Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Maybe I can be of some assistance,” the mayor says, coming over and offering me his arm. “Adam Grant.”

  The jig is up.

  “Gabriella Giovanni.”

  The look on his face is blank.

  “I’m with the Bay Herald. I’m attending your dinner this evening.”

  “Aha! Well, then, how fortunate I had the chance to meet you beforehand,” he says, taking my elbow and leading me inside. “Shall we?”

  The doorman tips his hat as we enter. Grant leads me to the concierge’s desk. “Ethan, Ms. Giovanni has had an unfortunate accident. Do you think we can fix her up?”

  “Yes, sir. In a jiffy. I’ll send housekeeping right over.”

  Grant leads me to a tufted chaise lounge nearby. “Sit. I’ll keep you company.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Why, yes.” He pats the seat beside him.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind, but I can take over from here.” The thought of him watching someone sew my dress is humiliating.

  “Oh, I would be remiss if I left you alone here. I like to think my mother raised me better than that.”

  “But you’re going to be late for your own dinner,” I say, and glance at my watch.

  “That’s one of the perks of being the host now, isn’t it? The party doesn’t start until I arrive.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo and takes out a small phone. “Denise? I’ve been delayed a few moments, so can you keep everyone entertained? Maybe offer another round of champagne and aperitifs? Fabulous. And one other thing, can you do a bit of rearranging at the dinner table? I’d like you to move Gabriella Giovanni’s seat so she’s at my side. Thank you kindly.” He snaps the phone shut.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It was my pleasure.” I look away from his eyes, crinkled in a smile.

  A woman in a gray uniform arrives with a needle and thread, distracting his attention from me. I sneak a peek at him while he’s not looking. He has silky black hair and Elizabeth Taylor blue-­violet eyes. Up close, his skin is lightly pockmarked, but this one small flaw makes him more attractive.

  I thank the woman as she deftly mends the tear in my dress. She smiles but keeps her eyes on the fabric. When she finishes, I reach for my silver clutch, but Grant has already reached for her hand. I see a flash of green and what looks like a one with two zeros behind it. My face flushes. I was about to give her five bucks.

  UPSTAIRS, A TUXEDO-­CLAD waiter offers me a salmon canapé that I try to nibble at delicately. The bruschetta crumbles in my hand and I end up dropping a tiny flake of salmon down the front of my dress. The mayor has his back to me a few feet away so I turn toward the window and try to fish the pinkish flake out, but it slips deeper into the land of no return.

  The dining room offers spectacular panoramic views from floor to ceiling of the Golden Gate Bridge on one side and the Bay Bridge on the other. I sense someone at my side and know before he speaks who it is.

  “I argued with my staff about which room we should hold the dinner in. They said the Venetian Room is more fitting, but I find it stuffy and ostentatious.” I cast a glance to my side. Grant stares out the window as he speaks. “I prefer the Crown Room for its views.”

  Before I can agree, an assistant whispers in his ear, and the mayor leads me to my seat. Others in the room follow his lead. The meal begins with oysters on the half shell. I sigh with pleasure as I taste one. Grant watches me. I’m self-­conscious under his gaze, trying to eat them in a ladylike manner.

  “They say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says, lowering his voice so nobody else can hear.

  My face grows warm. I’ve already had two glasses of champagne and nearly forgot why I was here—­to find out more about Mayor Adam Grant. In case he had anything to do with Sebastian Laurent’s murder.

  “Have you read any interesting books lately?” I change the subject.

  “I have actually,” he says. “I’m right in the middle of a few—­Jimmy Carter’s latest and Stupid White Men by Michael Moore.”

  “But you’re a Republican!” I say, then regret it.

  He laughs. “I’m also reading The No Spin Zone by Bill O’Reilly.”

  “Well, that makes more sense.”

  “I take it you’re not a Republican?”

  “Not even close. But don’t tell anyone in my family.” I splash some Tabasco sauce and squeeze some lemon juice on a fat juicy oyster. “They’d disown me.”

