Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “Lord no, honey. My grandbabies. My no-good daughter got herself hooked on crack cocaine. I beat up her dealer, but she jus’ went out an’ got herself another one, so I took the babies to raise. No baby should hafta live with a crackhead mother. Sounds like you’re related to Vera, so I’ll jus’ tell you up front, no way Vera Blue killed poor ole Denise. Vera is good folks. ’Fore she went off to jail, she was helpin’ with our protest against the Timberlite people. Knows a lot about protestin’, she does. Also knows a lot about gettin’ the goods on no-good exploiters of poor women in need of cheap housin’. That Mr. Eric Timberlite, he gonna end up in jail himself if Vera still on his case.”

  “I see.” My lord, what if Denise was killed and Vera framed to get them off the land developer’s back. No wonder his wife had tried to keep me from investigating. “Was Denise involved in the protest movement as well?”

  “Lord no, honey. Wouldn’t even cough up money for picket signs, but I got ’em made in the neighborhood, so we’re in good shape for the demonstration. Hope you can get Vera out in time to march with us.”

  “Yes, I hope so too. Were you here the night of the murder, Mrs. Harley?”

  “God bless you, no, chile. Got choir practice at the church on Thursday nights. My clients know not to come then. Doubt there was a woman a color in the house.”

  She was wrong about that. “Do you know of anyone who disliked Denise?”

  “Sure do. Denise was a real penny pincher, jus’ sayin’ no to everybody need money, but none of ’em be killin’ her. I give it some thought, and I figgered maybe Bad Girl. Denise tole Doctor Rosie that puttin’ a psycho in the art class like to raise the insurance rates an’ scare off clients. That Bad Girl is some mean chile, an’ she hear what Denise say ’bout her an’ come out screamin’ words no Christian woman would use, but then likely the closest that one git to God be one fallen angel name Satan.”

  “What’s her real name?”

  “Don’ know that. She live in a shelter over in the Haight, or sometime on the street. Gets her pills from a free clinic. Doctor Rosie say she fine if she take them meds, but I swear she don’ take ’em much. Bad Girl prob’ly be over there paintin’ murals in C buildin’ right this minute. Part of therapy, tha’s Doctor Rosie’s dumb idea. Bad Girl, she like to scare poor ole Fiona half to death, but maybe they know her real name over there. You could try.”

  I thanked Mrs. Harley, who called after me, “Jus’ look for the T-shirt. It say Bad Girl front an’ back, an’ she wear it everyday.” Then I collected Bruno and made my way, reluctantly, down the stairs to 2-C, another large room like the kitchen. What a sight it was! On the far side by the bay window stood a huge grand piano, badly scarred and so heavy it caused the floor to sag. The rest of the room had large plasterboard wall sections used for mural painting, tables, easels, music stands, boxes of supplies, and a lady wearing a pink shirtwaist dress trying to encourage a group of black and Hispanic women in the art of flower painting on dishes.

  I introduced myself and Bruno in a furtive whisper while I glanced around. Several of the painters looked scary. “Do you have a student called Bad Girl?” I asked. “Mrs. Harley in Women of Color mentioned her.”

  Fiona Morell sighed. “She’s the one painting knives on a teacup.”

  “Knives?”

  “Yes, she simply has no interest in flowers or any other nice subject. Even the mural painters, who aren’t usually that fussy, become irritated when she paints knives into the hands of their figures. Those who don’t think they’re twenty-first-century Diego Riveras want to emulate gang graffiti artists. It’s very distressing to me, I must say.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me her real name.”

  “Well, she says it’s Martina L. King, but that’s just a lie. Dr. King believed in the peaceful principles of Ma hatma Ghandi. If you want to speak to her, I can call her over, but that’s not a guarantee she’ll come. I don’t think she likes other white people. Even when she’s taking her medication.”

