“She likes the number eighteen that goes up to the Legion of Honor. The driver don’t hassle her, an’ she says her folks like the view up there. That’s who she talks to, but they ain’t here. They’re dead. Old man died in prison after he killed the mother. Gotta feel sorry for a girl don’t hardly talk to no one but dead people. She’s probably jus’ ridin’ around and sleepin’ up on the golf course. That’s what she does.”
“Thanks.” I bought a fake driver’s license just to be friendly. Then I went back to the street and my bike, which was being circled by two would-be bike thieves. I picked one up by the back of his belt and lifted him, screeching, away from my Harley. The other one ran. Well, I had a bus number. All I had to do was find whoever had been driving last Thursday night. Not that I considered Bad Girl much of a suspect. Too pathetic to be a successful murderer. I glanced at my watch. Almost ten. I’d have to shift out of Froggie language to appease Carolyn.
31
Abuser and Wife
Carolyn
Some mornings are impossible. After that tremor that didn’t wake Jason, he woke me before sunrise to say goodbye, promising to be back by 6:30. Then Paul Labadie called at 7:30 and woke me up again to give me the names of three restaurants he thought I’d want to try for my column. While taking down Paul’s recommendations, I noticed the answering machine blinking, something I’d forgotten to look for last night.
The message was from Vera. “Be sure that they’re expecting Jesusita at the center. She’ll be out of jail by noon and go straight over. And Carolyn, Margaret tells me that you showed up at the center on a motorcycle and joined the Interfaith Women for one of their peculiar meetings. I suppose you know by now that they think they’re witches. Still, I’m relieved to hear that you’ve taken up new interests. Your father-in-law and I enjoyed riding his motorcycle when we were young and foolish.”
That was news to me.
“At least you’ve given up investigating the murder for pursuits less dangerous, although motorcycle riders should wear leather clothing, which protects their skin, if not their bones. Of course, nothing protects the head except a helmet. I hope you have one. I’ll let you know when that female detective arrives to apologize and release me.”
Ah, Vera, I thought, how little you know. I called the center to remind them about Jesusita. Working Women wasn’t open, but the director’s secretary, back from childbirth, took the message. She advised me not to come in myself because the director didn’t like me and was in a foul mood. I had no more than thrown myself back in bed and closed my eyes when my alarm went off. I rose, grumbling, to dress for my nine o’clock appointment with Sam, who called at 9:00 to say he wouldn’t be by until 10:00. So there I was with an hour to waste and nothing in the house for breakfast. Fine. Sam could buy me breakfast to make up for arriving late. I started calling restaurants and got, by using Paul’s name and my profession, reservations at Foreign Cinema—what an odd name—for tonight, La Folie for tomorrow, and Delfina for Friday. Then I called the airline and confirmed our reservation to fly home Saturday evening after the anniversary celebration at the center. With luck Sam and I would have cleared Vera by then.
Sam showed up at 10:10 and took me down the hill to Bob’s Donuts, and here I’d been fantasizing about Eggs Benedict. While we were waiting for said donuts, I told him about one Frank Marrayat, who couldn’t afford eggs for breakfast in San Francisco during the Gold Rush, so ordered the less-expensive “Fricassee de Lapin,” which turned out to be squirrel, not rabbit. “He liked squirrel, can you imagine?”
“Sure,” Sam replied. “He’s the guy who was so hungry he said he wouldn’t have refused a ‘fat Sacramento rat.’ ”
“You know everything, don’t you?”
“Well, I know we have to go next door for coffee.” He picked up the Sam-size bag of donuts, and we left. Next door I discovered that Sam had ordered me an apple fritter; it was large enough to feed a family of four. While I nibbled, he told me of his morning calls and his visit to a counterfeiter named Froggie, who had given him the number of a bus route Bad Girl was known to travel. I complained about being excluded from the Froggie visit, which sounded quite interesting—I’ve never met a counterfeiter—but Sam said he was saving me for Ray Faulk’s wife. He considered the stepson an excellent candidate to take Vera’s place in jail and thought a respectable woman more likely to get information from Mrs. Faulk than a scary man like himself. How could I argue with that?
