John Orlando looked anything but friendly. He fidgeted and glanced at his watch. “You turn up everywhere, Mrs. Fiori, fancy that. But we’ve got to be running along, chaps, don’t we?”
“Group outing?” I asked sweetly.
The circle fell silent. “Espresso,” Glen said. “We meet a group of fellows afterwards. Corinne gives me Sunday morning off, away from the little ones.”
“Well, I won’t keep you,” I said. “We’re taking our little ones out for brunch and over to City Lights.” I relinquished Glen’s arm. He reached over and pecked me on the cheek. His lips were cold, and when he moved away, he seemed to give a little shiver.
“Bundle up, Glen,” I called as they headed across the square of urban park in front of the church. “It’s windy out; you’ll catch cold.”
“Ever the mother,” said Michael, coming up with Josh and Zach in tow, just as the group disappeared from view.
“Hey, was that Glen? Who are those guys with him?”
“Bunch of people I know from work.”
He hugged me to him. “It’s chilly out here. Let’s go find some hot coffee and lots of pancakes!” Josh and Zach began chanting, “We want pancakes, we want pancakes,” and we set out across the park into the heart of North Beach, while I wondered what it meant that exactly what I’d expected to find turned up at St. Peter’s and Paul’s.
We had a great morning rambling around North Beach, steering the boys away from the barkers on Broadway, those luring the tourists into the topless, bottomless, and otherwise clothes-unencumbered, shows, and buying coffee, salami, a chunk of reggiano, and pastries to take home. Michael chatted in Italian with the ladies behind the bakery counter, and charmed, they tucked extra cannoli into the bag. “Per gli ragazzi,” they said, beaming at the boys. “Mille grazie,” they replied in chorus, thereby unleashing more sighs of admiration from the adoring ladies. I beamed at all three of my charming Mediterranean boys and made a note to let Michael’s mother know that not only had Josh and Zach set foot inside a bona fide Catholic church, but that the Italian lessons she was conducting long distance were serving them very well, indeed.
We ended up browsing used books at City Lights, that holy mecca of the Literary Beat movement. Josh and Zach installed themselves in the kids section, Zach sitting on the dusty floor leafing through picture books while Josh cruised the shelves for virtually anything that featured armies, navies, and guns. We had no idea how a little military nut could come out of our peace-loving family, but a book is a book, as far as I was concerned. I touched Josh on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on Zach, honey,” I said. “Dad and I are going downstairs for a few minutes.”
Michael headed for the history shelves. I began picking my way through vintage cookbooks, separating them into gotta-haves and nice-to-haves. I explained my cataloging system to Michael. He sighed. “You and books, Maggie. How come there aren’t any out-and-out rejects?”
“Reject a book outright? I’m worried I’d hurt its feelings.”
When we wandered back upstairs, both of us were carrying a few treasures. Zach was exactly where we left him. No sign of Josh. “Where’s your brother?” I asked.
Zach looked up and looked around. “I don’t know.”
I glanced around the store. No sign of Josh.
Michael frowned. “It’s not like Josh to wander off. He didn’t say anything?” he asked Zach.
Zach looked puzzled, then brightened. “I think he had a tummy ache.”
“That’s it,” I said, relieved, though not happy Josh left Zach on his own. “Michael, check the restroom,” I called. Michael disappeared and was back in a minute. “Nobody there,” he said grimly.
I felt my heart begin to pound. How could we have left the boys alone even for a minute? What was I thinking? Michael touched my shoulder. “Okay, we’re not panicking, Maggie. You stay here with Zach.” Within a few minutes, Michael had the entire bookstore mobilized, from the grizzled guys behind the counter to every customer in sight. No one had seen anything. Many remembered seeing the boys at the bookshelves, but no one had seen Josh walk out the door.
“Mommy,” Zach pulled at my sleeve. “I remembered something.”
I knelt down in the dust next to him, breathing in his warm, little boy essence. “What? What did you remember, honey?”
“When Josh said his stomach hurt, a man said he’d take him to the bathroom.”
