Garden of Stones. Sophie Littlefield

a calculator than on the floor these days, he supposed that was all right. A man slows down, in time.

      A knock at the door. Raphael, his day manager, sometimes came in early and drank a cup of coffee with him. On days like this, when his aches and pains were more troublesome than usual, Reg could do without the conversation—at least until he’d had a chance to work the kinks out of his joints and was feeling more sociable. The only reason he came in to work this early was his insomnia: often stark-awake by three or four, Reg had nowhere else to go.

      “Yeah. Come in.”

      He didn’t turn. The only sound was the gurgling of the coffeepot. Reg squinted at the sheet on top of the stack and wondered if he needed to go to the eye doctor again. What had it been, two years, three, and it seemed like they were printing everything smaller all the time.

      “Hey, Raphael, look at this invoice, will you, I can’t make out the damn numbers—”

      He jerked with surprise when warm hands covered his eyes. For a moment he was frozen, remembering the way his sister used to sneak up on him, half a century ago. She loved to put her small hands over his eyes and make him guess, little skinny Martha who died of scarlet fever before her seventh birthday; he hadn’t thought of her in years. The hands pushed gently, tilting his head back, one of them cupping his chin to hold it in place. Reg squinted, trying to see who was standing above him, but he was blinded by the sun streaming in the window. Something cold and hard pressed against his forehead, and the last thing Reg saw was a face surrounded with a brilliant, glowing corona, like Jesus in the picture his mother had hung above Martha’s bed.

      2

      San Francisco

      Wednesday, June 7, 1978

      Patty Takeda was having the nightmare again.

      In it, she stood at the back of the church as the organist finished the last few measures of Franck’s “Fantaisie in C,” watching her maid of honor approach the altar and execute a perfect turn in her pink high heels. There was a pause as the entire congregation waited breathlessly. Then the first triumphant notes of the wedding march rang out, and everyone rose in their pews and turned toward the back, expectant smiles on their faces. Patty emerged from behind the latticed anteroom divider. Step–pause, step–pause, a smile fixed on her face.

      But something was wrong. Audible gasps filled the chapel and Patty looked down and discovered that she had forgotten to put her dress on. Or her slip, for that matter, or her panties or strapless bra. She was completely naked other than her white satin pumps. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but everyone was watching, staring, pointing, and she turned to run back to the dressing room but the ushers were standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking her way, gaping.

      Patty woke, shoulders heaving, sweat gluing her T-shirt to her neck, the sheets knotted around her body. She was breathing hard, but at least she was awake. Sometimes, when she had this dream, she ran around the church for what seemed like hours, never finding an exit.

      The sound of the doorbell jarred her fully awake. Was that the sound that had broken through the dream? Patty groped for the clock on the bedside table, knocking the tissue box to the floor before she found it. Almost nine. Patty lay still and listened as her mother answered the door. She heard her mother’s voice, and a man’s, back and forth a few times—and then footsteps, through the house, down the hall past Patty’s door, into the kitchen.

      “...can offer you tea, if you like, Inspector,” Patty heard her mother say clearly as they passed, and then the voices became indistinguishable again.

      Inspector? Patty untangled the sheets from her legs and sat up in bed, rubbing her face. Why would a detective be visiting her mother’s house? She pulled on the nylon running shorts she’d tossed on a chair the night before and was halfway to the door before she changed her mind and went back for her bra. It took a little searching—the bra had disappeared halfway under the bed—but Patty eventually found it and yanked it on, then exchanged the T-shirt she had been sleeping in for a fresh one from the suitcase on the floor. She sniffed under her armpits—not terrible. She really needed to unpack. She’d moved out of her apartment last week and she was staying here with her mother until the wedding, but it was only her third day off and she was still enjoying being lazy.

      She peeked out the bedroom door, craning her neck to peer into the kitchen, and saw a man’s polished brown shoe under the kitchen table. The rest of him was just out of sight. Patty grimaced and tiptoed across the hall to the bathroom. She washed her face and brushed her teeth in record time, pulling a comb through her hair and settling for a quick swipe of lip gloss.

      When she entered the kitchen, she was feeling presentable, if self-conscious about her bare legs. The man stood and greeted her with a nod.

      “Patty,” her mother said. “This is Inspector Torre.”

      “Pleased to meet you.”

      “You too,” Patty said automatically, taking the hand he offered, finding his grip surprisingly tentative. He was at least six, six-one, with the sort of beard that looks untended by lunchtime and thick, black sideburns encroaching on his jaw. Handsome, some women would no doubt think.

      “I’m here to talk to your mother about the death of an acquaintance of hers.”

      “Who?” Patty quickly cataloged everyone in her mother’s circle, a very short list. Besides work, Lucy Takeda went almost nowhere.

      “Reginald Forrest. He was the proprietor of a commercial gym in the basement of the DeSoto Hotel.”

      Patty knew the hotel—a once-grand stone edifice about a quarter mile away, on Pine or Bush or one of those streets. A pocket of the neighborhood that had seen the last of its glory days. But she had never heard the man’s name.

      Lucy tsked dismissively. “Someone I knew a long time ago, in Manzanar. I haven’t seen him in thirty-five years.”

      “But—” Patty looked from the inspector to her mother, confused. Lucy never spoke about her time in the internment camp. “Why on earth would you want to talk to my mother?”

      Torre cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Someone claims to have seen someone resembling your mother in the vicinity of the gym around the time he died. We’ve got a time of death between five and seven yesterday morning, and this person places your mother there between seven and seven-fifteen.”

      “But that’s—” Patty struggled to clear the morning haze from her thoughts. “My mom doesn’t ever go over there.”

      “This person said...” Inspector Torre seemed to be searching for the right words. “That is to say, he described certain characteristics.... We asked around the neighborhood and several people mentioned Mrs. Takeda.”

      Now Patty understood his discomfort. “Characteristics...” Yes, people didn’t quickly forget her mother’s face. The pocked and shiny pink scars took up most of the right side of her face, extending from her right eye down to her jawline. They encroached upon her lower eyelid, pink and puffed and vertically clefted; the eye itself was milky and gave the impression of both blindness and acute vision, which was unsettling and put the observer in the uncomfortable position of having to find another place to focus his own eyes.

      “The inspector talked to Dave Navarro,” Lucy said indignantly. “And the Cooks!”

      The faint beginning of a headache stirred between Patty’s temples. Her mother had never had a great relationship with the neighbors—she could only imagine how those conversations went. “I’m sorry, but this is, well, I don’t get it,” Patty said. “I mean, you weren’t at the hotel yesterday morning, were you, Mom?”

      “Of course not. And besides, Inspector Torre said it could also be a suicide,” Lucy said. “It probably was.”

      “Why would you say that?” Torre asked.

      “You said that. You said the stun gun or whatever it was—”

      “Captive