Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  They walked their bikes around the hill; it was longer than going over, but Jean didn’t think she could climb it now. They got back on their bikes, and she felt her bruises and exhausted leg muscles protesting as they worked their way back down to the main road. Zeppo had to slow for her several times. He rode ahead so she could slipstream him, which she really appreciated once they got onto Highway 1 and had to fight a headwind.

  In Mendocino they bought gauze bandages, tape, and antibiotic ointment. In her hotel room Jean took a long shower. The hot water stung but made her feel better. Bruises were coming up all along her right side and leg, and she knew she’d be stiff and sore by the time they got home.

  Jean dried herself carefully, trying not to bleed on the pink towels, and bandaged her leg sitting naked on the rose-colored bed. She struggled for a few minutes with her skinned arm, but soon gave up and phoned Zeppo’s room.

  “Zeppo, it’s me. Can you bandage my arm? I don’t want to leak on my clothes.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She put on her red silk robe with a dragon embroidered on the back and opened the door for him. He was barefoot, still in his riding shorts and shirt.

  “Now Zeppo,” she said, “I’m not trying to be a tease, but I can’t put my clothes on until this thing is covered up. Is it going to bother you?”

  “No way,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to play doctor with you.”

  She pulled the robe off her right arm and tucked it across her breasts. They sat on the bed near the pile of bandages. “Leave it to me, sweetheart,” Zeppo said. “I’m descended from a long line of big-time physicians.” He was still warm from the ride and smelled not unpleasantly of perspiration. He put ointment on the scrape and wound the gauze around her arm, taping it up neatly. “There you go.” He patted her shoulder. “See? Didn’t I tell you I have great self-control? I’ll go take a cold shower and then we’ll hit the road.”

  Jean smiled. “Meet you downstairs in an hour, OK?”

  They were on the road well before noon. “I made some calls,” Zeppo told her. “Emory’s at Sputnik. Treadway’s at the shop but Felix isn’t. Setrakian’s not home. I called Blythe Newman, and she says he owns an old Mercedes station wagon and a new Corvette.”

  “Which could mean he borrowed a car or stole one. Did you call Rivenbark?”

  “No. I guess I should have.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jean said. “He’d have had plenty of time to get home before we got back to the hotel, even without a car. This is one of the few places on the planet where people still pick up hitchhikers. Anyway, we don’t have a motive for him.”

  They tossed ideas around and listened to the blues, and before Jean knew it they were inching across the Golden Gate Bridge in heavy afternoon traffic.

  CHAPTER 22

  After dropping Jean’s bike at Roman’s, the two drove to Zeppo’s apartment.

  “Let’s write those letters about Setrakian,” he said as he booted up his computer. “We’ll send one to Elan’s head of PR and one to the reporter of your choice.”

  “How about Helen Tang?” Jean offered. “She wrote that great series on sexual harassment in the workplace for the Examiner. She’d love to screw Armand. Metaphorically, of course.”

  They composed brief anonymous letters detailing the complaints filed against Setrakian. Zeppo printed out the letters, and they dropped them in a mailbox on the way to Jean’s apartment.

  “Jeannie,” he said as they drove toward Noe Valley, “we have to be careful now. Don’t open your door unless you know who it is. Don’t go out alone after dark. Stay in crowded areas. And we should keep track of each other. We can’t forget that we’re in danger.”

  “Definitely. What are you going to do tomorrow?”

  “Get on the Net and do research on Kay and Frank, like Roman suggested, and see what I can find out about Spider and Rhino Fitness. What about you?”

  “I’m supposed to see Peter tonight, and later I’ll tell Diane what’s going on. Otherwise I’ll stay close to home.”

  They stopped at Whole Foods Market on 24th Street for groceries, then Zeppo dropped Jean at her apartment. She thought about Peter as she unpacked her purchases. She should see him, but didn’t really want to. Her cuts and bruises hurt, for one thing. The unedited version of the trip to Mendocino would make him angry and he’d scold her. Even if she didn’t tell him, she’d have to give Diane the whole story, and Diane would tell Peter, and then he’d be angry with her for holding things back. She decided to postpone the whole problem.

