Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  “Smith?”

  “Yeah.”

  “O’Hara here.”

  “Mr. O’Hara.” There was a pause. “I’m at Topaz Lake.”

  “What’re you doing there?” O’Hara was worried. As if he were picking up Maureen’s black lace panty, he plucked the cigar from the ashtray and dumped it into the golden spittoon.

  “I’ve been on vacation...ever since you fired me.” Gerald laughed.

  “I don’t want you to step inside the Greenwich ever again. Understood? Your association with Cornelius has ended. And I’ll be speaking to his brother about you being up at Topaz Lake. He should know that you are no longer welcome at the Greenwich and why.”

  “Hold up, man. You can’t stop me from coming up here.”

  “You wait,” O’Hara screamed, and ended the call.

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, July 4

  Lights radiated abundance from every window at O’Hara’s Sea Cliff mansion as the Jesuit community’s black Buick entered the semi-circular driveway and Father Ralph stepped out. Blue-coated attendants moved arriving cars to the parking area, and a shuttle shepherded guests from the China Beach parking lot, where a canvas tent had been set up with security. Confetti-colored flowers filled giant Thai bamboo baskets that hung from the rough-hewn balconies, and exterior accent lamps displayed a bankroll sustaining every inch of the Spanish colonial.

  The heavy oak door swung open.

  Clare O’Hara was dressed in a mauve silk evening gown and offered her warm, bone-white hand. “Nice to see you again, Ralph.” Still holding his hand, she kissed him on the cheek and said, “James is somewhere. You’ll have to go looking for him if you want to talk.” She motioned with the other hand and an easy laugh followed.

  The cocoa aroma of Padron Maduro floating inside the portico entrance tickled Father Ralph’s hooked nose and gave him relief from a dull pain in his stomach that began on the way to O’Hara’s.

  “You don’t look so well, Ralph. I can take you into the kitchen and fix you a drink myself. Maybe, a ginger ale?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  The ache came whenever he contemplated leaving the priesthood and having to explain his reasons to his mother and Cornelius. A mission trip to Mexico or farther south, where the sun burns the dust and the roads are without real sidewalks, would burn away his desire for happy domesticity.

  “You’re looking as beautiful as ever. I hope I’m not late.” Father Ralph let go of her hand.

  “No, more guests to come. Make yourself comfortable.” She turned and with her left hand motioned again in the direction of the great room. He caught a glimpse of the cut-out on the back of the gown and the chestnut hair wrapped on top of her head like twisted pastry. A quick scan left little doubt that, even at age fifty-two, she continued to toil at the ballet bar.

  He looked up at the full-length portrait hung at the landing where two sets of stairs came together from opposing directions. Pastel brushstrokes perfectly captured her essence and the chiffon-like softness of her skin.

  She escorted him to the party room. Walking by the side of the poor and unwashed might cure him of this desire for a wife, but not require as much faith as Lourdes. A pilgrimage of the kind that is done slowly in a country where bad politics makes heroes out of nuns might cure him, but the possibility that he might be offered a college presidency would mean enough income to support a wife.

  Before returning to the front door to greet more guests, Clare bowed her head at several friends. Father Ralph’s lasting loyalty to her had begun when her father sponsored Father Ralph’s father, Henry, for membership in the Bohemian Club. Tonight, others would be in attendance for sundry purposes, both social and business.

  Father Ralph spotted Maureen Daley out on the balcony and directly thought of Clare’s predicament. Years ago, she had confided in a counseling session that she was barren. He wanted to cover her eyes, but she abruptly turned around and left his side. A favorite passage extolling the beauty of womanhood came to mind:

  To the steeds of Pharaoh’s chariots would I liken you, my beloved: Your cheeks lovely in pendants, your neck in jewels. Song of Songs 1:9-10.

  He charted a way around the grand room and found a tony, young couple he didn’t recognize and said hello. Not far from them he noticed an older couple who knew his mother. He told them that she was as stylish as ever, even after eighty-nine years of triumphs and defeats, but didn’t disclose the fact that she needed help dressing. He saw Maureen’s eldest daughter, Megan, and wondered if she knew about her mother’s affair with James.

