The Color of Fear

by Marcia Muller

“Another start-up with promising prospects. Mick’s hooked into that world. We should also have him contact the techies he trusts, ask if anybody knows who could’ve done this.”

  “He’s already on it. I called and told him what happened before you got home.”

  We were silent for a time. Then Hy said, “I don’t know, McCone. D’you feel comfortable hosting Christmas here in the house now?”

  “No, and I’m not sure all the people we’ve invited for dinner would either.”

  “Well, I don’t want to spend the holiday at the M&R building or in one of the safe houses.”

  “So who do we know who’s a good cook and has a high-security residence?”

  In unison we said, “Rae.”

  Rae was home when I called. I explained what had happened—she expressed her outrage in several four-letter words—and then asked if she and Ricky could accommodate us and our guests.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “The three younger kids’re off to London visiting their mother and stepfather. It feels a little lonely around here.”

  “How’s your security?”

  “Not as tight right now as it should be. The alarm system’s fine, but one of the patrol guards called in sick last night. Happens around the holidays.”

  Hy was on his phone to M&R, explaining the situation and instructing his operatives to conduct round-the-clock surveillance on our house. I motioned to him and said, “Ask them to beef up the security on Rae and Ricky’s house too.”

  He nodded and made a thumbs-up gesture.

  Rae said, “I’ll still host dinner for the four of us tonight. And Christmas won’t be any problem; I’ve been working on several dishes I planned to bring to your house anyway.”

  “What can I bring?”

  “Yourselves and whatever you’ve bought for Christmas dinner that won’t keep.” She added, “And bring the cats if you want to.”

  No way! “Uh, maybe,” I lied.

  “I know they hate the cage, but they might enjoy meeting our new cat.”

  “Oh, right—the new cat. What’s his name?”

  “Asshole.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Well, publicly we call him Jack, but he’s officially named for most of the people in the recording industry.”

  3:57 p.m.

  Saskia called as we were about to leave. Robin had been given a clean bill of health and was back at the M&R suite with her and Emi. I told her about the change of plans for Christmas dinner.

  “What can we contribute?”

  “Yourselves.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Hmm. Can you get ingredients for fry bread here?” Indian fry bread, dipped in honey, is a treat I’d drive many miles for. And Saskia’s was great.

  “Flour is not exactly an exotic commodity. I also can find several kinds of honey.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “Happy to do it. We’ve also found an excellent wine shop around the corner.”

  “Wine will be welcome too.”

  “See you on Christmas, then.”

  4:30 p.m.

  There had been no word from Anders, Mick, or the TechWiz people on their inquiries. As Mick had warned me, it was difficult to reach techies and ask favors of them at this time of year—or anybody else, for that matter. Like the majority of us, they were out doing last-minute shopping, standing in lines at grocery stores or in airline terminals, visiting relatives, or just cocooning until the hoopla—as Glenn called it—was over.

  Hy and I loaded food and presents into my car. When he saw the number of my packages, his eyes widened.

  “What the hell is all that?” he asked.

  “Um,” I said, “enough presents for the next decade?”

  He laughed, came over, and hugged me. “I can’t believe it, McCone. When did you go binge shopping?”

  “Yesterday before I came home and found out we’d been invaded. If I hadn’t, maybe I’d’ve gotten here sooner and prevented those bastards from doing what they did.”

  “Don’t start blaming yourself. You couldn’t have known.”

  We drove to Rae and Ricky’s home in Sea Cliff, the exclusive enclave that stretches high on a bluff above the Pacific south of the Golden Gate. Neither of them was a status seeker, but the real estate agent who had shown them around the city was a commission seeker. She’d researched her clients well and quickly led them to a relatively private contemporary three-story house that descended the cliff toward a sand beach. It included room for a recording studio, six children of varying ages—who wouldn’t live there all the time but would be frequent visitors—and a large cast of friends, musicians, and Zenith Records executives. Also a workroom for Rae, the budding author; with the success of her handful of novels, the cast of visitors would soon expand to include other authors and publishers.

  It was a happy outcome for two people who had suffered so much loss and deprivation in their early lives.

  Before we reached the door, Mrs. Wellcome, Rae and Ricky’s housekeeper, met us, properly uniformed and with a red rose in her hair. She set aside her reserve a bit and hugged both of us.

  Rae and Ricky came out to greet us. She looked great in a blue velour lounging outfit that complemented her wide-set eyes and went beautifully with her red-gold curls. He was handsome as ever, sort of distinguished now that there were silvery strands in his thick chestnut hair. Rae had been my assistant at All Souls Legal Cooperative; she still helped me on difficult cases when she wasn’t working on one of her novels. She’d started out to write what she called “shop-and-fuck” books, but instead her first novel turned out to be the critically acclaimed Blue Lonesome. Others had followed. Ricky had had an enormously successful career as a country singer and musician; he’d gone on to establish Zenith Records and produce some of the country’s greatest performers.

  Their relationship had begun when my sister Charlene, mother of their six children, had kicked him out of her life. I couldn’t blame her; she’d put up with plenty during his philandering star days. But all that had changed now; Charlene was happily married to a new husband, Vic Christainsen, and with the advent of Rae, Ricky’s philandering had stopped.