  “My lips are sealed,” he says. “I think we can still be friends even though I presume you didn’t vote for me.”

  I shrug, but he sees something on my face. “You did, though, didn’t you?” He smothers a laugh.

  He is poised as he tips the oyster shell up to his lips. His eyes never leave mine. I give a wry smile. “Yeah, I voted for you. We needed a change around here.” Then I see my opening. “Plus for a Republican, you’re surprisingly supportive of the arts.”

  “This is San Francisco,” he says, taking a small piece of garlic bread to mop up some juice on his oyster plate. “I would be foolish not to support the arts, now wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, but you are personally supportive, too, aren’t you? I thought I saw a picture of you at an art opening last week. For Annalisa Cruz.”

  There it is.

  He looks at me for a minute, and I catch the shadow of something flash across his face. “Oh, yes, Annalisa. She’s a good friend of mine. We’ve known each other for years.”

  “She’s quite a talented artist,” I say, taking a sip of water but not taking my eyes off his face.

  “Do you know her work?”

  “I only just met her. I’m writing an article about Sebastian Laurent.”

  I watch him carefully. Nothing unusual crosses his face this time. Instead, his eyes grow somber.

  “His death was a damn shame.”

  LATER, AFTER THEY’VE served dessert, I try again.

  “You said Sebastian Laurent’s death was a shame. Were you friends?”

  “No, not at all,” Grant says, pushing back his plate of raspberry torte and taking out a thin, silver cigarette case. He’s obviously immune to the city’s antismoking laws. A waiter materializes by his side with a crystal ashtray. I guess if you’re the mayor, you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want in your city. But I think it is brave of him to light up in front of a group of reporters who all have the means to spread negative publicity. Maybe just arrogant.

  He exhales before he answers. “Sebastian was the jealous sort and resented my friendship with Annalisa. Despite that, I don’t believe anyone deserves to die a violent death.”

  “He was jealous of you? So I shouldn’t interview you about my profile piece on him?” I eye his cigarette case, secretly sending him vibes to offer me one. He doesn’t.

  “Probably not, but my press office might be able to come up with a statement about his death and the loss to the community as a result. He brought a lot of business to the city with his company.”

  I nod. He changes the subject.

  It’s late, and everyone else has left. Grant and I have talked for hours about everything—­except Annalisa or Sebastian Laurent again. I’ve run out of time and have nothing to show for my evening except some champagne and good food in my belly.

  Grant walks me to the elevator. His staff members wait in the doorway behind us.

  “I’ll be right there,” he tells them.

  I press the DOWN button and turn to him, looking up into those blue eyes.

  “It’s been such a pleasure,” he says, and gives me a slow smile that sends shivers down my bare arms. “I don’t want it to end. I have an idea, and it might help with your story—­do you have plans tomorrow?”

  I blink. “Uh, the usual Sunday routine—­Mass, then supper at my grandmother’s house wi
th my family.”

  His hand reaches out toward me, and for some reason, I hold my breath. A current of electricity zips between us. Our eyes meet. Then his gaze drops, and I feel the slightest brush of his hand in the hollow beneath my neck as he pulls my necklace out of my dress and holds my Miraculous Medal between his fingers. It’s light blue with a small silver etching of the Virgin Mary in the center. He caresses it between the pads of his fingers. His fingers grazing my neck combined with the suggestive gesture sends a thrill of desire through me that startles me and suffuses me with guilt.

  “I saw this earlier and knew you were a good Catholic girl,” he says. “Would you have to do penance for missing Mass tomorrow?”

  I blush and look away.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he says.

  “You didn’t,” I say, looking up at him again. The moment is gone, and I feel a surge of relief, thinking of Donovan.

  “Would your family be terribly heartbroken if you skipped this Sunday?” he asks, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. I notice it is a Dunhill blue, like Annalisa Cruz smokes. He exhales before he finishes. “I commissioned Annalisa a few months ago on a larger piece for my house in Napa. The installation party is tomorrow, and I’d love for you to be there. Have some wine, food, and fun.”

