Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “My God, Carolyn,” I cried when she finally let herself into the room, “where have you been? The mixer starts in five minutes. I’ve been worried that—”

  “Oh, goodness,” my wife murmured, “heaven forbid we should miss a minute of what will undoubtedly be the social event of the year.” With that remark, she kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her jacket.

  “You were supposed to be here at 5:30,” I pointed out, taken aback by her snippy tone when I was expecting an apology.

  “Jason, goodness knows you’ve been late often enough, and as for my being late, keep in mind that I had to be at the jail at 7:30 this morning, or have you forgotten about your mother?”

  The truth is that it had slipped my mind—perhaps because the idea of my mother charged with murder was too nonsensical to be taken seriously.

  “Well, she’s in jail, and I went there, and then I had to eat an Egg McMuffin because McDonald’s is the only place open on Sunday in that area, and then I had to go back to the jail and wait on the sixth floor with a very strange group of people, some with tattoos, until I could go upstairs and stand—not sit, stand—for twenty minutes while your mother demanded to know where you were and why I’d left Gwen unprotected in New York City.”

  “Didn’t you tell her Gwen is with Charlotte?”

  “Of course I did. And then she told me that we have to move into her apartment while she’s in jail.”

  “We can’t do that. The meeting is—”

  “Here. I know. You tell her. And then I had to meet her lawyer because your mother refuses to take the situation seriously. She’s too busy preaching feminism to the prisoners and guards to—”

  I had to laugh at that point because it was so like my mother to see being jailed as an opportunity rather than a cause for dismay.

  “Oh, you think it’s funny? Well, her lawyer says they have a good case.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “And that we should hire a private detective to find out who really killed Denise Faulk because the police, who think your mother did it, aren’t going to. And that means, since neither of you is taking this seriously, that I’ll have to find the murderer myself.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I protested, remembering with a shudder various dangerous situations my wife had exposed herself to since she started traveling with me. “Mother’s quite right. The police will—”

  “I went to see them. That was my fifth stop. It seems that your mother was found kneeling over a body with multiple stab wounds, covered with the victim’s blood, her bloody fingerprints all over the office, and that she had a loud quarrel with the victim just that afternoon. Homicide Inspector Harry Yu is convinced that your mother is guilty. By the way, he has a nephew named Fong teaching psychology somewhere in West Texas.”

  “That would be Millard Fong,” I replied, astonished. “I’ve met him.”

  “Good for you! When we get back to El Paso, you can tell him that his uncle arrested your mother. After Harry Yu, I had to go to your mother’s apartment and have espresso with an elderly tenor named Valetti in order to get a key to her place.”

  “Look, Carolyn, perhaps we should talk about this later.”

  “And then someone named Lawrence in Chicago called about the rape of your mother’s dog.”

  “Carolyn, are you making this stuff up? We don’t have time for jokes. We have to get downstairs. Are you going to change?”

  “Certainly I’m going to change, and bathe. I’m exhausted and dirty and—well, why don’t you just go downstairs, Jason, if the mixer is more important than your mother’s—”

  “I didn’t say that, but—”

  “Run along. I’ll meet you down there.”

  I sighed and allowed myself to be pushed out the door by my grumpy wife. Two hours later she showed up at the mixer, just as I was considering a return to the room to see what had happened to her. Evidently she’d taken a nap, bathed, changed clothes, and called my mother’s landlord before venturing downstairs. The mixer was winding down, and we’d been invited to visit North Beach for Maine lobster at some Italian restaurant that provided discount coupons to conference participants. Hoping to cheer Carolyn up—she does love Maine lobster—I mentioned the plans and the friends with whom we’d be going.

  “If I wanted to write about Maine lobster, I’d go to Maine,” she muttered, but she did agree to accompany us after making two more calls.

  “Were you calling local master chefs for reservations and recipes?” asked Jeannie Lohman, young trophy wife of a Ron Lohman from Penn State. “Jason’s been telling us about your column. I’m going to demand that our local paper run it. It sounds like so much fun, Carolyn. Are you going to write about the dinner tonight? You could quote each of us.” She turned to Ron. “Wouldn’t that be awesome, Ron? We’ll clip it and send it to your mother.” Ron mumbled a response having to do with his mother’s refusal to read his scientific papers much less his opinions on Maine lobster.

