by Jill G. Hall
“Where?”
“The St. Francis Hotel.”
The detective’s voice remained even. “What time did you leave?”
Paul interrupted. “That’s all in your file. Just get to the point.”
“Mr. Palmer, you know we need to follow procedure.” The detective flipped through some pages in a thick folder and looked up at Sylvia. “Tell us what happened after you left the hotel.”
“Ricardo had been quite tipsy.”
Paul cut in. “He was more than tipsy. He was snockered!”
“Mr. Palmer, you are not the one being questioned. Miss Van Dam?”
“I agree with my lawyer. Mr. Lopez had been quite drunk.”
“Then what?”
“He drove like a maniac through the city and out to the cliff drive.” She took a sip of her Coke and set the bottle down. “I felt sure we were going to crash. But then an officer pulled us over.”
“Yes, I see that’s in the report here.” He pulled more sheets from the file.
“I tried to get the officer to help me, but he misunderstood.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
“What happened next?”
She murmured, “We decided to go down to the beach for a walk.”
The detective raised his voice. “In the middle of the night? Wasn’t it dark?”
She pulled a hanky from her purse. “I hoped the fresh air might sober him up.”
“Did it?” He loosened his tie.
“No.” She shook her head. “He kept drinking from his flask.”
“Did you see anyone else there?”
“No.”
“Did anything else unusual happen on the beach while you were there?”
“No?” She felt lightheaded.
“Like something that would make you leave town fast?”
She looked at her hands and shook her head. “No, nothing.”
“Why did you leave then?”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?” The detective lit a cigarette, and the smoke drifted toward her.
“Of . . . of . . .” She coughed, sipped some Coke, and looked at Paul. His eyes blinked at her, a beacon of concern. If she spoke the truth, the chance of a normal existence would be dashed. Even if no trial took place, the publicity alone would be with her forever.
Her metal seat squeaked as she turned back to the detective and somehow found the courage to use the words she needed to say. “We had argued.” She dabbed at a tear. “I . . .”
The detective hit the table. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else on the beach that night?”
“There was no one else there.” She shook her head.
“Where was Ricardo when you left the beach?”
“As I said, he was very drunk. When he . . .” she paused, “splashed in the water, I took the chance and ran back up to the car.”
“Where did you go?”
“To the cottage and then to Bay Breeze.”
“How did you get there?”
“I drove the Cadillac.”
“Wasn’t it Ricardo’s?”
“I had Milo, my driver, return it to the cottage so Ricardo could get it later.”
“Wasn’t that far from where you left him?”
Paul pushed back his chair. “The beach was just up the road. Ricardo could walk to the cottage to get it.”
The detective glowered at him then turned back toward her. “Sylvia, Miss Van Dam. Why did you leave town?”
“Because I was afraid he’d follow and find me.”
“Who?”
“Ricardo?” Confused, she glanced at Paul. He nodded back at her.
The detective pulled a photo from the file and slid it toward her. The face of a man with beady eyes stared back at her. “Did you see this man down there?”
He looked familiar, but she knew for sure he wasn’t on the beach that night. “No.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
She focused on the picture intently and tried to remember.
The detective continued, “His name is Johnny the Rocket, works for the Zamboni clan. Known for doing a job fast as Sputnik.”
She studied the picture again and then remembered those spooky eyes. “Yes, I did see him once.”
“When?”
“About a week before that night. Ricardo had just left the liquor store with a bottle of rum and climbed back into the Cadillac next to me.”
“Did the man speak to you?”
“No. He came to the driver’s side of the car and gazed at Ricardo. It must have been for a full minute, but then he just walked away.”
“What did Mr. Lopez do?”
“He laughed and said the man must have been loco. Then Ricardo turned on the ignition and sped us away.”
The detective held up the photo. “Did you ever see this man again? Are you sure he wasn’t on the beach that night?”
It would be so easy to nod her head and say yes. But then a man innocent of that crime would be arrested. “I didn’t see him then, no.” She crossed her arms on the table, broke down, and sobbed into them.
Paul placed his hand on her back. “May I please take her home now?”
“Just a moment.” The detective left the room.
“Paul, what should I do?”
He put a finger to his lips and turned toward the mirror.
The detective returned with his colleague, who said, “Some evidence needs further investigation.”
“What evidence?” Paul frowned.
The short detective spoke slowly. “The slugs taken from Mr. Lopez’s body were from a .32. Gangsters don’t usually use a caliber that small. When we searched Johnny, he didn’t have one in his possession. Now it’s come to light, Miss Van Dam, that your father had registered a .32 many years ago. Do you think you can provide that gun for us?”
She clutched her handkerchief. “I’ll try.”
“We’ll need the one with this serial number.” The detective handed her a slip of paper. “It’ll be easy. The ballistics will clear you.”
“Are you charging her with a crime?”
“No, we’re just exploring every lead. Until we have solved the case, everyone involved is a suspect.” The large detective eyed Paul and opened the door for them.
52
Anne sat back on the daybed while playing with her father’s dog tags and realized that as much as she loved her family, she couldn’t realistically move home after all. Even though it would be cheaper, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. There had to be another way for her to make enough money to get by and also to meet Sergio in Italy.