  “We gotta go upstairs,” said Bruno, who had been listening to the conversation and looking from Mrs. Morell to a white girl three easels to the rear wearing a black T-shirt and a head of dusty dreadlocks. Since Martina L. King looked terrifying and seemed to make those around her nervous, I cravenly allowed myself to be urged away. Had she been here Thursday? I’d ask around, and if she had, I’d suggest that Dr. Tagalong talk to her, or her psychiatrist, if she had one.

  17

  Canvassing the Attic

  Carolyn

  The child-care and working women were stampeding down from the meeting as we took the stairs to the third floor. One asked Bruno if he was planning to change his sex, which he took amiss. For just one horrified moment, I thought they did the operations upstairs, but of course that was nonsense. They probably provided counseling. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. It had been a long day, and instead of more interviews, I’d rather have gone home for a nice, end-of-the-afternoon nap.

  Our first encounter was with Kara Meyerhof, a blonde in the Lesbian and Transsexual office. She was alone and typing industriously at a computer. When she noticed us, she saved her work and rose for a hearty introduction and handshake. My, she was tall. At least six feet. Bruno’s mouth dropped open.

  When I told her who we were, her whole face brightened. “Vera’s daughter-in-law. A fellow writer!”

  “Well, yes, but her writing is much more academic than mine. Not that I don’t try to add some history to my columns, but—”

  “No dear, I’m a fellow writer. Historical romances.”

  “Really,” I said weakly. Was she writing lesbian romances?

  “Yes indeed. I have at least twenty in print. I was just finishing a scene for my newest, Frontier Passion.”

  Had there been lesbians on the frontier?

  “I’ve been winning awards for romance for years,” she added proudly. “I just couldn’t attend the conferences to pick them up. It’s so much easier now that I’m a woman. Although the formal banquets can be a problem. I can’t seem to find an evening gown that looks good on me because of my wide shoulders.”

  Evidently she wasn’t a lesbian. “Maybe you could get some advice from Yasmin Atta,” I suggested. “She teaches classes here on makeup and clothing selection.”

  “I had no idea. Yasmin, the famous model and founder of Nightshades, Inc.? We never hear anything up here on three. And I can’t thank you enough for the suggestion. Yasmin would be perfect. She’s very tall, you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t, but I’m having lunch with her Wednesday.”

  “Isn’t that exciting!” Kara sat down and said, “Would you like to hear an excerpt from my chapter. It’s really hot, if I do say so myself. I’m sure the reviewers will put this book in the very sensual category. Isn’t that ironic? Women all over the country love my romances, and I can’t even get a date. Men just don’t want us to be really tall. Unless we look like Yasmin, of course.” She peered at her screen and began to read, “Parker rolled his muscular body over onto her slender—”

  Bruno sputtered and turned red. I quickly intervened, saying, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any help at all as a critic. I don’t read romances.”

  Kara giggled. “I should have known. Vera probably won’t let you. She gives me such a hard time about writing things that objectify women as sexual objects, instead of providing role models that will inspire them to overcome the prejudices of the patriarchy. I just tell her that I need a date more than I need a lecture.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to find out who killed Denise Faulk,” I said.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t. Denise was always very nice to me. Not everybody here is. And Vera certainly didn’t kill Denise. The police should be ashamed of themselves, and I told them so. I said it was probably some dope addict trying to rob the business office. Of course, they did-n’t pay any attention to me, except for the black policewoman, who said, ‘Jesus, you’re tall. How tall are you?’ I hate that.”


  “Did the center keep money in the business office?” I asked hopefully.

  “I have no idea, but it’s a good theory, don’t you think? It makes more sense than blaming Vera. I tried to visit her over the weekend, but you have to have an appointment, and I didn’t get there in time. They did let me leave the cookies I baked for her. Does she like cookies?”

  “Who doesn’t?” I replied diplomatically, and Bruno and I left to check out the other office on the third floor, Interfaith Women. He was very upset that the jail deputies had taken Kara’s cookies but refused his pizza.

  I must have misunderstood the remark about witches. Interfaith Women sounded like an ecumenical organization. A lady in sandals and flowing clothes let us in. She wasn’t wearing a flower crown, but she looked like a participant in an outdoor sixties wedding, and she introduced herself as Marigold Garland (Maria Fortuni’s Pansy Bouquet?). Still, she didn’t look like a witch. Not that I’d ever met one.

