Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!)

by Michaela Thompson

  I was surprised at the change of subject. “I suppose I’ve thought about it, but I don’t really have any marketable skills, and jobs are hard to find.”

  “That’s true.” Jane seemed lost in contemplation. Then she brightened. “You know, it’s funny I thought of it. We have something opening up in public relations that you might enjoy. Writing and research. And actually, the money’s quite good for part-time.” She sipped delicately and patted her lips with an embroidered napkin. “If you’re at all interested, I can alert our personnel department.”

  I stared at her. So this was how it was done. This was probably how they bought Richard— during a polite conversation over the coffee cups, with suggestions so delicately put they almost didn’t sound like a bribe at all. Well, I wasn’t Richard, and Jane Malone was waving her fancy job offers at the wrong member of the unemployed.

  “No, thank you.” I was surprised that I sounded so cool. I stood up. “I have to go now.”

  Jane’s fresh-concrete eyes hardened a little, and she held up a freckled hand. “Wait a moment. If you aren’t interested in the job, fine. But I insist that you stay out of the Golden State Center protest. It will be best for everyone if you do. Best for us, and— I’m trying to make this absolutely clear, Mrs. Longstreet— best for you.”

  Enough was enough. “If that’s a threat, then perhaps I should report you to the police. They might want to know where to look if anything happens to me.”

  “Certainly they might.” Jane glanced at a gilded clock. “That reminds me. I’m having drinks with the commissioner later this afternoon.”

  I wanted to feel my fingers around her squatty neck. “Have a wonderful time. Enjoy it, before something comes along that even your friend the commissioner can’t ignore.”

  Jane was on her feet, too. “You force me to warn you, Mrs. Longstreet—” she began, but I didn’t want to listen to her anymore. I strode to the door and walked out, leaving her to make her threats to Lambie and Gigi.

  I was too mad to be frightened until I reached my car, but once there I began to shake. Jane Malone had a lot of clout, and I had made her angry. And if she and Richard were upset now, wait until he discovered the folder was missing. Then they’d really be running scared.

  In the midst of these disturbing thoughts I remembered my appointment with Joseph Corelli. It was still early. I drove to Columbus Avenue and, for want of a better alternative, parked in a lot. I wasn’t far from Andrew’s apartment. I felt an unexpected rush of longing for him, but I knew he’d be at the Times. North Beach was looking charming, and bohemian, and all the things it could be if you ignored the Broadway sleaze. A couple of blocks down, Luigi’s red and white awning flapped cheerfully. Loath to eat there after Andrew’s tale of the violated restaurant code, I went instead to a health-food bar and ate an avocado-and-sprouts sandwich and drank a yogurt shake. My stomach wasn’t especially pleased with this intrusion swallowed on top of Jane Malone’s threats, and it was with a certain queasiness that I walked down the street to Luigi’s.

  The lunch rush was over. Outside on the terrace, under a Cinzano umbrella, three old men sat over a carafe of red wine. As Corelli had instructed me, I walked around to the back of the building. The alley was cleaner than most, and looked like a little brick-paved street. The door that must lead to Corelli’s office was painted mustard yellow, and was standing slightly ajar.

  Left it open for me, I thought, knocking lightly. When there was no response, I stepped inside. Opening onto a short hallway was a no-nonsense office with a desk, filing cabinets, a sofa, and a chair. It was empty. I thought perhaps Corelli had gone into the other part of the building.

  As I turned back to the hall, I saw something shiny by the side of the desk. When I looked more closely, I saw it was the toe of a well-polished shoe.

  I moved toward the desk. It was a shoe, and a trouser leg— trousers such as a successful restaurateur might wear. It was, in fact— my queasiness abruptly got worse— Corelli, lying on his side, his eyes staring. His face had none of the avid sensuality of the night before, and his hands clutched his stomach as if he, too, had indigestion. It wasn’t indigestion, though, but something much worse. Blood had poured from his shirt front and drenched his hands. A nightmarish puddle of it lay in front of him, soaking into the carpet. In the midst of it all, he stared straight ahead, and I didn’t see him blink once.

