by Unknown
My mother found out she was pregnant a week before her graduation from Mission High School. I don’t know if theirs could be called a shotgun wedding, but being the good Catholics that they were, there probably weren’t a lot of other viable options. Mom and Dad graduated from high school and went straight into full adulthood, with my sister Thea coming eleven months after me (Irish twins, as siblings like us were called in the neighborhood). So I was named after the place that gave my parents what were probably the only moments of carefree happiness in their lives. Sansome, with his faded blue eyes and a ring of copper hair around his otherwise bald head, looked like he would probably understand this story, maybe even have lived a similar one.
“Really, that’s nice, a local girl. I’m from North Beach myself,” he said, naming an Italian neighborhood just north of downtown. “Boy, was I a fish out of water in school.” He pointed to his hair, which was probably carrot orange in his youth. I could imagine him standing out in a classroom full of dark heads.
“Well, I guess we better get to these questions.” He seemed regretful, and I realized that making small talk was probably part of the interview process, intended to make me feel comfortable with him before getting to the real questions. It had worked, though. I felt an unexpected camaraderie with the guy.
He took out his notebook and a ballpoint pen, unconsciously licking the point of the pen before poising it over the paper. He reached up and flicked on the car’s interior light.
“How did you know the deceased, Ms. Weston?”
“We worked together at Hall, Fitch and Berg. It’s an ad agency.”
“Did you work directly with Ms. Weston?”
“She was my boss. I’m an assistant account executive, AAE, as we say. She’s an account executive.” After I said it I noticed I had slipped back into the present tense.
Sansome nodded and wrote in his notebook. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Weston alive?”
“I saw her on Friday, at work. But her Sunday paper was open on her coffee table. And her neighbor, Ida, had collected the other newspapers. Doesn’t that mean she died on Sunday?”
“Would you like a job on the police force, Ms. McCaffrey?” Sansome smiled indulgently. “That’s good detective work, but I’d say Ms. Weston has only been where she is for a day or so. I’m not the coroner, of course, but I’ve been doing this job for twenty-two years.”
“What do you mean, how do you know that?”
Suddenly Sansome was looking at the thumbnail of his left hand, not at me.
“How long were you in the apartment before you found Ms. Weston?”
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
He looked at me without speaking for what seemed like a long time. He was succeeding in making me nervous, if that was his intent.
“Were you two friends, Ms. McCaffrey?”
“No, not really. Work friends, I guess you could say.” I paused and thought about it. “Lucy didn’t seem to have any friends. No family, either, except for a sister in St. Louis. Human Resources was having trouble finding anyone when she didn’t show up on Monday.”
Sansome wrote down my answer. “Why did you come here tonight?”
“To get some papers that she brought from the office. Some illustrations.” I neglected to mention that I had also come to assuage my guilt.
“Uh huh,” said Sansome. “Did anyone else know you were coming?”
“Yes, I told Web Northrup, from the Creative department. He told me where the key was, he’d watered her plants for her before.”
It was time to tell Sansome about Les. I felt bad for him, but I wasn’t about to lie to the police.
“While I was in the house, someone else came. Les Banks, a graphic artist from HFB. Lucy was dating him, I guess. It was news to me, he just told me now. He showed up a few minutes after I got here. He said he came over to make sure I was all right.”
“To make sure you were all right?”
“Yes. He seemed shocked when we found the, um, body. But he took some things, his shirts and other stuff, so you wouldn’t know he’d been dating her. He said you wouldn’t understand.”
Sansome didn’t give me any indication of what he thought of this news. He just nodded calmly and asked, “Did he say anything else? Had he and Ms. Weston had a fight?”
“Yes, he said they did have a fight, on Friday night. She said she never wanted to see him again, that she had a new boyfriend. He said he thought that was why she didn’t come to work, because she was trying to avoid him.”
Sansome wrote, the pen disappearing in his big hand.
“Ms. McCaffrey, as far as you know, was Ms. Weston having any conflicts with anyone else at work?”
I paused again. “I did hear some gossip today that she might have been having a conflict with another AAE, Kimberley Bennett. But it was just gossip.”
“Who told it to you?”
“Lakshmi Roy.”
“Could you spell that for me?”
When we were done Sansome handed me a business card, white with a little gold embossed shield on it.
“Well, thank you very much, Ms. McCaffrey. I imagine we’ll have some more questions for you tomorrow or the next day. You seem to have landed right in the middle of things. And by the way, it might be better if you didn’t mention anything to your work colleagues about Lucy dating Les. If it’s a secret it might be useful for us to find out who knew and who didn’t.”
He let himself out of the car, came around to my side and opened the door.
I just couldn’t leave without asking one question. “Uh, Inspector Sansome, do you have any idea what happened to Lucy? How she—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word died.
Sansome’s face was a mask of professional neutrality. “We won’t know that until the autopsy reports are in, and that might take a while.”
In the car driving home I thought about the fact that I had said nothing to the police about the “real vampire” Lucy had told Les about. I told myself that I had just forgotten, that I would call Inspector Sansome when I got home. It wasn’t until later that I realized that I was already lying to protect Eric.
