Edited to Death (16 page)

Andrea looked exasperated.

“Calvin,” I said, “would you like to let up on the sociolinguistics commentary for
a minute so we can concentrate?”

“Sure,” he answered. “I just thought you’d be interested to know how sexy it is.”

Andrea ignored him. “Anyway, he’s been showing up at the magazine rather frequently
over the past few years with his big black portfolio.”

“Oh, baby,” said Calvin. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Quiet. Anyway, he’d just moved here from England, and I guess Quentin was being nice
to him. But it’s as if he was launching a new career just for the fun of it. Illustrator,
restaurant owner, and with no visible means of support.”

“Maybe he was one of the day-trading zillionaires,” I said. “They must have had them
in the boom times in England, too.”

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “I know it’s not polite, but I asked Quentin once.”

“You asked a nosy question?” I was shocked.

“Well, not directly. I just wondered what Orlando had done before to be so flush with
resources.”

“What’d Quentin say?”

“He said that Orlando was a very entrepreneurial…” she glanced at Calvin, “entrepreneurial
guy.”

Orlando was greeting a crowd of new arrivals. Lots of air-kissing and hugs. We all
surveyed him.

“Well, maybe he used to teach art,” I speculated. “Lots of illustrators supplement
their income doing that.”

“Maggie,” said Andrea, “be serious. Art teachers don’t get rich.”

“Wait,” said Calvin, “maybe there was some huge sexual harassment scandal back home
in England, and he had to leave town with his little black portfolio and come to San
Francisco. Maybe he put the moves on some little cupcake from Devon or Dorset and
her daddy paid him off to get out of town.”

Andrea and I exchanged glances. “Calvin,” I said, “Orlando’s gay. If there was a sex
scandal it had to be with some guy cupcake from Devon or Dorset.”

“That’s cool,” said Calvin. “I say take those school romances anyway you can get them.
Hey girls, want to hear my authentically African-American Sam Cooke rendition of “Teach
Me Tonight?” Andrea and I ignored him.

Lunch was unremarkable. The usual assortment of Chinese chicken salad, grilled veggies,
thresher shark, ahi, and lots of kiwi-raspberry embroidery on the desserts.

Orlando stopped by the table twice, checking to see if we were happy.

“He did it,” said Calvin flatly.

“Did what?”

“Killed Quentin.”

“Uh huh. And where does this theory come from?” I asked.

“Simple. The guy’s clearly hiding something. He’s had multiple lives, he’s an artist,
he runs a restaurant, he corrupted sweet young boys in some godforsaken English village,
he’s on the lam.”

“Calvin,” Andrea interrupted, “control yourself. We’re making all this stuff up. That’s
how dreadful rumors get started.”

“Well, I contend he’s at least a suspect,” said Calvin.

“Fine,” I said, glancing at my watch, “he’s an official suspect, along with just about
everybody else Quentin ever knew. And since you brought the subject up, let’s talk
about it. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Why are we here?” asked Andrea. “I thought this was an eccentric choice for lunch.
But then, you two keep coming up with unusual places to dine.”

Calvin grinned. “Come on, baby, you said the burgers at Hamburger Mary’s were great.”

“Well, culinary adventures aside,” I said, “Calvin and I were here to talk about Quentin’s
story.”

“The question,” said Calvin, “is what the story was, and if it had anything to do
with Quentin’s death.”

Andrea reached inside her blazer and pulled a fountain pen out of her pocket. “Goodie.
I’ll take notes. I love a little organization mixed in with all this chaos.” She looked
doubtful for a moment.

“Actually, aren’t the police supposed to do these things?”

“They do. They are. But.…” I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell Calvin and Andrea that
my interest in finding Quentin’s killer derived from a growing conviction that if
we could just sort out the murder, all the other messes in my life would magically
straighten themselves out as well. I felt responsible, especially for the way Michael
had been dragged into this. Plus, every time I thought about Michael having to discuss
my infidelity with some guy on his hockey team, my skin crawled with shame.

