San Francisco Values

by James K Turner

  “You look smashing, what are you doing standing here all by yourself?”

  She turned to see Jeff, who’d appeared out of the crowd looking magnificent in a beautifully cut, traditional tuxedo.

  “Just observing,” Ella replied, looking at Jeff with a delighted wariness. He put an arm around her waist, and they started up the stairs.

  “There’s Giselle Frackle,” he said, nodding toward drop off area at the base of the red carpet.

  “She hasn’t missed this night in fifty years.” Giselle’s little entourage once again accompanied her, though with a new addition, her son Kearney.

  No one would call Kearney Frackle young, having been born when his fossilized mother was just twenty years old. Now in his early 70’s and a geriatric as well, neither had he ever been considered handsome. His general appearance fell under the description of bald and round. But his positive attributes included extreme wealth and a reasonable intelligence, still an unbeatable two out of three combination when it came to scoring beautiful women one-third his age. Kearney took full advantage of this ability, having married and divorced six times in his life, each wife successively younger than the last. Currently single, he hoisted himself out of his mother’s imposing sedan bearing a twig of a young woman in a scanty silver dress, whose luxurious red hair and porcelain skin gave her a delicate, elfin appearance.

  Ella laughed. “Like mother, like son. Both of ‘em are dating kids fifty years their junior.”

  Elton the chauffer, looking superb in his own tuxedo, raced to assist Kearney in helping the young woman out of the car. Kearney shoo’d him away, taking his datelet by the arm and stepping to the side. This cleared the way for the grand matriarch’s debut. Giselle’s blonde wig emerged first, towering higher than ever, while the eager crowd of gossip photographers hovered impatiently. Her lover Sanjay, in black tie and cumber bund with a colorful air brushed snake charmer theme, offered an elegant hand to his cherished Juliet. She grabbed it somewhat too forcefully and he faltered for an instant, then rallied, pulling her out of the car onto her feet.

  The crowd of society onlookers gasped, and Ella grabbed Jeff’s arm in surprise. “Would you look at that,” she said.

  “Looks like Marie Antoinette at her retirement party, if she’d made it that far.”

  Jeff’s reference to the beheaded French queen did indeed make sense. While the soaring blonde wig already lent Giselle a pre-French revolutionary flair, she’d compounded the effect with a nearly full length, heavy pink dress, all ruffles and bodice, which boldly bowed out at the waist and fell to just above her ankles. She’d pancaked her face with extremely heavy makeup and signature bright red lipstick, and wore several strands of heavy pearls around her sagging neck. Probably the only nod to her age and semi-infirm state was her shoes, a curiously unfashionable pair of black flats. Tonight she forsook the wheelchair, and bravely grasped Sanjay’s arm to begin the procession up the red carpet.

  Safada, looking radiant in a shimmering, gold strapless gown, sidled up gracefully to Giselle, gently taking her free elbow. The gossip photogs flashed and clucked, while Giselle smiled, her gaudy, overdone teeth glistening next to aged and ever darkening gums.

  “Mrs. Frackle,” one of the reporters shouted, “who do think wacked Tiffany Reynolds at your front gate?”

  Giselle winced and turned her head, ignoring the question. Everyone else accompanying her made snotty faces of disgust. Kearney could be heard to harrumph.

  Safada reprimanded the impertinent society journalist. “No now questions, you is ofensivo,” she called out above the hubbub.

  The photographers turned and snapped close-ups of Safada, whose angry look only enhanced her beauty. Sensing the increased attention, she lost the long face and beamed for the cameras.

  “I swear, that woman is not a maid, why does Giselle refer to her as one?” Ella asked.

  “Who knows, people have all kinds of hidden expertise,” Jeff replied, reaching up to give Ella’s neck a light pinch.

  “Ouch, that hurt,” she said, not completely serious. “Be careful of my hair.”

  That Ella and Jeff made an attractive couple left no doubt, and many in the throng craned their necks as the couple climbed the steps. Amid whispers and polite greetings they swept into City Hall’s grand rotunda, with its broad staircases and highly polished marble floor. The chattering society crowd instantly locked onto any new and hopefully scandalous information, and as a result the couple’s first public appearance generated welcome speculation.

