"Amen to that." She raised her hand and showed me crossed fingers.
I laughed, finished my coffee, and slid out of the booth. "I'd better get back to my office. I have to check for messages, and then I'm going to teach my bridge class."
"How's the investigation going?"
Having read everything about it in the newspapers and seen interviews on PBS, she asked if Brad was on the case, and I admitted he was but told her none of the details. Then I waved good-bye and took the elevator upstairs.
At one-thirty, Novotny called.
"You seem to have picked up Mr. Featherstone's briefcase by mistake," I told him.
"Yeah, I know."
"Can you come back to the office and return it?"
"Sorry. I have no wheels today. My car went into the shop. They dropped me off at your office, and afterward I took a cab."
"In that case, I'll come to your office."
"I'm not in the office now."
I waited for him to be specific about his location, but it took him a long time. "Tell you what," he finally said, "we could do it tonight, after I get my car back. Would you meet me at Tino's at seven? Since I'm unexpectedly solvent this week, I'll buy you dinner."
"Of course. I'll meet you there." I knew Brad would want me to. "But you don't have to buy my dinner. We'll just exchange briefcases."
"No, I'd like to. I hate eating alone. Unless you have other plans."
After thinking for a moment, I told Novotny I'd meet him at Tino's. That still gave me plenty of time to teach my bridge class at the Kozy Kard Klub.
I liked to play bridge as well as teach it. I was one of those rare women who paid more attention to the cards than the girl talk at the table. It was not always thus. When I was a child, my parents played bridge with their friends, and I could hear them from my bedroom before I fell asleep. I mentally added it to the other strange activities that adults engaged in and decided it was a game for people who had nothing better to do with their time.
Nevertheless, when my mother's sister came to live with us when I was a teenager, I was forced into learning in order to make a fourth for them. That's when I discovered I liked it. Not too dependent on chance, like most card games, it challenged me and made me think and plan ahead. After Stephen and I married, we played bridge with friends. When he died, I found I could earn money teaching the game to others at the recreation center. The extra income came in handy when Brad and Samantha were in college at the same time and needed to borrow money.
I wished they would take up the game, but they were ten years younger, and by then, they had computers, worked out at a gym, or watched some of the seven-thousand channels on television. When I heard Bill Gates played bridge, with Warren Buffett no less, I felt vindicated and decided they were probably responsible for restoring the game to a semblance of popularity. The Kozy Kard Klub had added ten new members that very year.
Thinking about playing bridge with Stephen reminded me that I planned to meet Carl Novotny later that day. In fact, I recognized the real reason for my eagerness. Brad had teased me about not dating, and now I had a chance for a rendezvous with an attractive man.
I hadn't dated in quite a while. After Stephen died, I became even closer to Brad and Samantha, but when they were both out of the house, I felt abandoned and lonely. Brad was at the police academy, and Samantha had a job as a clothes buyer for a very froufrou shop where apparel was displayed on a jungle gym. Plus, both had apartments of their own. Then I met and fell in lust with Lamar Grant, married him, and discovered his brain handled little more than remembering his ATM number. He also thought toilet paper grew on the holders, didn't know the difference between a laundry hamper and the floor, and might have had a talent-ectomy. Since our divorce almost a year before, I was gun-shy.
However, Novotny was apparently eligible. He worked for Hammond's company, and only wanted companionship for dinner. Okay, so maybe the police suspected him of the murder. That only made it more interesting. I could do some detecting. Perhaps I could find out things that Brad hadn't. And anyway, what could happen to me in a restaurant with a hundred other people? It wasn't like he asked me to meet him at a deserted rest stop on Interstate Five.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Before meeting Carl Novotny I had afternoon chores. First I called Rose Hammond, told her the investigation was going fine, and asked to speak to Debra. Rose said she'd gone to her office for a few hours. I asked for her daughter's office telephone number, called her, and made an appointment.
I no sooner hung up the phone when I realized I couldn't see Debra and teach my bridge class. I did a mental coin toss and decided Brad's case won, and I could probably get my favorite partner, Edgar Barth, to teach my class.
The moment I walked in the door of the Klub, Edgar greeted me. He was eighty-one years old, still tall and straight, and thin as a poplar tree. We'd met when, at seventy-six, he became a student in my class (proving that you're never too old to learn), and he was a stickler for following directions. Since remembering rules was a mark of all good bridge players, that made him a natural, and I could always depend on him to understand my bids and to understand his. He had a sharp mind and even sharper wit, and I knew I could trust him not to confuse my students during the lesson.
I made my request at once, and he agreed to teach the class.
"Thank you. I really appreciate your doing this."
"Don't gush," Edgar said. "Just name me Time's Person of the Year."
I laughed, as I usually did at Edgar's comments. It was like having a spouse again but without the sex and shopping issues.
"You don't ask me very often, and I'm happy to do it. I think you like teaching bridge more than actually playing the game."
"Not really. I'd rather be playing—with you as my partner—any day."