En route to Mrs. Faulk’s house, Sam actually took a call on his cell phone. If people got killed talking on cell phones while driving cars, how much more dangerous to do so on a motorcycle. I tried to get him to hang up, but by the time I’d secured his attention, we’d stopped at a red light, and Sam told me to shut up—not very polite—because his snitch was reporting on Freddie Piñon.
“We may have lost Freddie,” he admitted gloomily as we parked near the Faulk house. “He was seen standing drinks for some of his gangbanger buddies and bragging that he was going to buy a car and drive to LA.” Sam sighed. “Unless we develop some good evidence against him, we won’t be able to get him back.”
“My poor mother-in-law. She could go to prison because we didn’t catch Freddie Piñon before he left town.”
“We don’t know he’s gone yet. It’s not that easy to buy a car when the cops are looking for you. And if he killed Denise, he’s going to think they are, and living in a vacant building isn’t the place to hear about who’s been arrested instead of you. My snitch says Freddie can’t read, so he’s mostly got no access to news.
“Now about your talk with Mrs. Faulk. Remember he’s abused her so she’s scared of him, and with Denise dead, she’s got no one to protect her. You’ll have to be careful, but what you want to find out is where he was Thursday night. I’ll be in that coffee shop across the street, keeping an eye on who goes in and out of the house. Ask for him. If he’s not there, say you want to talk to her. If he answers the door, say you got the wrong address. If she goes to get him, run. If he comes home, I’ll follow him in to be sure you stay safe. OK?”
It was frightening to think that Mr. Faulk might attack me, but if he was the murderer. . . . Still, I felt reasonably safe with Sam as my protector, and I didn’t have to tell Jason about this. Sam headed for the coffee shop and I, for the narrow row house.
As I climbed the steps, I cast a last glance at the coffee shop that held Sam and then one through the front bay window. San Francisco must have more bay windows per capita than any city in the United States. I could see into the living room where a woman in a gray dress sat on a sofa with her hands folded in her lap. She was perfectly still. I rang the bell twice before she answered. When I asked for the “man of the house,” she replied that he was at work. When I followed my first request with one to speak to her, she nodded and motioned me in without even asking my business. A strange woman.
Glancing at a card I took from my purse, as if consulting the printing there, I said, “Are you Mrs. Teresa Faulk?” She nodded. It’s hard to strike up a conversation with a person who has nothing to say. “I’m from the Union Street Center.” At that she looked up, and her eyes glistened, perhaps with tears. “My name is Carolyn Blue.” She nodded. “My mother-in-law has been arrested for the murder of yours.” What a subtle approach, Carolyn. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Faulk’s demise.”
“Denise was a wonderful woman,” she said. “And I’m sure your mother-in-law is a fine woman. I am sorry for her predicament.”
“Thank you. I wondered if you or your husband have any idea who might have disliked Mrs. Faulk enough to kill her.”
“My husband did not like her. He did not even allow me to go to her memorial service. However, he was at work the night she was killed, as he is every night after dinner.”
“I believe she was attacked between 8:30 and 9:00.”
“Then he was at the Faulk Building south of Market Street. It is still called the Faulk Building although my father-in-law sold the comp
any before his death. Now my husband works harder than ever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said politely. “I understand that your mother-in-law was very helpful during a time when you had some . . . ah . . . trouble with your husband.”
“Yes, my husband broke my jaw and arm because he was very angry that I went back to work. However, you should understand that we were happy for many years. I came to San Francisco from the Philippines to work as a nurse in a hospital. There I met my husband, who was having his tonsils out. Removal of tonsils can be very troublesome for an adult. I felt very sorry for my husband, and we fell in love.”
She spoke in a monotone, staring at her hands, her face quite expressionless. Was this typical of an abused wife? “But he did not want you to work after you were married?”
