Murder Follows Money (21 page)

Kim took a deep breath. “I was out front, setting up the salad case. We weren’t open yet. Aunt Naomi had come in about ten minutes earlier, and she and my uncle had gone back to the office in the back of the shop. He was smiling, and I thought she was finally there to talk about him assuming ownership. Then we heard all this yelling. My grandmother was Italian,” Kim added, glancing uncertainly at Scarlatti. “Yelling wasn’t that unusual.”

“I’m Italian, and I know what you mean.” Scarlatti smiled.

“But—you’re blond.” Kim stopped. “I’m sorry—”

“There are blond Italians too,” Scarlatti said lightly. “So go on with your story. Some heavy-duty Italian yelling was going on. Could you tell what about?”

“Yes,” Kim said ingenuously, “because we all went back and stood in the hall.”

“All? How many people?”

“Me and Roxanne and Karen. Karen is my uncle Tony’s oldest,” Kim said, with a glance at Don. “She goes to BU and only helps in the shop part-time.”

“So what were they saying?”

“Naomi yelled about him not having the balls for owning anything, and he yelled that she was a mean, bitter bitch, and she yelled that it was a good thing she was a bitch, because he let everyone walk all over him, and you couldn’t run a business like that, and he yelled that if she was really in charge, no one would work there because she was so awful, and she said he would never have lasted an instant at a real job, and he said if she didn’t work for a woman as nasty as she was, she wouldn’t have lasted an instant either.” Kim glanced apologetically at Hannah. “Sorry. That’s what he said. Then she slapped him.”

Kim and Hannah both looked at me. “She had a good slapping arm on her,” I said.

“She could lose control,” Kim said. “She got so angry sometimes. Anyway, my uncle said he’d never hit a woman yet, but if she didn’t get out of his office, he’d make an exception for her. And she said it wouldn’t be his office long.” Kim shivered. “There was a silence, and then Uncle Tony said, in a kind of weary way, that if he quit, her business would never recover, because no one else would work as hard as he had for as little as she paid. I think that part was true.” Kim fell silent.

“So how did it end?” Scarlatti asked the question we all wanted to know.

“Naomi said he’d have a hard time quitting if she fired him, and Uncle Tony said she was welcome to try and fire him, but they had an agreement, and he’d see her in court. And that was the end of it. She stormed out.”

“So tell me, if you can, about the day your uncle died. The next day, was it?” Scarlatti sounded almost gentle as she asked that question.

“The very next morning.” Kim sniffed. “Roxanne found him, which is lucky, because otherwise it would have been Karen, and that would have been so awful. Roxanne was there early to prep the salads, and she went back to tell Uncle Tony to make sure he got some more mayo. He wasn’t at his desk, like he usually was.”

“He came in early too?”

Kim nodded. “Oh, he was always the first one there, every morning. Sometimes before eight. We didn’t open until ten, though he was thinking of putting in an espresso machine and opening for the commuter rush, because so many people would knock early, when it was just him, asking if we had coffee. He went in at that time to get some of the paperwork and stuff out of the way.”

“So when Roxanne didn’t see him there,” Scarlatti prodded, “what did she do?”

“She saw him.” Kim gulped. “He wasn’t at the desk, but she noticed something on the floor behind the desk, kind of sticking out, she said. And when she went around, there he was, just lying there, all slumped over, like he’d fallen out of his chair."

“On his face, or on his back?” The question came from Drake. Immediately he reddened, and said to the inspector, “Sorry, Bianca.”

“It’s a good question,” she said, smiling at him. “Do you know, Kim?”

“I don’t . . . well, wait a minute. Roxanne said something about not realizing he was dead until she’d pushed his shoulder. So he must have been on his face.” She looked from Drake to Scarlatti. “Why does that matter?”

Scarlatti gestured at Drake. “Tell her, maestro.”

“If he’d had a heart attack, fallen over like that on his front, a certain amount of lividity would be present in his face because of his body’s position. If he’d been on his back and there’d been lividity, it might have alerted the coroner to look at the death more closely.”

“It’s a bit technical,” Scarlatti said, seeing the confusion on Kim’s face. “But it means they’d be more likely to overlook some signs of poisoning, like a flushed face and spittle on the lips, because gravity would have naturally caused those things if he’d died normally.”

