Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “Well, what’s left?” Jean said in exasperation. “You can’t stand the killer being free, but you won’t do anything to catch him.”

  Diane clasped her hands in her lap. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since we ran into Zeppo. I want you to do me a big favor.”

  “I’d do anything for you, honey, except stop drinking.”

  “Jean, this is serious.”

  “OK, sorry.”

  “You know how no one could ever figure out what Zeppo did all the time or why Martin paid him so much, gave him the Jaguar and stock options and so forth? His job title was ‘special projects.’ He must have been doing research for the blue box.”

  “I believe that,” Jean said. “Martin wouldn’t have wasted time digging up dirt on people when he could pay the weasel to do it. Plus Zeppo knows all about computers.”

  Diane nodded. “And now he’s looking into Martin’s death on his own.”

  “Well, sure. Martin was really important to him. But how do I fit in?”

  “I want you to find out if Zeppo knows about the blue box. If so, I want you to offer to help him so you can keep an eye on him and protect the people who were being blackmailed.”

  “Say what? You want me to work with Zeppo?”

  “Yes, as a favor to me. Please.” Diane’s voice shook slightly. “If the murderer is in the blue box, how else can we prove it? I only suspect a few names, and Zeppo must know all of them. He’s the best chance I have of finding Martin’s killer without revealing all the others. He obviously has a crush on you, so I’m sure he’ll agree to let you help. Besides, you’re smart, pushy, and incredibly nosy, and you’ve read a thousand mysteries. You’re perfect for the job.”

  Jean thought about it. Diane was right—she was incredibly nosy. It was part of what made her a good reporter. She always examined other people’s medicine cabinets, read their mail if they left it lying around, listened in on conversations. She was intensely curious about the blue box. She found it incomprehensible that Diane had never looked through it. Also, she loved mysteries, and the prospect of being involved in a real one was exciting. On the downside, she wasn’t thrilled about spending time with Zeppo. Diane watched her, waiting for an answer.

  “OK, I’ll talk to him. But I’m not promising anything.” Jean made a face. “Of course, this means I’ll have to go to his apartment.”

  “I know, sorry. Maybe you should take a whip and a chair.”

  “Nah, he’s harmless. I’m going over to Roman’s for dinner tomorrow. I can see the weasel after that.”

  “Thank you, Jean.”

  “No problem.” She yawned. “Now I think it’s past our bedtime.” They recorked the wine, went upstairs to the master bedroom, and climbed into bed.

  CHAPTER 11

  At five o’clock the next day, Jean saved the file with her article on California sparkling wine, took the bus to Castro and Market, and walked toward her uncle Beau Reed’s house. Beau, a retired professor of Russian history, was in St. Petersburg for a month doing research for a book. She bypassed his door and unlocked the side gate—she’d come to see Roman Villalobos, Beau’s tenant and good friend, and her close friend, too.

  Jean went through Beau’s garden, a small, perfect oasis in the city, with a tall fence on either side and Roman’s old carriage house at the back. A big shade tree with a bench around it dominated the yard, and a cedar table and chairs sat nearby. The mature perennial garden of deep blue and purple flowers was starting to bloom, and Jean could smell hyacinth.

  She knocked on the door of the little gray house. “Roman?” she called, opening the door. She inhaled the earthy aroma of garlic and mushrooms.

  “In here,” he said from the kitchen. She walked through the house, which was done in pleasing shades of blue and gray, with Stickley and Mission-style furniture. The wallpaper and rugs bore William Morris designs. A Bach partita played on the stereo.

  As she went down the hall, she turned away from the one disturbing element in this elegant home—a wall of framed portraits and snapshots of Roman’s friends, more than fifty of them, mostly men and a handful of women, all young and smiling, all dead now of AIDS. She caught a glimpse of the latest addition, a man with curly brown hair and a wide, engaging smile—Chris, Roman’s lover who’d died last fall. Jean sighed. At least Roman wasn’t adding photos at the rate he used to.

  Roman sat at the kitchen table slicing tomatoes and laying them on a plate. Jean came in behind him and kissed the top of his bald head, next to a long white scar that ran across his skull just above his fringe of short black hair. He turned and smiled at her. “Good to see you, Jean,” he said in his deep, soft voice. He had high cheekbones, full lips surrounded by a neat goatee, a straight nose, and eyes so dark they looked black. A single gold earring made him look like a Spanish gypsy. He was the handsomest man Jean knew.

  Roman stood and took a container of fresh mozzarella off the counter. Jean smiled with appreciation as she looked him up and down. He was tall and muscular, with dense black hair on his arms and the backs of his hands. He wore jeans and an old Hawaiian shirt with orange and yellow pineapples on it that Jean had made for him. Black chest hair peeked out the collar.

  “Good to see you, too,” she said. “What’s for dinner?”

  “This caprese salad, and pasta with a wild mushroom sauce. I found some chanterelles at the market today.”

  “Can we have Bordeaux? Diane and I were talking about Le Pin last night.”

  “Certainly. I’m out of Le Pin at the moment, but there should be something drinkable. How is Diane?” He interleaved basil leaves and slices of fresh mozzarella with the tomatoes.

