The Memory of Eva Ryker (6 page)

Pulling up the counter top, she waved me through the door into the back part of the cottage. “Fred!” she yelled. “He's here!”

Fred was fat and bald and immobilized in an overstuffed green armchair. The sports page from the
Independent
rested on his paunch.

“H'lo.” He bent painfully forward to shake my hand. I decided illness rather than rudeness was the reason for him not standing up.

The living room was sauna-hot. Mima Heinley must've seen the sweat bubbling up from my forehead, for she bustled over to crack the windows.

Sunlight poured into the little room, catching the dust motes flying up from expensive beige hook rugs. She tilted the Venetian blinds at a quarter angle, filling the room with zebra stripes of light.

“Sit down! Sit down, Mr. Hall.” She waved me into a pillowy sofa. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Cream?”

“Please. No sugar.”

Cups rattled in the tiny kitchen tucked in a cubby hole to my left. Stern New England faces glared down from oval frames over Mr. Heinley's chair. Above my head was a brass platter the size of a bus tire engraved with English burghers who seemed to be enjoying a fox hunt-cum-orgy. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled the fourth wall.

Mr. Heinley mildly watched me. “How do you like St. Petersburg, Mr. Hall?”

“It makes me homesick. I grew up in weather much like this.”

“Really? Here on the coast?”

“Honolulu.”

“Were you born there?”

I nodded. “The Hall family dates back to the early missionaries. Not to mention any whalers or natives who sneaked into the family tree.”

Mima Heinley tottered in with a silver tray she balanced like a cautious tightrope walker. She eased it down on the coffee table and passed me a cup.

The lips smiled. “Is it all right?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Mrs. Heinley turned and made straight for her bookcase. From a middle shelf she pulled out a copy of
The Web He Wove
.

“Of all your books, Mr. Hall, I think that's my favorite.”

“Thank you. I'm flattered.”

“We also remembered your face.” She pointed at the jacket.

“Not my favorite portrait, I'm afraid.”

“We figured to meet you one day. Sooner or later.”

I looked from one face to another. “Maybe I don't quite understand.”

“Mr. Hall,” Fred rumbled gravely, “Mima and I have known you for many years.” He pointed a thumb at the ceiling. “Up in our attic are clippings from newspapers across the country about Al and Martha. Your pictures as a young man are scattered all through those articles. Mima and I have read just about everything you've written. We've felt a personal interest in your success.”

I walked to the window to let in more fresh air. “You've got me at a disadvantage. If you don't want to talk, I'd understand.”

The Heinleys didn't answer, waiting to see which way I would spring.

“Let me explain one thing. I'm not here simply because of my personal interest in the Kleins. They were survivors of the
Titanic
. Which makes them my business.”

Fred raised his arms helplessly. “Where do you want to start?”

“Were you close?”

“We lived next door to them for nearly thirty years,” Mima said. “You can't get much closer than that.”

“Where? Here at the beach?”

“No! No!” He tilted his head away from the Gulf. “Across the bay, off Central Avenue. In two little apartments over the store Al and Martha owned.”

“What sort of store?”

“Produce mostly. A few canned goods and fish.”

A thought struck me. “Is that store still there?”

“The building is,” he sniffed. “It's a liquor store now.”

I glanced at my watch. “My car's outside. I understand there's a restaurant out Tampa-way called Los Novedades that's pretty fair.”

Fred grinned at the understatement. “Just about the best on the Coast.”

“If you two would like to get out, I thought we could drive there for lunch. And on the way back you can show me the old Klein store.”

Mima cast a doubtful glance at her husband. “I'm not so sure, Mr. Hall. Fred hasn't been feeling too well.”

“To hell with that!” He lifted himself up, grabbed his cane and plunged into the bedroom, yelling, “Mima! Where's my good jacket!”

“Hush up, Fred!” She scurried after him, sparing me a contrite glance over her shoulder. “Just give us a few minutes.”

The home of Albert and Martha Klein was on a narrow side street twisting down from Central Avenue between the Coast Guard station and the yacht basin.