  Where was James?

  Standing near a window overlooking the Golden Gate, the District Attorney and the Public Defender enjoyed a drink but didn’t say much to each other. Amused that they were in the same room, Father Ralph shook hands with each and delighted in the intimacy he had with the man who was responsible for bringing them together. James O’Hara supported all reasonable Democrats, and politicians who did not ask James for too much were deemed reasonable.

  He was closer to Maureen now. Wrapped in a silver and blonde, full-length, natural lynx coat over a blood red dress, she gazed out over the iron railing of the balcony. A tiger-orange ball floating above the horizon gave her face a hot glow and allowed her to be seen easily through the double doors, and in the cool night air, the lynx and glass of blush wine were keeping her warm.

  “Hello, Maureen, happy Fourth of July.”

  “Ralph, I was hoping you would be here.” She shook his hand and pulled him closer, his roman collar coming within inches of soft lips that kissed his cheek and exuded lilac, helping him to forget about the ache.

  Swirling eighty feet below was the stench of sea water.

  Out came Joyce Contorado and her husband.

  The balcony was suddenly overcrowded.

  Rather than look at Joyce, the woman who had obtained his affection, he focused on the fiery ball, now sunk a quarter of the way below the horizon, and on the shards of blue-violet and red light shooting across the water and over the house.

  “It’s getting cold. I think I’ll go inside.” His black sleeve brushed lightly against Joyce’s uncovered arm. Joyce reached for Father Ralph’s hand, but Mr. Contorado put his hand on top of hers and spanked it once.

  “Ralph, wonderful party, isn’t it?” Joyce’s voice trailed after him through the door.

  A bourbon and soda absolved Father Ralph of an affair of the heart, but only for a minute. He rotated on his heels and was off-balance when he saw two women approaching, followed by Joyce, in a gallop, without Mr. Contorado. Each one of the women nudged out the other to be nearer to the most distinguished and urbane priest in San Francisco.

  “Did something embarrass you, Father, outside on the balcony?” one woman asked.

  “Nothing surprises Father Ralph. Just imagine all the juicy things he’s heard in confession. Why, when I told him...” Joyce broke off in a state of alarm, her cheeks turning dark as mulberry.

  He gulped down his bourbon and soda and said to another passing waiter, “Please give me a refill.”

  As the color in Joyce’s cheeks returned to normal, Father Ralph wondered if she knew about Maureen’s affair with James.

  He drank a mouthful and looked above the liquid at Joyce’s lips, pink as plumeria and shimmering in the light of a sparkling, diamond clip pinning down a side-curl. It was as though a spotlight had cast Joyce’s face in shades of cantaloupe.

  She moved, and his gaze descended.

  A thin black belt firmly cinched a sleeveless, coconut-colored dress, and the perfume reminded him of their favorite flower, Hawaiian pikake. The divine scent of a pikake lei was said to be a prelude to marriage. She wasn’t wearing one. He felt woozy, and an apparition materialized. He saw a man and woman walking hand-in-hand over sand. A light breeze was blowing, and they drifted to the intoxicating beat of distant drums, washing away all other sounds.

  An ice cube sealed in bourbon bumped against the side of his
glass, and the tinkling snapped him back to reality. The glass tipped, causing the ice cube to fall out. He bent over to pick it up, felt light-headed and, on his return to a more soldierly position, was giddy enough to tell a joke to the women.

  “There were three professors on a skydiving adventure. The pilot informed them the airplane was going to crash and that there was only one parachute. The first professor said, ‘I deserve the parachute; I have seniority.’ The second professor said, ‘I deserve the parachute; I have three children.’ The third professor, a priest, said, ‘Seniority and children count for nothing when you’ve got God on your side and the parachute in your hands. So long!’”

