by Lois Winston
“I just want to tie up some loose ends, that’s all. I don’t know if I am still working on it, so let’s not tell her about it yet.”
“Yeah, right,” he countered. “Like she doesn’t know what’s going on around here at all times. Our Lady of Perpetual Motion knows everything.” Richard has a deep respect for our mother’s knack for staying on top of every project D.I. is involved in at any given time.
I thought for a moment and then agreed silently with Richard. “I have to talk to her about some things today, anyway. I’ll mention this to her. Meanwhile, stay on it, will you?”
“Sure. I’ve got some license plates in the mix as we speak. One of them is that China Doll’s. She looks familiar to me,” he added in a puzzled tone.
“I thought so, too,” I said, glossing over the derogatory remark he’d just made about the woman. Richard makes remarks about everyone, injudiciously and without discrimination. It does no good to chastise him about it, we learned early on.
I remember the time he led a discussion on the merits of his sixth grade teacher’s fondness for peanut butter and sauerkraut sandwiches over the school’s PA system and was expelled for two weeks. Bearing that in mind, Mom likes to keep him out of the spotlight. A loose cannon, if ever there was one.
“Whoa, gotta go, Lee. Two lines are buzzing. Catch me after lunch, okay?”
“Okay. One thirty-ish. Thanks.” We hung up.
I sat for a moment, thought of the happiness on Tio’s face this morning, and picked up the phone again, punching in another number I knew by heart.
The voice I heard on the other end of the line was Patti, Lila’s secretary. Calls were routed to her directly when Mom wasn’t in the office.
After a brief discussion, I found out Lila wouldn’t be available until around lunchtime. Impulsively, I asked Patti to check her schedule and see if she was free for lunch. She was. Patti offered to let Mom know and make reservations at Il Fornaio, the up-scale Italian restaurant nearby and one of Lila’s favorites.
That taken care of, I attacked a stack of unopened mail. In the pile were two letters from grateful clients.
Good, I thought, making a mental note to give them to Lila for the scrapbook she drags out for prospective clients right before she tells them D.I.’s minimum fee. The rest of the mail was brochures, junk mail, and blanket invitations to openings, events, and similar happenings in Palo Alto.
I turned from mail to voicemail messages or, as I liked to think of it, That Aspen Bitch. That’s the name I’ve given the generic cyber-female voice on the system that commands you through various levels of the program whether you want her to or not.
I had eleven messages. Three were from friends, and the rest were calls that needed follow up. One odd message came from Mrs. Wyler, the recent widow, inviting me for tea at my earliest convenience. I tried to pretend I didn’t get that one, something ghoulish about it, but returned the other calls.
An hour later, after getting coffee from the staff lounge, I switched on the computer and went into email. I found seventy-nine messages sent in the past two days, none of them spam.
I groaned aloud and answered each one as quickly as possible. By the time I could glance at my watch, I saw it was a quarter of twelve. I got up, stretched from the two-and-a-half-hours of sitting in one spot, and left the office.
I turned right in the hallway and toward Lila’s office, the former office of my father. I didn’t like to go in there much now. As I came up to Patti, a petite woman of about my age, I had to fight back an idiot grin that came to my face.
The secretarial desk, dark mahogany, with hand carved legs, was deliberately opulent and impressive. It was also so large it overwhelmed this small woman.
Patti, vertically challenged at about four foot ten, often looked as if she were a little kid playing grownup in the office or was here for “bring your daughter to work” day. As I approached, I could see Patti’s little legs swinging in the air under the desk. I hid my smile, and she turned from her computer to face me.
“Lila said she’d meet you at the restaurant, Lee. Something about errands,” Patti said, as she flashed her broad smile.
It was a smile complete with about sixty-eight white-hot teeth, reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat’s grin, only on steroids. I suspect that long ago someone mentioned her teeth were her best feature, and she never got over it. I think she bleaches them religiously every night.
