by Kyra Davis
“I didn’t know that,” I said carefully, “about the Japanese and the bears, that is.”
“Sure, sure, they like that stuff. ’Specially the gay ones.”
“The gay Japanese?”
“No, the gay bears!” the woman snapped as if I was being incredibly dense.
“Oh, right, right,” I said quickly. “A pink bear would probably be gay. That makes sense.” Not.
“The color of a bear’s fur don’t make him gay. What are you, one of those midwestern bigots?”
“No!” I raised my hands in protest. “I’m sure that all bears are created equal regardless of their color, subspecies or sexual orientation.”
“It was the rainbow that made him gay,” the woman said.
“Uh-huh.” I looked around to see if there was anyone around to help me if this woman became violent, but it was a cold day for the beach and the few people in sight were at least fifty yards away. “So this pink bear you saw was carrying a Gay Pride f lag?” I asked.
“He wasn’t carrying no f lag, the rainbow was on his stomach. Big white tummy with a rainbow.”
“Wait a minute,” I said slowly, “are we talking about a Cuddly Bear?”
“He wasn’t so cuddly if you ask me. He murdered that woman. I seen the whole thing with my own two eyes.”
“Are you telling me that you witnessed a woman being murdered by a homosexual bear?” We really needed to do something about the mental health-care system. People who wore tinfoil hats should not be expected to take care of themselves.
“That’s right,” the woman answered. “’Course, I didn’t tell none of this to the police. I don’t talk to cops. No police, no bears. Them are my rules.”
“No kidding? Those are my rules, too,” I admitted. “I do talk to domestic cats, though.”
“Cats are okay,” the woman said with a nod. “The small ones almost never kill people and they don’t go around flaunting their gay lifestyle on their belly. Them cats are discreet.”
My mind wandered to Mr. Katz. I had never thought of him as discreet, but compared to a homicidal Ford-driving Cuddly Bear, I guess he was. “Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” I said with a smile. For some reason I liked this woman, and our conversation was turning into an amusing distraction. “How did you know the Ford was a rental?”
The woman let out an exasperated sigh. “Nobody’s gonna sell no Ford to no goddamn bear. They got bad credit.” And with that the woman turned around and shuffled off.
I felt better after that conversation. I sort of found it comforting. People always say that they find it disconcerting when the world continues to go on as normal after they’ve experienced an intense personal tragedy. I could understand that, but things were never really normal in San Francisco. They were always…interesting. I took strength from that. It was much easier to lose yourself in insanity than normalcy. Besides, I simply couldn’t grieve right now. I needed to be like Scarlett O’Hara and think about Melanie tomorrow. Right now I had to keep my focus on what was important: revenge.
I stopped by the police station that was listed on Officer Kelly’s card and asked to speak with him. I knew that if I didn’t go to see him he’d come to see me in order to ask the questions he had withheld the night before. I figured I might as well get it over with. He basically asked me to repeat everything I had told the Walnut Creek police. I was embarrassingly ignorant of Melanie’s personal life and habits. Of course, I could have told him that Melanie thought her husband’s death was something other than a random act of violence. I could have told him about Peter’s letter, too. I have no idea why I chose not to. Habit, maybe? I hadn’t had a lot of luck with the police in the past and I was reluctant to hand over the entire investigation to them. Maybe I was just indulging my baser instincts by trying to get the vengeance on my own. If I gave the police too much info they would have the power to cut me out of the loop. I was being petty and unreasonable and I knew it, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to be there when the person who killed Melanie went down.
It was about noon when I got home. As I walked up to my floor I detected the smell of eggs and the sound of a smoke alarm, both coming from my apartment. The alarm stopped as I opened the door and I found Anatoly climbing down off the kitchen counter with my smoke detector in his hands.
“Don’t say anything,” he warned.
“Why, is there an obvious wisecrack that I’m missing?”
Anatoly looked slightly thrown by my lack of sarcasm. He cleared his throat and handed me a small teacup worth of coffee that he had already poured.
I took it and regarded him curiously. “I thought you were going to be following Anne around.”
“I called her campaign headquarters. As it turns out she has meetings all day. After meeting with Code Pink she’s scheduled to meet with some people from Greenpeace and then Bay Area Vegetarians and so on. Following her while she woos one grassroots organization after another isn’t going to tell me anything, so I found other things to do.”
“Like make me eggs.”
“You didn’t eat the éclairs I got you this morning. I wasn’t sure if you would be coming back here any time soon but I took a gamble.”
“You realize that the eggs in the refrigerator expired a few decades ago,” I said.
“I went back to my apartment to get some food. I don’t understand how you live.” He gestured in the general direction of my cabinets.
“What are you talking about? I have food.” I pulled a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch off the top of the refrigerator and waved it in his face. “It’s made with whole grains now.”
“It’s not real food,” Anatoly insisted as he slipped an omelet out of a pan and onto a plate before handing it over to me.
“What is this?”
“Lox omelet with caviar hollandaise sauce.”
My eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Would I lie about caviar hollandaise sauce?”