“I only found that out when I secured a job as a nurse in a doctor’s office after our second child began school. I did not have enough to do and thought he would be pleased to have the extra income since we had just bought this house. Such was the way in America, I thought. But my husband beat me for displeasing him. The second time this happened, I had to quit my job to keep secret my shame.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Faulk.” Good grief, the woman sounded like a zombie.
“Yes, but the third time there was no keeping of secrets because I had to go to the hospital for treatment. Broken bones do not heal without medical attention, and my children were very frightened. When my mother-in-law came to see me, I confessed my problem, and she said to my husband that if he beat me again, she would go to his father, who would be very angry. My husband was angry with both of us, but he stopped beating me because, even though his father was sick, Raymond was afraid of him. I then took care of my father-in-law, for which he insisted on paying me, which again made my husband angry.”
“Your husband sounds like a . . . a ferocious man.”
“He was not always so, but he has changed. When his father died and left much money to my mother-in-law, my husband forbade me to see her anymore or to leave this house. He comes home for each meal to be sure that I am here. I think I will divorce him. As you are from the center, which looks after the welfare of women, perhaps you can advise me on how to go about this.”
“Divorcing your husband?” I had no idea what to tell her. “You could ask Margaret Hanrahan. She’s their lawyer and handles cases for clients.”
“Yes. That would be the first thing. A lawyer. And then a job so that I can support my children.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Teresa? And who the hell are you?”
The last was addressed to me. Ray Faulk had evidently come home for lunch. How clever of him. It was only 11:30. “I came to extend my sympathies to you and your wife over the death of Mrs. Faulk,” I improvised. If I hadn’t been sitting on their sofa, I’d have fallen down in fright. “Such a terrible thing.”
“Get out!”
“This is Mrs. Blue, Raymond,” said Teresa. “It is her—”
“As in Vera Blue? Why are you nosing around here?”
“Take it easy, Ray, old boy.” Sam had come up behind him and laid a giant hand on his arm. “The lady is paying a courtesy call, and you’re not being very courteous.”
Ray Faulk whirled aggressively, took a good look at Sam, and backed up. “I don’t know you.”
“No. Well, I’m a private detective. Sam Flamboise.”
“The linebacker?”
“Was once. So now that we’re buddies, how about you tell me where you were when your stepmother was getting killed?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, and I resent the implication. They have the murderer. Are you two trying to put the blame on an innocent, grieving relative?”
Teresa Faulk looked so astonished at her husband’s description of himself as a grieving relative that he moved menacingly in her direction. Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the doorway. “You know better than to let strangers in the house,” Faulk said, grabbing his wife’s arm. She gasped in pain.
“Ease off, Faulk, we’re leaving. But maybe you should keep in mind that violence against any woman, particularly another member of your family, would make you look like a good candidate for your stepmother’s murder.”
Faulk dropped Teresa’s arm, and she cowered away from him. Had it finally come home to her that her husband might actually have killed the woman who had rescued her? “We can’t leave her alone with him, Sam,” I whispered as he held the door open for me.
“You wanna come along with us, ma’am?” Sam asked Teresa Faulk.
“No,” she said. “It would be better if my husband left.”
“I’m not going anywhere, you dumb wog.”
“Please do not call me a wog. If you do not leave, I will call the police and report that you have injured me.” She held out her arm, on which angry red fingerprints showed. “I know where to find the files of my previous injuries, and there are hospital records. I do not think you will wish to stay under these circumstances, Raymond. Especially, if you killed Denise, for which I will never forgive you.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Blue and Mr. . . . ah . . . Sam for the insight you have given me on this matter.” With that she went to the door to shake our hands. There being little else we could do in the circumstances, we left.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt her?” I asked.
“I doubt he’s got the guts,” said Sam. “What did you find out?”
“She said he was at work when Denise was killed, that he always goes back after dinner, and that she’s not allowed to leave the house.”
“That’s a woman who needs to get a divorce, and we need to find out if he was at work that night.”
