Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!)

by Michaela Thompson

  It made no sense whatsoever. I said, “Sure.” When he didn’t continue, but just sat nodding wisely, I said, “In cahoots about what?”

  He tapped my arm three times with his forefinger. “To get Ken MacDonald.”

  Only then did I realize the extent of Ken’s paranoia. He had lost his job because Jane’s employee, Nick Fulton, had offered him a cabin at Tahoe and Larry found out and exposed him. Therefore, Larry and Jane must be plotting against him. “Interesting theory.”

  “It finally came clear to me. I wrote and told Jane Malone I knew.”

  Jane had probably gotten a laugh out of that, if she were capable of laughing. “You told her you knew she and Larry had schemed against you?”

  “I told her to watch out.”

  I looked at Ken closely. Was there a certain cunning, a buried cruelty, in his bleary eyes? “To watch out for what?”

  He finished his drink. “Just watch out. You know what watch out means, don’t you?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I told her bad things happen to people who mess around with Ken MacDonald. I told her look what happened to Larry, when he messed around with Ken MacDonald. And I told her to watch out.”

  I sat staring. “You threatened to kill her?”

  He waved his hand in front of me as if erasing my words. “Watch out. That’s all I said.”

  “You said look what happened to Larry. What did happen to Larry? Do you know?”

  He slumped against the back of the booth, his head lolling, all animation gone out of him. “What did happen, Ken?” I insisted.

  “He went out the window. I thought you had heard about it.” He closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them and looked around vacantly. “Got to get back. Got to keep an eye on Basic.”

  Without further niceties he got up and shambled out of the bar. I hurried after him. When we emerged, I saw that it was beginning to rain. Ken stood swaying on the sidewalk, oblivious of the droplets spattering his clothes.

  Suddenly, he gripped my arm. “There he is!” he hissed. “There he is, the son of a bitch!”

  “Who?”

  “Nick Fulton! The son of a bitch is across the street. See? Standing under that awning?”

  I looked in the direction Ken’s wavering finger pointed, and saw the man. Narrow face, thin nose, wearing a gray raincoat, smoking a cigarette. The sight of him went through me like a jolt of electricity. It was the man who had threatened me outside my garage, the man I had later seen at the Citizens Against the Golden State Center meeting. ‘That’s Nick Fulton? The one who works for Jane Malone?”

  “The son of a bitch.” He shook his fist in the air. “Come here and fight, you son of a bitch!” he bellowed.

  If Fulton hadn’t noticed us before, he certainly did now, as did a number of passersby who noticeably speeded their gait. Fulton watched dispassionately as Ken plunged abruptly into the street, still shouting, his cries mixed with horns and squealing brakes as he dodged through the traffic. When Ken was halfway across, Fulton simply walked several yards and disappeared down an alley. Ken made it across the street and lumbered after Fulton, but I was sure there was no hope he would catch him.

  I was trembling. It wasn’t coincidence that Fulton had been standing across the street. I knew he had been standing there because he’d been following me. Jane Malone had no intention of letting me out of her reach.

  It was raining harder. I had to escape while Fulton was diverted. Desperately, I scanned the street for a cab, never an easy search in San Francisco. One sailed by me, occupied. I could have wept with frustration. I half-ran down the sidewalk, rain dampening my face and hair. After a block, I looked for a cab again. Nothing. A couple of blocks ahead of me was Market Street. Buses and streetcars moved up and down it through the rain like a school of whales in a gray, turbulent sea. I could get on one, get away. I started to run.

  Twenty-eight

  The streetcar stop was crowded with people standing under umbrellas. Down the street, a J Church car was approaching. I was more delighted to see the dilapidated green-and-yellow vehicle grinding toward me than I would’ve been to receive a Rolls-Royce for my birthday. I fumbled in my purse for a quarter.

