Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “God help us,” I cried.

  “You better go on home to Texas if a little tremor’s going to scare you.”

  That sounded like a good idea to me. Maybe I could get a plane out before the airport became inaccessible. My taxi had crossed bridges over water to get me to the Stanford Court. I’d hate to be on one of those bridges if the Big One hit.

  Sam pulled up to the center. “No need to panic,” he advised. “I’d feel more comfortable with a measly little tremor than an evening with a bunch of witches.”

  “Marigold Garland is not a scary woman,” I assured him, “just a little eccentric.”

  “Better you than me,” he replied. “Pick you up tomorrow at nine.” And off he went before I could make up my mind to ask for a ride to the airport.

  Oh well, the ground seemed steady under my feet, so I decided to attend the meeting. Maybe the Goddess would warn us if an earthquake was in the offing. I thought about climbing the front steps, but I was so stiff from the motorcycle riding that I walked around the corner to look for the gate into the backyard. That was a mistake. It was very dark, and when I actually peeked in, the only light emanated from the rising moon and the candles held by chanting women in white robes.

  Obviously, I was late. Should I turn around and go home? That flitting movement they were executing didn’t look like anything my aches and pains would allow me to imitate. Well, too late. Marigold had spotted me and was dashing in my direction, chanting something about another sister come to join the circle. What did my mother-in-law think of these people? Had she ever been asked to join in? Marigold thrust a candle into my hand and led me toward the coven. Isn’t that what groups of witches are called?

  29

  Earth to Moon

  Jason

  By 11:30 I had been in the apartment for an hour, torn between the fear that Carolyn might have been kidnapped by the pizza delivery man and the suspicion that she had gone out and stayed away to worry me because I hadn’t taken her to dinner. Lately she seems to think that going out to eat is more important than an exciting research project.

  At any rate, she bounced in, breathless, all smiles, saying, “You won’t believe the day I’ve had, Jason.”

  Instead of listening, as would have been sensible, I said, “And you wouldn’t believe the hour I’ve just spent worrying about you. Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to order out for pizza and—”

  “Be waiting for you like a good little homebody? No wonder your mother is a feminist—a feminist, I might add, who is now in jail. I’ve been trying to get her out, and I have columns to write, so I went out to dinner. Do I complain when you don’t come home until late because you’re writing a paper on something highly toxic?”

  “You went out to eat by yourself?” That wasn’t like Carolyn.

  “No, Jason, I had dinner with Sam and a friend of his named Paul Labadie. He’s a handsome venture capitalist with lovely manners. It’s really too bad you couldn’t get free, because we had wonderful sushi. Have you ever had a Dragon Roll? They’re—”

  “You had dinner with two men, neither of whom you know at all? How did you get to this place?”

  “On Sam’s motorcycle. That was after we interviewed a man named Spider at a pool hall and before we visited a homeless shelter in Haight-Asbury to get information on a schizophrenic client at the center.”

  I must admit I had been a bit jealous at the idea of my wife dining with handsome venture capitalists, but motorcycles, pool halls, and homeless shelters? “Carolyn, do you have any idea of how dangerous places like that are?”

  “I was with Sam. Did you know he was a professional football player?”

  “Of course. He was a linebacker for the 49ers.” Which should have been enough to make my wife run in the other direction. Her reaction to football is usually expressed in winces and hurried departures from rooms where it’s on the TV screen. “And Mr. Flamboise could be twice as large and unable to protect you from someone with a weapon. Dad hired the man so you wouldn’t—”

  “Oh, I was perfectly safe. Except for the earth tremor. Those make me very nervous. I don’t care if Sam is a geologist and thinks the ones this week aren’t worth worrying about.”

  “Our private detective is a geologist?”

  “Yes, his degree’s from Stanford, where he played football. Oh, and Jason, I hope you won’t be angry—”

  “I already am.”

