by Lind, Hailey
I needed that ice cream. And maybe a fifth of scotch.
“Anyhoo, I’ve got to run. Thanks again for the use of the car. It was a lifesaver, truly.”
“No problem,” he replied, returning to his computer. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I felt a vague disappointment as I started up the stairs. What did you expect? I chided myself. That Frank would sweep you up in his strong, masculine arms, forever shattering the invisible barrier of pride that had kept apart our two lonely, aching hearts, so we could be united in an eternity of lusty fulfillment and blissful oneness?
Whoa—where had that come from? I halted on the landing and ran a quick self-diagnosis. I was in greater need of comfort than I’d thought.
I charged up to the studio as fast as I could in Mary’s too-big boots. My assistant was on the computer, surfing the Internet. “Hey, Mare.”
“Hey, Annie. How’d it go? I’ve been worried about you, what with that eye and all. Who’ve you been hanging with in these mysterious client meetings?”
“Never mind that. I’ve got an all-expenses-paid room at the Fairmont tonight. Whaddya say? Me and thou, a couple of pints of Ben & Jerry’s, and some in-room movies?”
“I am totally there.” Mary’s eyes lit up and she shut down the computer. “We’ve got it all night?”
“Yup.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Mary’s vagabond lifestyle meant she always carried a toothbrush and clean underwear in a tote bag, so she was ready to go. I, on the other hand, was acutely aware of my lack of personal effects. Along with ice cream, potato chips, chocolate, and booze, I would buy a toothbrush, some hair goop, and a People magazine. After putting a few things away and keying the alarm system, we thundered down the stairs and hopped into my trusty truck. It wasn’t a Jag, but it would get us where we wanted to go, so who was I to complain?
Forty-five minutes later we were happily ensconced in luxury, eating ice cream from the carton and flipping between The Maltese Falcon and When Harry Met Sally on cable. Mary kept me amused doing Humphrey Bogart voice-overs for Harry and Billy Crystal lines for Bogie.
A ringing telephone intruded into our hedonistic cocoon. Mary muted the television. “Might as well answer it,” she said. “If you don’t, you’ll be wondering all night who it was.”
There was a terrible wailing on the other end of the line. And a honking sound.
“Evangeline?” I asked. “Is that you? What’s that noise?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was jest knockin’ on your door and your alarm went off again. Hol’ on a sec.”
I heard garbled voices shouting above the alarm. Uh-oh.
Evangeline came back on the line. “That was the little guy from downstairs. He seems kinda pissed.”
“Little guy?”
“Yeah, the hoity-toity one in the fancy duds.”
Only Evangeline would refer to Frank as a little guy. “How did you know where to find me?”
“That friend of yours? Pedro? I called him back, and he said I should maybe call you at the hotel. What’re you doin’ at the Fairmont? That’s a pretty ritzy place, huh?”
“You could say that,” I said, distracted by the alarm blaring in the background. “Listen, Evangeline, did you call the alarm company? Tell them it’s a false alarm?”
“Oh. You want I should do that? Won’t that guy do it?” The alarm choked off. “See there, it stopped.”
“Great,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Where have you been? What’s going on with Pascal?”
“That’s what I was callin’ about. Can I come over?”
This was what happened when I answered the phone, I thought. You’d think I’d learn.
Twenty minutes later, hotel security called, reluctant to allow Evangeline upstairs. When I opened the door I understood why. Evangeline wore a stiff black leather outfit, studded with dangerous-looking silver spikes and decorated with zippers and chains with no discernible purpose other than intimidation.
“Great outfit,” Mary piped up as I stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.
“T’anks loads,” Evangeline said, clanking and creaking her way into the room. “See, I knew this would be a fancyschmancy place. Hey, looka here, a minibar.”
I looked to Mary for help, but she just grinned. “Evangeline? What’s going on? Where’s Pascal?”
“I think maybe he’s dead. It’s kinda hard to say. There was some wise guys lookin’ for him.” Evangeline cracked open a bottle of Perrier. “But this afternoon, I get this call, all crying and emotional, from this chick who lives with him at the house.” She took a swig of the mineral water and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Pascal has a house?”
