Looking for Yesterday

by Marcia Muller

  “And you’re at peace with what you did?”

  “No. I still have nightmares.”

  “But you’d do the same thing again?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  After a moment he said, “I get it. But what I did—”

  “Was primarily your father’s fault. As my husband says, guns are not for everyone. Especially for a person who leaves a loaded one where a child can get his hands on it. I’m surprised your father wasn’t prosecuted. People usually are.”

  “My father had connections. The whole thing just went away. Sort of like the memory of Marissa.”

  “But you didn’t forget.”

  “I think about it every day of my life. I try to justify it as an accident. It doesn’t help; I still wake up crying. I’ve never married, never even had a significant relationship. I bury myself in my work, and don’t get close to my colleagues. Shit, there was this dog I wanted to adopt a couple of years ago, but I couldn’t.”

  “Because you’re afraid you’ll hurt somebody—or something—again.”

  “…I guess.”

  “You know.” I opened the second box. Junior high school stuff—yearbooks, a cheerleading pom-pom, photographs of a picnic on a beach, a champagne cork that must have commemorated a special, perhaps clandestine occasion.

  Rob sat down on the other side of the box.

  “What was Marissa like?” I asked.

  His dark gaze lightened. “A happy baby. Well, not exactly a baby—she was four years old.…” His voice broke and he coughed. “She was delighted with everything: learning—she could read by age three. Animals at the zoo—she wanted to know all about them. Sailing—back then we had a small boat that we took out on the Bay. She was advanced for her age: sometimes she’d sneak into our parents’ bedroom and experiment with Mom’s makeup—with disastrous results, of course. And like Patty, she loved to plant things and watch them grow. One summer—”

  He broke off, covered his eyes, from which tears had started leaking.

  I touched his arm. “Rob, Marissa had a happy life.”

  “But I shortened it—”

  “You, yes. But it could have been somebody or something else. She could’ve run out into traffic and been hit by a car. She could’ve come down with a disease and died. She could’ve lived into her teens, gotten into bad company, and overdosed. Thing is, length doesn’t matter. Quality does.”

  He pulled his arm away from my hand. “And you think I should ramp up the quality of my life? Pretend none of this awfulness happened?”

  “I can’t imagine what you should do. You lost Marissa, you lost Caro, and your parents are assholes. But you still have Patty, and she needs you. I expect you need her too.”

  He sat silent for a long time, his head bowed. Then he said, “Right. Let’s go through the rest of these boxes, and then I’ll go over to Oakland and take Patty out to dinner.”

  6:55 p.m.

  “Wait a minute,” Rob said. “What’s that?”

  The outside light had waned and the temperature had cooled. We’d moved into the storage unit and sat down under the single bare bulb.

  “What’s what?” I asked.

  “That photograph.”

  I’d found it in an envelope that had apparently slipped and stuck between the cabinet and the wall. I’d scarcely had time to look at it, but I handed it to him.

  “Amelia and some woman I’ve never seen before.”

  I took it back and studied it. The two women appeared to be clowning around, mugging for the camera. In the background were forested hills, and in the foreground was a shadow—the person who’d taken the picture and, from his size, most likely a man.

  “Does this background look familiar to you?”

  He shook his head. “It could be anyplace in California. Anyplace in any number of states.”

  “This woman”—I jabbed my fingertip at the unidentified one—“are you sure you’ve never seen her? Maybe she was a friend of Caro’s?”

  “Probably, since her picture’s in this storage unit. But I’m sure I’d recognize her if she had been.”

  I looked at the woman again: long dark hair pulled back into a raggedy ponytail; wide mouth; deep tan; very white teeth. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Probably, with her regular features, I’d recognized her as a type, rather than an individual.

  “May I keep this?” I asked Rob.

  “Sure, why not? It’s nothing to me.”

  9:16 p.m.

  I still hadn’t had my talk with Jill Starkey. The woman had an unreasonable bias against Caro Warrick, and I wanted to know why. Also, she might have knowledge about the case that hadn’t turned up in the voluminous files I’d viewed.

  A light mist was gathering when I parked half a block from her building and, after receiving no answer to my several rings, I decided to stake it out rather than relinquish a rare and coveted space in such a congested area.

  I didn’t waste the time, either. I used both my laptop and my cell phone. Mick had been in touch: he’d accessed Caro’s landline bills and found two calls the week before last to a number that had turned out to be Dave and Kayla Walden’s. So much for them not knowing her.

  I’d learned through Inspector Devlin Fast—again he was working the night shift—that James Bettencourt’s conviction for assault with a deadly weapon stemmed from his smacking a fellow diner in the face with a wine bottle at one of the Financial district’s better restaurants, after the man cast aspersions upon Bettencourt’s deceased daughter. The victim, one Robert Frasier, had sustained severe cuts and a lacerated eyelid, but acknowledged that he had provoked Bettencourt, and the presiding judge had given Amelia’s father two years’ probation. Bettencourt had served his probation with no further incident and then moved south. Fast had an address and phone number for him, and I wrote them down, just in case.

