A Novel Crime: The Prequel for the St. Marin’s Cozy Mystery Series

by ACF Bookens

  “I kicked Trevor out.”

  “Girl, no! It’s about time.”

  I laughed out loud and began to cry.

  Mart paid the bill and then loaded me into her car. After she got me home, she pulled out a pile of blankets, grabbed a tub of mint chocolate chip from the fridge, turned on Beverly Hills Chihuahua, and proceeded to distract me by trying to imitate all the dogs in the movie. Aslan was not amused. But by the time my best friend left around midnight, I was both feeling better and completely exhausted. In fact, I was so tired that I almost slept through my alarm and missed my appointment with Coach Sheridan.

  Luckily, the bus was waiting at 25th when I walked out onto Lake Street.. I rode the few blocks to the park and then caught another bus down Fulton to the windmill, where the trainers all hung out while the runners did their miles.

  I saw Coach from a block away and smiled. He was broad in the shoulders and had blond hair with just a little gray at the temples. His eyes were bright green, and he smiled a lot, especially at me, which I’d pretended not to notice, being a married woman and all. But now, feeling spry and free, I let myself give him a big smile back.

  “Harvey!” He gave me a gentle hug before holding me out at arm’s length and looking at my legs. “Looks like the hip is mostly better.”

  “Mostly. I still get a good ache at night when I go to sleep, but yoga helps.”

  “A good chiropractor can do wonders too, you know?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll remember that. Listen, I have a question for you. Did you know Juan Montague very well?”

  Coach gave me a sharp glance. “Not that well. Why do you ask?”

  I was a bit puzzled by the defensiveness in his voice but maybe I’d be defensive too if someone I knew had just been murdered and someone came asking questions. “Oh, I’m just being nosy. I was the one—“ I almost told him about being the one who found the body, but then held back, figuring it might be better not to give too much away. “I mean, I read about his murder in the paper and remembered he was a coach. I was a little worried. Didn’t know if you and he were close or anything.”

  Coach’s shoulders dropped. “Not really. I mean we sometimes got lunch after training, but nothing much. He ran in way different circles than I did.”

  David Sheridan was a quintessential beach guy. I had heard he was a regular out on the waves at Ocean Beach and contemplated taking a long walk down there some Sunday morning to see if I could see him in action.

  He wasn’t the schmoozing type, and I didn’t think he had a lot of money, if his beat-up Nissan van was any indicator. Probably spends his spare cash on surf boards and competitions, I thought.

  “Still, it’s sad,” Coach said as he tucked his laces into the tennis shoes in his hand and dropped them into his duffle bag. “Juan seemed like a good guy, if a little too nosy about real estate sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?” Now my antennae were up. “Real estate?”

  “Well, I own this little place down in the Sunset. Just a little bungalow from back in the 50s. Nothing fancy. It needs a good overhaul actually, but I like it. Keeps me close to the water.”

  “Sounds comfortable,” I said. “But yeah, not exactly the multimillion-dollar kind of place it seemed like Montague was into, at least from what I read in the papers.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but he kept prodding me about it. Asking me if I wanted to sell. I must have told him no a dozen times, and he kept at it. I finally got mad and told him to back off.”

  That didn’t seem like the way Coach usually handled things, but I could understand. The guy was bugging Coach about his home. I wouldn’t like that either. “What did he say to that?”

  Coach ran his hand through his hair. “It was weird. He told me that I’d be sorry I hadn’t just taken his offer when I could.”

  “Whoa, a threat then?”

  “I guess. Like I said it was weird.” Coach waved to someone behind me and, when I turned to look, I saw a cute, young, red-headed woman jogging up. “It was really nice chatting, Harvey. Thanks for checking on me. But I’ve gotta go. Catch you later.”

  “Sure.” I was surprised by how disappointed I felt when Coach bent down to kiss the woman on the cheek

  Too soon, Harvey. It was too soon anyway.