“That’s what I said! I figgered he had an apartment somewhere, not a fancy-pants house. But it’s on Telegraph Hill, and that’s a pretty nice area, right?” Evangeline guzzled more water, and started to open and close drawers, finding only a Gideon’s Bible.
I nodded. A house on Telegraph Hill was a nice asset indeed.
“Anyway, she was pretty hard to understand ’cause she don’t speak English good. Only Mexican. And then I thoughta you, ’cause I figgered you could understand her.” She belched loudly.
“Good one,” Mary said, and Evangeline grinned.
“Why would you think I speak Spanish?” I asked.
“Dunno. You seem the type.”
“Um, Evangeline, it’s a holiday and my friend and I—”
“Oh! Youse two, you’re like, together, huh?” Evangeline poked her head into the bathroom, and I wondered what she was looking for. “I never woulda believed the way peoples live out here, if I hadn’ta seen it fer myself. Like getting married ’n’ havin’ kids and stuff. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like it bugs me, or nothin’. Live ’n’ let live, huh? But girls with girls, and guys with guys, no way you’da seen that sort of thing back home.”
I looked at Evangeline’s muscled bulk, packed into the studded black leather pants and jacket, and wondered how many people assumed she was a lesbian from the get-go.
“Mary and I are friends,” I said. “We happen to have the hotel room for the night and thought we’d just relax and—”
“Cool. Whatcha watchin’?” She moved toward the bed, and Mary scooted over to make room. Evangeline’s face clouded. “Oh yeah, I forgot about Pascal’s chick. She seemed pretty upset.”
I was getting a bad feeling. “Upset how, Evangeline? Why do you think Pascal’s dead?”
She shrugged, her attention focused on the commercials playing silently on the television. “These guys came lookin’ for him. They wasn’t happy. Somethin’ about him owin’ them money, or somethin’. They said he shouldn’ta been sellin’ the statues to the garden store. Anyways, after that he burned a buncha stuff and took off.”
“What did the woman say when she called?”
“Well, like I says, she was talkin’ partly in Mexican. She kept saying somethin’ about a dedo. What’s a dedo?”
“You mean dildo,” Mary suggested, and I fervently hoped she was wrong.
“Did you call the police?” I asked Evangeline.
“Nah. She was pretty clear on not doin’ that. I think she’s illegal.”
I was rapidly losing Evangeline’s attention, so I grabbed the remote and turned the television off.
“Hey!” said Mary.
“Hey!” seconded Evangeline.
“Sorry, Mare. Stay with me here, just for a minute, Evangeline. You think Pascal’s dead or at least in trouble, and that a woman called from his house on Telegraph Hill to talk about a dedo. Is that about right?”
“Yeah, pretty much. She was cryin’ and shit.”
“And then you came to find me. Why?”
Her mild blue eyes were soft and vulnerable. “I figgered you’d know what to do.”
I sighed and picked up the phone. In much of California the hospitality business could not function without immigrant labor, so it was a safe bet the h
ousekeeping department included at least a few native Spanish speakers.
“I have a rather odd question,” I began.
“Not at all, ma’am,” a sweet-voiced woman replied. “What can I help you with?”
I could only imagine what thoughts were skimming through her brain. Hotel staff saw a whole lot of the seamier side of human nature, or at least its residue.
“Can anyone there tell me what dedo means in Spanish?”
“Dedo? Dedo means finger. Or toe, if it’s dedo de pie.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Finger? Toe? I turned to Evangeline. “Let’s go find Pascal’s mystery woman.”
“I want to come,” Mary said.
“You do know where his house is, Evangeline?”
“Yeah, she gave me th’ address. Whaddya think’s up with her?”
“Hard to say,” I said. “Probably she’s just upset because Pascal’s disappeared. Damn, I wish one of us spoke Spanish.”
I glared at my companions. It was ridiculous that every schoolchild in California did not start learning Spanish in kindergarten. I could handle French pretty well, but French was usually useless except when dealing with my grandfather and the nice folks at Interpol.