"I'll try to drum up a game for the weekend—that is, if you don't mind playing with us old people."
I punched him playfully on the arm. "You're not old."
"No, I'm chronologically enhanced."
* * *
Since Debra wanted to meet as soon as possible, I drove straight to Burlingame. I thanked my lucky stars she didn't work in the city, because I'd always considered driving in San Francisco as hazardous as bungee jumping. I invariably wound up on one-way streets that went in the wrong direction or climbed a hill as steep as the Matterhorn with red stop lights on every corner.
Burlingame, however, was a nearby town, and most of the newer office buildings were located on the flat area along the bay, surrounded by acres of free parking. I took the elevator to the ninth floor of her building and entered a door marked, "Quentin Yarnow, Investment Advisor." Inside, five young people—none of whom appeared to have been alive when the first Matrix movie came out—sat at tables topped with computer monitors swaddled in piles of paper.
Finally, a thin young woman with straight hair and glasses looked over and asked if she could help me, and when I mentioned Debra's name, she got up. Giving me a look that I interpreted to mean, "Follow me," she went down a narrow hallway, opened one of the three doors, then stepped aside and disappeared back the way we'd come.
Debra's office contained a table similar to the ones in the larger office, and there, too, a computer monitor poked its rectangular head above a boxcar load of paper. I wondered what one had to do to graduate from the crowded front office to a cubbyhole of one's own. Apparently not age, since Debra, like my sister, Samantha, was twenty-nine and didn't look a bit older than the people out front. In fact, she looked younger, since she'd pushed her blonde hair back with a band that morning and wore a white blouse and tan jacket over jeans. In that office, Casual Friday had apparently morphed into the other days of the week as well.
When she saw me, she got up, removed a pile of business magazines and computer printouts from a chair, and pulled it close to hers. "Excuse the mess. Computers were supposed to free us from paper, but you know the rest."
I figured her office alone had caused the death
of two million trees, but I only asked, "What's on all this paper?"
"My boss, Mr. Yarnow, handles investments for people, and we do the research. Almost everything is on a database these days, so we access the information and evaluate it."
"You mean like stocks and bonds?"
"We also study mutual funds for some of our clients."
"I have some investments myself." I thought of my shares in a few blue-chip companies Stephen left me.
She didn't comment on that. "We report what we've learned to Mr. Yarnow, and then he makes the decisions on what to buy for his clients, but the genius comes in making those decisions."
"You sound as if you admire his capability."
"Very much. He only takes on a few clients, and he's so good he has a waiting list. New ones get on only when someone dies, and then their heirs get first crack."
Well, so much for thinking about my own small portfolio and wondering if being friends with Debra would get me into the rarified atmosphere of having my very own investment advisor.
To say nothing of her next words. "Clients start with at least a million to invest."
I cleared my throat. "I won't keep you long. Brad's busy working on the case. He's already talked to the police and to several people in your father's office."
"Does he suspect anyone?"
"Everyone." I smiled, then turned serious again. "One of the things he's asked about is your father's briefcase. Did you see it the night of the murder?"
If you think about it, I didn't actually lie. Brad had asked people about the briefcase, and I needed to ask her if she'd seen it to justify my coming that day.
Debra looked thoughtful then shrugged. "Sorry. I know nothing about it. I didn't know he had one with him that night."
She waited for me to continue, and I mentally ticked questions off my list. Also, I wondered how to broach my real reason for the visit, her love life. My upbringing taught me never to pry into other people's affairs—whoops, a Freudian slip of thought—and I had no practice in it. I finally decided to approach it obliquely.
"What do you think of Amanda?"
Debra frowned. "Brad doesn't think she killed my father, does he?"
"Shouldn't he?"
She didn't speak for some time, as if forming a noncommittal answer. "I don't know her all that well, but I've always assumed she enjoyed working for my father. He thought very highly of her."
"Too highly, according to your mother."
"I'm afraid Mother tends to get paranoid about her." Impatience tinged her words. "Sure, he spent a lot of time at the office and sometimes worked late with Amanda, but that doesn't mean they were into hanky-panky."
"Then you don't agree with your mother that they might have been lovers."
"Not at all. I'm a businesswoman myself. I know you can work with men and not get romantically involved. Mother's old-fashioned. She believes women ought to marry, raise children, and serve on charity boards—not become heads of corporations. Mother thinks women only work until they can marry the boss. I often told her she had no need to be jealous."
"She thinks your father contemplated calling himself CEO of Hammond Jewelers and making Amanda president in his place. Do you know anything about that?"
"No, I don't." She paused and looked toward the computer screen briefly. "However, that might have been a good thing. If he relaxed control a little, he could spend more time with Mother. She ought to have liked that. But now—"
She broke off, and I suspected she was realizing that her father would never do those things. Her eyes misted, and her hands reached into a desk drawer for a tissue to wipe the tears away.