  Both Mick and I had been working on putting together background on Jill Starkey. As usual, his was more comprehensive than mine. A native of Indiana, Starkey had received her BA in journalism at Northwestern University in Illinois and, during the short-lived boom years of newspaper hiring, moved west to work at the Chronicle—first as a general assignment reporter, next as a crime and trial reporter, and finally as a columnist. Mick’s research implied that it was her particularly venomous coverage of the Warrick trial that had elevated her to columnist-everybody-loves-to-hate.

  Unlike most journalists, however, Starkey embroidered the truth when it suited her purposes. A particularly vicious and largely false column about connections between a prominent and respected San Francisco family and a South American drug lord had resulted in a libel suit and hefty settlement levied upon the Chron, and put her out of a job. Starkey rebounded, borrowing money from “friends and admirers” and founding The Right Shoe. Judging from its offices and circulation figures—which Mick provided me—none of those loans had been repaid.

  “Look,” I said, “why don’t you tackle Starkey? You’re more familiar with her history and besides, she hates me.”

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 10

  5:50 a.m.

  I’d gone to bed early and slept soundly. Now the phone shrilled close to my ear. I’d left it on my pillow last night after talking with Hy.

  I turned my head so I could see the clock and sighed. At this hour the call could only be: 1) a dire emergency; 2) a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed telemarketer; 3) a wrong number; or 4) Ma. Of the options, I hoped it was a telemarketer. At least they were used to being hung up on.

  But it was none of the above. Instead, Inspector Devlin Fast. This was one contact I couldn’t risk alienating by shouting at him, so in a modulated tone I asked, “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Normally, two or three hours. But the information you requested came in by text from an inspector on the early shift a few minutes ago, and I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Information? Oh, right.” The names of the other two investigators Caro Warrick had hired.


  “Got something to write on?”

  I grabbed a pen and scratch pad from the nightstand. “Go ahead.”

  “Hamilton Roth, works out of an office on Polk Street.” He gave me the address and phone number. “Then there’s Edna Sheep—”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “What’s the matter with the name?”

  “Nothing.” I couldn’t explain to him that on one of his recent trips to London Hy, as a joke, had brought me back an inflatable sex toy called Edna the Party Sheep. “It’s unusual, that’s all. You have contact information for her?”

  “Only an e-mail address.” He read it to me.

  “Odd, for someone in the business.”

  “Maybe she’s paranoid.”

  “Or hearing impaired. Or mute.”

  “More likely she prefers to screen her potential clients.”

  “Well, given some of the potentials who have wandered into my agency’s offices recently, I can’t fault her for that.”

  “Speaking of offices,” Fast said, “where are you hanging your hat since the elevator crash?”

  “RI’s building.”

  “Nice. You planning to stay?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. We’ve got a huge caseload, and a couple of the operatives are away on winter vacations.”

  “Where I’d like to go. Hawaii, Mexico… Keep me posted. I’ll be here.”

  I switched off the phone and flopped back onto the pillows. No use trying to go back to sleep, that wasn’t going to happen. Too early to call Hamilton Roth. But I could e-mail Edna Sheep. I reached for my robe, staggered up the spiral staircase and along to the kitchen—and realized I was out of coffee. The cats twined around my legs, mowling for food. Thank God I hadn’t used up all of that; they’d probably have ripped my throat out. I fed them, settled for some Rise ’n Shine tea that somebody had given me last Christmas, and fired off a message to the Sheep woman.

  She got back to me immediately by phone.

  “Another female private investigator, and an insomniac like me!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you the Sharon McCone I read about in connection with those awful bombings? And then you were shot in the head—”

  “Yes, that’s me.” I ran my hand through the tangled hair on said head, then leaned heavily on the table. People who are cheerful before eight in the morning exhaust me. Maybe I should’ve stayed in bed after all.

  Edna Sheep wasn’t going to allow that, though. She said, “I’d be delighted to talk with you about the Warrick case. Over breakfast? I know a delightful little place near Embarcadero Center. Exquisite omelets and crepes—”

  My head started to throb as if I had a hangover, but that couldn’t be—I’d had only one glass of wine last night. It was obvious that I was developing an allergy to Edna Sheep even before I’d met her.

  “Sounds lovely,” I forced out. “What time?”

  “Oh, as soon as possible. It’s wonderful to make the acquaintance of another morning person.”

  7:20 a.m.

  The “delightful place” near the Embarcadero Center wasn’t any such thing. Situated between two elegant high-rises, it was a seventies-style storefront that exuded greasy smells and whose counters were defaced with crude carvings, its fake leather booths slashed—probably in vengeance for the quality of the food.

  Edna Sheep was waiting for me in the extreme rear booth, a cup of coffee in front of her. Upon first glimpse she looked like your average office worker—loosely permed gray-brown hair, carefully applied makeup, casual business attire.

  But then she opened her mouth and bleated.

  Honest to God, she bleated!

  “That’s my signature greeting,” she told me, sliding a business card across the table.

  Nobody in the coffee shop was paying attention to us. They must’ve heard it all before. I looked at the card: on its bottom left-hand side was a cartoon of a fluffy sheep; a voice balloon over its head proclaimed, “Ewe’ll love the Sheep Agency!”

