The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  “Bullshit!” I wasn’t going to listen to any more of this. I pushed back my chair and stood up. “If that’s all, I’m leaving.”

  “You can go. But make sure you don’t leave the Bay Area,” Warren warned me. “We’ve got our eye on you. Oh, and don’t expect that insurance money anytime soon. Until we give them the go-ahead, they’re not paying you a dime.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The early rains had caused oxalis to sprout everywhere among the flowers and veggies. As I knelt in the dirt and pulled out the intruders, I felt myself relaxing. I scooped up my pickings and dumped them into the compost pile. I gave the pile a few turns with a pitchfork, happy to see a bevy of earthworms hard at work. Bees were buzzing in the salvia, two hummingbirds were dipping their long beaks into the California fuchsia, and Jasper was lolling in the sunshine.

  Unbidden, the scene of Thalia’s death came into my mind. Her body lying in the mud, surrounded by human detritus: the soiled sleeping bags, empty beer bottles, McDonald’s wrappers, a discarded Louis Vuitton shopping bag filled with filthy clothes. A scattering of cigarette butts.

  I went inside and phoned Hernandez. “This is Rae Sullivan,” I told him. “I understand from Garrett that you think Thalia told him she was pregnant and that it was a motive for him to kill her. Well, that can’t be true.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Sullivan. What makes you say that Mrs. Holcombe didn’t tell her husband about her pregnancy?”

  “It’s obvious,” I said, feeling proud of my deductive reasoning. “She was smoking on the night she was killed. I saw her cigarette butts near her body. Gauloises. She would never have smoked if she’d known she was pregnant. Never!”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We were aware the cigarettes were the victim’s. Your insight into her likely behavior is helpful. But, of course, the cigarettes don’t prove that she was unaware of the pregnancy. Perhaps she had decided to terminate it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. He was right. That was certainly a possibility. “Oh. Yes. Well, I just thought you should know,” I finished lamely.

  “Nonetheless, I appreciate your help. Please call if you think of anything else.”

  “I will.” I hung up, feeling foolish. Of course Thalia might not want to have a child with Etienne. All sorts of possibilities were occurring to me. What if Etienne knew about the pregnancy and didn’t want Thalia to have an abortion? Would he have become violent? No, that made no sense. If he wanted the child, he wouldn’t kill Thalia. Or what if he was the one wanting to end the pregnancy, and she was determined to have the baby? But if that were true, I was sure she wouldn’t have been smoking. In either case, why would Etienne try to extort money?

  It all came back to those blackmail notes. Unless . . . I stood in the kitchen lost in thought. What if the note was a sham, only intended to lure Thalia to a dark, lonely spot? Suppose the “blackmailer” was lying in wait, intending to kill her all along.

  But why the first note? There was no plausible explanation. Perhaps it really was a mugging—a case of Thalia being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, whoever had lured her to the park with that note bore some responsibility for her death. I was determined to uncover who it was.

  I heard Peter’s car pull into the driveway. Time for a talk. I didn’t want to start a fight, but I had to know what was going on with our finances. A minute later, he came in through the back door. “Hi, love,” he said, giving me a kiss. “Your face is smudged with dirt, you know.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at my forehead.

  “Peter, we need to talk.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing, I hope. But the police told me some things that really upset me today, and I need to ask you about them.”

  “OK, I have to make a few phone calls. Let’s talk over dinner.”

  I had some business emails to take care of, anyway. I busied myself with that until dinner was ready, then called Peter. He came downstairs, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and said, “I’m all ears.”

  I sat down across from him. “Peter, the police said you owe a lot of money. Is it true?”

  “Well, yes, I’m in a bit of a hole, but it’s nothing serious. I’ve been there before. As I keep telling you, love, you’ve got to take some risks if you want to make money.” He heaped potatoes, salad, and slices of roast beef onto his plate. “This looks delicious.”

