I couldn’t tell if my head was feeling a little buzzy from the predinner cocktails or the unexpected twist the conversation had taken.
“Are you offended?” asked Frederick.
I shook my head. “No. I think I must have some small glimpse of how you feel, though. Well, how anyone feels who finds that their private life has moved into the public domain. Though, it does make me wonder…”
“Yes?” Frederick said, patting his coat pocket. “Excuse me, I think it’s almost time for the speechifying. I need to find my notes.”
“It makes me wonder why you ducked me when Gertie was trying to schedule time to talk.”
“Can you blame me?” asked Frederick. “I’m hardly enthusiastic about either seeing my life with Grace used as fodder for some magazine piece or encouraging someone who thinks that Gifford is innocent.”
“You don’t think there’s even a chance of that?” I asked, as Frederick drew a stack of oversize index cards out of his inside breast pocket.
He sighed. “Not much of one,” he said. “I found the evidence very compelling. And if it’s not Gifford, who else could it have been?”
“Who else?” I murmured to myself, as I watched Michael walk to the podium. It’s always a slightly strange, parallel universe kind of experience to watch your spouse take on a public persona. When Michael has had a high-profile podium opp—lecturing at his alma mater, hosting a benefit for his law school scholarship fund—I’ve gone to watch. It’s the odd combination of the very familiar—the last-minute check to make sure he hasn’t forgotten a smidge of shaving cream on his neck, the tie knot centered, no stray hockey cuts that need tending—and the wonder that the man I’ve seen change messy diapers, weep at movies, roar down the ice in pursuit of a puck with frightening intensity, and do a serviceable imitation of Dame Edna is standing, poised and handsome, looking downright distinguished and relaxed in front of a hall full of people.
Michael was all that and more this evening—charming, articulate, respectful of the fund and Frederick’s energy and entrepreneurship in creating it. Frederick watched, with a persuasively self-effacing smile, and chuckled at Michael’s jokes. Then, just as he stood up, I put my hand on his arm, and mouthed “good luck.”
He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Remember what I said. Who else? If you find out, you tell me.”
Then, in half a dozen paces, he was standing at Michael’s side at the podium, waving to the audience. It suddenly struck me that I was making a career out of watching Frederick give speeches. This one, like his talk at the Botanical Gardens, focused on the idea of giving back to the community that had showered him and his wife with such prosperity.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “people in my business would occasionally get their hands dirty.” He paused. “But then, copiers came along, carbon paper disappeared, and now, there’s virtually no way a man can get a little honest dirt on his hands in my business. I thought about that,” he said, turning the first card face down, “when I came here this evening, because my late wife, Grace, was actually a big fan of getting her hands dirty. She volunteered at the Botanical Gardens, and she also gardened at a transitional home for young women in recovery and their children. It was not unusual to find Grace at the end of the day scrubbing dirt from under her fingernails. I think her manicurist despaired of Grace as a client.” Manicurist, I thought to myself, Ocean View Day Spa. We still need to check that out.
Frederick continued briefly in this vein, tying it together with a thank you to his partners and fellow venture capitalists in the Bay Area for their gifts to a fund that would enable social change.
“Grace always told me we should all be gardeners,” he said. “I thought she meant that in the literal sense, because she found the work so satisfying. Now that she’s gone, I realize that what she meant was that we should all be involved in helping things grow, whether or not we actually get our hands dirty. This evening, I want to thank you for helping our fund grow, and through that fund, helping countless Bay Area nonprofit organizations grow and continue to meet real needs. Good evening.”
Warm applause. Pearl Soo joined him at the podium to say thank you and invite the guests to linger over coffee and dessert. I had some hopes for another conversation with Frederick, but he was immediately swarmed with friends and colleagues. Michael edged his way around the crowd and came to sit in Frederick’s chair.
I reached over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You were brilliant,” I said. “Also handsome and distinguished. And even a little witty.”
He looked pleased. “It’s just the tux,” he said.