  Party planners for the rich traditionally compete to see who can create the most ethereal and glamorous atmosphere for their free spending clients, and the Opening of the Opera provided one of the most splashy and well publicized opportunities each year. Amid the spaghetti straps, counterfeit smiles and greatcoats of the glittering crowd, some of the most bizarre canapé servers Ella had ever seen leapt through the crowd like fleeing deer. Dressed in caricature masks and costumes from the film upon which the opera was based, Milton Berle, Ethel Merman, Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy, among others, bounced around the floor on what appeared to be pogo sticks, though with a much more powerful boost than Ella had ever seen. They moved among the political and social elite with alarming alacrity, sometimes leaping twenty feet into the air upon takeoff. Each thick, brightly colored metal pole had a silver serving tray affixed, complete with cup holders to prevent spills during transport. Tremendous athletic ability and gracefulness were obvious job requirements for the serving staff and Ella wondered how the catering company found so many agile servers.

  “They’re on Extreme Pogo Sticks,” a man’s voice cracked behind Ella and Jeff. “It’s the latest rage.”

  They turned to see Gordon Elway, the agent of Noe Valley open house murder fame. Wearing the evening standard black tie, he raised a finger to summon a waiter. Seconds later 60’s comedian Buddy Hackett whooshed to a stop next to them, bearing a tray full of salmon finger sandwiches. Ella started at the ferocity and speed with which the pudgy actor landed on the nearby floor.

  “Looks like an accident waiting to happen,” she replied.

  “I tried it out, it’s fun,” Jeff said. “But I wouldn’t have thought of tonight as a good occasion for it.”

  Ella looked at her date. “You have been on an extreme pogo stick?”

  “Extremes are my specialty,” he whispered.

  Ella turned to Gordon, and waved around at the preponderance of aged attendees. “Who knows, might wake up some of the dead.”

  “Speaking of the dead,” Gordon said. “Tiffany’s unfortunate passing has created, oh how shall I say this delicately, an opportunity?”

  “The mansion listing, you mean.” Jeff answered. “Maybe another agent with CB-Pru-U-Z will pick it up.”

  “Oh no, you show your small town naivety, my friend. No way would the Frackle listing be passed to the next agent up on the floor. It’ll go to the most qualified, and best connected.” He swiped another glass of champagne from a passing Don Knotts, swigging it down in one gulp. “Right, Ella?”

  Ella didn’t know where she stood. Giselle told Ella she was her number two choice but so far she’d heard nothing. Gordon’s jaunty, loose lipped manner counteracted any confident feelings. Ella wanted to talk to Giselle, but planned on waiting at least another day or so before calling. Despite the competitive nature of the situation, it didn’t feel right to jump in so quickly after such a tragic event.

  “Are you in the running again, Gordon?” she asked.

  “If you’re asking, I take it you haven’t locked it up,” he said.

  Ella kicked herself for the dumb question. “In any case, it’s always such a pleasure to see you. You seem to be feeling much better than the last time we spoke.”

  “Indeed I do,” he said with a cryptic smile. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  “How about some champagne,” Jeff said, squeezing Ella’s side a little too hard. She squirmed out of reach. “Hey, now that h
urt.”

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  Ella turned to scan for a passing cocktail. None of the wait staff pogoed in the immediate vicinity. “Where’s Ethel Merman when I need a drink?”

  Instead of a long dead movie star, they ran smack into an elegantly dressed Mark Allen and his date for the evening, a handsome, younger Latino man who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Mark,” Ella gushed, finding no small comfort in running into her close friend. “you know Jeff, don’t you?”

  Mark gave Jeff a subtle but approving once over. “Sure, I think we’ve met once or twice. Let me introduce Marcos.”

  They all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. While Jeff and Marcos struck up a conversation, Ella pulled Mark off to one side.