Calvin and Andrea were watching me, puzzled.

“Look, the cops said it wasn’t a stranger who did this, plus Quentin was our friend,”
I said, catching Andrea’s eye. Couldn’t hurt to let her wonder what I knew about how
“friendly” she’d been with Quentin. “So shouldn’t we help figure this out?” I sounded
lame, even to me. “If nothing else, we’ll sell a lot of issues when we solve the case.”

Andrea looked horrified.

I touched her hand. “Andrea,” I said gently. “I’m just making a bad joke.”

She smiled wanly. “I know.” She tapped her pen on the napkin. “Okay, what do we know
about the Cock of the Walk story?”

“We know the story couldn’t have been a restaurant review,” I said. “Lisbet would
do that. What else?”

“An exposé of some kind? Some health department thing?”

“Doesn’t sound like
Small Town
,”
said Calvin.

“What can restaurants front for?” I mused. “Drugs? Gambling?” I looked around the
room. As was usually the case in San Francisco restaurants, the waiters and bus staff
comprised a mini-UN of ethnic and national origins. “Immigration?”

Andrea noted each possibility on the napkin.

“Maybe Quent was just doing Orlando a favor, promoting the restaurant,” I offered.

“I don’t know,” said Andrea doubtfully. “PR fluff for a restaurant doesn’t sound like
Quentin’s kind of story. Plus, why would he make such a big deal out of it to you?”

“Well, let’s ask him,” I said, catching sight of Orlando and waving him over.

“John, sit down with us a minute.”

He glanced over his shoulder and looked uncomfortable. “Lunch is really a busy time,”
he protested.

“I know, I know, just for a second.” He sat. We all looked at each other. I cleared
my throat. “Terrible about Quentin, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ghastly.”

Calvin caught my eye and did a poor imitation of William F. Buckley, mouthing ‘ghastly’
in silence. I gave him the kind of look I give my boys when they’re acting up at the
table.

“You two were old friends?”

Orlando looked around the table. Calvin’s face was carefully bland.

“We’d known each other for many years. After I moved here, I sent my portfolio over
to
Small Town
and Quentin set up an appointment with your art director, Linda Quoc.”

“Many years?” I persisted. “You grew up together?”

Orlando laughed shortly. “Not quite that many years. Although we did know each other
in college.”

“Really? In England?”

“Yes. In fact, I met Quentin in a workshop opera production. He played in the orchestra,
and I sang—a very mediocre tenor, I must confess. Of course, since then, my musical
tastes have broadened. Quentin’s, I’m afraid, hadn’t strayed much. He really didn’t
want to hear things that had been written in the last hundred years. Except for straight-ahead
jazz, of course.”

“And you do?” I asked politely.

“Oh, yes,” he beamed, looking around the table. “We host a new music series here on
Saturday afternoon. Lots of young talent. Even the odd rock sound now and again.”
He patted my hand. “You have youngsters, don’t you, Ms. Fiori? You should bring them
by one afternoon.”

I smiled noncommittally. “And Quentin’s ex-wife, Claire? You know her?” I prodded.

He looked distracted and lifted the corners of his mouth in a token smile. “Claire?
Yes, certainly. We share a few… causes.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I felt myself babbling. “You hosted a benefit here for Claire?
As part of your opening?”

Orlando seemed to relax. “Yes, Claire’s on the board of Skunkworks. It’s an AIDS group,
perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

None of us had. We said so. “What’s the name about?”

“Tom Peters wrote about the Skunkworks idea in his first business book.”

“
In Search of Excellence
?” I asked.

“Right, right. It’s the idea of speeding up innovation. You keep a small, flexible
group, no bureaucracy, and you get really creative. So Skunkworks funds creative independent
efforts in research and distribution. New drugs, things like that.”

“No bureaucracy?” I asked. “So no FDA?”

