Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “Not yet. You look as if you’ve had a rough night.”

  “I think we all have. Jean, when Martin called, did he say where he was going?”

  “No. I couldn’t wake Diane, so he said he’d be home in two hours, and that’s the last we heard. What could be more important than coming home to Diane, unconscious or not?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Frank rubbed his eyes. “Martin may have tried to call me, too. My cell phone rang around fourfifty A.M., but the connection was bad and I couldn’t hear whoever it was. I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “You’d better tell Hallock. Come on, let’s get you a sugar and caffeine rush.” Jean led the way into the kitchen and gave him coffee and a cheese Danish. She refilled her own cup and they joined Peter in the dining room as he said “no comment” to someone on the phone.

  Jean had never seen Peter in crisis mode before, and she liked what she saw. She sometimes found him too cautious and predictable, but that was exactly what Diane needed now. The house was filled with an air of unbearable tension, yet Peter remained calm and solicitous, without ego.

  The phone rang again. Peter answered it and held it out to Jean. “It’s Zeppo.”

  She made a face but took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Jeannie, I just saw the news. So he survived. That’s awesome. I guess he hasn’t lost his edge after all.”

  “Apparently not. But nobody can find him. Where the hell could he have gone?”

  “Beats me. Didn’t he say anything to you?”

  “No, and he wouldn’t tell me who pushed him.”

  Zeppo guffawed. “That’s perfect. The old pirate’s really got somebody by the balls now.”

  “That’s what he called the person who rescued him. A fellow pirate. What do you think he meant?”

  He ignored her question. “Did they look at the office?”

  “I guess so. But the cops don’t believe he came ashore. They think I’m lying or crazy.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I believe you. You may be a hard bitch, but you’re no liar.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

  “I’ll see you later today. Meanwhile, keep your cork wet.”

  A few friends visited, most of them wedding guests. Frank took over the phone and the front door, while Jean and Peter cleaned up the mess in the two searched rooms and arranged to have the ruined furniture hauled away and the locks changed. Diane did a cursory survey of the rooms and found nothing missing.

  In the late afternoon Inspector Hallock stopped by. “Someone ransacked your husband’s office early this morning, Mrs. Wingo,” he said as they sat in the living room. “Not the entire building, just his office. It happened between midnight, when the cleaning crew finished, and about six A.M., when the building manager let one of my officers in. The Walrus was tossed as well, probably later in the morning. So now we’re assuming this wasn’t just a burglary, that the perp was looking for something specific. Do you have any idea what it could be?”

  “I wouldn’t have any idea,” Diane said. “Frank?”

  Frank, next to her on the couch, shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “The searches were very thorough,” Hallock said. “All the stuff at the office was packed in boxes, and the perp emptied them out. He fanned the books, so he was looking for something small. Same as on the boat.”

  “Do you think it was the man we interrupted last night?” Peter asked.

  “It has to be connected,” Hallock said. “I’m waiting for the tech crew’s report.”

  “Have you found anything that indicates he came ashore?” Peter asked.

  “Not yet,” Hallock said, glancing at Jean with annoyance.

  They heard a muffled ringing. Hallock pushed himself up from the sofa and fished a cell phone out of his coat pocket. “Excuse me,” he said as he retreated to the foyer.

  In a few moments Hallock rejoined them, his face stony. “Mrs. Wingo, I’m sorry to inform you that they’ve found your husband’s body. A fisherman hooked him off the Municipal Pier at Aquatic Park.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Diane sank back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “I knew he was gone. He would have found a way to call me if he were alive.”

  “I’m so sorry, Diane,” Frank said, wrapping his arms around her.

  Jean met Peter’s eyes, and could see he felt as helpless as she did. “Inspector, can I take her upstairs?” she asked.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  The two women went up to the bedroom. Jean sat with a sobbing Diane for a long time, murmuring useless words of comfort. She couldn’t decide whether she was angrier at Martin for getting himself killed or for surviving the heart attack in the first place.

