Murder Follows Money

by Lora Roberts

  “I’m sorry about your uncle.”

  “Hmm?” Kim came back from her daydream. “It’s really because of him that I’m here. Aunt Naomi came in to check things out a couple of days before Uncle Tony’s attack, and told him they had just learned their food stylist took another job. She was really steamed, and she’s nasty when she’s mad. Uncle Tony made some comment like, ‘Oh, Kim could do as good a job as that girl did.’ We all laughed, but after his death, Naomi just—snapped me up.

  “Like a crocodile,” I suggested.

  Kim’s smile was perfunctory. “It’s been awful. I didn’t know anything to begin with. I still don’t know much. I think she only keeps me around because she loves to complain and I always do something to complain about.”

  “Well, tell me what you want me to do and I’ll make a few mistakes. She can complain at me for a while.”

  We reached the baggage-claim area. The bags for Hannah’s flight hadn’t come up yet. I turned to watch Hannah and Naomi approach. “Why don’t I take you out to the limo?” I suggested to them. “Then I can wait for your bags.”

  “Don will stay here and help,” Naomi decreed. “You may as well stay too, Kim.” She rummaged in her big shoulder bag. “Here are the claim checks. Be as quick as you can. Hannah needs to get to her hotel for a rest.”

  “I’m fine, Naomi.” Hannah looked bored by the commotion. “Where is the car?”

  We had to wait for a few moments outside the door until the right limousine hove into view. I hoisted Hannah’s book in the air, as Judi had told me to, and soon one of the big vehicles pulled over. Naomi tucked Hannah tenderly into the back while I spoke to the driver. He wasn’t allowed to park at the curb, but promised to circle until we emerged with the baggage.

  I joined Don and Kim at the baggage claim. With Hannah and Naomi out of the way, Kim was perceptibly more relaxed.

  “So, Don, you’ve never been here before. What about you, Kim?”

  “Never.” She glanced around the airport. “From here it doesn’t look much different from Boston.”

  “Well, I’ve never been to Boston. But maybe the weather’s better here in January.”

  “Couldn’t be worse.” Don spoke around the wad of chewing gum he’d crammed in his mouth.

  “Don’s from Florida,” Kim explained. “He’s been complaining about our New England winters ever since Naomi hired him.” She looked up at him with her wistful smile. “Don’t you love the skiing and sledding? And walking in the crisp, frosty air? I do.”

  He smiled faintly at her, then, with a movement much faster than I’d expected from him, had a camera in his hand and was taking her picture. “Couldn’t resist,” he said around the gum, flicking the tip of her nose with a careless finger. “You’re cute when you think about cold weather.”

  He turned away, but not before I’d glimpsed the warmth at the back of his teasing smile.

  Kim shrugged. “He treats me like I was his kid sister,” she whispered to me, looking at Don’s back with an exasperated expression. “Don’t you think he’s cute, Liz?”

  “He’s good-looking if you like that lanky style.”

  “Right. He’s too lanky for me.” Kim tossed her head.

  “Do you have a boyfriend at home?”

  She looked at her nails, blushing. “A couple of boys take me out. They’re nice and all. But Don’s, like, a man.”

  “Luggage is up,” the man called out just then. “Get a-moving, ladies.”

  I got a baggage cart and we stacked some big plastic crates on it. “The cooking supplies,” Kim said. “Some nice dishes. Hannah doesn’t take chances. She brings everything she might need for a demonstration.”

  Don hefted a couple of big duffel bags. “What’s in these?”

  Kim thought. “I believe they have linens. Maybe some of Naomi’s makeup stuff.” She turned to me. “Naomi does all the personal things for Hannah—gets her ready for appearances and things like that.”

  “Thank God,” I muttered. “And these must be Hannah’s.” The suitcases were large, elegant leather and tapestry, with wheels.

  “One’s Hannah’s, the other’s Naomi’s. And they have these littler ones too.” Kim draped smaller bags around the larger ones, like saddlebags on mules. “And this is mine.” She found a place on the luggage cart for a battered old suitcase. “This belongs to my folks,” she said, catching my eye. “Nobody travels much in my family.”