  “Mark and Marcos?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Don’t you remember him? He’s the little hottie who works at Champignon Sonoma in the Ferry Building.”

  “Ahh yes, I should have known you’d jump on that one, so to speak.” She gave Marcos the once over. “A little short, but cute. I can see the attraction.”

  Mark leaned in and whispered. “Still in the clear? No one saw you at Giselle’s gate?”

  “Sshhh,” she commanded. “God I hope not, a detective came to see me and asked what kind of car I drive. I was terrified.”

  “Really? The intrigue grows.”

  “Intrigue? I love intrigue.” Mark’s young date stepped between them, speaking rapidly. He seemed a little jumpy, Ella thought.

  Before anyone could respond, another voice piped in. “And we are how tonight?”

  Ella didn’t need to see Safada to recognize her unique grammar and accent. The maid had broken free from her employer, who tottered over near the ice sculpture, a massive W carved in the form of four intersecting palm trees. Giselle held court with a bewildered looking Sanjay and an assortment of blue haired matrons.

  “We are fine, how about you?” answered Jeff. Ella felt a twinge of jealousy, even though Safada was just as likely to flirt with her as any man.

  Safada drew open stares from even the most jaded fashion hawks. Her iridescent honey colored gown fit as if made by hand, and like Ella, she’d pinned her thick, dark hair aristocratically on top of her head, with delicate gold earrings dangling from each ear. Her bright, orthodontically perfect smile and deep green eyes sealed the deal.

  “Me very fine, obrigada, thank you,” she answered raising her 1960’s style champagne glass in a toast.

  “I’m still looking for a glass of champagne myself,” Ella said.

  With that, the air filled with a deep, operatic trill, sung by the Ethel Merman waitress character. She dramatically pogoed into the center of their little group, plopping her feet to the ground once stopped. She gracefully served brimming glasses of bubbly to those in need, before hurdling off with a deep vacuum whoosh.

  “So Safada, what’s Giselle going to do now?” Ella asked, throwing caution to the wind.

  “What you try say?” she answered, blinking at Ella like a housecat being thrown outdoors after a three day nap.

  “With all that’s happened…”

  “You mean with Tiffany assassinada?”

  “Well I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes.”

  Mark broke in. “Let me help, we’re among friends here. Please do tell us, Safada, who gets to sell the famous mansion now, or die trying?”

  “Mark!” Ella said. “We don’t know any such thing.”

  “You think someone offed Tiffany because they didn’t like her hair color?”

  “She had other, qualities, that may have provoked someone. I can’t imagine it had anything at all to do with Giselle Frackle’s listing.”

  “I disagree. Some sort of connection seems likely,” Jeff said. “Two high profile real estate murders, big, big, bucks all around…”

  Marcos put his arm around Mark and cooed. “Let’s talk about something, a little less bloody, maybe?”

  Safada didn’t seem much interested in the conversation about the killings. She whirled to face Mark, her eyes taking in the handsome Marcos as well. “So you me betray with this moreno baixinho, this little dark man?”

  Marcos looked at Mark with a confused expression. “You mean you and her are, were…?

  “No,” Mark answered forcefully. “Of course not.” He put his hand on Marcos’ shoulder, taking a slow squeeze. Marcos smiled, appearing pacified, though his eyes twitched.

  “Perhaps you’re not at liberty to talk about it, Safada,” Jeff said, “but the whole town is very curious to know what’s going to happen now with Mrs. Frackle’s home.”

  Safada didn’t immediately respond. She seemed to be in a state of mild confusion, her eyes darting from one person to the other. Ella figured maybe she was going into bi-sexual overload, surrounded as she was by attractive people of both sexes.

  Safada collected herself. “I don’t know, but,” she said giving Ella a sexy smile, “you stay close, go again us visit.”

  The familiar thrill of new business tingled Ella’s earning bone when an unexpected, flying movement caught her eye. She drew in her breath sharply. “Look!” she cried. Everyone spun. Unsurprisingly, one of the waiters had lost control mid-vault. The Jerry Lewis character careered through the bounteous air of the City Hall rotunda in an arcing, wobbly catapult, heading straight for the ice sculpture. And Giselle Frackle.

