“If not, they’ll call in someone, most likely from the county. He must have had a regular doctor, and the people he was playing with ought to know if he was feeling okay. People having heart attacks frequently have symptoms in the first stages, long before they go into crisis. Where were they, anyway, while he was drowning?”
“In the bar. He went back up to the course after their first round of drinks was finished. Then they left. One of the foursome was the donor whose gift I was hired to review.”
Charlie nodded as he sipped his espresso. “Hardly suspicious. After all, if the gift is approved, he’s happy. If it’s not, he still has his mega-bucks to offer someone else, right?”
“So it would seem.” Charlie had a nice way of cutting to the heart of the problem. What did Margoletti have to gain by killing his alma mater’s vice president? If there were a problem, they’d deal with it privately. Part of me was shocked that I would even consider Margoletti as a violent criminal. He was a hard charging lawyer, which is not, I reminded myself, the same thing as being homicidal.
“The first few hours in an investigation are full of unanswered questions,” he continued, “but these things sort themselves out pretty quickly. The cops will interview everyone on the golf course and by the time you get back, it’ll be settled.”
As we walked back to my car, which was parked in the multi-story garage next to the North Beach police station, Charlie’s arm rested on my back, sending little electric charges through me. Suddenly, I heard my name. I turned around and saw Dickie coming out of a far fancier Italian restaurant than our cozy pizza joint. The pressure on my back vanished in an instant, as did the good feelings. I felt myself stiffen. It was bad enough that my ex was interrupting my reverie. It was even more annoying that he was holding the elbow of a stunning woman while he did it.
CHAPTER 8
I sized her up in a nanosecond and didn’t like what I saw. A brunette about my own age, dressed with exquisite style but not flash, easily a size eight, a face I grudgingly admitted was lovely, wearing a serene smile and—I made time to check—no wedding ring.
“Hey, fancy meeting you here,” my ex said. “Dani, I don’t think you know Isabella. Izzy, this is my ex-wife. You’re Charles, the cop, I mean homicide inspector, right?” All said with charm oozing out of his pores while I felt my lips tightening. I knew I looked wary, but damn it, Dickie had a way of ambushing me and this was the wrong time and place to bump into him and Ms. Perfectly Wonderful.
I wasn’t sure what to make of them together. He had been pressuring me to come to his prep school party. Now, he was out with someone else. I had no business being jealous. So why are your claws out? Damned if I knew.
We all made polite noises, agreed North Beach was lovely tonight and wasn’t the full moon pretty? My instinct was to bolt if I couldn’t relax, but my curiosity was gluing my feet to the pavement. “So, Isabella, do you live in San Francisco?”
“Oh, no,” she said with a throaty laugh and an exotic accent. “At least not yet, although Richard tells me I wouldn’t miss Rome one bit if I’d give San Francisco a chance.” She turned toward my beaming ex, showing her dimples—dimples!—and touched his arm with perfectly manicured fingers.
“It usually isn’t this warm at night,” I said before I could stop myself. “We get a lot of fog.”
“Ah, but I love cool weather. Rome is so hot in the summer, you know?” she said, still smiling. I thought she was perhaps making too much of those dimples. “And then it gets so cold sometimes in the winter. Brrr.” She lifted her shoulders in a charming gesture of vulnerability.
Dickie beamed, Charlie cleared his throat, and I decided a matching simper was the best choice at the moment. Before Dickie could suggest a nightcap or some other gruesome social gesture, I said, “Well, nice to meet you.” Charlie echoed my escape line in a hearty tone and we headed off purposefully.
“She seems nice,” he said as we dodged hurrying Asian pedestrians headed back toward Chinatown loaded down with plastic bags, and small groups of young people making their way in the opposite direction toward the sleazy Broadway clubs.
“If you like the type,” I said, tuning out the voice in my head that pointed out she and I were close to being the same type, minus the dimples, the designer wardrobe, and the Italian accent.
“Your ex seemed more relaxed than the other times I’ve met him.”
