Not Exactly a Brahmin

by Susan Dunlap

  “And what was it?”

  “When are you putting in that request?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  He was about to protest.

  “For Christ’s sake, Ott, it’s after midnight. The department’s efficient, but we don’t process vouchers in the middle of the night.”

  He nodded. “When I gave Palmerston my first report, he had me run a check on all Thede’s suppliers to make sure they didn’t smuggle in a bag of pesticide for their tomatoes or buy commercial lettuce and pass it off as organic.”

  “Were they on the up-and-up?”

  “What do you think? Thede was probably making out better than most. About ninety percent were organic.”

  “So you told Palmerston that?”

  “Gave him a list of suppliers, and a twenty-page report.”

  “I’ll need a copy.”

  “You’ll have to get it from him, his heirs, or whoever.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that you didn’t keep a copy?”

  Again, he looked embarrassed. Clearly, his business practices were as integral to him as Palmerston’s standards of courtesy were to him. “Any other time you’d be right, but Palmerston insisted on both copies.” He shrugged. “He paid.”

  “And the gift? What was he going to do with the information you got him?”

  “I don’t ask questions I don’t get paid for.”

  He also didn’t answer questions he didn’t get paid for, and he made it clear that whatever I was requesting from the discretionary fund paid for what he had already told me, no more. Still, for dredging facts out of Herman Ott, this wasn’t a bad showing.

  I made my way down the dark staircase to my car. The streets were empty now, the rain lighter. In ten minutes I was pulling up in front of the Kepple house.

  My apartment was in back. For close to fifty years it had been the back porch of the house until, in a flash of frugality, Mr. Kepple had seen a way to underwrite his retirement. With the addition of a few plumbing fixtures and a ten-by-forty strip of indoor-outdoor carpet, he had converted it into an apartment. Three walls were jalousie windows, the fourth the white aluminum siding that had been one of Mr. Kepple’s earlier inspirations.

  For me, after months of coming home to scathing arguments with Nat, now my ex-husband, moving into Mr. Kepple’s creation was a perfect escape. It was so unorthodox, so unmarried. I put my clothes in the closet and my sleeping bag on the floor and called it home.

  Pereira, who, with Howard, had heard all the ever-new outrages of my separation and divorce, had planned a house-warming party for me. She was waiting until I got settled, until the apartment was decorated. A year later, she was still waiting. I had bought a white wicker table and a chaise lounge, but the place still looked like a porch. Slowly, it had become clear that this was not because Nat had kept the sofa and coffee table. It was, as Pereira had said with a shudder, because this was a home suited to someone who drove my car.

  I pulled the jalousied door open and turned on the light.

  “Damn.” Under all the windows, the rain had flowed in. The indoor-outdoor carpet looked like the bottom of a lily pond. It squished when I stepped on it.

  I reached for the phone. Mr. Kepple had assured me that jalousie windows were as good in rain as plate glass. Perhaps. Perhaps ones that he hadn’t installed himself would have been. But plate glass wouldn’t have turned my apartment into a place more suited to otters than people.

  I put down the phone. I was too tired to deal with Mr. Kepple tonight.

  Picking up my sleeping bag, I carried it into the kitchen and spread it out on the floor.

  I was just drifting off to sleep when I remembered that I’d never gotten the pint of ice cream I’d planned to have for dinner.

  CHAPTER 7

  SEVEN-FORTY A.M. FOUND me running to cross Martin Luther King Junior Way before the light turned red. Detectives’ Morning Meeting was at seven forty-five. I didn’t need my well-known reputation for tardiness to move up to Detective Division with me. The parking spot I’d managed to ace a Honda out of was two blocks east of King Way and one to the south, nearly at the Berkeley library.

  As I rounded the corner near the station door, I almost smacked into Howard.

  “Going out for track?” he asked.

  After four blocks I was too breathless to answer. Howard, sauntering across from his garage, looked perfectly at ease.

