“I did,” he said, and reached over to put a hand, possessively, on my knee.
“And I think Maggie did, too.”
“Perhaps she’ll tell us herself,” said Dr. Mephisto.
I sighed. “I did. It was fun. Very.”
Michael looked at me, “But what, cara?”
I shrugged. “I thought it was private. Between us. Now I feel—” I hesitated.
“As if Michael’s reporting back to teacher?” asked Dr. Mephisto.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Maggie,” said Michael, removing his hand, “lighten up.”
We both sat silent. I sensed a pout coming from Michael’s end of the couch. I had spoiled his fun. I felt grouchy and petty.
“Okay, enough steamy sex,” said Dr. Mephisto, completely deadpan. “Let’s talk about something else. Maggie, the story you both mentioned to me, about the murdered socialite. Is that raising any issues for the two of you?”
I gave a brief report, pausing to point out that I was keeping Michael informed. “Every step of the way,” I said. This time, I reached over and put my hand on his knee. So this was therapy—you simply show up and take turns patting your partner’s knee. I felt I was getting the hang of it, though I was perfectly willing to play kneesies at home. For free. With a glass of wine instead of mungy herbal tea. And without voyeuristic Dr. Mephisto sitting around and watching.
“Is that how you feel, Michael? Well-informed?” asked Dr. Mephisto.
He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I guess so. Plenty of bulletins from the front.”
“That sounds a little removed,” said Dr. Mephisto. “As if Maggie were off fighting a battle and writing home to you.”
“Well, she’s got a life and a job,” said Michael. “I do, too. We can’t be involved in every single moment of each other’s lives.”
“Actually,” I said, as a brilliant idea washed over me, “I’d like Michael to be more involved in this, this story or investigation or whatever it is.”
“How so?” asked Dr. Mephisto.
“He’s a lawyer,” I said. “I’d love for him to read the transcript from the trial and help me understand it. Look for stuff that doesn’t make sense. What do you think?” I asked, and this time, my hand on his knee felt legitimate.
“You don’t need me,” Michael said. “You’ve got all those criminal-defense chicks working on this.”
“I do, or at least Isabella does. But they’re reading it with criminal-defense eyes. I just want another lawyerly, analytic set of eyes on the transcript, someone who might notice something that the regular criminal bar types wouldn’t notice. Plus, Grace’s husband is a financial type. You can put those hot, number-savvy brain cells on the case.”
“Is this some make-work, WPA project?” asked Michael. “Because I have more than enough to keep me busy at my day job.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I wish I’d thought of it sooner. You’d be doing me a big favor, and plus, you’ll know as much as I do, and we can talk about the case.”
Michael raised an eyebrow again. “You mean…talk about the story, right?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“What do you think, Doc?” asked Michael, turning to Dr. Mephisto. “Is this some manipulative way to prevent me from objecting to Maggie’s involvement?”
“What I think isn’t so important,” said Dr. Mephisto. “But what you think is. I did hear Maggie say she’s asking you a favor. That seems pretty straightforward.”
CHAPTER 13
I was a vision in my wide-brimmed, flying-saucer-shaped black hat, with the Elsa Schiaperelli shocking-pink lining, at the Botanical Gardens dedication ceremony. The social ladies-who-lunch had turned out in force for the fountain dedication. I assessed the crowd. On one side, the traditional botanical garden supporters—well-heeled, St. John-suited, pearls-and-pumps ladies of a certain age. Surrounding Frederick, though, was a covey of Grace’s contemporaries—dressed with a little attitude from San Francisco’s newest, slightly edgy young designers like Colleen Quen and eco-happy Kelly B.
Frederick Plummer looked even better in person than he did in the clips with Grace: late forties, slightly receding hairline, hair cropped close enough to look like a vaguely decadent European film director, tall enough to carry off the double-breasted navy blazer and pleated fawn trousers. He either visited his money in some offshore Caribbean bank or frequented a tanning salon. He was the color George Hamilton used to be, before we all got freaked about sun damage and skin cancer.
“Mr. Plummer.” I touched his arm.
He turned, smiled automatically, and extended his hand. “Hello, how nice of you to come.”
