“It’s just a beginning.” The sarcasm in her voice stung, though I knew I shouldn’t let it.
“Whatever,” she mumbled, returning to her numbers. “I’m just thankful I don’t have to deal with that woman.”
“Oh, come on,” said Paul, who had entered a moment earlier, balancing a cup of coffee and a stack of the Pepperidge Farm cookies we set out for customers. “You could deal with Attila the Hun and have him eating out of your hand in no time.”
Daria grunted without raising her eyes.
Paul winked at me and began leafing through phone messages, spreading a patina of cookie crumbs across the ledge. “When are you going to bring in more of that fantastic fudge of yours? For a while there it was nearly every day.”
“If you’d bought a ticket to the Wine Festival, you could have eaten your fill.”
“Thirty dollars a pop is a little stiff for my budget,” he said, and then turned to me. “You should have been around this place a couple of weeks ago, Kate. Daria was trying to perfect her recipe, using us as guinea pigs. We had something new every day. All of it, I might add, first rate.”
I laughed. “Daria has quite a culinary following. Kimberly Livingston said the same thing, and she’s only five years old.”
Daria looked up. “Kimberly told you about my fudge?”
I nodded, and Daria pursed her lips. “What did she say?”
“That it was yummy. I think she was somewhat awed by the fact that you managed to talk Pepper into letting her have some.”
Paul chuckled. “See, I told you, you could take on anyone.”
Daria smiled blandly and returned to her work.
By the time Sondra arrived, sashaying into the gallery in a pair of tight pink leggings and a black halter top, I had ten pictures set out in our private viewing room, along with coffee and a plate of cookies.
“I thought I’d show you a few things I picked out, just to get your reaction,” I explained. “Then, once I have a better idea of the sort of work you like, we can look through the files together.”
The Courtyard Gallery, like most galleries, was able to display only a small fraction of the work it carried. In two back rooms lined with vertical cubicles, the bulk of the pieces were stored, and it simplified things enormously if we knew the type of work the client wanted. No need to spend hours sifting through boldly colored geometric abstracts if you knew you were looking for an impressionistic landscape heavy on greens.
Sondra took the coffee I offered, waving away the cookies as though they offended her. She crossed her legs at the knees and wiggled her ankle impatiently, like some 1950s film star. The clear plastic, open-backed shoes slapped against her heel.
“Okay,” she said, “shoot.”
Surprisingly, Sondra’s taste in art was nothing like her taste, or lack of it, in other things. She liked all of the pieces I thought she would dismiss as too bland, and was politely noncommittal about the one awful piece I’d stuck in there just to gauge how different our artistic preferences really were.
In the end, she selected two pieces—a black ink drawing of a nude figure, and a lithograph, which actually depicted the countryside near Florence but reminded me of the California foothills. These she bought on the spot, assuring me that she had no need to think it over. There were two others she was quite fond of, but neither of us was sure they would be right in her house. I would bring them out the next day, I told her, and we would see if they “worked.”
The minute Sondra left, Daria grabbed the check and waved it through the air with a nod in my direction. ‘ ‘See, I told you you’d do fine. Better than fine.” She smiled broadly. “Kate, you’re a wonder.”
I was feeling pretty pleased myself, but I wasn’t thinking dollar signs. It was just plain old reassuring to discover I was capable of something besides baking cupcakes and scrubbing floors. And molding myself to Andy’s needs. If I’d been alone I would probably have kicked my heels in the air and hollered, but since that sort of behavior was clearly not befitting my new image, I smiled demurely instead and began replacing the paintings Sondra was no longer considering.
A few minutes later the phone rang and Paul handed it to me.
“Hi, it’s Michael.”
“I’m at work,” I told him, hoping the blush I felt creeping up my neck wasn’t visible to others.
“I know you are, but I wanted to hear your voice.”
I mumbled something unintelligible.
“What I really want to do is undress you—very slowly. But I guess that’s out of the question, huh?”
“For right now,” I replied, turning to face the back wall.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
Daria cleared her throat, loudly and rather pointedly.
“I’ve got to go,” I told him.
“Tell me you’ll see me Saturday.”
“Okay, Saturday.” Somewhat guiltily I thought of Anna, but only for a moment.
“And Kate ...”
“Hmm?”
“Yesterday was just a beginning.”
<><><>
Zoey’s Cafe, located on Shattuck Street, in the heart— or bowels—of downtown Berkeley, was one of those restaurants which changed ownership at least annually. The last time I’d been there it had still been a taqueria but, stepping inside, I could see remnants of the intervening Middle Eastern phase. For the most part, though, the layout and decor hadn’t changed all that much over the last few years, a sure sign that the succession of owners had been operating on shoestring budgets.
The young waiter greeted me with an artful smile, which faded the moment he learned I was not a paying customer. Art was on the phone, he informed me and then ushered me to an empty table in the back, by the kitchen. While I waited, my stomach grumbling with the aroma of frying onions and garlic, I tried to get a feel for the place.
Only it wasn’t easy. The walls were an uneven magenta, the carpeting a black and gold Persian, and the chairs contemporary bleached ash with rattan seats. A string of red chili peppers hung from the archway which led to the kitchen. I could only hope that Art Whatever-his-last- name-was had spent the bulk of his money on a first-rate chef.
