Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  Jean looked around. After Frank’s sons left home and his wife died, he’d moved from a larger house to this small one. The downstairs space was open and appealing, with slightly shabby, comfortable furniture. Sliding glass doors at the back of the house looked out over the undulating San Francisco landscape. Family photos covered one wall: Frank and his late wife, his two sons and their young families, and of course Diane, who looked like a changeling among these large, pale people.

  “She shouldn’t have had to identify him,” Frank said. “I should have done it, or Peter. But I suppose it was some sort of closure for her.”

  “Closure is when they catch his killer,” Jean said.

  Frank glanced up the stairs. “Come on, let’s talk outside.” He led the way out the glass door, Trigger following. The day was cool and breezy, but the fog held off for now.

  The back of the property dropped steeply, and Frank had built a big cantilevered deck around the mature trees that grew on the hillside. He and Jean sat in weathered cedar chairs in the shade of a tall pine. Trigger jumped stiffly onto the chair next to Frank and curled up.

  “Did Peter tell you what the police said?” Jean asked. “About Martin getting picked up by another boat and being in his tux?”

  “Yes, he did. It’s all very confusing.”

  “You knew Martin longer than anyone else,” Jean said. “Who do you think killed him?”

  Frank gazed out at the view for several seconds, his expression troubled. “I gave Inspector Hallock names of people he antagonized over the years, and it was a long list. But who could kill a man over a business deal?”

  “Who was on the list?” Jean asked.

  “I can’t tell you, Jean. That’s police business.” He bent over and scratched Trigger’s head.

  “At least they’ll be able to find out who pushed him overboard,” she said. “They have a limited number of suspects there. Who do you think it was?”

  “I have no idea. I really don’t.”

  “Do you have any guesses about what people are searching for?”

  “Look, I’ve been over this so many times with the police,” he said wearily. “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “I’d better check on Diane.”

  Jean decided to let it go—he did look worn out. She stood, brushing dog hair off her pants. “I should get moving anyway. I promised Peter I’d help with the cleanup. Call me if Diane needs anything.” She gave Frank a wave and left.

  THE NEXT day Jean and Peter went down to the Hall of Justice and gave statements. Davila’s non-confrontational approach put Jean at ease, but she had nothing to add that could help him figure out what the searches were all about.

  When all was said, Davila left the two of them in his office to wait until their statements were ready to sign. After several minutes the inspector returned with Hallock.

  “It seems we owe you an apology, Ms. Applequist,” Davila said. “I just got the autopsy report, and it says Wingo’s last meal was not Champagne and crab, but coffee and a PayDay candy bar, presumably eaten on the boat that picked him up. Also, the phone call Frank Johansen got that night was from the pay phone near Marina Green.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Jean said with satisfaction, glancing at Hallock.

  “What else did the autopsy show?” Peter asked.

  “The cause of death was drowning. The killer must have knocked him unconscious and changed his clothes, probably to make it seem as if he’d never come ashore, then thrown him back in the water from the pier. His sleeve caught on a piece of metal in one of the pilings so he didn’t wash out to sea, and he finally floated around to where the fisherman hooked him. There are a number of peri-mortem contusions on his head and face.”

  “What’s peri-mortem?” Peter asked.

  “Inflicted around the time of death, either just before or just after,” Jean said. “I read it in a mystery.” She grinned at Hallock. “Inspector, I’ll take that apology at your convenience.”

  “I’ll be in my office,” Hallock said gruffly. He turned and left.

  “What is it with that guy?” Jean said to Davila. “Do I look like his ex-wife?”

  “He was sure you’d invented the phone call, and now he feels like a fool. He hates being wrong.”

  “Did you believe me?”

  “I’d decided to wait and see. Also, George is very old-fashioned, and he’s got issues with assertive women.”

  “Assertive women don’t scare you?”

  He chuckled. “My four-year-old daughter is pretty assertive. I’ll have to get used to it.”

  “Hallock seems like a real throwback,” Jean said. “Must be tough being his partner.”

