“No wonder you’re still single.”
“Hey, I’m not advocating it. I’m just saying if it looked like an accident, the police wouldn’t ever hunt you down.”
“Well, the San Francisco police don’t seem to be hunting anyone down,” I said ruefully. “Julien told me they were super friendly with Marcel and thanked him for his help! It’s hopeless.”
“Oh, I don’t know. That Hernandez guy seems pretty smart to me.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. He asked me some shrewd questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like about the party at Thalia’s. Whether Renata seemed to know what was up.”
“And what did you say?”
“That she’d have to know unless she was blind.”
“You think he suspects her?” I asked.
“I think he suspects everyone for now. Probably even you.”
“Me?” I was offended. “How could he think . . .”
“That’s his job. Guilty until proven innocent. Don’t worry; he’ll sort it all out. I’m telling you, he’s shrewd. He even asked me about you and Luc. How long you’d known each other and stuff like that.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Speaking of not being blind, I noticed you were doing some heavy-duty flirting at the party.”
I blushed at the memory of the fluttery feeling that had lodged in my chest while I was talking to Luc. “Don’t be silly. He’s an old friend,” I said. “I was happy to see him. And I was a little drunk.”
“Yeah, there was a lot of that going around. Lover-boy Etienne kept hitting on me.”
“What? No! He was in love with Thalia!”
Sonia raised one eyebrow. “I’m telling you, he was coming on strong. And he had his eyes riveted on my chest.”
“Hey, with that dress you were wearing, even I kept staring at your chest.” We laughed. But the truth was, this news felt like a slap in the face to Thalia. She had actually been considering leaving her marriage for Etienne! Was the affair just another fling to him? I remembered what Julien had said about his father insisting that the family come along. Maybe Etienne was trying to show Thalia where his priorities lay.
I dropped off the dog at home, then stopped by the shop to pick up the mail, water the plants on the patio, and retrieve any deliveries that the store down the block was holding for me. I was surprised to see a news van parked out in front of Le Jardin. As I approached the front door, keys in hand, a forty-something woman in a blue pantsuit stamped out a cigarette on the sidewalk, rushed over to me, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Barbara Abrams from the Chronicle,” she said in a raspy voice. “You’re Rae Sullivan, aren’t you? I’m wondering if I could have a few words with you.”
I shook my head and muttered, “Sorry,” as I unlocked the door and stepped inside. She was right behind me, holding the door ajar with her foot. “I promise it won’t take long,” she said. “The media is sensationalizing the hell out of the murder. I want to give readers the human side of the story. Fair and balanced, I always say.”
I sighed. “OK. What do you want to know?”
“Great! Rae, we’d like to get a picture of you.” She beckoned to her cameraman. Before I could protest, he was flipping on lights and instructing me where to stand. I let him snap a few pictures and then said, “I don’t have much time. Can we get to the questions?”
“Sure. Sure,” she said, but the photographer continued snapping away, until I finally put my hand up over my face. She told him to wrap it up and wait outside. I invited her to sit with me on the patio. “You don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you?” she asked, turning on the tape. “I want to make absolutely sure I get it all down accurately,” she said.
It went well at first. I said good things about Thalia, what a dreadful shock it was, et cetera. Then she ambushed me. “This decor is really lovely,” she gushed. “But I’m not surprised, given your art background.” It appeared she had done her homework. “You used to work at Barnaby & Sloane Auction House, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“According to my research, you left when the big scandal broke—”
I cut her off. “That’s ancient history. I’m happy to tell you about Thalia and what a great loss her death is. But my background is completely irrelevant.”
“But that’s when you opened the shop with Thalia Holcombe, isn’t it? No other auction house or art gallery would hire you—”
“We’re done here. I’d like you to leave now.” I got up and walked to the front door. Reluctantly, she followed, still asking questions. I held the door open for her as she left, then slammed it behind her and turned the lock. The photographer continued to snap pictures of the storefront for a few more minutes before they drove off. What a PR disaster.