“I’m Maggie Fiori from Small Town.”
The smile disappeared. “Ah, yes, Ms. Fiori. Your assistant called the other day.”
“I’m here today because our magazine supports the Botanical Gardens,” I said. “I’m not trying to chase you down.” Well, that was a lie.
“Comforting to hear,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Grace’s close friend, Ginger Brand.” He put his arm around the woman standing next to him—I recognized the hourglass-figure brunette from the photo.
“Ginger,” said Plummer, with just an undertone of warning in his voice, “this is Ms. Fiori, from Small Town. She tells me she’s joining us today because the magazine supports the Gardens.”
“In fact,” I said, telling at least part of the truth, “we publish a special insert for your Garden Ball every year. I think we’re one of your media sponsors.”
“That’s right,” said Ginger, “and we’re grateful for your support. Today is a wonderful occasion for all of us who loved Grace.” Her eyes filled. “I’m sorry,” she said to Frederick. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”
She dug in her Kate Spade bag—real, not knockoff—for a tissue.
“I picked up a program at the gate,” I said. “It’s wonderful you’re dedicating a fountain in your wife’s memory.”
Frederick tightened his hold on Ginger, “All Ginger’s doing,” he said. “I don’t know a lobelia from a libel suit, but Ginger and Grace, they could rattle all day long about this stuff. And Ginger was insistent that we do something in the Cloud-Forest Garden.”
“It’s a beautiful space,” I said. “Where does the name come from?”
“Am I wearing mascara all down my face, Freddy?”
He took her hand and pulled her close to inspect her perfect face. “Not one drop.” He released her. “I’ll let you ladies chat about flowers,” he said. “I need to check in with the Garden director—I think we’re waiting for the mayor to arrive, so we can get things under way.” He headed toward the podium set up near the new fountain.
Ginger watched him walk away, then turned back to me. She seemed distracted. “Sorry, you were asking?”
“The name of the garden—Cloud-Forest. What does it mean?”
“Cloud-forests are high-mountain places, very tropical, very wet and often cloudy, even during dry seasons. They’re interesting because such a variety of plants can grow there.”
“I get it,” I said. “That’s why the plants around us are so abundant-looking—but San Francisco isn’t a cloud-forest, is it?”
“Not exactly,” said Ginger, warming to her topic. “But it has some of the same characteristics, especially on the wet, Sunset side of the park. It’s one of the things that Grace loved about the Botanical Gardens. Her grandmother had always tried to re-create Midwest gardens that looked a certain way at a certain time of the year. But Grace just reveled in the fact that Bay Area weather is so mild, so many things can grow all year long.” I looked across at Grace’s fountain. Passion vines, tree dahlias, lush rhododendrons surrounded the stone basin. “So, even though we’re not at high altitude, the way cloud-forests generally are, our climate lets us have two different kinds of cloud-forest gardens. Plus,” she hesitated, “all of us who loved Grace thought of her as a kind of cloud. Beautiful, chang
eable, a little elusive.”
“Did Grace know that’s how her friends thought of her?”
Ginger laughed. “Absolutely. You know that old Carly Simon song, I can’t even remember the name of it, but there’s a line—‘clouds in my coffee?’ She told me she used to sing it to Frederick.”
Over the din of voices we heard the tap, tap, tap on the mike.
“Hello? Testing?”
“Oh, oops, they’re starting,” said Ginger. “I’ve got to go.”
She worked her way to the dais, and I watched Frederick Plummer reach a hand down and help her up to stand beside him. He lowered the podium microphone, so that it was at Ginger’s height, and then stood back.
“Hello, everyone,” said Ginger. “Ladies and gentlemen. Gardeners and would-be gardeners, welcome! Thank you all for gathering on this spring morning for such a special occasion. My name is Ginger Brand, and I had the honor of chairing the campaign to design and install this beautiful fountain.”