“Well, it is slightly more flattering than your average hockey uniform,” I said.
“You and Frederick were attracting some attention,” he said. “Looked like anything but head-table social chatter from where I sat.”
“Later,” I said.
In the car on the way home, we deconstructed the evening. I have friends who claim their husbands are unwilling to do this, too distracted or aloof or important or something to notice the food, the misbehaving guests, the undercurrents—whatever they might be. I find Michael’s keen eye and shameless willingness to accidentally-on-purpose overhear one of his more engaging attributes.
We postmortemed the dinner and were in agreement: The salad was delicious, though a little foo-foo, entree forgettable, dessert chocolate so it didn’t matter how good it was. “Okay, I said, “worst dress.”
“Easy,” he shot back. “The pink, feathery thing our new audit associate had on.”
“Hmmm,” I temporized. “Not sure I agree. She’s a little wisp herself, so she can carry those feathers off.”
Michael disagreed. “You’re wrong. She looked like an underfed piglet in a boa. Kinda like if Porky Pig’s daughter was anorexic. Go ahead, make your call.”
“Also easy,” I said. “Our big-boned Court of Appeals justice in the silver lamé. That must have been about three rolls of aluminum foil she had going on there.”
“You are so catty,” Michael retorted.
“Look who’s talking. And speaking of talking, thanks again for getting me a seat next to Frederick Plummer.”
“You two looked as if you were telling each other the secrets of your lives,” he said. “I’m serious, cara, people were watching you.”
I shrugged. “Oh, well. Let ’em talk,” I said.
“Find out anything?”
“Actually, he was surprisingly open,” I said.
“You sound bothered about that.” I eased my shoes off and wiggled my toes to get some feeling back in them. Who invented high heels anyway?
“Not bothered. It’s just…well, two peculiar things. First, I actually like the guy.”
“And you didn’t expect to?”
“Not really. From what I’d read, he seemed like the kind of careless rich guy who ignores his wife, and then gets outraged when she goes looking for companionship somewhere else. Plus, I have to admit, even though I realize how disgustingly bourgeois this sounds, that I was bothered by them hanging out at the Crimson Club.”
“We probably are disgustingly bourgeois,” said Michael. “Even if you do secretly look forward to getting spanked occasionally.”
“Am I ever going to hear the end of that?”
“You bet your cute little ass you’re not,” said Michael. “See, here’s the thing, Maggie. Even our life can sound pretty sordid if you just report on the events.”
“You mean, spoiled housewife betrays upright husband, who turns out to be a stereotypically hot-tempered Italian who may or may not take out his aggressions with a hockey stick?”
“Something like that,” said Michael.
“Yeah, well, that’s the other strange thing. Plummer apparently knows all about our troubles and that’s partly what made him willing to talk with me.”
“Fellow sinner, huh? Well, don’t let him entice you to the Crimson Club to cement your newfound friendship,” said Michael.
“Does e
verybody know everything?” I asked.
“As you should know better than anyone else. It’s a ‘small town.’ You were involved in a high-profile murder, and the personal motivations that got you involved in it weren’t much of a secret by the time the whole thing was resolved.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.
“I try not to think about it,” said Michael. “I think everybody’s got some pile of bones in a closet or under the bed. Most people aren’t tactless enough to bring up other people’s messes.”
“It wasn’t as if he was being tactless,” I protested. “It almost seemed kind. Letting me know that he understands what it’s like to go through some public scandal.”
“Well, his ended a lot more publicly and tragically than ours,” said Michael. “Although someone will get murdered if it ever happens again in our household.”
“I had really, really, really hoped he’d be a suspect.” I sighed.
“Well, he’s not,” said Michael. “And you knew that going in—he had an alibi and validating witnesses out the door.”
“I know,” I protested, “but he’s rich. He could have hired somebody to do it.”
“So did you learn anything useful?” asked Michael,
“I did,” I said. “I don’t know what exactly, but I think that I did. Made me want to track down a few more loose ends.”