“His doctor was surprised, but not much.” Kim wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He said he’d told Uncle Tony a million times if he’d told him once, cut out the fat and get some exercise."

“Had your aunt been there since the quarrel the previous day?” Scarlatti put the question.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t seen her. But everyone knew Uncle Tony came in a couple of hours before the rest of us. Roxanne got there at ten that morning, and usually none of us were there until ten-thirty.” Kim gazed at the inspector, at Drake and Bruno. “Is it true? Did she kill her own brother?”

“We don’t know.” Scarlatti looked at her with pity. “Probably the Boston ME’s office will exhume your uncle’s body—”

“Well, he was cremated,” Kim exclaimed. “That’s what he and my aunt both have in their wills. He was cremated, and we had a memorial service.” Her face darkened. “Aunt Naomi even spoke, and said what a wonderful brother he was, and cried crocodile tears that they had parted on bad terms. When I think of that, I don’t care that she’s dead. I don’t care at all!”

We were all silent for a moment. Outside the balcony windows, the soft glow of an overcast San Francisco night filled the sky; the lights of many buildings reflected off the fog to make a kind of perpetual twilight.

“Well, I care.” Don spoke, drawing himself a little away from Kim. “I never had a chance to know what kind of woman she was. Maybe she was a hard-nosed business person. That’s not so uncommon.” He looked at Hannah. “But she might have been something different underneath, something she never had a chance to express. You don’t know she did that awful thing.” He caught our eyes on him and flushed, the color standing out patchily on his lean cheeks. “Kim told you my mother—my adoptive mother—died last year. Liver cancer. She was great. I felt guilty after she died that I’d wondered, since I was little, about my birth mother, about how special she must be. I was thinking about doing one of those Internet searches for her, if you want the truth.” He looked back down at his hands. “Now, I guess I just feel doubly cheated.”

Kim began to cry, softly. Don patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. And like you say, I’ve got cousins and uncles and aunts I never knew I had. My family—my adoptive family—was just me and my mom and Granny Ellen, after my dad walked out. I’m glad to find I’ve got some connections.”

Inspector Daly appeared at the kitchen door. He gestured to Scarlatti, and she went over for another of their low-voiced conferences. Don got up and went into the foyer to use the powder room. Kim remained huddled in her chair.

I felt stiff from sitting, so I stretched a little. “Will it be much longer?”

Drake and Bruno exchanged glances. “I could not say.” Bruno shrugged. “She is very unorthodox, our Bianca. She must have some end in mind, to pool the interviews like this.”

“She’s got something up her sleeve,” Drake agreed, watching Bianca push a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Never so fetching as when she’s planning a coup.”

Richard Kendall had seized his opportunity to talk to Hannah. He tapped a forefinger forcibly on his palm, making points. She listened, nodding, but there was a mulish cast to her mouth. After a moment she told him, “Excuse me,” and went over to the phone on the library desk, where she spoke for some time.

Scarlatti and Inspector Daly came over to join us. “What’s Hannah doing?” Scarlatti scowled at Richard Kendall. “She can’t be calling her attorney, because you’re here.”

He gazed calmly back at her. “You haven’t charged her with anything. You have no right to stop her from making a phone call.”

“I have every right, if she’s calling the media.” Scarlatti strode over to the library desk as Hannah put down the phone.

“I have ordered us a meal,” Hannah said, her chin raised. “We are all tired and hungry, and will think better if we get something to eat. I asked them to send it right up. It should be here in minutes. If you will tell your officers, Inspector? I suppose they will want to examine the food for files, or something of that nature.”

“This is highly unorthodox,” Scarlatti said.

“You can say that? My attorney assures me you are conducting this investigation in a highly unorthodox way. Breaking bread with your suspects will just be more of the same.” Hannah smiled blandly. “Or if you prefer, you can watch us eat.” She inclined her head graciously to Bruno. “Please do join us, Detective Morales.” Her smile was less gracious when she turned it to Drake. “Detective Drake.”

Neither of them said they would eat, though Bruno murmured a thank-you for the invitation.

I was peckish. When the knock on the door came, and the room-service waiter wheeled in his cart, the room filled with savory aromas and I was sure we would all have to eat.

