Travis didn’t know what he expected—loud music, ninth circle of hell, with sweaty people embracing in every available corner.
Instead, he found a double set of glass doors, and heavy red velvet curtains inside. He parted the curtains and let Grace precede him. She was greeted immediately by a Ken-and-Barbie-like pair of welcomers, both in evening clothes, both beautiful and remarkably blank-faced.
“John, Elizabeth, this is my friend, Travis.”
John gave a slight bow, a kind of maître d’ acknowledgment. Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed Travis on each cheek. “Welcome, Travis. Any friend of Amazing Gracie is welcome here.”
Travis shot a look at Grace. “I’m glad to know what her friends call her,” he said.
She laughed, and tugged at his arm. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
And down the rabbit hole they went, through another set of crimson velvet drapes, into a dimly lit room circled all around with love seats, chaises, sofas. In the middle of the room, a dance floor, with deafening, Brazilian-sounding club-mix music that poured out of every crevice in the wall. On the dance floor, couples, singles, and here and there a trio, moved to the music. In the center of the dance floor, on a tall pedestal, stood a tall silver cylinder filled with red roses, from buds to full-blown. While the dancers moved, the floor’s vibration shook the pedestal, and as Travis watched, red rose petals drifted to the floor. Travis didn’t know what he’d expected, but it looked like a club, just like any other, except that several of the women were dancing in various states of … deshabille. Travis rolled the word around in his head a few times, just to get the sound of it right. He knew that if he said it aloud, Grace would like it. Deshabille. Okay, these women were topless, a few of them.
Grace laced her fingers through Travis’s hand, pulled him closer, and put her lips next to his ear. “Want a drink?” Her breath was warm, fruity.
He nodded yes.
She tugged on him, and they threaded their way around the dance floor, past the upholstered seats, where Travis could just barely make out shapes, entwined. On the other side of the room, Grace parted yet one more set of red drapes, and through they went. He put his mouth close to her ear, and said, “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride,” thinking of the Disneyland ride that had terrified him as a child, one set of doors opening to yet another set of doors and still another, and dark surprises behind each one. He’d buried his head in Ivory’s lap the first—and last—time she took him on that ride.
In the next room, red, but with mercifully subdued background jazz, Grace led him up to a long, white bar. Two beautiful girls in black, strapless dresses presided, one feeding pineapple chunks into a blender, the other wiping down the bar. Grace motioned him over to the couch. “Find us a seat and I’ll get you a drink. Beer? A Scotch? Champagne?”
“Corona, no glass, no little piece of lime, that’s it.” While Travis waited on one of the love seats, he looked around. There were half a dozen people scattered around the room. All dressed elegantly, as if they were at some kind of chic supper club, all talking animatedly. Then, Grace was back, with a long-necked beer, and a flute of champagne, and settled next to him on the love seat.
“Here are the rules,” she said, “just in case you want to play.”
Travis took a swig of the beer. It tasted cold and clean and blessedly familiar. It was a comfort, in a weird sort of way. “Rule No. 1,” she said, “only a woman can make the first approach.”
“For anything?” asked Travis. She nodded.
“Rule No. 2,” she continued, “if you get turned down, you have to take it gracefully. And Rule No. 3, no gentleman-on-gentleman. Ladies with ladies, ladies with gentlemen, or any threesome combination thereof, or four or five or as you please.”
“Sounds like homophobia to me,” said Travis.
Grace smiled and sipped her champagne. “I know, it does, doesn’t it? But there are plenty of clubs all over the city for the gay scene, so I guess it’s supply and demand.”
“But girl-on-girl is fine, huh?” asked Travis. And as if cued, one of the women in a group across the room, a fortysomething redhead with a short, spiky haircut, leaned over and began fiddling with the precariously tied, black silk halter worn by a young Asian woman. As Travis watched, the halter fell to her waist. The redhead stood close behind her, and began tracing circles around her breasts. “What do you think?” whispered Grace.