  3

  That afternoon, after a lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup – the ultimate comfort food, although I wasn’t sure if I was comforting myself about Coach or about Trevor – I got the urge to bake. I loved to cook, but with Trevor’s ridiculous studio schedule and all his shows, I didn’t do it nearly enough. Today, though, I had the entire day to do as I pleased, and I was pleased to make a berry cobbler.

  I walked up the street to the corner market and perused the berries. One of the biggest perks of living in California was that produce was cheap and in season almost all year long. I picked up three quarts of raspberries and a pint of half-n-half, a splurge for my afternoon tea and tomorrow’s coffee, and headed up to the register. As was the case with most of the produce markets in the city, the garage-sized door was wide open to the air, and I could feel the fog threatening to roll in. It was going to be a perfect afternoon to bake and read and just take care of myself

  “What are you smiling about?” Mrs. Wang, the market owner, said with a smirk as she rang me up. “Big plans tonight?”

  “Oh, no. No plans, actually.”

  “Ah, the best kind of day then.”

  “Precisely.”

  I had known Mrs. Wang since the first weekend we’d moved in when I had thought I’d try my hand at a persimmon tart. I’d heard of the fruit and thought it would probably bake up like an apple pie, but when the result was so bitter that my lips had chapped after a few bites, I’d come back to the produce market to ask advice. I didn’t know anyone in town, and the woman at the register had seemed friendly.

  Mrs. Wang had been very kind to explain that the persimmons – the entire flat of them – that I had bought that morning weren’t quite ripe yet. They needed a few days to sweeten up. Then, the shop owner had suggested that I might be able to rescue the tart with a little maple syrup, and she’d won my friendship from that moment on. Maple syrup was perfect.

  Mrs. Wang was a widow. Her husband had died a few years earlier of cancer, I thought, and her children had moved away for work. Her daughter was in Texas and her son in Seattle. She saw them when they came home at the holidays, but as far as I knew, she’d never been to visit. The shop was never closed, and she was always here. Always. I wondered if she was lonely.

  “You saw the commotion up the street on Thursday?” I said as I slipped my berries into the handy hard-sided basket Mart had given me for Christmas last year.

  “I did. Someone died?”

  “Yeah, some pretty famous real estate guy.”

  “Really famous or San Francisco famous?” Mrs. Wang said with a grin.

  “Good question. I’ll let you know when I find out.”

  “When you find out?”

  “Well, yeah, I found the body, and I’ve had a little too much free time. So, I’m just doing a little amateur investigating.”

  Mrs. Wang turned back to the register to load a new tape. “I’d leave that to the professionals, Harvey dear.”

  I sighed. “You’re probably right.” I hefted the basket further up my arm. “I’m off to make my cobbler.”

  “Let me know how it goes?” Mrs. Wang smiled and waved as I headed back out to Clement Street. and then toward home.

  * * *

  The cobbler turned out perfectly. Bubbly with just a little crunch on top. So, I gave myself a huge serving, put on a scoop of Mitchell’s vanilla ice cream, and went up to the rooftop to watch the fog roll in. It was a perfect evening, only made more perfect with a great mystery novel, a cup of tea, and my bed at 8 p.m.. In my late twenties, I would have felt like a social outcast for this Saturday night, but here in my cozy, comfy forties, I was all in.

  The next morning, I w
oke up feeling more hopeful than I had in a long time. I had the entire day – again – to do just what I wanted, no trying to sort out what we could do in the few hours around Trevor’s studio time. No sifting through drive times and train schedules to see if a day trip was even possible in less than half a day. Just me, our car (I’d insisted he leave it), and a whole fourteen hours of daylight left.

  I decided that what I really wanted to do was walk around in Bodega Bay, a tiny village on the water up north in Marin County, and then stop by Point Reyes Lighthouse to see if I could see any whales before heading home to watch two movies that I chose entirely for myself. I was giddy.

  I loaded the Honda with a few great snacks – dried apricots, crackers, and a huge bag of Reese’ Pieces – and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and up Highway 1. The drive was amazing. All sun and the golden hills of late summer. The fog was held back by the mountains, and I opened the sunroof to feel the sun on my skin.