  “But, Peter, they said you’ve been borrowing from loan sharks.”

  He laughed. “Private sources, darling, private sources. That doesn’t make them loan sharks. Look, there’s nothing for you to worry about. And why were the police even interested?”

  “Because they think you and I plotted to kill Thalia for the insurance money.”

  He burst out laughing. “You and I? Look, I won’t deny that the money is coming at a very good time. In fact, I recently borrowed some funds from a friend. But the thought of you plotting to kill anyone is laughable. You won’t even swat a spider. The police are just trying to rattle you.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe because they have no leads.” He drank some more of his beer. “But you know, this is a good time to tell you something I’ve been thinking about.” He paused. “How would you feel about moving to Arizona?”

  I must have had a less-than-overjoyed look on my face because he immediately said, “Just for a while. Not permanently.” He went on to explain. The real estate market had tanked. Houses were sitting empty. We’d rent out our Fairfax home and go live in one of the vacant properties. He’d renovate it—“cheaply, of course. No more than the market will bear”—and sell it. Then move to the next house. “You’ll do the landscaping, I’ll do the remodeling, and then we’ll flip them,” Peter said. “The timing is perfect. The market is heating up again, and I can recoup my losses.” He reached out and took hold of my hand. “This is a great opportunity for us, Rae.”

  “So you’d give up your business?” I asked.

  “No, no. I’d fly back every few weeks to meet with clients. I can do the designing from Arizona. My crew here can totally handle the construction without me breathing down their necks. My foreman is top-notch.”

  “But what about the shop?” I asked.

  “What about it? You’ve often said it was all Thalia’s idea, anyway. Here’s your chance to do more landscape design. And we’d get to work together.” He was clearly excited. “We both need a change. This will be good for you . . . for us.”

  With Thalia’s murder, I didn’t think I could stand any more change in my life at the moment, but Peter was so enthusiastic that I wanted to be supportive. I nodded (convincingly, I hoped). “Let me think about it. It could be fun.”

  “Of course it will be fun. You think about it and let’s talk again tomorrow.”

  I smiled and nodded. Tomorrow? How soon was he planning this move?

  Later that evening, as Peter watched TV, I thought for a long time about Le Jardin. True, it had never been my idea. It was Thalia’s way of rescuing me from a bad situation. She’d just opened the shop when everything at the auction house blew up, and she generously invited me to go into business with her. I was grateful for the opportunity, no doubt about it. And as it turned out, I was good at it. Better than I’d ever dreamed. The shop was thriving. Damn it, I didn’t want to give up the business that Thalia and I had worked so hard to build. At least not for Arizona.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next morning, I stood in front of 275 Grant Avenue, a narrow three-story building in the heart of Chinatown. This was the address I’d found in Marcel’s hotel room. The street was jammed with people—locals doing their grocery shopping and tourists hitting the trinket shops. I stepped from the brightness of the day into a small, dark lobby. Unsure where to go next, I peered at a panel that listed all the businesses in the building. Crap! It was in Chinese. I was going to have to try them all. At least there were only four floors and only two businesses listed per floor. I
pressed the “up” arrow to summon the elevator, but its creaks and groans didn’t inspire confidence. I opted for the stairs.

  My first try hit an impasse. I didn’t blame the woman who sat at the reception desk. Since I couldn’t utter a word in her language, it was no surprise that she was unaccommodating. I showed her a picture of Marcel on my phone, which I’d asked Julien to send me. She shook her head dismissively, and I left. I fared slightly better at the other company on that floor, which appeared to be some sort of clothing factory. Behind the entry-way was a huge room, full of women busy at sewing machines. Here, the manager spoke English, and I felt less foolish. But he, too, denied recognizing Marcel.

  The next floor up yielded the same non-results. On I trudged, with a newfound respect for professional detectives. It was becoming apparent that you hit a lot of dead ends before you found out something useful.

