Every inch of kitchen counter was covered with cooking paraphernalia: a waffle iron, a Cuisinart, a Kitchen Aide mixer, a bread machine, an ice cream maker, just to name a few. Allison had been a gadget freak.
In contrast to my fridge, which usually houses six different types of mustards and nothing else, hers was filled with cheeses, packages of fresh pasta, and an abundance of vegetables and fruits in the vegetables bins. Ditto for her cupboards: chock-a-block with staples. I could have fed Napoleon’s army with the bounty in that kitchen. I stuck my hand in the sugar and four different kinds of flour, but came up with nothing but dirty hands. Not wanting to turn on the taps in case Bridie might hear the water running, I wiped my gritty fingers on my pants.
Two narrow bookcases, squeezed into the spaces between her kitchen window and the walls, were filled with most of the same pastry cookbooks I owned (another personal obsession), as well as a number of Italian cookbooks. I remembered Bridie mentioning Antonello De Luca’s visits. I removed Marcella Hazan’s The Classic Italian Cookbook. On the flyleaf was an inscription: “Cara, to Tuscany.” Opening another Marcella Hazan book, I found the same handwriting, different inscription. “One day, Cara.” The same person had inscribed every Italian cookbook I opened. All written in fountain pen with peacock blue ink, some of the inscriptions were faded, indicating this affair had gone on for a long time. Had Antonello and Allison had been carrying on this affair when we were students? Flirting with me, bedding her?
Maybe the bedroom might tell me the identity of this boyfriend with the penchant for giving Allison Italian cookbooks inscribed with empty promises. I still wasn’t convinced it was Antonello. Or maybe my ego wasn’t.
None of the excess so prominent in the living room found its way into the bedroom. Whether she just hadn’t had time to overdo this room or realized she needed a respite from all those loud flowers, there wasn’t a single overblown rose in sight. The bedroom was done in tasteful beiges and whites. The only mark of excess was her bed, a king-size brass bed with a plethora of wrought iron flourishes.
On the top of her dresser were several bottles of Chanel in various numbers and a cluster of photographs: her parents; a charming picture of her around age ten, even then all cheeks and hair; a picture of me, her, and Antonello De Luca celebrating at a bar in North Beach the night we’d graduated from École; another graduation picture of her and Dean Benson. I hadn’t remembered Benson there that night, but then again I’d gotten shit-face drunk, and Jim had had to fling me over his shoulder fireman-style and carry me back to our car.
Two dresser drawers contained the usual shirts and pants, and the other two were stuffed with expensive lingerie. One drawer had a month’s worth of underwear and bras. The second drawer was chock-a-block with negligees. I ran my hands slowly, guiltily, and carefully in and out of the neatly folded piles of negligees with their matching peignoirs. Befitting a person who adored chintz, Allison’s negligees were festooned with acres of lace. As careful as I was, sachets of Chanel No. 5, the most sensual perfume ever concocted, released their scent as my hands glided easily over the smooth silk, my fingers careful not to catch on the delicate lacework.
Why had I steadfastly denied myself these frivolous sorts of pleasures? Over the years, I had demoted everything to whatever took the least amount of effort. Chopped off my hair because I didn’t want to spend the time blow-drying it. Made a uniform out of tee-shirts and jeans because they never needed to be ironed. Aside from the lingerie I’d worn on my honeymoon, I wear oversized men’s tee-shirts and leggings to bed in the winter, and for the summer one-size fits all nightshirts that my sister picks up for me in Disneyland. My current favorite has all the bad girls of Disney on the front: Cruella de Ville, the witch from Snow White. Amusing? Yes. Sexy? I don’t think so. Crushing a sachet in one hand, I reveled in one final whiff of Chanel before I closed the drawer.
Lecture to self: perhaps your lack of love life might be related to the type of underwear you buy.
