by Joanne Pence
Stan watched Angie head toward the parking garage. She would have dropped him off back at the apartment, but he didn’t feel like going home yet. Nothing waited for him there.
Even here on Jefferson Street, nothing interested him. He hadn’t seen the waitress. She was probably home with her husband. Maybe with her new baby as well. Everyone seemed to have someone but him.
And Nona.
He sighed, trying to decide what to do with himself, when he glanced down the side street to the wharf. Although it made no sense, his steps turned in that direction. The backsides of restaurants had never interested him before, nor had staring at the water or at fishing boats. They always looked dirty. He suspected fish guts lurked in every corner. He hated untidiness in anything, and flicked a speck of lint from his cashmere sweater.
The dock closest to the restaurant was empty, just as it was the last time he’d been there. Boats lined other docks, tied to thick moorings. He wondered what it would be like to own one of those boats, to sail out to sea away from all this. The only problem was he’d be there—boring, same-old-same-old Stan.
He stood with his toes along the edge of the wharf, hands in the pockets of his slacks, and looked down at the water. Today it had a greenish tinge, like pea soup. He never much liked pea soup.
Behind him, he heard a soft, “Hello.”
Startled, he turned to see the woman who had captured his thoughts. She wore a long trench coat. It wasn’t buttoned or belted and where it gaped open her stomach protruded.
He stepped back.
“Be careful!” She started, reaching her hand out toward him, then looked embarrassed by her action. “There aren’t any railings. You don’t want to tumble into the bay, do you?”
Her voice was gentle and light, much as he’d expected it might be. For sure, she’d never cackle.
He moved away from the edge.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, “I’m sorry.” She looked chagrined, yet her eyes sparkled as if she were laughing at his discomfort.
He stood straighter. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“It’s my lunchtime. I came out to see if a friend was here, a homeless man who calls himself Shelly Farms. He usually hangs out around the docks and used to check in with me regularly. I haven’t seen him for a week and I’m worried.”
Stan looked around. Except for the two of them, the area was empty. “Sorry, it’s only me here.”
She smiled. “That’s fine, too. You can also be my friend.”
He liked that.
She moved toward the bench she used the first time he’d seen her and sat, unwrapping her sandwich.
He’d followed as surely as a puppy on a leash. “What is it?” he asked, hovering near.
“Tuna. The smells make everything around here taste fishy. It isn’t an area to try to eat baloney, for instance. Or peanut butter.”
Stan winced at the thought.
She chuckled. “Luckily, I like tuna.”
He nodded. “Me, too.”
“Why don’t you sit and talk to me while I eat?” She patted the bench. “You seem like a nice fellow.”
“I do?”
“Yes.” She twisted open a bottle of Aquafina. “And you have a beautiful fiancée.”
“Fi—? Oh, you mean Angie. She’s not my fiancée. We’re just friends. Neighbors, actually.” He nodded and fidgeted; nervous, shy, and unable to believe he was finally talking to her. As she ate, he tried to fill the silence. “She’s marrying someone else, and I just go along with her now and then for moral support. Her mother is planning a big engagement party for her, you see, and the two made a deal that Serefina would stay out of the wedding plans if she could handle the engagement, but then she took it a step further and is keeping everything a secret from Angie, so now the whole thing is driving Angie crazy and she’s going all over San Francisco asking restaurant owners if they have a party scheduled for May fifth, and…”
The woman’s brows kept rising higher and higher as Stan talked, as if nothing he said made sense to her.
“I know,” he admitted with a small smile. “It’s weird.”
“Someone else is your special girlfriend, then?” she asked, continuing with her sandwich.
“No. No one.”
She looked at him curiously. “I’m surprised.”
He felt his cheeks redden. His lack of companionship wasn’t anything he liked to talk about. “Tell me,” he said, changing the subject, “when is your baby due?”