Mary and I shed the Fairmont’s comfortable bathrobes and Mary dressed in her black jeans and torn black pullover. I had left my overalls at the studio, so I put on the hooker clothes I’d worn to the Haggertys’.
“Youse two look real good together,” Evangeline said.
“Thanks, but we’re not together, together,” I began.
Mary slung an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, sweet cheeks.”
In the elevator I realized we had a transportation problem. “What are you driving, Evangeline?” I asked, hoping against hope for a sedan.
“Beemer.”
“Really?” Being an assistant sculptor must pay a whole lot better than being a faux finisher. “Is it in the garage?”
“Nope. It don’t take much space, so they said to leave it out front.”
“Can we take it to Pascal’s?”
Evangeline looked doubtful. “Dunno about all of us.”
“Why? Is it a convertible?” I persisted.
“Kinda. You get lots of fresh air.”
“Are the windows missing or something?”
“Nope. Don’t have no windows.”
“Oh! I know!” Mary said, pleased with the game. “It’s not a car, is it?”
“It’s a motorcycle.” Evangeline and Mary did some sort of complicated high five and down low.
Ten minutes later we were on our way to Pascal’s house in my truck, Mary perched on Evangeline’s lap. The human booster seat made Mary too tall for the cab, so she hung her head out the window, doglike.
After several twisty laps around the hilly neighborhood I found a barely legal parking space and we tumbled out of the truck. Hundreds of steps led to Coit Tower at the summit of Telegraph Hill, and Pascal’s house was about halfway up. Evangeline trucked straight ahead, Mary hot on her heels, while I lagged behind. I arrived at Pascal’s house, out of breath and short of temper. The house was ultramodern white stucco, with large plate-glass windows shrouded by heavy drapes. From the street the structure looked small, but as we drew closer I saw a lower level carved out of the hillside that opened onto a steep, curving driveway.
As we approached the front door we heard voices inside. Female voices, I realized with relief. In my experience, female people were not nearly as likely as male people to hang other people forty feet in the air, or to hit them in the face. I rang the bell and the door swung open.
Marble World Employee of the Month Gloria Cabrera gaped at me for a moment before shutting the door and throwing the dead bolt. First she set me up with the goons at the warehouse, and now she slammed a door in my face? Like hell, I thought. I wanted some answers, and I wanted them now. I pounded on the door.
“Gloria! Open the door this instant!” I yelled, as if expecting her to apologize and invite us in for cocktails. “I’m warning you, Gloria! Sisterhood is powerful!”
Evangeline and Mary looked puzzled. I shrugged.
The three of us backed up and looked around. On the right was a stand of fragrant eucalyptus trees. On the left was a narrow catwalk hosting a trash can and two recycling bins. We crept along the catwalk to a small balcony at the back door. It was locked, but the window next to it was wide open without so much as a screen. Being by far the smallest, I was the likeliest candidate to go through the window. Fabulous. I didn’t have a good track record when it came to breaking and entering.
“Okay, guys,” I said. “Somebody give me a boost.”
Evangeline grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me onto the sill, where I paused for a moment before a firm hand on my butt propelled me forward. As I tumbled into the kitchen two women ran in. Gloria and the young Latina I had seen near Pascal’s studio. She was sniffling and speaking rapidly in Spanish.
“Annie, for God’s sake, don’t you ever give up?” Gloria demanded. “I thought you were smart enough to stay out of this.”
“Think again.” I sneered as I extricated myself from the sink. The younger Latina offered a hand to steady me, which I thought was rather brave of her since I probably outweighed her by a good forty pounds. “I want to talk with you about your friends at the warehouse last night. And what’s all this about a dedo?”
A wail and a fresh barrage of tears burst forth from the young woman. Gloria rolled her eyes and sighed.
Mary shouted to unlock the back door, and I let them in.
“What’s up?” Evangeline said, gesturing with her chin towards Gloria.
“Dios, not her again,” Gloria swore.
“You two know each other?” I asked.
“Hey! You look familiar,” Evangeline said suspiciously. “Oh yeah, the stone chick, right?”
Mary turned to the younger Latina. “And you’re Pascal’s chick, right?”
