Chocolate Quake (28 page)

“She can’t stay here tonight,” Sam said to Inspector Yu. “Guess I’ll take her back to my house until you catch up with Ray Faulk, who’s the only suspect left. At least I’ve got good security.”

“What about Jason?” I demanded. “Someone could kill him when he gets home.”

“Right,” said Sam, who was dialing his cell phone again. “Tell Harry where your husband’s eating or having his meeting. Harry, tell Dr. Blue to stay at the Stanford Court with his dad. His dad’s still there, right?” I nodded. “Paul, I’m bringing Carolyn home with me. Someone just tried to kill her. She can stay in the guest room. . . . Oh yeah, I forgot about your mother. Would she mind sharing? . . . Good.” He hung up. “Paul said for us to hurry up. His mom got in late, but she’s about to serve turnip and black cod stew, and she doesn’t mind sharing the room with you. You’ll like her.”

Turnip and black cod? It sounded awful. Inspector Yu saw us into Paul’s BMW with its broken backseat window before I could tell anyone about another idea I’d had about who the shooter might be.

I was quite excited about going to the Castro. When the gays moved in during the seventies, they jump-started the preservation of the old Victorians and the advent of yuppiedom. I’d love to have seen the Street Fair or the Gay Pride Parade, or Halloween, which was supposed to be wild, colorful, and funny, with outrageously dressed drag queens and such. All Sam could show me was the Castro movie theater, a wonderful Art Deco relic of the twenties where, he said, the audiences knew and shouted out the lines of old movies.

Paul and Sam had an absolutely gorgeous gray Victorian with teal and black trim and amazing scrollwork. When I commented on the house, Sam said it was an Eastlake, which I took to be its style. What I noticed, even in the dark, were the flowering bushes that led up the steps to an arcaded doorway, the stained glass, and, once inside, the beautiful parquet floors and oriental rugs, and Mrs. Labadie, a stocky, graying Korean lady in an apron. She enveloped me in a motherly embrace that smelled of exotic spices, commiserated on my terrifying experience, and led me to a white paneled dining room and a table set for dinner—turnips and black cod.

The dish was so spicy I could hardly tell I was eating turnips, which I don’t like. I chewed, smiled, complimented, drank white wine, and told Sam about my conversation with Nora Farraday Hollis, who didn’t believe that Denise was robbing the center, but rather pursuing whoever had, and the later conversation with the cancer-ravaged Myra Fox and her lover, Charles Desmond, who supposed Denise could have done it; she’d have known how if she wanted to, but who’d have thought it of her? and so forth.

“Sam, it could have been Myra and Charles. He’s out of work, younger than she, and good-looking. If he wanted her to, she might well have done it, thinking she could cover it up. But then she got sick and couldn’t.

“He might even have helped her. He’s some sort of computer person, and he said that between them, he and Myra could get to the bottom of it if they had access to the books. Myra looked pretty pale when I started talking about those notes we found in Denise’s apartment, but then Myra looks pale anyway.

“And Charles was there the night of the murder. He said Denise wouldn’t let him bring home files to take Myra’s mind off her troubles. Maybe he was trying to get the accounts they’d used to steal money. Bebe thought he left through the kitchen door before Denise was killed, and maybe he did, after he stole the knife.”

“What knife?” Sam asked, interrupting me for the first time.

“Oh, didn’t I mention that? I found the missing sashimi knife early this evening and had the police take it away. It was covered with blood, and I was very careful not to touch it, so they may get some fingerprints. He could have come back around to the Crone Cohort ramp, killed Denise, scooted out to the kitchen, where classes were over, dumped the knife in the pot holder drawer, and left.”

Paul and his mother were staring at me, open-mouthed. “Jesus, couldn’t you have told me about this earlier?” Sam demanded.

“When? You wouldn’t listen. You wanted to catch Croker, and then we got shot at and—”

“OK. You’re right.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialed, and said, “Harry, Carolyn’s got another suspect for you.” Then he passed the phone to me.

Thank God,
I thought.
An excuse to stop eating turnips.
Except for them, it was quite a nice dish. I described the whole conversation at Myra’s to Inspector Yu and added all the information I thought applicable. While I was talking, Sam had seconds, and Paul went into another room to answer another phone.

“Your husband, Carolyn,” he called. “You can take it in the parlor.”

Parlor? How quaint. But then this is an Eastlake Victorian, so perhaps parlor is the best term.
“Jason?”

