I got lucky that evening: a space opened up on Washington Square in the shadow of the twin-towered Saints Peter and Paul Church. Superstitiously I crossed my fingers to ensure further good fortune and hurried uphill toward the corner of Greenwich and Upper Grant, where Louise Wingfield had said she’d meet me. The warmth of the afternoon had dissipated, and fog was drifting in—thin fingers that reached into the narrow alleyways and curled around the neon signs and streetlights, lending them an old-timey softness.
Wingfield, bundled in a down jacket, scarf, and knitted cap, leaned against one of the street poles at the corner. She was smoking and staring up the hill. When she heard my footsteps she glanced around, then straightened and dropped her cigarette on the pavement, crushing it out and nudging it into the gutter with her foot. She faced me, expression wistful, smile edge with pain.
“It’s still there,” she said.
“The flat?”
“Probably, but I’m talking about the bakery.” She gestured at the next block, where a fog-muted sign said, Fabrizio Pastries.
“The same name?” I asked.
“The same sign, even.”
“Why don’t we go in there, see if it’s still run by your former landlord?” As we began walking uphill, I added, “I take it you haven’t been back here since you gave up the flat?”
“No. After I married, we never came back to North Beach. It wasn’t a place where—as my former husband would say—our kind of people went. Since my divorce I haven’t had any reason to come here. And I suppose I haven’t wanted to be reminded of those old days. Of Cordy . . .”
The bakery had plate-glass windows fronting on the sidewalk. Displayed in them were rounded loaves of sourdough, slabs of focaccia, handmade breadsticks, and an ornate custard-filled cake. Inside, behind a counter at the rear of the shop, stood a good-looking curly-headed man of about forty. As we entered, he flashed us a broad welcoming smile. I trailed behind Wingfield, examining the trays of cookies with various intriguing shapes and toppings. When I spied some cannoli stuffed with candied fruit and chocolate, I felt a sharp pang of hunger. So much for nutritionally sound fiber-heavy lunches.
The man noticed the yearning expression on my face and came over, smiling again, “Here, have a taste.” He placed one of the little fried horns on a square of waxed paper and handed it across the counter. My mouth watered painfully as I bit into it. Ricotta, citron and that bitter, bitter chocolate—just a step short of heaven.
I asked, “How on earth do you make this?”
“It’s an old family secret.”
“This is a family business?”
“Has been for over fifty years. The old man started it back before I was born.”
“And how long have you been running it?”
“Only five years, since the old man retired. I served a long, tough apprenticeship, but it was worth it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d remember my friend.” I motioned at Wingfield. “She rented the upstairs flat back in the mid-fifties.”
He glanced at Louise, shook his head apologetically. “I remember that Pop let out the flat, yes. That was when he decided that my sister and I ought to grow up in the suburbs. We moved to Daly City, lived in a track house. That was what people thought they wanted in the fifties: everything modern, nice and hygienic, nice and boring. My sister and I, we moved back here, and now I live in the flat with my family. Whatever my kids’ lives are going to be, I guarantee they won’t be boring.”
I asked. “Does you father still live in Daly City?”
“Are you kidding? After my mother died, he wanted to come back here as much as my sister and me. He’s got an apartment a couple of blocks away, and most nights this time you can find him enjoying his retirement with his cronies over at Reno’s.”
“That’s a bar?”
Wingfield answered for him. “A bar in the finest North Beach tradition.
The baker nodded, “You’ve been there?”
“Many a time, back in the old days.”
“And my old man, Frank Fabrizio was your landlord. What do you know. Listen, why don’t you go over to Reno’s, say hello to him? The old man would get a kick out of it.”
I said, “I think we’ll do that.” Then I glanced at the tray of cannoli. “But before we do, could I get a half dozen of those?”
To get to Reno’s we cut through the mist-clogged alley, Wingfield stopped midway and pointed out the stairway to the flat. A black iron grille barred the tiny entry; the windows above were softly lit behind sheer white draperies.
“It’s all the same,” Wingfield said. “It’s as if I’d moved out of there yesterday. I half expect to see Cordy come down those stairs in her favorite ice-blue taffeta shirtwaist.” Then she hugged herself, shivering. “How did I get to be so old while this stayed the same?”
“You’re not that old.”
“I didn’t think so till now. But my body feels so . . . perishable, while this”—she kicked viciously at the concrete stoop—”just goes on and on.”
There was real anger in her voice, and it surprised me. Wingfield wasn’t yet sixty and very hardy, but I supposed our conceptions of age were all relative. I myself was already braced against the day when my own body would begin to fail me and one by one I’d be forced to abandon the things I loved to do, the dreams I hadn’t yet fulfilled. And I knew there was no soothing word I could offer Louise, nothing that would temper her rage at the steady onslaught of time.
I said gently, “Let’s go on to Reno’s. We could both use a drink.
The bar was old North Beach: dimly lighted, with dark paneling, checkerboard tile floor, and deep red hangings. The exposed brick was honeycombed with niches containing pseudo-classical statues, and over the bar hung a badly executed gilt-framed oil painting of a Tuscan landscape. At one table a pair of old men hunched intently over an inlaid chessboard; at another a lone party who might have been a poet scribbled desultorily on a tattered legal pad. A middle-aged couple locked hands in a booth, faces strained in mute desperation.