“Perhaps that’s because there wasn’t a dead body lying on the sidewalk, or your partner suggesting that I might have killed someone. It’s easier to be casual when murder isn’t the topic of conversation.”
Charlie laughed. “Maybe that’s it. I notice you didn’t tell him about what’s been happening at that school back East.”
“No, and I’m glad you didn’t. He’d be all over it, fussing and thinking he had some role in fixing it.”
“Cops can live without eager beaver amateurs,” Charlie said, still chuckling. I glanced up at him. “Oh, not you. You’re not a busybody, you’re always in the middle for some reason.”
“Please don’t joke,” I said. “I’d quit this consulting job in a heartbeat if I could. Even an accidental death makes me want to run screaming in the other direction. But Geoff would see me as a quitter, and, anyway, I feel I owe something to the vice president who was so sure I could help.”
“Okay, no jokes, but you have to admit it would take some stress off you if your ex found someone special. She’s really attractive.”
I had to agree on all points, but I wondered why that didn’t make me happy. After all, I did want Dickie to focus on someone other than me, didn’t I, so why was I feeling snippy? Residual anger maybe, a conditioned reflex of some kind? I was getting tired of thinking about it. I missed Charlie’s hand steering me, and the picture of the rest of the evening that had been building before Dickie interrupted things. I was about to suggest a drink at my apartment when Charlie’s cell phone rang. We kept walking while he fished it out of his leather jacket.
“Again? Man, what’s up with these guys? Okay, I’m close by. Meet you in five.”
No, no, no, I yelled mentally. Don’t let this happen.
He turned to me with a rueful smile. “I was really hoping for a quiet night.” He stopped on the sidewalk and pulled me close, facing him. “You know how much I love spending time with you. That evening we had, well…” He leaned in to kiss me, then let go of me. “But duty calls. Weiler says two guys decided to do a reenactment of an old cowboy movie in an alley in the Western Addition. One’s dead, the other shooter’s long gone and, of course, no one’s seen or heard anything. I’ll walk you to your car, but the rest of the evening’s out, I’m afraid.”
Oh, good. Not only do I get to see that my ex is entranced with his new girlfriend, but the guy I would like to have my own fling with is off chasing bad guys instead of cuddling with me. Why couldn’t I fall for a banker or a plastic surgeon, someone who kept regular hours?
Twenty minutes later I was stomping around my apartment muttering to Fever, my overweight cat-with-attitude, who had apparently decided during my last trip out of town that my neighbor Yvette was much nicer as a lap. Yvette didn’t like cats in general or, as far as I could tell, Fever in particular. Maybe that’s why he now rubbed up against her jeans, threw himself down in front of her well-worn ballet shoes, and tried to slip out of my apartment door and run downstairs to her place every day.
So there we were, not exactly glaring at each other, but not offering much in the way of mutual comfort and support, when the phone rang.
“You’re back,” sang out my best friend Suzy Byrnstein. In my mood, I had a sharp remark on the tip of my tongue, something about stating the obvious. It wasn’t her fault people were killing each other in San Francisco tonight, I reminded myself, so I curled up on the couch with a mug of mint tea for a talk. Fever, after looking longingly at the door and weighing his options, jumped up next to me, and settled in for a nap.
Suzy is an accomplished artist, a tru
st fund baby who didn’t let that blunt her ambition and focus. She’s represented by a gallery in San Francisco and another in Santa Fe, where she once had a serious automobile accident for which I still feel responsible. She’s the best gossip hound I know and we hadn’t talked in almost two weeks. When I asked her what was up, I knew I was inviting a long, excited monologue, which was good since I didn’t want to admit I was playing second fiddle to a couple of urban cowboys, never mind Italy’s Miss Congeniality.
I had time to replace my teabag and fill the little pot with hot water a second time before Suzy wound down. Then I filled her in on my consulting gig and the sad circumstances that brought me home early.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You get sent to a strange town and the next day the person who needed your help is dead?”
“I wouldn’t say it quite like that. You’re implying cause and effect.”
