“There must have been something else. Something concrete.”
Puck considered. “Mmm, not really. Well, I saw you guys dance at the Art Directors’s Christmas party last year. Looked like lust-in-the-foxtrot to me.”
I remembered that night. Michael had been at a seminar, so I’d been alone. Except for Quentin. I squirmed, thinking about how we looked on the dance floor, me with just enough champagne inside to act silly.
“So Quentin always had a sweetie,” I said. “I guess I knew that all along. I didn’t kill him, but maybe one of those other side interests did.” I surveyed Puck. “Tell me about my many predecessors.”
“Come on, Maggie, you don’t really want to hear that stuff, do you? The cops pried it all out of me already.”
“Try me,” I said grimly.
“Let’s see. There was Monica Swanson, the lady who owned the photography gallery on Sutter. And maybe her son. Quentin went through his younger man phase for a while, even before Stuart.”
“Maybe Mom got pissed at both of them.”
“I’m sure she did,” said Puck. “But they moved to Chicago last year.”
“Go on. Who else?”
“The hostess at Hot Licks, Esther or Aster or something like that; they call her ‘Stare’. Geez, I didn’t blame him. She is one unbelievable babe. And Andrea.”
“Andrea? Are you kidding?”
“Before she started contributing to the magazine. I don’t think it was a big deal.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“No,” said Puck, “not him.”
“Puck!”
“Hey, you asked. I told you he always had something going on the side.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I wasn’t exactly on the side. Quentin and Claire had already separated.”
Puck shook his head. “That, I would have to say, is what you call your ‘distinction without a difference.’ If you know what I mean.”
“So,” I said, “enough about all these sordid personal lives. I wanted to ask you about music.”
“Puck’s all ears, honey.”
“You hadn’t talked Quentin into listening to new music, had you?”
“New music? You mean that New Age soulful harp and flute crap?”
“No, rock. Metal.”
“Are you kidding? Quentin? Get real.”
“That’s what I thought. Okay, think about this: Who among Quentin’s friends likes that kind of music?”
“Stuart?”
“Who else? Quentin ever ask you for tickets to a concert for a friend?”
He frowned. “Not that I remember. Is it important?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, but think about it, okay?”
I launched myself out of the easy chair. “This office is quite a sight, Puck.”
“I know,” he grinned. “Isn’t it great? Quentin just hated it. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
14
Chasing the Wild Goose
I was running late, so Calvin was already at the bar by the time I hurried into Cock of the Walk.
He raised his glass and waved me over. I hopped on the bar stool next to him and ordered a tonic water and lime. I definitely needed my wits about me.
“Calvin,” I said, “your drink.”
He looked at it. “What about it?
“It has a little umbrella in it.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He looked over my shoulder and waved. “We’re over here,” he said, and I turned in time to see Andrea walk in.
“Well, well,” she said, “it’s the boss. Drinking at noon, I see.”
I lifted my glass in a toast. “It’s research, Ms. Storch.”
“I invited Andrea to join us,” said Calvin. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Small Town is buying, right?”
I looked around the restaurant. Somehow, it didn’t seem like Quentin’s kind of place, a little too “done,” with giant roosters everywhere; on the cocktail napkins, patterned on the carpet, and worst of all, a giant rooster mural. Each rooster had a San Francisco celebrity’s face painted under the comb. Though my biology was shaky, I could have sworn roosters were males of the species. Yet, here were socialites, dowagers, cabaret singers, even a past mayor herself, masquerading as cocks of the walk. Ah, San Francisco.
Calvin touched my arm. “Join the party, Mags, we can sit down now.” A short, stocky man holding menus was gesturing us to follow him. He looked familiar from the back and then he turned around. It was John Orlando, the illustrator I’d just axed from Small Town’s next issue.
“Mr. Orlando?” I said, “I’m Maggie Fiori. We met at Quentin’s service.” He regarded me carefully and held out his hand. “Oh, yes, I remember. Filling in at Small Town, are you?”