“My God, Carolyn, some policeman just called and told me to stay here at the hotel with my father because someone was trying to shoot you. I asked you, I begged you not to get involved in—”

“Calm down, Jason, I’m fine. Really. No gunshot wounds. And we’re down to two suspects. Your mother should be free today or tomorrow.”

“And you’re staying with that damn detective?”

“Yes, dear. He says they have a top-of-the-line security system, and I’ll be sharing a room with Paul’s mother. She’s very nice. Korean. She and Paul’s father met when he was stationed—”

“Carolyn,” my husband groaned.

“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Jason. She’s even offered to lend me a nightgown. She keeps clothes here for her visits. I hope it’s full length. She’s a lot shorter than I am.”

“Caro, will you stop talking about nightgowns and—”

“Right. Of course. The thing is, you mustn’t go back to your mother’s sublet until the murderer is caught. Just attend your meeting. Aren’t the best papers always on the last day? Except for the plenary addresses, of course. I’ll call you as soon as we get him. I’ve rented a cell phone so I can keep in touch with Inspector Yu as the investigation comes down to the wire. Since I found the murder weapon, maybe there’ll be fingerprints to distinguish between the last two suspects, one of whom must have been trying to shoot at us tonight.”

“
You
found the murder weapon?”

“Yes, while I was teaching the cake class for the anniversary celebration on Saturday. We’ll have to attend that, but there’s time before our plane leaves. And the cake is your favorite—chocolate-raspberry-walnut. Everyone’s hoping your mother will be able to attend. It would be a shame if you didn’t get to see her before we leave. Will your dad still be here?”

“Carolyn, I’m going to bed. For God’s sake try to stay out of harm’s way. Give me your cell phone number, and leave messages for me at the meeting desk.”

“Of course I will, Jason.”

When I returned to the dining room, dessert had been served, and Paul was telling his mother that he and Sam might take in a foster child. She became very excited and said she’d always hoped to be a grandmother.

Sam remarked wryly that if Child Welfare gave them a foster child, it would probably be some messed up gay kid. Mrs. Labadie said they’d make wonderful parents for just such a child.

I was fascinated. What an interesting household it would be: two gay men, a Korean grandmother, and a child in need of a nurturing atmosphere. One could only hope that the child would be civilized enough to respect the beautiful furnishings. I couldn’t imagine Paul appreciating loud rock music emanating from upstairs or Coca-Cola stains on his oriental rugs. And Sam would have to clean up his language if he was to be a good role model. I reminded myself to mention that to him the next day.

44

Cell Phone Tag

 

C
arolyn looked amusingly
relieved when Paul and his mother produced an ordinary breakfast. She had mentioned in a whisper her fear of being served “little tentacled creatures” as we walked toward the breakfast nook. Evidently the “tentacled creature” had been a breakfast experience of her husband’s in Japan.

Her cell phone rang just as pancakes and scrambled eggs appeared on the table, and she said, “Oh, hi, Jason. You’d have loved what we had for dinner last night. Spicy turnip and black cod Korean stew.” She beamed at Mrs. Labadie, although I knew Carolyn hadn’t liked it. Women are sly. “Well, why don’t you call me in between meetings if you’re so worried. . . . No, I can’t promise to stay home. The apartment isn’t safe. . . . I suppose I could stay here for the day, but what if I have to go out to help the police. It’s my duty to do it, Jason. She’s your mother, after all. . . . Good. You have my number and I don’t have to return the phone until tomorrow. . . . It’s not that expensive, Jason, and it’s an investigation expense. Get your father to pay for it.”

This is the conversation I picked up with half an ear, while Paul’s mother was suggesting that Carolyn and her husband might like to come over for dinner tonight. Carolyn heard it too and said, when she’d hung up, “That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Labadie, but Jason and I have reservations at Delfina.” Paul’s mother then decided that she’d leave for home at noon.

Pleased that Carolyn had been able to get the reservations, Paul invited the two of us along so she’d be sure to order the right things. He called on the spot and changed her reservation to four, never realizing that Jason wouldn’t be crazy about having us along on their last dinner in San Francisco. Carolyn was enthusiastic.

“You know,” she said, “there’s a woman at the center I wish I could get a date for. Kara Meyerhoff. Poor thing. She’s head of the lesbians and transsexuals.”

“Well, we might be able to scare up a lesbian,” said Paul. “You want to see if we can get a table for six?”