She stopped and gestured at the fountain, an abstract, bronze shape built in three levels. “Today, we’re dedicating the fountain in memory of our friend, Grace Plummer. I look around the garden today, and I realize that thanks to Grace, I know the names of most of these beautiful plants. Before Grace, I knew roses—you know, the flowers your husband brings you when he’s done something wrong—and the kinds of orchids we used to wear as corsages to proms. Now…” she gestured again, this time at the garden, “I look around and I see old friends—a Vireya rhododendron there, a lipstick plant or aeschynanthus as Grace taught me to call it—over there. That was one of Grace’s gifts to me. She fell in love with this garden and wanted everyone she cared about to love it as well. She knew the language of gardening, and she taught me every Latin plant name I know.” Her voice was breaking. Frederick stepped close to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He whispered in her ear.
“Sorry, I knew this was going to be an emotional day,” she said. “Now, it’s my pleasure to invite Frederick Plummer, Grace’s husband, to dedicate the fountain. Frederick…” Frederick stepped to the fountain, plucked the rose from his blazer buttonhole, and tossed it into the top section of the fountain. Magically, the water began to bubble and cascade from the top bowl into the next basin down. A little ripple of satisfied “ooohs,” went through the crowd, and polite applause. “Thank you, Frederick,” said Ginger. “And thank all of you for enhancing the beauty of this garden in Grace’s memory. Now, refreshments are ready inside, and any of you who feel an urge to be even more generous to help us endow the Cloud-Forest Garden,” she made a plucking motion with her right hand, “I’ll be around to finish picking your pocket.”
“Charming, just charming,” said a low voice next to me. I turned to see Augustus Reeves III, arms folded, leaning against a garden wall. He was dressed a little better than when I’d first seen him in Ivory’s bar, but still sporting a Giants cap. “Mr. Reeves, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Gus,” he said. “Or Uncle Gus.” He touched his hand to the cap brim in a salute.
“What a coincidence to see you here.”
“Not really,” he said. “My daughter strong-armed me to come.”
“Your daughter?” I asked, confused, looking around.
He cocked his hand like a kid’s toy gun and pointed at Ginger.
“Right there. That’s my perfect little Ginger.”
“Oh,” I said, stunned into silence. I was having trouble connecting the elegant young woman with Uncle Gus, who looked like a longshoreman who’d stumbled into the wrong party.
“Can’t match us up, huh?” He laughed.
“Well…” I faltered, “not exactly.”
“I’m very proud of her,” he said. “She could have been a spoiled little twit like…some of her friends. That’s how her grandparents raised her.”
“Her grandparents?”
“Yeah. When her mother and I split up, Ginger was just a tyke. The grandparents—my wife’s folks and mine, agreed to take her in ’til we figured out what we were going to do. So, old Gus II—that was my father—and my mom had her half the year, and my wife’s folks had her the rest of the time. They all indulged the heck out of her—fancy schools, riding lessons, a coming-out party, and I don’t mean out of the closet. Smith College, the whole WASPY shooting match. And look at her now.” We both watched Ginger greeting people near the podium, exchanging hugs and warm handshakes with people. She looked like an elegant young aunt of the bride, minus twenty years and yards of bad chiffon.
“I can see why you’re proud of her,” I said.
“Not proud of much in my life,” he said. “But that girl turned out damn fine. She asks me to show up, I show up. Besides, I like to know the company she keeps. Rich people aren’t always upstanding citizens, know what I mean?”
I didn’t really, but I nodded. We were silent for a moment. “So, may I ask a personal question?”
“Shoot,” he said, “isn’t that what reporters do?”
“They do,” I said, “though I’m not much of a reporter. I was just wondering about your relationship to Ivory. She’s your … niece?”
“Now, that’s a little creepy,” he said. “I live for the occasions when I can get that woman in the sack.”
Another surprise. Didn’t see that one coming. “But she referred to you as Uncle Gus,” I persisted.
“Oh, that,” he said. “I’m so used to people calling me Uncle Gus that I never think about how peculiar it must sound to outsiders.”
“So, what’s the deal?”
“Kinda long story. But the short version is that when I was in college, I lived with two other guys, both by the name of Gus.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That seems statistically improbable.”
“Sure does. But it happened. I was Gus for Augustus, just like my old man. There was a Swede from North Dakota named Gustav, Gus for short. And then there was this preppy guy from the Cape, name of George. You know the type, loafers with no socks and monogrammed shirts and shit. But none of that famous New England reserve. In fact, he talked so much, his nickname was Gusty, and so everyone called him…”
“Gus,” I chimed in.