  Oh my God…

  “What’ll it be?” Edna asked. “Eggs Benedict? Crepes? Blueberry pancakes?”

  “Uh, coffee and toast, please.”

  “Cheap date,” she said, motioning to the waitress, who took our orders and departed. “I’ve made you copies of my files on…” She looked around, narrowing her eyes at the other diners. “On you know, what’s-her-name.”

  Why the subterfuge? I wondered as she shoved two thick envelopes toward me. If no one had noticed her bleat, it was unlikely that they’d eavesdrop on our conversation.

  I decided to build fellowship by colluding in her secretiveness. “I’ll go over these later, but what was your impression of…the subject?”

  “Guilty as hell.”

  “But you took her on as a client—”

  “Because I’ve got a heavy-duty mortgage and a son in Palm Springs who thinks he’s a golf pro but is really a waiter and is always asking me for money.”

  Another reason I was glad I’d never had children.

  “What made you so sure of Warrick’s guilt?” I asked.

  “Well, it was such an odd request—that I affirm her acquittal. As if she’d committed the crime and wanted to make sure she’d gotten off scot-free.”

  “Double jeopardy—”

  “That was another warning signal. No matter what I turned up, she couldn’t be tried again.”

  “But she could be vilified in the press, cast out by friends and family.”

  “Not with the confidentiality agreement she made me sign. Extensive. Ironclad.”

  Caro had not asked me to sign such a document. She’d been forthcoming, wanting me to look into the most private areas of her life. But maybe, after she’d had a look at Edna Sheep—

  Our food came. Sheep dug into her Mexican scramble with gusto. Reached for the saltshaker and added at least a teaspoon of the stuff, then chomped onward.

  I asked, “Did you know Caro hired another investigator after you told her you couldn’t help?”

  “Ham-and-Eggs Roth? Yeah, I recommended him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s an extremely practical man, and I thought he could talk some sense into her.”

  “And did he?”

  “No. He fell for her line of bullshit—fell hard.”

  “In what way?”

  “You’d best ask him, Ms. McCone. Me, I try to stay out of things like that.”

  12:05 p.m.

  I understood why Edna had called the other investigator “Ham-and-Eggs” Roth. He was ovoid, with little feet and a small, pointed head, and in between—well, “ham” was a polite way to describe his physique. But he welcomed me warmly at a very good café near his offices on Polk Street close to the Civic Center, and the first thing he said was “I’ve admired your work for years.”

  Flattery—I fall for it every time.

  “I’m surprised we’ve never met,” I responded. “Do you attend any of the industry conventions?”

  He shook his head. “I’m semiretired. I keep my license current and occasionally take on jobs for clients who really need my help, but I avoid large gatherings. My cases are low-key, mostly civil, and I like it that way. But you—you just keep coming on strong.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You mentioned that you’d had breakfast with our colleague Edna Sheep,” Ham said. “Since I know the quality of the eating places she frequents, I’ve taken the liberty of alerting the kitchen to prepare an exceptionally good meal for you. IPAs for both of us should be along in a minute.”

  “Oh, thank you. Breakfast with Edna—”

  “Sucked.”

  “Exactly.” I paused as the waiter set down our mugs of beer, then asked, “She said you fell for Caro’s ‘line of bullshit’ hard. What did that mean?”

  “I recognized the truth when I heard it.”

  “But why did you agree to investigate the case after the fact? She’d been acquitted, couldn’t be retried.”

  He raised his mug to me, dr
ank, and said, “That should be apparent to one of your analytical expertise.”

  “Because she wasn’t guilty, and you thought by taking on the job, you’d discover who was.”

  He nodded.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I was close, but then Caro herself cut me off and wouldn’t listen to what I was trying to tell her.”

  “And what was that?”

  “It’s a very long and complicated story.…”

  3:45 p.m.

  On the way back to the office, I thought over what Ham Roth had revealed to me, trying to put the story into some logical order.

  It wouldn’t take shape.

  After Caro’s arrest for Amelia’s murder, she’d retained Ned Springer—a logical choice since they’d been friends since childhood. At Caro’s request, after she was acquitted, Springer suggested she hire Edna Sheep. When Sheep didn’t work out, she recommended Caro try Ham Roth.

  “Edna’s good at what she does,” Roth had told me. “Civil matters, little stuff, but a murder case was far beyond her capabilities. I dug deeper.”

  “And found?”

  “Inconsistencies and downright cover-ups. Amelia had been seen the night before she died in a Mission district club, the Crazy Eights, with an unidentified man—not her boyfriend, Jake Green. They appeared to be quarreling. Caro initially told investigators that she had letters from Amelia admitting she was also having an affair with an unnamed married man but, when asked, she couldn’t produce them and then claimed Amelia must have meant a divorced man. Another friend of Amelia said she’d told her she was afraid during the last week of her life: she’d received threatening phone calls and had been chased down the street by a man in a black cape.”

  “Melodrama?”

  “Amelia had a tendency toward that, yes. But according to a couple of other friends, the fear seemed genuine, and she was planning to move away from the city and start over.”

  “These friends of hers who claimed Amelia felt threatened and afraid—who were they?”