by Lisa King
She took out Zeppo’s phone and scrolled through the numbers. Time to make the call she’d been dreading. A woman answered.
“Is this Hannah Greenwald?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t know me. My name’s Jean Applequist.”
“Ah, the legendary Jean. I know you well. Michael’s been talking about you for months.” Her voice was low and warm, with more New England in it than Zeppo’s. It was strange to hear him called by his real name.
“Hannah, I have bad news,” Jean said in a rush. “Zeppo . . . Michael is in the hospital. He’s been shot in the shoulder, but he’s going to be fine.”
Hannah gasped. “Shot? Who shot him?”
“Hugh Rivenbark.”
“The writer? Why in the world?”
“It’s a long story. We’ve been investigating Martin Wingo’s murder.”
“That wretched man! Even in death he’s making problems for Michael. How bad is it?”
“He has a broken clavicle, but they say that should heal up fine. They’ve been pretty encouraging.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Jean gave Hannah a summary of recent events. When she’d finished, the woman sighed. “Well, I can’t be too angry with you. Aside from getting him shot, you’ve made him happier than I’ve ever seen him.”
“I’m so sorry, Hannah.”
“The fault is Rivenbark’s and Martin Wingo’s, not yours.” She was silent for a moment. “Of course the police will soon find out who Michael is.”
Jean had been so worried about Zeppo’s wound that she hadn’t even thought of that. “My God, you’re right. What should we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do except damage control. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Jean put on jeans and the Zorro T-shirt and went downstairs—Hallock was waiting for her in the living room.
“I got the outline of the attack last night from the patrol officers,” he said, “but I’d like to hear the whole story. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
She explained how Martin had asked Zeppo to send the manuscript back.
“So you never saw the thing.”
“No. Zeppo told me about it, but we couldn’t figure out why Martin kept it. Then two weeks ago we went on a trip to Mendocino to see Hugh.” Jean omitted all the blue box characters from her tale. “He said that he hadn’t known Martin had the manuscript. The next day we took a bike ride and someone tried to run us down in a car.”
“Why didn’t you report it?”
“The guy missed, so we just blew it off,” she said, knowing how idiotic it sounded.
“Could it have been Peter Brennan?”
“No way. We were still getting along then. I didn’t start with Zeppo until later.”
“Any other boyfriends who might be jealous?”
“I don’t keep the jealous ones.”
“I see. So what happened after you got home from Mendocino?”
She described the second attempt, and then told him about seeing the wedding card and how Zeppo had told Hugh he’d scanned the manuscript for protection. She even told him why they’d gone to the Presidio and the details of the final encounter with Hugh.
Hallock shook his head, his expression grim. “By rights you should both be dead. You’re a couple of lucky bastards. What I want to know is why you and Zeppetello didn’t tell me about this manuscript right away. Were you going to wait until the guy in the car killed one of you?”
“Come on, Inspector. You’d never have taken Zeppo’s word against someone like Hugh Rivenbark. Even Diane didn’t believe us. Anyway, we had no proof—there was none—and we assumed it’d be a waste of time trying to convince you.”
“Your speculations on whether I’d believe you are immaterial. The fact is that you and Zeppetello withheld knowledge that bore directly on my investigation. I should have heard about the manuscript the first time I talked to him. And the minute he saw the wedding card, you two should have come to me.” He was controlling himself, but Jean knew he was angry—his face was beet red.
“Remember your reaction when I told you Martin got out of the bay? I was expecting more of the same.”
“Like I said, what you were expecting won’t matter when you’re charged with withholding evidence in a homicide.” Hallock put away his notebook and stood. “The doctor says I’ll be able to get a statement from Zeppetello today. We’ll see if that changes anything.”
After Hallock left, Jean joined Peter and Diane at the kitchen table. “Never talk to the police on an empty stomach,” Jean advised. She put cream cheese on a garlic bagel and told them what Ivan had said.