I parked the Buick across the street, rolled down the window and squinted up at the building.

“There's the place,” Mima said ruefully. “We lived there over forty years. God help us.”

The Anchor Cove Liquor-Mart occupied the ground floor. Standing guard at the counter by the door was a pink-faced bald man who resembled an immense overgrown infant. He punched the register, then passed a tiny paper sack across the counter to someone out of sight. A skinny little black kid swung open the screen door and padded down the sidewalk in his dusty bare feet, red licorice snaking from his mouth.

I grabbed my Nikon and crossed the street. At the side of the building feeble wooden stairs led to the second-floor apartments. The steps and bannister sweated with too many coats of paint laid over the years.

Under the stairs a snoozing marmalade Tom raised one eye, then yawned and swaggered my way. His purring flanks hugged my calves, telling me we were friends for life. The cat's hideaway was littered with empty Red Mountain jugs and no-deposit root beer bottles.

The door to the Kleins' apartment was mottled with stains and finger smudges. A baby howled from one of the rooms.

Two smallish windows faced the street. The window belonging to the Kleins' old place was curtained shut. Sunlight seeped through rips in the cotton fabric.

“Believe it or not,” Fred said upon my return to the car, “it was a real nice place at one time.”

“I believe you. No one sets out to build a slum.” I settled behind the wheel. “When did the Kleins move in?”

“Late April, nineteen twelve.”

“Right after the sinking.”

“That's right,” she said.

“Did they talk much about being on board the
Titanic?
”

“Not at first.” Fred gazed up at the second-story windows. “But their names were on the survivors' list printed in all the papers, so it was only natural we should ask them about it. Al said he jumped overboard and was picked up in the water. Martha always said she left in the last boat.”

Mima leaned forward. “You can understand how it was, Mr. Hall. They had obviously gone through hell, and we felt it merciful not to press them for details.”

“Did the Kleins have much money when they moved here?”

“Some. They weren't broke. The store took off pretty quick and they made even more.” He chuckled sadly. “I hate to think of all the times they helped Mima and me through a tight spot. Al gave me money for Mima's heart operation in twenty-three. Let us charge groceries after the Crash, when some of our neighbors were digging through garbage cans. We might be dead now if not for them.”

I inspected the battered upstairs curtains. “I'd like to take a look up there.”

“It wouldn't do you much good,” Mima said. “The owner tore out old walls and put in new ones to sublet the place into smaller units. That's why we moved.” She stared down at her hands folded on her lap. “Also, it didn't seem very … healthy to stay there after, you know, they were gone.”

“I would've felt the same way. The only reason why I wanted to see inside was to, well …” My shoulders shrugged. “I'd like to get some idea of how the Kleins lived.”

Mima's face brightened. “Maybe I can help you there. Al and Martha didn't have any next of kin, so we had to do something with their belongings. I kept some odds and ends. They're stored in our attic. I could let you have a look if you like.”

The Heinleys' “attic” wasn't much larger than the inside of a pup tent. Fred and Mima held the ladder as I climbed up through their bedroom ceiling, shoving a flashlight into the darkness.

“It's the big cardboard box on the left!” Mima cried.

Years of dust cushioned the insides of the box like filthy gray cotton. Mima spread newspapers on the living room floor and passed me a towel.

Most peoples' attic fodder is pitifully scruffy, and the Kleins' hoard was no exception.

A milk glass bud vase. Wood shoe trees smelling of leather and mothballs. Odd Mah-Jongg pieces. A tarnished souvenir spoon from the 1933 Chicago World's Fair, with tiny letters on the handle proclaiming “Century of Progress.” Rotting Zane Grey paperbacks. An art deco ashtray, its orange mosaic tile scarred with ancient cigarette butts.

I set the f-stop on my Nikon, bent over the relics and clicked off a few exposures.

Replanted in his easy chair, Fred wheezed from the dust. Mima tut-tutted in sympathy, cranking open the windows. Fresh ocean breezes quick-chilled the sweat simmering between my shoulder blades.