  The day went perfectly – lots of salt water, lots of sand caked on my calves, lots of time to just be alone and think, feel sad and then feel relief all the way to the front of my spine. By the time I got home, I was ready to pour myself a glass of Chateau St. Jean Chardonnay and watch movies.

  While I waited for my popcorn to pop, I checked my email on my phone and felt my mood drop just a bit. I had forgotten completely that Tuesday night was the Capitan Club award dinner for work. It was a black-tie affair, and I dreaded trying to make my one black cocktail dress look different for yet another event. There are only so many funky uses of scarves and Grandma’s costume jewelry that one can pull off with the same black dress.

  As I shoveled handfuls of popcorn into my mouth while staring at my closet, I remembered a photograph I’d seen while researching Juan Ortega Montague and opened my laptop. A quick search for his name with the word gala and there it was – Melissa Ward, a tall, white woman-- from CrossBay Real Estate, the caption said-- in a simple black dress with a red ribbon just under her bust. It changed the whole look of the dress, and I knew just where the roll of red ribbon from Christmas was.

  I scrolled through the rest of the images from that event, looking for how the bow was in the back, and each time, I saw Ward, Montague was nearby. Finally, I saw a caption, “Melissa Ward and ex-fiancé Juan Ortega Montague are still chums . . . or are they more?”

  I wasn’t always one to enjoy celebrity gossip, but occasionally a glance into someone else’s travails made me feel better about mine. Still, this wasn’t much to go on – this sort of catty caption. This is what Google is for, I thought, and began my search.

  An hour later, I had learned that Montague and Ortega had been together for about five years until six months ago when they’d split. But lately, they’d been seen together often at functions, and the rumor mill was hypothesizing that their engagement was back on.

  I had nothing but a few photos to base my theory on, but I didn’t think they looked much like a couple, more like people who were bearing each other’s company. Their smiles felt very forced, and when they were caught in the background of other photos, they weren’t looking at each other with affection. In fact, they looked downright contemptuous.

  Still, I was basing this theory on nothing more than paparazzi photos. Maybe I was reading too much into it. I shut off the computer and decided to forego the movies, climbing into bed with my book. I fell asleep with it on my face.

  * * *

  The next morning when I got to work, I went right to my supervisor Casey’s office and double-checked that she really wanted me there at the awards dinner the next night, in case, you know, she wanted to save the organization a little money by not having to feed me. She gave me a knowing smile and assured me that my presence was definitely wanted.

  I sighed as I walked back to my desk. I pulled up the table assignments for the dinner from the company intranet just so I could prepare my small talk for the evening. I hated small talk, and I found it helpful to research my tablemates before these things just so I had a list of things to talk about that kept me from doing the Harvey usual, as Mart called it, and asking about someone’s greatest dreams or deepest regrets during hors d’oeuvres.

  Most of the folks at my table were the directors of the organizations we raised money for, thank goodness. I knew several of them, and I’d never met a nonprofit director who couldn’t, with the slightest of promptings, talk about their organization’s work for hours. I saw a couple of our big donors – a Silicon Valley venture capitalist and a restauranteur – were sitting with us, and I jotted down a couple of questions about exciting new ventures and the farm-to-table movement. Then, I saw another name, Delaney Fishman, and I actually got a little excited.

  Everyone knew who Fishman was. He was a running back for the Oakland Raiders, and he had quite the reputation for being the life of the party. That’s not what got me excited though: I’m anything but a party girl. What had my Spidey senses tingling was that Fishman was also a real estate tycoon in the Bay Area. I’d seen his name and photo a lot in my research on Montague and Ward yesterday. Maybe I’d have a chance to dig a little bit into Montague’s death with him.

  I spent the rest of that day surreptitiously trying to research Fishman and going down rabbit trails about real estate deals that he and Montague had taken on together. I was sort of appalled when I learned – through a quick search – that all property ownership is public and readily accessible through the county’s GIS services. For the first time, I was a little glad we– I mean I– was renting.