“Oh,” said Michael, turning up the hill to our house, “why doesn’t that fill my heart with gladness?”
“You do,” I said, turning to him as we pulled into the garage. I unlocked my seatbelt and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “You fill my heart with gladness.”
Even in the dark, I could see his dark eyes grow bright, reflecting light back at me. “Why, Mrs. Fiori,” he said. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
I moved my hand to just below his cummerbund. “How energetically,” I asked, “do I have to try?”
CHAPTER 19
Sometimes in the endless nights, when sleep was something to fear rather than seek, Travis found himself thinking about Frederick Plummer. It’s not as if he knew the guy; Grace would hardly speak about him. Some Girl Scout code of honor or something—not talking to your sweetheart about your spouse. But sometimes Travis thought: You and me, Frederick, old buddy, now we’ve got stuff in common. And he would wonder what Frederick missed the most about Grace. He knew what he missed, and it had nothing to do with the sex, although that had been pretty damn good. He missed her saying a new word aloud to him, trying it out. “How would you pronounce c-h-i-m-e-r-a?” Sometimes he’d know; sometimes he wouldn’t. But it didn’t matter, because he’d taken to carrying a paperback Webster’s in the glove box. He’d reach over and hand it back to Grace, and that day, they’d both learn something new. He teased her once about being such a perpetual student. “I bet you were a grade-grubber in school,” he’d said. She hadn’t answered. He still remembered how the silence grew in the car. “Gracie? I’m just giving you a hard time,” he said. “I’m just remaking myself,” she said. “I’ve been doing it a long, long time.”
His thoughts went back to Frederick. Oh well, thought Travis, it’s not as if Frederick and I were exactly blood brothers, even if we had Grace in common. It’s not like I can move on to someone else, but Frederick can. Maybe that little firecracker, Ginger. Not my type, he thought, but that is one powerful armful of girl. He felt a smile sneak across his face. “Go get her, Fred,” he said aloud. “Anyone would be better for her than that ice-cold prick, Bill Brand.”
CHAPTER 20
Michael’s moot court duo had nicknamed themselves “Death & Taxes” for the purposes of their temporary assignments as investigators. When I walked in the door after picking Josh up at soccer practice and Zach at Cub Scouts, the boys let out a shout, and began chanting, “Pizza, pizza, pizza!”
We followed the aromas to the den, and saw that it had been transformed into a war room. Seth and Krissy on the couch, tapping furiously on their laptops. Projected on the TV screen was a series of color blocks with times assigned to each one. Isabella, in black jeans and a lacy, red boat-necked top, was settled in our old rocker. Andrea, in her leisure hours adaptation of prep, was sitting cross-legged on the rug in loafers, pegged jeans, and a cable-knit sweater. “Holy Cow,” I said. “Is this what the situation room looks like at the White House?”
“Hi, cara,” said Michael. “Hey, guys—come get some…”
But before the words were out of his mouth, Josh and Zach had dropped to the floor next to the coffee table and were wolfing down pizza.
“Hi, Mrs. Fiori,” said Krissy of the golden curls, which were, I saw to my relief and Josh’s disappointment, demurely tucked into a bun on the top of her head.
“Sorry we’re cluttering up your entire den.”
I dropped my briefcase, and stepped out of my shoes. “No problem,” I said, “as long as there’s a beer around here somewhere with my name on it.”
“Hey, Maggie,” said Isabella. “Michael invited Andrea and me to join you guys this evening. And you just missed the little speech I made to the entire room.”
“Give me the highlights,” I said.
“Just one big highlight,” said Isabella. “That even though we’re sitting around drinking beer and eating pizza, and even though Seth and Krissy are working for free, everything we do and say is protected by attorney-client privilege.”
“We agreed,” said Seth. “For us, it’s kind of exciting to be in an attorney-client relationship.”
“It gets less exciting,” said Michael, “when you’re just talking taxes.”
“So, does this apply to Andrea and me, too?” I asked.