My time at Barnaby & Sloane was a chapter in my life I definitely didn’t want to revisit. My job had started off so promisingly. Fresh out of grad school with a master’s in art history, I was hired as a researcher in the antiquities department. It was challenging work that entailed long hours—and a new, grown-up wardrobe—but I loved it. My boss, Virginia, was a terrific mentor, teaching me the business from the ground up. I not only worked with collectors and dealers from all over the country, but I also got to rub shoulders with San Francisco’s elite patrons of the arts at parties in Pacific Heights.
It was at one of those gatherings that I met Hubert Grebe, a jovial dumpling of a man who I guessed to be in his midforties. Originally from Switzerland, he was an international banking executive now based in the Bay Area. We talked for a bit about his work and then moved on to the auction business. “You know, I’ve never dealt with an auction house,” he said. “But I do have a few things I’d like to sell. I travel quite often, so perhaps it makes sense to have you handle the sale rather than me doing it privately.” He peppered me with questions, and I did my best to explain the process to him. “That all sounds very good,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” By the time he left, we were on a first-name basis. He asked for my card.
A few weeks later, Hubert came in with photos of two large landscape paintings, and I introduced him to the appropriate specialist. After meeting with him, she came by to thank me. “I have an appointment to visit Mr. Grebe’s home in Hillsborough next week,” she said. “I think he’s going to turn out to be a high-value customer. Apparently, he has quite a few pieces to sell.”
Over the next several months, Hubert did in fact consign a handful of paintings, all of which garnered hefty prices. To thank me for bringing him into the fold, Robert Barnaby gave me a generous bonus—well-timed, since Peter and I were about to go on our honeymoon in Guadeloupe. Shortly after I got back, Hubert came in again, this time with three ivory pieces, which fell in my domain. I authenticated them as nineteenth-century carvings from Japan. Once again they sold for a good price. Hubert told my boss how much he liked working with me, which probably played a role in my subsequent promotion to assistant director of antiquities. Life was good.
I hadn’t seen Hubert in a while when he reappeared bearing a large parcel. “You’re going to love these,” he promised, carefully unwrapping two Etruscan artifacts. They were stunning pieces, one a footed chalice, the other a painted plate. He had bought them from a dealer in Switzerland years ago and hated to part with them, he said. But he needed to downsize because his job was transferring him back to Europe.
Virginia was on vacation, but I authenticated the pieces without hesitation. And they fetched a good price. So good, in fact, that the sale received mention in an art journal for setting a new record. That’s when everything fell apart. Thanks to the publicity, the merchandise got the attention of the Italian government, who claimed the pieces were stolen antiquities.
An FBI investigation followed, with hours of depositions and a subpoena of our accounting records. Hubert was mortified and insisted that he’d been swindled by an unscrupulous dealer. Still, the loca
l press skewered us all for not having done due diligence. Worse than the press coverage were the online comments from readers. People who knew nothing whatever about the situation didn’t hold back from calling us crooks, scammers, and worse. Although friends wrote comments in my defense, Peter finally made me promise to stop reading anything about the whole incident because I was making myself miserable.
The FBI seized the artifacts and eventually repatriated them to Italy. Barnaby & Sloane paid restitution to the two buyers, one of whom was a prominent collector who ended up suing for damages to his reputation. The auction house took out a full-page ad in major newspapers across the country, apologizing and insisting that we did not condone any such fraudulent behavior. But the board of directors was unforgiving. Robert and I were both fired. Virginia came through unscathed and graciously gave me a nice reference. Still, no one would hire me.
That’s when Thalia had come to the rescue, taking me on as a partner. About six months later, the auction house, unable to fully recover from the scandal, shut down. Robert retired to Costa Rica. Last I’d heard, Virginia was in Santa Fe, running an art gallery. We didn’t keep in touch.
