She wanted a glass of wine. She geared herself up to walk downstairs to the kitchen, which unfortunately was right next to the library. These days she spent virtually all her time on the second floor. She hated being downstairs, where everything had happened. She left Daniel’s office and padded downstairs on her bare feet, clutching her peignoir around her. Her pace accelerated as she neared the library.
It was hellacious even being close to that room, though she had to admit there was no longer any evidence of what had happened there. Her mother had been true to her word and made sure of that. Still Joan shuddered. The crimson pool on that Bokhara rug she would never forget. But the Kashan that replaced it was unmarred, and gorgeous against the built-in oak bookcases that rose floor-to-ceiling on three of the four walls.
Into the kitchen, where the chardonnay was chilling in the Sub-Zero. Joan poured herself a glass, then began her return trip. Just as she rocketed past the front door, the doorbell rang.
Damn. She halted, then stood on tiptoe and raised her eye to the peephole. Double damn. It was her mother.
“Joan?”
Her mother either had heard her footsteps or seen her swish past the front window, dressed, unfortunately, in a bright red peignoir. Triple damn.
“Joan, open the door, please.”
Disapproval was writ large on Libby Hudson’s patrician face when Joan reluctantly pulled open her front door. “You’re in your negligee,” her mother announced, sweeping past her into the foyer. “Did you even bother to get dressed today?”
No, she replied silently. “What do you care whether I did or not?”
The older woman’s brow arched, even as her eye dropped to the wineglass in her daughter’s hand. “And you’re drinking.”
“It’s not exactly ten o’clock in the morning.” Joan raised the glass as if in toast. “Care to join me?”
“I think not.” Libby Hudson clasped her hands in front of her as if she were about to address a panel of committeewomen. “But I did want to tell you that I have learned what you are up to with Headwaters.”
Here it comes. Joan set down her wineglass and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re referring to the fact that I’m selling the company? Who did you hear that from?”
“It hardly matters. The point is that I am astounded you made this decision without discussing it with me beforehand.”
“You’re no longer a shareholder.”
“I can only suppose that you tired of the company as swiftly as you have tired of every other enterprise you have ever undertaken.”
“And you wonder why I don’t discuss things with you?” Joan was horrified to feel tears not far behind her anger. “Why should I when I know you’ll disapprove?”
A light flush suffused her mother’s cheeks, which surprised Joan. The older woman trained her gaze on the hardwood floor. “I am very sorry if I give you that impression.” She sounded distinctly awkward, even stiffer than usual. “And I do not care to fight with you, Joan. Despite what you may think, I wish only the best for you, and always have.”
That left Joan at a loss for words. She watched her mother turn to go, then halt at the front door, still with her eyes averted. Again her tone assumed the harsh edge Joan was used to, which actually came as a relief. They were back on familiar ground.
“But I must register my disapproval of this surreptitious behavior,” her mother said. “I would appreciate that you not blindside me in the future.”
Out she strode, leaving Joan frustrated and restless. With nothing better to do, Joan retrieved her wineglass and climbed the stairs, returning to the master suite’s bay window. One of California’s most spectacular vistas spread out grandly before her.
She was at her mother’s mercy. Her mother, who treated her as a recalcitrant child. Her mother, who had forced her to move out of the Lodge against her will. Her mother, whose arthritic hand was wrapped so tight around the living trust’s purse strings, it might as well be a death grip.
Wouldn’t extra cash help get Joan out from under her mother’s thumb? Surely independence required risk. If Daniel could manage such risk, she could.
Joan decided quickly. She would call this Fukugawa fellow, then go to Humboldt County to meet with the lumberman Daniel had lined up to lead the cutting team. Perhaps en route she’d spend a night at the Ritz in San Francisco. That was always nice.
Joan sipped her chardonnay, relishing both the buttery taste and her mother’s disapproval. She would book a suite at the Ritz for sure. There wasn’t the least question about that.