I tried to return Patti’s smile, tooth for tooth, thanked her politely, and headed out on foot for the restaurant. A light rain had settled in, and I was glad I thought to bring my umbrella.
The restaurant was less than two blocks away, a very convenient lunch spot. I arrived at one minute after twelve and dashed into the outside door of the restaurant located on the bottom floor of one of Palo Alto’s nicer hotels. I shook the rain off the umbrella and dropped it in the nearby umbrella stand.
The maître de, Paulo, stood behind his podium, stationed at the main entrance. He glanced up from his reservation book and smiled at me.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Alvarez. Mrs. Alvarez is at the usual table. I’ll just take—” he began, as the phone rang.
“Don’t bother, Paulo,” I hastily called to him, as I walked past. “I know my way. Thanks just the same.”
I wound my way in between the tables already crowded with early diners and toward the corner table directly under a large painting of a goat and a dog, dressed as people, bartering in a seventeenth century outdoor market.
The table was bound in on both sides by hand painted murals of pastoral scenes. The gentle murmur of the busy restaurant had a soothing effect on me. Mom looked up, frowned, and the soothing effect nosedived.
“Do you know why TransTrek decided not to pursue their investigation?” she demanded to know.
My mind raced. TransTrek. TransTrek. Oh, yes! The start-up company we had a meeting with several days ago.
Mr. Ronald Everett, Wealthy Investor. Looking for a quick return in the computer market and had glommed onto a bright lawyer who had created a program linking every court system in the USA and Canada. Something was leaking out to a rival company, and Mr. Wealthy Investor came to Lila to see how it was done, and who did it.
“No, no, I don’t, Lila,” I said, using my mother’s first name, once I had figured the answer out. When it was work oriented, as it often was, the family used each other’s given names. This saved a lot of explanations in the business world and, oddly enough, made everyone feel more comfortable.
The frown continued on Lila’s lovely face. Her forehead crinkled in deep thought. “I want you to call them, Liana. I want you to talk personally to this Mr. Everett. See what’s going on. We usually don’t get dropped like this without a word,” she added.
“Why me? You do those kinds of phone calls,”
I said plaintively, my voice approaching a wail. Yes, I live in wine country and sometimes I whine.
“I hate soliciting work. You’re so much better at it than I am.
“Yes, I know but Mr. Everett seemed to take to you.” The frown disappeared, and her face glowed as she looked proudly at me. She reached over and pushed back an errant lock of hair that had fought its way out of my chignon. “I want you to call him today and make an appointment to see him in person.”
“But what if he won’t—”
“Oh, of course, he’ll see you,” Lila interrupted, with a toss of her shoulder-length, straight hair. The humidity never seemed to bother her silken tresses like it did mine. If I hadn’t contained my hair in this kind of weather, I would have wound up looking like a chrysanthemum.
“In any event, make him see you,” Mom said. She did it again, emphasized a word in the sentence. It just makes me crazy. Maybe someday I’ll have the nerve to tell her.
“I’ll try,” I answered, as I let out a huge sigh of martyrdom and picked up a menu.
“I don’t know why you bother to read the menu,” My mother commented with a light laugh. “You always ord
er the same thing.”
That was true. I did and do. I like their homemade chunky tomato soup and Caesar salad with lots of breadsticks and rolls on the side.
Just to be contrary, I toyed with the idea of ordering something else, but then, why should I? I continued to stare at the menu as if she hadn’t spoken.
“By the way,” Lila continued, “what made you go up to San Francisco yesterday? I thought you were resting.”
My body gave a jerk, and I knocked over the glass of water in front of me. I grabbed the napkin from my lap and began mopping up the liquid not absorbed by the tablecloth. At just that moment the waiter appeared, much to my relief, with extra cloth napkins.
He deftly covered the water stain with several, put a fresh napkin in my lap, and stood by awaiting our order. Lila ordered a pasta dish made with fresh spinach and pine nuts and a glass of Chianti. The waiter turned to me.
