by Lisa King
A crew member brought out an armload of yellow roses, a slash of color in the leaden day, and distributed them to the mourners. They all turned outward and threw flowers into the sea. Jean felt goose bumps as the strains of Aretha Franklin singing “Amazing Grace” poured from the cabin—Martin had loved Aretha Franklin. Diane wept quietly, supported by Frank, who wiped away tears of his own. Jean looked at Zeppo; his eyes were dry, but grief showed on his face as he flung his rose after the ashes.
The boat got under way again, and as it headed back to the pier the bright raft of roses drifted and dispersed in the Naiad’s wake, across the gray-green water and out under the bridge toward the open sea.
CHAPTER 10
On a clear, windy Sunday afternoon two weeks after the funeral, Jean and Diane sat on a bench at Aquatic Park, the walkway along the edge of the bay where Martin’s body was found. The long, curving Municipal Pier was crowded with fishermen and pedestrians enjoying the rare fogless day. This evening the two women were also going to dinner and a movie, a first since the wedding.
Diane had circles under her eyes and was too thin, but was starting to resemble her old self. She looked elegant in celadon-colored slacks and matching sweater, and her dark hair hung down her back in a thick braid. She still wore her wedding ring, a big diamond solitaire set in platinum, and she’d put on perfume. Jean recognized Je Reviens.
“How are you doing, honey?” Jean asked.
“Better. I’m trying to keep busy. You’ll never guess what I’ve been reading.”
“Romance or chick lit?”
“Neither. Annual reports and financial statements. I’m getting educated—I knew almost nothing about Martin’s finances. I was going to turn it all over to Peter, but he’s insisting that I make my own decisions. It’s taking my mind off things, I’ll admit.”
“Good for you. You don’t want to depend on advisors all your life.”
“That’s what Peter says. He also thinks I should get an M.B.A.” She smiled at Jean. “I suggested that to Martin once and he just laughed.”
Jean masterfully refrained from slamming Martin. “Why not? You’ve got the time, the money, and the brains. What about the Haas Business School at U.C. Berkeley?”
“That’s my first choice. Martin taught a few classes there and thought very highly of it.”
Jean watched a tall skinny man in jeans, a gray hoodie, and a green Celtics baseball cap work his way down the pier, pausing to talk to each fisherman. Curly red hair peeked from under the cap. “Hey, there’s Zeppo,” she said.
Diane looked where she pointed. “What can he be doing here?”
Jean stood. “Let’s find out.” They walked along the water and onto the concrete pier. Zeppo chatted with an elderly Asian man smoking a pipe. The man shook his head no and went back to his fishing, and Zeppo turned away. He broke into a grin when he saw the two women and came over. “Well, if it isn’t Jeannie and Diane. How’s it going?”
“Getting tips on what bait to use?” Jean asked.
“Not exactly.”
“Zeppo, are you asking the fishermen about the night of the wedding?” Diane said.
“No harm in that.”
“Have you found anyone who saw anything?” Jean asked.
“Not yet. But since I’m unemployed, I’ll keep at it.”
They said goodbye and the two women walked back toward the parking area. They got in the car and Diane started the engine. “So Zeppo’s investigating on his own,” she said.
“Well, isn’t that a good thing?” Jean asked. “He may be a weasel, but he’s not dumb. Maybe he’ll turn up something.”
“I suppose so.” Diane fell into a distracted silence.
“Hey, no brooding allowed tonight.”
“Sorry. Let’s change the subject. I’ve been meaning to ask you how things are going with Peter.”
Jean rolled her eyes. “Still trying to get me married off, are you?”
“I think he’s just the type of stable, loving man you need. Now answer the question.”
“OK. He’s great, but a bit conventional for my taste. He wants us to be monogamous. He wants to get married and have kids, and I don’t. Other than that, we’re doing fine.”
“Do you mean he proposed to you?”
“No, that much of a fool he’s not. He was speaking theoretically.”
