Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (11 page)

“Of what?”

“Of a good many things. Lisbeth Benedict was—still is, as far as I know—an extremely superstitious woman. By nature, superstitious people are fearful; they guard carefully against mishap with rituals.”

“I take it you're not superstitious?”

He shook his head. “I'm a social scientist, with the emphasis on scientist. A pragmatist. And I'm seldom afraid—probably because I have very little imagination. One has to be able to visualize dire consequences in order to fear them.”

I hadn't ever thought of it that way, but what he said made sense. I had a good deal of imagination, and whenever I found myself in a dangerous situation, I had to turn it off by force of will.

“What about Vincent Benedict?” I asked. “He was an alcoholic, a wife-beater. What did Cordy and his other women see in him?”

“Pain.”

“I don't understand.”

“The man had an aura of deep psychic pain—carefully cultivated, of course. He consciously projected the image of an unrecognized genius, misunderstood and undervalued by everyone, and stoically suffering in silence. Woman lapped it up; they wanted to kiss him and make it all better. It didn't hurt that he was extremely handsome in a dissipated way.” Eyestone spoke without rancor, as if on some level he admired Benedict's pose.

“I have the impression, though, that Cordy wasn't just another of Vincent's women.”

“You're correct. He was planning to divorce Lisbeth and marry her.”

“Had he told Lis of his intention?”

“Yes.”

“Why wasn't that used against her at the trial?”

“I presume because Vincent didn't want his wife to go to the gas chamber.”

“But you knew about it. Others must have, too.”

“I doubt that. Vincent didn't tell me until the week before the trial began, and in the strictest confidence.”

“And you told no one?”

“No. In fact, I've never spoken of it until today.”

I hesitated, taking time to formulate my next question. “It was rumored t hat there were other men in Cordy's life besides Vincent. Someone else at the Institute.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

He shrugged, smiling slyly.

“You?”

“So people said.”

“You, Dr. Eyestone?”

“Such an irritated look, Ms. McCone! Yes, I admit I was involved with Cordy.”

“Yet you and Vincent were friends.”

“Some male friendships transcend territorial squabbling over women. Besides, my affair with Cordy was over long before she died, before she took up with Vincent.”

“How long?”

“Since the previous summer, when she aborted our child.”

Louise Wingfield's suspicion had been correct, then. “Whose idea was the abortion, yours or Cordy's?”

“Hers. I would gladly have married her, but she'd tired of me by then. She said she would have the abortion no matter what, so I gave her the money to buy a safe one. I cared enough that I didn't want her to risk her life at the hands of some butcher.” Eyestone looked away from me. It was a moment before he was back.

It surprised me that the memory of Cordy's rejection could still cause him pain. I thought of Judy Benedict's dislike of the woman, as strong now as thirty-six years before. Cordy's persona had been powerful, it if could tug so hard from the grave.

Eyestone glanced at his watch. “Is there anything else, Ms. McCone? I have another appointment in two minutes.”

“Nothing that we can cover in two minutes. I'd like to talk with you again. I'm interested in the Institute—about what a think tank actually does.”

He winced exaggeratedly. “Bad phrase. Don't use it again. It emerged long ago in the popular press; we didn't care for it then, and we still don't. But why are you interested in us? Surely the operations of the Institute have no bearing on Cordy's case.”

“Probably not, but I like to develop the context in which a crime took place.”

He squinted, studying me intently in the glare from the window. After a moment he said, “Every man enjoys talking about his work. I'll be glad to meet with you again. Call Alex and arrange an appointment—next week would be best.”

“I'll do that.”

We rose simultaneously, and Eyestone escorted me out and through the anteroom. It was completely deserted, and I saw no one in the lobby below who seemed to be waiting for an appointment. On the gallery, Eyestone clasped my hand, lips quirking lopsidedly. “I've enjoyed out talk, Ms. McCone,” he said. “You've lived up to your reputation.”

Now, what did that mean? Before I could ask, Eyestone went back to his office.