  They all laughed and continued laughing. “Excuse me. I’d better greet our host.” James stood in the middle of male admirers. Father Ralph knew he had more in common with his host than most people could, or would, ever understand. James had turned the Greenwich into a modern money pot, and throughout, they had remained ardent devotees of one another.

  “Ralph, you look downhearted,” James said, placing his hand on Father Ralph’s shoulder and steadying him. “Cheer up. It’s the Fourth of July.”

  “Just thinking about something,” Father Ralph answered, not wanting to let on. Spend the rest of his life alone or marry that woman, Joyce.

  “Ralph, there’s something I want to talk about...privately.” James guided Father Ralph to a corner of the room. “Cornelius told me he’s not retiring. That means he won’t be vacating the apartment. I’m not concerned about that, but I know you’d want to know. As head of the family, you should.”

  O’Hara’s mouth was twisted in a weird way, but Father Ralph felt tired and moody, and his eyes began to lose focus, keeping people, problems, and Joyce away. “What? He is all set to retire. I better call him.”

  “Upstairs, in the hallway. No one will be up there.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back.”

  The call went straight to the message recorder. He paced and punched one again. The recorder answered a second time.

  What to do?

  The party entered its third hour. Father Ralph stood near the balcony’s open door when James excused himself from his group and stepped onto the balcony.

  His hand touched Maureen’s elbow. She was chatting with her daughter.

  Father Ralph listened near the open door and looked for a waiter.

  “Maureen, would you mind stepping inside for a minute?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  At six feet and 180 lbs., it wasn’t easy for Father Ralph to stand behind a narrow drape. They walked past. He heard James say, “Ralph’s upstairs calling his brother. Clare asked me to be discreet. She’s right. Do you think you should leave?”

  Father Ralph felt like an interloper and thought he should announce himself.

  “James? I’ve always been welcome in your house. I don’t believe Clare would ever say that. Is it you? Do you want me to go?” Maureen said, with a hand resting on James’ shoulder.

  James wrenched his shoulder away from her hand. “For Christ sake, be careful.”

  She slowly closed the blonde lynx around her herself. With a finger wagging at him like that of a school teacher, she said, “Don’t be so unforgiving.” The finger flattened as she stroked his face.

  “Ouch.”

  She withdrew her hand and backed away.

  Father Ralph witnessed the reaction on James’ face.

  “That color on your nails. What’s it called?”

  “Pleasurable Pink,” she answered.

  “Get rid of it.”

  The slap that followed shocked Father Ralph. He experienced the sensation of falling and looked around the room to see if anyone else had seen her hit James.

  “I’ll talk to you after the fireworks are over. Clare will want me by her side.”

  Maureen fell back against one of the chairs and steadied herself on its arm. “It’s hot in here.”

  Father Ralph moved away, unnoticed.

  •••

  At five minutes past eight, merrymakers filled the hotel lobby. Pepper Chase and her front desk partner, Doris, were nearing the middle of their shift.

  Pepper was still upset that Mr. O’Hara had yelled at her in Cornelius’ apartment.

  The advice columns telling her to be more assertive came to mind.

  Talk to Cornelius.

  “Doris, I’m going to talk to Cornelius.”

  “Okay, sweetie.”

  From her purse she pulled out a brush and bent over, and her long, curly, red hair flew forward. She stroked it repeatedly from the nape of her neck forward. She stood up and inhaled. No one staying at this hotel boarded public transportation, and the last customer had paid his bill with hundred-dollar bills. She felt proud to be working at such an establishment, but unanswered love was tenaciously summoning.

  “Hello, miss, we’d like to know if it gets cold at night here in San Francisco.”

  “Yes, I recommend dressing in layers.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pepper looked at Cornelius and down at her fingernails, painted a special color just for this night. Conversations bubbled with excitement and faded down the hallway to the elevators. The warm air in the lobby was still saturated with the sugary fragrance of a vineyard during an afternoon harvest, but the problem remained.

  If I tell him again, I might be rejected.

  She stepped back from the counter, pulled out a compact and lip-gloss from her purse, reapplied strawberry balm, and boldly took a step toward Cornelius. He pulled on a loaded baggage trolley and disappeared down the hallway. Pepper’s hopes sunk.

