Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “Figures.” Cammie Cheever grinned. “She doesn’t much like men. You want me to call you a cab? You’ll never get to the museum trying to take buses.”

  So I took a cab. The driver first drove to a cell phone establishment and waited while I rented one. This investigation was costing a fortune. Of course food, if it was interesting, was tax deductible, but none of the other investigation expenses were. During the drive to the park and museum, perched high over the city, I called Inspector Yu to give him my temporary number.

  “I hate cell phones,” said the driver as he accepted his fare and tip.

  “And you’re quite right to,” I agreed. “My husband says they scramble your brains. I only rented this because I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and have to keep in touch with the police.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said and drove away.

  39

  Lunch with a Philanthropist

  Carolyn

  The first thing I saw after leaving the cab was a bus heading toward the Legion of Honor. Second, I noticed the beauty of the building and its setting—trees, grass, flowers, and a clear view all the way across the bay to the Marin headlands. I took pictures before sprinting over to the bus, number eighteen, the one Bad Girl liked to ride. After the passengers climbed off, I climbed on and was told I couldn’t do that. I had to get on at the proper stop. I ignored this reprimand. “Do you know a passenger named Bad Girl? She wears a black T-shirt, little braids, and—”

  “Sure, the crazy one,” said the driver. “Talks to herself. Scares the passengers.”

  “Were you, by any chance, driving this route last Thursday evening?”

  “Nah, I’m senior. I don’t do the night runs.”

  “Oh.” How disappointing. “Could you give me the name of the driver who did drive this bus at night a week ago Thursday?”

  “How would I know, lady? Now get off, would you? I gotta drive over to my pickup stop.”

  Oh well, it was worth a try. Because I had arrived a half hour early, I wandered through the permanent collection. They had some wonderful paintings: for instance, an El Greco of St. Anthony meditating on the crucifix, and a Lucretia stabbing herself, bare-breasted and ghostly of face, a painting to haunt one’s dreams.

  By then it was time to locate the café, where I told the cashier that I was to meet a Mrs. Nora Farraday Hollis for lunch. The cashier looked as if I’d said I expected to have lunch with the mayor. Another person was called to escort me to a table. On a day so beautiful I’d have preferred to sit in the brick courtyard with its live oaks, ivy, sculptures, and tables, but my escort said Mrs. Hollis never sat outside. I soon discovered why. She was a very tall, very thin, very distinguished-looking woman of eighty or so, wearing, without a sign of perspiration, a loose wool sweater with a high neck and a long wool skirt. If she was comfortable here in that outfit, she’d have thought herself in danger of frostbite outside.

  We introduced ourselves and consulted our menus, from which I ordered their Heirloom Salad: red and yellow tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, excellent olive oil, and a marvelous balsamic reduction. Mrs. Hollis then insisted that I try one of the café’s sandwiches, so I ordered roasted eggplant and zucchini on focaccio. After all, I had given my cookies to the Homicide Department and had no idea what, if anything, I’d get for dinner. Mrs. Hollis ordered smoked turkey with all sorts of wonderful accoutrements on a sourdough roll and had half of it wrapped up to take home. Then I felt like a glutton, but she didn’t seem to notice. I ate, and she did the talking.

  First, she told me that sourdough bread was made from fermented starter dough, saved from day to day, and had probably been brought to San Francisco during the gold rush by Basques or Mexicans. Being the wife of a scientist, I had to wonder whether the yeast might not have mutated over the years, working its way toward toxicity. But my bread wasn’t sourdough. She followed up the sourdough dissertation by telling me that the original Indians had made acorn bread, which was, according to some conquistador, “deliciously rich and oily.” “Of course, they also ate insects, entrails, shellfish, and whatever else they could get, a diet that makes you appreciate our lovely café.”

  Then she told me with relish that the museum had been built on the bones of paupers from the gold rush era and that, in fact, the backfill for the café no doubt held thousands of skeletons, while their gravestones, which had been kicked over to build the golf course, were often found by nude sunbathers on the beach below. What was backfill, I wondered, and was my chair sitting on top of it? This was worse than dining with Jason when he got started on some dreadful subject like mad cow disease.

  Third, she explained how she came to be associated with the center. She had given them the building, which had been the family home from the 1870s, her family being of gold rush origins and later prominent in banking. “When my ancestors moved on to a better neighborhood, the house was converted into apartments and rented out. In fact, the city was full of them in the old days, many identical to each other, the tract houses of the 1870s. The owners ordered all the fancy woodwork from catalogues or factories South of Market, and now people think they’re so unique and delightful.”

  Mrs. Hollis chuckled at the foibles of the young and said that when the house finally came to her on the death of her mother, she gave it to the center because she was interested in the work they did and disapproved of the neighborhood in which they did it. Of course the tax deduction was welcome, as well.

  Then she told me that she herself had started the arts program and talked Fiona Morell into directing it. “Poor Fiona is a very cultured woman, but she can’t get used to the art projects that appeal to our clients: gospel choirs, Diego Rivera look-alike murals, poetry slams. Did you know that Diego Rivera was invited to a reception at the Chinese Revolutionary Artist’s Club? Evidently, the event wasn’t a great success. He arrived with a large group of friends and fans, overlapped the little chairs, didn’t speak their language, and the food ran out much too soon. This was in the early thirties. Yun Gee, one of their founders, was quite good. We have Rivera murals here in San Francisco.”

