On Sunday morning our little trio was assembled in Aaron’s suite and checked that we had all our essentials. Before we left, I excused myself to go back to my and Sara’s room for something I’d forgotten. My real reason was to leave Aaron and Sara alone for a short while so they could talk and get a bit better acquainted. When I returned, we gathered our gear and headed for the airport, ready for adventure.
****
It was clear that Aaron liked Sara immediately, especially appreciating her cheerful demeanor, which seemed to lighten the atmosphere. I guess I was “all business” on what was, after all, a business trip; and Aaron was still excited and a bundle of nerves all at once. Sara, on the other hand, having accepted my characterization of the trip as a two-week all-expenses-paid holiday, was clearly determined to make the most of it.
As we arrived at the Alaska Airlines check-in, Sara looked around and asked Aaron, “Where’s your violin? Aren’t you going to L.A. for a recital or something?”
Aaron laughed. “You mean my priceless Guarneri?” He gave Sara a friendly wink. “I never take it on a plane with me. I shipped it ahead with a secure carrier. I’ll pick it up when I arrive in L.A.”
“Oh, I see. No, I guess I wouldn’t trust the airline baggage handlers with it.”
“Nor the overhead luggage compartment. I could have bought it a seat on the plane, but I’d rather not have to watch it constantly. No, this is a much less stressful way to go.”
“Absolutely. But wait…you said it’s not a real Guarneri, just a copy. So why…?”
Aaron laughed. “Because I have to treat it as if it is priceless, to maintain the illusion, which is the reason I bought the copy, right?”
I was glad Aaron was thinking of such details. I’m not sure that one would have occurred to me.
After a bit of small talk and hugs, we two girls and Aaron entered the terminal separately, so as not to draw attention to the fact that we were traveling together. This was at my request, as I knew Aaron was a very recognizable celebrity, and in my line of work the less I’m noticed, the better. Besides, if we were going to pull off this job together, there could be a need down the line for each of us to deny we had ever even met the others.
I had managed to fit everything I needed into one medium-sized suitcase and a carry-on. Sara, on the other hand, who, as I mentioned, was unconcerned with weight restrictions, seemed to have packed for a world tour. A porter had carried her very large suitcase to the check-in counter, but when it came time to weigh it, she had trouble lifting it onto the scale. At first she was determined to manage by herself, but after two tries and a warning message from her back, her independent streak collapsed and she gratefully accepted my offer of help.
Aaron was a few places behind us in line, carrying only a small suitcase, a garment bag for his tux, and a day pack as a carry-on. He seemed to be smirking just a little at Sara’s heavyweight dilemma. She stuck out her tongue at him just far enough to send a subtle message that only he would notice.
****
The flight to the Bay Area was uneventful, at least at the outset. Aaron had sprung for first class tickets, the first time either Sara or I had flown in anything but steerage. He had seated us together, with him behind. No one was in the seat next to him.
Seating was two abreast; and speaking of breasts, I couldn’t help but notice Aaron staring at mine as I stretched to place my carry-on in the overhead compartment. He was not exactly leering, just politely appreciating the view. I didn’t mind. I knew I was wearing a tight sweater; I knew I had a good figure, and to be honest, I probably would’ve been a bit disappointed if Aaron had been completely uninterested. I filed his reaction away for future reference.
During the flight, Aaron and I enjoyed several of the amenities of First Class, such as complimentary drinks, fluffy pillows, and a gourmet lunch; but we didn’t enjoy them half as much as did Sara, who clearly thought this was the only way to fly. I had to discourage her from overindulging in food and beverages, assuring her that there would be plenty to eat and drink in San Francisco.
We were about halfway there when a stewardess distributed copies of the San Francisco Chronicle to anyone who wanted one. I accepted a newspaper and began casually perusing the pages.