I looked from the plate I held in one hand to the cup I held in the other. Carefully I tasted my coffee, only to discover that it was actually a very large dose of espresso. That’s when I noticed that his espresso machine was now sitting between my toaster and sink. I put my breakfast down on the white tile partition that separated the kitchen from the dining area and living room. “I know what you’re doing,” I said softly.
“It’s just a late breakfast, Sophie.”
“You’re trying to lift my spirits, but, Anatoly—” I gently tapped my fingernail on the edge of the plate “—this is kind of like giving a child an ice-cream cone after they’ve lost their favorite grandparent. It’s just not going to work.”
“Are you sure about that?” Anatoly cocked his head to the side. “You’ve only had one sip of espresso and already you seem better than you were.”
I smiled sadly. “Caffeine can only do so much. But I am better. I have to be. I made some promises to Melanie. I can’t fulfill them if I’m a hysterical mess.”
Anatoly took a step closer and adjusted the clasp of my necklace. “You’re a strong woman, Sophie Katz.”
I pulled a fork from the top drawer and cut into the omelet. “And you’re a great cook, Anatoly Dar—oh, my God! This is sooo insanely good!”
Anatoly chuckled. “I’m glad you like it.” He stepped back and retrieved another omelet from the oven, which he had apparently been keeping warm for himself. “I can’t say that I’m surprised, though. I’ve always been able to satisfy your appetite.”
I rolled my eyes but decided that eating took precedence over hurling insults. His adolescent sexual innuendos were actually a relief. If Anatoly had continued with the level of sensitivity he had demonstrated the night before, I wouldn’t have been able to remain strong or resolved. I would have fallen apart again and on some level I think he knew that. “I love that you brought the espresso machine over,” I said with a smile. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“Between that and the groceries I had to make three trips.�
� He patted the machine. “I just don’t like being without this for long periods of time.”
“My God, and they say I’m an addict,” I scoffed. “We’re talking about one meal, Anatoly, it’s not like you’re moving in.”
“About that…”
“About what?” I took another mouthful of the omelet.
“I think I should move in here for a little while,” Anatoly said.
I nearly choked on a fish egg.
“Listen,” Anatoly continued before I had a chance to recover. “I don’t know why Melanie was killed and I don’t know why the killer decided to deposit her body in San Francisco. I sure as hell don’t know why someone is calling and threatening you with talk of cats and koala bears, but the combination of the three things spell danger. Danger for you, Sophie. Someone might have thought that Melanie knew more than they were comfortable with and they may have come to the same conclusion about us. I know you think that you can take care of yourself—” he held up his hand to delay my predictable protest “—but sometimes taking care of yourself means knowing when to ask for help. It means not taking stupid risks. Being alone here in the middle of the night falls into the latter category.”
“So what are you planning on doing? Do you actually think you can stay glued to my side until we figure out who did this?”
“No, but I’d like to be as close by as possible. I would be more comfortable if I stayed here for just a little while. I’ll sleep in the guest room, of course.”
For some reason the last comment pissed me off the most. He wasn’t even trying to manipulate his way into my bed! He actually believed this bullshit about my needing a babysitter.
“You can’t stay here,” I said flatly as I stabbed the remainder of my breakfast with my fork.
“Why not?”
“You annoy me.”
“I see.” Anatoly moved in closer. “First of all, I don’t annoy you, I agitate you.” His eyes ran over my figure. “English may be my second language but I do know that there is a big difference between the two things. Second, your high level of agitation isn’t going to change my mind about this. If you don’t want me to stay here, that’s fine. You can stay at my place.”
“Ugh.” I looked up at the ceiling, which was hard to do with Anatoly looming over me. “That’s not going to happen. Your couch is filthier than my kitchen floor, and I never clean my kitchen floor.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll make a fourth trip to my apartment so I can get some more of my things and I’ll set up camp.”
“At what point did this become entirely your decision? This is my place and my life.”
“Sophie, I think that by now even you will have to admit that you need my help in order to solve this case.”
“And you need mine!” I snapped.
“If it pleases you to think so. However, I am not as emotionally invested in solving Eugene’s and Melanie’s murders as you are. I can walk away.”
I gasped and took a staggered step backward. “Anatoly, you wouldn’t…you know how important this is to me. You can’t quit!”
“Let me move in for a few days and I won’t.”
“You’re blackmailing me! I just lost my friend and you’re blackmailing me!”
“I’m doing what I need to do in order to keep you safe.”
I glanced over at the iron skillet that was still on the stove and considered hitting him over the head with it. “I’m only going to agree to this because you’re forcing me.”
“That was never in question. So it’ll be you, me and—” his gaze traveled to Mr. Katz, who had just entered the room “—kitty makes three.”
My anger with Anatoly was pretty much all-consuming. I tried to dig up some superficial information on Sam Griffin while Anatoly moved a gym bag full of stuff into my guest room. I studiously ignored him when he requested that I print up anything interesting I might come across. On the bright side, I was too pissed to pay any mind to the dull pain that had taken up residence in my chest the moment I had learned about Melanie.