Pascal’s chick spoke in soft, accented English. “I am Consuelo. B-but I d-don’t know where P-Pascal go.” She hiccupped. “His, his dedo—” She began to cry again.
I reflected that it was a good thing I knew what dedo meant. I shuddered to think what my imagination would have come up with.
“What’s going on, Gloria?” I demanded. “What’s all this about Pascal’s finger?”
“Why don’t we all take a seat in the other room and talk?” Mary suggested, her Midwestern breeding showing.
“You’re not staying that long,” Gloria sniped.
“We’re staying long enough for an explanation,” I replied. “Otherwise I’m calling the cops and you can explain to them what’s going on, and who those goons were in the warehouse.”
“They got a little carried away,” Gloria said. “It happens. You’re not good at taking a hint.”
“Hints are one thing,” I said. “Murder’s another matter.”
Consuelo began whimpering again. It is a flaw of mine, for which I will no doubt spend a considerable amount of time in purgatory, that people who whimper bring out the worst in me. “What the hell’s wrong with her, Gloria?”
Gloria sighed and shuffled into the living room, where she sank onto a white leather sofa and held her head in her hands. The rest of us perched on the modern, clean-lined, and dreadfully uncomfortable chairs.
“This whole thing has gotten out of hand,” Gloria muttered.
“What whole thing?” I demanded.
“You can’t call the police.”
“Nobody’s calling anybody just yet. Tell me what’s going on.”
She remained mute.
“Listen, Gloria,” I said. “The last thing I want is to get involved in anything illegal.”
Mary raised an eyebrow and I scowled at her. Then I scowled at Gloria. For good measure, I scowled at Consuelo and Evangeline.
Consuelo stopped crying, Mary and Evangeline remained silent, and Gloria started talking. Maybe I should scowl more ofte
n.
“A long time ago, Pascal killed his assistant Eugene Forrester.”
“Go on.”
She obviously expected more of a reaction, but continued. “Eugene Forrester was my mother’s boyfriend.”
“Who’s your mother?” Could Gloria be Francine Maggio’s secret love child? No, the ages weren’t right.
“Irma Rodriguez. She married Guillermo Cabrera when I was eleven, and he adopted me. But I adored Eugene. And that bastard Pascal killed him.”
“Nah, I don’t believe it,” Evangeline interjected. “Pascal’s a jerk, but he ain’t the type to whack nobody.”
“I saw it happen. I was only ten, but I know what I saw. Eugene took me with him to the studio sometimes. He told me stories about how the stone trapped ancient spirits, and it was his job to release them. I think that’s why I went into the stone business . . . Anyway, I was there the night he was killed.”
“Tell us about it,” I said.
“Pascal and Eugene were arguing over Eugene’s sculpture, Head and Torso. My mother modeled for it.”
Eugene had been a busy boy, I thought. He’d kept two women on the string, each of whom believed she was his true love and muse.
“That’s the one we was workin’ on,” Evangeline added. “Pascal said he hadda do it over again cuz the first one wasn’t quite right.”
“You mean the first one wasn’t quite his,” Gloria sneered. “Pascal’s been using cocaine pretty heavily and got it into his head that some guy from the Brock—a real prick named Dr. Sebastian somebody—was trying to ‘out’ him. I told him he was being paranoid, that nobody could tell who had sculpted something just by looking at it—I mean, c’mon—but Pascal insisted it was possible and that to protect his reputation he had to sculpt a Head and Torso himself. Made me ship in one fuckin’ heavy piece of marble for it, too, let me tell you.”
Pascal was worried about Dr. Sebastian Pitts, from the Brock Museum? That was a laugh. Sebastian would be lucky to spot a child’s scribblings in a stack of Picassos, much less out a stone sculptor on the basis of technique alone. “What happened between Pascal and Eugene Forrester?” I asked.
“They started arguing, and I hid under a worktable. There was a terrible scream. I’ll never forget it. And a gunshot.” Gloria’s voice shook and there were tears in her eyes. “I peeked out and saw Pascal standing over Eugene’s body with a gun in his hand. I hid there for hours, until my mother came for me and called the police.”