  My wife sighed, smiled, and off we went. On the way she told us that North Beach had been, from the fifties, the Beatnik enclave, Jack Kerouac and company, but before that the Italian community, a den of anarchism and café socializing. I did feel a bit conscience-stricken because Carolyn looked tired, and the restaurant was crowded and noisy. We had to wait a half hour for seats, but the price of lobster, purchased with our tourist coupons, was amazingly good. Fifteen dollars for a whole meal: minestrone, salad, garlic bread, three-quarter-pound lobster, clarified butter, and coffee.

  Given the amount of alcohol consumed at the mixer, cocktails from the bar while we waited for a table, and wine during dinner, we were a merry group by the end of the evening. Carolyn dutifully took down quotations on the meal from various members of our party: Bob Timothy, University of Illinois, Urbana, said, “There are no beans in this minestrone. Aren’t there supposed to be beans, Carolyn? Those tasty white ones?” Al Mahmoud, University of Vermont, said, “What’s wrong with these people? Every restaurant should have a vegetarian plate, and a dinner salad just doesn’t do it.” Margie Forman, University of New Orleans, said, “God, I love lobster. Eating it makes me feel so prehistoric. Look at it. It’s scarier-looking than a crab. Paul, honey, if we were Neanderthals, would you dismantle my lobster for me with a rock?” Paul Forman, Tulane, replied, “Lobsters are deep water creatures, Margie. I doubt that Neanderthals ever got any.” Collie Mertz, Oregon State said, “I’d recommend this particular merlot to any of your picky wine connoisseurs.” I added, “The retail price at Sam’s Club is around fifteen dollars.” And so forth. Carolyn surreptitiously ripped her notes from the notebook and slipped them under her dessert plate.

  When we finally returned to our hotel room, she said wearily, “I repacked for you, Jason. We need to check out and move to your mother’s apartment.”

  “Carolyn, I see no reason—”

  “It costs her over three dollars for the connection and three minutes from the jail. We can’t call her there, and she can’t call us here collect. I phoned Mr. Valetti at 8:25 and promised we’d do it. I’d still be on the telephone with him if I hadn’t agreed, and you’d have missed the cheap lobster dinner. He’ll put the message on her machine.”

  “What good would it do for us to move there? I certainly can’t stay waiting for my mother to call. This is an important meeting, and Hodge, Brune is paying for it.”

  “Fine. I’ll get the calls.”

  “You’re planning to give up your food research and sit home—”

  “No, actually, I’m planning to find out who killed Denise Faulk so your mother can get out of jail. As for her calls, I can pick them up and leave her messages on the answering machine, but I have to be there to do it.”

  “Carolyn, I forbid you to endanger yourself by—”

  “Jason, I’m much too tired to put up with ultimatums.”

  “And as for moving, we can talk about that tomorrow.”

  “Fine. You can leave a message telling me
what you decide.” With that, my wife grasped the handle of her suitcase and wheeled it out. Before I could get there, she had slammed the door in my face. I was so irritated that I let her go. However, by the time I had taken a shower, I began to worry about her taking cabs at night by herself. What if the landlord wouldn’t let her in? There she’d be, out on the street with her suitcase, and no way to call a cab to get back here, maybe too proud to do so if she could.

  I called my mother’s number. Carolyn answered. When I admitted that I was simply calling to find out if she had arrived safely, she hung up, then put the phone on automatic answering machine and refused to pick up. Obviously, I was going to have to move to Sacramento Street tomorrow.

  Heretofore, I hadn’t taken my mother’s situation seriously. She’d been in jail before. In fact, she has a felony conviction for leading a group of women into a psychiatrist’s office and demonstrating how to protect oneself against a rapist by kneeing him in the balls. The psychiatrist had been drugging his patients and having sex with them and was saved from jail himself by promising to take no more female patients. He got probation and lost his license to practice. He also had to have a testicle removed after my mother’s visit.

