Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

“And Sam Sills.”

  Sam was an artist; I knew him slightly, in the way you become familiar with someone you bump into around clubs and galleries and gatherings associated with the art world. I hadn’t seen him in quite some time.

  I mentioned as much, and judging by the look on Harris’s face, he hadn’t, either.

  Getting back to the subject, I asked, “Are you sure you have no recollection of Judith Voss?”

  “No, sorry but I don’t.” His gaze avoided mine. I was sure he was lying.

  The last red Porsche owner was Evan Draper, what the newspapers used to call a metrosexual: trendy, stylish, and thoroughly caught up in his own appearance. When he answered the door of his high-rise condo in the SoMa area, he automatically pushed back an errant curl of his dark hair and straightened the jacket of an expensive pin-striped suit. “Yes?” he said.

  I gave him my card and explained my reason for being there.

  He motioned me into a stylized modern living room—slingback chairs and glass tables with spindly metal legs, carefully placed globes that caught the light from recessed fixtures and spread varicolored beams in all directions. Large uncurtained windows afforded a view from the Ferry Building and Alcatraz to the Oakland shipping terminals.

  Draper was a gracious host: he offered tea or coffee and, when I refused, settled me into one of the chairs, which proved to be surprisingly comfortable.

  “A missing person case, you said?” he asked, perching on the edge of a sofa.

  “Yes. Are you familiar with the name Judith Voss?”

  “The woman who disappeared recently?”

  “That’s the one. How do you know her?”

  “I’ve been following the case in the papers. Disappearances fascinate me—Judge Crater, Hoffa, you know. But why have you come to me, a stay-at-home accountant?”

  I explained about the red Porsche.

  “Amazing how you can trace people. Detective work is so compelling. I watch all the TV shows.”

  Just what I needed, a detective junkie.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Draper added. “This Judith Voss—did she have money?”

  “Only what she earned at a part-time job.”

  “Too bad. But she could’ve saved up and left the country.”

  “Passport control says she didn’t.”

  “But she could’ve gone to Mexico or Canada. I read someplace about how there’re places along the Canadian border where you can just hike up a trail, open a gate, and be in Canada scot-free. Or there’s always the old trick of stowing away in a moving van or a UPS truck. They say FedEx apprehends dozens of free riders a month.”

  His eyes were bright and his face was turning red; Draper was really getting into his game.

  I said, “Those are two interesting takes on the situation. I’ll have to think about them.”

  “What about her parents? What does her father do?”

  “He teaches school.”

  “Too bad. I was thinking he might be connected, you know. She could’ve been taken hostage by the mob—”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, kidnapped by somebody.”

  “There’s been no ransom note.”

  “But there could be a conspiracy. A friend of mine, he’s very into conspiracies. He has a fine collection on the subject, and I’ve read a lot of it.”

  God save me from conspiracy theories! Next we’d be talking alien abduction.

  “Mr. Draper,” I said, standing up, “our conversation has been very enlightening. I’ll get back to you if—”

  “Do you want I should send you some of the literature?”

  “Sure, why not?” I headed for the door. It would make interesting reading by the fireplace.

  So there I was: three red Porsches, their owners claiming no connection to Judith Voss. During the next few days I ran more checks on possible owners but came up with nothing useful. Second interviews with Judith’s friends and neighbors proved equally fruitless. Finally I had to admit I was wasting the Voss family’s money and my time.

  File closed.

  * * *

  Late afternoon, April 13, five years later. My eyes were burning from reading off the computer screen, so I hunted up the paper file and took it to my comfy leather armchair next to the window. The chair, which had been with me since my days at All Souls Legal Cooperative, had been shabby and butt-sprung for most of those years. But then, in honor of M&R’s splendid new offices, Ted Smalley, our office manager, had smuggled it out to an upholstery shop. When it returned, it was outfitted in soft brown leather and had acquired a matching footstool; now both resided in front of the broad window of my corner office beneath a ficus tree, also a gift from Ted and, appropriately, called Mr. T.

  Okay, I told myself, go over the file one more time. If you don’t find anything, there’s always next April 13.

  The impressions of Judith I’d gathered from friends, teachers, and other adults varied widely: studious, sneaky, poised, highly sexed, spiritual, a lot of fun. Who was she, really? After a moment I turned back to my lengthy interview with her former best friend, Barbie Jennings. The word she’d used to describe Judith was needing. Needing in terms of “aching for stuff.” Stuff she was unlikely to acquire on a physical therapist’s salary.

  Then the red Porsche came into the picture. A man had frequently met Judith, a man who could afford a classic car. Much as my friend at the DMV had searched—and much as the lunch I bought her every year as payment for her services would cost—only the three individuals I’d spoken with had matched the time frame.

  Eldon McFeeney. Could the brother or someone else have taken it out of McFeeney’s garage without him noticing? I’d doubted it five years ago and I still doubted it; McFeeney might be disabled, but he was mentally sharp. It was something to check on, though, and I called McFeeney’s number. The woman who answered told me she was his niece and that her uncle had died the previous year. The Porsche was still in the garage.