  Finally the sobs subsided and Diane sat up and took a shaky breath. Her yellow silk blouse was crumpled and damp. “I’m OK,” she said, blowing her nose.

  “You sure?”

  “I just need a few minutes alone.”

  Downstairs, Jean found Peter and Frank in the living room. Hallock had gone. Frank wiped his eyes with a large white handkerchief. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Terrible.” Jean plopped down next to Peter. “So Martin met someone after he came ashore and he offed him, right? That means there are two killers—one failed and the other succeeded.”

  “I suppose so,” Peter said. “I can’t really get my mind around this thing. Want to hear something wild? Hallock says Martin was wearing his tuxedo.”

  “No shit,” she said. “Maybe I am crazy.”

  In a little while Diane came downstairs. She looked hollow-eyed and spent, but had combed her hair, washed her face, and pulled herself together. The subdued group said little. Jean’s head was full of questions and ideas she wanted to air, but now was not the time. She sat on the blue sofa, holding Diane’s hand and holding her tongue.

  Peter cleared his throat. “Diane, the police want you to identify the body in the morning. I’d be glad to do it for you.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ll do it myself. I . . . I want to see him one last time.”

  Peter got on the phone again, notifying friends and colleagues that Martin was officially dead. Word spread quickly, and before long the house was full of visitors. When Jean’s grandmother died, the neighbors in rural Indiana brought tuna casseroles, Jell-O molds, fried chicken; this crowd brought Italian squid salad, boxes of fresh dim sum, and a pan of goat-cheese enchiladas from a trendy Mexican place. Jean set up a buffet on the kitchen table, made endless pots of coffee, and opened bottle after bottle of wine.

  Jean heard Keith Yoshiro, an architect Martin had often worked with, telling someone goodbye. She went after him, catching him at the hall closet shrugging into his coat. “Keith,” she said, “can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” He was a short, slender, stylishly dressed man in his early fifties with shoulder-length black hair. Jean had spoken to him at parties a few times and liked him.

  “It’s about last night,” she said. “Zeppo told me he talked to you the whole time after Martin went outside. Is that true?”

  “Yes, he asked me what I thought of some new 3-D design software he’d read about. Why, do you think he pushed Martin?”

  “I’m just wondering if it’s possible.”

  Keith shook his head. “Zeppo would never hurt Martin. You’ve seen them together—they were like a couple of frat boys, always involved in some ridiculous bet or practical joke. The only time I ever saw Martin laugh out loud was with Zeppo.”

  “Who do you think pushed him? And killed him? Any ideas?”

  “No. The people on that boat were all his good friends. Once he came ashore, though—well, Martin had plenty of enemies.” Keith said goodbye, and Jean went in search of someone to talk to before Zeppo cornered her.

  The guests departed by ten o’clock. Frank left, too, saying he had to take care of his dog. After Diane went to sleep, Jean and Peter cleaned the kitchen, put away all the food, and took a bottle of Chianti
Classico and two glasses into the living room, where they curled up together on the sofa.

  “Diane and Martin would have been on their honeymoon now,” Peter mused.

  “Let’s look at the sequence of events,” Jean said. “Martin gets pulled out of the water, he sails around awhile for reasons unknown, he calls home from Marina Green, he disappears. And then he puts on his wet tuxedo and someone tosses him into the water at Aquatic Park.”

  “The big question is, where did he go after he phoned you? Did he deliberately meet the killer or was it chance?”

  “His office is right on Pier 3. Maybe the rescuer took him there by boat and he surprised whoever was searching.”

  “So who was doing the searching and why?” Peter asked.

  Jean shook her head. “I wish to God he’d just come straight home.” She moved closer to Peter, taking comfort from his solid dependable presence.

  He stroked her hair. “I seem to recall that I owe you something.”

  “You sure do.” She put her arms around him and they kissed like teenagers until Jean, fully aroused by his sweet, familiar touch, unbuckled his belt.

  “Let’s go up to the bedroom,” he whispered.