I took a deep breath. “And what did he look like?”
“I don’t know. I was looking at a book, but he was a grown-up.”
“Michael,” I called.
“I’m going up the street to check out some of the other stores,” he said.
“No. Come here a minute. Zach remembered something.”
And just at that moment, just as the nightmares about child molesters and kidnapping and every other terror in the world were about to overwhelm me, Josh walked in the door. He waved, caught sight of his father’s face, and turned pale. “Dad, I’m sorry I left Zach, but I had to, had to, had to go to the bathroom.”
Michael’s face, with relief and rage fighting for dominance, darkened. I held my arms out for Josh. “Come here, honey. It’s fine. Just tell us what happened.”
And he did. He’d been seized with one of his upset stomachs and was clutching his middle, looking around for the bathroom, when a man—kinda young, he wasn’t sure—stepped up and called him by name.
“By name?” I asked. “Did you know him?”
He shook his head. “No, but he acted like he knew me. He knew my name. And I thought he might have been somebody Dad worked with or you or something and I’d just forgotten him or something. And he told me that the bathroom was out of order here, and he’d take me to his place, that he had a bathroom there.”
Michael and I exchanged glances. “And you don’t know his name?”
Josh shrugged. “No, I was embarrassed to ask. I thought he knew me, and all I cared about was finding a bathroom.” He looked up at me. “I’m really sorry I left Zach, but I thought I’d just be gone a minute.”
“Where did he take you?” asked Michael. “Can you find the place again?”
Josh said he’d try, and we spent the next half hour wandering up and down the streets. Unfortunately, the North Beach-Chinatown intersection is a maze of narrow streets, alleyways, and tiny plazas. We stopped when it was clear Josh was simply confused, tired, and upset. Michael, trying hard not to interrogate him, kept probing.
“And what did he say when he sent you back to the store, this guy?” asked Michael.
“He said goodbye.”
“Nothing else?” pressed Michael, as we headed for the parking lot.
“Oh, yeah,” said Josh, “I almost forgot. He told me to give Mom a message.”
“Mom! you’re crushing my hand,” objected Zach, shaking me loose.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, distracted. “What message?”
“He told me he hoped you remembered the seventh.”
Michael stopped, dead in his tracks. Our eyes met.
“The seventh?”
I looked at Michael and mouthed, “Commandment.”
Michael gave me an icy look and put his hand around Josh’s shoulder. “Well, don’t worry about it, pal. I’m sure whoever this guy was, he was just kidding around. Maybe he was talking about baseball.”
“Baseball?” asked Josh. “Oh, the seventh-inning stretch.”
Right, I thought to myself, Thou shalt not commit the seventh-inning stretch.
The entire Volvo smelled wonderful on the way back across the bridge, and once again, nearly faint with relief at having Josh back, I remembered how seductive a mistress San Francisco can be. I breathed in that heady combination of strong coffee and even stronger salami and closed my eyes. A little nap, just a little nap, before I had to endure Michael’s lecture—and my own self-recriminations—and then, just before I drifted off, the young man who had looked vaguely familiar to me outside the church snapped into focus.
“Sweetie,” I said to Josh, “what’s the art teacher’s name at school?”
The boys were dozing, too, stuffed with brunch and fresh air and the aftermath of an adventure. “Mr. Connolly,” he mumbled.
“It wasn’t Mr. Connolly who took you to his place, was it?” I asked.
He opened his eyes. “Mom! What kind of a dummy do you think I am? I know Mr. Connolly.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “That was a silly question. It’s just that I saw someone who looked just like him today.”
28
The Usual Suspects
Sunday night was something other than restful. After I heard, in considerable detail, what Michael thought about putting our son in danger, even inadvertently, we decided to call Inspector Moon. His office paged him, and he sent an officer out to interview Josh. Michael called it quits when it was clear Josh had reported as accurately as he could and we weren’t going to turn up anything new. Moon called back late that night.