“Yesterday,” she replied, and then burst into laughter at his stricken expression. “Not really! I’ve got three weeks yet.” She had a beautiful laugh, warm and hearty. Her slight shoulders shook with mirth. Everything about her was a delight. He didn’t understand this strange reaction at all.
“Should you still be working?” he asked. “I mean, shouldn’t you be lying down? Or in the hospital or something?”
“I’m fine. Everyone says it’s okay to work up to one or two weeks before the due date. Anyway, I need the money. It’s going to be hard after the baby is born. I’m trying to save for that.”
As much as he didn’t want to know, he had to ask. “What about the baby’s father? Are you married? Doesn’t he work?”
She shook her head. “He’s no longer involved.” Her eyes clouded and she looked away.
“Once, I saw you and the waiter arguing,” Stan said.
“It’s over,” she murmured. And that, in itself, told him everything he needed to know about that relationship. She continued, “He was a mistake, nothing more. Maybe—” Her voice caught. “Maybe the baby is, as well.”
“No, don’t think that,” Stan said vehemently.
Their eyes met. “I don’t, at least not most of the time. But to be alone at a time like this, it isn’t easy.”
An unfamiliar feeling stirred in Stan’s breast. What was wrong with him? He tried to ignore it. “You’ve got a hospital and doctor lined up, don’t you?”
“My social worker has lined up a birthing clinic for me.”
“Social worker?” he asked, confused.
“I’m poor,” she said with a sad smile, then lifted her arms as she looked down at the cheap clothes and shoes she wore. “Or hadn’t you realized that?”
“I’m sorry.” The realization swept over him of how incongruous it was to be having such a conversation with a woman he knew absolutely nothing about.
He found himself studying her. Her frame was slight yet solid, her jaw firm, her hands strong and capable-looking with square, polish-free nails. He liked everything about her. “I’m concerned, that’s all.”
Dark eyes held his. “Why?”
Her question puzzled him because he had no answer. He gazed out at the water. “You’re right. I should keep my mouth shut.” He glanced at her again. “But you do have people who’ll take care of you, don’t you?”
She smiled shyly. “I know some who might help.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Look, if they don’t help enough, call me. This is my cell phone number.” He took out a small leather-bound notebook and wrote out his name and number. It took him a moment to build up the courage, but then his chest swelled and he blurted out the words, “I’ll help you.”
“Stan.” She whispered the name as she read it, then carefully folded the paper and put it in her pocket. “You’re very nice, Stan.” She crumbled up her sandwich’s waxed paper and threw it and the empty water bottle in a trash barrel. “I’ve got to get back inside. My lunchtime is over. Thanks for sitting with me.”
He stood as well. “Thank you.”
She started to walk away. “Come back again. I’ll see you another time, I hope.”
“Okay,” Stan said, watching her as she used a key to unlock the back door to the restaurant and go inside. “Hey, wait! What’s your name?”
The door shut behind her before she answered.
Chapter 7
Paavo stood on the cement walkway above the beach at Aquatic
Park. The sun was going down over the Golden Gate, and he watched the waves roll onto the shore. At sundown the changing temperatures over the water caused a chill wind to blow into the city. He turned up the collar of his sports coat.
Just above the beach the Maritime Museum looked down upon the scene. He knew it was one of Angie’s favorite “old San Francisco” spots. She often talked of how, when she was a little girl and her older sisters were in school or busy, she and her mother would walk to it from their Marina-district flat. She’d learned a lot about San Francisco history there, insisting that Serefina read descriptions of the displays over and over. Afterward, if the day was warm, she’d play in the sand; if cold, they’d walk out onto Muni Pier and check on the fishermen who dropped their lines into the water.
A chill rippled down his back and he put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Thinking of that reminded him of how troubled he was over Angie and the situation Sal had confronted him with. He and Angie had vowed never to lie to each other. Up to now he’d pretty much kept the vow. Although she stretched the truth—or forgot it now and then—she’d never out-and-out lied to him.