CHAPTER 12
The Porsche inched along the narrow, rain-slicked street in Ross, making its way in a long line of cars to the church parking lot for Thalia’s funeral. Contributing to the snarl were two TV news vans parked on the no-parking-allowed side of the street, opposite the church’s broad front stairs. At least they had pulled up partway onto the sidewalk to leave some room for traffic to squeeze by. And at least the throng of reporters were staying on their side of the street to shoot video footage rather than shoving microphones into the mourners’ faces.
The lot was full by the time we reached it, so Peter dropped me off in front and went to look for street parking. I hurried up the broad steps to Garrett, who was in front of the church’s big double doors, shaking hands and receiving hugs as people filed past him. His fair hair was matted against his head from the steady drizzle that was coming down, but he seemed to take no notice. He hugged me and agreed to my offer to stand with him until everyone was inside. I moved under the eaves to stay dry.
A sizable crowd turned out to bid Thalia goodbye—I recognized a few local politicos, Thalia and Garrett’s country club friends, and even some of our regular customers from the shop. I spotted Detective Hernandez looking somber in a dark suit and gray tie. A gleaming town car pulled up, and San Francisco Mayor Romero emerged. No doubt, stopping directly in front of the news crew was a calculated move. Several reporters swarmed around Romero. He spoke to them for a few minutes, probably decrying the tragic death of Thalia Holcombe while working in a plug for himself. It was an election year, after all.
A few minutes later, I spotted Etienne’s party coming down the block. Renata was hard to miss. She had on a shiny black raincoat, lacy black gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat that sprouted an assemblage of black feathers. Did she always travel with funeral attire handy, I wondered, or had she shopped especially for the occasion? Etienne held an umbrella over both of them, guarding the plumage from the rain. Julien, Marcel, and Jerome followed behind. As they mounted the steps, Etienne gave Hernandez a puzzled look, and then recognition crossed his face and he nodded.
I smiled at Renata, Etienne, and Jerome in turn, hugged Julien, and completely ignored Marcel. A minute later, Peter dashed up the steps and embraced Garrett, who urged us to go inside. “I’ll join you in a minute,” he said. Peter took my arm and led me into the church.
Soft music was playing as we made our way to our seats in the front. The air was thick with the perfume of the floral arrangements that carpeted the altar and lined the steps. And the coffin was draped with Sally Holmes roses interspersed with forget-me-nots. Thalia had always admired the simplicity of those roses when she saw them in bloom at my house. It took a dozen phone calls to find a florist who could create what I wanted. Peter and I slipped into the front row, where Thalia’s mother, Helena, was already seated, looking regal—and dry-eyed—in a gray silk suit. Luc sat next to her. A moment later, Garrett took the aisle seat in our row.
I sat silently, feeling a bit out of my element. Growing up, I’d only gone to church for family weddings or christenings. For the most part, my father happily ignored his Catholic upbringing. My mother, too, had no interest in religious ritual. The only nod to her Jewish heritage was making latkes for Hanukkah. She’d once said to me, “Why do we need ten commandments when two will cover it? Be a good person and work hard.” Good advice, Mom.
The music ceased and the murmuring crowd grew quiet as the minister stepped to the podium. The familiar, comforting ritual began—reading Bible verses, singing hymns, issuing prayers. The minister spoke warmly of Thalia’s charity work, her zest for life, and her devotion to her husband—ouch.
“Thalia’s brother would now like to say a few words,” the minister announced. Luc went up to the podium. He looked pale and worn but was smartly dressed in a navy blue suit and sky blue tie. “My sister was my inspiration,” he said quietly. “When I thought of leaving Chicago to buy a farm in France, I asked her what she thought. She answered without hesitation. ‘You must do it, of course,’ she said. ‘You never know how much time you have left. It’s a sin to waste a moment.’”