“It’s more of the same, Maggie. I know it was awful for you guys, but he didn’t even have Josh gone long enough to be serious. Think about who cares enough to scare you just a little.”
“What about the seventh commandment warning?” I asked.
“That doesn’t tell us much new,” he said. “It’s just like the graffiti on the car. It’s somebody who knows about your indiscretion and thinks you’re probably suffering over it.”
“Well, doesn’t it rule out Michael?” I asked.
“Who knows?” said Moon.
“Get some rest. We can talk tomorrow.”
When we finally went to bed, I was too hot, then too cold, then too panicked to sleep. Every time I started to drift off, I’d jerk awake, frozen in that moment when we didn’t know where Josh had gone.
On Monday morning, Michael and I squabbled about whether or not to send him to school. In the end, I called Mrs. Schwab, explained what happened, and persuaded her to let Josh carry my cell phone again.
When I turned my computer on at my office, my e-mail was blinking a greeting. Email over the weekend could only mean some whiny, procrastinating writer asking for an extension.
“No better than I was,” I muttered under my breath as I typed in my password. I was wrong. The e-mail was from Sara.
Hullo from the Sloan Ranger. Am busy detecting on your behalf. Here’s a weird thing. Your dead guy must have had some lovely little pile of American capital. Douglas and I had tea the other day and he told me that Quent had offered to loan him money when his sweetie (Leslie) first become ill and had to resign his teaching post. Guess this new job of yours must be pretty swank. Does that mean you and your best beloved and the kidlets can pop over for a holiday visit? Let me know. We’d deck the halls and all that.
I replied immediately, thanking Sara for the info and disabusing her of the notion that the Fiori family finances were lush enough to support a transatlantic visit.
Money, money, money. Money was somehow at the root of all this. If I could connect the money with whatever that stuff was in the pot handle, I’d figure it out. I unlocked my bottom drawer and took out the box of tampons I kept for emergencies. I slipped my hand inside the box, and there, just as I’d left it, nestled among the crinkly paper-wrapped tubes, was the vial I’d “liberated” from Quentin’s pan handle.
The door flew open and in walked Calvin. “Hey, Maggie,” he began, then broke off when he caught sight of the box. “Put that stuff away, would you?”
I grinned at him, lifted the box and gave it a rattle. “What’s the matter, Calvin? Don’t you celebrate all those important little lunar cycles with your harem?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he shuddered. He flung himself on the couch and groaned. “Puffy ankles, moodiness, uncontrollable impulses to eat chocolate and kill old boyfriends. Forget that noise. In fact,” he began unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, “want to hear my new idea for the harem?”
“I can’t wait,” I said grimly.
“Older women,” he beamed. “Past the change. No birth control worries, no cyclical murderous impulses. Often quite wealthy. Just think, Maggie, in a few years you’d even make it onto my short list.”
“Calvin,” I said, “I’m going to give you a very big benefit of the doubt and assume you’re joking.” I held up one finger. “Number one, I’m at least ten years away from ‘the change,’ as you so charmingly call it. Number two, when I go for younger men, they’re going to be much, much, much younger. You’re not even on the radar screen. I’m talking the seventeen-year-old box-boys at the Safeway. And number three,” I said, flourishing a third finger at him, “I have no idea what you’re rolling up your sleeves for, since I’m unconvinced you’ve done anything more physical than snap a shutter in your entire life, and what’s more—”
“That’s number four,” he interjected.
“Number four,” I said, getting to my feet, “I only tolerate your presence to do my dirty detective work, so unless you’re here to take instructions, you’d better skedaddle.”
Calvin let a slow, sleepy smile spread across his face. “Skedaddle? Well, aren’t we the wholesome country girl?”
“No, we’re not,” I said briskly. “And you’d better be darn glad of it, because if I were I wouldn’t hang out with the likes of you.”
Calvin put his feet on Quentin’s freeform marble-top coffee table and regarded me with interest. “I’m here, I’m ready to do your scut work.” He indicated his rolled-up sleeves with a grand gesture. “And as you can see, I’m ready for action.”