“I knew about Flavia, of course,” Diane said. “Martin still spoke to her occasionally.”
“I knew her, too,” Peter said. “Martin told me he was through with her.”
“Any idea why he’d go to her place instead of home?” Jean asked.
Diane shook her head. “No, none. He told me their affair was long over.” She sighed. “It seems the deeper you dig, the more his assurances turn out to be lies.” Peter squeezed Diane’s shoulders. “I’m going home today, in spite of the press,” she told Jean. “I’ve decided not to let them keep me out of my own house.”
“Good for you,” Jean said. “What about you, Peter?”
“Diane’s taking me to my apartment. I have to get ready for the arraignment.”
After breakfast Roman dropped Jean at the hospital. She asked about Zeppo at the nurse’s station and was told that he was awake, but the police were with him. Soon Hallock and a uniformed officer emerged from the ICU.
“His statement is consistent with yours,” Hallock told her. “Rivenbark is still unconscious, and the doctor says that because of the severity of the concussion he probably won’t remember what happened last night anyway. So unless the tech crew turns up something that doesn’t jibe, you look to be in the clear as far as assault goes. The withholding evidence charge is another matter. I’ll get back to you on that.” He nodded brusquely and left.
The nurse beckoned to Jean. “He’s just had his morphine, so he should be frisky for a little while. Don’t overdo it.”
Jean stepped into the glass-walled room and Zeppo turned toward her, looking frail and pallid, his blue-green eyes glazed and vulnerable behind his glasses. He smiled. “Hi, gorgeous.”
She kissed him gently. There was a medicinal smell about him and he didn’t taste right. A rough coppery stubble covered his cheeks and chin. “Hi, big boy. How’re you feeling?”
“Pretty doped up, but not too bad, considering.”
“Zeppo, please forgive me. That was such a stupid thing to do. I never should have insisted we go there. I never should have—”
“Jeannie, don’t. You didn’t force me into anything. In fact I wanted you so badly by the time we got off the bridge that the only way to discourage me would have been to shoot me sooner. My self-control has gotten as lousy as yours.”
“You could have died, Zeppo. All because of that phone call to Hugh.”
“Yeah, we really screwed up. But we’ll never prove he killed Esther or tried to kill Martin. He’d have gotten away with everything. As it is, he’s going down for kidnapping and attempted murder, but mine instead of Martin’s. So as long as I’ll be OK, I’d say it was worth it.”
“Except now we’ll never know whether that Marcassin is real—it’ll spend the rest of eternity in a police evidence room. You know, the doctor said Hugh probably won’t remember any of it. So in a weird way we got our privacy back.”
Zeppo smiled. “I’m glad I can remember.”
“Zeppo, what did you tell the police? All about Hugh, but nothing about the blue box?”
“Right. I told the truth, but I didn’t mention that Hugh had nothing to do with the car attacks. I figured that way we’d have the best chance of keeping our stories straight.”
“Good,” Jean said. “That’s what I thought, too. Hallock’s threatening to charge us
both with withholding evidence.”
“Terrific.”
“The next thing we have to do is talk to Flavia,” Jean said. “Roman and I can do that. He speaks five languages, including Portuguese. We’ll work on the rest of it when you’re better. Oh, I told Edward about the manuscript. When he left he was talking payback.”
“A nice mellow hippie like him?”
“Imagine how he feels. Hugh not only murdered his twin, he’s had him buffaloed for thirty years, as my grandmother used to say. Keep this stuff about Edward between us, OK? I don’t want him getting busted if he goes after Hugh.”
They talked, Zeppo dozing occasionally, until the ICU nurse chased Jean away in the late afternoon. Roman picked her up and they stopped at her place; she had to go to work on Monday and needed clothes.
In Noe Valley, Roman insisted on entering her apartment first in case of unwanted visitors. “Why, it’s actually neat,” he said when she came in.