  Mrs. Hollis was my kind of woman. I love historical trivia.

  “ But I was telling you about the arts program. I managed to get a grand piano for the gospel choir, and Fiona was sure it would fall through the floor. For that matter, Denise was appalled when she saw how the floor sagged under it. She worried about the insurance liability problems. And then Fiona was so hoping last month to bring in a string quartet of Asian youngsters, but the clients voted for a poetry slam. Fiona does have trouble mediating among so many different ethnic interests, and Marina can be a bit stiff-necked when trouble arises. I’m afraid the arts program has proved to be a problem, but I feel that art is important, even if it isn’t traditional.”

  “Speaking of Denise,” I murmured, having swallowed a bite of garlicky eggplant. This had an aioli on it. “As you know, I’m trying to find out who really killed her, my assumption being that—”

  “Your mother-in-law didn’t do it. Of course, she didn’t. Have you come to any conclusions?”

  “Well, we’ve . . . my father-in-law hired a private detective, Sam Flamboise, with whom I’m working.”

  “Oh yes, the football player. But my dear, are you aware that he’s homosexual?”

  “So he said.” Didn’t she approve of gays? Well, no need to get into that. “We’ve come up with several suspects, whose names we’ve passed on to the police, and there are also some questions. I hope you can shed light on one of them.”

  “Oh, my goodness, you don’t think I killed Denise? No, of course you don’t. Denise was my favorite person there. She saved so many women at risk from brutal husbands and boyfriends. You’d be amazed at how many women live with men to whom they are not married.

  “It was a shame, taking Denise away from the battered women. She was wonderful there, but then Myra was diagnosed with—well, it was very sad, her affliction—and we had to have someone who understood
accounting. Denise was very unhappy in that position, always having to deny people money that they needed to run their programs. And she made certain discoveries. Well, the less said about that the better.”

  “Discoveries?” Finally something that might be helpful.

  “Yes. I’m afraid they were of a . . . possibly . . . criminal nature.”

  “Really? Did they have anything to do with theft of money, checks written for services never rendered or to center activities that didn’t exist?”

  “Why, how did you know? You and the football player must be excellent detectives. Poor Denise was poring over those books trying to find out where the funds had gone. I do raise a lot of money for the center, as do friends of mine, and we’ve been quite successful at getting grants. Denise shouldn’t have had to stop funding activities, but the money just disappeared, and she couldn’t tell how or where it went, although she’d developed some ideas. But then she was killed before she could identify the thief. I suppose I must go into it myself, but I’ve been so distressed by her death—”

  “Do you think it’s possible that Denise herself was stealing the money?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Hollis, looking offended.

  “But finances didn’t get tight until she took over, according to the staff.”

  “Oh well, they’re all devoted to their own areas of service. Women will bicker, you know. But it was not Denise’s fault. I tend to think that when Myra became ill, someone took the opportunity to steal while she was too distracted and frightened to notice. Yes, I’m sure that’s what happened.

  “And now that you’ve finished your lunch, my dear, let me give you a personal tour of the Henry Moore exhibit. It’s quite fine, and I do pride myself on an extensive knowledge of the artist and his work.”

  She was a veritable encyclopedia of Henry Moore information. I’ve always liked Moore’s sculpture, but before I left the museum I’d been exposed to early work influenced by primitive Egyptian and South American Indian art he’d seen in the British Museum and to drawings of people huddled in London underground stations during the Blitz, drawings that brought him his first fame and popularity. I also learned that he’d been the last child in the large family of a British coal miner. There were drawings of men in the mines, too.

  It was one of the best tours I’ve ever taken. Mrs. Hollis and I parted on very good terms, pleased with each other and Henry Moore. What a nice break from detective work. On impulse, I asked if Cliff House and the seals were nearby. At that moment I almost wished that I could spend the rest of my time in San Francisco playing tourist, but I couldn’t, of course. There was my mother-in-law to rescue.

  “Sea lions, dear,” said Mrs. Hollis. “Not seals.”

  Do sea lions balance balls on their noses? I wondered nostalgically. And why call the place Seal Rocks if there aren’t any seals?

  40

  Following the Money Trail

  Carolyn

  Since I had time before the cake course, I decided to visit Myra Fox. Even if the thefts had occurred when Myra was too ill or worried to catch on, still she might have noticed something, had some suspicion, be able to suggest who might have raided the coffers. Of course, I’d have to be very tactful. I didn’t want the poor woman to feel that she had been negligent. According to someone, she had her hands full—what with horrible treatments, depression, and losing her hair.

  I used my rental phone to call the center for her address, which I gave the taxi driver. Within twenty minutes we pulled up to a drab, pseudo-modern apartment building that made the city’s bay-window-bedecked Victorians seem all the more desirable. Myra Fox lived on the fourth floor and answered the door herself. She looked terrible: emaciated, gray-faced, turban-headed, and exhausted. Still, she seemed happy to see me and offered to make tea. Of course I refused.

