While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  Neal punched me lightly on the upper arm. “Thank you, buddy. I feel better already.”

  “Try not to worry. It's going to be okay.”

  He took my hand and held it for a while as we watched the day turn into night.

  Thursday night

  I returned to the pier at close to eleven for a meeting with a prospective client.

  At around five-thirty Rae—who was working overtime on the report on her investigation of pilferage from an expensive Fillmore Street boutique—had buzzed me on the intercom. “There's a guy on line one who says he's now sure his partner is embezzling and wants to take you up on your offer to get evidence that'll stand up in court.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Clive Benjamin.”

  The name wasn't familiar, but I supposed I'd spoken with him at some point. “Set up an appointment for tomorrow, would you?”

  “He wants to see you tonight. Apparently he's co-owner of an art gallery and they're having a showing, so he's tied up most of the evening, but he said he could come over here around eleven.”

  An unusual time to sit down with a client, but not unheard of. “Okay,” I said, “tell him I'll be here then.”

  At a few minutes after eleven Clive Benjamin, a tall man in formal dress, with a shoulder-length mane of blond hair and angular features, strode through my office door, both hands extended. When he saw me he stopped abruptly and pulled them back, confusion replacing his warm smile.

  He said, “I asked to meet with Ms. McCone personally.”

  “I'm Sharon McCone.”

  “No, you're not.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “What's going on here?”

  “Mr. Benjamin, please sit down. Perhaps there's been some mistake; we'll sort it out.”

  He remained standing. “There's been a mistake, all right. If Sharon doesn't want to see me again or work for me, why didn't she just have her secretary tell me so?”

  “You know … Ms. McCone?”

  “I met her at an opening at my gallery last Friday. She gave me one of her cards. Here.” He fished a card from the inside pocket of his suit coat and held it out.

  The card was a duplicate of mine but on cheaper stock. I'd never seen this man before in my life, certainly hadn't been to his gallery.

  Oh, God …

  I said, “Mr. Benjamin, let's sit down.”

  This time he complied. I went around the desk and sat facing him. This situation had a familiar ring—one I didn't like at all. I'd humor him till I got the facts.

  “As you were saying, you met Ms. McCone at an opening at your gallery last Friday.”

  “So you admit you're standing in for her. What does she do, screen all prospective clients, even the ones she knows?”

  “There's obviously been a failure of communication somewhere along the line. As you were saying …”

  “She came to our opening. An exhibition of papier-mâché animals by Jesse Herrera. She was interested in purchasing one—a Tyrannosaurus rex with a Dalmatian's face and praying hands. Herrera combines animal species with the human in unusual ways. Anyway, that's how we met, when she admired the piece.”

  A piece I wouldn't give houseroom to. “And?”

  “Well, she was undecided about the piece, so I asked her to dinner in the hope of convincing her it was a good investment. In the course of the evening I mentioned my problem with my partner, and she offered to look into it. Better to know now than be sorry later, she said. I understood what she meant, but Travis has been my best friend since prep school, and I didn't like the idea of having him investigated. So I told her I'd think about it, and after she left the next morning, I decided to take a closer look at the books—”

  “After she left the next morning?”

  He realized his slip, and his lips pulled tight with annoyance. “Ms…. I don't know who you are or what your position here is, but your employer's personal life is none of your business.”

  I got up and went to where my purse hung on the coatrack, took out my identification folder, and spread it open on the desk in front of Clive Benjamin.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered after a moment, “who the hell did I sleep with?”

  The woman, Benjamin told me, was around ten years younger than I but fairly similar in appearance. Same body type, same hairstyle and color, but her facial features didn't reflect Native American ancestry, as mine do.

  What were hers like? I asked.

  Sort of cute.

  Could he compare her to anyone, an actress or other public figure, perhaps?

  Maybe Susan Dey, who had played on L.A. Law.

  I'd heard the name, but never watched the show. Having worked closely with attorneys throughout my career, I can't get into courtroom dramas that so seldom approximate real life.

  “Okay,” I said, “how was she dressed?”

  “She wore a teal-blue silk outfit—clingy. Expensive; I noticed its label was from one of the designer collections at Saks.”

  Teal-blue silk, the same as the woman who had impersonated me at the film council fund-raiser the next night. A color I love but can't wear successfully; it turns my skin tone to mud.

  “Mr. Benjamin, how did she look in that shade of blue? Did it suit her?”

  “She looked sensational.”

  So did Rae, a redhead. And Charlotte Keim, with her rich dark hair. But most women with my coloring … “Her hair, could it have been dyed? Or a wig?”

  Benjamin thought, then nodded. “Now that you mention it, she was very … picky about her hair. Didn't want me to run my hands through it or even touch it. It was strange—a passionate woman like that worrying about getting her hair mussed.”

  The situation with Clive Benjamin was sufficiently embarrassing that I ended up referring him to Joanna Stark, an acquaintance in Sonoma who was a sometimes-active partner in a city firm that specialized in security for art galleries and museums. Stark, a sharp investigator who spoke the language of the art world, would be of more use to Benjamin than any of my operatives. In return for the referral I extracted a promise from him that, should he hear from the bogus McCone again, he'd contact me immediately.

