Courting Disaster

by Joanne Pence

  He decided it was time to check out Schull firsthand, and he braced himself for the mall. He hated malls. Hated being in them, or having anything to do with them.

  He also hated department stores and boutiques, truth be told, but he hated malls most of all. He hated the windowless design most of them used that made it impossible to know if it was day or night and which way was east, west, north, or south; the mazelike structure that made it hard to find anything without at least two wrong turns that supposedly would lead to the discovery of new must-see shops; the too-bright lights; the giggling packs of adolescent girls; and the glazed flat expressions of weary shoppers.

  He wondered if in some distant future people would excavate these often one-or two-story buildings with their endless corridors and warrenlike small shops and wonder about the strange use they’d been put to, much as we wonder today about the peculiar cliff dwellings of the Anasazi and other Indians in the Southwest.

  In the store a young blond salesgirl greeted him with a big smile. “Is Elizabeth Schull in?” he asked.

  “She’s the manager,” the clerk said. “I can help you. We have some great selections in men’s shoes. All our Italian leather boots are on sale.”

  “I need to speak to Miss Schull,” he said pointedly.

  “Oh.” Her face fell. “I’ll get her.” She disappeared behind a heavy curtain that separated the front of the store from the storage and office areas.

  The woman who stepped out to see him was far different than he expected. She appeared to be in her early fifties, tall and statuesque with wide shoulders, hips, and waist, and a hint of a double chin. Her eyes were blue, and her blond hair worn in a dated French twist. Her dress and shoes were black.

  She held her hands clasped at her waist, her chin high. He noticed a spark of recognition in her eyes even before he showed her his badge. “Can we talk privately?” he asked.

  “Paavo Smith. I’m not surprised.” She turned her back on him and headed for the curtained-off area. “Follow me.”

  A tiny office stood in a corner past rows of shoebox-laden shelves. Windowless, it held a desk, file cabinet, and two chairs.

  “Please have a seat, Inspector Smith.” She gestured toward the guest chair as she stepped behind the desk and sat. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

  “Have we met?” he asked, sure they hadn’t. He didn’t sit.

  “Never.” Her tone was prim, her voice haughty. “And Sal isn’t one to wave your picture under his employee’s nose. Do you have any idea how upset he is about your upcoming marriage, Inspector?”

  That she made no effort to hide her interest in his and Angie’s life was not a good sign. “You’ve been down this road before, Miss Schull,” Paavo said. “You know you need to stop bothering Mr. Amalfi and the rest of his family. You do understand, don’t you, Miss Schull? And it is Schull, rather than Schullmann, that you prefer, correct?”

  She didn’t seem the least bit troubled that he’d found out about her past, and simply folded her hands, peering up at him with a steady gaze. “You have the wrong impression, Inspector Smith. I don’t know what Sal told you, but it was obviously not the whole picture.”

  “There are laws against stalking, Miss Schull.”

  “And the question is, who’s stalking whom?” She leaned back in the chair, a Cheshire cat–like smile touching her lips. “I’m just an employee. What can I possibly do to upset my boss? He, on the other hand, has quite a hold over me. I’m single and close to an age where it’s difficult to find work. This job is a good one for me, comfortable. There aren’t a lot of openings for experienced shoe store managers out there. So when Sal expressed his…interest in me, I couldn’t afford to rebuff him.”

  “I don’t believe you, Miss Schull.” Paavo looked at her as if she were beneath contempt. “You’ve gotten away with it in the past, but you aren’t going to any longer. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” His last question wasn’t a threat. He seriously doubted her hold on reality.

  “My life is lonely, and Sal is both a wealthy and an attractive man.” She held out her wrist and smiled broadly. “He gave me this bracelet.”

  Paavo had learned enough about fine jewelry around Angie to know a quality gold and diamond bracelet when he saw one. If someone who didn’t know Sal were to encounter Elizabeth Schull, she would be easy to believe. But he knew Sal. He couldn’t say he liked the man, but Sal hadn’t lied to him. Hidden something, yes; lied, no. He ignored the bracelet. “How did you recognize me, Miss Schull?”