  When I regained my breath, I said, “I’m on my first murder case.” Even to myself I sounded adolescently smug.

  “Since when? I left with you yesterday and you didn’t have a case then.”

  We walked in the main doors and headed up the stairs. “After I dropped you off, I was going to the ice cream shop—”

  Howard shook his head. “Only you would be on your way for junk food and find a case.” My proclivity for doughnuts, chocolate bars, and ice cream was also well known. “I assume you’ll tell me about it after the meeting.”

  All of Detective Division was seated around the table. Howard and I slid into the remaining two chairs. The guys who had gotten there earlier had coffee from the machine; those who were really on top of things had thermoses. I envied both groups. Having forced myself up at quarter to seven, I hadn’t had time for either.

  The meeting was brief. The captain summarized the reports that had been on his desk, including mine, Pereira’s from the scene of the crash (which Lieutenant Davis had sent to Homicide Detail when he transferred the case), Misco’s, and Swenson’s, the beat officer who had verified that Lois Palmerston had had dinner with Carol Grogan. Other than Swenson’s, none told me anything I didn’t know.

  When Howard and I got back to our office, Pereira was already there. And she had coffee. In spite of our different assignments, when Howard and I were promoted there had been only one empty office. It had belonged to the community relations officer (before he and his assignment’s retirement). He’d complained about what a small, dark hole it was the entire time he had occupied it. Wedging two of us in it didn’t make it any more comfortable.

  Howard sat in his chair, rolling it back toward the window that was more a symbol than a conveyor of light or air. Small, none too clean, and on the west side of the building, the office got sunlight only from three-thirty till dusk, and then it was so piercing that we closed the blinds. Now the window was like a featureless gray picture on the wall.

  I dropped into my own chair, rolling it back against the inside wall. It was a system Howard and I had worked out the second day we shared the office. With the length of Howard’s legs, having our backs at the far corners of the floor space was the only way we could both have foot room. When we sat at our desks, facing opposite walls, there was no way we could both back up at once.

  Pereira settled atop Howard’s desk and pulled out the lower drawer for her feet.

  I filled them both in on my interviews. “And you,” I said to Pereira, “what did you find out for all your hard work in the bar with Paul Lucas?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Nothing!”

  “It’s not that I didn’t find out anything. I discovered that there was nothing to find out. Ralph Palmerston was a rich man with no more than peripheral contact with the business world—Chamber of Commerce, social functions, charities—that sort of thing. It took Paul quite a while to place him at all, and for Paul, that’s saying something.”

  I sighed. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to kill this man, and as far as I can find out, there’s no reason at all, unless his wife wanted to inherit. He was even going out of his way to do something nice for the guy who owns Sunny Sides Up, the health food breakfast place. He was planning a Halloween surprise.”

  “What about the wife?” Howard said. “Palmerston was older. He was going blind. Maybe she didn’t want to be burdened with him and realized that this was her last chance to kill him. If his condition was deteriorating, he wouldn’t be driving when he got home from their trip.”

&nbs
p; “There are easier ways.”

  “But, Jill, this way she has an alibi.”

  “Not really,” I said. “The friend she had dinner with left her alone while she went to pick up her kids from day care. She could have called Palmerston then.”

  “Wouldn’t he have recognized her voice?” Pereira asked. “He was going blind, not deaf.”

  “Maybe she disguised it. I don’t know. Let’s let that wait.” I took a swallow of coffee. “The really suspicious thing is that the car was in perfect shape when it left the garage. From the time they say Palmerston left and Lois says he got home, he couldn’t have stopped. So the car was nowhere but in his own garage between the servicing and his death. Lois Palmerston says there was no one there but she and Ralph.”

  “Maybe someone came in from the outside,” Pereira suggested.

  “The garage door locks.”

  “Locks can be tampered with,” Howard put in.

  “It’s an automatic door opener. She used it when she got home. The garage door had no marks on it. No one forced his way in.”

  “How about others means of entry?”