  We sat in the living room, a pleasantly decorated space in plum and blue-gray with fringed lamps and flowered chairs. “I never got to meet your mother-in-law,” Myra said. “It was a great coup for the center to bring her in this summer. I actually made the initial financial arrangements. That was before I was diagnosed. I suppose someone has told you about—”

  “Yes,” I agreed hastily. “I’m so sorry for what you must be going through, but at least you have an interesting job to return to when your treatment is over.”

  She smiled wanly. “I do look forward to returning. So many good friends. And they’ve been wonderful to me, especially Charles. Have you met him?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’s been a great comfort. I heard how thoughtful he was about getting files for you to work on to take your mind off . . . well . . . work you love must be a welcome distraction.” She looked a little confused, and I had to wonder if she’d been able to do any of the work her lover brought home to divert her.

  “Actually, I’m hoping you can help me, and the center,” I continued. “I’m looking into Denise’s murder, and it’s come to my attention that money seems to be missing from the accounts.”

  She turned pale.

  “Not that anyone blames you,” I hastened to add. “But I wondered if you’d noticed any discrepancies before you had to take medical leave.”

  “What kind of discrepancies?” she asked.

  I thumbed through to the notes I’d made in Denise’s apartment. “Payments to vendors who didn’t actually provide any goods or services. Consultant payments that were . . . I don’t know . . . fraudulent? I’m afraid I don’t know much about accounting, so I may be describing these things badly. Did you suspect anything like that?”

  “No! The books were in perfect order when I left.”

  “I’m sure they were,” I said soothingly. I shouldn’t have come. I was upsetting the poor woman. “Well, there are two ways to look at this. Papers I saw in Denise’s apartment seemed to indicate she was setting up these schemes herself.”

  “Oh, surely not. I mean I know that Denise was a professional accountant for many years, so I suppose she’d know how to do something like that, but she always seemed to be a nice woman.”

  “Who’s a nice woman?” A blonde man had let himself into the apartment, and Myra introduced him as Charles Desmond.

  “Mrs. Blue has been telling me about papers found in Denise’s apartment and—and possible theft of center money. It sounds impossible, doesn’t it?”

  “I should say so,” said Desmond. “If they’d let you come back to work instead of showering you with false sympathy and making you stay home getting depressed, you’d soon get to the bottom of any funny business. I could have helped.”

  “Charles is a great believer in the benefits of working through good health and bad,” said Myra, sighing. “He’s very protective of my emotional well-being.”

  “Of course I am. Beating cancer is a matter of mind over matter. And good treatment, of course. I know all about how depressed one can be away from one’s work. The tech disaster put me, and many others, among the unemployed.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard how hard it’s been in San Francisco,” I murmured. “As I was saying, the problem seems to be whether Denise was the thief or investigating a theft. I was hoping Myra might be able to help me.”

  “Of course she can. Just let her at those books, and she’ll clear matters up in no time, won’t you, love?” He had turned fondly to Myra, who looked more tired than eager.

  “That’s a wonderful offer, but I’m afraid the police still have the office sealed off, and the books with it.”

  “So the police are investigating this presumed theft?” he asked.

  “Not really, although I’m in touch with the police, and I suppose Mrs. Hollis will bring it to their attention sooner or later. She thinks Denise was investigating the books.”

  “Nora’s a wonderful fund-raiser and a generous patron,” Myra admitted, “but she never pays any attention to what happens to the money after that, except to dash in and set up some new program from time to time.”

  “I wish we could be more he
lp to you, Mrs. Blue,” said Charles Desmond, “but if the books are unavailable, I don’t see how. Still, it was very kind of you to visit Myra and solicit her help. She needs all the company and encouragement she can get. By the way, do you live close by, or can I offer you a ride home?”

  “I’m staying at my mother-in-law’s sublet, but actually I’ve got to go back to the center. I can call a cab.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll drive you,” he insisted. “Myra, is there anything I need to pick up at the market? Why don’t you have a nap until I get back.”

  “I think I will,” she said in a tired voice.

  Desmond drove me back to the center, asking about the notes I’d seen at Denise’s house and looking very concerned with my answers. “Good lord, you don’t suppose Denise was actually stealing, do you? I wonder if someone was in it with her, and killed her to keep the profits for him or herself.”

  “I wondered about that myself, and I do have the name of a man named Jacob who seemed to be involved in whatever she was doing.”

  “Really? Well, they say there’s no honor among thieves.”

  “I understand you were in the building that night, Mr. Desmond. Did you see anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”

  “Not that I remember. I talked to Denise about taking home work for Myra, but she refused, which I thought pretty hard-hearted at the time. Looking back, maybe she knew the files couldn’t bear scrutiny by an accountant familiar with center business. The only other person I remember talking to was a young Japanese cooking teacher. I suppose I must have seen people but didn’t particularly remark them because they were regulars.”

  We’d reached Union Street, so I thanked him for his input and wished Myra a speedy recovery, then climbed the stairs, thinking that he must be very devoted to her. He was younger and quite good-looking, yet he’d stayed with her through very hard times.

  41