I felt even more uncomfortable. Not only did I have to ask personal questions, but I'd reminded her of a painfully tragic event. However, circumstances had thrust me into the role of apprentice-detective, and Debra had come to Brad for help, so like it or not, I forced down my uneasiness and continued.
"For what it's worth, Amanda denies anything between them."
"I'm glad."
"However, she said other things that need to be checked."
"What things?"
"She said she saw both you and your mother go near the linen room that night."
"I told you, we went to the ladies' room, which happened to be in the same hallway. I didn't go in the room where Daddy had gone. I didn't know which one it was. Is Amanda trying to throw suspicion on my mother? She may have been jealous, but she wouldn't kill him."
"And you," I added.
"Me? That's even more ridiculous. What motive could I possibly have?"
"Amanda says she heard rumors that you're involved with a man your father disapproved of."
There, I'd said it. I watched for Debra's reaction. Her face reddened. Her hands, which had been crumpling the tissue as if getting ready to throw it in a wastebasket, suddenly froze. The next moment, she turned away from me and tossed it. When she turned back again, her eyes and lips had narrowed.
"Did she name this person?"
"No." Of course, Novotny had named James Powell, but I didn't want to bring Novotny's name into it.
She seemed to think about that first. "Who I see in my personal life has nothing to do with my father's murder."
"Then you aren't seeing someone he didn't approve of?"
"Even if I were, that wouldn't make me guilty of killing him."
I didn't want to say that Brad thought it possible, so I blamed it on Amanda. "Amanda hinted you might have considered it an important issue and that perhaps your father threatened to cut you out of his will."
"That sounds like something from one of the old 1940s movies they run on channel thirty-six." She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, but it's just preposterous."
"I'm sorry too, but you can see that I had to ask the question, just for the record."
"I understand."
I felt she considered the matter closed, and I couldn't bring myself to reopen it, but I knew something else. By not denying it, Debra had clearly indicated she was involved with a person her father might have considered unsuitable. Like a panhandler with halitosis. I still didn't believe she'd kill her father because he disapproved—I hoped my instincts were better than that—but I couldn't help thinking she hadn't told me everything.
I got to my feet. "Well, I'll be on my way. If you should think of anything we ought to know, please call."
"Of course." She stood and opened her office door for me. "Have you told Mother that Amanda denied having an affair with Father?"
"Not yet."
"I'll do it. Maybe that will cheer her up a little. Personally, I've never believed it. That sort of thing just doesn't happen in our family."
Oh, sure. Like murder.
* * *
Back in the office, I typed what I could remember of my conversation with Debra. Before I finished, Brad came in and asked what I was working on.
"My conversation with Debra. Since I know your client this time, I'm naturally anxious to help you solve the case."
He came up behind me, leaned over my shoulder, and read what I'd typed. "So, is Debra having an affair with Powell?"
"I just came from her office, and I asked her point blank about having an affair. She evaded my question but denied anything like that would have made her kill her father."
"You're evading the question. Is she seeing the guy?"
"She never mentioned a name, and I didn't ask about Powell." I went on the defensive to avoid criticism. "If you'll just leave me alone for a few minutes, I'll finish typing up my notes, and you can see for yourself." I turned my chair around toward the computer again. "I didn't take your other recorder, but I have a good memory, you know."
"You have a selective memory, Livvie. Like the names of obscure actors, but not your school teachers."
"That's because I haven't seen a teacher in a hundred years. However, this conversation is still fresh in my mind, and my selective memory is going to remember everything Debra said and print it out for you."
I teased him. "My, we're getting profound, aren't we? Next you'll be telling me that money can't buy happiness."
"'No, but it's way ahead of whatever's in second place.'"
"'Or it can buy you the kind of misery you prefer,'" I quoted, and we played another game of who can remember the most clichés.
As usual, Brad won. His eclectic style of reading included not just psychology, law, and the mysteries of Dashiell Hammett, Michael Connolly, and Lee Child, but also Oscar Wilde and collections of the ever-popular Murphy.
As I left the office building and walked across the parking lot to my car, I continued to grin, but the black sky and cold night air chilled me, reminding me that someone I once knew had been murdered, and that was no laughing matter.
CHAPTER NINE
Tino's was a well-known Italian eatery, famous for its fettuccine with clam sauce. Personally, I usually went for the ravioli, because that's one thing you can't easily make at home. Not that I cooked much anymore. I'd tried to be the perfect wife and mother, perfect housekeeper, and perfect chef while Stephen was alive, but afterward, I allowed myself to slip. With the twins grown and on their own, I had no one to cook for, no need to prepare gourmet or even non-gourmet meals, and for all I knew, space aliens had taken up residence in my oven.
While in college, I worked summers in a health food store and read their literature, so by then, except for restaurant meals with friends, which supplied the necessary levels of protein and cholesterol, I lived most of the time on fruit, cereal, salad, and whole wheat bread, with only an occasional foray into the wilds of Kentucky Fried Chicken. And chocolate.
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 6