  She got probation because hordes of Chicago women hounded judges, police, and city politicians on her behalf. Then a female judge, who hated psychiatrists, arranged a pardon and the expunging of Mother’s felony from the public record. Carolyn doesn’t even know about that episode. Maybe my mother did need help, no matter how invulnerable she thought herself. But I did not want my wife chasing after a murderer. The very idea terrified me. So how was I to help my mother and derail Carolyn? I mulled over the problem and then called my father in Naperville, waking him up, midnight in San Francisco being 2 A.M. in Chicago. Although my parents have been divorced since I was twelve and my father remarried and had two more children not much older than my kids, he always had sensible advice to offer when it came to dealing with my mother.

  “God damn it!” Dad said when I’d explained the situation. “I can’t believe she’s in jail again. What’s the charge?”

  “She’s accused of killing someone at the women’s center with a big knife.”

  “Why do they think Vera did it?”

  “She had an argument with the woman and—”

  “The victim was a woman? Christ! Vera wouldn’t stab a woman. They must be hard up for a suspect.”

  “Carolyn talked to them, and they’re sure they’ve got the right person.”

  “You believe your mother killed someone?”

  “Of course not, Dad, but Carolyn has decided she has to save Mother by finding the real murderer. She walked out when I told her to stay out of it.”

  “Well, that’s good. She’s gone home?”

  “No, she’s moved to Mother’s sublet and plans to start asking questions at the center tomorrow. Dad, she could get herself killed.”

  “Right,” my father agreed crisply. “As soon as I can get a flight, I’ll fly in and hire a private detective.”

  “Funny, that’s evidently what Mother’s lawyer suggested. Of course, Mother said no.”

  “Well, Vera’s safely in jail, and she can’t tell me what to do, anyway.”

  “How would we find one?”

  “My people do a lot of lab work for a company in San Francisco. They’ll have a security outfit that can recommend someone. Meanwhile, you get on the line and tell your wife we’ll take care of it.”

  I tried the number again and got the answering machine. No doubt my wife was fast asleep in my mother’s bed while I stayed up worrying about the two of them, not to mention all the problems I could see developing out of my father’s appearance on the scene. Mother would be furious if anyone told her about it, and when she did get out of jail, he’d have gone home, and I’d get jumped for interfering in her business.

  Well, hell! Hard to believe how much I’d looked forward to this meeting, how cheerful I’d felt at 5:30, and how tired I was now. If I didn’t get to sleep, I’d have to skip my morning run.

  9

  The Duty to Detect

  Carolyn

  I woke to find myself in a strange bed without my husband. After a moment of panic, I remembered: Vera’s sublet, the violent murder, the quarrel with Jason. In all our years together, I’d never walked out on him. What had gotten into me? Well, I had been very tired when I got back to the hotel—all the stress, the walking and riding in taxis, not to mention three cups of coffee. Jason can do that, but I’m definitely a one-cup woman, and not near bedtime. No wonder I was awake in the middle of the night.

  Then I had to admit how much I resented feeling responsible for the exoneration of Jason’s mother. Both of them had told me to stay out of it. Yet someone had to do something, and I was the only someone with sense enough to realize it. I had a perfectly good reason to be angry with Jason. She was his mother.

  And what about Gwen and Chris? They’d be horribly embarrassed to have their grandmother on trial for murder, and even more so if she were convicted. Innocent people got convicted; I’d seen it in the newspapers and on TV. Having a grandmother imprisoned for a violent murder could ruin their lives. People would whisper behind their backs. People they wanted to date would shy away. They would be denied fellowships and jobs for reasons that were never mentioned.

  And Jason—didn’t he realize his career could be affected? Or mine? I could see the headline: Food writer related to feminist knife-murderer. Who would want to follow my recipes? On the other hand, my agent, Loretta Blum, would probably say that any publicity is better than no publicity. She’d say the notoriety would help the sales of my book, Eating Out in the Big Easy, when it came out.

  I had to have it in by early fall. How was I supposed to concentrate with my mother-in-law accused of murder? And I had to prove her innocence before our family was destroyed.

