We all went out on my deck to watch boats on the Bay and drink wine. Meera passed the mamaliga, and everyone exclaimed at how good they were. If they wondered who Meera was, they didn’t ask. I saw a few curious looks in her direction, but in San Francisco every day is Halloween, where it’s okay to dress up and pretend to be someone or somewhere else.
I looked around at my eclectic group of friends enjoying the view and the wine. It was just the way I’d imagined my life in San Francisco would be. Dinner parties chez moi, good company, well-dressed men and women, laughter, good conversation. What more could I want from life? It would be nice if murderers didn’t keep killing those I knew, but mostly life was good. I loved my job, especially since Vienna was gone, and there were two men in my life.
Meera talked a lot as usual. But I didn’t mind as long as she was amusing and entertaining. She told how she’d learned to make mamaliga in her country, but she refrained from saying she’d been on earth for more than one hundred years and planned on staying around indefinitely. So possibly everyone just thought she was eccentric and liked to role-play, which was most likely true.
I almost forgot to cook the broccoli, but I threw it into a pot at the last minute and took it out when it was very crisp. I tossed it with a little butter and chopped almonds, a combination I’d read about somewhere. Dolce helped me transfer it to a large bowl. Then I put the roast in the middle of the table surrounded with potatoes and onions and the rich gravy that magically appeared when I took it out of the oven. So the butcher was right. The meat was so tender it fell apart as I cut it.
We all sat around my small table, everyone helping themselves to the meat, the vegetable and the applesauce, bumping elbows, spooning sauce on their meat and potatoes and spearing stalks of broccoli, while William and Nick kept everyone’s wineglass full.
I was giddy with success, which is always an omen that something is about to go wrong. I should have known. But I didn’t. When I heard the doorbell ring, I was again startled. I looked around the table. Everyone I’d invited was there. Keep talking, I silently ordered my guests. And they did. As if they were old friends.
I got up, went to the door and called, “Who’s there?”
“Detective Wall,” he said from the bottom of the long stairway. “Sorry to bother you.”
What was he doing here, and how did he get in through the front door? “This is not a good time,” I said with a glance over my shoulder. My guests were still talking and laughing and enjoying themselves. I hated to think of what a damper the presence of an agent of the law would put on my dinner party. I assumed this was not a social call. I assumed he had more questions for me. But why here? Why now?
“I won’t take up any of your time. I just need something you have.”
Hmm. What could that be? “I don’t have anything,” I said.
“I think you do. I’m coming up.”
“I’m having a dinner party.”
“I won’t disturb you.”
“You already have.”
“Rita, don’t make me get a search warrant.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said as I closed the door to my place with a loud slam. I could just picture him sighing, frowning at my lack of cooperation, racing up the three flights and lifting his fist to pound on the door. Or firing a few shots in the air as a warning. I wouldn’t put it past him.
I gave up, grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open.
Thirteen
As usual Jack wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead, he was dressed in his customary San Francisco casual. Today it was khakis. If I had any doubts about khakis making a comeback, I could now throw them out the third-story window. Jack Wall would never wear anything that wasn’t totally in style. In the past, like last week, khakis were not serious enough for business wear but not cool enough for after hours, and if today wasn’t after hours, then I didn’t know what was. I read that most men have on average eight pairs of jeans. But khakis? How much would you bet the average well-dressed San Francisco man had zero to none.
It’s a fact that men prefer jeans to casual slacks and with good reason. Stylish, well-fitting jeans are an essential part of a man’s wardrobe. As long as they’re not too short or too long. Pants should cover the ankles and tops of the shoes. A glance at Jack’s feet told me his pants, while not denim, fit the requirements. Khakis have a way to go, but if Jack Wall was wearing them, it shouldn’t take that long for them to rank higher than they had. The beauty of khakis is that they go with everything, especially with the dark tan Dunlop shirt Jack was wearing.
While I stared at him, he was staring at me as if he expected me to invite him in. What, in the middle of my first dinner party?
“Look,” I said.
“I’m looking for some yearbooks. I understand you have them.”
What could I say? He knew I had the books. Someone had told him, probably Lex. But did he have a court order or would he really get a search warrant, or did he just rely on his authority and his ability to intimidate to make me hand them over? At least that’s what they’d use on TV crime dramas—court orders or intimidation.
“Why do you want them?” I said. I didn’t want to admit I had them, although he probably knew that.
“Why do you want them?” he countered.
“If I tell you, you’ll tell me to mind my own business.”
“Possibly,” he said. “Let’s cut to the chase and give me the books.”
“How did you know I had them?”
“You’re a smart girl. How do you think I knew?”
“Lex told you. You know he’s not the only one who had copies. Everyone in the class had them. Why didn’t you ask the school…Prep?”
“They’re closed today.”
“So you’re desperate.”
“I’m working.”
“And I’m having a party.”
“I’m sorry to intrude. Just hand over the books and I’ll go.” He held out his hand. That’s how confident he was. But I’m stubborn.
“Get your own books,” I said.