  Once we’d stated our business, Marigold sighed and said, “Vera wouldn’t want my help. She called me an idiot the last time I saw her. Goodness, she acts as if we’re a bunch of fruitcakes. Even the army—or is it the air force?—recognizes Wicca as an established religion. They authorized services at a base in Texas. It came out in our newsletter several years ago.”

  Marigold offered us chairs and provided cups of tea, each of which had a flower petal floating in it. “I bring the flowers from home,” said Marigold, “and I buy the tea at Crystals and Teas in the Haight.”

  I just hoped that the tea wasn’t a hallucinogen and the flowers poisonous. I have bushes in El Paso, oleanders, whose leaves and petals can kill a cat or even a baby, but Jason wouldn’t let me have them cut down. He said our children are too old and sensible to eat the leaves off our bushes when they come home from college.

  “I don’t know how I can help in finding Denise’s killer. No one from our group was here that night. Of course, we held a ceremony over the weekend to cleanse the building—spiritual cleansing. We didn’t actually scrub it down. I’m not sure they’ve been allowed to clean up the blood in the office. The police wouldn’t even let us in that room to chant.”

  “Maybe you’ve heard of someone who had a grudge against Denise,” I suggested.

  “Denise was well liked. She’s saved many women from. . . . Wait!” She held her hand up dramatically. “I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t you attend our ceremony tomorrow night? Maybe the Goddess will send us a sign to help with your investigation.”

  What goddess? I wondered. What kind of ceremony? “Actually, I just wanted to talk to people who might be able to help.” I emphasized the word people.

  “Then you must come. After the ceremony we have a social hour, herb tea and cookies. We have a channeler. Perhaps Jeanine could put you in contact with Denise herself. Denise probably knows who killed her.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Be here just before moonrise. The ceremony is in the backyard and the social hour in the kitchen. I just had another thought! Perhaps you mother’s arrest is punishment from the Goddess for her unkind words about our faith.”

  “My mother died when I was a child. Vera is my mother-in-law.”

  “You poor dear. Have you heard from her since she died? If you haven’t, our channeler will certainly have to try to put you in touch. That’s much more likely to be successful than trying to contact Denise, unless you were close to her.”

  “I never met her.”

  “There, you see.” Marigold beamed at me. “I’m sure you’ll find it very helpful to talk to your mother. Children who lose their parents at an early age so often have unresolved issues with the departed. It does help to talk it out with the late parent.”

  I fled. Bruno was right behind me, muttering that the church used to burn women like that. He wondered if the pope had heard that witchcraft was making a comeback.

  I was thinking that I shouldn’t let these strange encounters upset me. This was, after all, San Francisco.

  18

  The Perversity of Husbands and Mothers-in-Law

  Carolyn

  Back in the apartment at 4:30, I had to forego a nap to call Jason about dinner plans. The conference desk was reluctant to summon him from a session, but I assured them that it was an emergency concerning his mother. I didn’t mention that she was in jail, not in a hospital, as they undoubtedly surmised. Jason must have thought the same thing because he came on the line, saying, “What’s happened? Did the guards beat her up? Or the inmates?”

  Good! I thought. If he hadn’t yet realized how dangerous the murder accusation was, at least it had dawned on him that his mother, in jail among hardened criminals at her advanced age, was in danger. Not that I envied the hardened criminals, who were undoubtedly being subjected to feminist lectures. “I haven’t heard from Vera,” I replied. “Did your father hire the detective?”

  “You called me from a meeting to ask about a detective?” he exclaimed. “Well, the answer is yes. Dad’s friend recommended one, and he hired the fellow, so you don’t have to feel responsible for the investigation. I hope you haven’t been doing anything dangerous today.”

  “I had a lunch concocted by the Food Stamp Gourmet group, which was dangerous to the sensibilities of anyone who doesn’t relish banana and cheese casseroles.”