  “But not for a good reason. I have a right to go out to dinner with friends if you’re not available and to talk to people about possible suspects in Denise Faulk’s murder. Goodness, I did a lot of my detecting on the telephone this morning, and this afternoon I interviewed a Japanese American window designer who took me to a store that had a perfect rug.”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “For us. That’s why I’m apologizing, but you’ve been so busy, I was afraid you wouldn’t get a chance to look at it with me, so I bought it.”

  “What did it cost?”

  “Jason, you can be so stingy. It cost eight hundred dollars. I’ll pay for it myself, if you think that’s too much. She told me about a place here that has wonderful South African dining room sets, too.”

  “I don’t want a new dining room set.”

  “Fine. I won’t look for one. Don’t you want to hear about the rest of my evening?”

  “With Sam?” I asked sharply. “Or Paul?”

  “Why, Jason, are you jealous?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Not really. They’re a gay couple.”

  For God’s sake! Did my wife actually think Sam Flamboise, the all-pro linebacker for five years running, was gay? “Carolyn, Sam is not gay.” I tried to sound patient and nonpatronizing. “Whoever told you that—”

  “He told me. Even Spider at the pool hall knew it. He made some smart remark, and Sam scared him half to death with a look and a couple of words. He’s called Spider because he has them tattooed all over his arms. A perfectly disgusting man, but he knows Freddie Piñon, an abusive husband who came to the center to find out where his wife was, and Denise was the one who had got Graciella, Freddie’s wife, into a shelter. So Freddie might have killed Denise, don’t you think? I saw a television show about an abusive husband who attacked a woman who had helped his wife.”

  “Carolyn, for God’s sake, you can’t associate with people like that. It’s dangerous.”

  “So you’re not mad about the carpet? Good. Bebe Takashima is really quite safe and has wonderful taste in rugs. But I haven’t told you about the end of my evening. I’ve been at the center with the Interfaith Women. Sam dropped me off.”

  Relieved, I said, “Well, that sounds all right. Who brought you home?”

  “Marigold Garland. She’s a witch or a goddess worshipper or some such. We danced around under the rising moon in the backyard, holding candles and chanting things about herbs and spices. It’s really rather relaxing, once you get over feeling silly. The idea was that the Goddess might tell us who killed Denise, but she didn’t, so then we had tea and nasty whole-grain cookies, and a channeler tried to put me in touch with Denise, but she couldn’t because I never met Denise. She was quite put out when she heard that because she’d used up all her powers on me and couldn’t try it with someone who had known Denise.

  “Then this lady who reads people’s auras told me whose aura had looked murderous lately. I don’t know how useful that will be, but I’ll pass the names on to Sam. Frankly, most of the people she mentioned I could have guessed: the director Marina Charez-Timberlite; the schizophrenic art student, Martina L. King; Freddie Piñon; Mr. Timatovich, the security guard, but not very often; Marcus Croker, who’s a policeman; and—oh—your mother.”

  “Now you’ve decided that my mother’s guilty?”

  “No, Jason. If I thought that—well, I don’t know what I’d do, but it wouldn’t be an investigation of the murder. That would be horrible—for me to prove that your mother did it.”

  “Yo
u must be very tired, Carolyn, after all these peculiar activities. Let’s go to bed.”

  “I think I’ll have a soak in a hot tub,” Carolyn replied. “Riding a motorcycle is not easy on the muscles and bones.”

  “Good. If you stay away from Sam, you won’t be riding on any motorcycles. My God, Carolyn, people in motorcycle accidents end up dead, or worse, brain dead.”

  “That’s why we wear helmets,” my wife replied and limped off to the bathroom.

  I’m ashamed to say that I was relieved to know that she was in pain. Carolyn is not one of these people who subscribe to the no-pain-no-gain school of thought. She thinks I’m slightly mad because I like to run before work. In fact, she personally dislikes exercise of any sort. She probably thought riding a motorcycle wasn’t in the exercise category and, having learned better, would now avoid them, and Sam Flamboise.

  Could the man really be gay? Not that I’m a homo phobe, but he came off at Eliza as the least-gay person I’ve ever met. On the other hand, if he and this Paul were gay, I had no reason to be jealous of my wife having dinner with them.