  “Not at all. He’s a good cop, very evenhanded about most things.”

  They shook hands, and Peter and Jean went out into the warming day. As they got into his car, Jean noticed that he looked upset. “What’s the matter, Peter?” she asked. “Aren’t you glad for one piece of good news in all the bad?”

  “Davila’s on your radar, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, don’t start. He’s an attractive man, so I noticed him. But he’s married.”

  “What if he weren’t married?”

  “Stop with the jealousy, Peter.” She pulled his head over and kissed him. He resisted at first, but soon gave in and let himself be mollified. Jean reached under his jacket as loud honking startled them. A young man in a new Mazda waited impatiently for their parking space.

  “OK, OK, I’m going,” Peter said. He started the car and pulled into traffic. “This whole thing has me on edge. It’s not you.”

  “I forgive you,” Jean said, patting his knee. “I know how you feel. Me too.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The police released Martin’s body a few days later, and Diane turned him over to the Neptune Society for cremation. The morning of the scattering ceremony was cold and overcast; Jean felt suitably funereal in a black wool coat.

  When the mourners had gathered on the Naiad, the Neptune Society’s venerable fifty-five-foot cabin cruiser, the boat backed out of its slip and motored past the noisy sea lions that had taken over a nearby marina.

  Out on the bay it was chilly and the wind brisk. Jean and Peter buttoned their coats and joined a few other hardy souls on deck. They edged onto the bow, holding the rail as the boat pitched and heaved in the choppy water. The bay usually looked blue, but today the heavy gray sky gave it an ugly olive-drab color. Jean stared over the railing into its opaque depths. “ ‘The snotgreen sea,’ ” she quoted.

  “ ‘The scrotumtightening sea,’ ” Peter finished.

  A fifty-something man in jeans and a shearling jacket sat on a bench against the cabin. He was familiar, but Jean couldn’t place him. He looked over and smiled. “I didn’t imagine Martin had any friends besides Hugh who’d read Joyce.” The wind whipped his long curly hair.

  “We read Ulysses together,” Jean said. “Peter here owns a sailboat called the Molly Bloom.”

  The man’s smile broadened. “Does he? One of my favorite characters in literature.”

  “Mine, too,” Peter said. “This is Jean Applequist, a friend of Diane’s, and I’m Peter Brennan. I was Martin’s lawyer.”

  “I’m Edward Bongiorni, Hugh Rivenbark’s brother-in-law, and a friend of Diane’s as well.” He shook hands with them.

  “Bongiorni,” Jean repeated. “You don’t by any chance own a bookstore in Mendocino, do you? Bongiorni’s Books?”

  “Yes, my wife, Laurel, and I do. Have you been there?”

  “Many times.” So that’s where she’d seen him. “Is your wife Hugh’s sister?”

  “No, Hugh was married to my sister, Esther. She died years ago, but we’re still family.”

  As they chatted, Hugh Rivenbark joined them. His brown parka hung partly open over a tweed jacket and his white hair was windblown. Peter introduced Jean.

  Hugh shook her hand. “Jean, I’m glad to meet you. Lately, every time I get
on a boat, you’re the most attractive woman there. When I first saw you at the wedding, I thought you were older because of your hair. I was greatly disappointed when I realized you were half my age, not to mention attached to Peter.”

  Jean grinned. She recognized harmless flirting when she heard it. “Thanks, Hugh. Diane tells me you’re going to give the eulogy.”

  “Yes, and although I’m sorry to be eulogizing Martin so soon, I’m honored to do it.” Hugh looked toward the city. “There’s a nice symmetry to a scattering ceremony—Martin loved the sea, he perished in the sea, and now he’ll be there for all time.”

  Jean’s ears were very cold, so she excused herself and went inside to get out of the wind. Diane, wrapped in a white cashmere coat, sat in the upper salon talking with the Unitarian minister who would perform the service. All the seats were taken, so Jean went down to the less crowded lower salon.