“I think they should just get a room,” said Travis.
“And deprive the rest of us of all the fun?” she protested a little breathlessly. “Come on, Travis, don’t you enjoy watching two beautiful women just a little bit?”
“Sure, who wouldn’t?” he asked, and noticed that he, too, needed to control his breathing.
“But I prefer my fun in private.”
“You can have that too,” said Grace. She waved her champagne glass at another door. “Right through there, plenty of private—or at least, semiprivate—spaces. Couches, curtains, and afterward, showers downstairs. You’ll see, later. If you want. But watch out for the redhead. She bites, and she doesn’t always play by the rules.”
Travis considered Grace. She seemed giddy, but not drunk; provocative, but not really coming on to him. At least, he didn’t think so.
“You and Mr. Plummer usually come here together,” he began.
“That’s right, but he often comes without me, and once in a while I come by myself or with my friend Ginger.”
“What’s it do for you and Mr. Plummer?” he asked.
Grace shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s exciting, it’s dangerous, but not very. It’s flattering. I think Frederick likes to see other people—men and women—interested in me. Sometimes we just dance, and flirt, and go home.”
Travis took another swig of the beer. Either he was getting warm, or the beer was, it didn’t taste nearly as cold or clean as it had a few minutes ago.
“Want the rest of the grand tour?” asked Grace.
“Maybe, in a while,” said Travis. “It’s nice just to sit here for a few minutes.”
“With me?” pressed Grace.
“Yes,” confessed Travis. “With you.”
Travis hadn’t known that, until he said it. Hadn’t acknowledged, to himself at least, how much he looked forward to seeing Grace, how much he enjoyed watching in the rearview mirror as she looked up from a book or magazine, and said a new word aloud, delighted with the sound of it. “Illumine,” she’d said one day. “I had no idea you could use it as a verb. Illumine, illumine.” And back she went to her book. Travis didn’t want to acknowledge how contemptuous he had become of Frederick Plummer and his careless treatment of his wife, she of the elegant body and even-more-elegant mind.
Ivory might have known. She’d asked him about Grace in a way she’d never asked about a client before. “You seem awfully cheery for a Monday morning,” she’d observed when he stopped by for an early cup of coffee. “You must be going to drive Mrs. Plummer.”
What would Ivory think about the Crimson Club? In fact, thought Travis, she’d be amused, a little intrigued, and completely self-possessed. And why, he wondered, should a grown man care about what his mother thought? He couldn’t help smiling about it.
“What’s the joke?” asked Grace.
“No joke,” said Travis, “believe it or not, I was thinking about my mother.”
Grace laughed out loud. “Okay, that’s either the best—or the most neurotic—line I’ve ever heard in here. And I’ve heard plenty. Come on, let’s go.”
“We can’t just sit here for a while?” said Travis, strangely reluctant to go further into Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
“A ship in a harbor is safe,” said Grace, “but that is not what ships are for.”
“Pardon?”
“Just something my grandfather used to tell me. He was a Norwegian sailor, and that’s what he’d say to me when I was afraid to try something new.”
“Well, I can’t be outdone by your grandfather,” said Travis. �
�Let’s go.”
As Travis and Grace stood, the redhead left her prey and stalked over to them. “Grace,” she said, “introduce me to your chum.”
“Travis, Annabelle. Annabelle, Travis.”
Annabelle presented her thin, white hand. Travis took it, vaguely unsettled and a little excited by what he’d last seen those fingers do. He hesitated, then brought her hand to his lips.
And then he, Annabelle, and Grace explored the pleasures of a private room.
CHAPTER 12
Oh, my!” said Andrea. “What happened in that room?” She shook her head and covered her ears. “Never mind. I think I prefer not to know.”
“Really?” I said. “What kind of reporter are you?”
“Prudish,” she said. “It’s my cross to bear.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Not many more details to tell,” I said. “Travis went all oddly chivalric on me, ‘no kissing and telling’ after that last little revelation. Plus, we were running out of time.”