  “Hello, can you order a cab?”

  “If you stand outside, one will pull up shortly.”

  “But it’s so cold outside.”

  She smiled and repeated the advice given to a different couple earlier.

  Fifteen minutes passed. She had no one to talk to about Cornelius. That morning on the way to work, she had window-shopped Saks. The last Greenwich customer looked like the type who could shop there, and Pepper longed for the day when she could enter and be served by a brand ambassador. Tiffany’s silver-lined casement windows had only stimulated terrible longings within.

  Doris asked, “Pepper, we’re not busy, so can we talk?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you see Mr. O’Hara earlier today? He was asking about you.”

  “Oh...I don’t want to talk about that now.”

  “I need to go on another diet.”

  “Have you gained weight? It doesn’t show,” Pepper said.

  “Well, I weighed myself today, and the answer is no, but I don’t like my flabby stomach. I look like an old man with a pot belly.”

  Pepper laughed.

  “You want to know who I have a crush on?”

  Pepper felt stressed and managed to say, “Who?”

  “Ready, the boy in housekeeping. Lindsey says he looks kind of thuggish out of uniform, but she probably hasn’t done anything exciting in her whole life. Maybe, he is kind of thuggish, and maybe, I don’t care. Do you think I’m making a mistake if I flirt with him?”

  “If it’s a mistake, you’ve made it about a thousand times already, so I’m not sure why you’re asking me now.”

  “I didn’t know it was so obvious. No...you’re making that up.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Pepper said to her junior clerk.

  “What can we talk about?”

  Pepper didn’t answer.

  Five more minutes passed.

  “You want to get married and have children, right, Pepper?”

  “Of course.” Pepper felt warm again.

  “I just love Maureen Daley’s hairstyle. I’d like to get my hair done that way. I wonder why she’s here so often. Have you heard any rumors about her?” Doris asked.

  “No, and you shouldn’t be listening to gossip.”

  Both laughed.

  “I need to have my hair straightened. It’s getting out of contro
l. What do you think?” Pepper asked.

  “You have gorgeous red hair. Just get it styled.”

  “Thanks, Doris. Do you think Maureen’s pretty?”

  “Very.”

  Pepper felt sick.

  “She is, but she’s too old to have another baby.” Her eyes searched for Cornelius.

  How do I get hold of him?

  Doris turned to help a guest. Pepper relaxed and opened her e-mail. Amazement filled her heart when Cornelius’ name appeared. He had sent her an e-mail! The first try at expressing love didn’t go well, but now there was another chance.

  Success on the second try would be amazing.

  She crossed her fingers. Raw feelings twisted them tighter as she read:

  Dear Pepper,

  I have a big favor to ask. I have a gambling debt. Please bring $50,000 to my apartment. The money is in the vault. I’ll pay it back. A loan shark is demanding the money by tomorrow. Delete this right after you read it.

  Cornelius MacKenzie

  A shudder rippled through her. Pepper quickly closed the e-mail, looked over at Doris, who was still giving directions, signed off, and closed the screen.

  Cornelius is an honest man.

  He goes to church every Sunday.

  His brother is a priest.

  So, how could he have a gambling debt? She thought she knew him, but maybe, not.

  The e-mail frightened her, even more than when she was forced to get an unwanted abortion at age nineteen because the sperm donor offered no support and said their encounters were about having fun and nothing more.

  She felt sure Cornelius and Maureen Daley were having an affair, and if she said no to his request, any chance of winning him would end.

  Inside her purse was a compact lying face-up, and she turned it over to hide a weak chin. Cornelius was talking to a bellhop.

  Interrupt and discuss the e-mail.

  Drag him to the employee break room and pelt him with questions.

  Force him to his apartment and wrench from him a promise of love.

  E-mail him back and wait until tomorrow.

  None of these options looked good. He said he needed the money immediately. Politely asking to see him in the counting room outside the vault would seem suspicious.