Silent Witness Read Free Page B

pitched the question casually, lightly matter-of-fact. The other woman’s reaction was a small, subtly playful smile.
    “Bernhardt the detective?” The smile widened. “Or Bernhardt the love object?”
    “Do I have to choose?”
    Appreciatively sipping the soup Paula shrugged, a burlesque of maidenly coyness. “Actually,” she said, “he’s got an interesting history. His parents were Jewish, both of them from New York, that hard-core Jewish middle-class intellectual stock. His father was a bombardier in the war. He got killed before Alan was born.”
    “So Alan’s—what—forty-five?”
    “Forty-three, I think. Maybe forty-four. Anyhow, his mother raised him. His mother and his mother’s parents. It was one of those real—” Even though it was Paula’s nature to keep her enthusiasms private, treasures unto herself, she nevertheless allowed her enthusiasm to show through as she said, “It was one of those real vintage New York Jewish families, apparently. His mother was an only child—a much-loved only child, the way only the Jews can love their children. Alan was the only grandson. His grandfather was a small clothing manufacturer. He wasn’t very successful. He was always more interested in playing chamber music and fly tying than in making a fortune, I gather. There was always enough money, though. The grandparents took care of Alan’s education. A good education, private schools in New York and Ohio.”
    “The grandfather sounds wonderful.”
    “I know …”
    “What about Alan’s mother. What’d she do?”
    “She was a modern dancer and an activist. You know—women’s lib, ban the bomb, human rights. Marching and meetings and dance recitals, that’s what Alan remembers most about his childhood.”
    “His mother never remarried.”
    Paula shook her head. “No. She danced and she marched and that was it, apparently. They lived in a loft, in the Village. Alan could fly model airplanes in it.”
    “A happy childhood, then.” Approvingly, Janice nodded. “Like us.”
    “Yes …” As if the thought was new to her, Paula spoke thoughtfully, reflectively. Then she nodded. “Yes. Like us.”
    “So why’d he come to San Francisco?”
    “The truth is, he was running away. That’s why a lot of people come to San Francisco, I’ve decided. San Francisco—California—it’s the promised land. Or so people think.”
    Ruefully, Janice smiled. “Sometimes I think about running away to Manhattan. Or Taos. Or San Miguel.”
    “I know …” Paula finished her soup, and nodded appreciatively. “Excellent. I’ve never had shark fin soup before. Now I know what the shouting is all about.”
    “Are you going to tell me what Alan is running away from?”
    “When he was in college,” Paula answered, her voice measured, her manner grave, “he got hooked on acting—on the theater. He married a girl who also wanted to act. After they graduated, they went to New York and started making the rounds—trying out. They lived in the Village, not far from Alan’s mother. It was an idyllic life, really perfect. After a year or two, both Alan and his wife started to connect, to get small parts. Then Alan had a play produced off Broadway.”
    “A play he’d written?”
    Paula nodded. “He wrote it while he was in college. He wrote three, actually.”
    “I’m impressed.” She nodded to the waitress, who cleared away the soup dishes. “Very impressed.”
    “He directed, too, off Broadway. He was a comer, no question. A rising star. And his wife was starting to do well, too.”
    “So what happened? Divorce?”
    “No,” Paula answered, her dark eyes solemn, her voice subdued. “No, not divorce.” She drew a long, deep breath. “In the space of a year and a half, his wife and his mother and his grandparents all died.”
    “Jesus Christ. How?”
    “His grandfather had a heart attack, they think, while he was driving. His wife was with him. In any case, their car crossed over the center divider of