There was only one other customer: a balding, wrinkled man who could have been the baker aged more than a quarter of a century. Her perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, glass of red wine in front of him, conversing with the grizzled bartender. I tapped Wingfield’s arm and pointed him out. She nodded and moved his way.
As we approached, the men broke off their conversation—a spirited discussion of our mayor’s failings—and turned interested eyes toward us. Frank Fabrizio’s twinkled in mild lechery—obviously a man who appreciated women both young and old. Wingfield allowed herself a small smile of pleasure at the compliment, then slide onto the stool next to him. I saw on the other side of her as the bartender slapped two cocktail napkins onto the polished surface. After we’d ordered glasses of red, Louise lit a cigarette, turned to Frank Fabrizio, and introduced herself. “I was one of the girls who rented you upstairs flat back in the mid-fifties,” she said. “Your son told us you’d be here, so I stopped in to say hello.”
He studied her, furrows deepening around his eyes. “You look familiar, some. Of course we’re all older now—hah, Reno?”
The bartender set down our glasses with a philosophical shrug.
Fabrizio shook his head in amusement. “Funny how people turn up after all these years. You girls were hell-raisers back then.”
“Well . . .”
“The wife, rest her soul, always complained. Said we might as well’ve turned our flat into a bordello. You ever notice how the women who pride themselves on their virtue have very dirty minds? Anyway, I stuck up for you girls. Said you were just sowing some wild oats. I figure everybody, male or female, is entitled to, if they’ve got the nerve.”
The old man seemed to like to hear himself talk and would probably ramble unchecked if allowed to. I leaned around Wingfield, told him my name and occupation, and added, “I’m trying to locate one of the other tenants of the flat—Melissa Cardinal. Do you remember her?”
/> “Sure, there’s nothing wrong with my memory. What’s she done?”
“Nothing. Louise just wants to see her again, and asked me to help find her.”
“Well, I remember her like she was back then. Little blond girl. Nice shape.” Fabrizio’s hands described Melissa’s curves. “When that one came around to pay the rent, the wife didn’t let me out of her sight.”
“When was the last time you saw Melissa?”
Fabrizio’s prompt response took me by surprise. “Two weeks ago.”
I glanced at Wingfield. She frowned.
“Where?”
“Over on Broadway, near Chinatown. She hasn’t aged well, not like you.” He winked at Wingfield. “Damned blowsy looking, doesn’t keep herself up. I wouldn’t have recognized her except the guy she was with used her name. Funny about that, too; he wasn’t her type. A gentleman. Good haircut, good suit, real quality.”
“What were they doing?”
“Coming out of a bar. It wasn’t his type of place, any more than she was his type of woman. And they were arguing.”
“About what?”
“I couldn’t make out the words. But I caught the tone: whine, whine, carp. I got enough of that from the wife to recognize it.”
“Melissa was doing the whining?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the man?”
“He wasn’t too happy with her, but he was trying to be nice. Like I said, a gentleman, didn’t want a public scene.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Well. I didn’t see him face on. And I was looking more at Melissa than him. Younger thane me, from the way he held himself. Gray hair? White? Well, plenty of hair at any rate.” Ruefully he patted his own balding pate.
“Height? Weight?”
“Medium, I guess.”
“Like I said, he had his back to me, and I was paying more attention to Melissa. I really saw him as a type, you know?”
I knew. Unfortunately, it was a type that populated San Francisco in large numbers. “What’s the name of the bar?”
“The Haven.”
I’d noticed it—a typical Broadway dive. “What time of day was this?”
“I was coming back form my morning walk to the produce stand on Jackson, so maybe eleven-thirty, quarter to twelve.”
It would do no good to go over to the Haven tonight, then; I’d have to check tomorrow when the daytime shift was on. But it was my best lead to Melissa so far, and if she was a regular, someone might know where she lived.
I asked, “Is that the first time since you rented you flat that you’ve seen Melissa?”
“She’s been around the neighborhood for years, but so far as I know, she only goes out at night. And to tell you the truth, I never connected that blowsy dame with the little stewardess until I heard the guy say her name.” Fabrizio’s features grew glum, and he pulled heavily at his wine. After a moment he looked at Wingfield and added, “It’s a bitch, isn’t it—what time does to us all?”
She nodded in silent reply.
The conversation with Frank Fabrizio had depressed Louise. As we walked downhill toward Washington Square she was silent, hands thrust deep in her jacket pockets. Finally I said, “I saw Leonard Eyestone this afternoon. And odd man, but interesting. He admitted he was responsible for Cordy’s pregnancy.”
“Just like that?”
“With no hesitation, once he acknowledged that he was the other man at the Institute whom she’d been involved with.”
“Well, he must have figured it didn’t matter at this point. Water under the bridge, over the dam, whatever. On the surface, the affair might seem peculiar, but Leonard had a brilliant mind, and Cordy, whatever her other failings, was not stupid.”
“He said he would have married her, but she’d tired of him.”