“The usual, Miss?” he smiled radiantly, as he took the menu from my hands.
“Oh, ah...yes,” I said and returned his smile weakly.
The next time I vowed to order something different. I asked for more water and looked around the room. It was a pretty room, pleasant and warm on this rainy, dark day.
“Well?” Mom asked with raised eyebrows, waiting.
Fat chance Lila would lose the thread of a conversation. I searched my mother’s face. There was no ill will or annoyance there, just plain curiosity.
“I just wanted to know where it happened. It was impulsive.”
“You and your impulses, Liana.” My mother sighed. “Well, I got a call from Detective John Savarese....”
“You did?” I interrupted. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know, just the man in charge of the case, I suppose.”
“But he said he knew Dad. He said Dad did him a large favor once. What was it?”
“Your father never said.”
“He must have said something, Mom,” I pushed.
“Roberto had a lot of friends, and some he didn’t tell me about. That was ten or fifteen years ago, anyway. Don’t interrupt,” she ordered in a slightly louder voice, as she saw that I was about to do so again.
“Detective Savarese told me he found you inside that warehouse looking around. He further stated that this is a potentially dangerous situation, and he doesn’t want to see you there again. Neither do I.”
Her voice softened and her smile returned. “I know how you must feel, dear, truly I do. In fact, Yvette wants to personally thank you and to apologize for endangering you in any way.”
Oh, great! Lila knows about Mrs. Wyler’s invitation to tea, too. Now I’ll have to go.
“I was only in danger of catching a bad cold,” I retorted.
“I’m sorry I involved you in this in the first place.”
“Well, you should be,” I answered, dipping a chunk of Italian bread in the extra virgin olive oil.
“You couldn’t ask one of the other agents to trail a wandering husband. That’s not what we’re contracted to do. You took advantage of our relationship, Mom.”
“That’s true,” Lila conceded. “Yvette was adamant about not having any outsiders know about this and begged me to ‘keep it in the family’. You can imagine how she felt when I told her the day before yesterday about Portor and the warehouse.”
The waiter brought Lila’s wine and she took a healthy swallow. “In any event, Liana, I feel guilty enough about involving you in his murder. Please don’t compound it any more...and stop making jokes about it. Now promise me that you will stay out of this murder investigation.”
I thought for a moment. “All right,” I said, wording my answer carefully. “I promise to stay away from the warehouse in San Francisco.”
At that moment, the waiter brought our food and fussed over us for a couple of minutes. Did we want fresh ground pepper? Did I want something else to drink? Did we need anything else? The subject of the murder and the warehouse got dropped, much to my delight.
I was feeling pretty smug. After all, I only promised to avoid the warehouse. Everything else was up for grabs. As we ate the delicious food, we felt ourselves mellow and relax. It wasn’t until we were halfway through the meal I remembered about Uncle Mateo.
“Oh, Mom,” I began, “that’s so great that you asked Tío to stay permanently with you. He seemed so happy this morning.”
“Really? I hope I haven’t made a mistake.” Lila wiped her mouth with her linen napkin. “I might not have thought this through. After all, I’m used to privacy as of late.”
“Privacy?” My hand froze with a spoonful of soup midway to my mouth.
“Mom, the house is enormous. Even when we all lived there, it was a rare weekend we didn’t have two or three friends staying over, as well.” I put down the spoon. “You live in a goddamn mausoleum, for Pete’s sake.”
“I simply mean there might be some period of adjustment for both of us, even though he’s like the older brother I never had. Take meals for example. I’m used to eating when I want and in the sunroom.
“I don’t know that I want to continue eating again in the dining room, as we’re doing now. And please watch your language,” Lila added sharply, taking a sip of the wine.
“I don’t see why the two of you don’t eat in the sunroom right now,” I said, retrieving a chunk of bread from the breadbasket and ripping it into pieces.
