By October, when the leaves on the trees in Honeysuckle Hills had turned scarlet and gold, the Danielses had moved away. At first, no one bought their house—Who would? Roberta had wondered aloud, and all the women had nodded, understanding that a house where a murdered child had lived was of course undesirable—but two weeks before Christmas a new family moved in. The wife was pregnant with twins and on bedrest, but the husband was friendly. He could be spotted shoveling snow, or hanging Christmas decorations. He always waved when someone went past.
If Dougie Daniels had not gone missing, kidnapped practically right in front of Claire’s eyes, she thought it was possible that she would still be moving through her life as she had been, in a pleasant, mind-numbing routine. But Dougie did get kidnapped. And after that afternoon, nothing felt the same to Claire. Nothing felt right anymore. Until Miles had looked at her in that way. Then something shifted. Not into place, but rather completely off-center. Claire had recognized it, and jumped in.
2
The Obituary Writer
VIVIEN, 1919
The obituary writer, Vivien Lowe, usually did not know her clients. They came from Silverado and Calistoga; from Point Reyes Station and Sacramento; from San Francisco and Oakland. She had even had clients come from as far away as Ashland, Oregon, and, once, Los Angeles. They read about her gift for bringing the dead to life, and they came to her clutching their tearstained handkerchiefs, their crumpled notes, their photographs of their deceased loved ones.
They were all very much like Mrs. Marjorie Benton, who sat across from her now on the small deep purple velvet loveseat. It was a rainy March afternoon in the town of Napa, California, in 1919. Outside the window, the leaves on the oak trees were wet and green. The office looked like a sitting room, with its Victorian furniture salvaged from the old apartment in San Francisco, the loveseat and chairs and ornate, beaded lamps. The obituary writer lived above her office, in one large room that looked down on Napa’s main street. On the rare occasions when she parted the draperies that hung on the windows upstairs, she could watch small-town life unfold before her. The farmers with their wagons of fruit; the vintners with their hands stained purple from Mission grapes; women clutching children’s hands. But she preferred to keep the draperies closed. Downstairs, however, in her office, she let the light in; she believed sunlight had healing properties.
Mrs. Benton was crying softly. Her cup of tea, which sat on the small table between them, had grown cold.
Even though they did not know it, Vivien knew that grieving people needed food and something to quench their thirst. She believed in the powers of clear broth and toast, of sustenance. So she always put out a small plate of cheese and crackers, or cookies, or fruit. She always offered her clients a drink. Cool water, hot tea, even a glass of wine from her friend Lotte’s family vineyard up Highway 29. Mrs. Benton had asked for tea when Vivien offered her a drink. Long ago, in another lifetime, she had learned about tea from David’s law partner, Duncan, who had spent his childhood in India. Duncan liked to pontificate about everything from tea to séances to the mating habits of tigers. I only trust about ten percent of what he says, David used to say. But he is entertaining.
Vivien kept many varieties of tea on hand. Mrs. Benton had chosen Earl Grey. It sat now, amber in its china cup, forgotten.
“My Frank,” Mrs. Benton was saying, “graduated from the University of California at Berkeley in 1899.”
Vivien did some fast math. Frank Benton was only a man in his early forties. Not much older than Vivien herself; she was thirty-seven. Mr. Benton had died after having a tooth pulled.
“His degree was in mathematics,” Mrs. Benton added. She frowned. “Aren’t you going to write any of this down, Miss Lowe?”
Vivien shook her head. “That isn’t how I work,” she explained.
She didn’t tell Mrs. Benton that these facts—degrees and numbers and jobs and affiliations—were not what made a life. Everyone who came here to her small office in Napa answered her request of: “Tell me about your loved one” with facts. Vivien let them tell her about places of birth and accomplishments, number of grandchildren and siblings. Then, when they were finished, she would say again, “Tell me about your loved one.” That was when the person began to come to life.
“We were married on June 17, aught four,” Mrs. Benton continued. “Lost everything in aught six.”
Vivien felt that lump in her throat, the one that seemed to appear at the mere suggestion of the earthquake. Lost everything, Mrs. Benton said matter-of-factly, and Vivien nodded, willing herself to be calm. It had been thirteen years and she was getting better at holding her own grief at bay.
“That scared the bejesus out of us,” Mrs. Benton said, “so we moved up to Monticello.”
Vivien waited. With a sigh, Mrs. Benton went on. “Three children. Owen, fourteen. Maxwell, twelve. June, ten.” She frowned again.