It was past dinnertime when I got back from Lucy’s house. I wasn’t hungry but I felt dirty, tired, and miserable. I took a shower and put on my pajamas, consciously telling myself that I was not going to meet Eric that night. I climbed into bed and fell asleep, but at exactly 9:30 my eyes sprang open and wouldn’t shut again. I lay still and listened to the electric whir of my alarm clock in the silent room. Something huge and horrible had just happened to me. I wanted to crawl into someone’s lap, be sheltered by a protective arm and told that everything was all right and I was safe. It was not the first time that I’d lain in bed and felt the sheer depth of my loneliness, but it was the first time that the image of somebody appeared in the darkness, somebody whose arms could protect me from anything.
I got up and went to my closet. If there had been an earthquake that night I would have crawled out of the rubble of the apartment building and dragged myself to the Ocean House on two broken legs, so there was no use trying to convince myself otherwise. I just needed to figure out what to wear. Eric hadn’t said what we were going to do or where we were going. By coincidence, the place where I was meeting Eric was almost back at Lucy’s house, so I knew that the weather was cold and foggy. I decided going casual would serve two functions: I’d stay warm, plus I might look more nonchalant about our rendezvous than I felt. Enveloped in a soft down parka and my favorite jeans and leather boots I headed west again.
The Ocean House is visible for miles as you wind your way up the Great Highway from the south. For the last mile it’s hard to remember you’re in the city, with the ocean on your left and the dense greenery of Golden Gate Park on your right. The road runs flat along Ocean Beach then up the cliffs to turn right and disappear into the Richmond District. Right at the top of the hill, clinging improbably to the steep terrain like a baby monkey to its mother, is the restaurant, know
n more for its beautiful views than for its food. I’d lived in San Francisco all my life and could count on one hand the number of times I’d been there, but I’d always admired the restaurant’s strange tenacity. Three different buildings, ornate Victorian affairs with multiple towers and verandas, had burned down between 1865 and 1907. The present Ocean House didn’t have anywhere near the same architectural distinction, but it did have the same ocean views as its predecessor. Still, it was an odd place to meet a date. It was probably the last place a real San Franciscan would go to eat, but Eric was a tourist, wasn’t he?
And were we going to eat? Eric had asked me to meet him, not in the restaurant, but behind it. I circled past the front door and down a flight of concrete stairs to come out on a large outdoor terrace, perched directly over the water facing the seal island. It’s outfitted with a few of those binoculars on a platform where you put in a quarter, blink, and it’s over. There was no view in the dark, except for the twinkling lights of a passing freighter, so Eric was the only person on the terrace. But even if it had been crowded with people I would have recognized him. His back was to me as he gazed out toward the sleeping seals but his hair was unmistakable. He had taken it out of its fastener and it flowed like liquid copper over the back of his black leather jacket.
Chapter 8
Even though it seemed like I was still too far away for him to hear me, Eric turned and watched my approach. I sucked in my stomach and tried to walk gracefully. I tried on several different expressions and then dropped each one. Every time I had walked into an audition room when I was an actor I felt this same mix of thrill, anticipation, and sheer terror—the feeling that this could be the meeting that changes your life.
I tried a trick that I had used going into auditions to calm my nerves. You are the Queen, I whispered. This man is your subject and you rule over him. He is here at your behest.
The psyching out worked, because by the time I reached Eric I’d pulled myself up to my full five-feet six-and-a-half inches, straightened my shoulders, lengthened my neck, and calmed my fluttering heart. I held my hand out to him, palm down, and he took it and bowed as if we’d rehearsed this little play. But my equilibrium faltered when he pressed his lips to my hand and little bolts of electricity raced up my arm.
He wore a gold signet ring on his pinkie finger. The ring looked old, holding a red stone so worn down it had the opacity of beach glass. His nails were perfectly manicured ovals, perhaps slightly too long for the average man, but they looked like they could give a mean back scratch.
Still holding my hand, he moved in closer and looked at my face as if he were searching for something. His eyes, that light, light blue, were glowing.
“Angela, tell me what happened.”
I stepped back, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I see it in your eyes. A tragedy has occurred.”
I blinked back sudden tears. “I went to my boss’s house today. She was there, but she was…” I swallowed hard, “…dead.”
“Ah, Lucy Weston. I am so sorry.”
“Wait a minute. How do you know her?”
“You mentioned her to me last night. I had also met her through Suleiman and Moravia. She occasionally came to the club. This is very sad.” Eric seemed distracted. He gazed out toward the ocean. A seal barked in the darkness and another one answered. “Have the police arrested anyone?”
“They might be looking for a guy from our office, Les. He was dating her, but no one in the office knew it.”
Eric was holding my hand against his chest. I could feel his heart beating, so strong it was like a fist knocking on a door. “Why do you think the police might want him?”
“He followed me to her house and he was acting really strange. He was trying to hide all the evidence that they had known each other. He also told me they had been fighting, that she had broken up with him. She told him she had met someone new.”
“And had she?”
I shrugged. “How would I know? I didn’t know about Les, and it was right under my nose.”
“These things are always difficult, no matter how many times you experience them.”