Chapter 20
Part of Alicia couldn’t believe she was doing what she was doing. A greater part couldn’t stop herself.
Her silver VW was one of hundreds of vehicles inching north along the S curves that signaled 101’s final approach to the city of San Francisco. To her right across four lanes of freeway hulked Potrero Hill, a residential district where property values waxed, then waned, with the Bay Area’s roller-coaster Internet fortunes. A mile and a half ahead the tightly grouped skyscrapers of the financial district poked into the twilit sky, the towers aglow with rectangular squares of light for those office workers still at their labors as the six-o’clock hour neared. Behind downtown a bank of fog huddled over the cityscape like a cottonball giant, obscuring everything from Russian Hill west to the Pacific.
Over the phone Milo had instructed her to take the Fourth Street off-ramp, then make her way through the financial district to the eastern slope of Nob Hill and the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. He had been in the city for a shoot, he’d told her, and though his crew had already flown south to Los Angeles, where he would follow the next morning, he had that evening free. He had a room at the Ritz and had booked a second one for her, his treat. It was both to prove his goodwill and to give them an opportunity to trade information on the case. He had learned a great deal from interviewing Molly Bracewell, he said, and had made dinner reservations at a restaurant called Hawthorne Lane, which he liked very much and hoped she would enjoy as well.
A sign ahead directed Alicia to stay on the right as the off-ramps to downtown approached. Her VW crept forward, surrounded on all sides by vehicles battling for every suddenly freed inch of asphalt. She made her way past the Seventh Street exit, her heart pumping a nervous rhythm.
Of course she’d been skeptical of Milo’s invitation, and of course she’d resisted it strenuously, though even as she’d concocted one reason after another why acceptance was impossible, she knew pretty quickly she desperately wanted to go.
She was thirty-five years old and had never received such an offer in her life. And as her mother routinely reminded her, she was not getting any younger.
Besides, she told herself, what did she have to lose? Milo had already divulged several tidbits of information that she hadn’t known; maybe he’d spill more. And despite his stated desire to “trade,” she didn’t have to reveal a damn thing she didn’t want to. Already he had told her that just weeks before the murder, Daniel had done something to anger Joan so intensely that she’d moved into a hotel for a few days.
Could it be true? Alicia had consulted the MasterCard bill she already had on hand for Joan Gaines, and sure enough, there in black and white was a charge from the Lodge in Pebble Beach, dated December third. Alicia hadn’t noticed it before, being so focused on Joan’s charges for the night of the murder. But here was apparent confirmation of what Milo had learned, and what could be the beginning of a trail leading to a motive for murder.
Next Alicia had called the reservations desk at the Ritz-Carlton to confirm that there was a room booked under her name. Indeed there was. That had sealed the deal. One hour of painful packing later—her wardrobe too pathetic by far for what she imagined the Ritz-Carlton and Hawthorne Lane to require—she was on the road.
All along the route, she told herself this excursion would aid her investigation into Daniel Gaines’ murder. All along she told herself that was the only reason she was making it, to pursue justice and
restart her prosecutorial career. And all along she knew she was doing a poor job of fooling herself.
By now she was off the freeway and zooming along city streets past Moscone Center, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Office workers spilled out of bars drawing Thursday night happy-hour crowds. Commuters bundled against the fog huddled at bus stops and hurried along wide sidewalks. Alicia supposed the goal for many of them was a quiet evening at home, maybe a little homework with the kids, maybe a little TV.
She winced. In fact, a quiet evening alone was what she had told Jorge she needed, when he’d called asking her to dinner. She didn’t care to probe why she hadn’t told him the truth, that she had a business meeting in San Francisco relating to the Gaines murder. Jorge knew she hadn’t abandoned investigating it, and he was such a dear man he even encouraged her in the pursuit. Yet she had lied to him, throwing his goodwill back in his face.