  “None, except the door from the kitchen.”

  In unison we picked up our cups and drank.

  I said, “It points to Lois Palmerston. She had the opportunity and the motive and could have had the means. It’s just that, well, I can’t picture her dealing with anything as grubby as a car engine.”

  Howard laughed. “How fortunate for you to have such genteel suspects. In my cases, brake fluid would be like ambrosia. I think I’ve had enough of drug dealers and their foul relations. Even my big dealer, Leon Evans, with his college education and grand tour of the Far East—he’s still slime.” He stood up, suddenly grinning. “By the way, Jill, have you guessed what my costume is yet?”

  “Howard, it’s only been a little over twelve hours since we made this bet. Give me a chance.”

  “Having a hard time, huh? Doesn’t matter. You’ll never guess.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I know you. I know those strange byroads of your mind.”

  “Well, you’ve only got one day to drive down them. Tomorrow’s Halloween.” He was still grinning as he walked out.

  “What’s this contest?” Pereira demanded.

  “Howard bet me I couldn’t figure out what he’ll wear to his party.”

  “What do you get if you do?”

  “If I win, I get his parking spot. I spend so much time looking for a place to park now that I might as well have a part-time job.”

  Pereira whistled.

  “Yesterday I had to park nearly in Oakland. I’m not wearing running shoes for fashion.”

  “Still, Jill, a parking spot. That’s like finding gold.”

  “Well, Howard can get some more gold. All he needs to do is let the word out that he’s willing to park his car in one of the local lady’s driveways. They’ll be flooding the desk with offers. On the other hand, I’ll become a weatherbeaten hag running through the streets of Berkeley and never get offered a spot. This is my only chance.”

  “Speaking of the party,” Pereira said after a minute, “I got your costume.”

  “Are you sure it will fit me?”

  “Jill, with this type of thing, one size fits all.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I even got your magic wand.”

  “Thanks. Now listen, what I have for you is visits to Palmerston’s attorney and accountant. See if you can find anything suspicious in his will or his finances.”

  “Sure. What are you up to?”

  I stood up, prepared to make my exit. “I’m going to a health food restaurant.”

  Sunny Sides Up was located in one of the newly refurbished storefronts two blocks from campus. The building had housed a Greek take-out, a pizza parlor, and a bead shop several years ago before it burned. Then it had sat empty and boarded up for months before being rebuilt to house more gentrified shops.

  I had been past the restaurant but never inside. A place that specialized in eggs was too healthy for me, much less one that served only fertilized eggs. I pulled open the door and walked in. The small room was surprisingly quiet. I could still hear the trucks braking in the street and the students calling to their friends. Here, the loudest noise was subdued Bach. The floor was covered with brown indoor-outdoor carpet of distinctly better quality than the rough green mat Mr. Kepple had put on my floor. Pine tables were adorned with cloth napkins and fresh flowers. Along one wall were padded booths covered in red Naugahyde.

  And above each table was a sepia-toned photograph of the avenue at the turn of the century and an Art Deco light fixture. Brass railings separated the smoking and non-smoking sections. Sunny Sides Up was the early morning equivalent of a fern bar. I could see why Herman Ott had surmised that this restaurant was Adam Thede’s baby. Thede had spent thousands to make it charming. But students grabbing breakfast after class, intent on discussing Spinosa or tribal rites in Borneo, didn’t care about brass rails or old photos. For them, the funkier the better. And for health food addicts, once a spot mentioned five-bean salad and tofu omelets, all else was fluff.

  When crowded, Sunny Sides Up could seat fifty. Now, at eight-thirty in the morning, groupings totaling ten customers dotted the room.

  “Party of one?” a young woman asked me.

  “No. I need to talk to Adam Thede.”

  “He’s supervising the chef right now.”

  “I’m with the police.”