Yet he’d lied because of Sal, and disagreed with Sal on top of it. He hated being in this predicament but, despite their dreadful lunch, it was a chance to form some sort of bond with his future father-in-law, and he didn’t want to ruin it.
From the time they were introduced and Sal took one look at him and decided he wasn’t good enough for his daughter, there’d been tension between them. As far as he could tell, the whole problem centered on money and position, though he wasn’t sure of that, either. Sometimes he felt Sal thought of Angie as a prize who should go to the highest bidder. No, that was harsh. He knew Sal loved his daughter, but the man’s insane devotion to the idea that it would take money to buy her happiness was childish.
Now he wondered more than ever about Sal’s judgment. Given proof that Elizabeth Schull had been involved in a false sexual harassment claim and the suggestion she’d been in a mental institute, the last thing Sal should want was to face her alone. The idea of it made Paavo suspicious. Just what was Sal up to?
Paavo forced his concentration back to the murder case as he left the walkway for the beach where Farnsworth’s body had been found. Whenever he was in any way involved in a case, Paavo visited the scene of the crime. As much as it might be a cliché, the crime scene often did, in fact, give a sense of what might have happened, and sometimes why.
Paavo wanted answers to both questions.
People argued constantly over whether Farnsworth was a saint who worked among the poor and homeless and gave them help and advice when he could, or a sinner: a scam artist who used the homeless for his own purposes to make money at his law firm. Paavo thought he was a little of both.
Farnsworth had been practicing law when for some reason—probably no one would ever know exactly why—he underwent a spiritual conversion. He believed it was necessary to do good works in this life, and Spirit, as he called his god, led him to the homeless. But Spirit also knew that Farnsworth needed to provide for himself or he’d end up just like the people he ministered to, so he kept up his law practice. He did everything except appear in court—that, he left to his partners.
Paavo, frankly, had liked the guy. They’d worked together a few times on murders of homeless people. Those were cases that got little attention from the press, and usually little from the district attorney as well. Leads were few, and finding anyone who would talk to a Homicide inspector was next to impossible. That was when Farnsworth stepped in. He—like Paavo—believed every man’s death diminished him, homeless or not, and murderers should pay the price.
Now he was the victim. Paavo would see that justice was done.
Angie picked out a Spode “English Garden” cup and saucer and placed them on the counter. She was in Everyone’s Fancy, her friend Connie’s gift shop, located across town from Angie’s apartment in a busy neighborhood shopping area on West Portal Avenue. Unfortunately, the activities in the area rarely extended into Connie’s shop, despite Angie’s attempts a while back at helping her upgrade her merchandise.
The mainstay of Connie’s business was greeting cards. Hers were all either extremely mushy or extremely funny. She left the in-betweeners to grocery store racks. Nevertheless, it took a lot of card sales to pay rent.
Buying something expensive was one way for Angie to get Connie to pay attention to her and her troubles. Several days had gone by and Angie was no closer to finding out the location of her engagement party.
Connie eyed the china suspiciously. She was a few years older than Angie, blond, and with a round figure that caused her to constantly diet—or think about dieting—to avoid drifting from curvaceous to plump. Blue eyes pierced her friend. “Is this a bribe?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Angie asked innocently. “I’m going to give my mother a present for all the hard work she’s doing.”
“Keeping your engagement party a secret from you?” Connie put her hand on her hip. “The woman’s lucky you don’t give her poison. I know you, Angie Amalfi, and I know she’s driving you nuts.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.” Angie picked up the Spode, pretending to study it. “She loves pretty cups and saucers like this one.”
“Fine.” Connie rang up the sale, then got out a box and gift wrap. “But don’t waste your time being coy. I have no idea where the party is.”
“Really?” Angie asked, disappointed.
“And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.”
As Angie watched, she remembered the call about the cake. “Don’t use purple gift wrap, please. I’ve developed a sudden aversion to the color.”