“But she’s not a lesbian; they aren’t even friendly to her. They don’t feel that she represents their interests because she used to be a man. Now she’s a woman, and she’d just love to have a date, but she’s tall and very sensitive about her wide shoulders. On the other hand, she’s very feminine and has a pretty face, and she writes romance novels, which was her profession even before she became a woman.”

“That’s—” Paul choked. “Well, Sam and I will have to give it some thought, but offhand—”

“We don’t know anybody,” I finished for him.

“Or maybe we do.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, Paul,” I interrupted, “forget it.” That twinkle in his eye was mischievous.

“So where do we start today, Sam?” Carolyn asked. “One thing we need to check out is whether Mr. Timatovich saw Ray Faulk at the Faulk Building that night. And Jacob from Denise’s address book. Maybe he’s home by now, if he hasn’t skipped town with the ill-gotten gains.”

“And my office, where there’s work waiting for me. You can come along for safety’s sake and make calls from there.”

“If people are shooting at you, maybe you better take the car again,” Paul suggested.

“Oh dear,” said Carolyn. “Did you tell him?”

“Tell me what?” asked Paul.

That’s when Paul found out about the bullet that went through his window last night and had to be dug out of his upholstery by police techs. He was not happy, although I offered to foot the bill for the repairs, at Calvin’s expense, of course. We did take his car. The idea of being on the bike with Carolyn behind me and someone taking pot-shots at us wasn’t appealing.

 

“May I speak to Mr. Rylander?” Carolyn listened and signaled to me that he was in his office. “It’s about the death of Denise Faulk.” After that she had a very short wait before Jacob Rylander picked up. I signed letters, went through the telephone messages, and eavesdropped. Rylander evidently denied any knowledge of Faulk’s death.

“You were her lawyer, then? . . . Oh, her estate lawyer. Tell me, Mr. Rylander, how did her stepson react to the division of property when his father died? . . . That bad? Do you consider him a dangerous man? . . . Yes, I did hear about his wife. In fact, she and the children have disappeared. The police are looking into it, but what I wanted to talk to you about was some notes we found in . . . ah . . . that Denise made.”

Good, she’d had enough sense to keep our illegal search of Denise’s apartment to herself.

“About ways to steal money. That’s what they seemed to be. Do you think Denise could have. . . . No, money from the center. . . . Oh, I see.” Carolyn listened and made notes for some time. Then she said “thank you” to Mr. Rylander and hung up. “Denise found discrepancies in the accounts and talked them over with him. He handles estates and trust funds, that sort of thing. Evidently he explained what was probably going on: fake accounts and made-up consultants. He said we should have the police Fraud Squad go over the books.”

“Call Harry Yu, and tell him.”

Before she could, she got a call on her cell. “Of course I’m all right, Jason. I’m sitting safely in Sam’s office while he signs papers and I call people trying to get information. By the way, we’re going to Delfina tonight. Seven o’clock. It’s supposed to be wonderful. Sam and Paul are coming along to be sure we order all the right things. . . . OK, I’ll expect to hear from you in another hour.”

“Call Harry,” I said.

“As soon as I call Mr. Timatovich. I want to know about Ray Faulk and where he was that night.” She dialed, and I signed more papers. “Could you call Mr. Timatovich to the phone, please? . . . This is police business. I’m afraid he’ll have to leave his post to take the call.” She put her hand over the receiver and said to me, “As if he’s ever at his post. Yes, Mr. Timatovich. This is Carolyn Blue. I understand you have a part-time job as a security guard on Thursday nights at the Faulk Building. . . . Oh yes, you do, so please don’t bother to deny it. This is, after all, a police investigation, and you’ve already lied about being at the center when Denise Faulk. . . . Not when she was killed, you weren’t. Your son called you over. Now what I need to know is if Mr. Raymond Faulk was in the Faulk Building before you left for the center. . . . Well, did he sign in that night? . . . How often did you have to leave your post to go to the men’s room during that period? . . . Don’t you use that language with me, Mr. Timatovich. If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll just give your name to Homicide Inspector Yu. . . . I am not pretending to be a policewoman. You met me. I’m Vera Blue’s daughter-in-law. I told you my name when you picked up the phone, so don’t threaten me. . . . She did not, and we might know who did if you were a better security guard.” She slammed down the receiver and said, “What a dreadful man. I hope they do fire him.”