  “She’s pulling herself together.”

  Roman poured boiling water and pasta through a colander in the sink, and put the drained pasta into a skillet full of mushroom sauce. “Pick out the wine, will you?”

  Jean rooted in Roman’s pantry and chose a dependable Bordeaux, which she opened and carried into his elegant dining room, setting it on the round pedestal table. She sat in one of the dining chairs, upholstered in a William Morris vine print. As they ate mushroom pasta and drank claret, Jean explained the blue box and Diane’s concerns. She hadn’t forgotten her promise not to tell anyone, but to her, “anyone” didn’t include Roman. Besides, she wanted him to know all about the investigation in case she needed his help.

  “Fascinating,” Roman said when she had finished. “Although it doesn’t surprise me—from all I’ve heard, Martin was a world-class bastard.”

  “He was that.” She helped herself to tomato salad. “But finding his killer is important to Diane. One of his former employees is looking into his death, and she wants me to help.”

  “Really?” Roman said, arching a black eyebrow. “Has she lost her mind?”

  Jean made a face at him. “I imagine she’ll end up turning the whole works over to the police. This is just a way for her to feel that she’s done everything she can to protect the people in the blue box.”

  “You two need to be careful,” Roman said as he poured more wine. “Even if Diane doesn’t know what the searchers are looking for, someone may think she does.”

  “We thought of that. She’s hired some security guards to keep the bad guys out of the house and the press out of the azaleas.” Jean ate a bite of mozzarella. “What about you? Keeping busy?”

  “Very. I’m translating an opus on global warming into English.”

  “What language is it written in?”

  “English, ostensibly. You’d never know it was the man’s native tongue.”

  “You know,” Jean said, “before Beau left he asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He’s worried about you. He says you sit home at night, brooding and drinking too much.”

  “Beau should mind his own business.”

  “How are you doing, Roman?”

  “I have tolerable days, but they’re still mostly bad.”

 
; “Are you seeing anyone yet?”

  “No. I don’t seem to be interested anymore.”

  She reached across the table and touched his hand. “I wish I could do something for you.”

  “I know how you’d handle it—you’d fuck me into sweet oblivion. I do appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Hey, why not give me a tumble?” she teased. “I might convert you.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re cute in an extreme sort of way, but not really my type. Too much over-the-top muliebrity.”

  “Are you going to make me look that up?”

  “It’s the female equivalent of virility.”

  “Oh. Good word.” She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. “Now I’m going across town to see the guy who’s doing the investigating.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “A tall, skinny, obnoxious redheaded kid. He’s hot for me.”

  “Not an unfamiliar situation for you.”

  “It’s all that muliebrity. The guys can’t leave it alone.”

  “Some of us can,” he said, smiling. “Good luck detecting.”

  Jean knew she should stay and keep Roman out of the Bourbon, but she was too anxious to find out what Zeppo knew. After helping clean up, she said goodbye and caught a taxi to Cow Hollow.

  CHAPTER 12

  Zeppo’s apartment was on a side street a couple of blocks from Union in an unremarkable two-story stucco building with a garage. Jean went up a short flight of steps and rang his bell.

  Zeppo opened the door wearing sweat pants and a green Celtics T-shirt. “Jean!” he exclaimed. “I knew you’d change your mind. Let me take a shower and we’ll get right to it.”

  “Cut the shit, Zeppo. I need to talk to you.”

  “All right—talk first, sex later. Come in.”

  He led her into his apartment, his big bare feet slapping like flippers on the hardwood floor. There were no rugs. “You want some wine?” he asked, going into the kitchen.

  “Sure.” She looked around with interest. His sparsely furnished studio was even smaller than hers. A navy comforter covered the single bed in the corner. A dinette table and two spindly chairs sat near the kitchen door. He’d tacked a poster of Van Gogh’s self-portrait with a bandaged ear above the computer. Against one wall, shelving held a modest sound system, a small TV, CDs, and books. Jean had expected college-dorm clutter, but everything was neat and orderly.

  Zeppo brought out two wine glasses and a nearly full bottle of an inexpensive Côtes du Rhône. He poured her some and she sipped it appraisingly. OK, but not great.

  Zeppo turned the computer chair around so it faced the room and sat down. Next to the computer, a big glass paperweight with a plastic lobster inside held down a stack of papers. Jean, glass in hand, perused his books, a large and eclectic mix with a good selection of classic literature, including Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad. She counted three of Hugh Rivenbark’s novels. Zeppo’s musical taste was also unexpected: He had a huge collection of CDs, mostly old blues. She saw no photos of the tall, redheaded, dysfunctional family she’d always imagined for him. In fact, there were no personal mementos visible at all.

  “Have you read all these books?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve read them.”

  “Your apartment is even smaller than mine. Didn’t Martin pay you enough for a nicer place?”

  “I’m saving for a rainy day. You’re a nosy broad, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Zeppo took a sip of wine. “OK, if you didn’t come here to seduce me, what brings you to my lair?”

