“The only other thing.…”
“Yes?”
I replayed what Stuart had just told me, that Quentin had wanted to find out more information about Calvin before assigning him the Cock of the Walk story. “Stuart said it was as if Quentin needed to know that Calvin was really a straight arrow before he got him involved in this story.”
“Straight arrow? In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t know, as if he could be corrupted by the story—which is too weird for words, because we don’t even know what it was about.”
Inspector Moon shrugged. “I don’t know. The story may be relevant, it may not. We’ll continue to look into it.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t a stranger? Some intruder?”
Moon shook his head. “Doesn’t seem likely. Whoever it was, Mr. Hart let him, or her, in.” He reached into a breast pocket and pulled out his card. “If you get an idea about anything—the music, the story—please call me.” He looked at me closely. “Let me emphasize that. Call me. No amateur detecting.”
“I wasn’t.…” I protested.
“No, but I can tell you’re interested.” He sighed. “Journalists always are. This isn’t a game, and it isn’t the movies. Someone out there, a specific someone, was very, very angry. Angry enough to commit murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I watched Moon make his way to the door. He stopped to shake hands with Michael on the way out. I watched them together. They seemed stiff and formal, not like two guys who skated together every week, joked over beers after games. At the same moment, they looked back into the room and caught me watching them. Inspector Moon put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, and leaned in close to say something. Then he was gone, and Michael had wandered away.
Moon was right about my desire to meddle. I was curious and more than a little unsettled. Despite what Moon said, it seemed at least possible that my hot “breakthrough” story had something to do with Quentin’s death. Serves you right, Maggie, I thought. You couldn’t be happy with those fluffy little cooks-and-books stories, could you? You couldn’t stay on the straight and narrow path with your perfectly lovable husband, oh no. Let’s just see what trouble we can get into.
I looked around the room. Beautiful people, beautiful food, lots of flushed cheeks and laughter as the sake and Chinese beer washed out the more sombre feelings engendered at the Unitarian church.
This whole affair felt like a cross between Noel Coward and Hitchcock, and it didn’t feel good. Was I, or was I not, sitting in my ex-lover’s flat, wearing the hat he bought me, angling to retrieve my diaphragm from the bedroom, and wondering who, just who, among all these well dressed, well educated, well-spoken people had hated Quentin enough to kill him? And was there some perverse reason in the universe that the homicide cop investigating the murder had to be a hockey chum of my husband’s?
I eyed the bedroom door, which opened off the living room. It was closed, and I couldn’t see any conceivable way to get in there and retrieve my diaphragm without calling attention to myself. I stirred and set out in search of Michael, and promptly ran into Calvin and Andrea Storch. Both wore coats and were clearly on their way out together.
“Where are you two off to?” I asked innocently.
“Calvin picked a fight with me about New England cooking,” said Andrea. “I’m taking him home for dinner to teach him a thing or two.”
Calvin struggled without success to wipe a gloat off his face.
As I hugged Calvin goodbye, I whispered in his ear, “One small victory for you, one major setback for Ms. Saks Fifth Avenue.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed.
9
Decisions in the French Room
If breakfast is served in heaven, it must be catered by the Clift Hotel.
I parked at the Union Square Garage, early enough to beat out all the professional shoppers, the ladies who lunch who would later prowl through Neiman Marcus, Saks, and Macy’s. It was five after eight by the time I hurried up Geary to the Clift. Uncle Alf and Claire Hart were already sipping coffee at a white linen–covered table.
My single friends swear by the Redwood Room; all dark panels and discreet lights, just the place for a pre-assignation cocktail. But for the rest of us, there’s the French Room, the hotel’s main dining room, where breakfast has been advanced to a high art. Fresh, pulpy orange juice, coffee of a serious nature, and fluffy scrambled eggs on white china.
The waiter held the chair for me, whisked the napkin into my lap, and murmured about coffee. I murmured back affirmatively. I smiled brightly at Alf and Claire without a thought in my head about what to say.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” I said. “It’s fun for me to have breakfast with people who don’t need help pouring syrup on their waffles.”
