Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  He’s a skilled listener, not a trained Pomeranian. Say as little as possible.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to begin the interview right away.”

  Maureen handed him the glass of lemon-lime and turned the way she always did, to fanfare, and sat down in a chair of a matching set, close to the front window, which was large and framed by yellow, champagne, and white striped satin panels over sheers, lightening her hair and almost blinding seated onlookers.

  “You have a beautiful home, Maureen.”

  “Oh, it’s just something I’ve thrown together over the years.”

  Maureen took a sip and watched Larry place his soft drink on the coffee table. She jumped up and grabbed a coaster. “If you don’t mind, Larry,” and placed it under his glass. Back in her chair, she waited, wine glass carefully balanced.

  She guessed Larry to be about five feet nine inches tall and 180 lbs. She liked his white eyebrows, trimmed so neatly.

  “Maureen, do you possess a gun?”

  “Oh, well, no, of course not.” The wine glass wobbled. The skin on her arms tingled as if stung by a horde of mosquitos.

  “Does James?”

  “Well, yes, but you must know that.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t know. I know nothing about guns. I’ve never handled one,” Maureen replied, raising and dropping her shoulders. With her free hand, she smoothed the lap of her gray pants, which felt tight, and thought about switching to plain ice water.

  “Were you at James’ house on the Fourth of July?”

  “Yes.”

  “The whole night?”

  “No. I left at two.”

  “Where was James?”

  They heard glass shatter in the kitchen.

  “What was that?” Maureen asked.

  “Is anyone else at home?”

  “No. Should we check the kitchen?”

  “Let me do that.” Larry got up quickly and passed into the dining room. Maureen followed. “Let me go first. Stay back.” Larry pushed the swinging door open and looked into the kitchen. “It looks empty. One of your glasses fell off the counter.”

  “Can I follow you?”

  “All right but stay a few paces behind me.” Larry walked to the back door.

  “It’s locked.”

  Maureen looked out the kitchen window and saw James’ Rolls parked on the street.

  They heard a noise.

  “What was that?” Larry rushed to the pantry door and opened it. “Nothing inside. Where does the other door lead?”

  “The hallway, but the door’s locked.”

  “I saw a cat in your breakfast room. Maybe, the cat knocked over the glass.”

  “Thank God. Thank you, Larry.”

  “Let’s go back to the living room and finish up.”

  Maureen lifted her glass of wine, and Larry sat down on the chesterfield.

  “We were talking about O’Hara’s 4th of July party. You were present. Was Mrs. O’Hara?’

  Maureen hid her face behind her glass, took another gulp, and garbled, “Clare was entertaining the guests...of course.”

  “Are you willing to make a formal statement to that effect?”

  The wine glass came down. “Of course. Why do you need a formal statement from me?” She lost focus for a moment, trying to glimpse the dark wood beams of her Mediterranean style home, until she felt she’d regained some composure, set her drink on the bare glass end table, and covered her wedding ring with the other hand.

  “A formality, that’s all. A few more questions. Are you seeing James romantically?”

  “No.”

  “Were you dating Cornelius?”

  “No.” The question felt like an itch in an unusual spot. Maureen looked at her diamond watch, stood up, and felt herself tremble. With hips leading the way, she glided to the entry hall and turned.

  You haven’t gotten anything from me and never will.

  She smiled. “Are you finished, dear?”

  “Yes. Be available for more questions.”

  “Oh, I’m around. Two of my girls are keeping me busy this summer. I have the usual social engagements that claim attention, too.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She handed him his coat and said, “I have a busy day tomorrow, organizing a fund-raiser for the Junior League.”

  “Mm. Thank you again for meeting with me.”

  “I don’t expect we will meet again. We move in different circles.” She shut the front door, leaned against it, and breathed deeply, knowing full well they would meet again.

  Moments later, Maureen heard the door to the basement open.

  “I’m here, James.”

  James walked down the hall to Maureen. “What was he doing here?”

  “Don’t I get a kiss first?”

  “I asked you what he was doing here.”

  “What are you doing here?” With a heap of hurt pulsing through her veins and looking for some ointment to soothe her feelings, she walked over to the liquor cabinet. She bent over to pick up the silver tongs and felt dizzy. She fantasized about throwing wine in his face. Her heart was racing. The Hay book said to put anger in a letter. Her legs stiffened instead.

  “How can you just stand there after what’s happened?”

  “What? What happened?” James asked.

  Maureen turned around fitfully. “Larry asked me questions about the gun! You should have been here to answer the questions. I have no idea what’s happening. Explain all of this to me now!”

  James cocked his head to the left, opened his arms, and displayed his bowling pin teeth.

  “Maureen, come here. Let me hold you.”

  “No.” She felt restless.

  “Why are you drinking wine?”

  “Why do you smoke cigars around me?”

  “All right. I won’t. You should stop drinking alcohol, Maureen. Now come to me.”

  “No. I want answers.” She stood perfectly straight.

  As he got closer, the potent Padrone Maduro odor filled up some part of her emptiness. Hands on his chest added support. He gently caressed her hair. The curled fingers of her hands, still pulsating from the surprise visit, touched the lapels of his jacket and robotically smoothed the fabric.