  Shaking my head, I went into the bedroom and lay down. Witches, pool sharks, Dragon Rolls, schizophrenics, gay private investigators. I’d have to suggest to Dad that he have a talk with Flamboise about Carolyn’s participation in the investigation. If I hadn’t been so tired, I’d probably have lain awake all night worrying about my wife.

  Carolyn

  Ah, the hot water was so comforting. I could feel the aches melting away. I leaned my head back against the rim of the tub and floated. Until the water began to slosh. But I hadn’t been moving. Which meant—earthquake ! I leapt out and wrapped myself in a towel, ready to awaken Jason and flee down into the street. Except that nothing was now happening. I peered into the tub. The water was still. Disgruntled, I dried off, donned my nightgown, and went to bed. San Francisco is not an easy place to visit. Imagine living here!

  30

  Froggie and the Snitches

  Sam

  Paul liked Carolynso much he called her at 7:30 the next morning to give her restaurant advice: Foreign Cinema for trendy, La Folie for French, and Delfina’s for Italian. He even told her to use his name so she could get reservations on short notice. Paul entertains and gets entertained expensively. I heard this conversation as I was wandering into the kitchen for breakfast. When he saw me, Paul put his hand over the receiver and said, “It’s Carolyn. You want to talk to her when I’m through?”

  I’d already gathered that she is a woman who doesn’t like getting up early. If she was pissed at Paul for calling, she’d take it out on me. “I’m outa here,” I said. “Desk piled at the office.” I scrambled away like a quarterback about to be sacked.

  My desk actually was deep in paper; topmost was a report from the computer guy I’d set to research the Faulk will. His printout said: $7,000,000 estate, family business sold before death with provision of continuing executive position for son Ray. Wife Denise got two-thirds of the stocks and cash in a life trust with provision to leave it to the son, son’s wife, and their heirs in any way she saw fit as long as they got it. Son got last third and the job. Feds got their share.

  OK, money and murder. If Ray wanted it all right now, he’d have a reason to kill his stepmother. Faulk had just become a serious suspect, filed upstairs at Flamboise Central. I attacked the non-Blue stuff, only to be interrupted by Spider Morales. I never knew he got up so early.

  “Hey, Sammie, I got news about Piñon. His cousin saw him Saturday night. For a fee, which you gotta pay me along with the two hundred you promised, he’s saying Freddie wants to hide out at his place, but the cousin can’t let him ’cause he’s got a hot girlfriend don’t like Freddie. She’d move out if Freddie moves in. Get the picture? Anyway, Freddie’s pissed ’cause he’s sleeping rough in some condemned building, but he gives the cousin some cash an’ tells him to buy a gun. Freddie’ll catch him in a couple a days, an’ pick it up.”

  “Where’d Freddie get money?” I asked. “He’s just out on parole.”

  “I don’ know, man.”

  “Where’s Freddie hiding out?”

  “I ain’t heard that yet.”

  “I’ll up the ante if you do.”

  “OK. Gimme your cell number. I’ll catch you later.”

  I gave him the number and thought about Piñon, who had cash to buy a gun. If there had been cash in Denise Faulk’s office, that would explain Freddie’s surprising affluence, and also his need to hide out from the police, even if the only place he could get was some boarded-up dump full of rats and rubble. Suspect number two. I filed him and went back to business.

  By quarter to nine I’d cleared my desk and begun to call around for a name on someone who made counterfeit bus passes. Didn’t sound like a very lucrative business to me, but I supposed there were enough illegal aliens and college kids in this town to keep him in bed and board, especially since the name I got, Froggie, had an address in the Tenderloin. Definitely low-rent. Froggie sounded like someone I might want to visit without Carolyn, whom I was supposed to pick up—right now.

  My phone rang, news from my Russian snitch. Timatovich evidently liked his vodka and talked too much when he was drinking. He’d let it be known among his closest friends that he’d overheard a telephone conversation where he worked and had the goods on the accountant, who was cooking the books for fun and profit. So the bitch couldn’t get him fired, according to Alexi, because he could get her fired. In fact, he was going to horn in on her scam and get rich, send his kid off to college in style with a car and money for a fraternity. Did they have fraternities at Cal Tech?

