Edited to Death

by Linda Lee Peterson

  “Do your best, Calvin,” I said. “I hope you two will be very happy.”

  As Calvin strolled over to assault the redoubtable Ms. Storch, I decided to search out the next of kin. Actually, I wasn’t sure to whom I should tender my condolences. There was Claire, of course, but she was really the ex, even though I didn’t think they’d ever actually filed for divorce. Or Stuart? But then, I’d never really understood that relationship either.

  I’d been charming to Stuart, truly I had, including him in dinner invitations we extended to Quentin—all that Miss Manners stuff—but it had cost me.

  I bumped into Stuart in the kitchen. He was at the counter, piling more tiny linen cocktail napkins on a tray. He had forsaken his usual Errol Flynn-style blousy silk shirt for a gray and white striped broadcloth shirt and tailored wool slacks. I touched his shoulder.

  He turned. “Maggie.” He pecked me on the cheek. “Thanks for sitting with me at the service.”

  “How are you holding up, Stuart?”

  He shrugged. “Well, the widow and I are circling, trying to decide whose party this really is.”

  “You look wonderful. Very uptown; Quentin would approve.”

  He smiled. “He would, wouldn’t he? He should, it’s his shirt. This is as close as I come to Savile Row, I’m afraid.”

  “God, Stuart, I feel so awful for you. For me, too.”

  He adjusted his stack of napkins a millimeter this way and that. Without looking up, he said, “Tell me about finding him.”

  I suppressed a shudder. “There’s not much to tell. We had a lunch date. Nobody answered the door. Madame went to get me some writing paper so I could leave a nasty note, and then I pushed the door open and walked up the stairs. He was,” I swallowed hard, “just lying there, sort of crumpled, over the desk.”

  “I feel so guilty about all this.”

  My heart sank. “Why?”

  “I should have been here when whoever it was came in.”

  “Why weren’t you?”

  “Quentin and I had a blowup. He’d gotten an invitation to a gallery opening up on Sutter Street. And I knew he wasn’t going to take me.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, he hardly ever took me anywhere. I can’t—couldn’t—keep up with his ever-so-clever friends. I’d wear something wrong, a Hawaiian shirt or something.” He stopped suddenly. “Listen to me, I sound like a whiny mistress. Besides, it’s all past tense now, anyway.” I considered Stuart. His face, which usually seemed boyish and even younger than his thirty-something years, looked tired and drawn.

  “So you two had a fight and you stomped out and went where?”

  Stuart shrugged. “Why are you asking me all these questions? Are you Inspector Moon’s little helper?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just feel awful, and responsible, and impatient.”

  “Impatient?”

  “Oh, you know. The sooner we—the cops figure this out, the sooner we can put it behind us and get life back to normal.”

  Stuart snorted. “Normal? What’s that, Maggie? I don’t have a little nest to run back to, remember? Quentin was it.”

  Keep going, Maggie, I said to myself. You can’t make it much worse than this.

  “Stuart, I’m just bumbling around. What I mean is, there’s some nut out there who killed Quentin.”

  “Or,” Stuart gestured toward the living room, “out there.”

  “Right,” I said grimly. “Right out there in the living room. What’s a little murder among friends? Isn’t that a pleasant thought?”

  Stuart picked up a napkin and carefully re-folded it. “Okay, so what did you want to know? Oh, where I went when I left here.” He sighed. “I don’t even know. I had on running clothes, so I put Nuke on the leash and I just ran. Somehow I ended up at the Golden Gate Bridge. I ran across and back, walked up the hill on Fillmore to cool off, and came home. When I got here, the place was crawling with cops. Moon told me that you and Calvin Bright had just left.”

  “I’m sorry we missed you,” I said. I patted Stuart’s shoulder ineffectually.

  Stuart slammed his hand flat on the counter, so hard the silver tray jumped. “That’s another thing that pissed me off,” he said.

  “What?” I was bewildered.

  “That photographer. I think Quent had a little thing for him.”