She wished it could happen through selling her art. She studied the first of the Sylvia series for what seemed the hundredth time. She thought it would be hanging in Gallery Noir by now but Fay had been unable to convince Mr. Block to hang more than one of Anne’s pieces in the show. Fay had asked her again if she had contacted Fredricka Woods yet but Anne had changed the subject.
The black frame now set the piece off perfectly. The turquoise background accentuated the Life photo of Sylvia and Ricardo leaving their engagement party. Poor Sylvia, what happened to you?
Anne read over her research notes:
• Van Dam shipping business rises
• Sylvia’s parents’ plane crash left her an orphan and heiress at thirteen
• Valentine’s dance with Paul Palmer
• Various society listings of Sylvia with Ricardo
• Engagement party
• Sylvia missing
• Sylvia seen in Arizona
Then the trail ended. She had thought that when the series had been completed, her Sylvia fixation would be over too, but that wasn’t the case. Anne still wanted to find out what had happened to her.
So many thoughts swirled in Anne’s head. This obsession was driving her crazy. She glanced at her watch. If she left now, she could make it to Grace Cathedral in time. That might clear her head. She threw on her velvet coat and flew down the stairs
. Outside, a late-afternoon sun shone in the sky, but the wind had picked up.
Full of anticipation, she jumped onto a cable car and held on as it headed up California Street. A labyrinth walk usually helped her make decisions, like the time right after she moved here and things were tough. She had been tempted to move home then too and found the labyrinth walk helpful. While meditating to its center, she had had a vision of the snow and everyone knowing her business, and Anne knew she just couldn’t go back. Just like she felt right now.
The cable car made its way up and over the hill and soon stopped at the corner. She hopped off, walked across the street, and opened the cathedral’s heavy door. Smelling of musty hymnals and dripping candle wax, a Gregorian chant played on the sound system. She dropped a dollar in the donation basket and waited a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. The church was dark inside even though a lingering afternoon light streamed through the stained glass windows and tapers flickered on the altar down the aisle. Colorful mosaics adorned the walls.
A teenage girl wearing a stocking cap and a gray-haired lady already walked the path.
Anne had read all about labyrinths on the Internet. The black-and-white pattern, modeled after the labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral in France, defined lines that continued, doubled back and around, and winded toward the center of a circle and out again. At Chartres, thousands of medieval pilgrims had made it a symbolic journey when going to Jerusalem had not been practical. One article had described the concept this way: “Labyrinths balance the left and right sides of the brain with twists and turns; they help one let go of worries. The path is set, so you don’t have to think about it.”
She pulled off her boots, set them under a pew, and smiled at her “big feet” in thick socks that would keep her toes warm in the drafty church. Her hands ran down the coat’s velvet collar as candlelight bounced off the rhinestone brooch.
At the labyrinth’s threshold, she bowed, hands at mid-chest, and closed her eyes to contact her inner self. She took a deep breath, let it out, found a sense of calm, and asked these questions: Should I continue to search for what happened to Sylvia? Will you guide me? Anne placed these questions firmly in her heart, opened her eyes, and stepped onto the path.
She walked the narrow strip in search of her own natural pace. The chant floated in the air. Soon, she found a rhythmic beat. The tempo slowed, and she moved in accordance. The teenage girl approached on the opposite path, and they nodded at each other. Anne continued and soon lost sense of time and place. The beat picked up again as she progressed closer and closer and around and around to the center of the labyrinth, the black-and-white path leading the way.
On the path’s next rung, the elderly woman draped in a turquoise pashmina walked toward her. She gazed at Anne’s pin then looked into her eyes as if she recognized her. Anne thought she seemed familiar, too, but she couldn’t remember from where. Tall and elegant, the woman might be seventy. Wrinkles lined her face, but despite that, she remained attractive. Her hair curved up into a French twist.
They passed each other. Who was she? Where had Anne seen her before? She pulled her thoughts in and focused back on the question. Should I continue to search for what happened to Sylvia?
At the labyrinth’s center, Anne sat on a round cushion and closed her eyes. The Gregorian chant continued, and she inhaled and exhaled slowly. Here I am tonight. Waiting for a sign. A chime rang, and she fell deeper into a meditative state.
After a few minutes, the woman took a seat on a nearby cushion, disrupting Anne’s reverie, and Anne stood and began to wind her way out of the labyrinth. She picked up her pace, almost dancing, and focused again on this question: Sylvia, what happened to you?
Anne sauntered and breathed. The black-and-white tiles, like the Life magazine photo, moved fluidly in front of her. As if in a trance, she continued until she wound her way to the end. Back on the threshold, she bowed and stepped out.
She slipped into her boots, glanced up, and caught the woman staring at her from across the labyrinth. She smiled, and Anne felt a warm glow in her chest.
She trailed the woman out of the cathedral into the black, blustery night and watched her slide into the backseat of a Rolls Royce. Anne wondered again why the woman seemed so familiar—perhaps she was from the hotel. But certainly she would have remembered someone as sophisticated as that.
