by Diana Orgain
He jumped onto an escalator. The construction of the Centre was such that the escalators were in the middle of the mall, so I moved in the opposite direction to see if I could catch his face.
That unruly curly hair could only be . . .
Yes!
It was Christophe, the press liaison from the French consulate.
What was he doing here?
Certainly the consulate was only a few blocks from the Centre, so it was conceivable that he was using his lunch break to shop, but then why run when he saw me?
Chills went up and down my spine. Had he been following me? He bolted as soon as I saw him . . .
I returned to the café table under the dome and told Paula about Christophe.
She frowned. “You don’t think it was a coincidence?”
“He was clearly running from me.”
“Do you think he recognized you?”
I pushed away my coffee. “I’m sure of it.”
“Why do you think he ran?”
“He obviously didn’t want to talk to me. Could he have been following me?”
Paula looked confused. “Why would he be following you? And from where? Surely not your house. You took the streetcar, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Did you see him on the streetcar?”
I shook my head.
Paula gave a dismissive hand wave. “Nah, he wasn’t following you. Maybe he just saw you and wanted to know if it was you.”
“Why though? And why would he run from me?”
Paula shrugged. “I dunno. Why don’t you ask him?”
I stared at her blankly. “Because he’s not here, is he?”
“You should have gone after him.”
I laughed. “And then what?”
Paula sipped her coffee. “Do, you know, your usual nosy thing.” She bobbed her head back and forth from shoulder to shoulder and gave an exaggerated blinky eye routine “So, Christophe, what are you doing at the Centre? Were you wondering what to buy me for Christmas?”
I covered my face with my hands. “I don’t blink like that and I don’t sound like that either.”
Paula laughed. “Yes, you do. You just don’t know it.”
I shook my head in complete denial.
“Why don’t you run up to the consulate?” she asked.
“And do what? Do that ridiculous head bob and stupid question routine you just proposed? Besides, what about the Christmas shopping?”
She waved her hand at me. “Oh. I’ve been done for ages.”
“Figures.”
Paula played with her mug. “I’m happy to sit here with Laurie if you want to take a little stroll.”
I couldn’t imagine confronting Christophe at the consulate, but I could ask Armand’s neighbors a few questions . . .
I walked the short blocks to Armand’s flat. The skies threatened a downpour. The clouds looked as heavy as my stomach felt. I couldn’t shake the idea that Armand’s and Nancy’s murders were related. But how?
Both their apartments had been broken into. Could that be the connection? Was someone looking for something? And if so, what was so important that it could lead to two murders?
I stood in front of his flat and rapped on the front door of the downstairs neighbor. A woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, if that, answered the door. She seemed surprised to see me there. She may have been expecting someone else. She had long blonde straight hair and was wearing jeans and a green holiday sweater with a cowl neck that dipped down to reveal lace-trimmed cleavage. Her feet were bare and she squished her bright pink toenails against the carpet as I introduced myself.
When I asked her about Armand, her face creased. “Oh. Armand,” she whispered.
“You knew him, then?” I asked.
It wouldn’t be surprising to find she hadn’t associated with him at all. Neighbors are funny in San Francisco. Some can be best friends and others act like they’ve never seen you before.
I felt a raindrop on my hand and automatically turned my palm over to evaluate the rain.
The woman’s eyes turned to the sky. She pulled the door opened wider. “Come on in, before it lets loose.”
I stepped into the downstairs version of Armand’s flat. The units were identical in terms of layout, except this one had an extra room at the front, whereas in the upper unit the space was taken up by the staircase. From the looks of it she used the extra room as a sewing area.
She noticed me eyeing the room and said, “I make costumes.” She smiled and led me to the main living area. I stood at her front window and looked down the street to the French consulate, feeling as though it was the epicenter of my case.
“Costumes for what?” I asked.
“The opera, the symphony, whatever client I can get. Right now I’m repairing some costumes from the Renaissance Faire.”
I thought of my neighbor, Kenny.
“Do you know Kenny Greer?” I asked.
She looked thoughtful. “No . . . I don’t think so.”
If she’d met him, she might not remember him, but I was certain he wouldn’t have forgotten her with her shiny hair and bright toenails.
“He’s my neighbor. He’s a sub for the opera.”
Her mouth formed a round O and she smiled. “I don’t usually get to interact with the casts. I’m only a low-level seamstress. My name is Kyra, by the way.”
I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Kyra. San Francisco’s such a small town that I had to ask.”
She laughed. “I’m from a small town. San Francisco is nothing like it, but oddly enough I know what you mean. I seem to run into people I know here more often than I ever did at home!”
“Did you know Armand was killed?” I asked.
She gasped, then covered her mouth. “He was killed?” she asked after a moment.
I nodded.
“I thought he . . . I thought I’d heard he killed himself . . . that he was found with his wrists . . .”
“His house had been broken into. His front door lock was busted.”
She frowned, but before she could reply a cell phone buzzed from the coffee table. She jumped as if it were the call of a lifetime. “Excuse me. I have to get that.”