  “That was his tough luck,” I said wryly. “From my short acquaintance with Calvin, I’d say he’s hopelessly straight.”

  “No, listen, Maggie. Quentin was on the phone all day the day before he died, asking everybody nosy questions about Calvin. Who were his friends? Did he do drugs? Why hadn’t he left town yet? This guy is getting work from all the major consumer magazines. The agencies have him booked all the time. But he sticks around San Francisco. Why?”

  “I don’t know, Stuart. Maybe he’s got a sweetie here? Maybe he likes the sourdough? Why do you stick around?”

  He gave me a level look. “Because I loved Quentin.”

  I reached up and put my hand to Stuart’s cheek. “Then he was probably a very lucky man.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Maggie. Not many people understood our relationship. I didn’t understand it very well, myself. I’m not smart or famous or good at very much. But I took care of Quentin. And Nuke. Who has, by the way, gone off to live with Glen Fox and all those kids of his.”

  “That should be a change for Nuke,” I said. “You did take good care of them,” I said. “But I’ll tell you something, Stuart. You’re really a lousy detective. Those questions Quentin was asking about Calvin? Those aren’t the kinds of questions you ask when you’re doing a background check on a prospective lover. He was looking for dirt on Calvin.” I mused a moment. “I wonder if he found any.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Stuart. “At dinner he seemed very, very cheerful. You know what Quentin’s like when he’s hatching some plan. He just loved to stir things up. He said, ‘Bright’s my boy. He’s smart, he’s clean, he knows his way around.’” Stuart stopped.

  “What else? What else did he say?”

  “Well, that’s what’s odd. He said, ‘And he and Margaret will get along famously.’ At the time, I just thought he meant that you would approve of Calvin, more than you’d approve of me.”

  “Come on, Stuart, give me a break. What kind of an elitist snob do you think I am? I’m just a glorified housewife myself, you know.”

  Stuart smiled. “I’ve seen your kitchen, Maggie. For a housewife, you’re a helluva writer. Though, Quentin always said that was your problem.”

  “What? My housekeeping?”

  “No. That you thought of yourself as a dabbling housewife.”

  “Quentin was a little too perceptive for comfort,” I said glumly. “But why do you think Quentin cared so much if Calvin and I got along? He wanted us to do a story together, according to Calvin. But it’s not like we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. I’ve covered stories with photographers for years. You do some planning, do the research, do the job, have a few drinks, fight with the art director about which gets the most play—copy or photos—and then you say goodbye.”

  “I don’t know, Maggie. Was it a big story?”

  “A big story? What’s the big story?” Uncle Alf Abbott leaned in the kitchen door.

  I lied instinctively. “Capers,” I said quickly. “I wanted to sell Quentin on a follow-up to my lox piece. I loved the idea of the headline, ‘The Great Caper Caper.’” I smiled at Alf, feeling like an idiot.

  Alf gave me a look I judged to be composed of equal parts puzzlement and contempt. My smile faded. “I know this all seems silly right now. I really am very, very sorry for your loss, Mr. Abbott.”

  Alf stared back at me. “My loss?”

  “Quentin,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, yes,” he said bitterly. “It’s two losses, actually. I’ve lost an ex-nephew-in-law and an editor.”

  “If there’s anything I can do.…” I began lamely.


  Alf looked me up and down. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said briskly. Swell, I thought. Go ahead and volunteer. They probably want me to inventory Quentin’s loafers and box them up for charity.

  “Anything,” I said. “Well, almost anything.”

  “I’ve called a staff meeting at Small Town for tomorrow morning at ten,” said Alf. “Can you meet for breakfast first? The Clift at eight?”

  “Sure,” I said, mentally rearranging morning lunch making, school delivery schedules.

  “Good.” Alf gave me one more calculating look. “There will be three of us. I’ll ask my niece to join us.”

  Alf turned on his heel and left the kitchen.

  “Bye, Alf. So nice to see you again,” said Stuart.

  I slipped my arm around his waist. “Buck up,” I said. “Remember what Groucho Marx used to say?”