  Don had another duffel bag, which he swung onto his shoulder, balancing the camera case and small duffel he already carried. We draped the big duffels on top of the crates on the luggage cart and Don wheeled it, listing precariously, out the doors, while Kim and I followed with the more elegant bits. Considering that they were on a multi-city tour, I guessed it wasn’t that much luggage, but it sure made for a lot of schlepping. I was thankful that after we got it into the hotel, I wouldn’t have to wrassle with it again until Friday.

  The limo was lurking for us when we lurched through the doors. The driver helped Don stow luggage, hindered by Naomi’s demands to keep one piece with her. Don sat up front, and Kim and I crawled into the middle seat in back, facing Hannah and Naomi.

  The limo was incredibly plush, the fanciest car by far that I had ever been in, including my sister’s lavishly appointed sport utility vehicle. The driver pulled away, and we four women sat silently, staring at each other.

  I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. “What’s your favorite thing about San Francisco, Ms. Couch?” This inane remark popped out, and was left unanswered for a minute. I could feel those cold eyes on me.

  “What is your name again?” Her voice, clear and mellifluous, gave the lie to that salt-and-pepper hair. I wondered why she didn’t dye it.

  “Liz Sullivan.”

  “Have you acted as an escort before?”

  “My first time.” I couldn’t help myself. I smiled at her as we pulled onto the highway. “Please be gentle.”

  She was taken aback. “Well, Ms. Sullivan,” she said finally, “do you know what to do? As my media escort, you should be telling me something about the places I’m scheduled to be.”

  “Right.” I swung my knapsack around and got out the first of several file folders Judi Kershay had pressed on me. “We should be at the hotel in another half hour, barring bad traffic,” I began in my most official voice. “By the way, we’re now driving past San Bruno Mountain, home of the rare blue checkerspot butterfly.”

  Kim pressed her nose against the glass, as if the butterfly was hanging around the freeway waiting to show its stuff. Naomi looked bored. Hannah stared at me stolidly.

  “At the hotel, you’ll have an hour or so to freshen up. Then the San Francisco Chronicle food and entertainment editor is coming to interview you, about three P.M.”

  “Is that Randy Nevis?” Now the disapproval in her voice was marked. She turned to Naomi. “I thought I made it clear I wouldn’t talk to him again.”

  “Just this once,” Naomi said soothingly. “There’s really no way to get out of talking to the Chronicle. It’s the major newspaper in this area.”

  “Actually,” I said, clearing my throat, “The San Jose Mercury News is considered to outclass the Chronicle, at least by the Silicon Valley types.”

  Hannah looked at Naomi, triumphant. “See?” She turned to me. “When am I speaking with the Mercury News?”

  “I don’t know that you are.” I shuffled frantically through the papers I held. “Perhaps they didn’t ask for an interview, or your publicist didn’t let them know you’d be in the area.”

  “Or they just don’t have the readership to matter,” Naomi sniffed. Her look at me could have cut through steel.

  “Set it up,” Hannah ordered. She didn’t look at Naomi or me, and I was at a loss to know who was supposed to follow this command. Naomi sat back in her seat, two spots of color burning on her cheeks, her lips pressed together. The look she darted to Hannah was anything but worshipful; I could have sworn there was real enmit
y in it.

  Her voice held a challenge when she spoke. “Will the Chronicle bring a photographer? If so, an hour isn’t long enough. You’ll have to put them off.”

  The first major fly in my oatmeal. Hastily I consulted the sheaf of papers Judi Kershay had given me. “It looks like their photographer is going to meet you later, at the demonstration you’ll do for Live at Five, the talk show on Channel Six. The Chronicle wants action shots.”

  Naomi considered this narrowly before nodding. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I cleared my throat and went on. “Live at Five is a news-magazine format. You won’t go on until five-fifteen or so, but leaving for the studio at four gives you time for makeup and to get the demonstration area set up.”

  “Is there anything else this evening?” Hannah pressed her fingers against her eyes. “I was hoping for an early night.”