A slick gust hit Anne hard. She decided to splurge, hailed a cab, and relaxed back on the ripped vinyl seat. Her fingers played with the key in her pocket, but she still wasn’t any closer to receiving an answer to her questions.
53
Anne sat in Gallery Noir and watched the fog ooze by, thick as clam chowder. The Feng Shui money plant she had placed in the corner this morning hadn’t worked. It was almost closing time, and even though Sutter Street had been crowded all day, no one had been in.
She looked around at the hodgepodge of pieces in the group show on the walls: three large Jackson Pollockish splatter paintings by that bald-headed artist from the other day, several of Lila’s gorgeous landscapes, and Anne’s mixed-media portrait of Sylvia.
Now she watched as an elderly man with a cane found his way into the gallery. The door closed behind him, blocking out the city noises. He looked around at the varying artwork but froze when he saw her Sylvia portrait piece. Anne thought he probably didn’t like it. Older folks rarely understood her work.
“May I help you?” she asked, standing from her folding chair.
“Just browsing.”
“If you have any questions, just ask.” She sat back down, flipped through a Studios magazine, and fantasized about how she would set up her own someday. It would have lots of light, wall space, and color.
She glanced up at the man. From his tweed coat pocket, he pulled out his glasses and read aloud the words Anne had scrawled across it: “Sylvia, where are you?”
All of a sudden, the man’s face turned crimson, and he began to weave back and forth, struggling on his cane for balance. Was he having a heart attack?
“Careful, sir.” Anne dragged her chair over and helped him into it.
He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Just a little lightheaded,” he rasped.
She grabbed an Evian, screwed off the top, and handed it to him. “Are you okay?”
He drank with shaky hands.
“Sir, is there anyone I can call?”
“Just give me a moment.” He sat back and held up his hand, trying to catch his breath.
She put her hand on the phone, ready to dial 911 if necessary.
He took another sip of water, then pointed to the portrait, looked at her, and blinked. “Who did this?”
“I did.”
“Where did you find the photo?”
“On the Internet from a newspaper clipping.” Did he actually like it?
“Incredible.” He handed her the water, got up from his chair, and studied the piece again. “Do you know this Sylvia?” He removed his glasses and looked at Anne with faded blue eyes.
“No.” Anne shook her head.
“Why did you make it then?”
Anne handed him the coat from the back of her chair. “I found this at a thrift shop and then saw a picture of Sylvia Van Dam in a Life magazine wearing one just like it. It even had a snowflake pin too.” Her words tumbled out, excited to talk about the process.
He touched the pin with a frown.
“I became obsessed, Googled Sylvia Van Dam, started to make pieces, and couldn’t stop.”
“You mean there are others?”
She nodded.
“How much is this one?”
She handed him the sheet and pointed out the price. “It’s $1000.” To make the sale, she considered telling the man the cost was negotiable and cutting out her own portion of it.
He studied her for a moment. “Do you deliver?”
“I suppose so.” She kept her voice calm and tried not to sound too eager even though her heart sprinted.
He smiled. “I�
��ll take it.”
Now Anne felt as if she might faint, and she grabbed the back of her chair for support. He had seemed like such a normal, sweet old man. But now she thought he might be crazy. “Are you kidding?”
He pulled a checkbook from his jacket pocket.
She wanted to jump up and down. “Sit again, sir. Make it out to Gallery Noir.” She pulled a calculator from the counter and added in the tax. “The total comes to $1080.”
He didn’t even flinch, wrote the check, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She stared at all those numbers and resisted the urge to give him a big hug. He seemed legit, but what if he were senile and broke?
“Would you be able to make the delivery on Friday? Shall we say, at two?”
“Certainly.”
“My address is on the check. I hope you’ll stay and have tea with us. I’d like you to meet my wife.”
“Sounds nice.” Anne glanced at the check again. The address sounded as if it might be located up in Pacific Heights, a lah-de-dah neighborhood. Maybe it was even located near the historic Queen Anne Hotel—that would be a good omen. Anne really would feel like a queen when this check cleared. She decided to think positive thoughts and assume it would.
The gentleman picked up his cane and hobbled out the door. Anne watched as he eased himself into a cab and rode off. She then realized she was barely breathing, exhaled, took in a deep breath, and exhaled again. She waved the check in the air. “Hey, money tree, look at that!”
54
Anne steered Tweety up into the hills in search of the address. She turned a corner, swerved around a curve, and there it was. The historic marker on the gatepost read:
BAY BREEZE
1912
Anne double-checked the number and pulled Tweety into the circular drive that surrounded a flourishing rose garden with a concrete birdbath in the center. She parked and gaped up at the building. Gigantic columns appeared to hold up the mansion that reminded her of the Met, large and stately. She carried the piece wrapped in butcher paper from the passenger seat and climbed up the stairs. On the threshold, she caught her breath and admired the view below as morning clouds dispersed to reveal the Golden Gate Bridge stretched over a phthalo blue bay. Her pinkie pushed the doorbell, and chimes rang inside.