  Jean called him at work. “Hi. I’m home. Armand Setrakian is a dick and Hugh Rivenbark is really interesting.”

  “Have you cracked the case yet?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Come on, Peter, lighten up.”

  He sighed. “Sorry. I’m leaving work soon—I’ll pick you up.”

  “Listen, I’m going to cancel. I fell off my bike and I’m all bruised and skinned up.”

  “Are you OK?” His pique was gone now; she heard only concern in his voice. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “No, I just want to rest for a day. We’ll do something tomorrow.”

  “That’s no good. I have to go to Seattle and take a deposition. I won’t be home until midday Saturday.”

  “Then we’ll go out Saturday night. I’ll be ready to dance by then.”

  “It’s a date. But call me if you start to feel worse, OK? Call Diane if I’m gone.”

  “I promise. Have a good trip, Peter.”

  Jean slept late the next day and woke to pain and stiffness all along her right side, so she decided to stay in bed as long as possible. She lazed around listening to music and reading her current mystery, the latest installment of John Burdett’s Bangkok saga. By the time Diane called her in the late afternoon, she was craving Thai food in the worst way. Diane invited her to dinner—no Thai food tonight.

  Zeppo phoned after she’d hung up with Diane. “Hey, Jeannie,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad. I’ll live.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I called Rhino Fitness. Spider used to work there as a personal trainer, but he quit a few weeks ago to take a job in San Jose.”

  “You have any theories?” she asked.

  “Not enough information yet. I need to talk to that bartender, Rudy. Why don’t I come over tomorrow and we’ll see what we know?”

  “OK. I’ll call you then.” They hung up.

  In the evening, Jean slipped into a loose red knit dress that didn’t constrict any of her wounds and drove to St. Francis Wood.

  “What in the world happened to you?” Diane said as Jean limped into the house.

  “I fell off my bike.”

  “I wish you’d be more careful, Jean.” In the living room, the coffee table held a motley grouping of high-end objets d’art and expensive knickknacks. Empty gift boxes were piled on the floor and a nearby trash can held ribbons and wrapping paper.

  “Finally opening those wedding presents, I see,” Jean said.

  “Yes. I debated for a long time whether to keep them. But sending them back seemed even less appropriate. I’m writing to thank everyone for the gifts and for their help and support.”

  “I’ll give you my gift in a month or so. I’m making you a quilt.”

  “I can’t wait. I’d love to have something you made.”

  Jean usually dreaded Diane’s cooking, but was looking forward to dinner tonight—Martin’s chef, Celia, had stayed on. She’d left them a lovely meal of quiche Lorraine, green salad with caramelized pecans, and a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir.

  “Tell me all about what you’ve been up to,” Diane said as they ate.

  “Let me ask you a question first,” Jean said. “Back in high school, how did you get the job with Frank?” She loved the wine, which smelled and tasted of plums and roses.

  “I answered an ad in the paper. Why?”

  “Indulge me. Do you have a copy of your b
irth certificate?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does it say for ‘father’?”

  “Unknown.” Diane smiled. “You think Frank is my father, right?”

  “It occurred to me.”

  “I thought of that, too, when he and Connie invited me to move in with them. I couldn’t understand why they’d be so nice to me otherwise. I had self-esteem issues back then. When I asked Frank, he explained that he loved me like a father but wasn’t mine. I wanted proof, so he had his family doctor test our blood since that was easy, if not necessarily conclusive, but in this case it was—he couldn’t have fathered me. So I think you can cross him off your list.”

  “OK.” But not until she ran it by Zeppo.

  As Jean finished a second slice of quiche, she told Diane about Treadway’s, Felix, the visit to Sputnik, the interview with Setrakian, the Bongiornis, and the evening at Hugh’s. The story of the perilous bike ride horrified her friend.

