These two need to be my pals, and fast, I thought. “Before we jump into the issue, I want to tell both of you I didn’t go after this job,” I said.
Glen patted my hand. “I know you didn’t, Maggie. I’m not hurt. I’ve only been here a year and, frankly, I know damn little about this city and this kind of magazine. I mean, if it’s not rantin’ and ravin’ politics, I’m out of my home turf.”
As Alf had pointed out, Glen was relatively new to the magazine, having landed in San Francisco when he’d been tossed off the radical Catholic weekly he’d edited back home in County Clare.
I laughed. “I always wondered if Small Town wasn’t a little superficial for you.”
“Actually, thanks to Quent, it’s a world better than it has any right to be. Besides that, when I came to San Francisco with Corinne and the five mouths to feed, I was grateful to Quentin for the job. Gertie knows that. So I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
Gertie had been silent, her arms crossed, regarding me during Glen’s little speech.
“So Gertie, how’s about it?” I asked. “Are you with me?”
“I’m wondering if I still have a job,” she said.
“If it’s up to me, you do,” I said.
“Thanks, I guess,” she said. Her eyes welled with tears and she stood up.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said.
I jumped up and put my arms around her. “I know.”
She shook me off. “No, you don’t, Maggie. You’ve got another life. I still don’t know why Quent took a chance on an old reentry broad like me, but he gave me this job and a life I loved for the first time. He was an opinionated, arrogant, selfish son of a bitch, and I loved him to death.” The room became very quiet. She dug in her pocket and blew her nose angrily. “Oh, you know what I mean. I’m so angry that he did something stupid enough to get somebody mad enough to kill him.” She swiped at her nose again. “And the worst of it is, we don’t even know why this happened.”
I collected myself. “Gertie, you’ve lost Quentin and that’s awful. It’s awful for all of us. He rescued me, too, you know. I was about to go down for the count in carpools and play groups. But you haven’t lost your job, and I can’t possibly figure out this place without you. Now, are you in?”
“I’m in… for now,” she said. “And of course, I’ll try to help you, Maggie. I’m not angry at you. I’m furious at Quentin, but he’s not here.” She dabbed at her eyes with tissue. “Can you guys have this meeting without me? I’ll be around later, but I just need some air.”
“Fine, fine,” I said, relieved she wasn’t going to disappear forever. And then she was out the door.
Within fifteen minutes, Glen had the table covered with production schedules, story lineups, editorial and art budgets, and a messy stack of paper layouts printed out from the designers’ screens.
“Here’s the big picture,” he said. “November issue goes to press next week. Linda Quoc and I will do the press check. She covers things from the design side, of course, and I handle the last-minute editorial stuff. So unless you’re anxious to break in with an all-nighter.…” I said I’d pass.
“Fine. Copy’s in for December, except for your lox piece, and Linda and her fellows are designing the book. January is the trouble.”
Glen pulled out the January story list. There was a line for each of the four major features with a working headline, the writer assigned, deadlines, and so on. At the bottom of the story list, the standing, or regular, features and columns were displayed.
“What’s the problem?”
“Have a look.”
There on the page, in Quentin’s Spencerian hand, was the lineup for the January issue.
1. The Resolution Blues
Famous People talk about the art of not making New Year’s resolutions.
Writer: Manfred Smith, deadline: 11/15.
2. Where the Sun Always Shines
Winter vacations for the indolent pale skins.
Writer: Liz Gruder, deadline: 11/15.
3. Looking for Daddy More-Bucks
An overview of funding for the city’s major arts organizations.
Writer: Puck Morris, deadline: 11/15.
4. Trouble in Paradise: The Cock of the Walk
The writer and the deadline were blank, and there was no telegraphic description of the story.
“No problem, Glen,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’m the writer. The day Quentin… died… we were supposed to have lunch and talk about the piece. Just give me the file and I’ll do the piece myself.”