  She seemed surprised by his question. “Why, I’ve seen you with Angie, of course.”

  “And where did you see Angie?”

  Still smiling, she stood up. “Those are enough questions for today, Inspector Smith. I have work to do. Maybe we’ll have dinner together sometime—you and Angie, me and Sal.”

  “Where did you see Angie?” he repeated.

  “Everywhere, Inspector Smith. I see her everywhere.”

  Chapter 13

  Hannah had just gotten up from bed, wearing a bathrobe, her hair uncombed and tucked behind her ears, as she stumbled sleepily into the living room.

  Stan sat on the sofa, the baby nestled in the Snugli.

  “I can’t believe I slept that long,” she said, her gaze lingering on Kaitlyn. “How did you manage?”

  “Just fine,” he said. “No problem at all.”

  She put her hand to her chest and looked down at her breasts. “I hate to ask you,” she said, “but next time you’re at the store, could you look for some nursing pads? Even though I’m not nursing, I seem to be leaking a bit. I understand it’s fairly common….”

  He felt his stomach flip-flop. Well, if he could buy Kotex and survive, he could do just about anything. “Sure,” he said miserably, but then his eyes darted toward the apartment door.

  Hannah followed his gaze to a white Jenny Lind–style crib with a bumper of pink clouds and a mobile of nursery rhyme characters.

  “Stan, what did you do?” she gasped. With her hands to her mouth, she slowly walked over to it as if she half expected it to vanish into thin air. She lightly touched the sides, the top; she tapped the mobile and watched it dance, smoothed the sheets and mattress pad, fingered the blankets, all fresh and new and pretty, then whirled toward him. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Fit for a princess,” Stan said. “It’s from Angie. I’ll wheel it into the bedroom, soon as I push the Bowflex out of the way.” As he gave her Kaitlyn, her hands touched his arms, then her body moved close as she tucked the baby against her breasts. She looked up at him as if he were a knight in shining armor. He didn’t remember anyone ever looking at him quite that way before.

  He found it unnerving, coughed lightly, and the moment was broken. She turned toward the crib. “I never meant for you to go to so much trouble and expense. I don’t know how to thank you. And Angie, too,” she said, lightly touching the wood once more.

  “It’s my pleasure.” He called as he rearranged the bedroom to fit the crib. Once all was settled, Hannah placed the baby in it and stepped back, teary-eyed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that she looks so pretty there. It’s so lovely. No one’s ever been this kind to me.” She gazed up at him. “Not ever, Stan.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” he said. “Did you…did you really grow up in foster homes?”

  “Ah! You’re wondering how many lies I’ve told you.”

  “Well…”

  “That was no lie.” His hand was resting on the top rail of the crib, and she placed hers gently atop it.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  She leaned against him. “I went from one house to another, looking for someone to love me, and making sure I never found that person by being as obnoxious and as much a troublemaker as I could possibly be.”

  “You? That’s hard to believe,” Stan interrupted, his tone soft and soothing.

  “Perhaps,” she admitted
. “It took me years to understand what I was doing, and I’m still not sure I do. Let’s just say I was used to people sending me away because they didn’t like me, and I didn’t like them. But what if I found someone to love, and thought they loved me…and then they still sent me away? How could I cope? I was so afraid of that happening, of the rejection I’d feel, that I made sure it never did.”

  She went on to explain how, at age eighteen, the state stopped paying for her keep. Since her foster parents needed the income, she had to leave their home, her bed was no longer available to her. It never had been “hers,” she realized. Nothing ever was.

  She worked in Los Angeles a few years—first McDonald’s, then a couple of waitressing jobs. Tired of it, getting nowhere, she moved to San Francisco and hooked up with some girls and guys who invited her to sleep on the floor of their flat in the Haight-Ashbury. The job situation, she quickly learned, was a lot worse than in L.A. She wasn’t the only one bedding on the floor. Everyone who could contributed a little money toward the rent.

