Authors: Linda Lee Peterson
Edited to Death (15 page)
He continued, “I’ll look forward to seeing you this afternoon.”
I looked miserably at Glen.
“Not wise to piss off the constabulary, Maggie,” he said.
“I know. Can you believe this? They had Michael in for questioning.”
Glen shrugged. “They’re questioning everybody. Did Michael know something?”
I swallowed. “Well, nothing helpful. Quentin was really
my
friend, after all.”
Glen caught my eye and then looked away. “Yes, indeed. He was.”
“Well, anyway,” I muttered, “Inspector Moon thinks he found the file on that story
Quent wanted us to do.”
Glen raised his eyebrows. “Really? Where’d Quentin have it tucked away?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out this afternoon.”
The intercom buzzed again. “Maggie, it’s Calvin Bright. He says he needs you for just
one minute.”
I punched the hands-free button and Calvin’s voice filled the room.
“Be quick,” I said, “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
“Maggie? Just starting the job and you’re already pretentious. A speakerphone, yet!”
“Calvin,” I began.
“Listen, gotta run. But I’ve made a reservation for lunch at Cock of the Walk. I want
to see if we can figure out what Quent’s story was about.”
I considered. I was getting pretty interested in the subject myself. “What time? I’ve
got to meet Inspector Moon at two.”
“11:45. Be there or be square,” and Calvin was gone.
“Want to come, Glen?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Thank you, no. I’m not much at playing Sherlock Holmes.”
He stood. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Oh, Glen, wait,” I said as he started for the door. “I wanted to talk to you about
Orlando doing the illustration for the resolutions story.”
He paused. “Yes?”
I forged ahead. “Can we take a pass? I really think he’s wrong for the piece.”
“Quentin suggested him. For this story. For this issue.”
“Yeah, I know. But I think he’s wrong. We’ll use him for something else.”
Glen was quiet. “Come on, Glen,” I coaxed. “I don’t think this was Quentin’s dying
wish or anything, that we use Orlando for this story.”
Glen’s face went blank. “You’re the chief.” And he was gone.
The phone buzzed, “Maggie, it’s Michael.”
Michael’s voice sounded matter-of-fact and friendly. “
Cara
, I’m going to be in the city for a conference this afternoon. Want to grab a sandwich
together?”
“Oh, I can’t. I’m meeting Calvin at that place Quentin wanted us to cover—you know,
Cock of the Walk?”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you join us?”
“No, thanks. Not my cup of tea.”
“The restaurant? Me? Calvin?” I pushed.
“Who knows?” said Michael vaguely. “Well, how’s your morning in executive life?”
“Swell,” I said grimly. “I’ve asked Linda Quoc personal questions, irritated Glen,
thrown my weight around, and I have to go see Moon after lunch. He’s got a file he
wants me to see.”
“Have fun, Maggie,” said Michael. “I’ll see you tonight, assuming you can squeeze
us in.” He hung up.
I listened to the dial tone. “S.O.B.,” I pronounced to no one in particular. “Smug,
smart-mouth, vengeful prick.” Mmm, that felt better. Surely there was some way I could
feel self-righteous about this.
On the way out the door to lunch, I knocked on Puck Morris’s door. His was the only
corner of the office that showed clear defiance of Quentin’s prejudices about clean
lines and white and gray as background colors of choice. The walls were hung with
posters that looked like moments stolen from MTV, Puck’s black leather jacket was
flung on a chair that leaked stuffing from every seam, and I could hear faint bass
and drum sounds from the iPod that held him in thrall. I touched him on the shoulder.
He looked up, pulled the earbuds out, and grinned.
“Hey, Maggie, how they hangin’?”
“Hanging? Just ducky, Mr. Morris.”
He started to put the earbuds back in, and I stopped him.
“Wait a sec, Puck,” I said. “I want to talk.”
He gestured at the chair, and I sat.