“Yes,” I indicated Calvin and Andrea. “You’ve all met?”
Round of introductions, though everyone insisted they’d crossed paths before. San Francisco is like that. Two hundred people in the entire city, a friend once insisted to me, and everything else is done with mirrors.
After he left the table, Andrea closed her menu and sniffed.
“I know that sniff by now,” said Calvin. “It means our own Ice Queen has something negative to say and wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of her.”
“Come on, Andrea,” I said. “Give. Pretend the wild horses have come and gone.”
She folded her hands in front of her. “Well, I was just thinking that Orlando is a man of many hats.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“I don’t,” said Calvin. “Enlighten me a little, ladies.”
“He’s an illustrator,” I said. “In fact, he does work for Small Town besides passing out menus here. And,” I sipped my drink, “as an illustrator, he’s a terrific maître d’.”
“Maggie,” said Andrea, “how unkind. Besides, he’s more than a menu-passer-outer. I think he’s part-owner of this place. At least that’s what Quentin told me.”
“So talk, Andrea,” I pushed. “Is that what you meant about wearing a lot of hats?”
“I guess,” she said. “He always seems like a fellow with a lot of irons in a lot of fires.” She sighed. “Hats, fires. I seem to be mixing oodles of metaphors.”
“See,” interrupted Calvin, “this is why you’re so appealing, Starchy. Real people don’t say ‘fellow,’ they say ‘guy.’ And oodles, wow! I love that whole boarding school sound you’ve got going on.”
Andrea looked exasperated.
“Calvin,” I said, “would you like to let up on the sociolinguistics commentary for a minute so we can concentrate?”
“Sure,” he answered. “I just thought you’d be interested to know how sexy it is.”
Andrea ignored him. “Anyway, he’s been showing up at the magazine rather frequently over the past few years with his big black portfolio.”
“Oh, baby,” said Calvin. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“Quiet. Anyway, he’d just moved here from England, and I guess Quentin was being nice to him. But it’s as if he was launching a new career just for the fun of it. Illustrator, restaurant owner, and with no visible means of support.”
“Maybe he was one of the day-trading zillionaires,” I said. “They must have had them in the boom times in England, too.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “I know it’s not polite, but I asked Quentin once.”
“You asked a nosy question?” I was shocked.
“Well, not directly. I just wondered what Orlando had done before to be so flush with resources.”
“What’d Quentin say?”
“He said that Orlando was a very entrepreneurial…” she glanced at Calvin, “entrepreneurial guy.”
Orlando was greeting a crowd of new arrivals. Lots of air-kissing and hugs. We all surveyed him.
“Well, maybe he used to teach art,” I speculated. “Lots of illustrators supplement their income doing that.”
“Maggie,” said Andrea, “be serious. Art teachers don’t get
rich.”
“Wait,” said Calvin, “maybe there was some huge sexual harassment scandal back home in England, and he had to leave town with his little black portfolio and come to San Francisco. Maybe he put the moves on some little cupcake from Devon or Dorset and her daddy paid him off to get out of town.”
Andrea and I exchanged glances. “Calvin,” I said, “Orlando’s gay. If there was a sex scandal it had to be with some guy cupcake from Devon or Dorset.”
“That’s cool,” said Calvin. “I say take those school romances anyway you can get them. Hey girls, want to hear my authentically African-American Sam Cooke rendition of “Teach Me Tonight?” Andrea and I ignored him.
Lunch was unremarkable. The usual assortment of Chinese chicken salad, grilled veggies, thresher shark, ahi, and lots of kiwi-raspberry embroidery on the desserts.
Orlando stopped by the table twice, checking to see if we were happy.
“He did it,” said Calvin flatly.
“Did what?”
“Killed Quentin.”
“Uh huh. And where does this theory come from?” I asked.