Claire stared at me blankly. Alf managed a weak smile. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Quentin often remarked that you had a delightful sense of humor.”
Claire looked even stonier. “I’m afraid the joke eludes me,” she said.
“God Almighty, Claire, the woman means she usually has breakfast with her children.”
Claire shrugged.
“But you wouldn’t know. You and Quentin never had any little vipers of your own.”
I began longing for my bagel, my own little vipers, and breakfast at home. “Listen, I’m sorry,” I began. “This is a terrible time to make wisecracks. Truly, I just don’t know what to say. I miss Quentin already, so I can only begin to imagine how it must be for the two of you.” Silence. “Being family and all.” More silence.
Impulsively, I reached across the table and put my hand on Claire’s. “I want you to know how much Quentin meant to me,” I said. “I really loved him.”
She withdrew her hand. Her perfectly lined and lipsticked mouth twitched. “Really? And were you sleeping with him, too?”
I felt my cheeks begin to burn and I stood up. “I’m sorry. I seem to be saying one wrong thing after another. I hope you’ll accept my condolences.”
Uncle Alf was on his feet, grabbing my hand. “Sit down, dear, sit down. Claire doesn’t mean anything. She’s just upset.”
I sat. Uncle Alf still had hold of my hand. He smiled and reached out to hold Claire’s hand as well. We looked as if we were having a séance. “Now, let’s order some of that splendid French toast and have a nice chat together. If Claire can concentrate and remember not to be so poisonous, she’ll recall we asked Mrs. Fiori here for a special reason.”
We ordered. Contemplating the French toast distracted me for a moment from the “special reason.” Whatever it was, I hoped it didn’t have to be carried out in Claire’s company. That kind of nastiness could only be contagious.
I took a sip of coffee to brace myself. “Mr. Abbott, when we were talking in the kitchen yesterday, you suggested that I could do something to help. I’d really like to.”
Claire snapped her silver lighter open and looked at me. For a moment, I thought she was considering immolation. But Uncle Alf took it from her hand and lit her cigarette. Smoking was, of course, banned in all San Francisco restaurants, but who had the courage to confront Claire? She said, “Why? Why would you like to help?”
“Claire, please,” said Alf.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m happy to tell you. I did love Quentin. I loved him because he was a tough, stylish editor. Small Town isn’t exactly The Paris Review. But it’s a good city magazine, because Quentin pushed all of us. I was terrified of sending him half-baked work. And he understood that. Maybe the rest of my life looks a little half-baked—I only write part time, and the rest of the time I run around doing a pretty mediocre job of behaving like Beaver Cleaver’s mother. But I didn’t write like the Beav’s mother, and if I ever did, Quentin would never have given me another assignment.”
It occurred to me that the Beav probably had not made it to syndication on the evil planet on which Claire was spawned. But I was warming to my task.
“I know there was a lot of
fluff in the magazine, but Quentin did some of the earliest pieces on the ways AIDS was devastating the arts community, and he sponsored journalism internships at some decidedly unprivileged city high schools, and—”
Claire snorted. Alf looked uncomfortable. “I’m not an economic genius, either,” I said. “But I also know a little about the history of Small Town’s advertising revenue.” I picked up my coffee cup and smiled sweetly. “As far as I can tell, the magazine came back from the brink of economic disaster under Quentin’s guidance.”
The waiter arrived with the French toast. He was a welcome diversion. I’d hoped to touch Claire and Uncle Alf with my little speech about Quentin. Instead, they both looked as if I’d put my elbows on the table and burped the theme to The High and the Mighty.
We busied ourselves with the butter and the syrup.
“Well, Mrs. Fiori, I’ll tell you why I called this little meeting. We’re in a bit of a jam. You know that I own Small Town. And, though I’m publisher, I’m just not much of a magazine man. Got into the whole business by accident. Bad investment, didn’t use the old noggin,” he tapped his balding dome. “If you know what I mean.”
I didn’t really, but it seemed safest just to murmur an assent.