  Unconsciously, she took a step back. “I’ll tell him.” She hurried back to the swinging door that led to the kitchen. I noticed as she went through it that it led to another swinging door. No wonder there were no kitchen noises in the dining area. Adam Thede, I thought, must be more appreciated by his customers than his staff.

  Thede emerged in a minute. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark curly hair. He looked more like a fullback than a restauranteur. Even as he walked toward me, he surveyed the room, momentarily assessing each group of customers.

  “Jill Smith, Homicide Detail.” I held out my shield, but Thede waved it away.

  “What do you want with me? You don’t think we’ve poisoned …?” He had been smiling—a little joke. But he couldn’t bring himself to finish it.

  “Ralph Palmerston has been murdered. I need to talk to you about him.”

  “Who? What? Never met a Ralph Palmerston.”

  “Do you want to talk out here?”

  He whirled and looked toward his customers. They were forking in various green and tan comestibles, uninterested in us. Turning back to me, he said, “My office.”

  I followed him through the double swinging doors and past bags of rice and potatoes, each large enough to last me a lifetime. A chopping board was covered with leeks, endive, various types of mushrooms, and a number of plants, vegetables presumably, that looked as if they had been buried in the backyard for years. Thede indicated a door that said MANAGER. Inside was a four-by-six room, almost entirely filled with a desk and chair. Four stacking trays were piled at the side of the desk by the wall. On that wall was a poster of a face made from vegetables—tomatoes for cheeks, celery for the nose, and lettuce for the rather wrinkled forehead.

  “You want to sit?” He pointed to the desk chair.

  “I’ll stand.”

  He moved around the desk and stood behind it. I pulled out my pad. We were two feet apart and both had our backs to the walls.

  “I’m going to ask you again, Mr. Thede, how is it you know Ralph Palmerston?”

  “I don’t. I told you—never met the man.” He had a fullback’s voice. It bellowed in the tiny room.

  “Are you sure? Think.”

  “Unless I shook his hand in passing or someone brought him to one of my parties. … When I host, checking the hors d’oeuvres and watching the bar takes all my time. I don’t see guests as anything but open mouths till after midnight. I’m giving a Halloween party tomorrow night and I know I won’t get to see half the costum
es.”

  “What about business associations? Palmerston was the heir to the Palmieri Winery.”

  “I don’t belong to any associations. I only have this restaurant. I’m not a businessman, I’m a chef, or I was. Now I’m an entrepreneur.” He gave me an ironic smile as if realizing how un-entrepreneurlike he looked.

  In contrast to the dining area, this tiny office was dark and ill-ventilated. Already I could feel my back getting clammy.

  “Ralph Palmerston went to considerable lengths and expense to find out what was important to you. According to my source, he checked out all your suppliers, found out which were on the up-and-up and which ones you should avoid. According to my source, he was planning to use the information to surprise you. Now my—”

  Thede’s fist hit the desk. “Big deal! Why didn’t he tell me? A week ago I could have used that. If this Palmerston fellow had given it to me then, it would have been a real gift.”

  “How so?”

  “Don’t you read the papers? Didn’t you see the number of empty tables out front?”

  I nodded, but Thede didn’t seem to notice. “Some of my suppliers are tainted. They’re spraying grains with commercial herbicides, putting Malathion on their tomatoes. Look!” He thrust a newspaper at me. “Look—‘So-Called Health Food Contaminated.’ ”

  I glanced through the article. “But it says you couldn’t have known they were using sprays.”

  “Customers don’t care whether I know or not. This isn’t an honesty contest. The fact that I didn’t know their milk comes from cattle who’ve been fed antibiotics doesn’t make that milk any less dangerous for them. This place was packed two weeks ago. Now look at it. I’ve had to lay off three waitresses.”

  “Surely in time—”

  “In time what? It would be one thing if I had known I was serving non-organic food, but I didn’t know. Now even if I mount a campaign and say I have all new suppliers whom I’ve checked out myself, who’s going to believe me? They’ll say ‘He didn’t know before, why should we believe him now?’ ”