  In the final instant, he let go of the power pogo, freeing the stick, champagne glasses and organic appetizers to take flight independently.

  “Olha chefona, tenha cuidado,” screamed Safada, in less than helpful Portuguese.

  Giselle and Sanjay chatted obliviously with their backs to the human missile.

  “Sanjay!” Ella shouted powerfully at the top of her lungs. Sanjay whipped around, spotted the soaring Jerry and pulled Giselle out of range, just as she reached for an iced jumbo shrimp under the palm themed ice sculpture.

  “Ahhrrrr,” Giselle gargled, not liking to be forcefully separated from her food. Jerry Lewis landed with a jarring crash, disintegrating the ice sculpture and collapsing the linen covered serving table. Glasses, jumbo shrimp, finger sandwiches and tableware flew in all directions. The pogo stick landed with a clatter on the marble floor behind the table, as the string quartet and excited hubbub of the cocktail reception came to a quick, discordant halt.

  “I think that’s the last time we’ll ever see Extreme Pogoing at the Opera,” Mark said

  Everyone rushed over to the scene. Splayed out like an avant-garde hors d'oeuvre among the shrimp and spilled champagne, the dazed young waiter took off his mask. He looked around sheepishly before Mark and Marcos rushed to his aid. Safada fussed noisily over Giselle, as did Kearney Frackle and his young, raven haired companion. The society photographers flashed away.

  “What happened, what happened, oh Safada, where are you?” cried Giselle, obviously confused and frightened.

  “I here, I here, no worry, Giselle,” Safada replied, looking flushed and concerned. She tried to take Giselle’s bony hand from Sanjay, who held it with all the warmth he might reserve for a cereal box. He resisted slightly but Safada’s eyes flashed, sending a warning look he quickly obeyed.

  Ella found it interesting that Giselle called for Safada before either her son or new found lover, both within arm’s reach.

  “What happened?” Giselle repeated.

  “Mother, the waiter took a fall next you,” Kearney said.

  “A fall, is that what it was? I thought it was the big one, 1906 all over again,” she said, looking up at the still intact City Hall rotunda. The sycophantic crowd tittered at her weak joke. Kearney Frackle’s date with the porcelain complexion laughed the loudest.

  “But ma’am, I must tell you,” Sanjay said in his lilting Indian accent, “this nice lady here, she warned us.” He took Ella by the arm and gently pulled her front and center. “This allowed me to save you.” Ella marveled at the clever way he put himself first.

  Giselle,
in all her Gallic glory, turned to cast her eyes on Ella. “What’s that on your bosom, young lady?” she asked, wagging a finger at the hibiscus like attachment affixed to Ella’s bright red dress. Everyone within earshot immediately locked eyes on Ella’s breasts. She self consciously covered the floral accessory with one hand.

  Kearney stepped in to the rescue. “I think we should thank this woman for helping you, don’t you agree, Mother?”

  Nearby the wait staff began cleaning up the mess and resetting the serving table, sans ice sculpture. The string quartet struck up Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and the crowd drifted away, interest on the wane with no one seriously hurt.

  “Actually, we’ve met before,” Ella said, recognizing an opportunity when she saw one. Even if Giselle didn’t remember her. “I met with your mother recently.”

  “She real estate person like Tiffany,” Safada helpfully added.

  “Not exactly like Tiffany. Anyway I’ve been working…”

  “Don’t mention that name again, I won’t hear of it,” exclaimed Giselle. Sanjay had taken up Giselle’s other hand now.

  “This lady Ella, she our house come.”

  Ella had to stop the language slaughter. “Ella Barker, Mrs. Frackle, of Barker Brokers Real Estate.” She extended her hand, but Giselle’s hands were occupied with her caretakers, so Ella turned to Kearney.

  “Your mother kindly met with me when she interviewed brokers for her home in Sea Cliff.”

  “Oh yes, I recognize your name from the list,” Kearney said.