“Jean, you’re hopeless.” Diane sighed. “Martin and I were going to start a family right away. Kay was infertile and wouldn’t adopt. After the wedding, I was so hoping I was already pregnant. One of my worst days was when I got my period and realized every part of Martin was gone for good.”
Jean squeezed her friend’s knee. “It sounds lame right now, but you’ll find someone else. You’ve got years and years left to have kids.”
PARKING IN the Castro was impossible, so Jean pulled into her uncle’s driveway. He owned a large gray and blue Queen Anne Victorian a few blocks up from Castro Street. The two women had dinner at a sushi restaurant just off the main street and then walked down to the Castro Theatre, where Jean thought she’d found the perfect movie for tonight. She loved film noir but Diane needed comedy, and a revival of Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid fit the bill.
After the movie they drove to St. Francis Wood. Jean planned to stay over; Diane was loneliest at night. As they turned in the driveway, a security guard parked at the curb waved.
“We have to talk,” Diane said once they were inside. “Open some wine, will you?”
Jean went through the living room, where order had been restored. Diane had replaced the pieces that were cut up or broken. In the kitchen she pulled a good Barolo out of a wine storage unit and the two women curled up on the new sofa, sipping from Riedel glasses. Jean sniffed the Italian red and rolled it around in her mouth. She caught aromas of plums and violets and vanilla, and the taste was full and velvety with a spicy finish. That was sushi’s only drawback—it didn’t go with red wine.
“What’s up?” Jean asked.
“Well, as you know, there’s been very little progress on the investigation, and it’s driving me crazy. I can’t bear the thought that whoever killed Martin is out there right now having a good meal or listening to music or making love.” Her eyes grew moist as she spoke.
“The police just need more time,” Jean said. “They’ll solve it eventually.”
“No, they won’t, because they don’t know all the facts, and if I can help it they never will.”
Jean stared at her friend. “What facts? What are you talking about?”
“Promise you’ll keep this to yourself, no matter what happens.”
“OK, I promise.”
“I really mean it.”
“I won’t tell, I swear on my tits,” Jean said, invoking an oath from their student days. “Now what’s this all about?”
“Before his heart attack, Martin did some questionable things.”
“No shit.”
“These were things you don’t know about. One of the reasons I broke up with him was that I couldn’t stand the way he did business. He had files on people, of illegal or immoral or stupid things they’d done, and when he needed something he would threaten them.”
“He was a blackmailer?” Jean asked in amazement.
“I know it was wrong, but I also know he changed. Before the wedding he sent all the files back to the people they were about. He put a note on each one that said there were no copies, he was through, that his victims were free of him. We burned his ‘blue box,’ the old blue storage box where he kept the files.”
“You mean it was just a bunch of paper files? Wasn’t the information on a hard drive somewhere?”
“You know what a Luddite Martin was,” Diane said, affection in her voice. “He could barely work a cell phone. He was terrified that someone would hack into his computer and steal the secrets. So he only kept hard copies—papers, disks, photos, DVDs, things like that.”
“If he sent it all back, why are people searching everywhe
re, assuming that’s what they’re looking for?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe someone thinks Martin had copies.”
“Duh. He had to have copies.”
“He gave me his word there were none.”
“And you believed him?”
“Yes, I did. I had no reason to doubt him.”
“Uh huh. How’d you find out about the blue box, anyway? Did he show you the stuff?”
“No, of course not,” Diane said. “I saw him pulling people’s strings, but I didn’t know how he was doing it. Then something happened—do you remember the night he served Le Pin?”
“You bet. They still talk about it at the magazine.” Jean recalled the evening vividly. A couple of months into their affair, Martin had thrown a small dinner party for Diane’s birthday at her apartment. The only guest besides Jean was Peter Brennan, whom Jean hadn’t met before. Martin had paid nearly $2,000 for a bottle of 1998 Le Pin, a great vintage of a rare cult Bordeaux. Jean had been positively sweet to Martin that night—she had tried the ’98 only once before and was eager to repeat the experience.