A yin-yang thing. You own underwear that meets the approval of the Pope. Perhaps this dry spell is actually God’s way of sparing you a humiliating episode. Think about the first potential date—okay, a fuck—for the first time in two years. Your intended playmate might just flee the room at the first sight of your Jockey for Her picked up at the local drugstore, the tired elastic barely hugging your hips.
Memo to self: a trip to Victoria’s Secret is in order.
Now where was I? On to her closet.
My socks slipped a little on the hardwood floors as I made my way over to the closet. I opened the door just in time to see a blouse sleeve sway, as if someone had just brushed by it.
Uh-oh.
I stood there for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the dark inside. In the back corner, on the floor behind some long garment bags, were two black, size twelve Nikes.
Attached to ankles.
I slowly slid my hand over the outside of the door, hoping against hope for a thumb-turn lock.
No lock.
I sprinted like a gazelle across the area rug framing Allison’s bed. The socks were my undoing. When I reached the doorway separating the bedroom from the living room, I began running in place as my socks fought for purchase against the hardwood floors.
He caught me. Grabbing the fabric at the back of my neck, he pulled me toward him.
Thank God Jim had taught me some rudimentary self-defense skills.
Before he could get an arm around my throat, I rammed a vicious elbow into his ribs and stomped on a foot.
He grunted in surprise and let go.
As if on ice skates for the first time, I wobbled and slipped my way to the entryway. If I hadn’t been wearing socks I would’ve made it.
The second time he caught me he was much rougher.
Bringing an arm around my neck, he pulled me up against him, and then clamped a large hand over my mouth. His other arm wrapped around my body, pinning my arms. I tried to stomp on his feet, but my stockinged heels were totally ineffectual. I wrenched my body back and forth trying to break his hold over me.
Thrashing my body back and forth as he dragged me through the apartment and back to the bedroom, I dug my toes into the floor, the carpet, anything to stop him from reaching the bedroom. I swung my legs out trying to connect with the furniture, hoping that something would topple over, Bridie would hear it, and call the police. Nothing worked. Powerless to stop this awful dance, we slowly made our way back to the bedroom.
We fell on the bed on our sides. Bringing one of my arms up over my head, he shifted his weight and pinned it with his knee, his other knee pinned me to the bed. He grabbed my other arm and pulled it up, imprisoning both my hands in one of his. I flailed my legs trying to connect with any body part but he was too strong. Shifting his weight again, he was on top of me. Coarse black hair scratched my cheek as he tried to pin my head to the mattress using his head.
Oh my God, was he was going to rape me before he killed me?
I tried to wrench my mouth free to bite his hand when miraculously my hands were freed. The hand lifted off my mouth.
“If you bite me, Mary,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ll break your neck.”
Chapter Fourteen
The heat of O’Connor’s breath seared my ear. The adrenalin fled my body as fast as it had come, leaving me limp except for a horrific hammering of my heart that squeezed my chest and filled my ears with its unrelenting pounding. The second I’d stopped fighting him, O’Connor jumped off me like I was made of lava. He sat on a corner of the bed, a cool, gentle finger stroked my forehead as I lay shuddering, my hands covering my face, trying desperately not to cry.
After a few moments he leaned over and whispered, “Mary, we have to get out of here. It’s getting late.”
Taking my hands from my face, I looked up at O’Connor. In all the years we’d known each other, we’d spent most of it arguing. I don’t think I’d ever allowed myself a moment of rest to rea
lly look at him. His eyes, the deepest of browns without being black, gazed down at me with such tenderness and concern that it lifted for one small second the aftermath of fear and angst gripping my chest. The broad plain of his forehead was, for once, not wrinkled in frustration or impatience. His pug Irish nose, marooned in a face with such strong features, snuggled up and was lost in the crest of his cheekbones. The soft curve of his bottom lip, usually a compressed thin line, was full and sensual.