Suddenly I gave a sharp intake of breath. I turned around and gestured frantically at Aaron. As we weren’t supposed to be noticed as being together, he was no doubt surprised I would make such an obvious error of judgment and tried to ignore me. But when he saw the look on my face, he took the open newspaper I was handing him and looked at the place on the page to which I was pointing.
It went something like this:
UNEXPLAINED MURDER PROBED: Police in Redwood City reported finding the body of a man identified as Fredrick Ballard. Ballard, who had a long criminal record and had just recently been released from jail in Seattle, was found in a motel room in downtown Redwood City. He had been shot in the chest, apparently several days ago. Police are seeking clues to the assailant’s motive, which apparently was not simple robbery, as Ballard’s wallet, which contained over a hundred thousand dollars in cash, had not been taken. There appeared to have been a struggle before Ballard was killed. The murder weapon was not found.
According to police records, Ballard had shared an apartment in Seattle with a petty thief named Donny Martin. Martin was found shot to death in his apartment last week, and police speculate that whoever killed Martin may also have killed Ballard, but a motive has yet to be discovered. Our sources say one suspect in the Martin murder has been arrested, but no details were available.
All the article failed to add was the name of that prime suspect, a certain lady burglar.
I hurriedly unbuckled my seatbelt, stood up and slid in next to Aaron. Appearances would have to take second place to our need to discuss this new—and ugly—wrinkle in our plans.
“I guess that confirms what your friend Rafael told you,” I said, “that Ballard had the violin and traded it for a shitload of money.”
Aaron nodded.
“But then who killed him? Not your friend Rafael, I hope.”
“Absolutely not,” Aaron said quickly. “No chance. And besides, why would he give Ballard the money—which had to be that cash in his wallet—then kill him, but leave without taking the money back?”
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “But does that mean the same person who killed Martin killed Ballard? Or was Ballard killed in revenge for his killing Martin?”
“I have no idea. One thing’s clear, though. This job keeps getting more dangerous by the minute.”
Just then we hit an air pocket, the plane dipped, and, not having put on the seat belt, I was thrown to the side and against Aaron. He caught my arm and steadied me. The ride smoothed out, but he still held onto my hand.
“So maybe this guy Ballard comes back from prison,” Aaron said after I had stabilized. He was looking a bit grave. “Martin shows him the violin or tells him about it and about Sanders, and Ballard decides he’ll take the violin and make a deal for himself. He kills Martin in the process and heads south to deal with Sanders. Then someone kills Ballard, but apparently not for the violin, which had already been delivered to Sanders, or for the money in his wallet. If so, then we have no idea who killed Ballard, and Martin’s killer is now dead and the chances of proving he did it have gotten a lot slimmer.”
Which of course meant that the chances of proving I didn’t kill Martin just got a lot slimmer as well.
“I guess one thing hasn’t changed, though,” Aaron continued. “The best chance we have of finding both my violin and proof that Martin was killed as part of a scheme to get it is at the home of the man who orchestrated that scheme.”
Which of course was Chez Sanders.
****
We landed at San Francisco International and once off the plane made for the baggage carousel. I was walking with Sara, and suddenly I gripped her arm so tightly I probably cut off the circulation.
“What is it
, Flo?” she asked, looking at me and seeing a bit of panic.
I relaxed my grip on her arm and took a deep breath.
“Nothing, nothing,” I said once I’d composed myself. “I saw that police officer over there looking over the passengers, and suddenly I had this silly idea the police had found out I was leaving the state and were looking for me. It’s hell being wanted for murder…”
“Don’t be silly,” Sara said. “You’re not wanted for murder. And even if you are…I mean even if they think…oh, never mind. You’ll be fine.” And she turned and gave me a little hug, and I felt better. We were going to find out who killed Donny Martin, and then I’d put all this behind me. And it couldn’t be too soon.
****
When all three of us had collected our luggage, we set out to find the car rental desks. Aaron was to rent a car, while Sara and I arrived at the hotel separately by taxi, again keeping our connection as invisible as possible. When we arrived at the hotel, likely at different times, we would check in separately.