  On the fourth floor, I knocked at the first door and received a reply in a language I didn’t understand but that sounded welcoming. I opened the door. The large, sky-lighted room was outfitted floor to ceiling with shelves, all crammed with jars. Some looked like tea leaves or other herbs; others held more dubious contents floating in liquid.

  “Hello,” I said tentatively.

  “Hello, hello.” A small Asian man smiled at me. “I am Dr. Lee. How can I help you?”

  I showed him the photo of Marcel. “Do you recognize this man?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, yes, very nice man. I was able to help him.”

  I tried not to look as clueless as I felt. “Great,” I said. “Er, can you tell me what he wanted?”

  The man laughed. “You’re not his girlfriend, are you?”

  “Oh, no! No!”

  He laughed harder. “I didn’t think so. A beautiful lady like you, he wouldn’t need help from me.” He winked.

  It took me a moment, but it finally dawned on me what he was talking about. Marcel had come for some sort of herbal Viagra.

  “I sold him tiger penis. Guaranteed to help with the ladies.”

  “Tiger penis? Is it really from tigers?” I was horrified.

  His smile faded. “How come you ask about that?” He looked mistrustful. “Are you police?”

  “No, no,” I assured him. “My friend was very happy with what you sold him. That’s why he told me to come here for my high blood pressure.”

  He remained unconvinced. “Then why do you show me his picture?”

  It was apparent that my cover story left a lot to be desired. “I just wanted to make sure I was in the right place,” I said, hoping that sounded plausible. “His handwriting was hard to read.”

  That satisfied Dr. Lee, and his engaging grin returned. “It would be my pleasure to help you.” He took down one of the jars with what looked like an octopus floating in it. “Mrs. Wong’s placenta,” he said. “You steep a piece in boiling water. Make tea. Very good for you.” Trying not to gag, I purchased what I sincerely hoped was not an actual placenta. Dr. Lee gave me some dietary advice for my fictional medical condition, which I promised to follow.

  “Oh, do you remember what day my friend was here?” I asked casually. Now that we were buddies, he apparently didn’t find this question suspicious. He checked his stack of sales slips, which were skewered on a spindle.

  “Here it is. One ounce dried tiger penis. September one.” The night Thalia was killed.

  “What time do you close?” I asked.

  “Five o’clock.”

  So Marcel would certainly have had enough time to get to Golden Gate Park at six thirty to pick up the money. But then why was he late? Why hadn’t Thalia confronted him until after eight o’clock? I needed to find out where he went after Chinatown so I could reconstruct the events of that evening. But as I expected, Dr. Lee didn’t know anything about where Marcel had been going next. I thanked him and left.

  I was ten minutes late for my lunch date with Sonia a few blocks away. When I joined her at a table, she already had three small plates in front of her. “Hope you don’t mind that I started without you,” she said between mouthfuls of shrimp dump-lings. She flagged down the waiter rolling the dim sum cart and pointed to a plate of steamed pork buns, her armful of silver bracelets jangling. “We’ll take some of those too.”

  “My visit to Grant Avenue was interesting,” I said. “It’s an herb shop run by a man named Dr. Lee. His shop is full of weird crap in jars. And Marcel was there all right. Buying tiger penis. Want to guess what it’s used for?”

  “Migraines?”

  “Impotence.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. He was there the night of the murder. But he left by five. So he still had time to get to the park. You know, I think it’s really from tigers. They kill them to make this stuff. Pathetic. Maybe I should let Hernandez know what’s going on.”

  “Good idea. What’s in the bag?”

  I hesitated to tell her, since she was still eating with gusto. I waited until she swallowed.

  “Mrs. Wong’s placenta.”

  “Holy shit. Human organ trafficking?”

  “I doubt it, unless Mrs. Wong gives birth every fifteen minutes. He had about thirty jars full of the stuff. You make a tea out of it for high blood pressure.”

  “Live and learn,” Sonia said. “Here, try this squid roll.”