  I try not to hide my excitement. The chance to see Annalisa Cruz and him together is too good to pass up. Maybe, if one of them killed Sebastian, they’ll let something slip. Maybe they were in on it together. I’m suspicious of his motives. Is he a player who hits on every woman he meets, or is his attention toward me part of a more cunning plan? Either way, I’m going.

  “When you put it that way—­I think my family would be okay without me for one Sunday.”

  The elevator door slides open, and I step inside, pushing the button for the lobby.

  “Be sure to bring a swimsuit,” he says. And then, right before the door closes, he winks at me, and says, “By the way—­I wasn’t at Annalisa’s art opening last week.”

  The door slides shut. Busted.

  Chapter 11

  BEYOND A BLACK iron gate, I steer my Volvo up a long, winding driveway. The gravel road is flanked by olive trees and grapevines that snake up the yellow Napa hillside. Blue sky stretches forever.

  What the hell am I doing here? I agreed to come last night but now feel awkward. I think back to dinner last night. There was something about Grant—­a streak of intensity beneath his outward poise that sent a shiver of excitement through me. He has an element of bad-­boy danger to him—­breaking his own city’s laws by lighting up that cigarette in front of an army of reporters, talking about how oysters are an aphrodisiac, reaching for my necklace and rubbing it somewhat suggestively. The memory makes a flush spread up to my ears. There is more to him than meets the eye. I remind myself that I am there to hunt for a killer.

  Careful, Giovanni. Sure, he’s handsome and charming, but so was Ted Bundy.

  The dirt driveway meanders to a cluster of buildings. The main house—­small white stucco with bright blue accents—­looks like it was plucked off a Mediterranean hillside. Petal pink flowers in giant terra-­cotta pots border the entryway.

  The big wooden door swings open, and Grant himself comes to greet me. He wears beige linen pants, cuffed to reveal his ankles, and a shirt with the sleeves pushed up and the buttons undone halfway down his chest. His tanned feet are bare. He kisses me on each cheek.

  “Come along. Everyone’s out by the pool in back. I’ll show you where you can change.”

  The murmur of voices drifts through the house from the back, along with a woman’s tinkly laughter. I thrust a small box toward Grant. “Hope you like biscotti. My own recipe.”

  He eyes the box like a little boy and holds it up to his nose, inhaling. “I love biscotti. I can smell the anise. Thank you. But, I’m warning you—­I’m not sharing. I’m going to hide these in the kitchen and eat them with my coffee tomorrow morning.” He leans over to kiss me, and I turn my head, so it lands on my cheek.

  For someone who has as much money as he reportedly does, he is either an incredibly great actor or has somehow managed to stay remarkably unaffected.

  Remember Ted Bundy.

  We make a stop in the kitchen. A corner of the countertop has a jumble of olive oils and spices in old glass bottles. A worn oak table still holds a jar of jam and crumbs from breakfast and the scattered remains of the New York Times.

  Grant points me to a bedroom right off the kitchen. “Feel free to change in here. I’m ready for a swim, too. I’ll meet you back here.”

  I close the door and pluck my six-­year-­old swimsuit out of my bag. I don’t do the beach—­at least not in a swimsuit—­so although it’s a little faded, the suit is still ser­viceable.

  “I know I’ve kept you in a drawer for a very long time,” I say to it, tugging it on. “But I promise if you be nice to me today, I’ll take you out more often.”

  Luckily, there is a full-­length mirror. The first thing I do is check my backside to make sure it is covered. I’m at my best weight in years, but no matter how thin I get, I’ve always got “back,” as they say. It’s the Italian thing.

  Now I check the front? Mama mia. I’m not super excited about how small the white triangles seem right now. Should have brought my even older, black one-­piece. Too late now. I wrap my towel around me and crack the door.