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said, fishing in the tampon box and pulling out the vial. I handed it over to him. And proceeded to bring him up to date. About Puck and about our panic in North Beach.
The grin faded from his face. “Wow. You guys must have been scared to death.” I nodded, my eyes welling with tears.
“Plus Michael’s ready to kill me,” I said.
“So I guess that’s finally the end of Maggie Fiori, girl detective,” he said.
I dabbed at my eyes. “Probably.”
He held up the vial. “So what about this weird thing? You say Puck found this with you?” he asked.
I nodded. “Is that a good idea?” he asked. “I mean, Puck could be a suspect. All those clubs he goes to are just dens of drugs and iniquity.”
“Well, Puck’s not exactly pure as the driven snow,” I said, “but he’s off my list.”
“Your list?”
I pulled a reporter’s notebook, slim, spiral-bound, from the same drawer that was home to the feminine hygiene emergency stash. “Well, here’s what I did. I went through everyone here at the magazine and some other people close to Quentin, and I’ve figured out who was around—and who wasn’t—during the time of Quentin’s murder.”
“Girl detective back at work?” he asked.
“It’s my swan song,” I said.
Calvin crooked a finger. “Hand it over. Let me see what you’ve got.”
I handed it across. He paged through.
“Pretty good work, Maggie,” he said. “So if I understand what you’ve been digging into, everyone at the magazine except Glen and Andrea is accounted for.”
“Right.”
“So have you asked them where they were?”
I shook my head. “The cops questioned everyone. I assume they must be satisfied with what they said. And I don’t exactly know how to bring it up casually in conversation without seeming like I’m nosing around.”
“Oh, and that would be a big surprise to everyone, wouldn’t it?” observed Calvin, turning back to the notebook.
“Well, forget them for a minute. Outside Small Town, Orlando’s got this watertight alibi from all those people at his cock-a-doodle-doo restaurant, and the delectable Mrs. Quent was seen having her talons sharpened and painted at Nails by Neta on Union Street.”
He looked up “How’d you turn up that little piece of info?”
I smiled sweetly. “We hav
e our methods.”
“And those would be…?”
“Well, Gertie gets her nails done at the same place, and even though Quentin and Claire are divorced, she still makes Mrs. Quent’s important appointments. You know, dentist, hairdresser—”
“Plastic surgeon, blood bank, Poison Control center for withdrawals,” interrupted Calvin.
I laughed. “Right.”
“So how about Orlando’s partners? How about the people at Skunkworks? There’s lots of other people. There’s even Stuart.” He hesitated. “There’s even Michael.” He held up his hand. “Don’t get pissed at me for saying it. You already said that Moon’s theory was that it was someone ‘friendly’ warning you off.”
I sighed and flipped the notebook shut. “It’s not Michael.” My watch alarmed pinged.
“Hang on a minute, Calvin,” I said. I dialed Josh’s school, got the hourly reassurance from Mrs. Schwab, and called Michael.
Calvin watched me. “So Maggie, Moon knows everything you know?”
“Mostly,” I said.
“What’s mostly?”
“I didn’t talk to him about the vial.”
“Why not? That seems like a big find.”
“Oh, I will, but I have another place I’d like to check this vial out myself.”
He tossed it back to me. “Hey, much as I’d like a big scoop and lots of credit for breaking the case, you really do need to talk to the cops about this stuff. You know, I was a big fan of this detective shit, but I think we may be getting in way too deep. Somebody’s gonna get hurt. And I’d sure hate for it to be somebody I really care about, like myself, for example. Or even your kid. Just in case Moon’s suspect stops being so harmless and friendly.”
“Calvin, you’re a pal,” I said.
He continued, “Wait a minute. Incoming bad thought! Suppose the murderer really is Andrea? I’m getting kinda tight with that WASPy princess.”
I chuckled. “Remember that movie, So I Married An Axe Murderer?”
“That’s not so funny. Besides, Andrea’s only a suspect on your little list because she wasn’t accounted for during the murder.”
Edited to Death Page 24