“So here we are with no editor in chief. Frankly, I’m going to take my time filling that spot. I might sell the magazine, I might bring someone in from New York or L.A. But in the meantime, we need a pinch hitter. I don’t want to use someone from the permanent staff; I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t, actually. What about Glen Fox? He’s the managing editor already.”
“Oh, Mr. Fox is still relatively new to the magazine, not to mention new to our shores. This is really his first assignment dealing with a, shall we say, for-profit publication. Which brings us to you.”
I put my fork down. “Me?”
“You,” he beamed. “You’ve edited before, even though it was for one of those dreadful trade magazines. As you point out, Small Town has a competent chief cook and bottle washer, that Irish fellow, Fox. So we just need someone to oversee the show, so to speak.”
“Thank you, I think. But what makes you think I could… run the show?”
“You could. Quentin told me so.”
My stomach turned over. “He picked his successor before he died?”
“Of course not. Good God, woman, how macabre! But we used to chat about who might succeed him in the job. I think he thought that when he and Claire finally divorced, we’d boot him out. Well, you’ve got the editorial credentials. According to Quentin, the staff likes you, and you haven’t got a job already. So here’s the bargain—fill in for a few issues until Claire and I decide what’s what. We’ll make it worth your while. Financially, I mean.” He named a figure that made me think longingly about deep-sixing one of the ancient Volvos, remodeling the kitchen, or even taking a vacation that didn’t involve camping gear.
I turned to Claire. “What do you think of this idea?”
“I really couldn’t care less,” she said, removing a flake of tobacco from her tongue in a gesture I thought had disappeared with 1940s Bette Davis movies. “Alf wanted to see some jolly family unity, so I came along. It’s a silly, shallow magazine, and I really don’t see that the sun will rise or set on who runs the damn thing. I suppose you’d be as… serviceable as anyone.”
I felt myself flush again, this time in anger. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Abbott,” I said. We shook hands over the bud vase.
“Wonderful! Marvelous! Let’s celebrate. Where is that waiter?” He waved and the waiter appeared. “Bloody Marys all around,” he said. “Then we can drop by the office and you can rally the troops. I told ’em to be ready for a potential all-hands-on-deck sit-down this morning.”
I started to protest, but Alf interrupted. “Just being optimistic, not presumptuous. But no time like the present. Magazine issues have to get out, don’t they?”
I stole a look at my watch. It was ten minutes before nine. I’d just accepted a job I didn’t think I wanted and probably couldn’t do. I’d also broken a cardinal Fiori family household rule: consult your mate before making big decisions—or else. Should I worry first about the kids, Michael’s reaction, or actually figuring out what to wear to work in the city again after all these years? My boss was a drunk. My predecessor’s ex hated me. And the person who murdered the last editor in chief was still at large. Oh, go ahead, Maggie, just put a bulls-eye on your back and call it a day.
Clearly, a Bloody Mary was just what the doctor ordered. Perhaps two.
10
At Small Town
The editorial offices of Small Town are just four blocks from the Clift.
A few minutes before ten, we parted company with Claire out in front of the hotel. I hoped my few sips of Bloody Mary would insulate me from the frostbite I seemed likely to contract from her parting handshake.
Alf, warmed by either his two Bloody Marys or my foolish, persistent good cheer, tucked my hand in his arm and we strolled down Geary, cut across the recently face-lifted Union Square, avoiding the early junkies, late drunks, stupefied pigeons, and shoppers.
At 270 Sutter, we turned into the door. The building and the elevator are faded San Francisco splendor—rococo, chipped gilt, and the lingering lobby smell of expensive perfume and less-expensive muscatel. But when the elevator doors opened directly onto the fourth floor it was clear that Quentin had very recently held court.
White walls, polished floors, a few good rugs. Even the coffee mugs were regulation dove gray, with tiny Small Town logotypes (Goudy Old Style) on them. Quentin was famous for his “bad taste purges,” sweeping through the staff’s offices and appropriating cups with cartoon characters or chirpy slogans, trimming plants of limp leaves, leaving yellow stickie messages that read “clean me” on grimy Rolodexes and “think again” on sixties-era oak picture frames.