“Ms. Wilkens?” A short, round, balding man stood in front of me and offered his hand.
“Kate Austen. I work for Ms. Wilkens.”
“Art Shapiro,” he said, hoisting his pants with his free hand. I thought he might be offended that Daria had sent an underling in her place, but if he was, he had the good sense to hide his disappointment.
“So, what do you think?” He extended his arms, like a actor before his final bow, and then pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees to make sure my gaze took in every corner and crevice.
“You shoulda seen this place before. Heavy drapes, table cloths, knickknacks everywhere. Real dark and closed in. Who wants to eat in place like that?”
I nodded agreement.
“What we’re striving for is something more fluid. The kind of place you want to come to because it’s fun. ’Course money’s kinda tight right now, so we haven’t been able to do as much as we’d like. But after the place takes off, well, maybe then.”
I nodded again, searching for the right words.
“I wasn’t gonna do anything at all with the walls—I mean, who notices?—but my wife thinks we need some art work. Something to give the place a little class. Can’t cost too much, though; there just isn’t room in the old budget. She met Ms. Wilkens at some function a couple of months ago and has been pestering me ever since. Finally I agreed to at least see what you gals thought.”
What I thought was that the place needed more help than I could give it, but I couldn’t say that. “You’re absolutely right,” I told him. “Nobody is going to come to your restaurant for the art. But I agree with your wife that the walls are a bit stark. Posters might be nice. They’re not terribly expensive, and you’d have the leeway to inject a little humor, if you wanted. We’ve got a few at the gallery, but we’ve also got catalogu
es from all the major museums, and properly framed—”
“Hell, I can get posters at Payless.”
I agreed, and silently urged him to do so. But, anticipating Daria’s tight-lipped disapproval should I make such a suggestion out loud, I carefully explained that museum quality posters were a different thing altogether. Warming to my sales pitch, I pointed to a blank wall near the front, which was the first thing you saw upon entering.
“You could hang a large abstract piece there, something in several sections. A white background to provide contrast and catch your eye, a touch of magenta to pick up the color of the wall, and some softer complimentary shades. Maybe something. . .”
My words trailed off midsentence as my mind came to a complete standstill. There, at a table near the window, deep in discussion with a companion, was Tony Sheris. At least I was reasonably sure it was Tony. I squinted against the glare of sunlight from outside and waited for him to raise his head so I could get a better look.
“Maybe something what?” Art was still staring at the wall, sharing with me what I suppose he thought was a moment of artistic creativity.
“Uh, something . . . uh, that would set the tone of the place. Light, trendy, but just a touch unusual.” I jabbered on without really focusing on what I was saying. My attention was still riveted on the young man I was now sure was Tony. Then suddenly his friend, a heavyset older man, stood and began weaving through the tables toward the restrooms. That was when my mouth stopped working altogether. The man with Tony was Jake Turbino.
“Is something wrong?” Art asked me.
“I...I, uh, think I see someone who looks familiar.”
Art nodded. “You’d be surprised how often that happens in restaurants.” Again tugging at the waistband of his pants, he began quizzing me on prices, shipping times and so forth. It was with tremendous effort that I forced myself to listen and feign attentiveness.
When Jake returned to the table, Tony stood also, and the two men left the restaurant. I mumbled something about dropping off some poster catalogues and then raced for the door. Jake was nowhere in sight, but I spotted Tony half a block to the north. By the time I caught up with him, I was panting. Hardly a testimonial to the conditioning benefits of jogging.
“Excuse me,” I said, falling into step beside him. “I’m—“
“Sorry, no money today.” He was obviously accustomed to the panhandlers who lined the city streets.
“I’m not asking for a handout. I’m Kate Austen.” Tony turned and stared at me blankly.
“I live next door to the Livingstons. You work for them, don’t you? Gardening.”
His blank stare gave way to shock. “What of it?”
What indeed? I had run after him without any thought about what it was I wanted.
“I’ve been thinking of hiring someone myself.” This was the story I’d planned that day I drove to his apartment. It seemed silly now, but it would have to do. “You do such a nice job at their place, and Pepper spoke so highly of you . . .”
I observed him carefully, both for his reaction at the mention of Pepper’s name and for a knife. It was the middle of the day and the streets were crowded, but it was Berkeley after all; things could get pretty weird before anyone noticed, much less made an effort to intervene. Live and let live, that was the unofficial city motto, and it was a good one I supposed, except that in my case it might become die and let die.
But there was no knife, only a slight tremor in his jaw when I said Pepper’s name.
“I’m not looking for any new jobs,” Tony said, and started walking again.
I followed.
“Ours isn’t a big job, you could do it in an hour when you’ve finished at the Livingstons.”
“I don’t work there anymore. Not since, since—”
“Since Pepper died,” I finished for him. Up close, I realized how young Tony was. His skin still had the soft, dewy sheen of adolescence, and his eyes, which were an unusually bright blue, fixed themselves on me with a directness I found disconcerting.