At around three o’clock Anatoly stood behind me while I reread the first of two Amazon reviews for Broccoli for Life. “I’m going out to do some research,” he said.
I pressed my lips together and scrolled to the third review.
Anatoly sighed. “You’re not going to ask me what I’m researching.”
It was a statement, not a question, which increased my irritation because it robbed me of yet another opportunity to snub him.
“That’s fine,” he continued. He placed a folded-up piece of paper by my side. “Here’s a photocopy of the letter Peter wrote to Eugene. I assume you’re still going to meet with Tiff tonight at Michael Mina. That’s in the St. Francis hotel, correct?”
I looked at him for the first time in hours. “Anatoly, if I see you anywhere near that restaurant I will write your address and phone number on the bathroom wall of every gay biker bar in the city.”
Anatoly winced. “That’s actually an effective threat. I’ll let you handle this one alone.”
“Yes, why don’t you let me do that?”
Anatoly opened his mouth to say something before changing his mind and walking out. I smiled to myself. Anatoly was tough, but there wasn’t a straight man alive who wasn’t intimidated by a burly gay guy in chaps.
I arrived at the St. Francis twenty minutes early and waited in the lobby for Tiff to arrive. The only reason I had been able to get the reservation on such short notice was because the floor manager was a fan of my novels. When she still hadn’t arrived five minutes after our reservation, I lied to the maître d’ and told him that my companion was in the restroom. It was the only way they were going to seat me, and if I didn’t get seated soon our table would be given to someone else.
Tiff finally arrived at six-fifteen. Her hair was curled and sprayed and her crossing-guard-orange cotton-Lycra skirt was ankle length with a slit high enough to ensure that her legs received a little more attention than they deserved. She had topped the whole thing off with an unmistakable polyester blouse with a wide ruff led neckline that exposed her broad shoulders. Put a basket of fruit on her head and she could have been Carmen Miranda. Still, her skin looked fabulous despite (or perhaps because of ) her minimalist approach to makeup.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly, apparently oblivious to the looks she was getting from the other more conservatively dressed patrons. “My car’s out of commission and I had to take the bus. You know what that’s like after five.”
I waved off her apology. “The perpetual tardiness of the Muni buses is one of the things that define this city. Just think what San Francisco would be like if it had reliable public transportation, it’d be…well, it’d be a poor man’s Manhattan. Nobody wants that.”
Tiff laughed softly as the busboy filled her water glass. “I don’t usually mind waiting for the bus, I just didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“I’ll give you a ride home,” I offered. “Are you hungry? If so, you should consider the three-course prix fixe menu. It’s been over a year since I’ve tasted their ricotta tortellini and yet I still dream about it.”
Tiff laughed again, but her giggles soon turned into a coughing fit when she looked at the menu. “I can’t get that! The prix fixe is eighty-eight dollars per person!”
“My treat, remember?”
“But…”
“Please, Tiff, I really want to.”
You could tell by the rose in her cheeks that she was flustered by the idea of taking a gourmet handout, but her hunger must have won out and she started studying the menu in earnest.
I looked down at my menu as well, but I was having a hard time focusing on the words. I had decided to tell Tiff the truth about everything. I had told way too many lies in the past few weeks and they were getting hard to keep track of. So tonight I would confess to inventing a dead sister for the sole purpose of getting her to open up about her dead brother. There was no way that was going to go o
ver well. I had actually recommended the prix fixe dinner because I was hoping she would choose the foie gras as her first course. I would feel a little less guilty if I knew that Tiff was the kind of person who contributed to the pain and suffering of innocent geese.
The waiter came to the table. “Would you like to start with a bottle of wine?”
“Absolutely.” I lifted the wine list and pointed out an expensive bottle of Austrian riesling. When he offered to take the list from me I asked if I could keep it a little longer. I sensed that alcohol could be the deciding factor on how well the night played out.
When the waiter disappeared, Tiff glanced at the list out of curiosity. “Whoa! They’re charging thirty-six dollars a glass for some of that stuff!”
“Some of their wines are very rare,” I said. “Have you decided what you want?”
“Um…I guess I will get the three-course meal. I think I’ll start with the tempura langoustine and chilled ceviche.”
“Not the foie gras? I hear it’s wonderful.”
“No, I could never support that kind of treatment of a goose.”
Well, shoot.
Eventually we ordered, and for the first two courses I allowed her to direct the conversation. She detailed all the labor laws that the proprietor of Mojo routinely broke and told me about the increasing demand for male Brazilian waxes. It wasn’t until dessert that she finally started talking about her family, and that’s when I broke in with my confession.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you about my sister,” I hedged.
Tiff nodded, almost enthusiastically. “I was reading one of those psychology self-help books and it said that when we lose someone who was important to us we change our memory of them in a way that makes the loss more bearable. So if you lost a husband to divorce all you remember are the bad things about him because that makes it okay to let him go. If someone you love dies, you remember all the good things so you can take comfort in a bunch of warm, fuzzy feelings. Make sense?”
“Yeah, but, well the things I lied about are kind of…different. For instance, my sister isn’t older, she’s younger.”
