Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate (9 page)

“And this is pertinent because…?”

“Because I don’t repeat my mistakes. I’m seriously pissed at Anatoly and I want to show him that I’m better at his job than he is. This is my chance to make him miserable and I just can’t pass up an opportunity like that.”

“Okay, right now you’re putting out a ‘Kathy Bates in
Misery
’ kind of vibe.”

“I’m not crazy!” I snapped. “But I’ll admit that maybe I sound…well, a little bit less than sane. If I were to give one of my characters this motivation,
Publishers Weekly
would tear me apart. That’s why you need to help me come up with a good cover story. Melanie has left me five messages asking me to leave this whole investigation to Anatoly and I have to find a way to change her mind about that.”

“But aren’t you too busy for these kind of games? Shouldn’t you be writing a book or something?”

“Well, yeah. But, Marcus, did it ever occur to you that investigating this case is going to
help
me write my next book? What better way to research a cozy mystery than to start volunteering as a real-life amateur sleuth?”

“This has nothing to do with research.”

“Of course it doesn’t, but if anyone else asks me about this, that’s what I’m going to say. There! That’s my reason. Or does that sound dumb?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, you’re way past dumb, now you’re moving toward idiotic.” Marcus plugged in a curling iron. “Honey, think about what you’re getting yourself mixed up in. You said it yourself, this murder could have been politically motivated. Eugene could have pissed off the wrong Democrat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said with more conviction than I actually felt. “Democrats don’t kill people.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marcus asked as he parted my hair at the side. “Maybe this is the party’s new strategy for getting the support of the NRA. And then there’s that cat message. Sounds like code-speak to me and code-speak is something government agents are likely to use. You know how they talk—” he bent down so he was ear level and said in a low, dramatic voice “‘—the eagle has landed—shoot the moon.’”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s from an old Sean Penn movie…at least I think that’s how it goes. Nonetheless, the cat thing probably means that you’re dealing with a politician who’s coveting the support of fanatical animal rights organizations, and as it so happens, Ms. Brooke recently announced that she’s going to write a big ol’ check to help save a few endangered toads. You could be dealing with the next Stalin!”

“I probably should reserve judgment on Anne Brooke until I meet her, but I have to say, she doesn’t really strike me as the Stalin type.”

“She bears certain similarities,” Marcus said as he attacked my split ends with his sparkling silver clippers. “I saw her interviewed on Channel Two Morning News….”

“Didn’t you tell me last month that you were going to start dedicating your mornings to reading your favorite authors?” I asked.

“That was the plan, but
somebody
absconded with my Lee Nichols book before I had a chance to read it.”

I winced. “I guess I told you I was going to return that last week, huh?”

“Yes, you did, and I’m very cross about it. But back to Anne. I saw the interview, and girlfriend’s definitely on the paranoid side. She was complaining about being mistreated by the media, which you know is just another way of saying that she wants to
control
the media. Also, Stalin paid lip service to the teachings of Lenin, and in this interview Brooke actually quoted the lyrics of a song by Lennon from his
Imagine
album or something. And to top it all off, I heard that Brooke’s insurance carrier is State Farm.”

I wrinkled my brow. “Why is
that
important?”

“Are you kidding? Honey, where do you think Stalin sent all those poor peasants? To the State Farm!”

“Not the insurance company, you dork!”

“Still, it’s a sign.”

I watched as little snippets of my hair fell on the cream marble tile floor. “I’m going to do this, Marcus.”

He released a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why I continue to fool myself into believing that you’ll ever take any of the advice I give you. You wouldn’t be you if you suddenly became rational.”

“Rational? This from the man who just likened the Beatles’ lead singer to the founder of the Communist Party?”

“Johnny wrote a whole song telling people to imagine a world where there wasn’t any religion and everybody shared everything—basically just a rockin’ version of
The Communist Manifesto.
But seriously, I worry about you, Sophie. I hate the thought of anyone hurting even one chemically treated hair on your head.”

“I won’t get hurt. I can do this…with a little help from my friends. Can I count on you to help me with this marginally important mission?”