  I glanced at the schedule again. “Says here you’ll be the guest chef at the gala premiere of the new FanciFoods Marketplace in Pacific Heights at seven-thirty.”

  “What is that, a grocery store?” Naomi again, her dander up. “They’re going to drag us out to a grocery store? Who do they think we are?”

  “FanciFoods is like this temple to food. They have a cooking school and cookbook section and it’s all very upscale. And only Hannah is mentioned, so maybe you don’t have to go, Naomi.”

  Hannah snorted, and when I looked at her, she was smiling, though it wasn’t the kind of smile you want directed at you. “Right, Naomi. You can tuck up and get some rest. I remember that I did say I would do a demonstration for them.”

  It was starting to make me feel queasy to read in the car, especially sitting backward. I wondered if it would be against the rules to just hand the papers to Hannah and let her read them for herself.

  Luckily Kim created a diversion. “What are we demonstrating?”

  “We’re cooking, Kim,” Naomi said, her voice heavily sarcastic. “It’s why we’re here. We’ve written a cookbook.”

  Hannah ignored Naomi’s dig and Kim’s stricken face. “I want to do two different things. For the market thing, we’ll make the huevos rancheros casserole. I’ll need handmade tortillas. Free-range eggs. Fresh tomatoes for the salsa. Good chorizo. Make sure you get decent tomatoes.”

  I had to look out the window of the limo to see if it was still January. From the assurance in Hannah’s voice, it might well have been July, or we might have been transported to Oaxaca, where excellent tomatoes would be piled right beside the door to her hotel room. “I’ll do my best, but good tomatoes in January are hard to find.”

  Hannah and Naomi both looked at me as if I’d suddenly started doing a bump-and-grind routine. Kim dug her elbow into my side. “But I’m sure I can find some,” I added hastily.

  “See that you do. And avocados, not overripe or too hard, just right. Limes. Sour cream. I brought my own epazote, but I’ll need fresh cilantro. Garlic, onions—I prefer the white ones, and make sure they’re more flat than pointed.”

  I was scribbling all this down on the schedule. And cursing Judi Kershay. Where would I find all this perfect produce in the City in January? I didn’t know where to shop there. And when was I going to get out to do it? I was supposed to be on hand during the newspaper interview to act as doorkeeper, according to Judi. Fetch everyone drinks when they needed them. Keep uninvited people out. Between the interview and leaving for Channel 6 was about twenty minutes. I wouldn’t even be able to find a produce market in that length of time, let alone make careful choices.

  Naomi had to put in her two cents’ worth. “What about the fruit? Weren’t you going to build that two-tier fruit compote?”

  “Oh, yes.” Hannah twinkled her fingers, dismissing any effort it might take on my part to fulfill her requests. “I’ll need at least two ripe pineapples, several mangoes, a dozen kiwis, a couple of bunches of red grapes. The grapes should be frosted.”

  I gulped. Kim dug her elbow into my side again. When I looked at her, she winked and nodded. I took this to mean that she could frost grapes.

  “What about the TV show? They want a demonstration too, don’t they?” Naomi had her own notebook out, though she jotted one thing for every ten items I wrote down.

  “I think I’ll do crêpes suzette. It will be an excellent opportunity to demonstrate my new crepe maker. And a TV audience is a better place to push a new product, don’t you think, Naomi?” Hannah’s voice was sweet, but with a kind of triumph in it.

  Naomi gasped. “Don’t you mean my new crepe maker? I didn’t know that was out of production yet. I haven’t gotten my milestone payment.”

  “It’s my new crepe maker.” A note of steel entered Hannah’s voice. “You used my idea for your prototype. And anyway, I’ve refined it further for production. And my attorneys went through your contract, dear. It specifically says that any devices or inventions you create while in my employment belong to me.”

  A hushed silence filled the car, the kind of silence that comes before a howling thunderstorm. Kim looked frightened. I wished I was sitting with the driver, blissfully unaware of the gamesmanship going on in the back.

  Naomi looked at Hannah with pure hate in her eyes. It gave me the shivers to see it. “You’re an evil bitch,” she said finally, her voice flat with suppressed fury. “We had an agreement.”