I was pleased to see that Raymond Faulk had left the house too. He cast us a furious look, climbed into his car, and roared away.
32
Zaré: Lunch with a Fashion Plate
Carolyn
“Can we get to the financial district by one o’clock?” I asked Sam. “I’m meeting Yasmin Atta. She was at the center when Denise was killed.”
“Right, and Zaré should provide a column,” Sam suggested.
“Well, that’s good news. Ah . . . did you want to come along?”
“I’ve got to check out if Raymond Faulk was really at his office that night.”
“Good idea.” Then I had an idea myself—leather pants. Vera hadn’t mentioned pants particularly, just leather as the fabric of choice for motorcycling, and Bebe had said Recycled Chic had reasonably priced leather pants. “Why don’t we meet at the center at 3:30? Do we have many stops to make this afternoon? Jason and I have reservations at Foreign Cinema for 7:30.”
“There’s one interview I want you to do—Marcus Croker’s wife.”
Ah, the mean policeman. As long as he wasn’t there, I didn’t mind talking to his wife, and Officer Croker worked 4:00 P.M. to midnight according to Sam. Just then we passed the Transamerica Pyramid, shining glass from its base to its tip high over the financial district. The Montgomery Block Building had stood there until 1959, filled with low-rent studios for artists and writers. Did the office workers there now hear the ghostly whispers of the city’s cultural past?
Yasmin Atta was fifteen minutes late, so I had time to peruse the menu and admire the décor at Zaré. Which was beautiful, especially the copper ceiling swathed with filmy white scarves. I sat on the wall side of a banquette done in a grosgrain fabric with colors ranging from dark red to peach. After ordering a glass of pino grigio, the Crab Cakes in Whole-Grain Mustard Sauce caught my eye. I do love crab cakes.
My lunch companion arrived, escorted to the table by the proprietor, Hoss Zaré, dark-haired and charming. And Yasmin Atta—what can I say? Slender, over six feet tall with a long, graceful neck, close-cropped black hair, satin dark skin, and the carriage of a princess. And her clothes! They flowed and shimmered. I’ve often felt too sedately dressed, but never before too short.
We int
roduced ourselves, she immediately chose the Wild Mushroom Soup from the list of specials mentioned by the Chinese waiter, and then she recommended it to me. Although I had ordered crab cakes, I took her suggestion as well. Unfortunately, Ms. Atta did not order anything else; she did tell the waiter to bring her soup immediately. Then she apologized for being late and, in advance, for leaving early because she had a meeting with someone who had developed a new line of lip creams for women of color.
“Oh my goodness, that’s what Nightshades means,” I said.
“What did you think it meant?” she asked.
Now I was embarrassed. “Well, my husband does research on toxins. I’m afraid when I heard the name of your company, my mind immediately jumped to—the poison,” I finished in a small voice.
“There’s a poison named nightshade? Lord help us. That could be a problem when we launch the IPO.”
“What’s an IPO?”
“Initial public offering. Of stock in the company. I want to raise money to expand.”
“Congratulations,” I said, glad she didn’t want to expand a company that made poisons. Since she was leaving early, I got right to the point. “I’m investigating the murder of Denise Faulk, and I wondered what you could tell me about that night, or if you can give me the name of anyone who might have had reason to murder her.”
The waiter put down her soup and my crab cakes. Did they specialize in the fastest service in San Francisco, or were they accommodating her schedule? The latter evidently, because I heard a woman say, “Aren’t those my crab cakes? I ordered before she did.” I quickly took a bite before the waiter could take mine away, and oh, my! They were wonderful! Crispy outside, deliciously flavored inside with crab and yummy taste enhancers, and served with an ambrosial mustard sauce, garnished with watercress.
I wondered if watercress might be the winter purslane called miner’s lettuce in gold rush days. Ten thousand miners died of scurvy in three years, but many survived by eating purslane. Sailors dying in a city hospital were told by a visiting minister to walk out on the hills and collect the lettuce for salads with vinegar. Because of his advice, they lived.
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