  Things went on in that apartment she didn’t like to think about, but she managed to stay out of everyone’s way. It was a roof over her head, and that was all that mattered.

  One day, Hannah was panhandling at Fisherman’s Wharf when Gail Leer spotted her. Gail looked at her strangely, and Hannah later learned it was because she reminded Gail so much of her sister. Gail’s husband owned the Athina, and she offered Hannah a job.

  “It was surely nice of Gail to do all that for you,” Stan said.

  “She’s a good person. I once asked her about it, and she said she and Eugene couldn’t have children. If they had, they’d probably have a daughter my age, so I was taking the place of the child that never was. It was a strange thing for her to say, though, because I later learned they’d only been married about twelve years. I guess she was just trying to come up with an excuse for helping me.”

  Hannah dropped her hands from the crib and moved away from Stan. “I don’t know what’s come over me, jabbering about myself like this. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a bother.”

  “I’m glad you told me. Look, Kaitlyn’s awake,” he said. “Look at her smiling at us.”

  “She can’t smile yet, Stan,” Hannah said with a laugh as she picked up the baby and held her to her chest.

  Unfortunately, as soon as she did that, all Stan could think about was that her breasts might start to leak, right there in front of him, and the previously tender moment vanished.

  “Time for dinner,” he said, and stumbled quickly into the kitchen, hoping to clear his head. He never realized women were so…drippy.

  He found a frozen macaroni and cheese container and plopped it into the microwave at the same time as he dropped some hot dogs into a pot to boil.

  Meat, starch, and…vegetables! That’s what was needed.

  He grabbed the head of iceberg lettuce Angie insisted he buy, hacked it into fourths, placed two quarters on plates, and smothered them with Thousand Island dressing. Chef Emeril, move over!

  He was dishing out the mac and cheese when the doorbell rang. It had to be Angie. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

  “Can you get that, Hannah?” he called.

  “Sure.”

  He heard a female voice say, “I’m sorry, I thought this was where Stan Bonnette lives.”

  “It is,” Hannah said. “Won’t you come in?”

  Just then, Stan stepped into the living room, a dinner plate in each hand. He saw Hannah in a robe, the baby in her arms, and Nona Farraday at the door.

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she gawked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said to Hannah. “I’ve got the wrong Stan Bonnette. Good-bye.”

  Dinners at four of the city’s top restaurants were among the “big” prizes to be awarded each night at the public television auction, and it was Angie’s job to read the pitch that would get donors to open their wallets wide.

  Her voice quivered and her hands shook the first time she read the script aloud for the TV producer. By read number three, however, she was bored and calm. Her pitch would take place before, during, and after three hours of Julia Child reruns.

  Before the show began, Angie went in search of the restaurant owners who would be part of the first night’s auction.

  Two of them she’d met before, but nevertheless, as she spotted each one, she walked up, held out her hand, and announced, “The name is Amalfi, Angie Amalfi.” The first time she said it she felt like she was part of a Bond, James Bond movie, but she needed to be sure the owners distinctly heard her name, since she was hoping for a reaction such as, Oh, my—we’re holding your engagement party at our restaurant!

  It didn’t happen. Not even when she added, “Have you met my mother, Serefina Amalfi? I believe she mentioned you to me.”

  They hadn’t.

  The evening didn’t work out the way Angie had wished, but she had two more nights of this. She’d never had beginner’s luck anyway, so why expect it now?

  For her first appearance, she was given a cue and nervously made the pitch. By the end of the third hour, she was so far beyond being nervous she even ad-libbed and was ready to do more of it when she saw the director scowling at her.

  She went back to the script.

  When her job was over, she put in a call to Yellow Cab and asked for Peter Leong. He’d picked her up at her apartment to bring her to the studio and when she told him she’d be making the same round trip three nights in a row, he said to ask for him and he’d make sure she was safe.