He shook his head as if he’d never heard anything so audacious as my refusal to hand them over. I’m not entirely sure we wouldn’t have come to blows over it if Meera hadn’t interrupted.
“Officer Wall,” she said, suddenly sneaking up behind me. “I said, who is that arriving so late? Nice to see you once more. Not too late to try one of my Romanian cornmeal dumplings. Have you ever had mamaliga?”
I never expected Meera to go into hostess mode. That was my role. But then nothing she did should ever surprise me.
Jack just stood there looking from me to Meera until she couldn’t stand the uncertainty anymore. Brushing me aside, she took him firmly by the arm and escorted him into the living room. I wished I’d had the nerve to do that. Only I would have escorted him down the stairs and out the front door. Sure enough, someone had pulled up an extra chair and set another plate on the table, no doubt assuming as Meera did that he was a guest arriving late.
“Everyone,” Meera said, “meet our friend from the police, Detective Jack Wall, a little late, but never mind.”
Now everyone thought he was someone I’d invited but somehow had forgotten to set a place for. I guessed that was better than knowing the truth: that their hostess was a murder suspect and the officer who suspected her was here to put the squeeze on her and not in a good way.
Fascinated, I watched while Meera put a generous serving of pork roast, potatoes, applesauce and broccoli on his plate as well as a crusty mamaliga. I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten about the bread. But with mamaliga on the menu, who needed bread?
Dolce filled Jack’s wineglass and gave me a knowing look. I smiled at her as if I were delighted with the way things were going. Maybe she too thought I’d invited him. If she was worried, she didn’t let on. I hoped that no one knew the truth. That no one suspected his real purpose in ringing my doorbell on a Sunday evening. As if I’d invite three men to dinner at the same time. Un
less I owed them. I owed Jonathan, and Nick too, of course. So I gave up and just pretended this was how I’d planned it.
Dolce looked better than I’d seen her since Vienna died. She was smiling frequently, talking often and even eating a second helping of pork. But then she was sitting next to her friend William, who was giving her admiring looks between bites. If that wouldn’t cheer a person up, I don’t know what would. And if nothing else came of this evening, this dinner was worth having if it brought them together. Of course, maybe they were together anyway, but if so, why hadn’t Dolce said anything? Why hadn’t I heard her mention his name? Or taken a phone message from him?
After I cleared the table, I thought Jack would leave. Not without the yearbooks of course, but I expected him to make another attempt or pull out a search warrant and demand them. Instead, he let Dolce serve him and everyone else a piece of the scrumptious pie she’d brought while I poured coffee. He even leaned back in his chair and laughed at something William said. Jack Wall laughing? He caught my eye, and I shook my head signifying that I was shocked and stunned by his erratic behavior. From stern lawman to genial guest. Was he just softening me up so he could walk out with the yearbooks? He’d do it no matter how I acted. I wondered what would happen next. An earthquake? Another knock on the door?
Even though Meera loved the spotlight, telling stories of life in Romania and of historical figures she claimed to have known, she had to give way to others who wanted to talk. I couldn’t believe it. It gave me courage to think I’d done something right. I’d invited interesting people. I’d served interesting food, and it had all come together despite the party-crashing detective, who, much to my surprise, stayed until everyone else had left.
“Wonderful party,” Dolce said as she and William stood at the door. “Don’t hurry in tomorrow. You have a lot of dishes to do.” Then she peered over my shoulder to see that Jack was standing behind me.
“Good night, Detective,” she called merrily. “How nice to see you again.”
As they all trooped down the stairs, I turned around to face him. He was holding the yearbooks in his hand. My mouth fell open in surprise. I don’t know why. It was typical police procedure. Don’t ask, just take what you want.
“I didn’t want to trouble you any further,” he said by way of explanation.
“How thoughtful,” I said. What else could I say? The man never quit. First he stays for dinner when he wasn’t invited except by Meera. Then he goes into my room and takes the yearbooks. “I don’t suppose I can have a look at those before you go.”
“No time for that,” he said. “But as you said, they’re available other places from other people. You won’t have any trouble finding some books to look at.” He went to the door. “Thanks for the dinner.”
“You’re welcome. What next?”
“What about the antiviolence program I signed you up for. You were a no-show.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I should have called. Things have been a little hectic.”
“You mean without Vienna.”
“Yes, I mean no. It’s not that. It’s…everything. I’m training for an open-water swim.” It wasn’t exactly true. I was thinking about training for an open-water swim. And it sounded good. Better than saying I was at a dead end thinking about Vienna and her friends and family and hadn’t had the energy to join the police for a ride-along or weapons training no matter how much I could use the practice in defending myself. I wanted Jack to think I had a life other than the shop. Maybe tonight he’d seen that.
“Where are you training?” he asked.
“At my health club, and the swim is from the Marina to Alcatraz.”
“Then I gather you’re not afraid of sharks.”
“Sharks?” No one had said anything about sharks. I acted nonchalant, as if sharks were the least of my problems. Actually they were. “I’m more afraid of the police arresting the wrong person.”
He gave me a half smile. “Relax. It’s not going to happen as long as everyone tells the truth.”