Marcus stopped cutting my hair and pretended to consider the question. “Will I help you put your life in danger for no good reason whatsoever? Hmm, I’m going to go with no.”

“Will you at least help me think of a reason to give Melanie for my continued involvement?”

“Tell her…oh, I know! Tell her that while Anatoly
is
a great P.I., he’s also a recovering alcoholic and that you need to work with him in order to make sure he stays on the sobriety wagon.”

“Hey,” I said slowly, “that’s good! But what if she talks to Anatoly about it?”

“Tell her that he just recently joined AA and that he doesn’t want anyone to know. As I see it, she’ll either fire him, in which case your revenge will be taken care of and you can relax, or she’ll ask you to keep tabs on him, which means that you’ll have to stay on the case, which is what you claim is your unconscious desire.”

“Marcus, that’s genius!”

“Of course it is. My smile isn’t the only reason they call me brilliant.”

The minute I left Ooh La La I was on the phone to Melanie. It was surprisingly easy to convince her of Anatoly’s alcoholism and it wasn’t much harder to get her to agree to my continued participation in the investigation. I suspected that she had hired Anatoly out of guilt. She wasn’t comfortable with the idea of putting me at risk by asking me to investigate a murder. But guilt aside, I think deep down she wanted me to be involved. Melanie was a private person, and furthermore she wanted people to think fondly of her deceased husband. She knew that if Anatoly or I discovered information that would cast Eugene in a negative light, I would do everything in my power to make sure that information stayed out of the papers, even if that meant withholding information regarding a criminal act from the police. Perhaps Anatoly would do the same without my urging, but she didn’t know that.

So, as far as I was concerned, it was a win-win. I could help a woman in need while simultaneously sticking it to my chauvinistic ex. I was certain that
Ms.
magazine would be proud.

7

A little competition never hurt anyone…with the notable exception of the losers.

—C’est La Mort

“THESE NAPKINS SMELL FUNNY.”

I gave Leah a weird look before taking a sniff of my own cloth napkin. Four days had passed since I had told Marcus I was going to continue to investigate Eugene’s violent death, and now I had just made the same declaration to my sister as we prepared to have brunch in a new restaurant located in downtown Pleasanton.

We had chosen this place for two reasons. One, she was contemplating whether the restaurant was suitable for a bridal shower she was coordinating, and two, in a few hours I would be meeting with Anne Brooke in her nearby Livermore campaign headquarters. I had finagled the appointment by posing as a freelance journalist for
Tikkun
magazine, a famously liberal Jewish publication. I didn’t actually read
Tikkun
(I was turned off by the magazine’s lack of fashion tips and celebrity gossip), but I knew enough about the causes they championed to convince Brooke and her people that I was writing for them. The best thing about the appointment was that Anatoly knew nothing about it. I had asked him to meet at Boudin in Fisherman’s Wharf this afternoon so we could come up with a new game plan. By the time he figured out that I wasn’t going to be showing up it would be too late for him to do anything about it.

“Stop thinking about Anatoly and tell me what you think of that smell,” Leah said.

“They smell like fabric softener, and how did you know I was thinking about Anatoly?”

“You had that wicked look in your eye,” she said with a disapproving sigh.

“I wasn’t having wicked thoughts, at least they weren’t wicked in the way you’re implying.”

“Whatever. I’m not going to recommend this place to my client unless the management is willing to switch to a lavender wash. And I have very mixed feelings about this china. Why are they serving continental cuisine on plates with fleur-de-lis accents?”

“To remind the customers that they serve French toast?” I suggested. I actually liked the restaurant. It was light and airy and the hostess had mistaken me for the instructor on her workout video. “Melanie doesn’t think that Eugene’s time in the FBI has anything to do with Eugene’s murder,” I continued, hoping to circumvent a conversation about the restaurant’s flatware. “She said that Eugene did most of his work behind a desk and the little fieldwork he did was undercover. So with maybe one or two exceptions, the bad guys Eugene helped put away don’t even know that he was the reason for their misfortune. Plus, as she pointed out, if a man wants to return to a life of crime after being released from prison he’s not going to hunt down the officer who arrested him. Instead he’ll steer clear of the cops and the feds and hang out with those who are more supportive of his nefarious activities.”