“Right. So anyway, Gus the yapper and Gus the Swede were both big boozers and potheads, and I was always having to fish one or the other of ’em out of trouble. So, everyone took to calling me Uncle Gus, because I was the responsible one. Even worked as a volunteer fireman for our college town. Which is pretty ironic, when you think about it.”
“Enlighten me,” I said. “Why ironic?”
He shrugged, “Let’s say that I got out of the responsibility habit pretty soon after college. Went to Vietnam, became an MP, which gave me an incurable case of disliking, distrusting, and disregarding any kind of institution and most people. Came home, got married, and Ginger was born. Turns out I couldn’t even be a responsible, card-carrying parent. That’s why her grandparents had to raise her.”
“Where was her mom?”
“Gone, took a powder. Actually she got into a whole bunch of powder.” He sniffed and touched the side of his flattened nose. “Nose candy.”
As if on cue, his eyes filled and he dug in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and honked into it.
“Where is she now?”
“Ginger’s mom? Dead. Too much crap in her system. Kidney failure or something. She looked like hell the last time I saw her, and that was when Ginger was six.”
“Tough situation,” I said.
“Yeah, tough all around,” he said. “So, since the grandparents had Ginger, I lit out myself. Did construction work in L.A., because you can work all year round, save up some bucks, then bum around ’til it runs out. I got pretty muscled up, so I used to get a fair amount of movie work, too. One rung up from an extra, enough lines every once in a while, so I got my SAG card. Mr. Man of a Thousand Faces, that was me. Right clothes, right wig, right attitude, I could be anything—a gladiator, a cowboy, a gangster. And when I came back to the Bay Area,
I’d crash in Ivory’s spare room, in her flat over the club.”
“And how’d you know Ivory?”
“She’s George—Gusty’s sister. And since everyone else called me Uncle Gus, that’s what she called me, too.”
“And how long did you stay with Ivory?”
“Forever. I’m still there.” He looked at me and grinned. “Surprised again, huh? You don’t think I’m her type.”
“I’ve given up predicting anybody’s type,” I countered.
“Yeah, well, I’m in love with that woman. Always have been; always will be. She just tolerates having me around, but I’ve come in handy over the years. After her stroke, I took care of her, and she’s going through a rough patch with all this crap around Travis and that spoiled broad he probably offed, so I think she’s glad to have me around. Even if Travis and I were never best buddies. Guess he thinks I’m not good enough for his mom. And he’s probably right. But there I am, hard to get rid of. Plus, Travis knows Ivory can use a little extra folding green right now.”
So, more surprises. Uncle Gus as nursemaid and Daddy Warbucks.
“And now,” said Gus, “you’re wondering where the money comes from.”
“Okay, a little.”
“I screwed around a lot in life, but I’ve got one of those peculiar magnetic brains. Once something goes in, it sticks. Know what I mean?”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “You’re talking to the girl who knows what tête-à-bêche means.”
“Head-to-ass. It’s a thing in stamps, right?” he said promptly.
“I believe philatelists call it ‘head-to-tail,’ but you’re absolutely right.”
“Yeah, well, I usually am,” he said. “It’s my only claim to fame, besides holding cards in SAG and the carpenter’s union. Just like Harrison Ford, only better looking.”
“And modest,” I observed.
Gus continued, as if I’d never said a word. “So one of my L.A. pals dared me to go on Jeopardy one day.”
“And you did.”
“I did and I won a pile of money. Big pile of money. And Gusty, Ivory’s brother, who gave up hash and went to business school and became some Wall Street smartass, invested it for me. I’m not stinking rich, but I’ve got way more than enough to live on. And to help pay Ivory’s mortgage. And aid and abet that precious little club of hers.” He shook his head. “I know she’s just tending those fires so Mr. Wonderful Travis has something to come home to.” He fell silent and gave me a sly look. “You must be good at this reporting shit you say you don’t do. I just spilled my whole damn life story to a perfect stranger. And we’re not even drinking.”
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