by Rick Homan
I was in the middle of an essay on trompe-l'oeil in 17th-century Dutch painting when Adams knocked. I invited him in, and he sat in the chair beside my desk.
“You have some information for me?” he asked.
“I do. I’m not sure how important it is.”
“That’s all right. You never know what might be relevant.”
“When you visited the gallery Sunday afternoon, you said you would talk to Mel and Rita about Edgar’s relationship with Jessica Fabrizio.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Were you able to talk to them?”
He glanced past me to the wintry scene outside the window, and his expression relaxed. I almost thought he might smile. “You said you have information for me, but it seems you want me to give you information.”
I knew he was thinking about the way I cooperated with him last year when he investigated the murder of a student. I frequently asked him what he had discovered. He thought I was interfering and scolded me for it more than once, but really, I was trying to fill in blanks and resolve contradictions and ambiguities in what was known. I can’t help it. I’m a historian. That’s what I do. Eventually, we reached an understanding, and, when the murderer was arrested, Adams admitted that I had helped. Now he was reminding me of why he was in my office instead of scolding me. I appreciated that. It showed our understanding was still in place.
“You’re right, Sheriff. I’m doing things out of order. But, if you fill me in on these things, I won’t waste your time telling you things you already know.” His look told me he remained skeptical but was willing to cooperate. “So, were you able to talk to Mel and Rita?”
He took out his notebook and consulted it before speaking. “Yes. I spoke with both of them and with some others who knew Yount when he lived in Cleveland. They all confirm that he and Fabrizio were in a relationship for almost two years and that it ended amicably when he received a fellowship and went to Europe for two years. When he returned, they were seen together on social occasions but did not appear to restart their relationship. In the years since, no one has seen anything to suggest he had any lingering resentment toward her.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that. It looks like Edgar wouldn’t have had any reason to kill her.”
“I have more,” said the sheriff. “Police in Louisville have interviewed Fabrizio’s friends. They all seem to be aware she had a prior relationship while in graduate school in Cleveland but have never heard her express concern about her ex’s feelings towards her.”
“That’s even better. So, Edgar is in the clear.”
“No, but it seems less likely that he had a motive.”
I took a big breath and let it out. I couldn’t help smiling. “I’m so glad to hear that. I never thought he could have done it. It’s a relief to know he’s not under suspicion anymore.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” said Adams. “Until we make an arrest, no one is above suspicion. But, yes, Edgar Yount is of less interest.”
“And what about Mel? You were going to look into all the men who might have seen her when she arrived at the gallery.”
“Between the time he and Rita Cruz left the gallery and arrived at the restaurant, he may not have had time to go to the motel where Fabrizio was staying, but we need to confirm that.”
“Good.”
Adams wore an amused expression. “And now, Doctor, if I have answered all your questions, would you mind telling me why you called me here?”
Chapter 14
That lump in my stomach returned. I had to tell Sheriff Adams what I knew, and my information could bring the investigation back to the gallery and the campus.
“Of course, Sheriff. As you know, there were two other men at the gallery when Jessica arrived on Saturday afternoon.”
Adams flipped some pages in his notebook. “Paul Weinert and Matthew Dunkle. They’ve been interviewed. Neither has a solid alibi, but that’s not unusual.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you had spoken with them.”
“My deputies did. Can you tell me anything about them?”
“Yes. I looked up some information on them. I wondered if Paul Weinert, my student intern, knew Jessica before she came to the gallery on Saturday. It doesn’t seem so. He’s from Lima and he doesn’t appear to have any connection to Louisville or Cleveland.”
Adams was reading a page in his notebook and nodding. I assumed he was comparing his deputy’s notes with what I was telling him.
I moved on to the hard part. “But yesterday I saw Paul in the gallery. When I mentioned that the woman who was murdered had come to the gallery on Saturday, he called her a ‘bitch.’”
“Why would he do that?” Adams’s pen was poised to write.
“He thought she had snubbed him when she came in. He wanted to give her a brochure and talk to her about the exhibit and apparently she ignored him and went right over to talk to Edgar, Mel, and Rita.” Adams looked confused, so I explained. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but Paul is very eager to please. This internship is important to him, and he sometimes takes himself too seriously.”
After jotting a note, Adams asked, “Did you observe his conduct toward her on Saturday?”
“Not her specifically. At one point it seemed he was trying to join Edgar, Jessica, Mel, and Rita for dinner. I distracted him with some chores so they could get away.”
“So, he wasn’t openly hostile toward her at that time?”
“No. He was upset, but he held it in. I just thought I should mention it because I was surprised he was still angry.”
Adams nodded. “I’m glad you did. I’ll look into this.” He made a note. “Do you have any other information for me?”
I took a deep breath and unclasped my hands. “Yes. I looked up some basic biographical information on Jessica and on Matt Dunkle—the sort of thing colleges put on their websites. When I compared their bios, I noticed they both went to SUNY at Albany and they overlapped there for three years.”