She pressed at the phone and smiled excitedly as she put it to her ear. She moved away from me and toward the front door. “Sorry,” she said over her shoulder. “I get such bad reception inside. Make yourself at home.” She gave me a little wave.
In someone older I would have thought it rude, but she was so cute and excited for her call that I found it hard to be offended. Besides, with her outside, it gave me a chance to poke around.
I walked to the end of the apartment. The bathroom door was straight ahead of me and her bedroom on the right-hand side, directly below Armand’s room. Images of Armand’s lifeless body in his tub hovered at the back of my mind, but I refused to let them come to the forefront. Inside, I peeked inside Kyra’s bedroom. There was a glass door to a small deck and garden. I hadn’t recalled Armand having a back deck. I pulled open the door and stepped onto the deck.
The downpour that had been threatening had still not manifested, but it was starting to drizzle, an annoying drizzle, the kind that forces you to wipe your face after a moment.
There was a small patch of land that could pass for a garden if anyone had taken an interest. As it was now, it was merely dry weeds that had been tamped down by winter. I looked up at Armand’s flat. I had been right—no deck or door to the garden, but there was a fire escape.
I touched the metal bars, now wet and slippery from the drizzle. I tested the first rung. It seemed stable enough so I climbed onto the narrow staircase and hiked up the short distance to Armand’s bedroom window.
My breath caught as I tried the window. It was unlocked and I had full access to his flat. But my thoughts were on Kyra. What if she came back and found me hanging out on the fire escape?
What was I doing anyway? So what about the fire escape?
&n
bsp; Kyra didn’t have a motive to kill Armand and, besides, the front door had been broken into.
I climbed down the fire escape and wiped my hands on my jeans. As I straightened I let out a tight gasp and covered my wildly beating heart. Kyra was directly in front of me.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said.
How nice of her to apologize to me when I was the one sneaking all over her property.
I let go of my chest. “No. I’m sorry. I . . .”
“Come back inside,” she said. “It’s going to start pouring any second.”
I followed her into her bedroom then back down the short hallway to the living area. We sat down on the couch.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone. That was rude. But my reception is terrible in here and that was . . .” She smiled. “Well, my new boyfriend, I guess.” She shrugged. “It’s all so new; I don’t know what he is . . . But I definitely didn’t want to miss his call.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me.
I nodded, waiting for the inevitable question, “What the hell were you doing snooping around my place?” But it didn’t come.
She let out a little high-pitched cheer. “Ooooh . . . and he’s so hot. Hot, hot, hot I tell you. He worked with Armand.” She cast her eyes downward as if giving Armand a moment of silence but quickly resumed her enthusiasm for her new beau. “That’s how we met, through Armand. He’s coming over in a few minutes. He wanted to meet you.”
My mouth went dry.
He wanted to meet me?
She laughed. “Don’t look so scared! He doesn’t bite. It’s just that I told him you were here and he works across the street.” She motioned to the window. Reflexively I glanced out: The French consulate loomed.
I was certain I hadn’t seen her at the Christmas party, but there had been a lot of people in attendance; she could have been there and I might not have noticed.
Could she be the woman who had been with the consul on the balcony at the party? No. That was absurd. If she was the other woman, the consul certainly wouldn’t be running over to meet me. And Kyra had said the guy was hot. It was hard to imagine her describing the over-sixty-year-old consul as hot.
But who was I to say?
Hot is definitely in the eye of the beholder.
Who else could be her boyfriend?
“He’s concerned about Armand,” she continued, her eyes landing on her feet. She squished her toes into the carpet again. “Well, you know, the body and everything. I think they’re going to send his remains back to France. It’s really terrible, isn’t it? I mean, he was so young. My age, you know? He was upset about a car accident he’d been in, but . . .” She shook her head. “A girlfriend of mine killed herself, too. Senior year in high school.” She sighed sadly. “I don’t get it.” She straightened as if suddenly recalling something. “You said, maybe it wasn’t suicide?”
Car accident!
That was me. He’d hit Laurie and me. Could he have been so upset by it as to kill himself?
No. It couldn’t be.
The doorbell rang and I practically jumped off the couch. Why was I so skittish?
Who cared about her boyfriend? It could be anyone over at the consulate.
What if it was Christophe, with his handsome face and dark curly hair? He could be dating Kyra. They would look cute together.
What would I say to him? “Hey, weren’t you just at the San Francisco Centre? Why did you take off?”
Or what if she was dating Jean-Luc?
Hot.
Yes. Jean-Luc was definitely hot, but his arrogant face was the last one I’d wanted to see right now.
Kyra pulled the front door open and jumped into Jean-Luc’s arms. She wrapped her skinny legs around his waist and let out another high-pitched squeal.
“Hi, baby!” she said, planting a kiss on his lips.
He returned her kiss, a little too passionately. He held onto her bottom as she straightened her legs and let her pink toenails dangle inches away from the carpet. She ran her hand across his chest, letting her fingers get tangled in the hair.
When their embrace/kiss was over, Jean-Luc released her and glanced at me with a self-satisfied smirk, I’m sure expressly designed to make me feel uncomfortable.
Well, forget it. I could fight fire with fire.