Aaron stopped at a rental desk and Sara and I went on to the taxi stand. As Sara and I strolled along, I asked her whether she and Aaron had had a nice chat in his suite while I was gone.
“We did. He seems really nice, and down-to-earth, just like you said. Not what I would’ve expected from a big celebrity.”
“So what did you talk about?”
For some reason, Sara seemed a little reluctant to answer that question, so I prompted further.
“Come on, you must’ve talked about something. The weather? His violin? Me?”
Sara looked at me a bit sheepishly. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You talked about me?”
“Well, Aaron said he had a question he’d been wanting to ask me, being your best friend and all, and this was his chance. So I told him to go ahead and ask.”
She certainly had my interest. “And what did he want to know?”
“He wanted to know how you happened to become a burglar. Sort of, ‘What’s a nice girl like her doing in a profession like that?’”
“Fair enough. And what did you tell him? That I thought it was safer than bank robbery and less messy than murder?”
Sara laughed. “Not exactly. I just told him the truth. That you’d always liked ‘living on the edge’ and taking risks, that you grew up poor, found yourself tempted by all the wonderful things you found while cleaning houses, and finally decided to acquire some for yourself. Like Robin Hood, but without the part about giving to the poor what you take from the rich.”
“Hmm. So what did he say?”
“Not much. He didn’t seem too judgmental. After all, he hired a burglar, which is almost the same as being one.”
Then her tone changed a little. “To tell the truth, Flo, I think he really likes you, and he was glad to have a way to put your little, uh, peculiarity to one side.”
“While still taking advantage of it, of course,” I said.
“Of course. He seems to be practical, as well as rich and famous and reasonably good looking.”
Sara had that look in her eye, the “it’s about time you hooked up with someone” look, and I didn’t want any part of it. Not then, anyway.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “This is strictly business, and any distractions can only screw up the mission we’re on. And besides, famous violinists usually hook up with famous actresses or gorgeous models, not forty-something minor league burglars.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I’m just sayin’…”
“Well don’t. But I’m glad he’s satisfied with your explanation; it’ll make everything a lot easier. So did you discuss anything other than me?”
“Well, after I told him about you, he wanted to know about me.”
“What about you?”
“Why I’m still friends with you, knowing your…your profession.”
“And what’d you say?”
“I first told him it was for the twenty-five percent cut of the loot you gave me, but when I saw he was taking me seriously and seemed kind of horrified, I told him the truth. You know, that we’d been close friends since school, and when you told me about your change of profession, I decided I’d rather remain friends than turn you in to the police. I pointed out we all have our little failings.”
“Maybe not so little in my case, but you know how much I appreciate your sticking with me. Anything else?”
“He asked whether this was the first time I’d actually participated in one of your…adventures.”
“And you said…”
“And I said it was the first time I’d joined you willingly, and that I still didn’t intend to get anywhere near the action. Just along for the ride.”
I fervently hoped that ride wouldn’t get too bumpy, for both our sakes.
****
As promised, Aaron had put us up at the ritzy Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill. Again to avoid a direct connection between him and us, and to keep my name out of it as much as possible, Sara made the reservation in her name and paid for us both. Aaron had given each of us an advance to avoid our maxing out our credit cards. Mine, at least, maxes easily.
The Fairmont suited Sara and me just fine. The cable car ran by its door; the Mark Hopkins Hotel, with its famous Top of the Mark lounge, was across the street; and our suite had a killer view and all the comforts of home—someone else’s home, of course, someone much wealthier than either of us.
The hotel consisted of its original, turn-of-the-century building and a modern tower. Our suite, 507, was on the fifth floor, while Aaron’s was on the ninth, the top floor, both in the original wing. We girls and Aaron distributed ourselves in our allotted quarters and freshened up.
While I took a quick shower, Sara looked around, perusing the literature lying on the entrance table, including information about tourist attractions and the hotel itself.