  After he left, I remained at my desk for a while, listening to the rain on the roof and pondering this latest turn of events. A prank at a party was one thing, but claiming to be me and then sleeping with a casual acquaintance was another. To say nothing of offering my professional help and card to him …

  And what if Benjamin wasn't the only one? There might be men all over town who thought Sharon McCone mixed business with pleasure!

  I had to put a stop to this masquerade before she destroyed both my peace of mind and my reputation. Before she did incalculable harm to the agency. I'd have to find out who she was, why she'd fixated on me—and quickly.

  When I got home I found a message on my answering machine: “Sharon, this is Jeff Riley, over at North Field in Oakland. I caught a woman who looks a lot like you prowling around the tie-downs this afternoon. When I asked what she was looking for, she said she wanted to know where Two-eight-niner was and if it was you or Hy who had it. Claimed to be a reporter doing a story on women pilots. I told her to do it on her own turf and escorted her off airport property. Anyway, I thought you ought to know.”

  In dreams I'm sometimes two people at once—within myself, yet standing to the side, watching.

  Tonight I'm in a strange light-filled room where people in formal dress mingle. Above them float colorful, grotesque animals—mixtures of many species, including the human. I shrink against a wall, avoiding a horse with a vulture's face and a man's hands that try to grab my breasts. But I'm also over there by the Tyrannosaurus rex with the Dalmatian's face and human hands that appear to pray. My other self is dressed in teal blue that clings to my body.

  I can't wear that color. Why have I?

  The animals move on a sudden breeze. I watch myself—the one over there—staring up in amazement at the rex. And then I'm inside her, go
ing up on tiptoe to move closer to the monstrosity. Its spotted face inclines toward mine, and we kiss. I feel nothing.

  Finally I pull away from the creature. Turn. And I—the self by the wall—realize she's not me at all. She's a woman with hair and a body like mine, who looks beautiful in teal blue.

  I want to ask her why—why me? But as is usually the case in dreams, I can't speak.

  Friday

  Ted and Neal lived on Plum Alley, a narrow half-block off the part of Montgomery Street where it dead-ended below the Disneyesque battlements of Julius’ Castle restaurant, high on the northeastern slope of Telegraph Hill. The rain had stopped this morning, and now, at close to noon, I glimpsed blue sky when I glanced up at Coit Tower.

  I drove along the lower level of Montgomery, where it divided around a retaining wall, but found no parking space, so I hung a U-turn and climbed the upper level till I spotted one. This was a congested area, with not enough garage or curb-side space for the residents’ cars, much less for the vehicles of tourists visiting the tower; I was lucky to have to walk only a block.

  In the alley cars were pulled up on the narrow sidewalks as well as nose in to the retaining wall at its far end, beyond which the waterfront was still shrouded in fog. The short block contained an eclectic mixture of nineteenth-century frame cottages and twentieth-century architectural mistakes, the exception being Ted and Neal's wonderful Art Deco apartment building. As always when I approached it, I admired its streamlined contours, the rounded glass-block elevator enclosure at one corner, and the facade dominated by a series of vertical art-glass windows with a boldly colored design that reminded me of peculiar sea creatures.

  I crossed the tiled entry courtyard and took the elevator to the third floor. As the cage rose, the rippled effect of the glass blocks made me feel as if I were underwater; the sensation was heightened as I walked down the hallway behind the etched windows. Ted and Neal's apartment was at the rear on the bay side; I let myself in with Neal's key.

  I'd been there many times since they moved in the previous spring, but always when one or the other was home, and usually in the midst of a dinner-party crowd. Now the apartment held a thick silence characteristic of empty places. I shut the door behind me, then hesitated, reluctant to venture farther. The part of my work I dislike the most is prying into people's homes and possessions; it was bad enough with strangers, but to probe a friend's life …

  Then I reminded myself that probing could save a friend's life and moved down the hallway that opened into the living room. The apartment was a dramatic one, with high ceilings and a wall of windows overlooking a balcony that faced the bay. The living room furnishings were in keeping with the building's era: 1930s-style salon chairs and bulky ottomans and other Moderne pieces. To my left a staircase curved up to a second level, and behind it was tucked a small but well-appointed kitchen; a carpeted, chrome-railed catwalk connecting the front and rear bedrooms spanned the dining area.

  Chances were that if Ted had anything in the apartment that would give me a clue to what lay behind his uncharacteristic behavior, he'd hidden it in some private place. Still, I checked the kitchen and living room thoroughly, coming away with only the new knowledge that he and Neal were addicted to cookies ‘n’ cream ice cream, took a lot of vitamins, and subscribed to the National Enquirer.

  Next I climbed the staircase and went into the smaller of the bedrooms, which was set up as a combination library and office. I gave it close attention, but learned only that they owned a great many first editions of novels by a diverse group of authors. The desk contained correspondence and bills in orderly files; none of it told me anything more than that both men paid their credit card balances on time and in full every month.

  I crossed the catwalk and entered the master bedroom. Its furnishings were also period pieces, or good imitations. Here I searched more slowly, checking the contents of the night-stands, bureaus, closets, and then going over the adjoining bathroom. Nothing unusual there, and certainly no evidence of drug use; in fact, the medicine cabinet held nothing stronger than Tylenol.