“Oh well then, pardon me. You get to town and, as so often happens when anyone comes to town, someone dies. Does that work better for you?”
“Don’t joke. I didn’t know him, and Charlie told me it’s most likely a coincidence, but you know how easily spooked I am.”
Suzy heard the pain in my voice and her tone changed instantly. “Oh hon, I am sorry for making you feel worse. It is horrible, and I wonder if you should even go back there.”
“Most of the work can be done here, although I want to consult with several people on campus. I’ll have go back to present my report verbally to the president before I can write up a final draft, but I’ll wait until the funeral is over and the president’s ready to think about this again. They really want to wind this up quickly and book the gift.”
“Want me to come back with you?”
“Thanks, but I intend to keep my head down and stay far away from whatever investigation the local cops do.”
“The police are involved even though it was an accident?”
“From what I understand, it’s only a formality. Meanwhile I plan to hit the phones to a few people in Silicon Valley. After all, not many powerful people around here are openly referred to as ‘snakes’ in the local press, and I’m interested to know why the man who’s giving all this money and art to the college has such a mixed reputation.”
“Sweetheart, where there’s smoke, there’s always a fire smoldering,” my friend said. “I might have a contact for you. Ethan’s a cousin of mine who invests in tech start-ups. Why don’t I call him and see if he’ll talk with you?”
“That’d be great. I might pick up a less biased perspective than I’m likely to get from entrepreneurs looking for funding. Margoletti made so much money from getting inside high tech winners that he’s now investing big time in the next generation of innovation in the Valley. I’m guessing those people might be afraid to criticize him for fear they’ll get blackballed from early funding. Tell me more about Ethan.”
Ethan Byrnstein and three others had put up a million dollars for the first phase of a new company that was betting everything on a simple idea for reaching customers on the Web. I asked if it had gone public since then.
“You’ll have to check with him, but I’m guessing not. He has the uncanny ability to back the wrong horse every time, but his heart’s in the right place, and he is so enthusiastic. It’s a good thing Ethan’s dad also did well in our family company so he has money for these experiments. It’s another good thing his dad died before he could see Ethan and his sister burning through their inheritances.”
“Is she an investor too?”
“No. Gail’s a softie. I swear everyone with a sick or injured or abandoned animal charity has hit her up at one time or another. You should see her house. The walls and tables are covered with framed photographs and figurines of cheetahs and elephants and house cats she is credited with saving. Thank heavens she doesn’t bring the live ones home.”
My own animal was giving me the eye and my tea was cold, so I said goodnight to Suzy, threw some kibble into Fever’s bowl and ground the coffee for tomorrow’s pot. A half hour later I was in bed, polishing off the latest in my favorite alphabet series of mysteries and congratulating myself on having a reasonably enjoyable and productive Saturday night in spite of San Francisco’s crime wave.
CHAPTER 9
Peter Lindsey and I drove down to Palo Alto Sunday morning for the polo match. Peter’s almost the dream boss: funny, informal, loyal to his staff, and smart. I say ‘almost’ only because he doesn’t always give me what I want, a situation I’m particularly aware of at this time of year when we are submitting our budget proposals for the coming twelve months. Today he had an idea for scouting out a prospect and I had a desire for champagne and strawberries, so we were gossiping and laughing as I drove. Suzy had called me earlier to say her cousin would be in his office in the heart of Silicon Valley, and would be happy to see me if I wanted to drop by later in the day. I had talked briefly to him, and he seemed intrigued.
“Do you think Margoletti’s someone who could still be a good contact for us?” Peter asked, looking up briefly from emails on his smart phone.
“I wouldn’t bet on it, not while Geoff’s the leader of the Devor’s board. No love lost there, I gather. Could be a conflict of interest for me anyway, using Lynthorpe’s contacts to turn a donor in our direction, although I have to say I’m kicking myself that we didn’t go after him. I had no idea he was ready to give away his collection so soon after beginning it.”
“How about his son, then? He’s the polo player, right? If he’s here today, I’d like to meet him. Presumably he’ll inherit someday, which gives us lots of time to get him interested in the Devor.”