  That was last week’s news. On Sunday Timatovich was crying in his Smirnoff with his good friends because someone had killed the bitch, so she couldn’t get him fired, but she wasn’t going to make him rich either.

  That pretty much wiped him out as a suspect. He’d had good reason to keep her alive. I called Carolyn to say I couldn’t make it until ten. She wasn’t pleased, but since I had a call on another line, I had an excuse to get off before she could enlarge on her displeasure. My next caller was in-house, my second computer hacker. Eric Timberlite was rumored to use mob guys to drive poor tenants out of rent-controlled buildings that he wanted to restore or tear down. The rapidity with which these buildings had cleared supported the rumors, in Simon’s opinion. Also some of Timberlite’s less-successful real estate ventures had burned down in the past. Suspicion of arson. Last, my hacker had heard from a software engineer who worked for the great man that Timberlite had been overheard ordering his wife to make the Women of Color stop protesting. If she didn’t get it done, she’d have to resign, stay home, and give up her connection to the socially prominent Nora Hollis.

  Didn’t put him in a very favorable light, but the information didn’t implicate Timberlite in Denise Faulk’s murder. So, mark him off unless others didn’t check out. I told my secretary I was leaving and headed for the Tenderloin. If Carolyn thought the Tres Hermanos neighborhood was scary, she’d have had a heart attack over this one.

  Froggie lived and worked in a third-floor walk-up. The halls and stairs smelled like piss, but his place was clean and stuffed with electronics, tools of the modern counterfeiter. He had a bed, unmade, in a second room, which also doubled as a kitchen. Great quarters. “You oughta look into one of those loft-living spaces they built for the dot.commers and never managed to sell,” I advised Froggie after introducing myself. “They’re goin’ cheap.”

  “Not cheap enough for me. Anyway, it’s the work I like. I don’t give a shit about the accommodations. So, what can I do for you? You need a passport or something?”

  “Information. You know a woman named Bad Girl?”

  “Why you wanna know?”

  “She’s gone missing. I’m trying to find her for a friend named Corky.” A little timely lying is an important talent for someone in my business.

  “Sure, Corky. Runs a shelter in the Haight. If Bad Girl sleeps inside,
which she don’t do much, she sleeps there or with me. How long’s she been outa touch?”

  “Corky hasn’t seen her since last week.” I didn’t mention that Carolyn had seen her Monday.

  “Huh.” Froggie turned to a printer and inspected the slowly emerging product. “I seen her last Tuesday week. She come in for her bus pass and our monthly fuck.”

  “Yeah, I heard you get it on with her. That must be something. Doing a schizo.”

  “Well, it’s weird ’cause she talks to herself. Even when we’re in bed.” He gestured toward the twin bed in the other room. “An’ I’d like it better if she’d take a bath. I offered her my bathroom, but she don’t like to take her clothes off. Hell, how many girls you know do it wearin’ their sneakers?”

  Using a magnifying glass, he examined the finished page. I politely refrained from getting close, being more interested in information than his business activities.

  Froggie nodded his head approvingly. “You ever need a passport or a birth certificate, anything like that, I’m your man.”

  “Thanks. About the girl.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, looking like I do, it’s not as if I can afford to be too choosy. Anyway, I kinda like her. She’s different.”

  It was easy to see where Froggie got his nickname. He had the squashed-in face and croaky voice that went with amphibians that spend time sitting on lily pads. Maybe Martina L. King thought he’d turn into a prince one night. “So you got any idea how I could find her?”

  “Ridin’ the bus. That’s what she does. That’s why she puts out for me. She’s got no money, an’ she wants to ride the bus.”

  “Last time she was seen was late afternoon. Does she have any favorite evening buses?” I asked. If she’d been on one last Thursday at the right time, she hadn’t killed Denise Faulk, or if she’d been on one later and had killed Denise, she might have been seen with blood on her by passengers or driver.