As I fumbled for a tissue, Peter reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, which he pressed into my palm. Luc went on. “I can say that my sister is one of the few people I’ve met who never wasted a moment. Her charity work, her business with her lifelong friend”—here he looked up at me and smiled warmly—“her exceptional dinner parties. She put herself fully into everything she did. And had she known her life was soon to end, I’m sure she would have arranged her own funeral just to be sure it was all orchestrated to perfection.”
My turn came next. “Thalia was a true friend,” I began, my voice breaking. I paused and swallowed hard. “Thalia was a true friend,” I began again. “She taught me to take chances, to not care what other people thought, and to be myself. Because Thalia was always very much herself. Comfortable in her own skin, confident. She brought incredible focus and passion to everything she did, whether it was learning to sail or making hollandaise sauce.” I went on to talk about how she took me on as a business partner when I had a career setback. “Yes, she could be opinionated,” I said with a smile. “And yes, she was often brutally honest. But it always came from a place of wanting the best for everyone she touched. Although I’ll miss her for the rest of my life, I take comfort in believing that she left this life without a single regret about anything left undone. Au revoir, Thalia.”
I returned to my seat, now openly weeping. Peter put his arm around me. “Very well done, love,” he whispered, kissing the top of my head.
When the services ended, I told Peter I’d meet him outside, and I headed toward the restroom. Lots of women had the same idea, as the line was snaking out the door and into the vestibule. I saw Renata ahead of me in line but said nothing. When I emerged from a stall, she was standing at the bank of sinks, reapplying her lipstick in front of the mirror. I smiled as I took a spot at the sink next to her. She gave me a smile back. Or at least her mouth briefly curled up, then snapped back. “I won’t be going to the grave site,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’ve arranged to visit an acquaintance in Kentfield while I wait. My husband will pick me up when the formalities for his paramour are finished.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, but Renata immediately continued in a rush of words. “The truth is, I had no fondness for Thalia, and I feel no sadness at her death. So why should I be forced to pretend?” She zipped up her makeup bag and shoved it into her handbag. Turning to face me, she said, “Please don’t pity me. My husband was not about to leave his family, despite what Thalia may have believed. In fact, he brought us along to show her that we are more important to him than she ever would be.”
Then she composed herself and put a hand on my arm. “I mean no disrespect to you. I know s
he was your friend.”
I nodded.
“I just want you to understand. My husband and son come first.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “You have a very charming son,” I added. “I enjoyed my time with him.”
“Thank you.” This time she smiled for real, then said goodbye.
Outside, reporters converged on Garrett, who waved them away and ducked into the waiting black car. Peter and I drove to the cemetery, a journey made interminably slow by the rain. At last we entered the cemetery gates and drove through the green field to the grave site. Standing in the drizzle, I linked my arm through Sonia’s while the reverend spoke. As the pallbearers slowly carried the flower-draped coffin to the grave, I stared into the hole in the ground. This wasn’t possible. Surely the coffin held someone else, some anonymous person I had never met. The reverend said a few more words, the coffin was lowered, and Thalia was gone. I stood at the graveside feeling numb.
I looked up to find Marcel watching me. I glared at him, and he lowered his gaze. The minister was inviting the mourners to Garrett’s house for refreshments, and people began filing to their cars.
Back in Ross, I watched with approval as the caterer brought out another tray of hot crab cakes from the kitchen and set it on a trivet. Thalia never set hot dishes directly on the sideboard. People were talking quietly as they ate and drank. The mood was less tearful now, almost like a subdued cocktail party—but without the hostess. I remembered Thalia, radiant in her luminous dress, in this same dining room a week ago. How was it possible she was dead?
I offered my condolences to Helena, who accepted a hug without providing one in return. “Luc gave a lovely eulogy,” I said.
She smiled wryly. “Yes, it’s very gratifying that my children appear to have patched things up after that falling out they had years ago.”
“Oh?” I hoped she’d elaborate, but she didn’t.
The Sleeping Lady Page 8