“What did you say to Travis when he finished telling you the story?”
We had walked across the street for coffee to have a little check-in on the story. “Check-in?” Andrea sniffed, when I proposed a latte break. “More like a checkup. You’re checking up on me.”
“Maybe I am,” I admitted. “Hey, (a) I’m the boss and I get to do that and (b) when have you ever turned down a free latte?”
“Yankees are frugal,” she said. “You know that.”
Once we were settled at the microscopic table at Peet’s, I recounted Travis’s tale about the Crimson Club.
“Come on, Maggie,” prodded Andrea. “I’d really like to know what you said.”
“Oh, I just rattled on about where the custom came from.”
“The custom?” asked Andrea. “The custom of what—spoiled, rich people misbehaving in a pretentious club?”
“No, not that custom. The one of a man kissing a woman’s hand upon introduction. It’s a bit murky, but in the Bible, the hand-kiss—Kings and Job for the citations, if you’re interested—was a way to pay homage.”
Andrea stared at me. “Oh, dear. How on earth does Michael live with you?” she said.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Okay, let’s get to it. Did you bring the clips?”
When writers start major features, one of the interns generally pulls clippings on the subject as background. In the pre-web days, it meant trips to libraries and newspaper morgues and lots of copying. Nowadays, it’s mostly Google and a download away.
Andrea hauled a folder out of her battered leather briefcase.
“You know,” I suggested, “you ought to get one of those cool Kate Spade knockoff portfolios to carry your stuff in.”
Andrea looked as if I’d suggested putting her work in a brown paper grocery bag. “First, I don’t purchase knockoffs. They’re illegal and probably immoral. Second, this was my father’s briefcase in law school thirty-two years ago, and it’s still perfectly serviceable.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Don’t get all preppy on me. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I’ve organized them by Grace, Grace and Frederick, and organizations that Grace seemed to be involved with.”
“Which were?”
“Social stuff. She was on the planning committee of the Black & White Ball, and she was on the board of a couple of garden-related places. Now, this one seemed a little odd, A Mom’s Place—a group that served young, single mothers.” She put a printout of a web page about A Mom’s Place in front of me.
“Why’s that seem odd?”
“Oh, I don’t know—she didn’t have any kids, so there didn’t seem to be some natural draw. Plus, it’s certainly not an A-list charity on the social circuit.”
“What else?”
“That’s about it for the organizations. She modeled occasionally for Junior League fashion shows, but there’s nothing surprising about that. Wealth and beauty open a lot of doors.”
“What about Frederick?”
“Business, money, business, money. Most of the clips are about his deals. Seems as if his venture fund didn’t take as big a hit as lots of others during the tech-bust. They appeared to have gone to ground, preserved cash, and they’re in the thick of it now that tech is back. He had one altruistic cause, a philanthropic venture fund that collected money from VCs and made grants with it. I believe he began the fund.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, frowning. “I know about that enterprise. Michael’s firm is involved in some way.” I picked up a pile of clips from “Swells”, the Chronicle’s social notes column, the Nob Hill Gazette, and 7 X 7.
“That’s the Frederick-and-Grace-out-on-the-town-stack,” said Andrea.
“All the usual places—symphony, ballet, opera galas.”
On the top lay a photo of Frederick and Grace with another couple. All in evening clothes, beautiful women, handsome men. The other woman was shorter and curvier than Grace, poured into a strapless dress, with chandelier earrings nearly grazing her shoulders. Grace wore a tiny evening hat, with a froth of feathers making an elegant comma down to her cheek.
“Maggie, I see you yearning for that hat,” said Andrea. “It’s prudent to remember that the owner ended up dead in the back seat of a car.”
“So true. But I’d like to know what happened to that hat.”
Andrea looked horrified.
“Kidding, I’m kidding.”
“Now, this other couple they’re with,” she said, mollified. “They could be interesting to talk with.”
“Who are they?”