  “No, let’s do it right here.” They undressed and made love on the big sofa, giggling and changing position as the cushions shifted under them. Afterward they went upstairs to the guest bedroom.

  “Thank God his will is current,” Peter said as they slipped under the fat down comforter. “The day the divorce was final, I rewrote it to make Diane his sole heir. She’s now a very rich woman. Her share of the Wingo-Johansen sale alone will be around $13 million.”

  “That’s one good thing to come out of this mess. She’s been worried about money all her life. But you know what people will say—that she made a fortune by being married for a few hours.”

  “Of course they will,” Peter said. “She’ll have to learn how to manage things, though. Diane would be an easy mark for the wrong kind of man.”

  They cuddled in the soft bed, and as Jean felt the hair on his chest brush against her breasts she thought about starting something. But she knew that after their romp on the sofa he wouldn’t be up for it, so she left him in peace, and soon they both drifted off to sleep.

  THE NEXT morning, a Monday, Jean called her editor, Kyle Prentice. He’d heard the news and was hungry for details; he had met Martin under memorable circumstances a few months before. She told him all she could and he gave her the day off.

  Jean found Diane at the kitchen table sipping coffee. She looked deeply saddened, but reasonably calm in a simple dark green silk dress.

  “Want some breakfast?” Jean asked hopefully.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You sure you’re up for this?”

  “No, but it has to be done. With you and Peter there I’ll be OK.”

  Peter drove them to the monolithic Hall of Justice on Bryant. On the main floor they were shown into a waiting room, where a somber and sympathetic Oscar Davila joined them. After a brief wait he led the way to a viewing room.

  Jean knew how the body would probably look. Twelve hours dead was a long time, but the cold water would have slowed putrefaction. With any luck it wouldn’t be too ghastly.

  Diane stood between Jean and Peter, gripping their hands tightly, her whole body rigid with dread. On the other side of a big window lay a human shape on a gurney, covered with a white sheet. An attendant pulled the sheet back so they could see the face.

  Martin’s flesh had settled away from his bones and his skin was bloodless and waxy. There were several cuts and bruises on his forehead and along his jawline, but, all in all, Jean didn’t think he looked too bad.

  It was bad for Diane, though—she uttered a heart-wrenching cry and gripped Jean’s hand even harder. “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s Martin.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Diane signed papers without another word, and Davila arranged for Jean and Peter to come back the next morning to give statements.

  Peter drove to St. Francis Wood and the three of them walked slowly up the path. Diane, pale and shaky, clung to Peter’s arm, and Jean followed. Diane punched in the security code and unlocked the front door. She opened it wide and gasped, staggering backward and colliding with Peter.

  “What?” Jean said. She stepped around them and looked inside. The living room was completely trashed—sofas tipped over, cushions ripped open, drawers pulled out, paintings knocked off the walls, books scattered on the floor. “Fuck!” she exclaimed. She charged into the house, enraged that someone would deal Diane another body blow so soon after the last one.

  “Jean, come back,” Peter called, his arm around Diane. “He might still be here.”

  “Call the cops,” Jean yelled. She passed through the dining room, which had also been searched, to the kitchen, where all the cupboards were open and every container had been emptied onto the floor.

  She seized a boning knife from a block on the counter and went from room to room, opening closets and looking under beds, cursing aloud, ready to skin the intruder alive if she found him. All the dresser drawers were pulled out—he’d started at the bottom, like a pro. The wedding gifts were untouched. Every room had been tossed, but no one was home.

  Jean came back to the living room. “He’s gone.”

  “I’ve called 911,” Peter said.

  Diane sank into one of the few intact chairs, clenching her fists. “I can’t take any more.”

  HALLOCK AND Davila arrived soon after the uniformed officers. Jean and Peter waited in the manicured backyard, in the shade of a big white umbrella, while Davila took a statement from Diane in a gazebo at the far end of the yard. Hallock remained with the tech crew in the house.

  When Jean’s turn came, she joined Davila in the gazebo. “Good to see you again, despite the circumstances,” he said.