  “What?”

  “‘I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would take people like me as a member.’ Just amend that. You wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would take Alf, would you?”

  He managed the kind of smile kids put on for daffy, well-meaning aunts. “What do you think we should call the club for Alf’s kind, anyway?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about the Loyal Order of the Well-Pickled Snobs?” I looked around the kitchen. “Stuart, what are you going to do now?”

  “You mean, now that I’m a kept man without a keeper?” he said bitterly.

  “Well, Quentin was your employer as well as your friend.”

  “Right you are,” he said. “As a matter of fact, one of Quentin’s friends has offered me the same kind of job.”

  “Oh?”

  “Just the grown-up au pair stuff: shopping, running errands, cooking. But,” and he placed both hands melodramatically over his heart, “no romance.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “No, but you wondered.”

  “Okay, I did.” I searched Stuart’s face, looking for the signs all of us in San Francisco had come to dread—weight loss, telltale lesions. “And, Stuart, one other thing I was wondering.…”

  “Wonder no more. I’m fine. I’m HIV-negative. I may be lonely, I may be a murder suspect, but I’m healthy. Quentin made me get tested before I moved in. He was pretty scrupulous for a guy who got around. If you know what I mean.”

  I did. I let my breath out. “Thank God. I mean, that’s good, that’s wonderful news about you.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well, thank whoever. Anyway, I’m not starting my new gig right away. Claire’s asked me to stay on until she sells this place. She’s Quent’s beneficiary.”

  “For everything?”

  “Well, for most of what there is. Which is surprisingly little. Quentin lived well, but Claire had most of the substantial assets. And they were in her name. According to Quent’s attorney, he’s left me a little bequest. Left you his books, by the way.”

  I tried to imagine Michael’s reaction to Quentin’s books taking up permanent residence in our house and couldn’t quite manage. I looked at Stuart’s tray. “Want me to run that around the room a little?”

  “No, thanks. Gives me something to do. Thanks for the talk, though.”

  “Any time.” Stuart picked up the tray and started out the kitchen door.

  “Stuart, wait a minute.”

  He turned. “Something’s been nagging at me, something Madame said when we found Quentin.” He rested the tray on the counter.

  “What?”

  This was awkward. “Well, I’m afraid Madame DeBurgos heard the quarrel that you and Quentin had.”

  He smiled wryly. “I see the cops’ little helper is back.”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “No, I don’t care. Go ahead and be nosy. I told the cops anyway. Madame DeBurgos spilled to them, too.”

  “Well, she said she heard the door slam. That must have been when you went out for a run. But here’s the odd part. She said she heard loud music, rock music, after the door had already closed. That couldn’t have been Quentin playing that music, could it?”

  Stuart snorted, “Not likely. The fight started because I had the music on when he came out of the shower. He’s—he was—really quite a tyrant about music. He liked a lot of different stuff, but not what I liked. Not ever. So I used to get my music fix while he was gone, or a quick hit while he was in the shower.”

  “That explains why it was on before the fight. But not after. You didn’t come back until after Quentin was dead and Moon and his guys were here. So who put that music on?”

  Stuart frowned, “I don’t know. Quentin wasn’t expecting anybody but you and Bright.”

  “Oh, well,” I said lamely. “I just thought you might have a theory.”

  I followed Stuart out the kitchen door and bumped directly into a knot of people from the Small Town staff. Glen was with them, so he’d clearly returned from his kid-depositing errands around the city.

  I touched Gertie, Quentin’s assistant, on the arm. She turned. “Oh, Maggie, it’s so strange to be here without Quentin. I keep thinking he’ll walk in the door and, and.…”

  “Rearrange everythin’.” A graying man in a pocketed khaki shirt and trousers spoke up. I knew from Peter Wimsey novels—and from Quentin—that those dropped g’s meant a British public school background. The group laughed. “You know Quentin,” he said. “No matter how perfect things look, he could always improve them. Or try.”