  I’d go straight to that women’s center tomorrow morning and ask questions. It was my duty! Flopping over on my side, I gave my pillow a punch, determined to go back to sleep. I’m happy to say that, worries and espresso aside, I did—probably out of sheer perversity.

  “Carolyn? Carolyn? For Pete’s sake would you pick up?”

  I woke with a start, heart racing, and recognized Jason’s voice. He must have been shouting into his telephone at the hotel because I could hear him from Vera’s office in the far corner of the apartment.

  “All right. You’re still mad at me. I’m sorry I wasn’t more sympathetic. But don’t go out investigating. Please! I called my dad. He’s flying in this morning. He’ll hire a detective. So just—just have some great meals and write about them. OK? I’ll check out of the hotel and join you on Sacramento Street by 6:30. I love you, sweetheart. . . . Well, I guess you’re not going to pick up. OK. Bye.”

  He’d already hung up by the time I managed to disentangle myself from the sheets—I must have had a very restless night—and stagger out of the bedroom, around the dining room table, and into the office, where a lighted digital clock told me that it was 6:30. He’d called me before going out to run. Only a mad man would consider running up and down the hills of San Francisco. Only a mad man couldn’t wait to call until he got back and I might be up. I punched the replay button and listened to his message. Have some great meals and write about them indeed! He was still trying to tell me I shouldn’t look into the murder of what’s-her-name. And Jason’s father was going to hire a detective to help his ex-wife? Like I believed that!

  I stumbled back across the apartment and fell into bed. I still planned to go straight over to the center, but nine o’clock should be quite early enough.

  10

  Frittata with the Pizza Man

  Carolyn

  Showered and dressed, I was peering into the refrigerator to see what Vera had in stock, hardly anything, when someone knocked at my door. A voice called, “Bellissima, is-a me. Bruno Valetti. Answer the door. I’m-a hear you toilet an’ you shower, so I’m-a fix you a tasty frittata. Is omel
et Italiano. Si?”

  Saved by the neighborhood tenor, I thought and dashed to the front door.

  Mr. Valetti stood before me with the lovely aroma of an Italian kitchen wafting from his spatula. Or was it imagination that made me think that I could already smell the frittata? “Come!” he cried. “The mozzarella is-a almost melt.”

  We scampered downstairs. Feeling mildly vindictive, I thought of my husband who, by staying at the hotel, was going to miss a lovely breakfast. The omelet, fresh from the oven, was creamy and dripping with cheese, flavored with mushroom, onion, and ham chunks that had probably been sliced from a delicious product of Parma. I glanced around, but no such ham hung from his ceiling. However, braids of garlic and onion festooned his kitchen, and his table was tiled like an ancient Roman mosaic and surrounded by four of those miserably uncomfortable, rush-bottomed chairs whose seats are rimmed by hardwood. Such rims have left indentations on the bottoms of generations in Mediterranean Europe.

  While I complimented Mr. Valetti on his delectable frittata, I glanced surreptitiously at the design on his table. I had read recently about pornographic mosaics found that year in a unisex Pompeii bathhouse, which information prompted the thought that I might be eating my breakfast on an embarrassing depiction of ancient sexual practices.

  “I see you look-a my tile. I’m-a do it myself. A hobby. Si? I get furniture that don’t look good on top. I’m-a tile it like an old mosaic in a picture book. You wanna see the one inna my bedroom?”

  “No, thanks,” I said hastily. The kitchen table didn’t seem to be pornographic, but it was hard to tell because it was covered with the cast-iron frying pan in which he had made the frittata; plates, cups and saucers, wildly painted in red and yellow; a vase of purple flowers that I’d seen growing on bushes around the city; and a stack of magazines. But goodness knows what mosaics he had in the bedroom and whether he’d showed them to my mother-in-law. I almost choked on a bite of garlic toast when I thought of Vera casting a jaundiced eye on some ancient Roman courtesan and her lover cavorting on a ledge in a bathhouse. I’d seen some of those mosaics myself. They caught you by surprise, especially if you were fourteen years old and accompanied by your father, a rather stern history professor.