  A dark, petite woman standing across the salon smiled at her. She recognized Kay Bennett Wingo, Martin’s ex-wife, from TV and newspaper photos. Her brown eyes were large and direct, her other features delicate and telegenic. She was Martin’s age, around fifty. This morning she looked concerned but businesslike in a sleek pageboy haircut and beige Chanel suit under a camel’s hair coat.

  Jean felt her hackles rise as Kay approached. The woman already had two strikes against her. A former state senator, she had founded a group called the Rational Right, which as far as Jean could determine had the same agenda as other right-wing groups but used bigger words. Strike two was that she had married Martin when he was an unapologetic asshole and had stayed with him for more than twenty years. Jean resolved to be polite and restrained for Diane’s sake.

  “Hello,” Kay said, extending a small manicured hand, which Jean shook. “You must be Jean. I’m Kay Wingo.” She had a deep, resonant voice and beautiful diction, like a Disney cartoon villainess. “Diane tells me you’ve been a great help to her.”

  “We’ve been friends a long time.”

  “I wish there were something I could do for her. She’s really a charming girl. I’ve never harbored any ill will toward her—Martin and I would have divorced eventually even without Diane. Our marriage was a casualty of conflicting ambitions. I’m not proud of that failure, but it was inevitable.”

  “I’m sure Diane realizes you wish her well,” Jean said.

  “How dreadful for this to happen just when he’d found the kind of wife he needed, someone who’d put marriage and children ahead of a career. I couldn’t have children, and I believe childless women tend to overcompensate in other areas, sometimes to their detriment, don’t you?”

  Jean could think of a number of responses, none of which came under the category of polite and restrained. “Uh . . .”

  A young man carrying a tan raincoat materialized at Kay’s side. She put a hand on his arm. “I don’t think you know my aide, Donald Grimes. Donald, this is Jean Applequist, a dear friend of Diane’s.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said as they shook hands. Grimes was tall and heavy, with small features for such a large man, and conservatively cut brown hair. The vest of his off-the-rack three-piece suit was too tight across his midsection.

  Kay looked past Jean at an elegant older woman coming through the door. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must have a word with Judge Morris.” She hurried off.

  Donald smiled politely at Jean. “Were you Martin’s friend, too?”

  “Not really. Tell me, what does an aide do?”

  He shrugged. “A little of everything. I keep track of her appointments, make travel arrangements, drive her around, whatever needs doing.”

  “Are you a bodyguard as well?” Jean didn’t know what to make of Donald. Men tended to have strong reactions to her, but he didn’t seem to be giving off any vibes at all.

  “If necessary. She’s a powerful leader, after all. There are many anti-Christian forces who wish her harm because she’s doing God’s work.” A hint of the fanatic gleamed in his eyes.

  Jean realized what she was dealing with—a born-again Christian, just like the ones in her family. Who else could be so devoted to Kay? “Has anyone ever attacked her?”

  “Oh, no. People have heckled her and thrown things, though. I like to think of myself as a deterrent to anything worse.”

  “Donald,” Kay called. “Can I have a word?”

  “Nice talking with you.” Donald strode to Kay’s side.

  Jean took a seat, and in a moment saw Zeppo coming toward her. She’d been expecting him to turn up. Whenever they were at the same gathering he’d seek her out, make suggestive remarks, spar verbally with her. At first she’d assumed he was just horny; his insistence that there were more important things in life than getting laid sounded to her like sour grapes. But once she’d caught him looking at her with a longing that went beyond lust, and realized he had a serious crush on her. He was apparently too unsure of himself to do anything about it but joke around, which suited her fine.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said. “You look great in black.” He sat down next to her and nodded toward Kay and Donald. “So you met Kay’s gorilla?” he said in low tones.

  “A nice Christian gorilla. What’s his story?”

  “Beats me. Martin thought he was a real fool. He used to whistle ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ whenever he saw Donald.”

  “What did Donald do? Get mad or turn the other cheek?”