“Did Robert fire you?” I asked, feigning ignorance and trying, at the same time, to come up with a plan.
“Robert?”
“Her husband.”
Tony shook his head, then continued down the street at a quickened pace. I scurried to keep up, but his long legs gave him an advantage so that I ended up half trotting beside him like some obedient dog.
“Look,” he said, stopping abruptly, “I’ve got to go.”
“Why don’t you give me your number, just in case?”
His eyes fixed on the pavement “Sorry, I’m really not interested in a new job.” And then he turned into the Bart station, taking the stairs two at a time.
Damn, he was going to get away from me, vanish once again into thin air. “The police were asking about you,” I shouted after him.
Stopping in the middle of the stairway, he turned and faced me. “The police?” He actually sounded surprised.
“They think you might know something about Pepper’s death.”
It was hard to read the expression on his face. Something between outrage and terror—the look of someone who isn’t sure himself what he feels, or ought to feel. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, started to say something, then turned and continued down the stairs. I followed, but by the time I reached the platform he was already out of sight.
Cursing my luck, and my stupidity, I looked for a phone, aware that among the jumble of emotions I felt was a trace of. . . not compassion exactly, but something akin it. Something that touched me the way the plaintive meow of a hungry kitten would. Yet he might be a killer, I reminded myself.
Finally, I spotted a phone at the other end of the platform, and ran for it, only to discover that the cord connecting the receiver had been cut and the words “Fight Bureaucracy” spray-painted across the front. The phone next to it was intact, but also in use. By the time I found a phone that was in working order and free, a good ten minutes had elapsed. Not that it mattered, I told myself. Gone was gone, and I didn’t even know in which direction.
Michael greeted me warmly. “Change your mind about today? I think I can still find the time.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, this is serious. I just saw Tony Sheris having coffee with Jake Turbino, at least I’m pretty sure it was Jake.”
“Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Of course not,” I barked.
“Where are you?”
“In Berkeley. They were at Zoey’s Cafe and then Tony went into the Shattuck Avenue Bart station, and I lost him.”
“You were following him?”
“Sort of. Michael, what does this all mean?” My voice came out wobbly and I realized for the first time that I was shaking.
“I don’t know.” He asked me a few more questions, and then with hasty, mechanical thanks, he was gone.
By time I reached the car my teeth had stopped chattering and my shaking was pretty well under control, so I couldn’t understand the high-pitched whir which vibrated in my ears as I backed out of the parking space. But it wasn’t my nerves; it was my engine—the Datsun’s engine that is. And it grew considerably louder during the trip home.
Chapter 14
The car continued to whine and groan until I pulled onto my street, where suddenly and inexplicably the noise stopped. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks, and for good measure added a P.S.—Please don’t let it happen again. That morning I’d balanced my checkbook and been shocked to discover how little was left. The last thing I needed now was a major, unforeseen expense. And given the age of my Datsun, anything that needed repairing was going to cost plenty.
Anna was spending the afternoon with Kimberly in the care of her new sitter, Mrs. Marsh, who told me the one time I’d met her, and foolishly offered my assistance, that she’d raised eight of her own and didn’t see why she would need any help from me, but thank you all the same. She was a heavyset woman—more accurately, downright fat—with loose skin, thi
nning gray wisps of hair, and a monstrous bosom which rested on her stomach. As far as I could tell, she spent the better part of the day watching television and smoking Winston Lights, although she did obligingly step outside to partake of the latter activity, turning the set volume up high so that she could hear it easily from the back deck. But she was apparently reliable, and somehow managed to prepare meals and deliver Robert’s shirts to the cleaners.
She greeted me at the door with a thin-lipped frown. “They was just getting ready for a party. I baked up cupcakes special.”
“How nice of you,” I said, genuinely appreciative. “I hope having Anna here wasn’t a problem.”
The expression on her face, a disdainful kind of scowl, made it clear that Mrs. Marsh was not the sort of woman who often encountered problems, and certainly none that were beyond her capabilities. “One more don’t make much difference.”
I followed her into the kitchen where Anna, who was busily arranging Kimberly’s doll collection in a half-circle at the end of the table, shot me a stony glare. “You’re early,” she huffed. “I’m not ready to go yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You can stay for the party,” Kimberly offered magnanimously, “but you only get one cupcake.”
Mrs. Marsh waddled over to the counter for the chocolate milk and set it on the table while the girls raced upstairs to retrieve Bethany, who had somehow failed to make it downstairs with the other dolls.
“You want some coffee?” she asked, with a flap of her broad arms. “Won’t take but a minute to reheat it.”
“No, thanks.”
On the television a young blond with fashionably disheveled curls was quoting the latest homicide figures, county by county.
“Terrible isn’t it,” said Mrs. Marsh. “Nobody’s safe anymore. I’ll tell you, just working here gives me the shivers.” She set a plate of cupcakes on the table and then reached for a stack of napkins. “Mr. Livingston, though, seems he don’t let it get to him.”
“He’s a man of great reserve.”
She gave a throaty chuckle. “Lordy, you got that right.”
Murder Among Neighbors (The Kate Austen Mystery Series) Page 16
