Chocolate Quake (8 page)

11

Sleuths: Day One

 

O
nce parked, Mr.
Valetti and I had to climb a very steep stair to reach the front door of the center. For no sensible reason, the city fathers, several centuries earlier, had laid the streets straight up and down the hills, perhaps as an exercise in sheer perversity. San Francisco is known as a contrarian society for more reasons than its city planning.

I was panting by the time we arrived but not too incapacitated to admire the double doors with their stained glass insets and fan window above. At the same time it occurred to me the glass would make the center easy to break into. Perhaps the person who killed Denise Faulk had done just that. I’d have to investigate.

We entered a wide hall with an uncarpeted, scuffed, wooden floor. Immediately to our left was a table with a sign that invited us to state our business to “center security” and sign in. The chair behind the table was empty. Another indication that an outsider could have entered, unremarked, and killed Denise.

On the wall behind hung a large directory board giving floor and room numbers for the services offered by the center. I skimmed over such ordinary items as Director and Business Office, which I could see down the hall on the right cordoned off by crime scene tape. Battered Women’s Advocacy, Child-Care Referrals, and Nutrition Central didn’t cause me much speculation, but what had my mother-in-law made of Lesbian and Transsexual Support? Or the Crone Cohort, which brought bizarre pictures of witches to mind?

To my immediate right was a door that announced in elaborate gold letters: Office of the Director and below that, Marina Chavez-Timberlite. I decided to call on her first, but my knock went unanswered. However, a head popped out from the second door on the left, and the woman called, “Kelani’s on maternity leave. She’s probably giving birth as we speak.”

“We’re looking for Ms. Chavez-Timberlite,” I called back.

“Knock on the inside door.” The woman then ducked back into her office.

With Mr. Valetti in tow, muttering about “that bastard Eric Timberlite,” I entered the first door and found a tiny anteroom—presumably the domain of the absent Kelani. The room had been carved out of the corner tower of the building.

“I doubt that Ms. Chavez-Timberlite is related to the man you dislike,” I murmured to Mr. Valetti, “but either way, please exercise discretion.” Then I knocked on the director’s door and was invited in.

A tiny woman in very high heels, an expensive dark-red suit, and a head of shining black hair pulled back into a chignon turned from her many paned, five-sided window alcove and looked at us without pleasure. I judged her to be a good six inches shorter than I, probably five to ten years older. Even in middle age she was a beautiful woman. Or was she the poster patient of some expensive cosmetic surgeon? That light tan skin stretched rather too tightly over good bones.

“Ms. Chavez-Timberlite?”

“Mrs.,” she corrected. “My husband is Eric Timberlite. The city’s foremost developer.” She sounded very pleased with herself and him.

“See,” hissed Mr. Valetti.

“Sh-sh,” I murmured and introduced myself. Possibly Mr. Timberlite was, as Mr. Valetti had suggested, Satan in an Armani suit, guilty of evicting widows and orphans from their apartments and supporting rent laws that would benefit him and destroy small landlords like Mr. Valetti. Still, I couldn’t afford to offend Mrs. Timberlite when my investigation would have to be conducted on the lady’s turf.

“Blue?” said Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite. “Are you related to Vera Blue?”

“She’s my mother-in-law.”

“Well, let me tell you, I wish I’d never let Lila Epersen talk me into inviting that woman to come here as a consultant. She’s been nothing but trouble since she arrived. She talked the Women of Color into harassing my husband. They’re picketing his office building.”

“Good for them,” said Mr. Valetti. “Maybe I’m-a go help.” He turned to me. “We take some pizza. That picketing, it’s-a hungry work.”

Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite turned on Mr. Valetti, whom I hadn’t had the chance to introduce. “My husband is doing nothing wrong. He just wants to beautify the city by tearing down old tenements.”

“Sure. He’s-a throw poor people inna the street.”

“There’s housing in Daly City for such people,” snapped the director.

She didn’t sound to me like a sympathetic do-gooder type. “Be that as it may,” I interrupted, “my mother-in-law—”

“Is a murderer,” the director finished for me, “and I’m not at all surprised. She’s been a thorn in everyone’s side since the day she arrived. A rude and troublesome woman. ”

True,
I thought, feeling discouraged. “But she’s not a murderer,” I said stoutly.