“It’s just a simple meal,” Hannah said, tipping the waiter and shutting the door behind him. “Sandwiches, soup, and some cookies. Do join us.” She set the food out on one end of the large table. “We’ll dine buffet style, so you can continue to grill us.”

I went into the powder room when Don came out, and took a moment to comb my hair, which is not long and blond, but short and an indeterminate brown, and incapable of being tossed in that coquettish way so many women seem born knowing. Looking in the mirror; I could hardly believe that Drake would choose me over someone like Bianca Scarlatti. But he had. He did. It gave me an incredible sense of well-being, to counterbalance all the angst I had felt earlier.

When I got back into the drawing room, people had gathered around the food. It was a nice spread, and Hannah had set it out with an eye to appearances. Plates and soup cups at one side, a silver tureen, a platter of sandwich triangles, a plate of raw vegetables and fruit. The soup smelled wonderful.

Drake and Bruno had helped themselves and were standing with Scarlatti and Daly over beside the library desk; Daly ate his sandwich in quick, hungry bites. Don, plate in hand, had been drawn down to sit next to Hannah. She talked earnestly, and I guessed she was giving him a picture of Naomi that might ameliorate the one he’d received in the past few hours.

I was ready to make my selections, but as I stood ladling soup into a cup, my eye caught a faint movement out on the balcony, and at the same moment, I realized Kim wasn’t in the room.

I thought perhaps she needed some time alone. I was reluctant to draw official attention to that need, but it made me uneasy. I put down the ladle and went to the tall windows that opened onto the balcony.

Something was wrong. Kim was out there, but she wasn’t standing, leaning on the railing, as she had the previous day. She was up on the wide parapet, clinging to the railing that ran down the middle of it. She looked perilously close to the edge.

Chapter 20

I wanted to shriek for Drake, for anyone to come and take charge of this dangerous situation. But I knew from listening to Drake and Bruno talk about their cases that often a person who looks like they’re about to jump only jumps when people yell at them not to. I didn’t want to precipitate Kim’s suicidal action.

Instead I slipped out quietly through one leaf of the window, leaving it open to alert those in the room behind to what was happening. How had they let it happen? How had they lost track of Kim?

However it happened, it had to be dealt with. I only hoped I could help matters instead of making them worse.

My eyes grew used to the dim light. In the city glare, reflected off the foggy overcast of a San Francisco January, I could see Kim crouched on the parapet. She was still on my side of the railing, hugging the iron bars, staring down at the city street thirty stories below.

I was almost beside her before she sensed the movement behind her and turned to see me.

“Hey, Kim. There’s food inside.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact, noncommittal, unthreatening. My voice wanted badly to shake. “Why don’t you come and have some soup?”

Her face in the light from the window was pinched. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Don’t come any closer, Liz.”

I was only a foot away by that time. “Okay,” I said, at my most soothing. “Say, that doesn’t look too safe. Come down and tell me why you can’t have soup with us.”

“I just can’t. I’m not coming down.” Still she crouched, her arms wrapped around a couple of the metal rails. The railing was about three feet tall. If she stood, she could topple over it easily, or just step over.

There was movement at the window behind me, blocking the light from the room. Drake’s voice said, “Liz? What—”

“Kim and I are talking out here.” I didn’t turn to face him. I didn’t take my eyes off Kim. “She doesn’t want to come in and eat with us.”

“Leave me alone,” Kim said, the childish words taking on a new resonance. “Just let me alone! I can’t—I just can’t . . ."

“What can’t you do?” I wanted to reach to her, touch her shoulder. It was an effort to keep my hands to myself. “Tell me. Let me help you. I’m your friend, Kim. I thought I was.”

“You won’t be,” she said breathily. “No one will be. I thought I could handle it. I thought—but I can’t. I can’t live with this!”

“I don’t understand.”

She clung, trembling, to the rail, and I began to be afraid that nothing I could do would get her down. All the light from the room was gone now; I imagined the others standing clustered in front of the french window, sandwiches forgotten. I could hear Scarlatti talking on her cell phone. Perhaps she knew a surefire way to get suicidal people back from the brink. The city police probably had a lot of experience with that. After all, the Golden Gate Bridge had a lot of jumpers every year.