  Nineteen

  The air in the phone booth was stale. Through the grease-smeared glass I could see the red and white awning of Luigi’s and the three old men still lingering over their wine. Swallowing compulsively, I leafed through the ragged directory, forgetting for the moment what I was looking for— the number of the police. I had been unable to stay in the room with Joseph Corelli— or, more precisely, Joseph Corelli’s body. Nothing in my life had prepared me for his fixed stare and bloody shirt front. Motion makes the difference, I told myself, and there was no motion left in Corelli. Not in his full, gaping lips, or his bulging eyes, not even in the blood gleaming so stickily where it had gushed through his hands. I had stared at him for a few moments, a peculiar scalding sensation inside me, and then bolted out of the room and down the still-deserted alley.

  Once outside, I began to consider what to do. Someone would have to be told. The police would have to be told. I couldn’t leave Joseph Corelli lying in his blood on his office floor. It was no good assuring myself that someone would find him eventually. He had been found, and it was my responsibility.

  By the time I sagged into the phone booth, my mind was numb. The memory of Corelli’s body was already taking on an eerie unreality. Of course Police Emergency would be in the front of the book, you idiot. I picked up the receiver.

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded interested in my news, if not unduly surprised, and hung up after taking my name and assuring me someone would be there immediately. Next, I fumbled through the phone book again, dropped a dime in the slot, and dialed the Times. A young man answered and said Andrew wasn’t around, maybe he was at lunch. No, he didn’t know when Andrew might be back. I hung up, but clung to the receiver until it was coated with sweat from my hand. God damn.

  The police would be arriving any second, and I had to go back to Luigi’s. I walked slowly, concentrating on the sidewalk, thinking about how much I should tell them. Jane Malone had unnerved me with her talk about drinks with the commissioner. If I brought in Larry and his blackmail of Corelli, I’d also have to bring in Andrew and the Times. I couldn’t do that, I could not, without talking with Andrew first. All right. I couldn’t do it, so I wouldn’t. I reached Luigi’s and sat at one of the outside tables under an umbrella to wait for the police.

  A lot of them arrived very soon. Within ten minutes the CLOSED sign was swaying on the front door, the scared-looking staff, the three old wine-drinkers, and I were sitting inside at thickly varnished tables littered with pizza crumbs, and Inspector Fred Bosworth was offering me coffee.

  Inspector Bosworth displayed little detective glamour. His paunch, thin graying hair, shapeless rust-brown sport jacket and baggy slacks seemed to me more suited to a seedy real-estate salesman than to a dauntless investigator. He looked tired and unshaven, and there was a spot of something dark red— tomato soup, I hoped— on his tie. I tried to avoid looking at it, and, since I was also having trouble looking him in the eye, I found myself staring mostly at my coffee cup.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Longstreet?”

  “I think so.”

  Bosworth clicked his ballpoint pen. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  By that time, I had gone over the story repeatedly in my mind, and I ran through it without stumbling. I had met Corelli last night at the Citizens Against the Golden State Center meeting (did Bosworth’s eyebrows go up at that?). He had offered to fill me in on some of the issues, and we had made an appointment to meet today. When I arrived, I found his body. I had seen no one enter or leave Corelli’s office. It was simple, straightforward, and true�
� as far as it went— and Bosworth seemed satisfied. He told me I could go, and as I gathered my coat and purse he scratched his stubbly cheek with the button end of his ballpoint and said, “You any relation to Redevelopment Director Longstreet?”

  “Not any more.” I said stiffly. “I used to be married to him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bosworth wrote something in his notebook and studied it closely, as if it had been rendered indecipherable. “Think the Golden State Center is a bad deal?” he asked conversationally.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I like to get all sides of the story.”

  Surely the tremor in my voice would make Bosworth suspicious, but apparently tremors were all in a day’s work for him. He merely closed his notebook, thanked me, and told me to come by the station to sign my statement. He appreciated my cooperation. His eyes looked as if he had already forgotten me.

