traces of her youthful air. Perhaps it was an illusion caused by the plumpness. Mrs. Von Faber’s cheeks still retained an almost childlike fullness, and her careful application of rouge made her seem almost doll-like despite her age.
Thalia cleared her throat.
“Good morning, Miss Cutler. Thank you for seeing me.” Mrs. Von Faber held up the figurine. “Meissen. Interesting. I would have bet good money it was Limoges.” She put it back on the mantelpiece. From her jet-beaded reticule, she drew out a thin brown envelope. “I am grateful to you for finding out who killed my dear Johan. I offered a reward. You’ve earned it. So I will pay. But that’s not why I’m here right now. I’m here because I’ve gone all through my husband’s papers. He had a special box. I knew it was important, but no matter what I tried, I couldn’t open it, so I had to pay a locksmith. He got it open last night. There were some envelopes inside. Since this one has your name on it, I thought you’d better have it.”
Thalia eyed the envelope suspiciously. “What is it?”
Mrs. Von Faber chuckled. “It’s not some kind of summons, if that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing legal.”
“Is it illegal, then?” To Thalia’s surprise, Mrs. Von Faber looked embarrassed. Any reply she might have made was broken off when a maid, bearing a tray with Rogers’ idea of appropriate refreshments, joined Thalia in the doorway. Thalia let her past to arrange the tray, then invited Mrs. Von Faber to be seated.
“Oh, how nice.” Mrs. Von Faber jostled the maid in her eagerness to take a chair. “Very kind of you, I’m sure.”
“Very kind of my hosts.” Thalia took the best chair and poured out coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Both, please. Lots of both.” Mrs. Von Faber put the envelope down when she accepted her cup from Thalia. There was a single word written on it in bold black letters: CUTLER. “If you don’t want it, just put it in the fire. I won’t take it back.”
“What is it?” Thalia repeated.
“Read it and see.” Mrs. Von Faber took a wafer-thin cookie from the plate Thalia offered. “There were half a dozen envelopes like that inside. Different names on them, of course.”
Thalia picked up the envelope. It had been sealed with wax, but someone had already opened it. There was nothing inside but a single sheet of newspaper. She spread the page flat. The San Francisco Pantograph, April 14, 1896. The society page, filled with breathless accounts of debutante balls, news of forthcoming engagements, and half a dozen wedding announcements. On the other side of the page Thalia found only a jumble of advertisements. Nine years old, and the newsprint was already starting to yellow. “What is this supposed to be?”
Mrs. Von Faber helped herself to another cookie. “Use your eyes.” She held out her empty cup for a refill.
Thalia turned back to the society news. There, among the portrait photogravures of brides stiff as waxworks, was a picture of her mother. Beneath it, the caption read, Heir to Paxton Fortune Weds Widow. In the text of the announcement, it said that Margarete Gruenewald, Trader, had married Lyman Paxton, also a Trader. In addition, Lyman Paxton’s father was the Paxton, he was heir to the Paxton Trust, and he was working for the family firm, a real estate empire. The happy couple were already on their wedding journey and would not be receiving well-wishers at their palatial home on Nob Hill for another month.
Thalia closed her eyes to try to subdue her emotions so that her thoughts could come to order, but after only a moment she had to open them again to take another look at the image.
The likeness was unmistakable. The woman in the picture was older than she had looked in the wedding portrait Thalia had found among her father’s personal effects. But it was the same person, no question. Margarete Gruenewald. Her mother. Her dead mother.
Thalia checked the date of the newspaper again. “This is from 1896.”
“Yes, I read it.” Mrs. Von Faber gave up waiting for Thalia and poured herself more coffee.
“My mother died in 1888.”
“She doesn’t look dead to me.”
The Margarete Gruenewald in the picture had been alive in 1896. Thalia reminded herself it didn’t mean her mother was still alive in 1905. But hope had other ideas. She could not help hoping.
If her mother was still in San Francisco, still alive, Thalia could find her. She could talk to her, she could