  “You mean, you tried to hold me up.” Hannah shook her head in crocodile sorrow. “After all the years we’ve been together, after all the profit you’ve derived from our association, you try to stick it to me. I was shocked, Naomi. To take my idea and try to sell it back to me. That truly takes a kind of hubris I know nothing about.”

  “It was all my work.” Naomi stopped holding back her anger. Her face was inches from Hannah’s; her eyes were wild, and her thin lips were pulled away from her teeth like an animal going in for the kill. “You can’t just steal it like that. You’ll hear from my lawyers!”

  “By all means.” Hannah didn’t seem the least discommoded by Naomi’s tirade. “As my dear husband used to say, let the lawyers talk to each other. If we’re still to be working together, we’ll have to have a good relationship. I couldn’t have an associate around who didn’t support my goals. Morton used to say, ‘If we don’t hang together, we’ll hang separately.’

  Naomi took a couple of deep breaths and let the implied threat sink in. “Yes, I remember Morton saying those boring things before he … died. So unexpected, wasn’t it? Some kind of gastrointestinal thing. Of course, it wouldn’t be something you cooked for him. For one thing, you rarely cooked at home anymore then. And of course you wouldn’t have put the wrong kind of mushrooms in the ragout, or the wrong kind of flowers in the salad.” She sighed gustily. “It’s sad, though. One minute he was alive, the next he was dead. And you got all his money.”

  It was Hannah’s turn to look venomous. She clamped her lips together tightly. She didn’t answer Naomi’s not-so-thinly veiled accusation. Instead she looked at her peons, Kim and me.

  “You’ll need to get the crepe batter made first thing when we get to the hotel, or it won’t have settled long enough to work well by five.”

  It wasn’t clear to me if she was speaking to Kim or to me.

  “I’ll get the eggs and milk somehow. Didn’t we bring flour and baking powder and that stuff?” Kim looked nervous again.

  “We have staples in one of the crates.” Hannah moved on to another topic, seeming revitalized by her run-in with Naomi. “What’s on the table tomorrow?”

  “A radio talk show, very early. Seven A.M.”

  “At least I don’t have to get dressed. I presume they’re doing a feed from the hotel suite.”

  It didn’t say on the schedule. I made yet another note. Judi Kershay would get a very long phone call from me at the first opportunity.

  “Ooo, look.” Kim was craning around to see out the front of the limo. “It’s like Oz or something!”

  We had rounded Hospital Curve on 101, and San Francisco was spread out
in front of us, from the ridiculous excesses of the Marriott to the gleaming towers of the downtown financial concerns. The hills were covered with buildings—the little boxes of the folk song, though if you tried to buy one, you’d find out how much ticky-tacky costs these days. In the distance, blue water sparkled.

  “It’s so cute! Like a toy city.” Kim was entranced.

  Hannah dismissed the view with a cursory “Very nice.”

  But Naomi seemed particularly struck. She stared out the window and whispered to herself, “San Francisco.” Her gaze at the buildings was almost gloating.

  Chapter 3

  Of course commercial royalty like Hannah Couch would not stay at just any hotel. She was booked at one of the queen hotels of the city. An attendant dripping with gold braid leaped to open the doors of the limo when we pulled up. The masses of luggage were tenderly put on a gold cart and wheeled inside. We made quite a progress through the lobby. Naomi gestured at me, and at first I didn’t understand what she meant. Then I realized that it was my job to go to the desk to pick up the room keys.

  I have stayed in motels before. The procedure would be similar, I thought. I was wrong.

  The woman behind the desk wore a suit and looked formidably impeccable. In my thrift-shop skirt and blouse, I felt totally out of place in this temple of sartorial splendor. Nevertheless, I told myself, my client was vastly important, and therefore I was too. It didn’t make me feel any better, but I didn’t have time to figure out why.

  Luckily, the folder Judi Kershay gave me contained everything, including a fax copy of the hotel confirmation sheet. I didn’t even have to speak. I just handed it over and the elegant personage was transformed before my eyes into a cooing sycophant.