“I know nothing about him except that someone mentioned he went to Lynthorpe for a little while.”
“I have another idea,” Peter said. “There’s a high ranking amateur player from New England who went to school in the Boston area and whose late grandfather collected Matisse paintings in the 1920s. Sandy mentioned one piece in particular she wishes we could get. Says she thinks it’s still owned by the family. Maybe Margoletti Junior and the grandson are polo buddies.”
Sandy was the Devor’s European paintings curator. “I wouldn’t recognize the son.”
“We can put out feelers,” he said as he put away his phone and looked out at the cobalt surface of the lake formed by the San Andreas Fault that lay off to the right of the highway.
“Do me a favor, Peter,” I said as we got close to our exit. “I don’t want to talk about what happened at Lynthorpe last week, even to Dickie. Would you keep it between us for now?”
Peter nodded. “I understand. It’s not exactly a party topic. I promise, not a word.”
Palo Alto is twenty degrees warmer than San Francisco on a nice day, which this was. Dickie had reserved a table under the center tent and we found him there, looking like a character out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. He wore a navy linen blazer and aviator shades, with one blonde lock of hair falling in his eyes, his movements lazy and graceful. Suzy says he’s a bad boy, which is way too forgiving in my opinion, but even after everything that’s poisoned our relationship, I have to admit he’s one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. As we walked over, he was laughing at something the guy leaning over him was saying, while several women in fluttering silk and crunchy linen gossiped nearby. A round bowl of red, white, and blue flowers on the table made the whole scene look like a Renoir painting I once saw at the Chicago Art Institute.
Dickie looked up and waved. “Perfect timing,” he called out, rising and shaking hands with my boss as a bugler played the first notes of the national anthem. Dickie likes Peter and vice versa. I think it helps that Peter is a confirmed and quite public bachelor.
Isabella wasn’t in the group, which was a shame. I had decided that I was cool with his dating her and had enjoyed a daydream of being super gracious to make up for the other night. She would like me, we would double date, and my ex would be impressed. Oh well, the halo next time.
; There’s a slow but lovely pace to the game of polo, at least for the casual onlooker. It’s marked out with rhythmic thudding hooves of ponies charging up and down the field, occasional clusters of men and horses in a kind of scrum, the riders flailing around with long mallets in search of a ball that’s rolling around under the animals’ hooves, then more riding up and down the grass. Occasionally, the ball makes it into the net, at which time the ponies get to slow down. It’s easy to see why the horses only play one chukker, or period—there are eight in a game—before going back to the trailer area to get rubbed down by grooms while other lucky ones have their turns on the field.
As the second group of horses took the field with the same riders, I asked my ex if he knew Vince Margoletti’s son. “I hear he plays.”
“Sure. He’s here today,” Dickie said and pointed to a player on the other side of the wide field, leaning over to pat his pony’s glossy brown coat. The helmet buckled under his chin didn’t hide his long dark hair laying on the collar of his white shirt, although it may have overemphasized a jutting chin that looked a little large for his nose. The chukker began and Margoletti’s son immediately got the ball. Dickie explained that he was playing offense. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I couldn’t help but notice how aggressively he played, pushing his horse for speed when chasing the ball, muscling his way into the scrums, and using his horse to intimidate other players by racing up or down the field close to other riders, even bumping into the opposite player. Twice, I winced as his mallet slammed into an opposing player’s leg.
“Is that legal?” I said the second time it happened.
Dickie grimaced. “J.P. was a member of my club for a while, but he hangs out with a different crowd now. He pushes,” Dickie said when I looked confused, “plays rough, offends people. He bets on matches too, so there’s more at stake for him.”
“Like father, like son,” said a woman sitting nearby, who had been looking through binoculars. I’d met her a few times when Dickie and I were married. She was fiftyish, divorced from money like me, but had kept the houses in Marin County and Lake Tahoe. This afternoon, she was wearing a large, yellow diamond that caught the sun in a fiery gleam. “But they have the money to do it.”
Mixed Up With Murder Page 6