“Shoot, boss,” he said. “But make it snappy. I’ve got a lunch date with the manager
over at the Warfield. She’s got a half a dozen new high-concept metal groups she wants
me to hear.”
“High-concept?”
“You know,” he said. “Kind of like this generation’s version of The Ramones. They
know about three chords, can’t carry a tune, but they dress great and have lots of
attitude.”
I laughed. “I smell a raft of ‘Pucked by Morris’ t-shirts coming their way.”
“You bet.” Puck leaned back in his chair, smoothed his thinning sandy hair with both
hands, and gave me a level gaze.
“So how
are
you doing, Maggie?”
I shrugged. “Up and down.”
“Must be tough.”
I took a deep breath. “Puck, I know you didn’t mean to do it, but your little revelations
to Inspector Moon put me in a tight spot.”
He picked up a paper clip and began straightening it out. “Hey, I didn’t mean to leak
anything.”
“Yeah, well, what is it the road to hell is paved with?”
“Well, Holy Christ, Maggie, it was kind of dumb. I mean Quentin is—was—a pretty interesting
guy, but I sure as hell don’t see what you were doing mixed up with him. I mean, Michael’s,
well, he’s.…”
“He’s great,” I said brusquely. “This wasn’t about Michael and I didn’t really want
to discuss my personal life.”
He tossed the paperclip up in the air and caught it with the same hand. “Yeah? So
what did you want to discuss?” He was clearly perturbed.
I felt my face go hot. “I’m sorry, Puck, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just feeling
so confused and upset—and as if I’ve screwed up in a pretty big way.”
“Not my business, lady,” he said, “but I’ve got to agree.”
“Well, thanks,” I said. “We all make mistakes.”
He grinned. “Not me.” He held up his left hand and wiggled the fingers at me. “No
ring, see? No commitments, I fool around with, what’s the word?”
“Impunity,” I said dryly.
“You got it,” he said. “But seriously, I’m sorry I spilled to Moon. I didn’t mean
to.”
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“I dunno. I just did. Quentin wasn’t as discreet as he might have been.”
“You mean he said something?”
“No, just the way he talked about you. And Quentin always had a little something on
the side, as long as I’ve known him. And the way he kinda championed you. Quentin
wasn’t all that nice to people unless he had a reason. I just figured it had to be
you.”
“There must have been something else. Something concrete.”
Puck considered. “Mmm, not really. Well, I saw you guys dance at the Art Directors’s
Christmas party last year. Looked like lust-in-the-foxtrot to me.”
I remembered that night. Michael had been at a seminar, so I’d been alone. Except
for Quentin. I squirmed, thinking about how we looked on the dance floor, me with
just enough champagne inside to act silly.
“So Quentin always had a sweetie,” I said. “I guess I knew that all along. I didn’t
kill him, but maybe one of those other side interests did.” I surveyed Puck. “Tell
me about my many predecessors.”
“Come on, Maggie, you don’t really want to hear that stuff, do you? The cops pried
it all out of me already.”
“Try me,” I said grimly.
“Let’s see. There was Monica Swanson, the lady who owned the photography gallery on
Sutter. And maybe her son. Quentin went through his younger man phase for a while,
even before Stuart.”
“Maybe Mom got pissed at both of them.”
“I’m sure she did,” said Puck. “But they moved to Chicago last year.”
“Go on. Who else?”
“The hostess at Hot Licks, Esther or Aster or something like that; they call her ‘Stare’.
Geez, I didn’t blame him. She is one unbelievable babe. And Andrea.”
“Andrea? Are you kidding?”
“Before she started contributing to the magazine. I don’t think it was a big deal.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“No,” said Puck, “not him.”
“Puck!”
“Hey, you asked. I told you he always had something going on the side.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I wasn’t exactly on the side. Quentin and Claire had
already separated.”
Puck shook his head. “That, I would have to say, is what you call your ‘distinction
without a difference.’ If you know what I mean.”