  “Nobody ever showed up looking for it,” she said, “and since it wasn’t taking up any space I needed—I don’t have a car myself—I just left it there. I keep thinking I ought to have it fixed up and sell it. How much do you think I could get for it?”

  I referred her to her local Porsche dealer.

  Evan Draper. A “mere stay-at-home accountant” and detective buff, to say nothing of conspiracy theorist. He knew of Judith’s disappearance, had advanced his ideas on what happened to her. A very enthusiastic man, Mr. Draper. But what if his enthusiasm was manufactured to mask other, darker motives? Might as well see how Evan was doing this year. I left a message on his voice mail.

  Arthur Harris. The agent who had named clients I’d never heard of. I’d checked on Harris on past April 13s. Harris was no longer listed in any of the Bay Area directories. How long had he been out of the agenting business? None of the clients he’d mentioned except for artist Sam Sills were listed, either. In the entertainment section of last Sunday’s Chronicle I’d noticed Sills was having a showing at a gallery in Dogpatch this week. Had Harris set that up for him? Well, why not go to his showing tonight and ask him? I had nothing better to do.

  * * *

  The NewSpace Gallery occupied part of an old warehouse in the eclectic Dogpatch neighborhood. A trendy part of the city between Potrero Hill and the Bay, the former shipbuilding center had been transformed by live-work lofts, cafés, specialty shops, brew pubs, and wine bars. Although it was early—only five—Third Street, its main artery, was crowded with strollers and shoppers. I stopped to admire a Peruvian cape in a window, imagined its outrageous price tag, and pressed forward.

  The gallery was doing a brisk business. Sills’s space was a large one at the front and there were tags affixed to some of the paintings indicating a sale had been made. I couldn’t say I liked them much: he must have been in his gray period, because mo
st of them were muddied, with occasional splotches of bright primary colors peeking through. They struck me as real downers.

  “That painting,” a voice said over my shoulder, “does it speak to you?”

  I turned. Sam Sills hadn’t changed at all. Short, brown-haired, with a fluffy beard and a thick mustache that someone had once opined made him look as if he was “trying to eat a cat.”

  “Sharon McCone! I haven’t seen you since...when?” he exclaimed. “Forget my words—I wouldn’t attempt to sell you any of this tripe.”

  “Tripe?”

  He took my arm and drew me aside. “That’s just what it is—folks like it, buy it, keep me in food and drink. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

  “In the interviews I read you used to seem so serious about your work.”

  “I used to be serious about a lot of things. But I was only publicly serious. When I stopped with the self-praise I took a good look at my work and realized I’d better get a real job or go broke. Real jobs and going broke have never appealed to me, so I altered my technique and aimed for a less sophisticated audience. That’s why I don’t praise my work anymore. But you, I hear about you and your agency all the time. What brings you here tonight? Just slumming?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about your agent, Arthur Harris—”

  “Former agent. He took me on when I was a starving artist and kept me poor by stealing from me. I left him as soon as I could attract better representation. Is the old bugger still in the business?”

  “Apparently not. He’s no longer listed anywhere.”

  “How come you’re interested in him?”

  I explained about Judith Voss.

  Sills smiled knowingly. “You should’ve come to me five years ago, darlin’. I can’t tell you where your missing woman is now, but I can make a pretty good guess why she went missing. Along with his agenting career, Artie Harris was a pimp.”

  For a moment I was taken aback. “A pimp!”

  “Right. And not your small-timer. He set his ladies up in fancy places, trained them in the high-class call girl business. He had half a dozen or more in his stable at one time.”

  “What happened? His agent’s office was pretty downscale when I saw him five years ago.”

  “That was his cover. He figured the law wouldn’t suspect anybody that unsuccessful could have been doing so well in an illicit trade.”

  A blonde woman in a black dress with an official-looking name tag came up behind Sam. “Mr. Sills, I have a customer who’s serious about purchasing Summer Dawn.”

  “All right!” To me he said, “Good luck with your search, Sharon. If you need anything else, call me.” He hurried away with the blonde woman.

  Okay, I thought, now maybe I have the lead I need to finally solve the April 13 cold case. The probable scenario: Judith Voss, a woman who reputedly “loved to fuck” and “wanted stuff,” had somehow encountered Artie Harris, a high-class pimp and the owner of the red Porsche she’d been seen in, and he’d set her up in luxurious digs. When Harris was forced to quit pimping, if Judith was smart—and I knew she was—she would have continued with her clientele and kept the fees for her services for herself.

  The question was, where was Judith now plying her trade?

  Somewhere here in the city that she’d vowed she would never leave? It was entirely possible. She’d surely changed her appearance—dyed and restyled hair, expensive cosmetics, expensive clothes—and would be living a lifestyle far removed from her former one. San Francisco is a big city; she could have been lucky enough not to have crossed paths with any of her former acquaintances.

  * * *

  As soon as I left the gallery, I called Barbie Jennings, who expressed surprise at hearing from me. “Is this about Judith after all this time?”