  “Jean, we have to go to the police,” Diane said. “Peter’s right—he’s angry at me for putting you in harm’s way. You have to stop now.”

  “Not yet. Zeppo and I want to keep going for a little while longer, at least until we can narrow our list of suspects. Anyway, Zeppo will keep investigating no matter what, and I don’t want him to do it alone. That really would be dangerous. We’re being careful, and besides, it’s very exciting. Please don’t tell Peter about the Jeep, OK?”

  “You can’t keep him in the dark forever, Jean. He cares about you.”

  “I know, but it’s safety first with him. That’s never been my philosophy.” Jean told Diane about the letters they’d sent detailing Setrakian’s peccadilloes.

  “How could you do that?” Diane demanded angrily. “You know I don’t want to expose anyone in the blue box. That’s the whole reason I asked you to help.”

  “Yeah, but we agreed that didn’t apply to anyone whose crimes were serious. I consider serial sexual assault serious.”

  “Setrakian’s going to be furious. You’ve made things even more dangerous for yourself.”

  “What can he do?” Jean said. “He’ll get a lot of bad publicity, and then other women he’s attacked will come forward. He may even be prosecuted. We’ll be the least of his problems. Look, I’m sorry. If something like it comes up again, I’ll talk it over with you first, OK?”

  They cleared the table and went back to the living room. Jean noticed a beautiful bentwood glider-style rocker with curling, elegant lines where the pile of wedding gifts had been. She sat down and rocked. “What’s this great chair?” she asked.

  “That’s from Hugh. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s been here since a month before the wedding, but presents got piled on it. He sent a rocking chair as a joke about Martin’s retirement, but what a rocking chair.”

  “Here’s a card, taped to the back.” Jean handed it to Diane.

  “Isn’t that pretty. He writes, ‘When a man steps back from his life, he can judge it and know its true worth, like a painter stepping back from his easel.’”

  “That’s from Home to Greenwood,” Jean said. “The father is explaining why he’s retiring early even though it’ll screw up the family logging business. Let’s see it.” The front featured a stunning black and white photo of a Mendocino landscape, windblown trees jutting out of steep, rocky cliffs. Jean opened it. The few lines were neatly written in a bold, clear, upright hand, with Hugh’s signature at the bottom. She stared at the card, immobile.

  “What’s wrong, Jean?”

  “Eureka,” she said softly.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to show this to Zeppo. Right now.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t say. I don’t want to upset you for nothing.”

  “Jean, come on. What is it? You can’t just leave me like this.”

  “Please, let me do this my way. That’s what you hired me for.”

  “But why go over there? Use the fax in Martin’s office.”

  “I want to do this in person.”

  “Oh, all right.” Diane frowned as Jean dialed the phone.

  “Zeppo, it’s me. I have to come over right away, and don’t say anything crude.”

  “Moi? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “See you in twenty minutes.” She hung up and turned to Diane. “I’ll have him look at this and then I’ll call you, OK?”

  “OK, but call soon, will you? I want to know what this is about.”

  Jean drove to Cow Hollow and parked at a fire hydrant a block from Zeppo’s apartment. She ran up the steps as he opened the door.

  “What’s so urgent, Jeannie?”

  “You have to see this.” Inside his apartment she handed him the card.

  He looked at the picture and opened it. “Very nice. Sounds familiar. OK, signed by Big Hugh.” He stared at it for a couple of beats. “And congratulations, you win a month with me on a desert island. This is a completely different handwriting from the manuscript.”

  “Ha! I knew this wasn’t the big sloppy writing you described.”

  “You’re absolutely right. This has a different shape, different slant, different everything. Remember I told you there were editing notes? That’s what this writing is like.” He looked at her. “What if he didn’t even write the fucking book?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. There’s no other reason it would be in someone else’s handwriting.”