  I left Luigi’s in a daze. The wind had picked up, and my coat was no longer warm enough. I pulled it closer and hurried toward the parking lot. I wanted to see Andrew, and the sooner the better.

  I found him in the Times newsroom, deep in a discussion with two other people about somebody butchering somebody else’s copy. When he saw me he disengaged himself, smiling. “You’re here! What a terrific surprise.”

  I couldn’t smile back. “I have news.”

  We went into his office, and I managed to tell the story relatively calmly, finishing with, “I tried to call you, but they told me you were at lunch.”

  “Yeah, I had to get out. This place is a real pressure cooker.” He leaned against the window frame, his face grim. “We’re in deep trouble. You know as well as I do that all this is tied up together.”

  “I know. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  He was silent a long time, gazing out the window. As I looked at him, my mind escaped from current stresses by appreciating how gorgeous he was. Gorgeous knobby wrists, unruly hair, well-worn running shoes. Gorgeous faded jeans, brown eyes—

  “Maybe it’s time we went to the police,” he said.

  “You mean tell them everything?”

  He was pale. “Yeah. Let them handle Richard, Jane Malone, Corelli, Larry, the whole can of worms. What do you say?”

  I had expected him to fight ferociously against such an idea, although it seemed obvious to me that it was the only sensible move. Now that he had suggested it himself, I was surprisingly reluctant. I told him what Jane Malone had said about having drinks with the commissioner. “We should tell them, but I’m afraid they’ll find excuses for not doing anything. Then we’ll have tipped our hand and we’ll be left unprotected.”

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  Neither of us said anything. I realized I was clenching my hands together so tightly my fingers ached. Finally, I spoke. “I think we should go to the police. But there are a couple of things I’d like to do first.”

  “What?”

  I wasn’t sure how he’d take what I was going to say. “I’d like to tell Susanna Hawkins what’s going on. Not about the Corelli part, the blackmail part. Just that we suspect everything isn’t right about Larry’s death. I’ve been the left-out wife, and I know it isn’t pleasant. I’d rather not leave it to a policeman knocking on her door.”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. I’ll call, and see if she’s home this afternoon.”

  “What else?”

  This one would be more difficult. “I’d like for the two of us to have a talk with Richard.”

  Andrew’s expression didn’t change. He folded his arms across his chest. “Why?”

  “We’ve got the bribery proof against him. Nothing can change that. But before we involve him in a murder investigation I’d like to hear what he has to say about how that folder got into his safe.” When Andrew didn’t answer immediately, I went on, “It seems fair.”

  “And obviously, we’d want to be fair to Richard.” His tone was heavy with sarcasm.

  I stood up. “I’m sorry you’re taking that attitude.”

  “Come on. Don’t get haughty.” He approached me and put his hands on my shoulders. Looking into my eyes, he said, “I’m afraid you’re pulling both ways on this thing.”

  Although I knew the answer, I said, “What do you mean?”

  “Now that push has come to shove, you’re having second thoughts about turning Richard in, aren’t you?”

  It was a reasonable question. “Not about the bribery thing. And if I’m convinced he killed Larry I won’t hesitate about that, either. I want to hear his story about the night of Larry’s death, that’s all.” I hesitated, then said, “Believe me.”

  We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment before he released me and said, “Oh, hell. All right. Do you think you can set something up for tonight?”

  “Richard said he wanted to talk. I expect he’ll jump at the chance.”

  In fact, my call to Richard was put through with unprecedented speed— so fast I didn’t have time to prepare for the lurch of fury I felt when I heard his voice. Here I was, trying to act decently toward a man who had slapped my face. My cheek tingled at the memory, and only an effort of will enabled me to extend my offer of a conversation.

  Richard accepted with what was, for him, pathetic eagerness, even to the point of agreeing to Andrew’s presence without a murmur. “Shall I come to the house?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why don’t we make it for dinner, then? I can get a private room at Arturo’s.”