“She’s-a
mio amore,
” said Mr. Valetti, not a sentiment likely to endear him to the director.

“Why am I not surprised?” she retorted. “Only a disgusting little immigrant would find Vera Blue attractive.”

“Sure. I’m-a come over from Italy, an’ I’m-a make a lotta money. Honest money. Not like you husband. So where
you
come from? Mexico? Puerto Rico?”

She looked down her nose at Mr. Valetti and claimed that she was descended from the Californios, the ranchers who preceded the Yankees who stole the land from Spain.

“Actually,” I said, unable to resist an historical tidbit, “California was owned by Mexico before it became part of the United States.” She did not look pleased. “At any rate, I can assure you that my mother-in-law did not kill your business manager. Since I hope to find out who did commit the murder, I thought the best place to start would be here at the center where people knew the victim. I wonder if you would be so kind as to help me with information.”

“I certainly would not, and you do not have permission to disturb our staff. We provide an important community service, and I do not want the relative of a criminal with no expertise in investigating—” She stopped and smirked at me. “What are you, Mrs. Blue? A housewife?”

“I’m a writer and expert on gourmet food.”

“Really. Can you cook?”

“Certainly,” I replied, not mentioning that I did it as seldom as possible.

“Desserts?”

“I’m famous for my chocolate-walnut cake.”

“Excellent. We’re celebrating our tenth anniversary on Saturday, and Nutrition Central is providing refreshments, which will be made by our three cooking classes, Easy Ethnic, Working Mom Cookery, and Food Stamp Gourmet. Perhaps you could teach the Thursday group to make that chocolate-walnut cake. We’ll need about ten. Talk to Alicia Rovere. Nutrition Central. The kitchen is in the third building, first floor.”

Although amazed at her presumption, I said, “I could do that, but in return you’ll have to agree to my investigation.”

“Done,” said the director with a sly look. “Of course, you’ll need permission from the chairman of our board.”

Mean Marina was looking shifty, and it occurred to me that she didn’t expect the chairman to agree.

“Let me give you her name and number.”

She wrote busily on a pad, one of those from-the-desk-of models. You’d think a charitable institution could save some money by dispensing with such perks.

“Go right down to Alicia’s office and sign up for that cake class. She’ll be so pleased. Oh, and when you get through, maybe you can use her phone to contact our chairwoman. I’d let you use mine, but I have important calls to make. And if you don’t get Nora the first time, don’t give up.” She then waved us out of the office.

“Is a scam,” Mr. Valetti said to me. “She get you to teach-a the cake, an’ the lady she say you call probably never home or say no when you ask. Rovere now, that’s a good Italian name. Maybe she help.”

I glanced at the note: Nora Farraday Hollis. There were two numbers. “Oh, there’s the security man. He’s the first person we need to talk to.” I suppose I should have tried to get permission from Ms. Hollis before commencing my investigation, but I didn’t want to miss this opportunity now that the guard was finally at his station.

12

The Happy Russian

 

T
he man at
the security desk was thin and middle-aged with pale, ropy arms that projected from the short sleeves of a badly ironed shirt. Pouched dark circles under his eyes, sunken cheeks, and graying blond hair, very badly cut, completed the picture. His nametag read Alexi Timatovich. I was reminded of Richard Henry Dana’s description of a Christmas celebration on a Russian brig in the bay. They drank a barrel of gin, ate a sack of tallow, and made soup from the skin. The guard looked as if he might have been subsisting on that diet. His face bore lines of pessimism and disaffection.
He must be very badly paid,
I thought,
not to mention unreliable about manning his post.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily. “I’m Carolyn Blue, and I’m here to investigate the death of Denise Faulk. Were you here the night of her murder?”

“
Da,
” he replied, squinting at me suspiciously. “Vassily an’ me. My son.” He showed his first sign of animation. “Vassily is math genius. Is being computer millionaire while still young like Microsoft,” he predicted.