  “Yes. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “You mentioned a house on Russian Hill that Judith fell in love with on one of your excursions. Where was it?”

  “I remember the house, but... Wait a minute. I kept a diary back then. I’ll hunt it up.”

  It took her a few minutes to get back to me. “Here it is,” she said somewhat breathlessly. “End of March. Yes. Sunday. The house was on Taylor Street. It was unique, set way back from the street. You had to approach it down a little alley.”

  There couldn’t be that many such houses in a district where millionaires had been putting up mansions since the Gold Rush days. “Do you recall what the cross streets were?”

  “Umm... I’m pretty sure it was between Filbert and Union. Why is this important—”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  * * *

  The house was an original, for San Francisco. Tucked halfway down an alley between two looming redbrick apartment houses, and overgrown by tough old wisteria vines that looked as if they were reaching for the sun. Probably a converted outbuilding for one of the mansions that had once crowned the hill. There were lights on inside.

  The woman who answered my knock at the front door could not possibly have been Judith Voss. Too old, too tall, with long red hair tied in a ponytail and trailing down her back to her waist. She wasn’t unattractive, but she didn’t strike me as the call girl type.

  “Yes?” she said pleasantly.

  I showed her my ID. “Do you have a roommate, by any chance, Ms...?”

  “Kelly. No, I don’t.”

  “May I ask how long you’ve lived here?”

  “Six months. Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for a young woman who may have been a former occupant—”

  “You must mean Jennifer Vail. She lived here for about five years before I took over the lease.”

  J.V.—same initials.

  “And she moved out six months ago?”

  “Closer to eight. But she didn’t exactly move out.”

  “Oh?”

  “She disappeared just before the lease came up for renewal. Here one day, gone the next.”

  “Do you have any idea where she went?”

  “No. Nobody does, apparently. Not even the police.”

  “The police?”

  “Somebody called them and reported her missing. One of her johns, I suppose.”

  “Then you’re aware of her profession. Did you know Jennifer?”

  “No, I never met her. Her profession became apparent almost as soon as I moved in. Men kept coming by, asking for her. I finally contacted the police, and the detective I talked to confirmed that she was a call girl. He didn’t seem particularly interested that she’d disappeared.”

  I didn’t suppose he had been. People are prone to disappear in a big city, and unless they’re prominent in one way or another, or there’s evidence of foul play, it’s just business as usual.

  “Did she take all her possessions with her when she went away?” I asked.

  “No, and it’s kind of odd that she didn’t. She had a lot of jewelry and clothing that she left behind.”

  “Do you know what happened to it?”

  “It’s all still here. The real estate agent had it boxed up and put it in the storage closet. It’ll all be sold if she doesn’t claim it after a year.”

  “There was nothing that might indicate where she’d gone or why?”

  “Not according to the agent or the police,” Ms. Kelly said. “But you’re welcome to look through the boxes, if you’d like.”

  “I would.”

  There were three big boxes full of carefully folded underwear, lounging outfits, formal dresses, and informal wear. A velvet pouch held earrings, rings, bracelets, and necklaces. I wasn’t any expert on jewelry, but it all looked expensive to me.

  I thanked Ms. Kelly and walked down the alley, but stopped midway, staring at the little vine-covered cottage. My search for Judith Voss had ended h
ere tonight. And so had my April 13 obsession. I had found her at last, only to have her elude me again, and there was nothing more I could or wanted to do to find her a second time. Nor would I share what I’d discovered with her parents. They must have come to terms with their loss by this time; I was not about to bring more hurt to them by revealing what their daughter had chosen to do with her life.

  Maybe her disappearance had been a willful one, and if so, she’d found what she was looking for someplace else. But a call girl’s existence is precarious at best. And it seemed out of character that a successful one with expensive tastes would abandon her material possessions on a sudden whim.

  It just might be that Judith had found her Mr. Goodbar.

  * * *

  WHODAT HEIST

  BY JULIE SMITH

  November 2018

  “I’ve been thinkin’. This is the year.” Forest nodded for emphasis, although Roy wasn’t even looking at him. “This is definitely the year.”

  “Thought you were thinkin’, ol’ buddy. The whole place is shakin’.”

  “Well, actually, that could be the music.” Forest and Roy, his crime partner, were holding down a couple of bar stools at the Cat’s Meow on Bourbon Street, where some idiot was trying to channel John Fogerty. The crowd was singing along to “Proud Mary.”

  “This is definitely the year the Saints win the Super Bowl.”

  Roy belted out the verse about the wheel turning.

  “Goddammit, this is important.”

  “I’m listening.” And to signal that he was, Roy followed up with “Whodat?,” the shorthand version of the Saints chant, “Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?” Then he went right back to guzzling his beer and devoting himself enthusiastically to the chorus.

  It might have been annoying, but Forest didn’t let Roy bother him. They’d had been best friends since they were six—grew up together in Pascagoula, Mississippi. But everybody in three states knew Roy didn’t have the sense God gave him. “See, it’ll be the second time, after that epic win in 2010. So you know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna trademark ‘Two Dat.’ And sell T-shirts and hats and stuff.”