“Simple. The guy’s clearly hiding something. He’s had multiple lives, he’s an artist, he runs a restaurant, he corrupted sweet young boys in some godforsaken English village, he’s on the lam.”
“Calvin,” Andrea interrupted, “control yourself. We’re making all this stuff up. That’s how dreadful rumors get started.”
“Well, I contend he’s at least a suspect,” said Calvin.
“Fine,” I said, glancing at my watch, “he’s an official suspect, along with just about everybody else Quentin ever knew. And since you brought the subject up, let’s talk about it. Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Why are we here?” asked Andrea. “I thought this was an eccentric choice for lunch. But then, you two keep coming up with unusual places to dine.”
Calvin grinned. “Come on, baby, you said the burgers at Hamburger Mary’s were great.”
“Well, culinary adventures aside,” I said, “Calvin and I were here to talk about Quentin’s story.”
“The question,” said Calvin, “is what the story was, and if it had anything to do with Quentin’s death.”
Andrea reached inside her blazer and pulled a fountain pen out of her pocket. “Goodie. I’ll take notes. I love a little organization mixed in with all this chaos.” She looked doubtful for a moment.
“Actually, aren’t the police supposed to do these things?”
“They do. They are. But.…” I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell Calvin and Andrea that my interest in finding Quentin’s killer derived from a growing conviction that if we could just sort out the murder, all the other messes in my life would magically straighten themselves out as well. I felt responsible, especially for the way Michael had been dragged into this. Plus, every time I thought about Michael having to discuss my infidelity with some guy on his hockey team, my skin crawled with shame.
Calvin and Andrea were watching me, puzzled.
“Look, the cops said it wasn’t a stranger who did this, plus Quentin was our friend,” I said, catching Andrea’s eye. Couldn’t hurt to let her wonder what I knew about how “friendly” she’d been with Quentin. “So shouldn’t we help figure this out?” I sounded lame, even to me. “If nothing else, we’ll sell a lot of issues when we solve the case.”
Andrea looked horrified.
I touched her hand. “Andrea,” I said gently. “I’m just making a bad joke.”
She smiled wanly. “I know.” She tapped her pen on the napkin. “Okay, what do we know about the Cock of the Walk story?”
“We know the story couldn’t have been a restaurant review,” I said. “Lisbet would do that. What else?”
“An exposé of some kind? Some health department thing?”
“Doesn’t sound like Small Town,” said Calvin.
“What can restaurants front for?” I mused. “Drugs? Gambling?” I looked around the room. As was usually the case in San Francisco restaurants, the waiters and bus staff comprised a mini-UN of ethnic and national origins. “Immigration?”
Andrea noted each possibility on the napkin.
“Maybe Quent was just doing Orlando a favor, promoting the restaurant,” I offered.
“I don’t know,” said Andrea doubtfully. “PR fluff for a restaurant doesn’t sound like Quentin’s kind of story. Plus, why would he make such a big deal out of it to you?”
“Well, let’s ask him,” I said, catching sight of Orlando and waving him over.
“John, sit down with us a minute.”
He glanced over his shoulder and looked uncomfortable. “Lunch is really a busy time,” he protested.
“I know, I know, just for a second.” He sat. We all looked at each other. I cleared my throat. “Terrible about Quentin, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Ghastly.”
Calvin caught my eye and did a poor imitation of William F. Buckley, mouthing ‘ghastly’ in silence. I gave him the kind of look I give my boys when they’re acting up at the table.
“You two were old friends?”
Orlando looked around the table. Calvin’s face was carefully bland.
“We’d known each other for many years. After I moved here, I sent my portfolio over to Small Town and Quentin set up an appointment with your art director, Linda Quoc.”
“Many years?” I persisted. “You grew up together?”
Orlando laughed shortly. “Not quite that many years. Although we did know each other in college.”
“Really? In England?”