Adams turned back and forth between two pages in his notebook as if comparing them. “I noticed that too. It’s my understanding that she was working on her bachelor’s degree at that time and he was getting a doctorate. Would that be correct?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean they were in different schools?”
“Yes, different schools within the same university on the same campus. And they were in different fields. Jessica was in sociology and Matt was in math.”
“Is there any reason to think they might have met during this time?”
“Not that I know of.”
Adams again compared pages in his notebook. “Still it’s interesting.”
“Sheriff, I hope I haven’t made you think that one of these two must be the murderer.”
“Not at all.”
“There must be other suspects.”
“We’re still interviewing people who knew her in Cleveland to see if she had any enemies there. The police in Louisville are doing the same. Someone could have known she was coming to the exhibit on Saturday and followed her here. We’re not narrowing our focus at this stage.”
He put his notebook and pen in his pocket and stood. “You might keep your ears open for any further information on Weinert or Dunkle.”
“What kind of information?”
“You’re on campus. I’m sure you hear things from the other professors and from students. I’d be interested in anything you might hear about them—interests, relationships, travel plans—anything at all.”
“I’m not one for gossip.”
“I don’t mean that, and I don’t suggest you start asking questions, but if you hear something you might make a note of it and pass it along to me next time we talk.”
“I’ll do my best, Sheriff.”
He left. I closed my door and turned my chair around to look out the window. I was exhausted. I had counted on returning to a normal schedule this week. Keeping up with the af
tershocks of Jessica’s death made that impossible. I wanted to help the sheriff by doing as he asked, but I hated the thought of hearing anything to do with murder.
The weekend looked clear. I could rest then. I might even go up to Columbus Saturday afternoon, do some shopping, and maybe see a movie. I might even stay overnight at a bed and breakfast. Getting away from it all seemed like a sweet dream. I just had to get through Friday.
Irene called me Thursday evening when I was finishing dinner at home. “Hey Nico, I talked to Hari. That dude is seriously paranoid. His girlfriend—well, now she’s his ex—she told me the only way she could get hold of him was to meet him at the Starbucks in the Letterman Center, so that’s what I did. I said, ‘Dude, what’s up with this?’ and he said he doesn’t use a phone because he doesn’t want to be tracked. I said, ‘Dude, you’re working at Industrial Light and Magic in the Presidio. You’re here every day. If somebody wants to find you it’s not that hard.’ He said the people who are tracking him only do it electronically.”
This was not the Hari I remembered. “Who’s tracking him?”
“I asked him. He said he couldn’t talk about it.”
I wondered what could have happened to the cheerful guy I knew at SF State. “Maybe this is what happens when you spend hours every day staring at a computer screen and drawing monsters and superheroes.”
“I guess.”
“On the other hand, what if he’s right?”
“Then we’re all screwed. Anyway, I told him you wanted advice for your students, and he said you should write down your questions on paper and mail it to him—we’re talking envelope and a stamp—and he gave me a post-office box number.”
“That’s not going to work. My department is meeting next Tuesday and I need this information.”
“I hear you. I told him you just want to know how your students can get into animation. He said they shouldn’t try. They should do something else.”
I could hardly believe what Irene was saying. Did Hari really mean to discourage students from pursuing careers in animation? “Sounds like he’s gone completely off the rails.”
“No, I think he was for real about this. He said animation is going through the same thing as programming: it’s cheaper to hire people in Romania, or Costa Rica, or someplace.”
“Do you mean like India?”
“No. He says India’s too expensive now.”
“That’s crazy! What about all the tech companies in San Francisco?”
“He says they’re the creative types and project managers. They have a few people writing code here, but less and less.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Like the song says, ‘It’s a small world after all.’”
So, the job market in animation was moving overseas. The thought of relaying that information to my department gave me the start of a headache. Maybe watching his professions shrink was making Hari paranoid. “Okay. That tells me what I need to know.”
“So how about your future?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to spend the rest of your life in Iowa?”
“I live in Ohio.”
“Okay. I knew it was one of those fly-over states.”
Ouch! “Irene, it’s really not cool to say that.”
“What? Fly-over state?”
“Yes. People live here. It’s a real place.”
“Give me a break.”
“People have homes and jobs here,” I said. “They live perfectly happy lives without ever thinking about what goes on in San Francisco.”
“They’re happy down on the farm, eh?”
My best friend from childhood was starting to seriously annoy me. “Yes, they raise crops here, just like we do in the Central Valley in California.”
“And what’s that like for you?” she asked. “Are you the only Asian girl in town?”
“I admit, there aren’t that many of us, and that can be awkward sometimes.”
“And if I came to visit, they’d all think I was illegal, and maybe a terrorist or a murderer, and they’d want to deport me.”
“No, they wouldn’t all think that,” I said. “There are some people like that here, but I’ve heard some pretty ugly insults in San Francisco too. You know it happens.”