  James pulled her into a warmer embrace, and his belly lay against hers. “You feel good, even in your condition.” His eyes were listening. “That was a close call. I thought you would be alone. While I was in the pantry, I knocked over a can of cat food, so I went out the other door and snuck down the stairs. I’m sorry about the mess in the kitchen. I’ll clean it up.”

  “He asked me if I had a gun. I said, ‘Of course not.’ What should we do?”

  “Nothing. He knows nothing. Where is it?”

  “Behind me. In the liquor cabinet.”

  Maureen kissed him long on the lips, then reluctantly tore herself away from the powerful emotional release his welcoming arms had triggered and walked into the kitchen to look for a broom to sweep up the glass.

  He followed.

  “Why don’t you fix all this mess?”

  He reached for her broom.

  “No, James, I mean the mess we’re in.”

  He left the kitchen and returned to the liquor cabinet. She leaned the broom against the kitchen counter and followed. “I can’t stand this much longer.”

  “Let me see the gun.”

  She moved to the cabinet. The sound of a gentle click in the key hole freed her pent-up emotion.

  James sprang forward, pushing Maureen against the cabinet and causing her to gasp when her knee hit the mirrored front. She squirmed under his weight.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said as he nudged her aside.

  He opened the door and lifted his monogrammed frames to look inside. Resting on a plush gray hand towel was a gun, the color of oil, the length of a hand.

  “Keep it here, safe.”

  “I don’t want that gun. I don’t want that thing in my house,” she
said to his backside.

  James took a few steps away from her, his broad shoulders forming a square silhouette, blocking the afternoon light streaming through the sheers. His barrel chest heaved. A sweetened scent filled the room.

  Calmly but firmly, he stated, “I have been taking care of you for some time and, for that reason, and many more, I expect you to do what I ask. As for the mess you speak of, you need to do what I do. Push negative thoughts out.” With the eyeglasses at the tip of his nose, he said sternly, “I won’t face your problems for you. You need to face them head-on.”

  “What about Clare?” The mention of his wife lit a spark between them.

  With this new provocation, Maureen saw O’Hara’s back stiffen.

  “What about her? I take care of her. She has nothing to complain about. She’s a damn sight better at keeping her mouth shut than you are.”

  Maureen stepped forward and shouted, “Your wife puts up with all this. You’re seeing me, and you got me in this mess. I can’t believe what I’ve done to Clare. She invites me to her house and is gracious to a fault. If my father knew about this, he would be furious.”

  O’Hara stood silent, as if the machinery in a deep mine had been turned off. His eyes looked dark and bottomless.

  “I care about my father’s opinion. Look what he did to my sister when she married one of the Crew’s,” Maureen said in a loud voice.

  “Your father is a prejudiced man. Everyone knows by now that he should have accepted his son-in-law. He has three grandchildren, for God’s sake. Having children of mixed race is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “How dare you speak about my father that way? My sister got pregnant and had no choice, and here I am, in the same position, and all you can do is criticize the man who loves me the most.”

  She looked down at her wedding ring, now a quiet reminder that she was a widow. Something had chipped the pink nail polish on her left forefinger. One foot tried to take a step forward.

  She said, “If I were married to you, I would get a divorce.”

  “If I were married to you, I would give you one.”

  “My father would know what to do. I’ll call him and tell him the whole story. You better know this, James...I’ve had a lot of family turmoil, but I’ve survived.” She hesitated, then said, “Now, what are you going to do about this?”

  Maureen could see James was speechless at hearing resolve in her voice and was struggling at the mention of her father, the great undertaker who had buried thousands of San Franciscans, good or bad. Something had been worked loose, which was her intention. She was relieved for the small shift in the balance of power.

  He took off his eyeglasses and said, “The gun belonged to Cornelius.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “Maureen,” O’Hara warned, his voice quickly cooling as he put his glasses back on and leveled a gaze at her.

  “James.” His name fell from her lips in a soft admonishment. Maureen took a cautious step forward, extending her hand toward him as if he were a dangerous animal. When it didn’t look like he would bite, she laid a hand on his chest.

  A row of pink nails lay at the base of a full neck under a heavy jaw.

  James looked away from her pleading eyes. He shrugged off her touch and walked across the room.

  “Take it to the police,” she said.

  “No. My fingerprints are on the gun.”

  “So are mine. Just take it.”

  “No. I can’t do that.”

  Just as he answered, there was a low-pitched rumble that rattled the front window. A car alarm started blaring. They looked at one another.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  James walked to the front window with a martial cadence. Maureen followed on his heels. “Stay back...away from the window. We just had an earthquake.”

  They heard a second rumble, and the air whistled as if it were being expelled through the back door. Maureen’s fear grew on hearing the Great Dane howling next door and the fine china bouncing in her dining room. Another rumble. Neither said a word. A minute passed.

  “Do you think it’s over, James?”