“It’s silly for two people to sit at that huge table, and the dining room has an echo if there are less than twelve people in it. I’m sure Tio’s doing it because you insist.”
“I was just using that as an example of how little things add up. You get used to a routine, to doing things in a certain way.”
I looked down at my bowl filled with the shredded bread. “Well, if you don’t want to do it, you don’t want to do it. It’s too bad you brought it up in the first place,” I muttered more to myself than to my mother.
“I didn’t say I don’t want to do it, Liana. My goodness, can’t I express a little concern over something as drastic as inviting another human being into my life without you getting all…?” She didn’t finish the sentence and looked at me.
“Tío said this was something you both were going to try out for awhile, so I’m sure you’ve conveyed your doubts to him.” I realized the uncertainties expressed this morning by Tío came more from my mother than from him.
I sat thinking. I can always ask Tío to live with me in the second bedroom. I could move the office into the bedroom I occupy now and the mirror and bar into the living room.
I forced my attention back to the sound of my mother’s voice.
“I didn’t convey any doubts to him at all,” Mom said.
“In fact, he was the one who started me thinking. He lived for fifty years with Eva. I lived for thirty-six with your father. Maybe we both can’t do this,” she said, draining the last of the wine. “But I want to try.”
“I guess you’ll see.” I forced a smile. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”
“Of course I will. Do you want some dessert?” Lila asked, signaling for the waiter.
“I don’t think so.” I glanced at my watch. It was twelve forty-five. I had just enough time to finish reading Old Possum and meet Richard at one-thirty if I left now.
I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet and laid a ten and a five on the table. “This should cover my share. Would you mind very much if I ran back to the office? I have some reading to do.”
“Reading? Right now? Why, I guess not.” She picked up the two bills from the table and handed them back to me.
“This is on me. I have a stop to make before I go back, myself. I’m meeting Yvette at the mortuary to settle a few things. Will you tell Patti that I’ll return around four?”
“Of course. Mom, I’m sorry I got a little sharp with you about Tío. It’s really wonderful of you to offer, and I think you’re to be commended for it,” I added, trying to mend fences. “And thanks for lunch. I appreciate it.”
“Well, you hardly ate anything,” Lila replied, searching in her purse for her charge card. “Go ahead and go. I’ll take care of this.”
She didn’t look up. I hesitated for a moment, and at a loss for what more to do or say, I left.
I knew I’d hurt her feelings, and was sorry about that. I retrieved my umbrella and started off toward the office. The air felt good on my flushed face, and I knew I was more upset by our conversation than I wanted to admit.
I thought of going back and apologizing again but for what, exactly? I hurried through the drizzle back to the office, looking forward to the refuge of my book. Like so many books before, it would take me into another world. I needed that.
EIGHT
The Inner Sanctum
Shortly before one-thirty, I approached the Information Technology Wing and home of Richard’s office. There were no burgundy colored rugs or any opulent furnishings. Linoleum flooring and empty walls echoed my knock.
This area is at the back of the office complex and off limits to nearly everyone, certainly to the public. Here is the lifeblood of D.I. Millions of dollars worth of various computerized equipment live here, most containing highly confidential materials.
There’s an IT staff of eighteen, which includes Richard and his two assistants. They protect this section not only with coded doors and computers but also with their very bodies.
I once tried to get by Andy, Richard’s newest assistant, on his first day of employment. Nothing I said or did would make him get out of my way. It wasn’t until Richard came out, introduced us, and verbally okayed me that I was allowed to pass without winning a wrestling match.
As Andy was only five foot two and I towered over him by some six inches, I was impressed with his rat terrier approach to the job. Soon after that, Richard decided to electronically lock the entrance and have a monitor, where one of his two assistants can screen people safely from inside.
I waved into the camera to Andy or Erica, whichever, and heard the buzzing that allowed me to pass into the “forbidden zone,” as this area has now been dubbed.