  There are numerous places where people typically hide things, thinking they're being clever, and I know most of them. Feeling the inside pockets of suitcases and the undersides of drawers, checking the toilet tanks and objects in the freezer, looking for places where the carpet had been pried up or a baseboard removed and replaced—all of it took time. When I finished, it was nearly two o'clock and I had nothing to show for my efforts. Discouraged, I started across the catwalk.

  A sound came from below—a key turning in the front-door lock. Footsteps clicked across the entry.

  I darted for the library and slipped behind its door.

  Who? Neither of the occupants. Neal had promised to take Ted to a long lunch today, so he wouldn't unexpectedly turn up here, as he was sometimes wont to do.

  I waited. Silence from below; the plush carpeting muted footfalls. Then I heard a rustling, probably in the dining area. I moved from behind the door, intent on catching a glimpse of the intruder. Too late, though: whoever it was had already crossed the entry and left.

  So what had the person been doing?

  A large, heart-shaped box sat in the center of the glass-topped dining table. Of course, it was Valentine's Day. I wouldn't have taken either Ted or Neal to be a candy-and-flowers kind of guy, but you never knew.

  I went downstairs and crossed to the table. Ten-pound box, red foil with white lace. Good God, did either of them have that much of a sweet tooth?

  An envelope lay next to the box, plain white with nothing written on it. Why wasn't it addressed to either Ted or Neal? An oversight, perhaps, by the employee of the candy store who'd taken the order?

  Since when did candy stores deliver like florists? And use keys to enter the places where they deliver?

  I picked up the envelope and slipped the card from it. Block printing, probably done with a straightedge: “This could be yours.”

  Your what?

  I set the card down and studied the box. It was neither encased in plastic wrap nor sealed. The lace was mashed down in places, the foil torn near the bottom. I recalled some hate mail Ricky had received—how it had radiated weirdness. This box was doing the same.

  Quickly I yanked the lid off and looked inside.

  “Yuck! What the hell—”

  A dark, bloody mass, obscene against a white doily. It glistened wetly, gave off the scent of incipient rot. I'd seen its counterparts in the supermarket.

  A beef heart.

  This could be yours.

  I stared at it for a moment, then went to the phone.

  “You're kidding,” Neal said.

  “I wish I was. It's pretty disgusting, and the implication is downright scary. Is there any chance of this being a joke on Ted's part?”

  “If it was, I'd be laughing. Besides, this isn't funny, and his jokes are.”

  “Who else has access to your apartment?”

  “Nobody, other than you.”

  “You don't have a housecleaner? Or somebody who comes by, say, to water the plants while you're away?”

  “We do our own cleaning, and you know we don't have any plants.”

  “What about the building manager?”

  “Mona Woods? No. We had the locks changed when we moved in, and since she didn't ask for a copy of the key, we didn't give her one. It's not that we don't trust her, but we don't like anybody in the place when one of us isn't there; the book collection is quite valuable, and somebody who isn't a collector might mishandle the volumes.”

  “And Ted wouldn't give anybody a key?”

  “No. We agreed on that from the start.”

  “What about the key you keep in your car?”

  “I never leave the car unlocked. And my other keys're in my pocket when I'm here at the store. Maybe somebody got hold of Ted's at the pier?”

  “Not likely. I've never seen them lying around.”

  “But possible.”

  “Anything's p
ossible. What should I do about this disgusting gift?”

  “Just leave it where you found it. I'll close up early, be there when Ted gets home. Seeing it might make him tell me what's going on. Or at least give some indication.”

  I'd been thinking of taking the box and note to an investigative laboratory I use, but Neal's idea was better. Chances were an analysis would turn up nothing; given the proliferation of crime novels, films, and TV shows, the average individual has become as savvy in ways of avoiding detection as your typical street criminal. “Okay, I'll leave it. Now, if seeing it doesn't make Ted confide in you, here's what I want you to do over the weekend: write down the details of his behavior; note anything unusual or out of character, no matter how minor. I'll stop by your store on Monday and pick up the list.”

  “List? More likely it'll approximate a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. His every action has been unusual and out of character for weeks.”

  “You get very fast results,” Bea Allen said. She sat in one of my clients’ chairs—a slender woman with very short brown hair and narrow features. Her fingers played nervously at the briefcase she held on her lap.

  I handed her the report on the background investigation of her suitor—which Mick had written in his own inimitable style and I'd then edited to make it more palatable to the client.

  Allen opened it and began reading. I swiveled around to give her privacy, taking in the blue sky and the sunlight sparkling on the bay. It seemed the weather gods knew this was a day for lovers, since they'd allowed San Francisco to shine at its romantic best. The respite from the string of storms that we'd all needed to maintain our sanity had finally arrived; I hoped it would last at least through the weekend.

  I heard a noise behind me. Oh, God, I thought, she's going to cry, and looked to see if Ted had replaced the empty Kleenex box on top of the file cabinet. But, no, that hadn't been a preliminary to a sob; Bea Allen was now laughing.