Months ago, during my first visit to Vista Linda, I’d spoken to Diane Olsen for three minutes. I didn’t know how she’d respond to seeing me again or if she’d even remember me.
She opened the door and her face instantly fell. “Yes?”
She wore drawstring denim capris and a T-shirt that read HUMBOLDT COUNTY in purple script. Flip-flops adhered to her heels as she pedaled her weight back and forth.
I said, “Clay Edison. We met a little while back. I was interested in the Franchettes.”
Nothing.
“I had my daughter with me.”
More silence. Informed, not surprised. She remembered.
“You said you didn’t know what became of Bev—”
“And I still don’t.”
“Since then I’ve gotten a little bit more information. She and Gene ended up moving to New Mexico.”
“There’s your answer, then.”
“After Peggy was kidnapped,” I said.
She flinched. “Who are you? What’s your interest in this?”
“They had another child. A son, Peter. His parents never told him about his sister. I’m helping him piece together his past, was hoping you could fill in some of the blanks.”
“You already know more than I do,” she said.
“Maybe about certain things. But you were there. It would be helpful to—”
“I was a child.”
“Fifteen,” I said. “Old enough to notice what’s going on.”
She shifted unhappily. I prepared for a door slam. But she stayed in place.
“How well did you know the Franchettes?”
“As well as you know any neighbor. They were my parents’ generation.”
“Did your parents have a relationship with them?”
“They might’ve come over for dinner a few times. My mom made a point of being friendly.”
“I understand the lab uses the house for visiting scholars.”
Diane Olsen nodded.
“You must’ve met some interesting types,” I said.
“They’re scientists. They keep to themselves.”
“Were the Franchettes like that, too?”
“Well, yes, till their house burned down.” She hugged herself. “Not that I blame them. They’re the ones who suffered most. My dad said it probably had to do with what Dr. Franchette did, with nukes.”
“Have there been other incidents over the years?”
“Not like that.”
“Anything remotely political. Picketing, graffiti, protests.”
“Never.”
“What happened to the Franchettes was exceptional.”
“I suppose.” She brushed back hair. “They were exceptional.”
“In what sense?”
“They were locals, for starters. Most of the scientists come from abroad. My mom still put out the welcome mat, like she did for everyone who moved in. She’d bring bread and salt, take the women grocery shopping. Bake cookies for the bachelors. My father would tell her, ‘Lil, you’re not the official welcoming committee for every weirdo with a suitcase.’ She felt bad for the spouses and children. ‘Think how you’d feel, being such a long way from home and not knowing a single soul.’ She’d invite the kids over to play with me, which I hated, because there was no telling if they’d be my age, or if they’d speak a word of English. I used to be able to count to ten in a dozen different languages.”
“Your mom sounds like a nice person.”
“She was. Also—I don’t mean to take away from her niceness—I think she considered it a form of insurance.”
“Against?”
“New neighbors? There’s always the possibility of conflict. So she’d preempt and make nice. With the Franchettes, I suppose we interacted with them a bit more than usual, because there was no language barrier. I wouldn’t call us close, though.”
“The last time we spoke, you said that Bev had it hard.”
“She did.”
“What did you mean by that?”
“Their house burned down. Then…I mean, how much can one family endure?”
“Right. Just that you didn’t say they had it hard. You said Bev.”
“Well, look, I don’t know. It’s a way of talking. I’m sure it was the same for Gene.”
“How long did they live there?”
“A year? Maybe a little more? Longer than the others. Maybe because he was an actual lab employee. Makes you wonder how he finagled it.”
“They moved out after the fire.”
“There was no choice. The place was a disaster.”
“What do you remember from that night?”
“It was terrifying. Everyone was terrified. I was asleep, and my dad ran in and dragged me out of bed and into the street in my nightgown. Up and down the block people started coming out to see what was going on. There I was, standing half-naked. I was mortified. I wanted to go back in and get my robe but the firemen wouldn’t let me.”
A teenager’s priorities. The sting of it seemed as sharp as ever.
“We went down the block to the home of a woman in my mother’s reading club. She gave me a blanket and let us wait in her kitchen until they gave us permission to go back inside.”
“Was your house damaged?”
“There was scorching on a few roof shingles. One bathroom window faces the property line, the glass broke from the heat. Also water damage, from the hoses. It ruined some wallpaper. It could have been much worse.”
“Did the authorities ever interview you about it?”
“Not me.”
“Your parents?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“What about right after the kidnapping? Did anyone talk to you then?”
“No. Why would they? Gene and Bev didn’t live here anymore.”
“You had a relationship with them—”
“I told you. Not a deep one. It was situational. We didn’t…We weren’t pen pals.”
“Okay,” I said. “You remember hearing about the kidnapping, though.”
“Of course. You don’t forget a thing like that.”
“How’d you find out?”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t in the papers,” I said. “Do you recall who told you?”
She had to think. “My mom, probably. That’s a guess, I don’t remember.”
“How would she have found out?”
“I really have no idea. Why are you asking me all this?”
“Just trying to collect information for Peter. Sorry if it’s intrusive.”
She tapped a foot, but she didn’t leave. Maybe she craved human contact of any sort.
I said, “Did you ever meet Gene’s children from his first marriage?”
She shook her head.
“He had a son, Norman, and a daughter, Claudia. They would have been a little older than you.”
“I just said I never met them.”
“What about Chrissy Klausen? Did you know her?”
A seam of dread opened in her face.
She said, “Who’s that?”
Bad liar. The will simply wasn’t there.
“Chrissy Klausen,” I said. “She was the Franchettes’ nanny.”
The breeze brought a heady gust of jasmine. It grows all over Berkeley, all over California; it’s hardy and attractive and inexpensive, and it smells wonderfully exotic, transporting you to a gentle place, a place of repose.
Diane Olsen treadled her flip-flops, as though fleeing in place.
Behind her the house was dim, its rancid breath heightened against the perfume of the jasmine.
I said, “May I come in?”