  Gertie turned back to me, “Maggie Fiori, John Orlando.” We shook hands.

  “How do you know Quentin?” I asked.

  “Here and there,” he said. “Precisely like everybody else.”

  “Hey,” Gertie said, “We can ask Maggie about the poem. Quentin always said she was an expert on useless information. Art. Music. Baseball stats.”

  “Don’t forget how to get red wine out of linen tablecloths,” I said.

  “That’s out of character, dear heart,” said Glen. “It’s useful info.”

  “So what’s the question?” I said.

  Orlando spoke up. “That bit Stuart read at the service. Seemed like an odd choice for a poem. Minor Crane and all that.”

  “Quentin loved Crane,” I said, “major and minor stuff. Plus, I always thought that poem was Crane’s premonition about his own death.”

  “Stung to death by ‘bees of paradise?’” offered Glen.

  “No,” I said. “I had come all the way here from the sea.” I sipped my drink.

  “He drowned,” said Orlando. “Under odd circumstances. Too young. A pity.” The group fell silent.

  I drew Gertie aside, “Who is that guy?”

  She shrugged. “Illustrator friend of Quentin’s and Glen’s. Weird little guy. Sounds like a bad episode of Upstairs, Downstairs whenever he opens his mouth.”

  I sensed someone in back of me and turned around. It was John Moon. “Inspector Moon,” I said, “Can we have a word?” He nodded and we sat together on Quentin’s buttery, cream-colored leather sofa.

  “I was surprised to see you at the service,” I said. “Detecting, I guess?”

  Moon gave me a noncommittal smile. “Actually, I enjoyed hearing about Mr. Hart’s life. It made me wish I’d known him. Although that seems an unlikely thing to have happened.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Moon gestured at the room, “Ms. Fiori, does this look like the kind of crowd that socializes with ‘the boys in blue’?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re the only ‘boy in blue’ I’ve ever met.”

  He smiled. “My point exactly.”

  Great, I thought. A cop with angst about his place in the social order. Where’s Columbo when you need him? “Actually.…” I began.

  “Yes?”

  I looked him up and down, from his polished loafers to his gelled and slicked back hair.

  I reached over to touch his sweater vest. He didn’t move.

  “Cashmere,” I said, “very nice.”

  “Point taken,” h
e said. “I have a weakness for good clothes.”

  “You ought to talk to Calvin Bright,” I said. “Maybe the two of you can cook up a threesome with his personal shopper at Saks.”

  He smiled, “My wife is Hong Kong Chinese and says she has a culturally-based passion for bargain-hunting. She keeps me well-dressed.”

  “So,” I said, “getting back to the case. What do we know so far?”

  “We?” said Moon.

  “Okay, you.”

  Moon cleared his throat. “Well, what have you read in the paper?”

  “The police are following leads.”

  “That’s about the size of it. The medical examiner puts the time of death at around 11 a.m. The weapon was the walking stick, and it’s likely that the murderer was of medium height and right-handed. No evidence of forced entry, so our assumption is that the murderer was someone Mr. Hart knew. That’s the bare bones we’re releasing to the public, which includes you. Now, your turn to answer questions. Any new ideas since we talked?”

  I reported my confusion over the heavy metal music theory. Who turned it on? And why?

  “We don’t know. That’s the simple answer,” said Moon. “Mrs. DeBurgos mentioned it to us, and I’d wondered the same thing. But who knows? Maybe Mr. Hart decided to give the music a fair hearing.”

  I shook my head. “That wasn’t Quentin. There was music he liked and music he didn’t. Heavy metal wouldn’t merit a hearing, fair or otherwise. I think the music must mean something. It must be a clue.”

  “A clue? Perhaps. We’ll have to see. Meanwhile, did you find any more information on that story Mr. Hart wanted you to do?”

  “I never had anything,” I said. “I told your colleague that the other day. Did you ask Gertie? There’s not much she didn’t know about what Quentin was up to.”

  “Mr. Hart’s assistant? We did. And we’ve searched his office.”