  But my discomfort went away as soon as I saw that Fishman and Montague were in a battle to acquire several blocks of prime beachfront real estate in the outer Sunset District, right where Coach Sheridan had mentioned he lived. When I printed out the maps and highlighted who owned what in that neighborhood, the pages looked like a Monopoly board, and it wasn’t clear who was going to win.

  Maybe Fishman wasn’t happy with how the game was going and decided to take out the other player?

  After work, I took the Muni bus across town, but instead of going my usual route, I caught the N Judah Train out to the Great Highway at Ocean Beach and walked around the neighborhood that Fishman and Montague had been so interested in. It was a quintessential San Francisco neighborhood with lots of single-family homes lined up over garages. But there were also a few bungalows along 47th and 48th Avenues right where Noriega, Ortega, and Pacheco Streets crossed over. Old-school houses like those held valuable real estate since they were on their own lots, often larger lots than the newer houses that had been built wall-to-wall. I could see why the real estate magnates wanted to scoop them up, and I could also see why Coach Sheridan hadn’t wanted to let his go. For anyone who wanted a garden or just didn’t want to share a wall with their neighbor, these little houses would be goldmines if flipped and turned into family homes or even vacation cottages.

  I ordered an Uber and told them to pick me up a few blocks north so I could enjoy the evening breeze off the ocean while I walked up the Coastal Trail. Tons of people were out jogging, riding bikes, and walking their dogs, and I took every opportunity I had to pet the pups, especially the corgis. I loved those no-kneed goofballs. Aslan was not going to be happy with me when I got home.

  * * *

  The next day, I caught up on all the work I’d let slip the day before and left a little early like everyone else so I could get home, get changed, and get back to the Asian Art Museum in time for the awards dinner. I managed to put my hair into a loose French twist, tie my red ribbon around my black dress to give it a new silhouette, and get my Uber back to the museum just in time for everyone to begin arriving. I stood in the front lobby with my colleagues for the required meet and greet, but I was really itching to get to the table and grill Fishman.

  Stephen, my office mate, must have seen how fidgety I was because he came over with a glass of wine a few minutes after people began to show. “Looked like you needed this,” he said with a wink. “Nervous much?”

 
I smiled and let out a long breath. I’d known Stephen since my first day at work. He was very kind, very loud, and very gay, and I loved everything about him. He never failed to make me laugh and, as far as work friends go, he was the best kind – super understanding and super funny. “Could you tell?”

  “Only from about a mile away. I know you hate these things, but you seem especially ill-at-ease this evening.”

  I looked at him in his amazing wing-tips and slim, grey suit, his hair perfectly styled, and stuck out my tongue. “Not especially.”

  “Liar!”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and said, “Can you keep a secret?” This is, of course, code for Pay attention. You’ll want to hear this.

  “No, but tell me anyway.”

  “I’m looking forward to sitting with Delaney Fishman.”

  “Really? I didn’t think muscle-y and rich was your type.”

  I’d told Stephen about Trevor the day before, and he’d said just the right thing, “What an ass!” and then asked if I needed anything.

  “But then, maybe what you need is a little something different?”

  I blushed. “Not because I think he’s hot.”

  “You don’t think he’s hot?”

  “I didn’t say that . . . “

  “Right. So, you do think he’s hot. Good. You’re not dead then.”

  Stephen had impeccable taste in men. His husband, Walter, was gorgeous – a real silver fox.

  “I do think he’s hot, okay? But that’s not what I mean. I’m trying to figure out if he killed Juan Ortega Montague.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and almost spit my wine all over Stephen’s gorgeous tie. Someone had heard me.

  “You’re trying to find a murderer?” Walter said as he linked his arm with mine. “Is that really a good idea? I mean the police are investigating, aren’t they?”

  “Harvey and Trevor broke up,” Stephen said as if that explained everything, and I suppose it did.