  Richard’s maxim was, never miss a chance to dine in a place that gets mentioned in the columns. “That’ll be fine. We’ll meet you there at seven-thirty.”

  As I was about to hang up he said, “Maggie…”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to apologize for hitting you last night. I know it was unforgivable, but—”

  “You’re right, Richard. It was unforgivable,” I said, and hung up.

  I sat at the phone a few minutes, then picked it up again to dial Susanna Hawkins.

  Twenty

  Two teenage boys wearing leather mitts were tossing a baseball back and forth across Barton Street while younger children screamed and chased one another along the sidewalk. In the deepening twilight, the Hawkins house didn’t look quite as shabby as it had before. Susanna had readily agreed to see me when I called, and the porch light was on. Curly, the white sheepdog, was sitting on the front steps. He yawned as I walked past him and rang the doorbell.

  Susanna was wearing a blue sweater and a long, light green skirt printed with blue flowers. Her face seemed thinner than when I had last seen her, with hollows under the cheekbones. Her hair, straight and shining, fell over her shoulders and down her back like a brown silk shawl. September Apple’s remark about Larry came back to me: Having a lot of women was a big macho thing for him. It would be easy to wonder why a woman as stunning as Susanna wasn’t enough for Larry, but all sorts of things went on between husbands and wives— or didn’t go on. I was past thinking beauty, or good intentions, or even sainthood could make a marriage work, and far past trying to figure out what could.

  “The boys are playing next door, so I’m not quite as frantic as I was,” she said, ushering me in. “How’s your article coming?”

  I removed a toy truck from a chair and sat down. “That’s what I want to talk with you about.”

  “You need more help?”

  “No. There isn’t any article.” Her face was clouding, and I decided to get it all out at once. “I came to tell you that Andrew Baffrey and I have been looking into it, and we think there was something suspicious about Larry’s death.”

  It had been a mistake to blurt it out like that. Susanna’s face blanched, and she shook her head as if her neck muscles had gone out of control. Shocked at the vehemence of her reaction and afraid of a bout of hysterics like the one she’d had at the Times, I stood, thinking I’d get water. “I apologize. I’m afraid I’m handling this badly,” I said.

  She held up a hand to stop me from leaving.
“Are you from the police?” she whispered.

  “No, no I’m not.” I strove for heartiness, to reassure her. “My name is Maggie Longstreet. My former husband is Richard Longstreet, the Redevelopment Director. Andrew and I have reason to believe Richard might have been involved in Larry’s death.”

  She stared at me. I could see her swallowing. I felt horrible. At last she said, “Why would your ex-husband want to kill Larry?”

  “Larry had information that would cause trouble for Richard. He was going to publish it. We know that Richard took the information from Larry’s office the night Larry died.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. When she opened them she said, “But what about the note?”

  “I saw— couldn’t help seeing the note the day you were at the Times office. He didn’t really say he was going to kill himself, just that he was sorry…” I stopped, embarrassed. Sorry for what? What had he been planning, if not suicide?

  “Yeah,” she said softly. The color was beginning to return to her face. “This is such a shock that I’m acting dumb,” she said. “I think I’d like to make some tea.”

  I trailed her to the kitchen protesting that she shouldn’t, but she insisted on putting the water on to boil. I sat at the kitchen table, looking at the discolored sink and the worn linoleum. The kitchen window had a view of the small backyard, where bright plastic toys lying in the grass were still discernible through the dusk.

  “What do you plan to do now?” she asked, spooning lemon grass into a brown pot.

  “We’re having a talk with Richard tonight. After that, I suppose we’ll go to the police. Unless Richard has an explanation, of course.”

  She poured the steaming water into the pot. “What sort of explanation could he possibly have?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sat at the table, leaning her cheek against one hand, gazing out the window. “Look at those toys out there in the damp. I ask the boys to bring them in, but they forget.” She sighed, and looked back at me. “So you’re divorced?”