  Rae said, “Mrs. Wellcome has just returned from two weeks in the Caribbean.”

  “Oh, which island?” I asked.

  “Anguilla,” the housekeeper said. “I didn’t much like it. Too barren and touristy.”

  I agreed, but not for the same reasons; I’d been to Anguilla under harrowing circumstances.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s hard to go anyplace these days that isn’t touristy—especially at the holidays.”

  “Quite so.” She nodded and excused herself to see about the appetizers.

  When she’d disappeared into the kitchen, I whispered to Rae, “She go with one of her ‘gentlemen friends’?”

  “Undoubtedly. She packed some pretty racy underthings. Anyway, she’s back, and—”

  “No, it’s too soon to ask her to deal with all the mess the holidays entail.”

  “She won’t be the one dealing with it. I don’t think I’ve told you, but Mrs. Wellcome has become an entrepreneur. She has a small stable of housekeepers working for her. I asked her to assign one of them to deal with it.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Mrs. Wellcome provided eggnog and snacks. The four of us sat near the pit fireplace in the living room, contemplating the Christmas tree.

  “It’s…kind of big,” I said.

  “It always is.” Rae flashed a reproachful glance at Ricky.

  He ignored it and looked fondly at the ten-foot-tall Douglas fir propped in the corner.

  I said, “I think it’s beautiful.”

  Rae: “Except for the two feet we had to chop off before we could get it into the house.”

  Hy: “That’ll provide great kindling for fires.”

  A steely look from her.

  He shrugged, grinning.

  “Why,” she as
ked Ricky, “do you always have to pick out something so enormous?”

  “Why don’t you like a big tree?”

  “Well, my grandmother didn’t celebrate Christmas. Said it was a waste of time and money.”

  “For me, big trees represent the Christmases I never had. When I was young, we were always too poor for a tree or much of anything else. Then, when Charlene and I were first married and we were starting our family, I was away on the road—Christmas gigs paid good. After I made it, there were all these other distractions. And then…I guess I just didn’t care any more.”

  “And now?”

  He put his hand on her knee. “Now I care very much.”

  Hy said, “Then it’s time we stand this sucker up and decorate it.”

  6:10 p.m.

  “Oof!”

  “Get your foot off of mine!”

  “Sorry.”

  “The tree stand’s sliding.”

  “That’s because the tree trunk’s not in it.”

  “Do something!”

  “Hey, it’s in. Tighten those screws quick!”

  “Ouch!”

  “What?”

  “Needles up my nose.”

  “Is it straight?”

  “No.”

  “So which way is it tilting?”

  “I can’t tell. I’m under it.”

  “Asshole just ran up the trunk!”

  “Which one?”

  “Hah! The stupid cat!”

  “Catch these lights and pull them around.”

  “I can’t. They’re snagged.”

  “On what?”

  “A branch over there by you.”

  “Damn! Here they are. Grab them.”

  “Now they’re tangled.”

  “How can they be tangled? We just took them out of their box.”

  “Give them to me.”

  “Now they’re hopelessly snarled.”

  “I think more divorces result from putting on the tree lights than from adultery.”

  “That silver star was my favorite ornament when I was a kid.”

  “It’s a wonder any of these survived.”

  “You guys gave us this little starfish the first year we were together.”

  “Hang that gold dove on a lower branch. When Asshole bites it—and you can guarantee he will—he won’t do any damage.”

  “The ones in this box were my grandma’s. Pot metal, but so pretty.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “A wooden cow with big pink udders that I found in a thrift shop.”

  “Here’s a camel—he looks malformed.”

  “So does this bird—he’s got no tail feathers, and the springs that’re supposed to be his legs are giving out.”

  “What the hell—hang ’em all!”

  9:24 p.m.

  It had long been our custom to exchange gifts among the four of us on Christmas Eve, leaving the day itself for the kids and other family members. Bows and crumpled paper littered the floor. Jack (I refused to call him Asshole) had daintily climbed down the tree trunk, tiptoed around, sniffed everything, and then plowed through the discarded wrappings, digging tunnels and crawling into empty boxes. Now he had a big red bow stuck to his head, his tail was wrapped in green ribbon, and he’d gone to sleep under the tree.

  Once we’d finished mauling the tree around and decorating it, it looked superior, filling up its entire corner of the living room. Somewhere Rae had cornered the market on authentic old-style lights with large bulbs, and the ornaments reflected their warm glow.

  Briefly I thought of Cynthia Sharpe, the socialite in her Pacific Heights “mansion” with her professionally decorated tree. Her benefit for the Indian orphans who no doubt had been her second (or third or fourth) choice of charitable assignment couldn’t possibly have been as pleasurable as our evening, but it had given me an idea. Next year Hy and I would host our own benefit for as many Indian orphans as we could fit into our house—only it would be for them, replete with toys, games, and goodies to eat, rather than the socialites Sharpe seemed to favor.