“So,” I said, “enough about all these sordid personal lives. I wanted to ask you about
music.”
“Puck’s all ears, honey.”
“You hadn’t talked Quentin into listening to new music, had you?”
“New music? You mean that New Age soulful harp and flute crap?”
“No, rock. Metal.”
“Are you kidding? Quentin? Get real.”
“That’s what I thought. Okay, think about this: Who among Quentin’s friends likes
that kind of music?”
“Stuart?”
“Who else? Quentin ever ask you for tickets to a concert for a friend?”
He frowned. “Not that I remember. Is it important?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, but think about it, okay?”
I launched myself out of the easy chair. “This office is quite a sight, Puck.”
“I know,” he grinned. “Isn’t it great? Quentin just hated it. Come on, I’ll walk you
out.”
I was running late, so Calvin was already at the bar by the time I hurried into Cock
of the Walk.
He raised his glass and waved me over. I hopped on the bar stool next to him and ordered
a tonic water and lime. I definitely needed my wits about me.
“Calvin,” I said, “your drink.”
He looked at it. “What about it?
“It has a little umbrella in it.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He looked over my shoulder and waved. “We’re over here,” he
said, and I turned in time to see Andrea walk in.
“Well, well,” she said, “it’s the boss. Drinking at noon, I see.”
I lifted my glass in a toast. “It’s research, Ms. Storch.”
“I invited Andrea to join us,” said Calvin. “I didn’t think you’d mind.
Small Town
is buying, right?”
I looked around the restaurant. Somehow, it didn’t seem like Quentin’s kind of place,
a little too “done,” with giant roosters everywhere; on the cocktail napkins, patterned
on the carpet, and worst of all, a giant rooster mural. Each rooster had a San Francisco
celebrity’s face painted under the comb. Though my biology was shaky, I could have
sworn roosters were males of the species. Yet, here were socialites, dowagers, cabaret
singers, even a past mayor herself, masquerading as cocks of the walk. Ah, San Francisco.
Calvin touched my arm. “Join the party, Mags, we can sit down now.” A short, stocky
man holding menus was gesturing us to follow him. He looked familiar from the back
and then he turned around. It was John Orlando, the illustrator I’d just axed from
Small Town
’s next issue.
“Mr. Orlando?” I said, “I’m Maggie Fiori. We met at Quentin’s service.” He regarded
me carefully and held out his hand. “Oh, yes, I remember. Filling in at
Small Town
, are you?”
“Yes,” I indicated Calvin and Andrea. “You’ve all met?”
Round of introductions, though everyone insisted they’d crossed paths before. San
Francisco is like that. Two hundred people in the entire city, a friend once insisted
to me, and everything else is done with mirrors.
After he left the table, Andrea closed her menu and sniffed.
“I know that sniff by now,” said Calvin. “It means our own Ice Queen has something
negative to say and wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of her.”
“Come on, Andrea,” I said. “Give. Pretend the wild horses have come and gone.”
She folded her hands in front of her. “Well, I was just thinking that Orlando is a
man of many hats.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“I don’t,” said Calvin. “Enlighten me a little, ladies.”
“He’s an illustrator,” I said. “In fact, he does work for
Small Town
besides passing out menus here. And,” I sipped my drink, “as an illustrator, he’s
a terrific maître d’.”
“Maggie,” said Andrea, “how unkind. Besides, he’s more than a menu-passer-outer. I
think he’s part-owner of this place. At least that’s what Quentin told me.”
“So talk, Andrea,” I pushed. “Is that what you meant about wearing a lot of hats?”
“I guess,” she said. “He always seems like a fellow with a lot of irons in a lot of
fires.” She sighed. “Hats, fires. I seem to be mixing oodles of metaphors.”
“See,” interrupted Calvin, “this is why you’re so appealing, Starchy. Real people
don’t say ‘fellow,’ they say ‘guy.’ And oodles, wow! I love that whole boarding school
sound you’ve got going on.”