  I declined.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jasper and a shaggy poodle were splashing in a puddle at the dog park, while I sat on a bench lost in thought. Had it only been a week since Thalia was killed? It felt like a lifetime.

  I thought of Thalia’s first call to me as she walked toward Golden Gate Park. And then again a little later from Smitty’s. She had been so excited about her plan to catch Marcel. Why hadn’t I talked her out of it? Or why hadn’t she taken Luc with her like I’d asked her to? I was sure now that she’d intended the whole time to go back into Golden Gate Park and confront him. The bus backup just made it easier.

  Suddenly, I remembered. She had seen something—or someone. What had she said? “Son of a bitch.” No, “That son of a bitch.” So definitely someone. But who? She’d insisted it wasn’t Marcel and that it had nothing at all to do with the blackmail.

  Still, it could be important. How could I have forgotten to tell the police about that? I dialed Hernandez’s cell phone. He answered on the second ring. “It’s Rae Sullivan,” I said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I just remembered something else that Thalia said when she called from Smitty’s.”

  “Yes?”

  “She was telling me about going back into the park. And of course I was telling her not to. And then she stopped and said, “That son of a bitch.”

  “And then?”

  “Um, that’s all. She said it was nothing. I thought she’d seen Marcel but she said no, it had nothing to do with him. That’s all. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but . . .”

  “No, everything is important. I appreciate your calling.”

  “You’ve talked to the people at Smitty’s, right?”

  “Yes, certainly,” Hernandez said.

  “Well maybe you’ll want to go back and talk to them again about this. Maybe you can find out what she saw that was so surprising.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said politely. I wondered if he’d do anything with this new information. Screw it. I would go to Smitty’s myself.

  I waited until early evening, hoping I’d run into some of the same people that had been there last Monday. I showered, changed into black slacks and a fluffy white sweater, and then texted Peter that I would be gone for a few hours and drove into the city to Smitty’s. The place was pretty full, with a noise level that was close to a roar. To the left of the door was a long, sleek counter with barstools that ran along the front window. Every stool was occupied. Behind that were about a dozen tables. Along the right wall was the bar, where a stocky man was busy serving a crowd and joking with customers. I found a seat at the end of the bar. It too
k a minute for the bartender to work his way down to me.

  “What can I get you?”

  I ordered a Heineken, which the man sitting to my left immediately offered to pay for. “No, thanks,” I said with a smile. “I’m actually here on business.”

  “I like business,” he said, sounding as though he’d already had more than one of whatever he was drinking.

  Ignoring him, I spoke to the bartender, who was pouring my beer into a chilled glass. “I’m Rae.” He introduced himself as Brad. “Brad, were you working last Monday, the night of the murder in the park?” I asked.

  “Yep. Matter of fact, I served that beautiful lady. Vodka martini with a twist.”

  “You have a good memory,” I said, impressed. “I’m trying to get some information about someone who may have been following her.”

  “You a detective?” he asked.

  “You could say that.” I flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “Did you notice this man here?” I showed him the photo of Marcel.

  “Oh, that homely dude. The police already showed me his photo. I’ve never seen him in here.” A customer sitting in the middle of the bar waved to Brad for a refill. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  As soon as Brad stepped away, the guy next to me tried again to make conversation. “So you’re a detective. Do you carry a gun?”

  “No.”

  “You sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

  “Maybe some other time,” I told him. A minute later Brad returned. “I know you’re busy,” I said. “I’m just wondering if anything strange happened while Thalia was here. Did she have a confrontation with anyone?”

  “Not that I saw. Like I said, she ordered a martini. She was talking on her phone to someone, real quiet-like. And watching the front windows like she was waiting for someone.” That made sense. She was waiting for the buses to pull away so she could make her move. “I served some other customers,” Brad continued. “When I came back, she had left. Barely touched her drink. She was a good tipper, though.”