  James looked down at his gold wedding band. “I’d better go home. Keep the gun. I’ll think about what to do with it.” James started in the direction of the front door but quickly changed his mind, turned, and kissed Maureen on the cheek. She grabbed him tightly.

  “I’m sorry for getting so upset. I’ll stop drinking.”

  “And I’ll stop smoking cigars around you.”

  “But I don’t want that gun here. You can go out the front door.” She followed him and waited for an answer in the entry hall.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  When he swung the front door open, the world suddenly intruded. Across the street, a lady in a gingerbread-colored bathrobe stood resolutely, her arms folded, looking up and down the exterior of her house and its side-by-side, shingled turrets, the top halves of which shone in the sun setting behind the houses on Maureen’s side of the street.

  Feeling as if she were caught in the spokes of a wheel that wouldn’t stop turning, she said to his back, “Do more than think about it. I’m bringing your child into the world.”

  “I can’t.” He looked up and down the street, hurriedly stepped off the last riser, and left her standing outside in the fading light.

  In the quiet of the entry hall, Maureen pulled out the hair pin, allowing her hair to cascade over shoulders and caress the skin that only James appreciated. Against the solid surface of the front door she leaned back and looked straight ahead. In her mind’s eye was the full-length portrait hanging at the landing where two sets of stairs joined. The picture of Clare O’Hara in her Sea Cliff mansion couldn’t be ignored.

  She could compete with anyone.

  Maureen walked down the long hall to the landing outside the back door, and there, standing alone, she listened to the back-yard fountain regale her with the sound of dancing water.

  “Dad, it’s Maureen.”

  “Hi, bonbon. I was thinking about you.”

  “Dad, there’s something I want to talk to you about. Can I come see you?”

  “Of course. Come over now. Did you feel the earthquake?”

  Maureen hung up without answering. She drove to Magellan Avenue and looked up Path Street, the public stairway-walk that led to her father’s gray, two-story mansard. The twenty-seven stairs and a turn to the right brought her once again to the front door, and once again, she worried. Her recently-widowed father was seventy-nine years old.

  They embraced at the front door.

  “You look wonderful, Dad. How’s the gout?”

  “Never mind about that. Come on in and sit down.” From the direction of the kitchen, he asked, “Tea?”

  “Let me get that.” Her father shuffled to his favorite chair in the living room, and she picked up his newspaper, which lay scattered about. She straightened the kitchen’s old coocoo clock. It was quarter past seven. He retired every night at eight o’clock.

  While the water boiled, she rinsed some dishes and placed them in an already full dishwasher. She poured the water into two tea cups, let the tea bags steam, and started the dishwasher on its first cycle.

  “Dad, here’s your tea. I have a little problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looked at his bushy gray eyebrows and the hearing aids in both ears. The purpose of the visit soon became obvious. Fifteen minutes later, she tucked him into his favorite chair with his favorite throw, watched him fall asleep, emptied the dishwasher, and drove home.

  Standing at the back door and looking at the fountain, its water not dancing so dazzlingly as before, she felt like Mary, standing at the foot of the cross.

  •••

  On the way home from Maureen’s, Larry deliberated over the kind of relationship she had with James. The aroma of her home lingered like the rosy fragrance of burning votive wax in the chapel across from St. Ignatius, where on most Saturday morni
ngs Lauren sought advice from a Cristo Rey nun sitting behind a grill while he waited for an hour in the white zone.

  The habit of making quick assessments of people, which had developed over time, had fallen away in Maureen’s presence. He turned the police radio off and drove past the Seventh Avenue reservoir, and in three more blocks entered Golden Gate Park.

  The setting sun caused him to avert his eyes in the direction of memorial groves peopled by trees with the mournful look of wooden figures. After the black Redwood Memorial Grove came the Heroes Grove. Larry’s grandfather, John Leahy, survived World War I, unlike the fallen heroes honored by silent trees whose significance was lost on most San Franciscans. Heroes Grove deserved a salute and got one.

  The Hibernia Bank robbery engineered by his father came in 1958, the year after his grandfather died.

  The engine hummed after it changed gears and reminded Larry that he had waited until he turned twenty to learn to drive.

  “Your father wants to teach you,” his mother had said.

  “I’ve learned everything else on my own!”

  “Didn’t I teach you anything?”

  “That’s different.”

  At Twenty-Fifth Avenue there was a bump. Two light poles on either side of the street swayed, and electric lines slackened and tightened. He pulled over, stopped in front of a driveway, turned on the radio, and searched for a news station. Over the static, he heard the announcer say, “Earthquake.”

  Lauren will be worried.

  He wondered if this was a portent and sped through a red light.

  She was sitting with a cigarette poised in one hand and the phone in the other hand.

  “I think it was an earthquake, Maude. Larry’s home. Good-bye.”

  He placed his keys on the counter next to the Jack Daniels.

  Lauren talked to the next-door neighbor every day. He spotted the drink on the table and looked back at the bottle. The words on the label were blinking at him. He squeezed into the breakfast nook’s bench seat and felt the small nick in the table’s Formica edge.

  “Pot roast.” She grabbed the drink and walked over to the oven. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”