Isabella considered. “Probably not, you’re here as journalists.” She thought a minute and frowned. “Let’s see how things go. I may ask you and Andrea to vamoose if I think we’re getting on dangerous ground.” She glanced at Josh and Zach, then back at me. I raised my eyebrows in inquiry. Isabella shrugged and mouthed, “Okay for now.”
Half an hour later, Death & Taxes were in the midst of making their presentations to Michael, Isabella, Andrea, and me. Zach, stuffed full of pizza, was sitting on my lap, his head nodding, while he struggled to stay awake. Josh had begged to stay in the room and listen while he did his homework. “It’s just dumb math problems, Mom,” he said. “I can practically do these in my sleep, and this way, I’ll learn something at the same time. About law. And stuff. And attorney-client privilege,” carefully repeating the words he’d heard. His face had that careful, bland innocent look I knew my own held when I was trying to get away with something. Who could say no to someone who had learned techniques so skillfully at his mother’s knee?
Seth quickly sketched out their work plan—he had taken legal issues and people, researching anything that could help Isabella; he had assembled a cast of characters, listing principals in Grace and Frederick’s life, with stars next to those who had testified in the trial, and developed a timeline. Krissy had delved into financial information on Frederick’s company, the ownership of the Crimson, A Mom’s Place.
“I’d never have thought of that,” I confessed. “That’s great.” Krissy’s cheeks flushed. “You get a bunch of fledgling tax lawyers helping out,” she said. “We always want to follow the money.” She had also looked at everyone else’s work and highlighted what she called AWE factors. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“It’s an acronym we made up,” she explained, “Anomalies, weirdnesses and exigencies.”
“ ’Scuse me,” said Josh, “What’s an exigency?” He gave me a “See, Mom, I’m learning a new word” triumphant look he knew I’d be a sucker for.
“Oh,” said Krissy, “it’s something we should investigate, urgently—because it doesn’t make sense.”
“Thank you very much,” he said solemnly.
“You’re so welcome,” said Krissy. “It’s nice to see someone who’s hungry to learn. Your parents must be very proud of you.”
Michael caught my
eye and controlled a smile.
“Okay, AWE me,” I said.
Seth cleared his throat. “We have a PowerPoint to run through on each of them,” he said, “but I’m not sure all the slides are appropriate for our…”
“Entire audience,” finished Michael.
“Okay, guys,” I said, gently rousing Zach. “Run and see Anya. I’ll come help with your bath in a few minutes, Zach. Josh, you can finish your homework in your room or at the kitchen table.”
Grumbling, they both wandered across the floor and out the door. “Good night,” called Krissy.
Josh stuck his head back in the room. “Good night. Thanks for the vocabulary help,” he said.
Once they were gone, Michael dimmed the lights, and Krissy fired up her PowerPoint. The first slide read: “Who else knew about Grace and Travis’s taste in S&M?” Yes, I thought, probably not the best question to put in front of my boys.
“We think this is an important point,” said Krissy. “Whoever murdered Grace had to know about the nature of the sexual relationship between her and Travis Gifford. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been able to stage the scene in the car and essentially set up a frame for Travis.”
Half an hour later, the room was in complete shambles—smelling faintly of pizza and beer, with cartons scattered everywhere, as the Death & Taxes duo dug through boxes to back up one point or another.
“So,” Seth said. “Want to review the five points quickly, and see if you or Isabella can answer any of them? And assign one of us to follow up on the others? Or, in some cases, we think you or Isabella may be the only ones who can follow up.”
He clicked the first slide on again. “Who else knew about Grace and Travis’s taste in S&M?”
“Ginger knew,” said Michael and Isabella in chorus.
Added Isabella, “It’s in the trial transcript. Ginger said Grace told her about the kind of sex play she and Travis had liked, and that Grace had found herself increasingly compelled by it. And by extension, it seems as if Bill Brand might have known, too, if Ginger had told him. It seems like the kind of thing a wife would tell her husband. A little too juicy to keep to yourself.”
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