The blinds were drawn, the room dimming slowly in the late afternoon light. A faint hint of Chanel still lingered in the air. The bedroom began warming up from the sticky heat of the radiators as they chortled and hissed. If I didn’t get myself off that bed, I’d do something I’d regret for the rest of my life.
I rolled over slowly, got up, and fetched my shoes from the landing.
We snuck out of the apartment through a backdoor off Allison’s kitchen and tiptoed down a narrow wooden staircase. When we’d reached the bottom, I pointed to the back of Bridie’s apartment, mouthed “landlady,” and motioned we should exit the backyard on the opposite side of the building to avoid her windows.
Once on the front sidewalk and a few doors down from Allison’s, O’Connor said quietly, “I think we both need a drink.”
I nodded.
“I’ll drive. Foghorns?”
O’Connor’s car was down the street and around the corner. We walked side-by-side, matching strides, shoulders so close together our clothes occasionally scritch-scratched against each other.
Once in his car, we began screaming at each other.
“You are sick, O’Connor. You did that pseudo-rapist thing to scare the living shit out of me. To punish me for being in Allison’s apartment.”
O’Connor lifted his eyes toward the sky and clasped his hands together in mock prayer. “Sweet Jesus, give me patience.” Then he turned to me. “Goddamn it! I didn’t know it was you. I thought you were the landlady. I ran into the closet and closed the door. When I heard you opening and closing dresser drawers, I peeked out and saw somebody rifling the place. A little aside here: if you ever decide to take-up a life of crime, learn how to search a place with a little more finesse.”
“What about when I opened the closet? Couldn’t you see my face?”
“I was behind those frigging garment bags. I couldn’t see anything.”
“Liar. What about when I ran across the bedroom? You must have known it was me.”
“How in the hell was I supposed to know it was you? The hood of your sweatshirt covered your hair. Your back was to me the whole time until we fell on the bed.”
“We didn’t fall on the bed. You dragged me there. You knew it was me.”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
It continued in that vein as we barreled through four stop signs and a red light. O’Connor reached the bar in a record two minutes. Breaking for a brief hiatus to order our drinks, we began bickering before the barmaid had a chance to finish writing down our orders.
Foghorns is a Berkeley drinking institution. Run by a father and son team for over fifty years, it ostensibly has a full bar, but no one orders anything but martinis. The bar was empty except for a young couple across the room from us who kept touching each other in that shy wonder of first love. It was a little early for the serious drinkers, the type who have gin for dinner and pretzels for dessert.
The décor is what could only be called Victoriana à la Monty Python. Chairs, old bicycles, musical instruments, anything appealing to the older Foghorn’s sense of whimsy hangs from the ceiling. Unfortunately, the seating is equally eclectic. The ancient Victorian settee had emitted little clouds of dust when I’d sat down on it. We’d parked ourselves in a dark corner, began guzzling martinis, and fought, I insisting O’Connor had pulled that commando stuff to scare me straight, O’Connor claiming he thought I was a burglar.
I’m a hard liquor wimp, and my rules for martinis are written in stone: no martinis on an empty stomach, no more than two, and none until after seven o’clock. I was batting two for three. The first two martinis hadn’t touched me. It wasn’t until the fourth sip of my third one when the gin finally lifted the weight off my chest. Foghorns has fish bowls filled with aspirin on every table. I tucked three packets into my pocket, insurance against the inevitable hangover I was courting with a vengeance.
“You all right? You haven’t yelled at me in, oh,” O’Connor looked at his watch, “ten seconds.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I drained the rest of my drink, relishing the gin as it scoured a hot path into my stomach.
“Can we have a normal conversation?” he demanded and finished off the remainder of his third drink.
Ignoring his question, I leaned my gin-soaked body against the back of the musty-smelling settee. I was beginning to feel sleepy. Too many martinis and no lunch.