  “He pretty much ignored Martin. He probably figures the old guy’s in Hell, so he got his revenge.”

  Kay and the judge went into a nearby ladies’ room, leaving Donald alone. He came over and shook Zeppo’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Zeppo,” he said.

  “Mutual, I’m sure.”

  Jean couldn’t resist teasing him. “So Donald, do you suppose Martin’s soul is burning in Hell right now?”

  “I wouldn’t make light of eternal damnation if I were you,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked, amused. “You think I’m damned, too?”

  “You must come to Jesus,” he told her, the true believer’s look returning to his eyes. “He can save even you. ‘For this is the will of God, even your sanctification, that ye should abstain from fornication.’ ”

  Jean recognized the verse from 1 Thessalonians—her father had invoked it many times to her. She’d given up arguing with her family about religion long ago and certainly didn’t want to fight with Donald now. “As far as fornication goes,” she said lightly, “don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”

  “I have tried it, and found it empty and degrading. Jesus’ way is a better way.” He smiled smugly and went up the stairs.

  Zeppo grinned. “He just hasn’t slept with the right girl.”

  “Don’t look at me. As I said, I don’t do charity work. Anyway, how does he know so much about my private life?”

  “I guess from Kay, who probably got it from Martin,” he said with a shrug. “I heard Martin warn Peter about you a couple of times before I met you.”

  “Why, that bastard!” Jean exclaimed, making several people look over. She lowered her voice. “What did he say?”

  She realized Zeppo was enjoying her anger. “Just that you were a, quote, tramp, unquote, and that Peter shouldn’t get too attached to you,” he said.

  “What a hypocritical asshole! He cheated on his wife all the time.” Jean was drawing stares.

  “Well, Martin had a double standard,” Zeppo said. “One standard for him and another for everybody else. And Jeannie, this is the man’s funeral. You should keep it down.”

  Jean took a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  The boat slowed in the water; Jean and Zeppo followed the crowd upstairs. She stood between Peter and Zeppo in the wheelhouse with a few other mourners, looking through an open window into the upper salon, so the less steady members of the group could sit.

  The minister welcomed them, glancing at note cards in his hand. “God of grace and tender mercies, bless us who are gathered here to ce
lebrate the life and mourn the death of Martin Newgate Wingo.”

  The minister introduced Hugh Rivenbark, who stood up, gripping an overhead rail for support. He had no notes. “Martin Wingo was a great and complex individual,” he said, his strong voice carrying easily over the engine noise. “As Henry Ward Beecher said of another flawed titan, ‘Men without faults are apt to be men without force. A round diamond has no brilliancy.’ Martin could be hard and cold, but he glittered with a sharp, piercing intelligence. He was strong-willed and imperious, yet he was capable of deep, warm friendship and great love.

  “I’d begun to consider Martin’s legacy when he had his heart attack, but he still had the best part of his life ahead of him. His beloved wife, Diane, taught him how to live after he nearly died, and filled his final months with a serenity and contentment he had rarely known before.”

  Jean noticed Kay making a sour face as Hugh described Martin’s happiness with Diane. Zeppo saw it, too, and nudged her with his elbow.

  “Diane will, of course, feel his loss the most,” Hugh continued. “But he affected all our lives in unforgettable ways.” Hugh recited a couple of anecdotes that made the dead man seem clever and just a bit mischievous. Then the minister led them outside.

  The boat slowed in the water as the group moved unsteadily onto the bow. As the Naiad idled just inside the Golden Gate, at nearly the same spot where the wedding had taken place, the minister spoke again: “We bid farewell to Martin, our cherished friend. In mystery we are born and in mystery we die.”

  Diane, her expression unbearably sorrowful, opened a jade-colored urn and poured its contents over the side, and the ashes and chunks of bone that had been Martin Wingo fell into the murky water, the dust spun and driven by the stiff, cold wind. Jean felt an unexpected sadness as she thought of him happy and newly married, anticipating a night in Diane’s arms, and instead dying alone in cold, dark water.