Glen tapped his pencil on the list. “You haven’t anything on the story? Anything at all?”
“No. But if you’ve got the file, then I’m sure we can put something together.”
He picked up his coffee mug and swallowed. “That’s the problem. There is no file. Well, there’s a file, but there’s nothing in it but a clipping from the Chronicle’s social notes about the opening. Big society bash. All the mink-and-fink set came out for that. It was a benefit for some AIDS group.”
“Mink-and-fink?”
“You know, all those ladies with furs who come out and tittle-tattle about each other. Like our own beloved widow.”
“Claire?”
“She’s the one. Actually, she organized this little to-do.”
“I don’t get this. If the piece isn’t a restaurant review, and it’s not, or he’d have asked Lisbet to do it, then what is it? I can’t believe Quentin just wanted to plug some place Claire hangs out.”
“I don’t know, Maggie. ‘Trouble in Paradise’ doesn’t sound like a plug. But if you don’t have any background, I think we’ve got to kill the story.”
I sighed. “Damn. Quentin was tantalizing me with this story. I didn’t even know what the piece was about and I was already writing my acceptance speech for some award.”
“You don’t know anything?”
I shook my head. “Nope. There may be something back at Quentin’s apartment. I was meeting him there for lunch, so maybe he brought the contents of the file home with him. I’ll ask that nice cop if I can have a look around. In the meantime, let’s dig out the evergreen file and plan a backup.”
In the magazine business, evergreen stories are an editor’s life preserver. They’re stories that aren’t seasonal (hence, the name) and can be dropped in when a cowardly lawyer kills a piece or the interview subject dies or a writer botches a job.
Glen promised to pull some candidates from the evergreen file. As he stood up, the door swung open. Calvin Bright and Andrea “Starchy” Storch waited outside.
“I heard the news,” said Calvin. “Came by to say congratulations, can I help, and are you sweet things free for lunch?”
“On principle,” said Glen, “I never have lunch on a Friday with a fellow who calls me a sweet thing.”
“I didn’t mean you,” grinned Calvin. “I mean these lovely ladies. But you’re welcome.”
“I’ll take a raincheck, as you Yanks say.”
“You’re on,” I said. “Come on, Andrea, we’ll take you someplace sleazy and you can class the place up.”
Half an hour later, we were all sitting in front of Anchor Steam beers at Hamburger Mary’s. It’s not that Hamburger Mary’s is exactly sleazy; it’s just not the kind of place you generally find Starchy Storch, the high brow film critic, bending her elbow. For openers, Mary is rumored to be a guy. After dark, it’s hard to feel well-dressed without some heavy leather accessories (and I don’t mean Coach handbags), but at any hour, the burgers are unbeatable.
“Let’s toast Maggie’s new job,” said Calvin.
“Let’s not,” I said. “It’s temporary. And it gives me the creeps. I’ve already made Gertie cry and driven Glen to drink. God, I wish the cops would figure out what happened.”
Andrea shivered. “You know, until we came in to see if you wanted lunch, I’d not set foot in Quentin’s office, since, you know.…”
&
nbsp; “Cheer up, girls,” said Calvin. “I think Quentin would be one happy guy to see Maggie in that office. Besides, the SFPD will crack the case pretty soon. Maybe Mrs. Quent popped over and just nastied him to death.”
Andrea put her beer down, regarded the napkins on the table with some distaste, and opened her purse. She came up with a linen handkerchief and patted her mouth. “Aren’t you ever serious?” she asked.
“Only about love and work,” said Calvin. He reached across the table, captured the hanky and helped Andrea pat some more.
“Speaking of work,” I interrupted, “remember that piece we were supposed to do, Calvin?”
“Um-hmmm.”
“Would you cut that out and listen to me? I’m going to report you to the Empress of Saks Fifth Avenue.”
Calvin looked chagrined. “I don’t think the personal shopper and I are going to find true happiness,” he mumbled.