“It’s easy to keep it clean. All I have to do is live somewhere else.” She pulled clothes out of her closet and then checked her phone—her message light blinked frantically. She pushed the playback button. Most of the callers were reporters, whom she ignored. A few worried friends and relatives had phoned, and she made a note of each name.
“Jean, this is Simon,” began one message. “Please give me a call. It’s important.” His voice held little warmth.
Jean hit pause. “He’s seen the news. What should I do?”
“Call him,” Roman said. “If he wants to see you, tell him you’re busy.”
Jean dialed Sputnik. It took a few minutes for a hostess to find Simon.
“Hello?” he said over background music.
“Simon, it’s Jean.”
“You’re all over the news,” he said. “Imagine my surprise when I learned that you were a friend of Martin Wingo’s.”
“Did you know him, too?” Jean asked innocently. “What a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. The man who got shot was Wingo’s assistant. He was at the club with you. We’re neither of us stupid, Jean, so drop the act.”
“Look, we’ve been helping out his widow,” Jean explained. “We were checking on anyone who’d had a runin with Martin.” Roman frowned at her and made a throatslitting gesture with his hand. She ignored him. “I know he tried to blackmail you, and I also know it didn’t work. We only care about who killed him.”
“If you’d asked, I’d have told you that I was in Las Vegas that whole weekend with witnesses. You could have saved yourself the time and effort of coming on to me.”
“Simon, I enjoyed our lunch. That wasn’t an act.”
“What does any of this have to do with Oksana?”
“We’re not sure.” Jean knew she’d already said too much. “Her name came up.” She heard muffled voices as Simon spoke to someone at the club.
“I have to go,” he said to Jean. “We’ll talk later.” He hung up abruptly.
“Why in hell did you tell him so much?” Roman demanded.
“I felt bad,” Jean said. “He thought I was playing him. I actually find him attractive.”
“You fool, don’t you have enough on your plate right now?”
Jean didn’t want another of Roman’s lectures on promiscuity. She pushed the play button again. A familiar deep, resonant voice made her sit up straight. “Hello, Jean. This is Kay Wingo. I’d like to get together and discuss things. Please call me.” She left a number.
Jean hit the pause button again and looked at Roman. “Whoa. Did you hear that?”
Roman smiled, excited. “Indeed I did. Call her. And make the meeting in a public place.”
“How dumb do you think I am?” She dialed the number and Kay answered.
“Jean, we need to talk,” Kay said. “Are you in the city? We could meet now.”
Jean mouthed “now” to Roman, and he nodded. “That would be fine,” she said to Kay.
“Why don’t we meet for a drink?”
“How about the Fault Line near Union Square?” Jean asked.
“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Excellent,” Roman said. “This should prove most enlightening. Don’t let her know we suspect her of anything.”
“You’re as bad as Zeppo. He always thinks I’ll blurt things out.”
“As you just did with Emory. You should change your clothes, by the way.”
She glanced at Roman, who wore a blue and purple Jhane Barnes shirt and dark pleated slacks. He looked ready for just about any restaurant in town. Jean took off the Zorro T-shirt and jeans and put on her pencil skirt and a gray shantung blouse.
At the restaurant, Jean looked around the half-full bar. They’d arrived first. “OK,” she said to Roman, “since you’re the bodyguard, you sit at the bar.”
“Oh really?” Roman said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t sit at the table with the players?”
“You’ll intimidate Kay. Look at you. As long as she thinks you’re just a big dumb yahoo like Donald, we’ll be OK.”
“And you’re going to handle this with your usual tact and diplomacy?”
“Don’t get sarcastic,” Jean said. “She called me, remember? I promise no more blurting.”
As they bickered, Kay and Donald came into the bar. Kay wore a beautifully cut chocolate brown dress and Donald had on an ill-fitting blue suit. He sat a few stools down from them while the maître d’ showed Kay to a table. “What did I tell you?” Jean whispered to Roman. “Bodyguards at the bar.”
“OK, we’ll do it your way. But if you’re going to be in charge you can pay the bill, and I’m having a very expensive drink.”