At the crest of Nob Hill, Alicia turned right from Pine onto Stockton and then onto the gentle sweep of drive that fronted the Ritz-Carlton. Almost before she’d stopped the car, a uniformed valet opened the driver’s-side door and offered a hand to help her exit. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, ma’am. Will you be staying with us this evening?”
“Yes, thank you.” She surrendered her key, accepted a stub in trade, and tried not to grimace as yet another valet hefted her battered fifteen-year-old Samsonite out of the trunk. Then she turned to face the hotel’s imposing stone facade.
No wonder Milo likes this place, she thought. It looks like a Greek temple. In fact it bore an astonishing resemblance to pictures she’d seen of the Parthenon. It even had columns, which she’d seen before only on the courthouse. But this enormous, grand, floodlit structure put that building to shame.
To Alicia’s eyes, the inside was no less spectacular. It was like an extraordinarily gracious home, with ornate crown molding and marble floors partially covered by Oriental rugs. On the walls hung oil paintings of women in white dresses. Crystal chandeliers twinkled, a jazz pianist entertained cocktail drinkers, and exotic flowers sprang from enormous ceramic pots. It was as though the cares of the real world were a million miles away.
Her reservation was in order, and she had a message, a note scrawled in Milo’s hand.
Alicia, my shoot will run till after seven. Relax and enjoy. Let’s meet in the lobby at ten to eight to go to the restaurant. Cheers, M.
Alicia stuffed the note in her handbag and followed a bellman as he guided her to the elevators. The enjoying she’d be able to manage. The relaxing wouldn’t happen.
*
Shortly before eight o’clock, Milo entered a wood-paneled elevator on the Ritz-Carlton’s eighth floor and pushed the button for the lobby. He was excited. All day he’d thought about Alicia. Interviewing bankers, he’d thought about Alicia. Shooting his stand-ups—one in front of the Bank of America building and another on the Embarcadero—he’d thought about her. She’d danced in and out of his head: infuriating, stubborn, unbendable Alicia. He wondered if he’d like her any other way.
Clearly she’d thawed toward him in the nearly two weeks since he’d shown up unannounced at her home. The fact that he’d gotten her to join him in the city proved that. How much she’d warmed up he couldn’t gauge. Was this just a business trip for her, a chance to further her investigation of the Gaines murder by finding out what he had learned? Or was it possible that she, too, harbored a more personal ulterior motive?
He found her standing in the lobby next to a marble column. He smiled at the sight of her and saw that he wasn’t the only man to do so. For though she hailed from dowdy, prosaic Salinas, that night Alicia Maldonado pulled off a good imitation of a sophisticated San Franciscan. On top of the huge advantage of natural beauty, she had the good sense to keep the adornment minimal. Her clothes were understated and black, her hair loose and long, and her makeup so sheer as to be almost transparent.
“Hello.” He strode toward her and extended his hand.
She took it, a slight reserve in her demeanor. “Hello.”
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“I just came down myself.”
He extended his arm toward the doors. “Shall we?”
She walked ahead of him without comment. They joined the short queue for taxis. “Are you enjoying the hotel?” he asked.
“It’s lovely. Thanks for arranging it.” She raised her eyes to his. “I’m going to reimburse you.”
“No”—he waved a dismissive hand—“I won’t hear of it.”
“But it’s too much.”
An extra room at the Ritz wasn’t a stretch for him, but he didn’t want to seem so cavalier as to dismiss it as nothing, either. “It really is my pleasure. And it gives us a chance to catch up on the case.”
At that the dark depths of her eyes lit with interest. “I take it you got a lot out of Molly Bracewell.”
“I did.” The next cab was theirs. Milo tipped the bellman and slid next to Alicia onto the battered Naugahyde seat. “Hawthorne Lane,” he directed the driver, who promptly sped down Nob Hill and cut across Market Street into the South of Market area. “But let me tell you about it over dinner.”