I smiled at him. “Wow. Imagine seeing you here.”
Kyra glanced from Jean-Luc to me. “Do you two know each other?”
Jean-Luc stepped toward me.
“I’ve had the pleasure. Yes,” I said my voice thick with sarcasm.
Jean-Luc laughed, but Kyra tilted her head and looked puzzled.
“Are you investigating Armand’s death?” His eyebrows went up on the word investigating and his tone implied I could no more carry out an investigation than tie my own shoes.
I smiled and licked my lips, preparing for attack, but before I could answer he whipped around toward Kyra.
“Ma cherie, can you make me a cup of coffee? Strong. Like you do so well?”
Kyra looked nervously at us, afraid, I’m sure, to leave us alone.
I tried my best to give her a reassuring look, but didn’t trust myself not to pop Jean-Luc in the face if she wasn’t present.
Kyra spun on a heel and left the room. Jean-Luc closed the distance between us, his head jutting toward me like an angry turkey. “What are you doing here! Get out of my business!” he said in a fierce whisper.
I pressed my fists to my sides to keep from pummeling his arrogant face. “Someone broke into Armand’s place. He was killed—”
“Armand killed himself! It’s tragic, but none of your business. The San Francisco Police are investigating and his parents are due in tomorrow. The last thing we need is you poking your big nose into—”
“He didn’t kill himself,” I said through gritted teeth.
Jean-Luc’s eyes flashed and he looked as if he wanted to strangle me. “I am a man of little patience. I don’t suffer fools. Armand slit his wrists; no one broke into his place—”
“But they did. I found him.” Calmness returned to me like a wave washing over my body. I unclenched my fists. “I found him, and when I found him, his front door was busted.”
I gave Jean-Luc my best, “Elementary, dear Watson,” look.
For his part Jean-Luc looked generally perplexed. He frowned and shook his head back and forth.
I did my best to take advantage of his confusion. “Why was he speaking with Nancy Pickett? Don’t you have an official press guy to work with reporters?”
Something I couldn’t make out flashed across Jean-Luc’s face. Fear? Anger?
His hand jerked up in an aggressive way. “What are you asking?”
“Nancy Pickett was murdered. Strangled and left dead in Golden Gate Park. A couple days later, Armand is found dead. Why were they talking to each other? What’s the connection?”
Jean-Luc squinted. “What proof do you have that they even knew each other?”
Proof?
I did have proof. Sort of.
I knew Nancy had called Armand and she’d either visited him or was planning to, if she had his address.
And what kind of person asks for proof anyway? Was he challenging me? Clearly he hadn’t denied that they may have met or at least spoken.
Kyra stood in the doorway. She was holding a dainty cup on a saucer and looked as if she was assessing the situation. I wasn’t sure how much of our exchange she had seen or overheard. Jean-Luc backed away from me and smiled at her.
I turned to Kyra. “Were you home on Sunday night?”
She looked like a deer caught in highlights. She quickly glanced at Jean-Luc for direction, but he was staring at me practicing his bully body language. Kyra nodded.
“Did you happen to hear anything? Or see anyone going up to Armand’s place?”
She shook her head.
“When did you see him last?”
She glanced again at Jean-Luc; this time he gave her a curt n
od. She muttered, “I don’t remember.”
She crossed the room and handed him the coffee. He gave her a satisfied smile. She positioned herself exactly next to him so that they both stood in front of me.
Completely aligned.
That was it.
I was stonewalled.
No more niceties from Kyra; no more answers from either one of them.
• CHAPTER SIXTEEN •
On the walk back to Union Square I texted Paula. She was already sitting with Jim and Laurie for lunch at Kuleto’s. Kuleto’s serves Northern Italian food and is in the heart of Union Square.
I mentally thanked Jim for not picking a French restaurant. Not that I don’t love French food, but right now I needed a serious break from the case.
I hightailed it down Powell Street, feeling guilty that I’d taken time away from my family and friends and for what? For another confrontation with hairy/cheesy man?
I pulled open the heavy wooden doors to the restaurant. Kuleto’s, with high-vaulted ceilings, genuine Italian marble floors, and wrought-iron and copper railings made me feel immediately at ease.
Jim, Paula, and Laurie were seated at the forty-footlong, intricately carved Brunswick bar made in England, with garlands of garlic, dried peppers, sausages, and herbs hanging over it.
Jim stood and smiled widely when he saw me approach. He kissed me and rubbed my back. “You look stressed out.”
“Thank you for picking Italian.” I smiled.
He laughed and pulled the bar stool out for me. I seated myself.
Laurie’s stroller was parked in a corner with what appeared to be our new printer in it and dangling on the handle was a suit bag. Laurie was seated happily on Paula’s lap drooling over a bread stick clasped in her sticky hand.
“What are you guys doing?” I demanded, pulling the bread stick out of Laurie’s hand.
Paula and Jim exchanged looks. “What?”
The tip of the bread stick was gone, the balance of it melting with drool. Laurie smiled at me, a piece of the stick in her mouth. I flicked it out and she cried.
“She’s not supposed to be eating bread,” I said.
“She liked it,” Jim said.