  Mrs. Wellcome entered with more eggnog and a plate covered with just-baked chocolate chip cookies, and Rae urged her to join us. She did, staring nostalgically at the tree. “Reminds me…,” she began and then broke off.

  “Of what?” Ricky asked.

  “Oh, of when my husband was alive. We used to yell and scream while we were putting on the lights, just like you people.”

  I was surprised to hear her speak of her past, as she seldom did.

  “We didn’t have any children to scandalize, though,” she added.

  “Neither do we, this year,” Ricky replied.

  None of the Little Savages, as I frequently called them, were present for this holiday, and the house felt empty. The younger children were probably having a great time in England, while his two older girls, Chris and Jamie, were off doing whatever young people of their age did.

  Rae said to me, “I’m glad you gave me all your family’s old ornaments before your house burned down.”

  “I knew you’d take care of them.”

  “Nobody else in the family wanted any?”

  “Who? John’s not into decorations; I’d planned to sneak over and hang a wreath on his door this year, but never got around to it. Ornaments are not the sort of item Charlene and Vic would be able to drag around on their global travels. And Patsy’s an atheist and doesn’t want to expose her children to ‘such superstitious things.’”

  “Kind of a bleak holiday season when all the other kids in school are celebrating it or Hanukkah.”

  “I think she cheats and celebrates anyway.”

  Mrs. Wellcome said, “I guess this is why we cling to this ritual: to remember the happy times in the past and hope for more in the future.”

  We were contemplating her remark when my phone buzzed.

  I’d put it into my pants pocket and forgotten all about it. I pulled it out, stared at the caller’s number on the screen. SF General. When I answered, my voice was curiously unlike my own.

  It was a head nurse in ICU, and I couldn’t have asked for better news.

  Elwood had regained consciousness.

  11:51 p.m.

  Hy and I rushed to the hospital. Elwood was lucid and able to speak, the charge nurse told us, but we must be careful not to tire him. “Five minutes,” she said, tapping her watch.

  My father looked surprisingly good. No more waxiness to his features, no more twitching muscles. “Daughter,” he said haltingly, “so sorry I spoiled your Christmas.”

  “Spoiled it? You’ve just given me the best present I’ve ever received.”

  He smiled faintly as I took his hand.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Weak.”

  “That’s understandable. Are they giving you enough pain medication?”

  “Too many.”

  I knew about my father’s aversion to painkillers, so I said, “I’ll speak to Dr. Stiles about that.”

  Hy asked, “What do you remember about the attack, Elwood?”

  Slight headshake. “Very little…I was looking in the jewelry store window when men appeared…called me foul names, and beat me.”

  “How many men?”

  “Three, four, five…”

  “Did you get a clear look at any of them?

  “Can’t remember.”

  “That’s perfectly natural, after a traumatic experience,” I said. It had been some time until I recalled the moments before the bullet entered my brain. Now I did, all too often, and I wished I couldn’t.

  Elwood felt the same. “Maybe not remembering is a blessing,” he said.

  “Not necessarily,” Hy said. “If your memory returns, you might be able to recall something that will help us catch the assailants.”

  “You…have no idea who they are?”

  We were not about to tell him of Jersey and his gang, or the racist attacks on Mick’s house and on ours, or the close calls Saskia an
d Robin had had. It would’ve been cruel to burden him with all that in his condition. “Not yet, Father. But we have a few leads—”

  Elwood sighed. “Please…the truth. Can you…ever find them?”

  “Yes, I can. And soon. I promise you that.”

  He seemed about to say something else. But then he sighed and his eyes closed.

  His nurse, who had apparently been watching at the door, came in and said, “You’ll have to leave now. Mr. Farmer needs his rest.”

  When Hy and I stepped out into the foggy San Francisco night, he said, “We’ll check in with Rae and Ricky and then go home. And maybe get a good night’s sleep for a change.”

  “I hope so.”

  “We will. The box of chocolates that I put on the kitchen table before we left is the perfect remedy for sleeplessness.”

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 25

  9:19 a.m.

  Elwood’s being out of danger had given me hope for today. And when Mick called, I felt even more cheered by the news he had for me.

  “Derek finally got a lead on the guy called Jersey,” he said. “It took this long because we figured it was a nickname, spelled like the state. Wrong. It’s a Polish name spelled j-e-r-z-y. Jerzy Capp. A dubious character.”

  I was still in bed, a second cup of coffee in hand. I sat up straighter, put the cup on the nightstand. “What’re these ‘dubious’ things he’s done?”

  “The usual—not quite getting caught for shoplifting, kiting checks, and various scams that didn’t net him much. Stealing cars off lots and claiming he was just taking them out for test drives. The usual small-time cons. And there’s another definite connection between him and Rolle Ferguson.”

  “The racist kind?”

  “Yep. Jerzy got into the white supremacist crap in prison, and he and Ferguson are reputed to be tight. Word is that he’s been living with Rolle on and off since they met at an anti-immigrant rally a year ago.”

  “Were you able to get a current location on them?”

  “Not yet, but if I get lucky I may have something by tonight.”

  I heard the front door open. Hy, back from whatever errand he’d gone out to run.