  The J car pulled up. Passengers disembarked for an eternity, but finally I was able to push forward with the others waiting to get on. The seats were all taken and the aisles were jammed. I inched my way past damp bodies, shopping bags, and umbrellas to the back of the car and found a place where I could stand and hold on to the overhead bar. Clutching it, I let my knees give a little. The car doors closed, and I waited for the lurch forward that would mean I was safe. Instead of feeling the lurch, I heard pounding. As the passengers yelled “Let’s go!” and “No! Go on!” the driver obligingly opened the doors. Through the crowd I saw Nick Fulton step aboard and heard the tinkle of his quarter dropping in the fare box. Then the car started to move.

  I shrank back the inch I could manage. Instead of escaping, I had built myself a trap. I had never had claustrophobia before, but I experienced it now. People were jammed against me on every side, the atmosphere was stifling, and my enemy was moving closer every second.

  Because Fulton was indeed getting closer. He had spotted me in one quick glance, and now was unhurriedly maneuvering toward me with an air of perfect nonchalance.

  I cursed my stupidity for cornering myself in the back of the car. Now, any move I made toward the door would bring me closer to him. A young Chinese woman holding a baby was standing next to me. I leaned toward her and whispered, “Listen. I know this sounds crazy, but a man on this car is trying to get me.” She avoided my eyes, shook back her long dark hair, and turned away. “You don’t understand,” I said. Pulling the baby closer, she maneuvered herself so her back was to me.

  Fulton was standing about halfway down the car on the opposite side of the aisle. His eyes were on me, and I could no longer tear my gaze from his. My hand felt frozen to the bar, and I was hardly aware of my fellow passengers and the movement of the car.

  I could never remember whether the cobra was mesmerized by the mongoose or vice versa, but anyway I couldn’t stand here mesmerized like whichever one it was. I had to bolt. With a mammoth effort of will I stopped looking at Fulton. The rear door was on my side of the aisle, and I began to ease my way toward it. If I got a clear enough shot at it the next time it opened, I just might get out before Fulton could. The buzzer sounded for the next stop, and I stood poised.

  I was conscious of movement from across the car, and I knew he must have realized what I was up to. All that could save me was good access to the door. I waited, muscles tensed.

  The door opened quickly, but as I rushed forward an old woman with a cane, who had been standing unconcernedly at a pole next to the doorway, decided this was her stop. Unwilling to knock her flat, I shifted to the other side of the door, which was already blocked by three teenage boys with transistor radios. I got out behind them, but the delay had been too long. As I scrambled down the steps I felt Nick Fulton’s hand on my upper arm and heard his low, uninflected voice saying, “I have a gun, Mrs. Longstreet. Don’t make a scene.”

  I wanted to sit on the wet, grimy pavement and cry. If only I hadn’t gotten on the streetcar. If only I hadn’t— I looked at Fulton’s hateful face. “What do you want?”

  The bony jaw worked for a moment. “You’ll find out. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Back toward downtown. We’ll walk.”

  The rain was a steady drizzle. Moisture dripped from my hair to the inside of my coat collar. Fulton’s hand never left my arm, and he stayed slightly behind me. “Why downtown?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. I asked the question in a louder, more quarrelsome voice, and noticed a couple of people staring. That was good. Maybe they’d remember seeing me. “Shut up,” Fulton said.

  “Then answer me.”

  “Because my car is downtown. Now shut up.”

  Once he had me in a car, I would be
powerless, the way I had been with Jane’s driver this morning. Then I remembered. This morning I had had a plan, and I had also had a weapon. An infinitesimal flutter of hope tickled my rib cage. To disguise it, I said, “What are you going to do to me?” His answer was to tighten his grip on my arm until it hurt. “What are you going to do?” My voice was rising toward hysteria.

  We were passing a flower stand, its bright offerings fragrant in the rain. “Miss Malone asked me to make sure you understood what she told you. She thinks maybe you’re a hard lady to convince.”

  I quailed. I didn’t feel at all hard to convince at that moment, but I doubted it would do any good to mention that to him. Apparently, Jane had in mind some physical roughing-up so I’d know she was serious. I swallowed several times, convulsively, at the thought.

  We trudged on. Water was starting to squelch from my shoes. Ever so slowly, I slid my hand to the clasp on my purse and undid it. Thank God the pin was still near the top. I fished it up into my palm and opened it with rain-wet fingers.