“That’s wonderful,” I replied. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Alexi Timatovich.”

“So, Mr. Timatovich, while you were on duty that night did you see any suspicious people in the center, someone who might have killed Denise Faulk?”

“Lady professor after she is killing Mrs. Faulk. Got blood all over when police taking her away to prison.”

“Professor Blue didn’t kill Mrs. Faulk.”

“No?” He looked puzzled. “Maybe police killing her and blaming old lady. In Russia such things happening, but not so much in Siberia where my family living. Everyone busy keeping warm, even police. Got no time for killing ladies and blaming other ladies.”

“Siberia? You a criminal?” asked Mr. Valetti, who had been listening closely.

“No criminal. Engineer,” said Mr. Timatovich. “Build things. Is hard in cold.”

“Sure, engineer,” said Mr. Valetti sarcastically. “An’ now a guard.”

“Guard is good job,” said Mr. Timatovich. “Guard in United States making more money and living better than engineer in Russia. And here no cold, no snow. Is good job. Only bad that having to pay for son’s university.”

“Maybe he’ll get a scholarship,” I suggested. “Did you see anyone entering Mrs. Faulk’s office before Professor Blue went in?”

“Seeing no one.”

“You see
la Professora
go in?” asked Mr. Valetti suspiciously.

“No see professor until coming out all over blood with police. I watching door into building, not more doors. I signing in peoples coming in and peoples going out, not looking at peoples inside.”

I was discouraged to hear that he’d paid no attention to events down the hall, but if he checked visitors both in and out—well, that information would be helpful.

“Were any of the people you signed in given to violence? Or particular enemies of Mrs. Faulk?”

“Not letting in bad peoples. Bad husband coming to look for wife, I sending away.”

“One came that evening?” I asked eagerly. That would be an important clue. Denise Faulk had headed the Battered Women’s Advocacy before she took over as business manager, and abusive husbands have been known to attack whose who help their wives.

“
Da.
Man always beating up wife coming to find her. Very mad. Very drunk. Thinking we got her here. I am saying, ‘She not here. Go away, or I call police.’ ”

“And what happened?” I asked.

Mr. Timatovich shrugged. “He going away.”

“Could he have gotten in some other way, or perhaps at some time when you were away from your desk?”

“No one coming in or going out from Alexi Timatovich without signing name. Always I am being here.”

“You wasn’t here when we came in, an’ we ain’t sign-a your book,” said Mr. Valetti.

“So I am taking a piss. I sitting here or in toilet. You saying Alexi Timatovich not good security?”

“Not at all,” I interjected hastily. No need to alienate the man; I could check on his reliability through other avenues. “What was the name of the angry husband?”

“Freddie Piñon. Everyone here knowing him. Bad man. Alla bosses say not letting him in.”

I wrote the name down. A definite lead. “Could I see the list of people who were in the building that night?”

Mr. Timatovich patted the book in front of him. “Here is book.”

He was certainly helpful. Wondering what Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite would think of his accommodating behavior, I flipped back to Thursday and found, to my dismay, several pages of names. Obviously I couldn’t copy all those down. “Perhaps I could make a photocopy of these pages, Mr. Timatovich.”

“Why not? Just so you not taking book off desk. I am having pencil.” The security man produced it. “And pen.” He pointed to the pen, lodged by the page for the present day. Either I’d have to copy all those names or find someone with a copy machine and the authority to order Mr. Timatovich to let me take his sign-in log away. And do it without the director’s knowledge. It seemed to me that, even if she didn’t like Vera, she should have been interested in seeing the actual murderer arrested for the crime. Or maybe not.

13

Help at Nutrition Central

 

F
ollowing Mr. Timatovich’s
directions, we walked along the hall of the A-building. On the right side were the offices of the director and the crime-scene-taped Business Office; on the left beyond the security guard’s table were an office for the Chairman of the Board, a board-room, and stairs to the second floor, under which was an area, obviously walled off as an afterthought, marked
Toilet.
Were men allowed to use the facilities? Or did they have to go elsewhere? If so, it was no wonder Mr. Timatovich had been away from his desk. Of course, the bathrooms might be unisex.