A chef hired from a local restaurant for the evening prepared the meal, and after an appetizer of oysters in Champagne beurre blanc served with a lovely grand cru Chablis, they moved on to rack of lamb with braised leeks and fingerling potatoes. The rented wine steward had done a beautiful job of opening, decanting, and pouring the precious wine. The color had been good, ruby with just a hint of garnet at the rim. Everyone sipped the wine and made appreciative noises. They all waited for Jean, the expert, to weigh in.
Jean inhaled the fragrance deeply—and stopped dead. When she tasted the wine, her suspicions were confirmed. “Martin,” she announced, “you’ve been had. This wine is not as advertised.”
“I think it’s delicious,” Diane said.
“Oh, it’s a very nice wine. But it’s not what you paid for.”
“And just how do you know that?” Martin asked, irritated.
“I tried it about a year ago. I’m not a star, but I do have a decent taste memory. This is probably a Pomerol, but it’s not a ’98 Le Pin.”
Peter examined the bottle. “How could it not be? Look at the label.” He passed it to Jean. Sure enough, the simple off-white label looked authentic.
“The bottle and label look good, but let me see the cork.” Jean examined the long cork. “These guys are good, but not perfect. This is a bogus cork—the chateau’s name isn’t on it.”
Martin examined the cork with growing rage. “I want to taste a real bottle. Where can I get one?”
“At auction or through one of the better wine merchants. My editor has a couple of bottles he bought as futures, but he’s saving them for his fortieth birthday.”
“What’s his phone number?”
“Now wait a minute, Martin. You can’t go around—”
“I’ll call him now. We’ll taste the other bottle tonight.”
“Be serious. Those bottles are worth—”
“I’ll buy one from him. Diane, please bring me the phone.”
Diane, responding to Martin’s steely, inexorable tone, went on her errand without a word.
Jean was warming to the idea. “OK, if you’re determined, let’s pour the rest of this wine back into the decanter so it doesn’t change too much.”
Martin had the wine steward return the ersatz Le Pin to the decanter and serve the other bottles he’d brought, a good but less exalted Pomerol, Vieux-Château-Certan. Jean recited Kyle Prentice’s cell number. Martin dialed, and after a brief wait spoke to Kyle. “Mr. Prentice, this is Martin Wingo, a friend of Jean Applequist. I’m very sorry to bother you so late, but we have a situation here that I think you can help us with.” Martin used his most charming and persuasive tone.
Jean knew that Kyle, who was something of a social climber, would eat this up. Martin was just the kind of mover and shaker he longed to rub elbows with. Kyle was a good friend in spite of this shortcoming; he and Jean had worked together on a now-defunct regional lifestyle magazine, and he’d hired her when he became editor in chief of Wine Digest. She’d loved wine before, but working for the Digest had made her into a real wine geek.
Martin explained about the bottle of Le Pin. “So we’d like to taste a bottle of the real thing. I’d be happy to buy one of your bottles for fair market value plus a twenty-five percent fee for your inconvenience.” He listened for a while. “Here, tonight. I can send a messenger for it . . . oh, that would be even better. Thank you.” Martin gave Diane’s address and hung up. “He’s bringing it over himself,” Martin said with satisfaction. “He’ll taste it with us.”
Kyle arrived, bottle in hand, visibly pleased to be socializing with Martin. He was a slim man in his late thirties with short dark hair and long sideburns. He wore black jeans and a maroon 1950s vintage shirt with flap pockets. He was good-looking and simpatico, but Jean had never slept with him, for the most basic of reasons: She didn’t like his scent. It wasn’t that he smelled bad, he just didn’t smell right. In any case, his taste ran to gamine brunettes.