“Yes. In fact, I met Quentin in a workshop opera production. He played in the orchestra, and I sang—a very mediocre tenor, I must confess. Of course, since then, my musical tastes have broadened. Quentin’s, I’m afraid, hadn’t strayed much. He really didn’t want to hear things that had been written in the last hundred years. Except for straight-ahead jazz, of course.”
“And you do?” I asked politely.
“Oh, yes,” he beamed, looking around the table. “We host a new music series here on Saturday afternoon. Lots of young talent. Even the odd rock sound now and again.” He patted my hand. “You have youngsters, don’t you, Ms. Fiori? You should bring them by one afternoon.”
I smiled noncommittally. “And Quentin’s ex-wife, Claire? You know her?” I prodded.
He looked distracted and lifted the corners of his mouth in a token smile. “Claire? Yes, certainly. We share a few… causes.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I felt myself babbling. “You hosted a benefit here for Claire? As part of your opening?”
Orlando seemed to relax. “Yes, Claire’s on the board of Skunkworks. It’s an AIDS group, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
None of us had. We said so. “What’s the name about?”
“Tom Peters wrote about the Skunkworks idea in his first business book.”
“In Search of Excellence?” I asked.
“Right, right. It’s the idea of speeding up innovation. You keep a small, flexible group, no bureaucracy, and you get really creative. So Skunkworks funds creative independent efforts in research and distribution. New drugs, things like that.”
“No bureaucracy?” I asked. “So no FDA?”
“Exactly.” He corrected himself hastily. “I mean, eventually, the FDA has to be involved, of course, but our group helps jump-start the process.”
Silence fell. Andrea cleared her throat. “You know, Mr. Orlando,” she said idly, “this really is a small world.”
“Oh?” he said, getting to his feet.
“Yes,” she said. “Quentin had assigned Maggie and Calvin to do a story about your restaurant.”
He sat back down. “That so? Wasn’t that lovely of him?”
“Well,” I hedged, “we don’t know that it was lovely of him, exactly. We didn’t know what the story was all about.”
“Really?” he said, looking around the restaurant.
“Did you?”
“
No, so sorry, afraid I can’t help you,” he said. He stood.
“Of course, what do they say? Doesn’t matter what they write about you as long as they spell your name right.”
“Well, we’re at a loss to pursue the story now,” I said.
“Ah, well, dies with Quentin, I guess. Pity, but that was another country.”
“And now the wench is dead,” I said under my breath. Calvin and Andrea looked puzzled.
“Duchess of Malfi,” I explained.
“Sorry, you were saying?”
He gave a little wave. “Nothing, nothing of importance. Perhaps another time. Now I’ve really got to run.”
As he disappeared into the crush around the bar, our waitress arrived with coffee and a folded piece of paper.
“Are you Maggie Fiori?” she asked. I nodded.
“A phone call came in for you. They said your cell phone wasn’t picking up.” She handed me the note. It read: “Please come to Josh’s school as soon as you can. He’s not feeling well.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said, lunch turning to stone in my stomach. “I’ve got to call my son’s school.” The answering machine was on. “You have reached The Webster School. All of the teachers are busy and cannot come to the phone. Please leave a message at the tone.” I did, and returned to the table. “It’s lunch time, the damn answering machine is on at school. I’ve got to run, gang,” I said. “Josh is sick.”
“Isn’t Michael closer to school?” asked Andrea.
“He is, but he’s in the city today. Besides, when kids are sick they always want Mom.” Calvin caught my arm. “Maggie, how about Inspector Moon?”
I paused. “Why don’t you two meet him? Andrea’s from the magazine, I’m sure Moon will release the file to her. I’ll give him a quick call on my way out.”
On the drive across the Bay Bridge, every mother anxiety in the world came up. “This is what I get for taking a real job,” I muttered. “God’s not a feminist. This is His way of saying I’m supposed to be home.”
Half an hour later, I was standing in the director’s office. “Mrs. Schwab? I came as soon as I could. Where’s Josh? Is he resting?” She looked up from her desk. “Mrs. Fiori? Is something wrong?”
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