Minutes later he regretted not telling her about it straightaway, because he was having trouble thinking up other topics of conversation. He kept getting distracted by the sweet scents of rosemary and mint wafting from her hair every time it was ruffled by the wind sneaking through the cab’s slightly open windows. “Our restaurant is in a building that used to house a newspaper,” he said finally.
“Really?” She sounded interested, which encouraged him.
“In the twenties it was the home of the San Francisco News, which eventually merged with the Call Bulletin. These days there’s a fine-art printer upstairs.” The cab turned in to narrow Hawthorne Street, then made a right into the even more constricted alley called Hawthorne Lane. Milo paid the driver and they exited the cab. “It’s a landmark building, one of the best examples of the period’s industrial-style architecture.” They stared up at the redbrick, warehouse-style structure.
“You sound like a guidebook.” Alicia’s tone was wry. “Do you always know so much about the restaurants you go to?”
“It’s the reporter in me. Besides, after coming here so often I finally asked.” He put a guiding hand on her back to lead her up the few stairs to the entry. “Please.”
The interior was sleek and contemporary, softly lit and paneled in cherry wood. They were led to a booth in a large, high-ceilinged room with an open kitchen at one end, complete with chefs wearing toques, a wood-burning oven, and gleaming smoke hoods.
“It smells fantastic,” Alicia murmured.
Milo noted that the waiter smiled at the comment, or perhaps at her. He seemed to lavish undue care to draping the linen napkin over her lap. Once he bustled away, Milo eyed the wine list. “They have Opus One.”
She shook her head, clearly uncomprehending.
“It’s a cabernet. Not much is produced so it’s hard for restaurants to get.” And at nearly two hundred dollars a bottle, not for the slim of wallet. “Will you share it with me?”
“Sure.” She set aside her menu. “So, Milo Pappas, you know all about this building. You know all about the wines on the list.” Gently she tipped toward him the porcelain charger at her place setting. “What can you tell me about this?”
“Designed by the owner. Continuing the autumn theme you’ll find throughout the restaurant, in both color and pattern.”
She laughed. “Are you making that up?”
He tapped his index finger against his head. “Like Sherlock Holmes, I don’t just see. I observe.”
“Hey!” Her tone was fake indignant. “I’m the detective here.”
“Really?” He leaned forward. “So what have you discovered about Joan Gaines and her nefarious deeds?”
“We only suspect they’re nefarious.”
“I’m gratified to hear you say ‘we.�
� ”
“For the moment you’re on my good side.”
“It’s a nice place to be.”
They stared at each other, before the waiter interceded to take their wine and dinner orders. He returned quickly to make a proceeding of uncorking and serving the Opus One.
Milo raised his glass in toast. “To cooperation rather than competition.”
She clinked her glass against his. “Like the Americans and the Russians.”
He held off from sipping. “They have rather an uneasy truce, Alicia.”
Her eyes narrowed, though teasingly. “So do we, Milo.”
They sipped, still staring at each other, until Alicia looked away. Somehow Milo felt he had gained still more ground. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, giving her a smile that had warmed many a female heart. “You know, I’m not such a bad guy.”
She shrugged. “I’ve decided you’re probably not an accomplice to murder.”
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten?”
“Believe me, that’s progress.”
She was a tough one. He made his voice challenging. “All right, Ms. Brilliant Detective, what have you learned about Joan?”
“You first.”
“You’re going to get cagey on me?”
“Listen, buddy.” This time she leaned forward. “You got me to San Francisco promising information. Now spill it.”
He leaned back. “All right, in honor of our shaky detente, I’ll start. Joan told me she and Daniel had an unhappy marriage.”
“That’s not exactly a news flash. It’s obvious Joan wasn’t happy.” She made a Come on, come on motion with her fingers. “Give me something else.”
He didn’t want to go too far with this but didn’t want to clam up too quickly, either. “Molly Bracewell told me that Daniel Gaines propositioned her but that she refused him. So Joan may have been telling the truth when she said she went back to Carmel the night of the murder to see if Daniel was with Bracewell.”
To Catch the Moon Page 29