  “Good to see you, too.” His hand felt warm and strong in hers. She sat in a white garden chair. “Can you tell me any more about Martin?”

  “Well, he was dressed just as he had been at the wedding, except he’d lost his shoes and necktie. His watch is missing. It’s engraved, so we should be able to get a line on it if it’s pawned. Right now we’re waiting for the lab reports.”

  Davila turned a page in his notebook. “You’ll be coming downtown tomorrow to make formal statements regarding the murder, so we’ll just cover the break-in.” Jean told him what little she knew about it.

  “You never should have gone through the house like that,” he said.

  “I know. Peter already scolded me. How did he get in?”

  “Through a rear window. He disabled the alarm. Very slick job, unlike the first house search and the searches of the office and yacht.”

  “What do you mean?” Jean asked.

  “Those others were strictly amateur, done by someone with keys.”

  “So you think two different people were involved?”

  “It looks that way.”

  Jean kept Diane company as Peter took her place in the gazebo. The weather grew markedly cooler as the afternoon fog rolled in, and Diane shivered. “I’ll get you a sweater,” Jean said.

  Rather than go into the house and deal with Hallock, she decided to fetch her sweater from Peter’s car. She rounded the house and saw that her evasions were for nothing—Hallock stood in the front yard smoking a cigarette.

  He eyed Jean with contempt. “Ms. Applequist, can I ask you a question off the record?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s obvious Wingo never got out of the bay. So I’m curious why you ran me ragged for an entire day and wasted God knows how many man-hours of police work.” Anger made his face redder than usual; Jean wondered about his blood pressure.

  “Well, Inspector, either I’m totally insane or I really got that call.”

  “How did you know Wingo, anyway?”

  “I’m an old friend of the widow.”

  “Did you get along with him?”

  Jean sh
rugged. “Diane loved him, so I put up with him.”

  “Were you a bridesmaid?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t get along with the groom. Diane thought it was a bad idea.”

  “Did that bother you?”

  Jean looked at him with mounting irritation. “You’ve got me, Inspector. I confess. I pushed him overboard because I wanted to be a bridesmaid.”

  “I don’t think you pushed him,” Hallock said. “But maybe you pulled this stunt about the midnight phone call to punish your friend for marrying someone you hated.”

  “It wasn’t a stunt,” Jean said. “And if you can’t let go of your idiotic notion that I’m making this all up, you’ll never find the killer.”

  “You’re the one who’s been impeding the investigation with this bullshit story. Rescind it now, admit it’s a total fabrication, and we’ll forget about it. Otherwise, I may charge you with filing a false report. Being Mrs. Wingo’s friend doesn’t put you above the law.”

  “Don’t threaten me, you fat, incompetent—”

  “Jean, you don’t have to answer any more questions right now,” Peter said as he came around the house. “Inspector, this isn’t the time or place for such serious accusations. We’ve arranged with Inspector Davila to make statements tomorrow at the Hall.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Hallock said, forcing his anger down. He stomped back into the house.

  Peter looked at Jean. “Are you trying to get arrested for assaulting a police officer?”

  “I wasn’t going to hit him, just excoriate him verbally.”

  “You have to control your temper, especially with the police,” Peter said. “Don’t talk to him anymore unless I’m there, OK?”

  “OK, I promise.”

  “Davila says Diane can go now. I called Frank, and she can stay with him for a couple of days. You take her over there, and I’ll see about getting a crew in to clean up the house as soon as the police are done.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll be back to help.”

  The police let Diane pack a bag, and Jean drove Diane’s yellow Mercedes coupe to Frank’s house. She navigated south to Bernal Heights and pulled into the driveway of a small, narrow Victorian on Winfield Street. The tiny front yard consisted of a patch of grass edged with bright annuals. Frank, looking haggard and depleted, let them in. Trigger, his elderly golden retriever, greeted them, his tail wagging slowly. Diane usually knelt down to nuzzle him, but today she hugged Frank, excused herself, and went up the open staircase to the guest room.