After the dinner plates were cleared away, the sommelier set up clean glasses and they tasted the two wines side by side. Martin got angry again when he tasted the real Le Pin, which was as spectacularly rich, complex, and silky as it should have been. Jean sniffed the wine and rolled it on her tongue. It showed aromas of chocolate and tobacco, with raspberries and currants on the palate, velvety tannins, and just enough oak, everything in perfect balance. She knew it would be even better in another ten years.
Peter swirled his wine. “Now that I taste this, I wonder how anyone gets away with selling the phony stuff.”
“If Jean hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t have known the difference,” Diane said. “We all thought it was fine because none of us had ever tasted the real thing.”
“That’s right,” Kyle said. “These fake wines get sold to people with money who aren’t wine experts. They just want a great bottle for a special occasion. Usually their guests are too polite to complain if they recognize a problem.”
“Fortunately, Jean is not constrained by common courtesy,” Martin said. “For once I’m grateful for your big mouth, Jean. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Jean winked at Diane.
Kyle tasted the fake wine again. “Whoever blended this knows his stuff. Where’d you get it, Martin? Jean can do a piece on it.”
Martin smiled and shook his head. “No. I’ll deal with it myself.”
Kyle shrugged. “If you say so.” He held out his other glass. “How about another hit of the genuine article?”
Sitting in Diane’s living room all these months later, Jean remembered the taste of the real Le Pin with an almost physical longing as she poured herself another glass of Barolo. “Now that was a memorable dinner party,” she said. “But what’s the connection?”
“He was in one of his silent rages all the next morning,” Diane said. “That afternoon he went to Treadway’s, the fancy wine shop near Union Square.”
“Sure, I know it. They cater to rich ignoramuses.”
“When he got home he told me we’d be getting a case a year of the current vintage of Le Pin free of charge. He told Treadway he’d expose the counterfeiting operation if he didn’t make it up to him. So I asked him if that was how he’d gotten some other things done, by putting pressure on people. He admitted it. I accused him of blackmail, but he just laughed and said, ‘That’s not blackmail, that’s business.’ ”
“Treadway’s is dirty? That’ll make a great story. Kyle will love it.”
“You can’t tell Kyle or anyone else,” Diane said. “If it gets around that Martin was blackmailing Treadway, people might figure out the rest of it, as I did.”
Jean shrugged. “OK, if you insist. So you think someone from the blue box killed him. But why would they, if he sent everything back?”
“I’ve thought about that, too. What if you knew there was evidence of something bad you’d done, and then you
get the evidence back. You destroy it, but there’s a problem—Martin still knows. Before, you couldn’t kill him because someone might find the evidence against you. But now you can safely eliminate him.”
Jean nodded thoughtfully. “That could be. But there’s a simpler explanation. Look at what’s happened: Someone searched your house, Martin’s office, and the Walrus. That sure as hell makes me think he kept something important.”
“Jean, I know he didn’t. He gave me his word.”
“Then what’s this guy looking for?”
Diane sighed. “I don’t know. I only know we can’t tell the police about the blue box.”
“You really should let Hallock and Davila in on this. Your efforts to protect Martin’s reputation are going to screw up the investigation into his murder.”
“This isn’t all about Martin’s reputation,” Diane said. “Obviously that’s a factor, but mostly I’m trying to keep all the secrets that were in the blue box from ending up in the news.”
“But one of those people probably killed him.”
“I know, but the rest of them didn’t, and they deserve to have their secrets kept.”
Jean poured them both more wine. “But what if the secrets were really nasty? What if someone’s a pedophile or a serial killer?”
“Martin would have gone to the police with anything like that. I’m sure the blue box was full of people who embezzled or cheated on their spouses or took bribes. I don’t want anyone’s life ruined because of a stupid mistake.”
“OK,” Jean said. “I see why you won’t tell the police, but why not hire a detective?”
“I don’t dare. If I hired an ethical one, he’d report anything criminal he uncovered to the authorities. I could pay a crooked detective enough to keep quiet, but what’s to stop him from blackmailing the people in the blue box himself?”