  KQED was located in a small building south of Market Street. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the central SoMa area that was being gentrified and revitalized, nor was it in the eastern area with the Pac Bell baseball stadium and other new office buildings. Instead, it was in the still-decrepit western sector. That was the reason she decided to take a cab instead of driving. The parking lot would be pretty lonely this time of night, and anyone could be lurking in it since public TV’s security wasn’t top-notch, nor needed to be. Besides that, it wasn’t the type of area to leave a Mercedes CL-600, alarms and GPS notwithstanding.

  She took the stairs from the studio to the lobby and huddled at the door to the main entrance, looking out the glass doors to the street for her taxi. Before long, she saw headlights. Peter got out of the cab and opened a back door. She hurried to it, glad to see him.

  “Did you make a lot of money for public TV?” he asked as he drove.

  The auction had gone surprisingly well. As they talked, she learned he’d been driving a cab for over twenty years, ever since his restaurant business bellied up. It had been a lunch spot in the Financial District, but there was so much competition, he couldn’t make a go of it. Still, it gave them a lot to talk about. Angie had never wanted to open a restaurant. Too well did she know about the long hours, hard work, and struggle to make a profit. Only if one was very lucky and developed the kind of word-of-mouth that resulted in steady customers could a restaurant make money. If not, the waste of food was phenomenal.

  “I don’t want to make you nervous,” Peter said suddenly, “but is there any reason a car might be following us?”

  “What?” She turned and saw a car some distance behind them. “Not that I know of.”

  “I’m going to turn, just to see what he does,” Peter said.

  The car turned where they did. The residential streets were quiet this time of night. The coincidence of the only other car out there going in exactly the same direction was worrisome.

  He made another left and watched from the rearview mirror. The other car made the left as well. Peter drove another couple of blocks and then made another left.

  So did the car following.

  “Sometimes taxis are robbed because these punks know we carry cash,” Peter said. “Buckle up. I’m going to get rid of whoever it is.”

  “Go for it,” Angie encouraged.

  He stepped on the gas and they were off, first racing up the hills to Pacific Heights. From there he tur
ned north onto Fillmore Street, one of the steepest in the city, and bounded downhill. At each intersection the street would level out, and then drop precipitously, causing the cab to become airborne a short while before landing with a thud on the pavement.

  Angie wedged herself against the corner, clutching the top of the seat with one hand, the door with the other. Her teeth rattled, and it was all she could do to hold her mouth shut so she didn’t bite her tongue.

  Peter zigzagged through the Marina where the streets curved, mazelike, and some were only one block long.

  Not until he was sure that the car following them was gone did he drive up to Russian Hill and Angie’s apartment.

  She thanked him, gave a big tip, and then tottered to the safety of her apartment building on shaky legs. The Disneyland attraction, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, had nothing on Peter.

  He drove around, block after block, pounding the dashboard and cursing. That rattletrap of a taxi somehow evaded him this time, but never again.

  He pulled into a parking space and cut the engine, then stared up at the night sky, hoping the serenity of the full moon could calm him. There was still plenty of time, he told himself. No need to panic. He’d find her soon enough.

  With that thought, he smiled. Next time, he told himself. For sure, next time….

  Chapter 14

  “Madonna mia!” Serefina cried as Angie stepped out of the dressing room in a pale blue evening gown. The front dipped in a V almost to the waist, and the skirt was short. “Are you crazy, Angelina? There’s nothing there!”

  “It’s fine, Mamma,” Angie cried, looking down at herself. “Maybe a little short. And low.”

  “Exactly.” Serefina folded her arms and glared at the offending dress. She was a short, stout woman with black hair pulled straight back into an elaborate bun, and wearing a rayon dress of white and navy diagonal stripes. As she marched around the boutique inspecting the clothes, the stripes pirouetted like a dans macabre.