The bar had gradually filled up during the time we’d been slinging back the gin and yelling at each other. A group of soccer players, their jerseys and shorts smeared with mud, had taken over the bar area and were bouncing soccer balls off their heads in between gulps of martinis. They’d begun to build a pyramid out of the empty martini glasses. The pseudo-intellectuals with the bad haircuts and nerdy-style glasses either had their noses parked in books or were huddled close together in intense (and, I was sure, absolutely brilliant) conversation. Students with the blackest of hair, black sunglasses, black clothes, black gumboots, and lots of piercings filled the rest of the tables.
When I was young, I thought Foghorns was the height of sophistication. Fifteen years later it didn’t look so much cool as tired and dirty; however, the martinis hadn’t lost their wallop.
Memo to self: nap time.
“Mary, don’t fall asleep on me. I knew the third martini was a mistake.” He sighed. “Wake-up,” he ordered and reached across the table to give my shoulder a gentle shake. “So,” he said softly, “tell me what were you doing in Allison Warner’s apartment?”
I blinked a couple of times to clear the alcohol fog. I had a momentary evil thought he’d purposefully gotten me snockered to make me less argumentative.
“Are you at the school because of me?” I asked, talking to the table that was scarred with rings from thousands of martini glasses.
“No.” He sounded angry, but somehow I knew it wasn’t directed at me.
I looked up. Much grayer and thinner than he was last fall, the chef’s whites and toque had masked how much he’d changed. Sitting in Allison’s apartment in the dark glow from the late afternoon sun had softened the sharp cut of his cheekbones. O’Connor was of Irish farmer stock and being thin didn’t suit him. His face was devoid of expression, as if any emotion would be a betrayal.
A betrayal of what or whom I asked myself.
“Why are you a student? I need to know,” I said quietly.
He picked up his empty martini glass and twirled it, the delicate stem disappearing in the folds of his fingers. “I told you, I’m on leave.”
“Bullshit,” I said in a loud voice. The voices around us faded to nothing. I lowered my voice. “Jim tried to convince me you were on medical leave. Do you two think I’m a complete moron? And if you’re not undercover, what were you doing in Allison’s apartment?”
Silence.
“I’m on leave,” he repeated.
That nice, martini-induced sense of well being was in serious danger. I stood up.
“I need some honesty here. When you are ready to stop this farce, call me.”
I turned to leave. One of his giant hands encircled my wrist; his thumb pressed the inside of my palm as he gently pulled me toward him.
“We need to talk. Don’t go.”
I strained to hear his voice above the whoops of the soccer players. His voice was soft with a gentleness I’d only heard him use with his children, and his mouth had relaxed into that sensual fullness that made my heart skip beats.
I slowly pulled my han
d away and sat down. Gulping a few times to dislodge the large lump that suddenly appeared in my throat, I said, “Okay, but don’t, don’t continue with this ridiculous story about being on medical leave. You’re on some sort of undercover assignment.”
He sat there mute, which I assumed was as close to a “yes” as I was going to get.
“I think Allison was murdered.” I said, bracing myself for more comments about my pathetic Nancy Drew complex.
His dark eyes flew up to my face. “Why?”
“After cleaning up on Friday night, I noticed Allison’s purse in the chef’s cupboard in the classroom. I didn’t want to leave it there, so I put it in my locker for safekeeping. I realized this morning that her parents probably would need it, so I went over to school to get it so Allison’s landlady could give it to her parents.”
The waitress re-appeared with a tray and the hard smile you get when you’ve been waiting on drunks too many years.
“The check, please,” O’Connor said.
“I’m not done,” I protested.
“No more for you. I’ve been around you after four martinis. You either pass-out or get weepy, and there’s nothing worse than a maudlin Irish woman.” He tossed a two twenty-dollar bills on the tray. “Keep the change.”
She gave me a defeated shrug of apology and went on to the next table.
O’Connor leaned toward me, the cop was taking over. “Did the landlady tell you anything?” His voice clipped off the edges of his words, the question all staccato, no legato.
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