Tokyo-presumably so shoppers can rush home and call their brokers before the stock exchanges close. While Blackhawkians may appreciate and even need these refinements, I find something vaguely depressing about a place where life's edges have been so smoothed and rounded.

After I was admitted past the guard station at one of the gates, I drove through a maze of large homes on spacious lots to the Fleming house. It was mock Tudor, with a big live oak in the front yard. I parked at the curb and went up a flagstone walk that bisected the neatly barbered lawn.

When Judy Fleming answered the door, I recognized her as an older version of the woman in Hilderly's photo album; her short brown hair was now streaked with gray, and she was no longer plump, her face having that gaunt look that comes from frequent dieting. She greeted me pleasantly and led me to the rear of her air-conditioned house, where an informal living room overlooked a swimming pool full of noisy teenagers. The room, a dining area, and the kitchen were all connected, and there was a lived-in feel to the space that had been missing from the more formal rooms we'd passed on the way.

Mrs. Fleming seated me on the couch, offered coffee- which I accepted-and went to pour it from a percolator that stood on the wet bar. She hesitated, then poured a second mug for herself. 'I shouldn't,' she said. 'I drink too much of it. But I'm dieting, and it keeps me going.'

She certainly did look tired, I thought as she seated herself in a rocking chair opposite me. Bluish circles under her eyes were more pronounced in the late sunlight that slanted through the glass doors behind her, and her movements were weary, almost leaden. I suspected her fatigue stemmed less from unwise dieting than from her ex-husband's death and altered will.

A roar of laughter-muted by the closed doors-rose from the pool, and the kids began clapping; two boys had just tossed a struggling girl in. Mrs. Fleming smiled and said, 'It's good to hear laughter around here. The last week and a half have been grim. My boys weren't close to Perry-by his choice, not mine or theirs-but his death and now this business of the new will have been upsetting.'

'Why did he choose to distance himself from his sons?'

'That was his way. It was one of the reasons I divorced him. The main reason, actually.' She paused. 'I've always loved Perry, though. That's why this business of him disinheriting the boys is so hard to take.'

'Hank Zahn had the impression you don't mind about the money.'

'About the money, no. It's Perry's lack of caring and the… inexplicableness of what he did that's disturbing.'

'So far I've been able to locate two of Perry's new beneficiaries-Thomas Y. Grant and Jess Goodhue. Did he ever mention either of them to you?'

She shook her head.

'What about a David Arlen Taylor, Libby Heikkinen, or Jenny Ruhl?'

'None of those names is familiar. I'm sure I'd remember if I'd known or heard of them.'

'Well, neither of the two I've spoken to claims to have known Perry, or understands why he would name them in his will. Perhaps when I locate Taylor and Heikkinen, they can shed some light on his reasons. The other person I mentioned, Jenny Ruhl, was the mother of Jess Goodhue. Goodhue thought her mother might have known Perry at Berkeley.'

'That would have been long before I met him.'

'When was that, and where?'

'At S.F. State, after he'd come back from Vietnam. I was only nineteen; he was several years older, and very intriguing to me. A distant, silent, haunted man, who had already lost a wife and a child. I thought I could help him, bring him out of himself. That's how naive I was!'

'I take it he remained distant.'

'Yes. It wasn't until after my first son, Kurt, was born that I realized how distant. I remember looking at Kurt and wondering which of us he would be more like-Perry or me. And then it came to me that I knew virtually nothing of the man who had fathered him.'

'Do you mean what he thought and felt, or actual biographical details?'

'Both. Oh, he'd sketched out a chronology for me when we first met, but it was more like an outline, with none of the substance.'

'Where was Perry originally from?'

'Albuquerque.'

I thought of the father wearing a string tie who had visited Jess Goodhue. 'Did he speak of his childhood?'

'More than any other part of his life. It sounded fairly normal. I never met his father; he died when Perry was in high school. His mother had remarried and they traveled a lot; I only met her once. She was quite outgoing, so wherever he got his remoteness, it wasn't from her.'

'And you divorced Perry ten years ago?'

'Ten years next month. Toward the end we were living in Pacifica. We'd bought a house. Perry commuted to the city. He kept long hours-purposely, I thought. It wasn't as if he didn't love the boys or me; he just couldn't cope with the intimacy of family life. Eventually he became more like the fog that drifted in and out, rather than a husband or father. I felt as if I were failing him when I divorced him, but he seemed more relieved than anything else. I guess he'd gotten in over his head emotionally by marrying and having a family.'

The kind of uninvolved individual Mrs. Fleming described didn't mesh with the young man who had clowned and