“Exactly.” He corrected himself hastily. “I mean, eventually, the FDA has to be involved,
of course, but our group helps jump-start the process.”

Silence fell. Andrea cleared her throat. “You know, Mr. Orlando,” she said idly, “this
really is a small world.”

“Oh?” he said, getting to his feet.

“Yes,” she said. “Quentin had assigned Maggie and Calvin to do a story about your
restaurant.”

He sat back down. “That so? Wasn’t that lovely of him?”

“Well,” I hedged, “we don’t know that it was lovely of him, exactly. We didn’t know
what the story was all about.”

“Really?” he said, looking around the restaurant.

“Did you?”

“No, so sorry, afraid I can’t help you,” he said. He stood.

“Of course, what do they say? Doesn’t matter what they write about you as long as
they spell your name right.”

“Well, we’re at a loss to pursue the story now,” I said.

“Ah, well, dies with Quentin, I guess. Pity, but that was another country.”

“And now the wench is dead,” I said under my breath. Calvin and Andrea looked puzzled.

“Duchess of Malfi,” I explained.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

He gave a little wave. “Nothing, nothing of importance. Perhaps another time. Now
I’ve really got to run.”

As he disappeared into the crush around the bar, our waitress arrived with coffee
and a folded piece of paper.

“Are you Maggie Fiori?” she asked. I nodded.

“A phone call came in for you. They said your cell phone wasn’t picking up.” She handed
me the note. It read: “Please come to Josh’s school as soon as you can. He’s not feeling
well.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said, lunch turning to stone in my stomach. “I’ve got to call
my son’s school.” The answering machine was on. “You have reached The Webster School.
All of the teachers are busy and cannot come to the phone. Please leave a message
at the tone.” I did, and returned to the table. “It’s lunch time, the damn answering
machine is on at school. I’ve got to run, gang,” I said. “Josh is sick.”

“Isn’t Michael closer to school?” asked Andrea.

“He is, but he’s in the city today. Besides, when kids are sick they always want Mom.”
Calvin caught my arm. “Maggie, how about Inspector Moon?”

I paused. “Why don’t you two meet him? Andrea’s from the magazine, I’m sure Moon will
release the file to her. I’ll give him a quick call on my way out.”

On the drive across the Bay Bridge, every mother anxiety in the world came up. “This
is what I get for taking a real job,” I muttered. “God’s not a feminist. This is His
way of saying I’m supposed to be home.”

Half an hour later, I was standing in the director’s office. “Mrs. Schwab? I came
as soon as I could. Where’s Josh? Is he resting?” She looked up from her desk. “Mrs.
Fiori? Is something wrong?”

“I got a message that you called, that Josh was ill.” She looked puzzled. “I didn’t
call. Josh is fine. At least, I think he’s fine.”

Fine he was. Out on the playground after lunch, practicing baskets with fierce concentration.
He barely looked over at me. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

I felt disoriented. “Nothing, sweetie. Come over here a minute.”

“Aw, Mom.” He shot, recaptured the ball, and dribbled it over to me.

“Honey, you feel fine?” I smoothed the hair off his forehead. He brushed me away.

“Fine, fine.”

“You didn’t tell one of the teachers you felt lousy? You didn’t feel like you were
getting one of your upset stomachs?”

He regarded me with suspicion. “Why? Did somebody say I did?”

I hugged him to me. “Never mind, baby. Go shoot some more. I’ll watch for a while.”

There he went, all brown arms and legs, struggling to ape the graceful run, jump,
shoot sequences he watched on television. While I watched, I thought.

“Hey,” I called. “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Schwab. I’ll catch you later.”

Mrs. Schwab was waiting for me, looking ruffled. “I’ve checked around. No one called
you.”

I nodded. “Can I use your phone?” I rang The Cock of the Walk and asked to speak to
the waitress. While I waited for her to come on the line, I ran over the possibilities.
It had to be a stupid mix-up. But how? And just suppose it wasn’t?