“Mmm-hmm, fascinating. You do realize that French toast is about as French as McDonald’s fries, don’t you?” Leah took another look at the fleur-de-lis china and clucked her tongue in disapproval.

I should have known better than to have tried to change the subject on Leah. It had always been an unspoken rule in my family that Leah and Mama were the ones who got to control the conversations, and my father (when he had been alive) and I were the ones responsible for placating them. “Leah, no one is going to notice that the pattern on their plate doesn’t reflect the cultural origins of the omelet on top of it,” I responded reasonably.

“They won’t consciously notice it, but they may very well walk away thinking the event wasn’t quite perfect,” Leah said. “People don’t have to be consciously aware of something in order to react to it. Isn’t that what subliminal advertising is all about?”

Couldn’t argue with that logic. I studied my bread plate with new interest. Were these fleur-de-lis sending me subliminal messages? Would I leave here with the urge to hand out cake to the proletariat while wearing Yves Saint Laurent’s newest fragrance?

“Speaking of being motivated by your unconscious,” Leah said, “you’ve told me that you’re going to continue to help Melanie figure out why Eugene was killed, but have you come to terms with why it’s so important to you that you help her?”

“Yes, I’ve figured it all out.” I launched into the whole spiel I had given Marcus, emphasizing my need to show up Anatoly. “He was so condescending when he told me that I was to have nothing to do with this case. Now I’m going to show him that his low opinion of my investigative abilities is totally off,” I explained. “I can get to the bottom of this whole thing faster than he can. After I’ve beaten him at his own game I’m going to waltz off into the sunset without him, and eventually, when it’s too late, he’ll realize what he lost when he gave me up.”

Leah stared at me for a full minute before speaking. “You’re like a psychological case study,” she finally said.

“Okay, enough.” I rested my elbows on the table, ignoring her look of disapproval. “You obviously have a theory as to what’s motivating me to do all this, so why not just tell me what it is?”

Leah looked away and I watched as she fought some kind of silent internal struggle. “You need to figure this out yourself.”

“What?
You
are going to keep your opinions to yourself? Have you been possessed by a nonjudgmental alien?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” she said slowly, “but I’m going to therapy now.”

“Really? But you’ve always said that the only therapy you would ever engage in was the kind that involved an Amex and a Nordstrom shoe sale.”

“Jo-Jo changed my mind,” Leah explained. “You remember Jo-Jo, don’t you? She’s one of the women from the Junior League. She’s thirty-nine years old and up until recently she’s never been in a relationship that has lasted more than two weeks. A while back she started seeing this therapist who helped her realize what she was doing wrong, and now, after less than two years of weekly sessions, she’s managed to get a plastic surgeon to propose to her. Now Jo-Jo’s looking forward to a lifetime filled with love, security and free liposuction. As soon as I found out I made an appointment with the same therapist and he said that I need to let the people in my life figure out their own problems.”

“So you think I have a problem?”

“Too many to count. But my therapist also thinks that I push people away by being too critical of them, so I’m not going to criticize you until you’re out of hearing distance.”

“I’m fairly sure that telling me I’m ‘like a psychological case study’ is a criticism.”

“I slipped, sue me.” She gave an approving smile to the waiter as he served her a warm plate of ricotta cheese pancakes and me a seafood breakfast casserole.

“So what’s the goal here?” I asked. “To see this therapist until you get an M.D. to marry you?” I took a large bite of my casserole. Not good. Maybe this would be an ideal time to start my next diet.

“I don’t need to marry a doctor,” Leah said. “A lawyer would be okay, or even a dentist. Dental insurance is so pricey these days and it never covers the cosmetic stuff.”

“And you think
I
have issues,” I muttered. “Need I remind you that you were a married woman not too long ago and you hated it?”