  I would only have an instant, and I’d have to get away fast. No more running through the streets, no more public transportation. I was trying to focus on a plan when I saw the gray stone and burgundy awnings of the St. Francis Hotel looming ahead. There was a taxi stand in front. I had gotten a cab there many times, after meeting friends for drinks in the ground-floor bar.

  The awnings were closer. I could read the intertwined initials that decorated them. Several cabs were lined up in front of the canopied main entrance. I arranged the pin in my hand, holding the strong, sharp clasp bar between my fingers. A bellboy pushing a cart piled with bright red luggage emerged from the hotel, followed by a glamorous-looking young woman in a white raincoat. The first cab would be hers. I’d take the second.

  We had reached the corner of the hotel. Across the street, the wet grass and foliage of Union Square looked impossibly green, and pigeons huddled under deserted benches. The pin was slippery. The bellboy and a cabbie were piling red bags in the first taxi’s trunk. It was time. I turned as slowly as I could, gauged the distance, and sank the bar of the pin into the back of Fulton’s hand.

  There was a slight resistance when the point broke the skin, but after that it slid in easily. As I pulled it out he grunted, and his grip loosened. I jerked free, raced across the sidewalk to the second taxi, wrenched the door open, and jumped in. “Get me away from here,” I said to the startled driver. “Now.”

  I had found a cabbie equal to the occasion. “Right, lady,” he said, and pulled away from the curb as he put the flag down. I slid low in the seat, in case Fulton decided to use his gun, but as we increased our distance I looked back at him. He was rubbing his hand. I couldn’t see the expression on his face, which was probably just as well.

  The cabbie was a young man with curly hair and a shaggy mustache. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Man oh man,” he said with relish, “I’ll bet your date is really pissed off right now.”

  I slumped in the corner of the seat. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “I expect you’re absolutely right.”

  Twenty-nine

  I paid the cabbie and he drove away on a wave of good feelings and profuse thanks, the result of either the substantial tip I had given him or the drama I had contributed to his day. He had gotten me home in record time but, tempted as I was by the thought of dry shoes and fresh clothes, home wasn’t where I wanted to be. With only a longing glance at the house, I went to my car and got in. I wasn’t about to wait until a wounded and enraged Nick Fulton arrived looking for me.

  I was adrift, driving through San Francisco at random, unable to go home and with no idea what to do. Jane Malone was a respected businesswoman with friends in high places. Richard was a politico who had distributed his favors widely. That they were also crooks wasn’t something the San Francisco establishment would be especially eager to hear. It would be easy to shrug my story off as a product of hormonal imbalance or hysteria.

  I might not be hormonally imbalanced, but it was obvious from the way I was driving that I was almost hysterical. After I made an illegal left turn that got me the finger from a post-hippie in a psychedelic van, I knew I had to stop and calm down. I was in Noe Valley. I found a parking place, walked to Twenty-fourth Street, and collapsed in a dark little coffeehouse called Grounds for Delight. Sitting at a table made from a cable spool, ingesting a bowl of vegetable barley soup and a mug of Mocha Java, I tried to get hold of myself.

  The food helped. I felt rationality returning with every mouthful. By the time I had finished a piece of carrot cake and a second mug of coffee, I was ready to review my plans. The only crucial thing I had to do was drive to Stanford to see Candace, and considering the circumstances it wasn’t a bad idea to get out of town. I’d start right away.

  A visit to the ladies’ room confirmed my worst suspicions about how I must look. For a woman who had always prided herself on being well-groomed, I was a major calamity. My hair had gotten very little attention since Andrew removed the pins from it the night before, and its recent soaking hadn’t helped. My face was colorless, my eyes surrounded by a truly distressing network of lines. The black dress was damp and crumpled. I couldn’t imagine what Candace would think— or, rather, I could. I did my best with lipstick and comb and went to pay the bill.

  As I was walking out the door, I remembered my promise to Andrew that I’d be in touch with Susanna Hawkins today. Damn. On the other hand, I was ahead of time for my talk with Candace, and Susanna’s place wasn’t far. A short visit there would take up the slack.