Andrea looked bewildered. Calvin hastily handed her the hanky. “I’ll explain later.”
“Okay, Mags, I’m listening. What story?”
“Our story. The Cock of the Walk piece. Did you have research or background on it?”
“Me? I’m just the shooter. Quentin wouldn’t give me anything hard, like stuff to read or anything. Plus, the cops already asked me about it.”
“They asked Gertie, too. And if she didn’t know anything… well, unless the info is stashed in Quentin’s flat, whatever research existed is gone. Glen didn’t know anything about the file, didn’t know Quent had talked to us, didn’t even know what it’s all about.”
“I know where the background on that story is,” volunteered Andrea.
We both looked at her.
She sipped her beer. “Whoever murdered Quentin took it.”
We stared some more.
“Don’t you two ever read mysteries?” she said. “If something disappears, and somebody gets offed at the same time—well, there’s your clue.”
“Offed?” I echoed, faintly. Andrea patted the knot of honey-colored hair she wore coiled at her neck. Clearly, she had dimensions I’d never explored.
“You may be right,” I said, “but I’d sure like to paw through Quentin’s desk at home. Maybe there’s something there.”
While Calvin and Andrea settled up the check, I rang Inspector Moon and explained my request.
“I’m pleased you called, Mrs. Fiori,” he said. “If you don’t mind my hanging around while you look for your file, I’ll be delighted to let you in the apartment. I’ve been planning to call you soon, anyway.”
“Really? Why?”
“Just a little chat. This and that,” he said vaguely. “You know.”
11
In Quentin’s Bedroom
As soon as Inspector Moon unlocked the door and gestured for me to precede him into the flat, I was glad I wasn’t alone.
It was odd to be at Quentin’s; not for lunch, not for love, not for grief, but in pursuit of a story. A story? A murder. “Nice work if you can get it,” I said to myself.
Moon didn’t hover. He stood in front of Quentin’s floor-to-ceiling living room bookshelves, humming under his breath, acting for all the world like a man at leisure in the reading room of the public library.
It was clear that the flat was still Stuart’s home. Moon had called to say we were coming over and Stuart had left a note on the kitchen counter.
“Coffee’s made, ready in the thermos. Maggie knows where to find cream and sugar. Help yourselves.”
I seated myself at Quentin’s desk, marveling yet again at his organization. Check files, charity receipts, address books, even a Christmas shopping list. “Garnet earrings,” it said next to my name, with a query, “Jane Austen bio?”
“He was very generous to his writers,” said Moon, at my elbow. I jumped. “He was a friend, too,” I said.
Moon wandered back to the bookshelves.
“We’d searched the place, of course,” he said. “It seemed odd that Mr. Hart didn’t have some kind of filing cabinet.”
“Quentin hated clutter,” I said. “It took a lot for him to hold onto something. I suppose he had personal papers, a will and things like that in a safe deposit box somewhere. But he wasn’t much of a paper keeper. His assistant, Gertie, was always snatching things out of his hands at work before he tossed them.”
There was nothing of particular interest in the desk. Some receipts, engraved note paper, a few letters tied together with the black ribbon that comes on stationery.
I held the letters up. “May I take these?” Moon shrugged. “I guess so. We’ve already been through them. I’m not sure who you’d ask. Stuart? Mrs. Hart?”
“I’m asking the police.”
“Fine with me. You’ll tell me if you find anything?” I looked at him.
“Probably.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“I’d like to go in the bedroom now.”
“I’ll come with you.”
On Quentin’s nightstand: a tiny clock radio, the New York Times Book Review section, Eudora Welty’s essays on writing, a tired-looking copy of Roger Angell’s baseball classic The Five Seasons, a box of tissues. I opened the drawer. There, as I remembered, was a blue leather box, right where I left it nearly a year ago. “M.S.F.” read the initials.
“What does the “S” stand for?” asked Moon from the doorway.