Wingfield’s lips tightened. “Inability to sustain interest in things and people was one of the failings I just mentioned.”
“She sustained an interest in Vincent Benedict long enough to make him want to leave his wife and marry her. Eyestone also told me that.”
“I doubt the wedding would ever have taken place.”
“You think she would have tired of him, too?”
“Maybe not tired, but . . . consider the situation. Vincent was going to divorce Lis. A divorce would have been costly, especially with a child involved. Also, this was in the days before no-fault; Lis would have named Cordy as correspondent. And when that happened, Cordy’s family would have cut her off instantly. Vincent would have had to pay alimony, provide child support, plus support Cordy on his salary from the Institute—which was good, but not all that generous. It never would have worked out; Miss McKittridge was used to, and liked, her luxuries.”
I thought about that. “And if Cordy had broken it off after Vincent asked Lis for the divorce?”
“Potentially explosive.”
“But Vincent, according to all the witnesses, was at the Dulles banquet and reception the night Cordy was killed.”
“And Lis was not.”
We had reached my MG. Wingfield said, “I’m going to have to trouble you for a lift. My car’s in the shop, and one of my volunteers dropped me off here.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not particularly. You?”
“No.” But I hesitated, unwilling to put an end to the evening. “How do you feel about indulging in more nostalgia?”
“Not terribly enthusiastic. But what do you have in mind?”
“I want to take a look at the estate in Seacliff.”
“Why?”
“The same reason I wanted to see the location of the flat. Going to crime scenes or places that figure in a case is a habit of mine. It helps me get a feel for what happened.”
“Even so many years after the fact?”
“Yes.”
She compressed her lips, shifted her weight indecisively.
I said, “I’ll drop you off and go alone.”
“. . . No. I’ll go with you. It’ll be easier for you to find the place if I direct you. And it’s time I confronted the past.”
“Lis Benedict said something like that just yesterday.”
“Did she? Well then, as I speculated this morning, Lis and I have more in common than I realized. We’re both victims of what happened to Cordy.”
The area of exclusive homes called Seacliff is spread over a bluff south of the Golden Gate, high above the open sea. Sandwiched between Bakers Beach and Lincoln Park, it is not set off from the adjacent Richmond district by walls or security gates, but imposing stone pillars mark its boundaries. Once one passes through them, it quickly becomes apparent that this is an enclave of wealth and privilege. The lots are large by city standards, and the houses are custom-built. The landscaping is elaborate, the views breathtaking. A mere estimate of maintenance cost for one of those establishments is enough to make a modest property owner like me cringe.
That night a strange, motionless fog gripped the terrain outside the Gate. It made the pavement slick, the curves of the winding street dangerous; blurred the contours of the great homes that sprawled on the promontory; muted light and sound. Beneath it I sensed hidden life and activity—deceptively quiet and faintly menacing.
Wingfield directed me, with a few errors and some backtracking, through the maze to El Camino del Mar. The houses on the bluff crowded together to take advantage of the view, but as we neared Lincoln Park, the long stone wall overhung with vegetation appeared, then a driveway flanked by pillars. A For Sale sign was prominently displayed on one of them.
“Stop here,” Louise whispered. Her fingers grasped my right hand where it rested on the wheel—tense and icy.
I guided the MG to the curb and leaned forward, trying to glimpse the house. All I saw above the cypress trees on the other side of the wall was a dark monolith with a steeply peaked roofline. I took my foot off the brake and let the car inch forward.
Wingfield said, “You’d better not drive in there. The police p
atrol frequently, you know.”
Then we’ll walk in. If anyone comes along, we’ll tell them we’re prospective buyers.” I motioned at the sign on the pillar.
“Prospective buyers wandering around at night?”
“Why not? If I were about to pay what they must be asking for this, I’d want to see the property at night as well as during the day, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugged but got out of the car.
Except for the cry of foghorns and the muted restive motion of the sea, it was very quiet there. Cold moisture touched my cheeks; I could taste and smell its brininess. I crossed to the driveway and started up. Wingfield a bit behind me. The drive cut through the cypress grove that I’d glimpsed across the wall; when I reached the other side of it, I stopped, staring up at the mansion.
It was a tall house with dormer windows on the third story. English in style, half-timbered above the brick, flanked by thorny pyracantha hedges. An enormous lead-glass window rose beside the door, its small diamond-shaped panes dark and lusterless. Much of the brick was covered with climbing ivy, and below the slate tiles of the roof the rain gutters were choked with the vines. Several small security spots cast deceptive patterns of light and shadow.
The driveway bled out into an oval parking area with room for at least a dozen cars. I started across it, then realized Wingfield wasn’t following. She stood at the edge of the cypress grove staring at the house as I had. Her arms hung limp at her sides, but as I watched she hugged herself; even at a distance I could see her shiver. I motioned for her to join me, and she did, reluctantly.
“Where was the dovecote?” I asked.
“Over there.” She motioned to our right, where the grounds sloped toward the edge of the bluff. “They tore it down as soon as the trial was over. For years they tried to sell the lot, but there were no takers.”
Pennines on a Dead Woman's Eyes Page 9