I looked up at him. “What do you mean? I’ve never experienced this before. Well, my grandmother. But that was different.”
“Yes, of course. But at least they have caught this Les, the one they suspect?”
“No, I don’t think so. He ran away from Lucy’s house when I told him I wouldn’t lie. Oh God, Eric, what if I made a mistake? What if he didn’t do it and I’ve put the police on his trail?” My body began to shake with unexpressed sobs.
Eric pulled me close and I hid my face in the shelter of his arms. There was a brisk breeze blowing off the ocean, but still his sweet fragrance overwhelmed me. I smelled sandalwood, lilies, ocean air, sugar cookies, cumin, and fresh snow. As soon as my mind identified a scent it slipped away, replaced by something richer and more evocative.
I heard his voice in my ear. “You did the right thing for your friend. Those who have committed the crime will pay the price.”
“I guess so,” I answered, thinking what an old-fashioned thing that was to say, but how much I liked the sentiment.
Eric stepped back and took my face in his hands. “Angela, I think you need some distraction.” He smiled. “Do you like to ride motorcycles?”
At the entrance to the restaurant a disheveled but stylish older couple stood in front of the menu, looking confused. When the man saw Eric he immediately began speaking to him in French. The woman chimed in, Eric answered, and they engaged in a brief conversation punctuated with lots of gesticulation. When Eric shook the woman’s hand she gazed at him like a teenager meeting her favorite movie star.
When we were a short distance away I asked, “How did they know you speak French?”
His face took on an expression (lips pursed, eyebrows knitted) that even I recognized as uniquely Gallic.
“Never mind.”
The motorcycle Eric had mentioned was parked down the hill. The silver and black chassis gleamed like it was brand new. Suddenly Eric’s black leather jacket and heavy boots made sense, just like his blue velvet suit at the House of Usher. He liked costumes. Tonight he was playing the part of a Hell’s Angel.
“Yes, it’s new,” he said. “I saw a guy riding one and I decided I just had to try it. And believe me, it’s as fun as it looks. Would you like to take a ride with me?”
Suddenly I saw my mother’s disembodied face floating above me, saying, “Are you crazy? I don’t see any helmets, the man has practically admitted he doesn’t know how to ride, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re going to get on a motorcycle with him?”
I brushed the air in front of my face like there was a mosquito bothering me. “Sure, let’s do it.”
Eric climbed on and held the bike while I slid onto the seat behind him. I put my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek against his leather-covered shoulder. My feet were barely on the footrests before the bike surged underneath us. I had a moment of raw fear as we plunged down the dark hill, like diving into hell with my arms around the Devil. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. When I didn’t die immediately I opened them and looked west. The moon was almost full and the ocean was a deep black bucket full of silver crescents. The beach gleamed silver gray.
What an intimate thing it is to ride on a motorcycle with a man. My chest was pressed against his broad back, my legs encircling his hips, my arms linked around his slim waist. The silky strands of his hair blew around my face as if it were my own. I wanted to move my hands to feel his chest, but I didn’t dare, mainly because we were driving so fast I was afraid to let go for an instant.
The road seemed to move under us, the air split open and we drove through the seam. I couldn’t look forward without the skin of my face pulling back and my eyes feeling dried out and pushed into their sockets. We passed a couple of cars in the right lane like they weren’t moving at all. One of them honked and the horn blared after us like
thunder trying to catch up to its lightning bolt. I looked over Eric’s shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the speedometer and confirm my suspicion that we were going five miles over the speed of light. That’s when I saw it.
The deer was standing in the middle of the road, transfixed by the sound and lights bearing down. We were so close I could see it was a doe, with soft white fur inside the cups of her ears and shiny black eyes. My feet pressed downwards, looking for brakes I didn’t have. My arms squeezed Eric’s waist as if I could will myself to stay on the motorcycle after the collision. I didn’t scream, just waited for the impact.
Then I heard Eric’s voice, not in my ear, but inside my head, like it was my own voice.
Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.
Just as the last word echoed in my brain we veered around the deer. The pull of gravity toward the ocean was irresistible. The turn was so deep that my leg actually touched the road. I imagined us spinning like a dreidel toward the sea, until the deep sand arrested our movement. But at the moment when we were almost parallel to the road, Eric pulled the bike back up. I felt like I had just witnessed a miracle.
He steered us to the side of the road and stopped. The deer unfroze and disappeared into the brush. I had never felt so alive. I was exhilarated, thrilled to my very core. This must be why people skydive, I thought. Cheating death makes you appreciate life.
Eric turned partly around and before it became a conscious thought I was kissing him on the lips. He seemed startled, but then he kissed me back. When I opened my eyes, he was smiling.
“You are brave, Angela. Just as I’d hoped.”
“Let’s keep going,” I said. “Do you feel like driving to Half Moon Bay?”
If you’ve ever driven on Highway One, California’s coastal highway, you know that it is the brainchild of a madman. The freeway is a narrow lip carved out of sheer cliffs rising hundreds of feet above the Pacific Ocean. Chunks of the road drop into the ocean with astonishing regularity during the rainy season. Highway One had always made me nail-bitingly nervous, but tonight I felt invincible, and all I could see was its beauty.