When I’d finished my shower and dried off, I relinquished the bathroom to Sara.
“Did you know,” Sara asked as she pulled off her sweater and bra, “this place was started before the 1906 earthquake? I mean, this very building.”
“Really? Kind of gives you confidence it’ll hold up at least as long as we’ll be staying here.”
“A lot more likely than some of the flimsy things they’re putting up these days, I’ll bet.” And with that cynical observation, Sara stepped out of her skirt and panties and into the shower.
After everyone had had a chance to unpack and relax a bit, and Aaron had phoned to make sure Sara and I were “decent,” he made his way down to the fifth floor and knocked on our door. It was opened by Sara.
With a perfectly straight face, Aaron asked, “Did someone here order a violinist?”
Sara turned around and called across the room to me, “Did we order a violinist?”
“No,” I said, “I think it was a cellist. Room service is always getting them confused. But tell him to come in anyway and we’ll make do.”
Aaron laughed, as Sara stepped back to let him in.
“Sorry, they were all out of cellists and thought you wouldn’t notice the difference,” he said to me.
“Typical.” Then getting down to business, I asked him, “When are you leaving for Los Angeles?”
“On Monday—tomorrow, that is. I have to be there for a rehearsal by three o’clock in the afternoon. The concerts are on Wednesday and Thursday. With luck, I’ll be back here on Friday. Saturday at the latest.”
I nodded and proceeded to outline my schedule for the same days.
“By the time you’re back, we should be ready to make our final plans, based on what Sara and I learn during the week.”
“Just so I don’t end up having to put on a maid’s uniform. My legs are not my most flattering feature.”
I was tempted to say that indeed they were, but I decided Aaron might not take it as a joke, so I settled for, “We’ll try to find you a more macho disguise if we can.”
We toasted our future success with gin from t
he mini bar, and then we agreed to get together as soon as Aaron returned from Los Angeles. Satisfied things were in good hands, Aaron returned to his room to prepare for his flight in the morning.
When he had left, Sara asked me, “Did you ever get all of the details about the house and such that you asked Aaron for?”
“Well, mostly. I know the people he employs and I found a picture of Sanders, but it’s from quite a while ago. I have a pretty good plan of the house. But what I don’t have, and I wish I did, is exactly where that violin is being kept. Apparently Aaron’s friend Rafael had no way of finding out without raising suspicion, since it’s really none of his business. So we’ll just play it by ear, I guess.”
The pun was unintentional, and we both laughed. But when it came to burglary, I much would have preferred to be playing this violin from precisely written music.
****
Monday morning Aaron left for Los Angeles. Sara and I took the day to relax and do the “tourist thing,” as Sara referred to it, not knowing just how much time we’d have for such activities once the Operation had begun in earnest. Starting out very early, we took both cable car lines from one end to the other. We visited Fisherman’s Wharf (Sara bought a charm in the shape of a fish), Golden Gate Park (Sara bought a charm in the shape of a tree), Union Street (the Golden Gate Bridge), Chinatown (a Buddha), and the Zoo (a tiger). On the suggestion of my friend Lori, who had once lived in San Francisco, we took the outdoor glass elevator up the 32-story tower of the St Francis Hotel, overlooking Union Square. A few seconds after takeoff we found ourselves hanging out in space, soaring upward, with no apparent means of support. “Best free ride in the City,” Lori had said, and I had to agree.
In the evening we chose from the hundreds of wonderful restaurants in the guidebook Sara had brought along, and we enjoyed a gourmet dinner, all on Aaron of course. We concluded our adventure with mai tais at the Hurricane Bar in the Fairmont’s Tonga Room, laughing when caught in one of the periodic tropical rain storms that pass noisily through the restaurant each evening. We had to discourage half a dozen gentlemen from picking us up (much to Sara’s regret), and we had to retire to bed much earlier than we would have liked; but even Sara realized we needed our beauty sleep.
Murder with Strings Attached Page 8