“Yeah, but not that much.”
“It doesn’t happen every day here either.”
“Okay. I don’t want to fight about it. I just called to let you know what Hari said.”
“And that is awesome, Irene. Thank you so much, especially since you had to go and find him. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do. Stay cool.”
“Actually, I’m doing all I can to stay warm.”
“Oh, right.” She sounded smug as she said, “I think it’s supposed to get up to 60 here today.”
“It’s not going to get above freezing here.”
“Ugh.”
“So, I admit, the weather is better in San Francisco. Thanks again, Irene.”
Chapter 15
As I washed my dishes and cleaned up the kitchen corner in my living-dining-kitchen room, I thought back over our phone call. Irene’s attitude upset me, but I had to wonder if I’d had the same attitude before I moved here a year and a half ago. Had I known the difference between Iowa and Ohio? Could I have looked at a map and correctly labeled Arkansas, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, and other Midwestern states? More to the point, did I think the people who lived here mattered? Or did I dismiss them all as unsophisticated and bigoted?
I couldn’t deny that some were. I remembered clearly having lunch with Abbie at an outdoor table in front of Emma’s in Blanton on a Saturday at the end of my first week of teaching at Fuchs last year. A man in work boots, jeans, a t-shirt, and a cap stopped in his tracks, stared at me, and shook his head in disgust as he walked away. Abbie explained that this man, Huey Littleton, was part of a family that had been among the first Europeans to settle here. The Littleton’s regarded Edwards County as their own and didn’t want outsiders taking over. A year and a half later, I was still not sure whether “outsider” meant “came from somewhere else,” or “looks different,” or both. Either way, I knew I would never feel like I belonged here.
I went into my bedroom, laid down, and looked at my map of San Francisco on the wall at the foot of my bed. It was done in a color palette that recalled movie posters of the 1940s. I had picked it up in a map shop in North Beach when I was home for a month last summer. I traced the major thoroughfares—Geary Boulevard, Van Ness Avenue, Market Street, and so on—remembering the look and feel of neighborhoods along each of them. After hearing Irene, I wondered whether I would ever feel like I belonged in San Francisco again.
That headache came back full strength. I went into the bathroom and took some aspirin.
I had reached out to Hari for information that would support Zorn’s proposal for an animation program and ended up with the opposite. If I went to the art department’s meeting next Tuesday and told them animation is a dead-end career-wise, I might not make it out of the room alive. My own proposal to make the internship in gallery management permanent would be shot down out of spite.
In one way, I wouldn’t mind that. Paul was more trouble than he was worth, and I didn’t actually need an intern to run the gallery. Most of the time I was just thinking up things for him to do. But, in another way, I would mind. I needed the internship to appear to be part of President Taylor’s new emphasis on career preparation. Since Taylor had given me the gallery it would be ungrateful to ignore his initiative.
But if I didn’t report what I had learned about careers in animation to the department, I would be letting them set themselves up to fail. Worse, I would be letting them set students up to fail by offering a career track for which there was no career.
The aspirin wasn’t helping.
I went to the bathroom, soaked a washcloth in hot water, lay down again, and placed the folded cloth over my eyes. It was time to call home.
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br /> Since San Francisco is in the Pacific time zone, I took a shower and got ready for bed before calling, to make sure Dad would be home from work. Mom answered, told me to wait a minute, and called for Dad to join her at the kitchen table. I listened as the chairs were pulled out from the table and then slid up close so they could both lean over Mom’s phone when it was switched to speaker mode.
“Okay, honey, we’re here,” she said. “How was the opening at the gallery?”
“It went really well. Seeing all the paintings together is marvelous. Edgar gave a wonderful talk about artists try to make people look at things in a new way. He’s very personable, speaking to a group. He gave the exhibit a good send-off, and we’re getting some good traffic in the gallery.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom replied. “Were there lots of people there?”
“Yes. Faculty and students, mostly. Plus some of Edgar’s friends from Cleveland. The president of the college even showed up.”
“Did you hear that, Linda?” Dad asked. “The president of the college.”
Mom ignored him and spoke to me. “Your message said you were busy again on Sunday. Was that more business at the gallery?”
Mom had this uncanny ability to hone in on topics I didn’t want to talk about. “Not directly. It did involve Edgar and a friend of his who came to the opening, but it wasn’t directly about the gallery.” Even as I said that, I noticed it sounded like a dodge.
“Oh, that’s nice that you were able to spend some time with them,” she said. “Did you all go out somewhere for a meal?”
“Not all of us together. I ended up visiting Edgar’s studio that evening, but I was on my own.” I knew I sounded like I was lying.
“Oh? Okay. Well, did you have a nice time at his studio?”
There was no way around it. Best to get it over with. “No. I was going to see if he was alright. I got a call Sunday morning from the sheriff. A friend of Edgar’s who came to the opening was murdered in her motel room.”