At All Souls I put thoughts of the case aside and slogged through my neglected paperwork. It was after seven when I finished. I'd planned to go home and read over the Benedict trial transcript once more, but my verbal sparring with Leonard Eyestone had stimulated me. What I wanted was active investigation, but I seemed to have temporarily run out of leads. Perhaps I needed some inspiration.

I picked up the phone receiver and dialed Project Helping Hands. Louise Wingfield was still there, as much of a workaholic as I. She responded with enthusiasm when I suggested she come along with me on a journey into the past.

I know a fellow investigator, an Italian-American and native San Franciscan in his late fifties who frequently bemoans the death of the old North Beach. Although I haven't lived here long enough to remember those days, I fully understand what my friend, a self-admitted nostalgiac, means. Chinatown has spilled over into what used to be Little Italy; topless clubs and bars and T-shirt shops forma sleazy neon-lighted hub at Broadway and Columbus. Trendy restaurants have supplanted many of the generations-old Italian establishments, and high rents are driving families out. But there are still pockets of the once-dominant culture, where the odors of crusty sourdough and oregano and espresso drift on the air and the official language is that of the native land. To me, North Beach is an exciting place where cultures clash and mix, bohemian life-styles bound, and a good meal of pasta and strong red wine can be had for under twenty dollars. If you can find a parking space, that is.

I got lucky that evening: a space opened up on Washington Square in the shadow of the twin-towered Saints Peter and Paul Church. Superstitiously I crossed my fingers to ensure further good fortune and hurried uphill toward the corner of Greenwich and Upper Grant, where Louise Wingfield had said she'd meet me. The warmth of the afternoon had dissipated, and fog was drifting in—thin fingers that reached into the narrow alleyways and curled around the neon signs and streetlights, lending them an old-timey softness.

Wingfield, bundled in a down jacket, scarf, and knitted cap, leaned against one of the street poles at the corner. She was smoking and staring up the hill. When she heard my footsteps she glanced around, then straightened and dropped her cigarette on the pavement, crushing it out and nudging it into the gutter with her foot. She faced me, expression wistful, smile edge with pain.

“It's still there,” she said.

“The flat?”

“Probably, but I'm talking about the bakery.” She gestured at the next block, where a fog-muted sign said, Fabrizio Pastries.

“The same name?” I asked.

“The same sign, even.”

“Why don't we go in there, see if it's still run by your former landlord?” As we began walking uphill, I added, “I take it you haven't been back here since you gave up the flat?”

“No. After I married, we never came back to North Beach. It wasn't a place where—as my former husband would say—our kind of people went. Since my divorce I haven't had any reason to come here. And I suppose I haven't wanted to be reminded of those old days. Of Cordy . . .”

The bakery had plate-glass windows fronting on the sidewalk. Displayed in them were rounded loaves of sourdough, slabs of focaccia, handmade breadsticks, and an ornate custard-filled cake. Inside, behind a counter at the rear of the shop, stood a good-looking curly-headed man of about forty. As we entered, he flashed us a broad welcoming smile. I trailed behind Wingfield, examining the trays of cookies with various intriguing shapes and toppings. When I spied some cannoli stuffed with candied fruit and chocolate, I felt a sharp pang of hunger. So much for nutritionally sound fiber-heavy lunches.

The man noticed the yearning expression on my face and came over, smiling again, “Here, have a taste.” He placed one of the little fried horns on a square of waxed paper and handed it across the counter. My mouth watered painfully as I bit into it. Ricotta, citron and that bitter, bitter chocolate—just a step short of heaven.

I asked, “How on earth do you make this?”

“It's an old family secret.”

“This is a family business?”

“Has been for over fifty years. The old man started it back before I was born.”

“And how long have you been running it?”

“Only five years, since the old man retired. I served a long, tough apprenticeship, but it was worth it.”

“I don't suppose you'd remember my friend.” I motioned at Wingfield. “She rented the upstairs flat back in the mid-fifties.”