“A triple Jack Daniels? Then I’ll have to drive home.”
“You’ll never drive my car. I’ll order their most costly wine.” He sat on a stool and examined the list of wines by the glass.
“Hey, go crazy. Kay can pick up the tab.” Jean walked toward Kay, smiling.
“Please sit down, Jean,” Kay said. She glanced toward the bar. “Who’s that man you were talking to?”
“Just a friend. I see you brought one, too.” Donald poured Diet Pepsi over ice and Roman sipped a small glass of deep golden wine—it looked like Sauternes, a favorite of his. Apparently he’d made good on his threat. Jean watched with amusement as the two men eyed each other. Donald was taller than Roman and much heavier, but not nearly as fit. They both looked dangerous. “I’ll bet my gorilla can whip your gorilla.”
Kay looked at her uncertainly for a moment before deciding to laugh. “I hope we never find out,” she said. Once the waiter had taken their orders, Kay’s expression grew serious. “Jean, let me tell you how sorry I am about everything that’s happened to you and Diane.”
“Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing here?” Jean said.
“I understand that you and Zeppo are looking into Martin’s death at Diane’s behest. I’m assuming that’s how you got mixed up with Hugh. I’d like to know whether you intend to keep investigating now that Zeppo’s in the hospital.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’ll be frank. I’m concerned that any revelations about Martin and his blue box will negatively affect my political fortunes.”
“You knew about that?”
“Do you think there was anything about that man I didn’t know?” Kay said sharply. “I was married to him for twenty-three years.” The waiter appeared with Chardonnay for Kay and a Central Coast Syrah for Jean.
“Diane doesn’t want anyone to find out about it either, but we have to clear Peter Brennan,” Jean said when he was gone. “Things look pretty good, though, now that Hugh’s under suspicion. Anyway, if it does go public you could always say it’s news to you.”
“If I did that I’d look stupid. And if I said I knew about it, I’d look as guilty as Martin.” Kay toyed with her wine glass. “Are there any other angles you’ve been pursuing?”
“Not really. We’ve assumed all along that th
e motive was in the blue box, and Hugh was just an extension of that idea.” Jean sipped her rich red wine, thinking how much Zeppo would like it.
“What will you and Zeppo do next?”
“Nothing until he’s up and around. We’ll see where things stand then.”
Jean could tell Kay was dissatisfied with her answers; her expression was cross and impatient. Suddenly the woman gave her a piercing look. “Don’t play games with me, Jean,” she said softly. “People who do always lose.”
“Why would I?” Jean said innocently. “We both want to find out who killed Martin, don’t we?”
“Of course we do.” Kay was back in character, civilized and sleek. “Well, this has been pleasant, but I must run.” She signaled for the bill. “I’ll get it.”
“How about paying for my gorilla’s drink, too? He just had a glass of wine.”
“Very well.”
“Thanks. See you around.” Jean stood, eager to leave before Kay saw the check. She walked to the bar and told the bartender to put Roman’s wine on Kay’s tab. The man looked past Jean, and Kay nodded to him. “Let’s go quickly,” Jean said to Roman. They hurried out the door.
“Sauternes, right?” she said as they walked toward the car. “What kind?”
“Yquem, of course. It was ambrosial.”
“What did it cost?”
“A hundred and twenty dollars for a two-ounce pour, but I thought it a bargain. How often do you find the ‘75 by the glass?”
Jean howled with laughter. “Serves her right. You know, I’m getting to be a good liar. It just takes practice.”
“I doubt you’ll ever be in Kay Wingo’s league. Tell me what she said.”
“She pretended it was all about the blue box. She knows about it, and she’s afraid it’ll hurt her politically. But she was really fishing around to see if we know anything about her. I told her I’m waiting for Zeppo to get well before I do any more investigating. She probably thinks I’m a bit dim.”
“Come on, let’s see if Flavia’s home.”
“Shouldn’t we call first?”