  Grant is waiting with a big smile when I emerge into the hall. I pull the towel tighter around my chest. I sneak a glance at him. He has on a black Speedo. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  Somehow, over the past few days, I’ve been thrust into a foreign world where the men wear teeny, tiny European swimsuits. If I brought home a guy who wore a swimsuit like this, my Italian-­American brothers would want to kick his tiny Speedo-­clad butt.

  “Can I take your towel?” Grant asks. I quickly shake my head.

  He leads me past the kitchen. French windows reveal a backyard filled with small palm trees and a giant curving pool with at least two waterfalls. About two dozen ­people are mingling around the edges of the pool, some with their feet dipped in the water. Caribbean music is playing, and a light breeze brings with it the scent of barbecue and chlorine. I hear that laughter again and immediately recognize it and search for its source. Annalisa Cruz. Her back is toward me. She dips her head in laughter once again, and I see who has made her laugh.

  Donovan.

  Chapter 12

  MY FACE GROWS warm. A woman in a maid’s uniform hands me a glass of wine and whispers something in Grant’s ear.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” I watch him walk away before I dart a glance at Donovan, feeling foolish. Acid fills my stomach, and I realize I am sick with jealousy seeing him with Annalisa. It is irrational, I know, but all I want to do is run away.

  I wonder if I can sneak back through the house and out to my car without anyone’s noticing? But Grant, who is standing at one of the French doors looking at me while he talks on the phone, is watching. Damn. He smiles at me and holds up his finger, gesturing for me to wait.

  “Gabriella, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Donovan grabs my arm. I jerk away. I didn’t even see him walking up.

  “I should ask you the same thing. Thought you were in Sacramento.”

  “That was yesterday. I stopped here on my way home.” His eyes flash with annoyance.

  “Funny you didn’t mention it to me.” I turn a little away from him, crossing my arms across my chest, and watch the other ­people having fun. I see a silky head bobbing in the water. Annalisa.

  “Annalisa called this morning.” He lowers his voice. “She’s afraid. She thinks the killer might be targeting her. Someone called her last night, said he was looking forward to her party today. She was hysterical, worried the killer might show up here, so I told her I’d stop by.”

  “How ga
llant of you.” I take a big gulp of wine and feel it hit my cheeks in a warm rush.

  “Why are you here?” He stares at the ­people splashing and laughing in the pool. “Annalisa didn’t say she had invited you.”

  “She didn’t.”

  Grant appears at my side, slipping between the space I’ve made between Donovan and me. “Gabriella, I’m terribly sorry to have left you alone, but I see you have no problem making new friends.”

  Donovan’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

  Grant looks at Donovan with a perplexed look. “I’m sorry. I know we met earlier, but could you remind me of your name again?”

  Now it’s Donovan’s turn to be pissed. He looks at me, as if he’s waiting for me to explain our relationship. I’m too angry with him. If he wants to sneak around behind my back seeing Annalisa, I figure I don’t owe him anything. We lock eyes. Slowly, I unwrap my towel and, without looking, hand it to Grant. Donovan’s eyes sweep over my body in the skimpy bikini, and the muscle in his jaw clenches. The silence grows.

  Grant frowns. “I’m sorry, your name was?”

  Finally, Donovan looks at him. “Detective Sean Donovan, but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m on my way out. I need to get back to the city.”

  “A detective? I hope there isn’t anything wrong?” Grant says, his eyebrows rising. I see a glimmer in his eyes, a spark of what looks like defiance. Or a challenge?

  “No, everything is fine.” He grits the words out and turns to leave without a backward glance.

  Grant has that same curious look in his eyes as he watches Donovan leave, but then he turns back to me, and it is gone. “Let me introduce you to some other ­people here.”

  He takes my arm and leads me through the crowd. The electricity from his touch shoots through me at the same time I’m trying to process a surge of anger and disappointment about Donovan. Why was he here, and why do I feel betrayed? It doesn’t help to realize that Grant’s touch is dangerously alluring. He idly runs his fingers down my forearm, sending faint tremors through my body. I try to subtly elude his grasp, but he holds firm.