“Purple? You’re kidding.” Connie reached for pastel green.
“Oh, Connie!” Angie wailed, sudden tears in her eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve been going through. First some baker calls about a purple cake, then…then a stripper called about jumping out of it! What is my mother thinking? She’s gone crazy! I’ve got to stop her.”
“Don’t cry, honey.” Connie walked around the counter to pat Angie’s back and hand her a wad of tissues. “That doesn’t sound like Serefina to me,” Connie continued. “It’s got to be a mistake or a joke.”
Angie wiped her eyes. “Who would joke about such an important occasion?”
“It’s a mistake, then. Someone’s got your name mixed up with another Amalfi, that’s all. Someone who likes strippers and purple cakes.” Connie grinned. “Someone like your Cousin Richie, maybe.”
Even Angie had to chuckle at that. Richie was one of those people who no longer surprised her with the crazy things he was up to. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Have you ever mentioned to Serefina the type of party you hoped for?” Connie asked.
“Sure. The wedding will be serious and beautiful, so the engagement party should be a bit whimsical. Romantic, of course, but also fun. A time for me, Paavo, friends, and relatives to get together without stress. Weddings are always stressful, no matter what. I’d like to avoid that.”
“Whimsical?” Connie asked skeptically.
“Yes. Good food, lovely clothes, but something a little different. I know it won’t happen. We’ll probably end up at a wonderful restaurant, but still…”
“Where would you like it to be?” Connie asked.
“I don’t know anymore! Oh, well, why think about that? My mother will most likely come up with something very traditional and lovely, right?”
“I didn’t have an engagement party before my first marriage. Next time, I’ll do it right,” Connie said dreamily. “An elegant restaurant with white linen tablecloths, crystal goblets, gold-rimmed white china…that’s what I’d like. If, that is, I marry a Rockefeller or some other tycoon. If not, my friends and I will probably gather at Pizza Hut. Beer and pizza on the house!”
“And everyone would love it,” Angie said.
Connie nodded. “Maybe someday…” She went back to the co
unter and began to tape the gift paper in place. “I take it you had no luck checking restaurants.”
Angie shook her head. “It didn’t work, and now I’ve only got thirteen days to go. I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Well, if I hear anything that might help, I’ll let you know,” Connie said as she unfurled a long length of green ribbon and then began to wrap it around the package. “Although I can’t imagine anyone better than ‘Stan-the-Man’ at sleuthing out a place where food will be served.”
“Puh-lease!” Angie said, studying a figurine of three clowns in a hot tub. She didn’t get it, and put it back on the shelf. “He was lots more interested in going to a shabby little Greek restaurant than helping me.”
“And that surprises you?” Connie asked.
“I know he loves to eat, but once there, he just picked at his meal. He only livened up when he was making eyes at a pregnant waitress.”
Connie was so surprised by Angie’s words her hand slipped and the bow she was making unraveled. “Pregnant? You don’t think Stan…?”
“No way. He could never have kept that a secret. Shoot, he even tells me when he’s having intestinal troubles. Give me a break!”
Connie shook her head and went back to creating a bow. “So, who is she?”
“That’s what I wonder. I asked Stan and he said he didn’t know. The funny part is, I believe him.”
Connie’s eyes lit up. “Maybe we need to find that out.”
“Say, you don’t sound half so curious about my party,” Angie remarked. “Why is that?”
Connie said nothing as she concentrated on creating a beautiful bow.
Stan was awakened from a sound sleep by a shrill ringing. He picked up the phone by his nightstand. “Hello?”
A dial tone sounded.
The ringing continued.
He sat up, confused.
The sound came from the cell phone on the bureau beside his wallet and comb.
By the time he picked it up, it had already switched to messaging. Instead of listening to the message, he simply hit the caller ID—it showed pay phone—punched “call back,” then laid back in the bed. The call was probably a mistake, he thought, as he listened to the ring.