The door to Quentin’s office was closed. While Alf assembled the troops, I called Michael at his office.
“He’s with a client, Mrs. Fiori. Shall I interrupt?”
This news needed a face-to-face delivery, I realized, slightly relieved he wasn’t immediately available by phone. “No, no, I’ll see him at home,” I said hastily. “Don’t bother him now.”
We met in the conference room. The meeting was far easier than I’d imagined. Alf made a few pompous remarks, introduced me as interim editor, and settled himself unsteadily on the art director’s high stool.
I looked around the room. The faces were friendly, but clearly puzzled. The full-time staff was quite small: Quentin as editor, his hand-picked assistant Gertie Davis, his managing editor Glen Fox, the art director Linda Quoc, and a staff editor who presided over a changing crew of proofreaders, factcheckers, interns, and production people.
As Quentin liked to point out, he and Gertie were the only permanent senior staff members without some kind of an offshore accent. As for Gertie, who had applied for the job with Quentin the day she got off the plane from Chicago to start a new life away from Awful Husband Number One and grown but needy children, her loyalty was of the kind most often mythologized in golden retrievers.
The contributing editors, who were responsible for columns and occasional features, included Lisbet Traumer on restaurants, Andrea Storch on film, me on books, and a mustachioed ex-hockey player named Puck Morris on music. Musicians who received bad reviews were alerted ahead of time when Morris would send out one of his signature “Pucked by Morris” tshirts.
Okay, Maggie, I cheered myself on. These folks know you as a fluffy feature writer who’s always just a little bit late with assignments. Act like an editor! You used to do this for a living. I took a deep breath. “Mr. Abbott has asked me to fill in,” I said, “until Kelly Girls turn up someone better.” Everyone smiled but Alf.
I saw Gertie bite her lip and exchange a quick glance with Glen Fox.
“I’d like to huddle with Glen and Gertie right after this meeting, and then meet individually with
the rest of you over the next few days. As for the contributing editors, since I’m the only one who’s ever late, I’m going to assume we’re on target with content and deadlines. Let’s try and talk before the end of the week.”
I took another breath. “I know this is tough and awkward for all of us. I’m not Quent, and no one else is either. I’m sure Mr. Abbott and Mrs. Hart will do everything they can to find someone who will do right by Small Town. In the meantime, all we can do is put out a magazine Quentin wouldn’t have terribly minded finding on his nightstand.”
That prompted a little round of applause. Then, we quickly set up a process for finishing the next issue and moving forward with the following few months. Like all monthly magazines except for create-on-the-screen ’zines, the upcoming issues of Small Town had schedules that overlapped. While one issue was in the last stages of production, the next was in design and editing, and the two or three after that were in planning and story assignment stages.
After the meeting, Alf disappeared. Glen went to get coffee for us. I took a deep breath, opened the door to Quentin’s office, and went in. I couldn’t face his desk, so I put pad and pencil on his small work table, pulled up chairs for Glen and Gertie, and waited. Quent’s office looked not unlike his house—serene, perfectly ordered, the walls hung with framed covers from past issues of Small Town.
Glen backed in, thick file under one arm, two mugs of coffee in hand, a small bottle of Bushmill’s under the other arm. Gertie followed, her face scrupulously clean of expression.
“This is just what we need, my girls,” said Glen.
“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” I said. “But breakfast with Alf, Claire, and a Bloody Mary have put me off a bit already.”
Gertie shook her head. “Not for me, Glen. You know we wholesome Midwestern girls don’t drink before noon.”
“Okay,” he said, “then this is just what I need.” He unscrewed the lid, picked the bottle up, hovered it over the mug, then put it down again.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“No, I think I won’t,” he said, screwing the lid back on. “I’m cutting back. Drives all those Irish stereotypers quite mad. Besides, we all have to take better care of ourselves these days. I’ll face the music cold sober.”
Edited to Death Page 7