  Jean sank into the one overstuffed chair, which was covered in soft brown corduroy and very comfortable. She couldn’t resist slipping off her shoes and pulling her feet up. “Diane has asked me a favor,” she said. “Obviously you’re looking into Martin’s death. She wants me to find out if you know about the blue box.”

  “The blue box, huh? So the old fool showed it to her.”

  “Nope. She just noticed things that didn’t seem right and confronted Martin about it.”

  “You’re telling me the widow figured it out all by herself?”

  “Yep. Diane’s smart.”

  “You’d never know it. She works that helpless female thing to death.”

  “Stop insulting her. She happens to be one of my best friends.”

  “Don’t get me wrong—I like her. And I know she had a rough childhood. But she’s way too needy for my taste.”

  “That shouldn’t bother anybody. I don’t think you’re in the running to replace Martin.”

  Zeppo laughed. “God forbid. She’s too small, anyway. I prefer something I can get my teeth into, like you.”

  “Zeppo, could we please have one conversation that doesn’t come back to sex?”

  “OK, but just this once.”

  “She thinks your special project was the blue box. Is she right?”

  Zeppo hesitated for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I was in charge of research and verification for Martin’s pet project.”

  “Why haven’t you told the police about it?”

  “I promised Martin I’d keep it quiet no matter what happened.”

  “Did all the material really get sent back to the victims?” Jean asked.

  “All of it. I FedExed it myself. So Diane thinks the killer’s one of them, right?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s probable, since the police eliminated the suspects on the boat.”

  “How did you know that?” Jean asked in surprise. “The police told Diane, but I haven’t heard it on the news.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Bribed a public servant. They’re all underpaid. The woman I bribed said there were only seven people, including you and Peter, unaccounted for when Martin was pushed. The police checked those people’s whereabouts for the time he was actually killed. They’re in the clear, apparently. Which means someone pushed him off the boat and someone else killed him.”

  “And the second murderer could be anybody in San Francisco.”

  “Right. The woman also told me that Martin had THC in his system, and I’ve never known him to smoke dope. He barely even drank.”

  “That explains why he giggled on the phone—his rescuer must have gotten him stoned,” Jean said. “Why do you suppose no one’s claimed credit for saving him?”

  “They don’t want the hassle, or they’ve been at sea and don’t realize what’s happened. Or they were up to something illegal.” He sat up straight. “Hey, I just had a brainstorm. Diane should offer a reward. Whoever pulled Martin out of the bay may have taken him to meet his killer. Let’s give him an incentive to tell us.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Jean said. “How much should she offer?”

  “Make it a lot of money. Say ten grand. If that doesn’t work, she can up it.”

  “But she’ll have every wacko in the Bay Area calling in.”

  “She can hire somebody to screen the calls.”

  “I’ll phone her in the morning.” Jean took a swallow of wine. Here came the distasteful part. “Diane asked me to help you investigate.”

  “You?” Zeppo chuckled. “What, she thinks you’re Kinsey Millhone?”

  “Nah, I have a much better haircut than Kinsey.”

  “And I bet you get laid more often.”

  “Zeppo, you promised.”

  “Sorry. So you want to be partners in detection, like Nick and Nora?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “And I’m supposed to tell you everything Martin ever dug up on anyone, just like that, so you can broadcast it all over town. Give me a break.”

  “Listen, you weasel, Diane asked me to do this because she doesn’t want any of the dirt getting into the media. After finding Martin’s killer, her main concern is protecting the people you two were blackmailing.”

  Zeppo sighed. “Weasel. Most people would find that insulting. But I’ll think of it as a term of endearment, coming from you.�
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  “Could you focus on this, please?”

  “You know, the more I think about it, the more I can see where you’d be useful to my investigation,” Zeppo said. “For one thing, Diane can use her influence to get people to talk to you. I don’t think she likes me. You’re not dumb, and if you dress up right, we can get any information we want from the average straight male.”

  “I see. I’m going to wag my ass at the suspects until one of them confesses.”

  Zeppo grinned, showing his braces. “Exactly.”

  “You’re a funny guy. What did you have on these people, anyway? What was so heavy that one of them would kill Martin even though he’d retired and sent all the proof back?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” Zeppo leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Before we go into that, let’s get a few things straight. You may have Diane’s blessings, but I’m the one with all the dirt. Although there’s a lot less of it than there used to be—Martin wasn’t exactly keeping things current. Anyway, I’ve got good reasons to want the killer caught, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Martin did a lot for me. Other than money, I mean. I’ll always owe him. Getting some justice for him is the least I can do.”

  “The people in the blue box probably think justice has already been done.”

  “Hey, we couldn’t have blackmailed anybody if they hadn’t screwed up first.”

  “Are you certain you never put the squeeze on an innocent person?”

  “I’m absolutely certain,” he said sharply. “I took verification seriously. Accuracy is very important to me.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. For now.”

  “Just remember: All that’s left of the blue box is right here,” he said, tapping his temple with a long freckled finger. “Martin asked me not to make copies and I kept my promise. So if you want to know what was in it, you have to agree to do this my way.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m breaking a promise to Martin by telling you any of this, so we’ll take it one suspect at a time. As soon as we eliminate someone, I’ll tell you the next name on the list.”