  Jason laughed. “That should make a good column, but don’t say you’re planning to subject me to the dish.”

  “Never,” I promised.

  “Look, I’ve got to get back. I’ll be home between 6:30 and 7:00.”

  “Just meet me at a restaurant called Eliza on Eighteenth Street. They’re reputed to have wonderful Chinese food, an interesting décor, and a collection of art glass. Invite your father and the detective.”

  “Well, Dad, sure I’ll invite him, but you don’t need to meet the detective.”

  “Of course I do. I have information to pass on.”

  “Carolyn, what have you been doing? I specifically asked you not to—”

  “If you don’t care what happens to your mother, you might at least consider the effect on our children of having a grandmother convicted of a particularly gruesome murder.”

  “Gruesome? All the more reason for you to—”

  “I’m sure a few more days in jail will lure your mother to my point of view. I’m told that the food is so bad an Irish terrorist, accustomed to English dungeon food, filed a complaint.”

  “Mother doesn’t care about—”

  “I’ll make the reservation for four people. See you at 7:00.” I then hung up to avoid further argument, and settled down for a nap. I should have known better. I had no more than fallen into a comfy doze when the phone rang. In case it was Jason, I let the answering machine pick up, the result of which was that I had to scramble to the office before Vera hung up.

  “Did you just get in?” she asked, sounding peeved.

  “No, I just hit my arm on a dining room chair,” I replied, rubbing a painful bruise. “But I have spent the day at the center, Vera, and I have some good leads on Denise’s murder.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to leave it to the police?” she snapped. “If the murderer hears that you’re nosing around, you’ll be the next person dead. Denise was a veritable sieve when I got to her. And blood. You wouldn’t believe—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I retorted peevishly. “We’re going to get you freed, no matter how much fun you’re having in jail.”

  “My goodness, you’re in a bad mood. Still, I don’t want you getting yourself murdered. Gwen and Chris will blame me, and I’d never hear the end of it from Jason. On the other hand, since you’ve been to the center, I have an errand for you. Did you meet Maude Kosinski? She’s the head of Working Women.”

  “No, they were having a meeting on three when I stopped by her office.”

  “Meetings are the ultimate waste of time. If organizations would stop having meetings, they’d get twice as much done. Tell Maude I’m sending he
r a client. Have you got a pencil?”

  I found one in a side drawer and took down the information. Hispanic female. Jesusita Gomez. Nineteen. Single mother. Two children. To be released from jail Wednesday. Find her a job, housing, child care. Vera suggests starting a Jail-to-Work program in addition to the other three.

  “Will the head of the program want to deal with a criminal?” I asked.

  “I should hope so,” Vera snapped. “There are all sorts of organizations to help male parolees. We need to help the women, too. And assure Maude that this girl isn’t some dangerous psychopath.” She snorted with laughter, and I thought how few times I’d heard Vera laugh. Jail seemed to have improved her sense of humor. “Jesusita stupidly fell in love with a drug dealer and got scooped up when they arrested him. Poor girl’s frantic because her children have gone into foster care.”

  “Doesn’t she have any relatives who could take them?” I asked, imagining the horror of being unjustly arrested and then having one’s babies put in foster care. If she was only nineteen, the children had to be very young. One might even be nursing. “I’ll talk to Ms. Kowolski tomorrow.”

  “Kosinski,” Vera corrected. “Maybe you can help Maude while you’re here. That should keep you out of trouble if you can’t find enough restaurants to review.”

  “You are so irritating, Vera. If you want me to help your friend Jesusita, you’ll just have to let me schedule my time as I please. And since I’ve asked everyone else, I’ll ask you. Who had a reason to kill Denise?”

  “Nobody that I know had any better reason than I did,” said Vera sharply. “If you actually have some suspects, give their names to the police. It’s perfectly ridiculous for a housewife to be out looking for a murderer.”

  “I’m not a housewife anymore. I’m a professional writer. Just like you. Except more people read what I write.”

  Vera was chuckling when I hung up. Too bad I hadn’t fought back from the beginning. We might have been friends.