  Susanna’s household was what any household would be with two little boys imprisoned inside on a rainy day. When I arrived, Abner and Ezekiel were pelting each other with bits of blue modeling clay, and Curly, the sheepdog, was racing around the room wearing a pink party hat with PACIFIC BAKERY ANNIVERSARY DAYS emblazoned on it. Susanna, in sweatshirt and jeans, offered me tea.

  “No, thanks.” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the racket. “I only stopped by for a minute to—”

  She interrupted me. “Zeke, Abner, take Curly and go to your room, please. I want to talk to Maggie.”

  The suggestion didn’t meet with a favorable response immediately, but at last some juice-and-cookie bribery was effective. Boys and dog retired more or less quietly and Susanna turned to me. “Now. Did you talk to Richard?”

  “Last night. He admits being at the Times the night Larry died, but he says he didn’t kill him.”

  “He does admit being there? When?”

  “He claims it must’ve been soon after Larry went out the window. That’s when he saw the folder. He panicked and grabbed it.”

  “Hm.” Susanna seemed to be weighing what she wanted to say. “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know. He was plausible enough, but under the circumstances he would be.”

  “What now? The police?”

  “Yes.”

  Crayons were scattered on the floor. Susanna bent to pick them up. “I’ve been thinking about it. You know, Larry was threatened constantly. I guess it isn’t so surprising that somebody decided to kill him. Now that I’ve gotten used to the idea, it seems reasonable.”

  “Apparently Richard was one of those who threatened. Oh— another thing. After we told him about our suspicions, Richard came up with a story about seeing somebody leave the Times that night.”

  She picked up a yellow crayon. “He did? Who did he see?”

  “He said he didn’t recognize the person. It was a figure in a sheepskin jacket with a hood, someone who came out of the building and hurried away. But as I say, he only remembered under duress. It struck Andrew and me that it was probably a last-minute fabrication.”

  She stood. “That’s what it sounds like. Something he made up to take attention away from himself.”

  Just then the boys tumbled into the room screaming, “Juice, Mommy! We want more juice!” and I moved to leave.

  As Susanna handed me my coat s
he said, “Are you convinced that Richard killed Larry?”

  The question made me uncomfortable. “Convinced” was an extremely final word. “I think there’s a chance that he did. I’m not totally convinced.” I wondered why I hadn’t said that to Andrew.

  “I see,” said Susanna, and we said good-bye.

  ***

  Although the rain had lessened to intermittent spatters, the freeway traffic was terrible and the hour’s drive south down the Peninsula to Palo Alto grueling. Off the freeway at last, I drove toward Stanford through sedate, tree-lined streets and wondered if I was going to see Candace for the last time. Children did reject their parents, break with them forever. It had happened to friends of mine in the sixties. I had never imagined I would have to worry about dutiful Candace doing it to me.

  The damp red-tile roofs of the campus buildings glistened under the brightening sky, and with its lush vegetation and students loitering on steps or whizzing by on bicycles Stanford seemed a haven of tranquility. I found Candace’s dorm. Standing outside the door of her room, I hesitated. Coming down here to talk with her had been my idea. I could walk away, phone from a filling station in Palo Alto, say I wasn’t coming, let matters take their course without this confrontation. Instead, I knocked on the door and heard her calling to me to come in.

  When I entered, she got up from her desk and said, awkwardly, “Hi, Mother.”

  “Hi.” She was wearing white denim jeans and a sea-green sweater. The color made her look blonder and more delicate, her face unnaturally pale. She was looking at me, I thought, with something like dread. I was sure she had spoken to Richard.

  “Sit down.” She gestured to one of the twin beds with bright striped covers that were placed against opposite walls. I sat on the edge of the bed, and she resumed her seat at the desk. For a few moments, we watched each other.

  Completely at a loss, I lapsed into inanity. “You’re looking worn out. Have you been studying too hard?”

  She made a gesture of impatience. “Mother, I talked to Daddy this morning.”