I held the box on my lap and looked up.
“Stern,” I said, running my fingers over the raised gold letters.
“Your maiden name?” he asked politely.
“Yes.”
“Open it,” he said. “I apologize, but of course we’ve already searched it.”
I didn’t move, paralyzed by the inconsequential weight of the box on my lap.
“You created the combination, didn’t you?” prodded Moon.
I did. Two, one, sixty five. My birthday.
Moon sat down beside me on the bed, carefully adjusting his gray flannel slacks to protect the crease, and watched me open the box.
Some notes from Quentin, tickets from a performance of Un Ballo in Maschera we’d seen together, a flat brown compact.
I picked it up. My diaphragm lay inside, right where I left it nearly a year ago.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” he said. “Didn’t you need this at home?”
“No. My husband had a vasectomy a few years ago.” The room seemed very quiet.
“Ah, yes,” said Moon. “He mentioned that in the locker room, after a game. One of the referees was discussing the possibility, and he was nervous. Michael reassured him.”
The room was silent. Moon cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said, almost to himself, “before I joined the police, I used to be a high school counselor. I learned something from those kids. If you just shut up, people will eventually tell you their story.”
I breathed in and out, lovely Lamaze skills that transferred nicely from hard labor to moments just like this.
“Listen, I know this looks awful. But my relationship with Quentin had nothing to do with my husband. Or,” I faltered, thinking of Michael’s white rage at me and his refusal to talk about it, “maybe it does. But Quentin and I hadn’t been lovers for almost a year.”
“I see,” he said. “Then why, may I ask, is the box still here? That seems out of character for a man who liked to clear out unnecessary clutter.”
“Because the box was mine,” I said fiercely, “not his. And maybe he hoped I’d need it again one day. Which I didn’t, but I hadn’t claimed it either. I don’t know why.”
Suddenly I felt ill. I stood up, clutching the box.
“You think I killed Quentin?”
Moon patted the bed. “Sit down, sit down.” I sat.
“It had occurred to me as a possibility,” he said. “But the evidence suggests it was very unlikely. “You’re close to the right height, but you’re left-handed. However, once we discovered you and Hart were… intimate, that opened a world of
suspects.”
“It did?” I asked faintly.
“Oh, yes, indeed. There’s jealousy, of course, so that leads us to think about Mrs. Hart, Stuart, other lovers. And,” he hesitated. “Of course, there’s your husband.”
I stared at him. “Michael?” He nodded.
“That’s ridiculous.” The room felt very warm.
“I take it he’s not a jealous man?” asked Moon. “Or perhaps he didn’t know?”
“How did you find out?”
“Ah, Mrs. Fiori, this is a terrible city for secrets. What is it you call your magazine? Small Town?” He shook his head. “Very small, very small indeed.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I said, looking at him with distaste, wondering if the entire world would soon know how stupidly I’d strayed.
“That’s not correct,” he said. “I am doing my job. That often means finding out about things people would prefer I don’t know. But I don’t enter people’s lives, or,” he gestured, “their bedrooms, without a reason.”
“It’s a job,” I muttered.
“Yes, it is. And I’m good at it.”
“If you’re so good at it,” I retorted, “who killed Quentin? You still don’t know, do you?”
He shook his head. “No, we don’t. But we will. We are very certain Mr. Hart was not killed by a stranger. He was killed by someone who knew him. Slowly and surely, we are examining every possibility.”
“Good luck,” I said bitterly. “Quentin knew a lot of people.”
He sighed, “Yes, he did.”
Something struck me. “If Michael is really a suspect, you wouldn’t be investigating this, would you? You know him. Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?”
“Or something,” he said. “The forensics are all wrong for Michael. He’s too tall, for one thing. And you’re correct, if your husband hadn’t been ruled out fairly quickly, I would have been taken off the team. Right now, it’s somewhat helpful to know the players.”
“Because.…”
Edited to Death Page 8