  “I bet Esther wrote it. She was a writer, too, and who else would let him take credit?”

  “He could say he dictated it to her, but then there are all those interviews where he ranted on about the physical connection between him and his work. All we have to do is get a sample of her writing from Edward. And you know what else—now I’m wondering about her death.”

  Zeppo nodded. “Yeah, what if he had writer’s block and persuaded her to write it for him? And what if she had second thoughts after the book won the Pulitzer? Hugh couldn’t face the humiliation, so he pushed her off the steps. That sure would explain why Martin kept the manuscript all these years. Now that’s a damn good motive for both their murders.”

  “Hugh must have thought the manuscript was long gone. He panicked when he realized someone else had seen it. If Martin hadn’t had you send it back, he never would have ended up in the bay. But why did Hugh wait until the wedding to do anything about it?”

  “He was on a book tour until the day before,” Zeppo said. “He must not have seen the thing until he got back. Man, if this is true, what a show he put on for us at his house. All broken up over his long-lost wife. He was ‘taken aback’ when he got the manuscript. He must have practically had a stroke. And don’t forget the touching eulogy he delivered. It’s a cinch he tried to run us down. I’m the only one who saw it, but he must figure you know too much about it, too.” Zeppo thought for a moment. “You know, Hugh could be the actual murderer. He’s really tight with the Bongiornis. If Edward didn’t know Hugh killed his sister, they might lie for him.”

  “They sure might,” Jean said. “Why do you suppose Martin wouldn’t say who pushed him when he called me?”

  “He must have had something special planned for his old pal. Maybe he was going to force Hugh to sell him The Eyrie. Or give it to him outright.”

  “But Martin would have had to tell the police who pushed him as soon as he came home. I wonder what he was up to.” She gripped his arm. “Hey, even though we don’t know who killed him, we actually figured out part of it. We’ll go to the police in the morning. You can tell the whole story. This means we won’t have to mention the blue box at all—you can say Martin gave you the manuscript to send back, period.”

  Zeppo pulled away and handed the card back to her. “I can’t do that, Jeannie.” He was strangely subdued.

  “Why not? I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I can’t go to the police. I . . . uh . . . I have a record.”

  “A police record?”

  “Yeah.”

&nb
sp; “You’re not a fugitive, are you?”

  “No, it’s over. I just can’t deal with the police. I can’t take any more publicity.”

  “When did it happen? If you were a juvenile, the records would be sealed.”

  “Just drop it. I can’t do it.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what it’s about?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” He began to pace. “Trust me. I can’t.”

  “But we haven’t found any other evidence against him. He probably tried to kill us, remember? He might try again.”

  “Jeannie, please. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Goddammit, what did you think would happen when we got evidence on someone?”

  “I thought you could tell the police, that I wouldn’t have to be involved.”

  “You’re more involved than anyone! What about before I joined up, when you were working by yourself? What were you going to do if you found the killer?”

  “I figured I’d tell Peter and he’d tell the police. Look, you can go to Davila. He likes you. Say you saw the manuscript.”

  “But I didn’t see it. I can’t answer any questions about it. Only you can.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t shut down on me, Zeppo. Tell me what you did. Do you think I’ll be shocked? I know you, and I know it can’t be that bad.”

  “It might be worse than you think.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, stop playing games and tell me what it is!”

  “You’d better go,” he said.

  “What am I supposed to say to Diane?”

  “Please, Jean. I never thought I’d ask you to leave, but I’m doing it now.”

  Jean stopped herself before she lost her temper and insulted him. He seemed in genuine pain. She took a deep breath. “OK,” she said, “I’ll go. But you haven’t heard the end of this.” She slammed out of his apartment and drove to Noe Valley.

  After a long search for a parking space and a long walk home, Jean felt less furious. She tacked Hugh’s card to her bulletin board and sat at the kitchen table with a glass of Cognac. When she felt calmer, she called Diane.