“I assume you are referring to the Vienna Fairchild case?” I said. “Is there anything else I should be concerned with?”
“You should be concerned with the fact that you lack an alibi for the night of the murder.”
“Surely I’m not the only one,” I said.
“No, you’re not.”
Was he referring to Dolce? She said she wouldn’t involve her new boyfriend in her alibi, but what if it came down to proving she wasn’t at the scene of the crime, which she couldn’t do without him. Then what?
“The only person you should worry about is yourself. You have enough on your plate with your job and your social life. Leave the rest to me.”
“How can I do that when you suspect me of murder?”
“Try.”
I sighed loudly. He said good night, then turned and took the stairs two at a time down to the street. Why shouldn’t he rush off? He’d gotten what he came for and more. He’d gotten a free dinner. And he’d had a look at my friends. Maybe he’d been analyzing them, wondering if one of them, probably Dolce since she was under his microscope and had no ready alibi for Saturday night, was the most likely suspect.
Now he would go home or back to work and pore over the faces in the yearbook just as I’d planned to do tonight, trying to decide who among Vienna’s high school friends and foes had had a motive and the opportunity to kill her. I liked to think I knew more than he did about the people in Vienna’s inner circle. He very likely didn’t agree. Maybe he thought I was full of myself. Little Ms. Amateur Detective who was coasting on her last case, which she’d solved purely by chance.
His lack of confidence in me just made me more determined to get to the bottom of the murder before he did. Maybe Vienna’s murder had nothing to do with what happened in high school. Maybe by taking the yearbooks, he was off on a tangent to nowhere. He’d spared me from the needless task of looking through them. I would go in a different direction. But where? Which one?
…………………
By the next morning I’d changed my mind. I had to get those yearbooks. If Jack hadn’t wanted them enough to come to my house, crash my party and take them, I wouldn’t have been so sure they held the answer. But now I was. I decided to pay a visit to Vienna’s private high school, San Francisco Prep, or for those in the know, simply “Prep.” Surely they’d have a collection of old yearbooks in the library or somewhere I could borrow. But not until noon. I couldn’t let Dolce down by coming in late today even though she’d told me I could. So I got ready for work at the usual time, dressing carefully in semi-teen style: a stretchy pink top, miniskirt, see-through, classic Bobbie Gray baseball jacket, and canvas wedge sandals.
I wasn’t sure the outfit would let me pass as a teen, but after I’d braided my hair in one long braid that I tossed casually over one shoulder, I was more confident. Actually I didn’t need to masquerade as a teen, since I was going to the school to get the loan of a yearbook, but I didn’t want to stand out either. You never know when you might want to slip in and slip out unnoticed.
But just in case the slipping-in-and-out plan didn’t work, I decided to call one of our customers, a fashion-conscious fellow named Harrington Harris, the drama teacher at Prep, who bought an occasional item at the shop. Dolce and I had even attended a sneak preview of one of his plays last fall.
“Harrington,” I said after identifying myself, “we haven’t seen you at the boutique forever.”
“Darling,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “So good to hear from you. Please don’t take my absence from Dolce’s personally. I’m up to my ears in rehearsals. But I want to hear all about the spring collection. I might drop by on Saturday.”
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I was hoping to get a tour of your school. One of our customers has a daughter who’s looking at Prep and Sacred Heart and Menlo and Saint Francis. She can’t decide. She asked us for our opinion, but not being from San Francisco originally, I didn’t
know what to say except that I knew Prep had a dynamite theatre program.”
“So true,” he murmured. “If I do say so myself. Why don’t you send your customer and her daughter and I’ll give them a tour of the facilities. We get points for introducing new students if they actually enroll.”
“Really, well what a good idea. I hate to impose, but if you’re sure…” Of course I was making up the whole thing. Why hadn’t I realized that the mythical mother and daughter who didn’t exist would get invited on a tour when I was the one who wanted to see the school, the better to get my little hands on those yearbooks?
“The problem is that they’re too busy with…other things, so what if I took the tour instead?” I suggested. “Or at least dropped by, since I have time today, say around noon? Then I’ll pass on my impressions of the school, which I’m sure will be superpositive, and you’ll get your bonus.” I could only hope Harrington would not hound me about this new student and his bonus. I had to believe he’d eventually forget about it. Or maybe someone would ask my opinion about private schools and I’d be able to say that the excellent teachers, the outstanding activities and Prep’s reputation in sports were all worth the astronomical tuition and that he or she should definitely go there.
“Come ahead. We’ll have lunch in the cafeteria, which is pretty decent since the overhaul last year. Salads and lots of healthy veggies. At least the teachers like it, while the students sneak out and hit the fast-food places when they can.”
“Are you sure I’m not disrupting your schedule?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “I have a light class load this semester because of the play. Just have the secretary page me because I’ll be in the scene shop supervising the painting of the sets. Kids get assigned to help me instead of having to go to detention, so I have to keep an eye on them. We’re doing Amadeus. And I’m not sure it was a good idea. I’ve had my doubts since day one. Sure it’s got beautiful music, great parts and of course a spectacular set. But there are too many problems.”
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