He glanced at Louise, shook his head apologetically. “I remember that Pop let out the flat, yes. That was when he decided that my sister and I ought to grow up in the suburbs. We moved to Daly City, lived in a track house. That was what people thought they wanted in the fifties: everything modern, nice and hygienic, nice and boring. My sister and I, we moved back here, and now I live in the flat with my family. Whatever my kids' lives are going to be, I guarantee they won't be boring.”

I asked. “Does you father still live in Daly City?”

“Are you kidding? After my mother died, he wanted to come back here as much as my sister and me. He's got an apartment a couple of blocks away, and most nights this time you can find him enjoying his retirement with his cronies over at Reno's.”

“That's a bar?”

Wingfield answered for him. “A bar in the finest North Beach tradition.

The baker nodded, “You've been there?”

“Many a time, back in the old days.”

“And my old man, Frank Fabrizio was your landlord. What do you know. Listen, why don't you go over to Reno's, say hello to him? The old man would get a kick out of it.”

I said, “I think we'll do that.” Then I glanced at the tray of cannoli. “But before we do, could I get a half dozen of those?”

To get to Reno's we cut through the mist-clogged alley, Wingfield stopped midway and pointed out the stairway to the flat. A black iron grille barred the tiny entry; the windows above were softly lit behind sheer white draperies.

“It's all the same,” Wingfield said. “It's as if I'd moved out of there yesterday. I half expect to see Cordy come down those stairs in her favorite ice-blue taffeta shirtwaist.” Then she hugged herself, shivering. “How did I get to be so old while this stayed the same?”

“You're not that old.”

“I didn't think so till now. But my body feels so . . . perishable, while this”—she kicked viciously at the concrete stoop—”just goes on and on.”

There was real anger in her voice, and it surprised me. Wingfield wasn't yet sixty and very hardy, but I supposed our conceptions of age were all relative. I myself was already braced against the day when my own body would begin to fail me and one by one I'd be forced to abandon the things I loved to do, the dreams I hadn't yet fulfilled. And I knew there was no soothing word I could offer Louise, nothing that would temper her rage at the steady onslaught of time.

I said gently, “Let's go on to Reno's. We could both use a drink.

The bar was old North Beach: dimly lighted, with dark paneling, checkerboard tile floor, and deep red hangings. The exposed brick was honeycombed with niches containing pseudo-classical statues, and over the bar hung a badly executed gilt-framed oil painting of a Tuscan landscape. At one table a pair of old men hunched intently over an inlaid chessboard; at another a lone party who might have been a poet scribbled desultorily on a tattered legal pad. A middle-aged couple locked hands in a booth, faces strained in mute desperation.

There was only one other customer: a balding, wrinkled man who could have been the baker aged more than a quarter of a century. Her perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, glass of red wine in front of him, conversing with the grizzled bartender. I tapped Wingfield's arm and pointed him out. She nodded and moved his way.

As we approached, the men broke off their conversation—a spirited discussion of our mayor's failings—and turned interested eyes toward us. Frank Fabrizio's twinkled in mild lechery—obviously a man who appreciated women both young and old. Wingfield allowed herself a small smile of pleasure at the compliment, then slide onto the stool next to him. I saw on the other side of her as the bartender slapped two cocktail napkins onto the polished surface. After we'd ordered glasses of red, Louise lit a cigarette, turned to Frank Fabrizio, and introduced herself. “I was one of the girls who rented you upstairs flat back in the mid-fifties,” she said. “Your son told us you'd be here, so I stopped in to say hello.”

He studied her, furrows deepening around his eyes. “You look familiar, some. Of course we're all older now—hah, Reno?”

The bartender set down our glasses with a philosophical shrug.

Fabrizio shook his head in amusement. “Funny how people turn up after all these years. You girls were hell-raisers back then.”

“Well . . .”

“The wife, rest her soul, always complained. Said we might as well've turned our flat into a bordello. You ever notice how the women who pride themselves on their virtue have very dirty minds? Anyway, I stuck up for you girls. Said you were just sowing some wild oats. I figure everybody, male or female, is entitled to, if they've got the nerve.”