“Ginger and William Brand. He’s Frederick’s business partner at the venture fund, and Ginger was Grace’s best friend. When you look through all the social clips,” she fanned the stack on the tiny table, “you’ll see the two of them together in lots of places.”
“And one place you could see them together, but not in the papers,” I said, “The Crimson. Travis said they went together sometimes. I’m sure the police talked to Mrs. Brand. In fact, I think she might have testified at the trial. I’ll have to go look at the transcripts again.”
“Maybe so,” said Andrea. “But don’t you think she’d be a little more open with us?”
“Could be,” I said. “Though when Gertie tried to make an appointment for me to talk to Frederick, he was pretty brusque. I’m not sure why we’d have better luck with the Brands.”
“We’re going to put you in the natural habitat of our prey,” said Andrea. She dug in her briefcase again.
“Voila!” She pushed a heavy, cream-colored envelope in front of me. An engraved drawing of a pale-green vine wound around the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“It’s an invitation to the dedication of the new Cloud-Forest Garden at the San Francisco Botanical Gardens. It came to the office, and Gertie passed it on to me because she knows I like to garden. But you should go, because Frederick Plummer will be there. This was one of Grace’s causes, and take a little glance at this.”
She pointed one impeccably manicured, natural-polish index finger at the invitation. I’d never seen Andrea with colored polish. Too vulgar, I was sure.
I read aloud: “Join us as we honor the memory of Grace Plummer with the dedication of a fountain named for her.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll go. I’ll tell Gertie to R.S.V.P. for me.”
“I knew you’d warm to this idea,” Andrea said. “It’s a splendid outing for you. You can wear a hat.”
“Goody,” I said. “I’ve got a great, broad-brimmed pink number. Very Audrey Hepburn in her Funny Face era.”
“Uh-huh,” said Andrea. “Sorry I won’t be there to witness it. But when you’re not admiring yourself in the mirror, chat up the grieving widower, why don’t you?”
“I will,” I promised. “Plus, I bet Grace’s best friend, Ginger, will be there. And I can interrogate her, too.”
Andrea finished her coffee, took out a monogrammed compact, and inspected her
lipstick. “It’s difficult to think of someone in a flying-saucer hat conducting a serious interrogation,” she said. “Don’t let the investigating go to your head. I believe Hoyt assigned you to be my researcher on my story.”
“Hey, why doesn’t anyone ever treat me like a boss?” I protested.
“That’s a question you ought to ask yourself,” said Andrea.
“Beautiful compact,” I said.
“It was my great-aunt Amelia’s,” she said. “We have the same initials, AFS. ‘Use, reuse,’ that’s the New England motto, you know.”
Interval No. 3 with Dr. Mephisto
It was May Day and in honor of spring, Dr. Mephisto had on even more color than usual. If that was possible. Turquoise everywhere—silk sweater, teardrop earrings, several bracelets. When she met me at the door, I couldn’t help myself. “Is turquoise the new black this season?”
She allowed herself a smile. “The new black?” Sometimes I thought she always countered my question with a question because that’s what shrinks learn in Therapy 101, and sometimes I thought she did it just to annoy me. I was leaning toward the annoyance option.
“You know, like last season pink was the new black? Or,” I hesitated. “I guess you don’t read Vogue.”
“It’s teal, not turquoise,” she said. “And yes, I did read that teal is the new black. At least in my closet.” She gestured up the stairs to her office. “Shall we go up? Michael’s already here.”
Michael, the inveterate espresso drinker had either been replaced by an alien or brainwashed. He sat on the couch, contentedly sipping a mug of tea.
“How are things?” asked Dr. Mephisto, once I had declined the tea and was seated primly on the sofa. I knew what was coming. I could feel the little-boy braggadocio radiating from Michael, sending out waves of testosterone.
“Good, I think,” he said eagerly. And prepared to spill the beans about our lunchtime interlude.
Dr. Mephisto’s eyes went from Michael’s face to mine, back and forth during the telling.
“Sounds like you had fun,” she said to Michael.
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