“Mrs. Heinley, do you have any photos of the Kleins?”

“I wish we did. One of my cousins gave us a Kodak on our first anniversary and we never ran more than two or three rolls through it.”

“After living together all those years?”

“Mr. Hall,” Fred grumbled. “Al and Martha were what you might call camera shy. Martha claimed she couldn't take a good picture and Al just didn't give a damn.”

“It's a shame,” Mima sighed. “You should have seen them, Mr. Hall, when they first came here. Fair and beautiful … just like those little wedding cake statues.”

“I thought the groom on the cake was always dark.”

“Maybe.” She smiled sheepishly. “But you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think so. Blond and gorgeous. They sound almost angelic.”

“What're you trying to say?” Fred scowled.

“Nothing really. I just wondered if you ever had any arguments with the Kleins.”

“No.” He was certain.

“No harsh words? No petty squabbles? A little too much to drink one night? An overdue grocery bill? A joke that went sour?”

Fred's lips sliced thin for a meat-cleaver reply, but Mima gently cut him off. “It's a little hard to say, Mr. Hall. You get old and you remember what's convenient. Most everything else washes out of your system.”

I turned to Fred. “One thing I'm curious about. You said the Kleins' store was successful?”

“I'll say! He had the neighborhood sewn up within a year.”

“If he was doing so well, why didn't he expand into more stores?”

Fred scratched the gray thatch at the back of his head. “Damned if I know. I used to kid Al. ‘Why don't you hire some more help?' I'd say. ‘Advertise in the papers! Branch out!' But he would just shake his head and say, ‘We're keeping it a family business.'”

“By ‘family business' I assume he meant he and his wife.”

“Al and Martha couldn't have children.” Mima's eyes had a hollow unseeing look. “Maybe that's why we were so close. Fred and I had the same … problem.”

The Heinleys' den seemed to tighten oppressively around me as I watched both of them.

“Martha Klein told me that her husband received strange phone calls just before they left on their trip. She also said men she didn't recognize were around the old apartment, keeping watch on him. Did you ever see anyone like that?”

He glanced at Mima, then appeared to make up his mind. “Yes, we did. For about a week before Al and Martha left, a late-model sedan parked across the street with a man in it. The car and driver changed all the time, but they were always there.”

“Could you describe any of the men?”

“Too far away. And too long ago. Mima and I mentioned it to Martha. I do remember that. She seemed a little worried. The men vanished right after they left.”

“Martha Klein told me their trip to Hawaii was an impulse on Al's part. Did it seem sudden to you?”

Mima wiped dust off an end table before answering. “I suppose it was. Al and Martha had a little money put back and they talked about a vacation, but they did pack up in a hurry.”

“What did they do with the store?”

“Oh, Al had two or three boys helping him out,” Fred said. “They could handle things for a few weeks. Mima filled in and sort of ran roughshod over the store. At least until we heard the news from Hawaii.”

“This part-time help. Do any of them still live around here?”

Her head shook. “There was only one regular boy. Stanley Kallis was his name. He died at Anzio. There were a lot of others, but they came and went.”

I felt my trail drying and I started making thanks-for-your-time motions. “There's one more thing you folks could tell me. Did either Al or Martha ever mention someone aboard the
Titanic
whom they knew? A passenger or even a crew member?”

“Oh, dear, I'm sure they had all sorts of friends on board. Both of them were very good with people. But I don't remember anyone in particular on the
Titanic
.”

“Wait a minute!” Fred sat up. “There was a crewman. Martha talked about him several times.”

“What was his name?”

“God, let me think.” He cradled his head in his hands. “It was John. John something. John MacArthur … no, that wasn't it. John McSomething. John …”

“McFarland!” Mima cried. “I remember now! It was their steward. Al used to get kind of peeved whenever Martha brought him up. John McFarland!”

7

January 17, 1962

“McFarland … McFarland …” The personnel director of Cunard Lines' New York office riffled through a husky gray file cabinet. “John McFarland. Here it is.”