Chocolate Quake (10 page)

“Who’s-a have the job before the dead lady?” asked Bruno, having finished his second piece of pie. He interrupted advice to a black, unwed mother on the intricacies of pasta making to ask his question. The young woman had just told him that she thought making your own pasta when you could get it in a box was “a dumb idea.”

“Good thought,” I agreed. “We need to find out why there were so many financial problems.”

“I already told you that a building like this gobbles up money,” Alicia replied.

“Yes, but the problems seem to have led to many of Denise’s—”

“Myra Fox. Denise took over from Myra because Myra had to have a mastectomy. If you want to talk to her, do it on the phone. The poor woman looks dreadful—almost bald from the follow-up radiation, dreadfully thin even before she was diagnosed—and she’s very sensitive about the whole thing.”

I felt terrible at the thought of bothering a woman who had been through such an ordeal. Obviously, she hadn’t killed Denise. I wouldn’t call her unless I had to. Instead I made other calls.

First I tried Kebra Zenawi at her restaurant, but she couldn’t come to the telephone because she was busy. I left my name and number. Then I called Yasmin Atta and discovered, to my astonishment, that she was the CEO of a company called Nightshades. Surely they didn’t make poison? And there was that terrorist named Atta. I had to admonish myself not to be silly. If she were the CEO of a terrorist poison-making establishment, she wouldn’t announce it in the firm name. And probably nightshade isn’t a weapon of mass destruction. More like something in a Shakespearean play.

After I had stated my business, the executive secretary said Miss Atta was booked solid all week, but if I wanted to meet her at Zaré for lunch at one on Wednesday, she’d work me in. I agreed and got the address of Zaré, hoping it would be a place I could use for a column. Last I called Marcus Croker at his police station. They said he wasn’t on duty today and that they did not give out home phone numbers. Even if my telephone calls hadn’t produced much, Alicia Rovere had been a trove of information, for which I thanked her profusely.

“I will find out who killed Denise,” I promised. I had to drag Bruno away from a second young welfare recipient, who was getting a lecture on the proper way to make tomato sauce.

“Go help your girlfriend’s daughter-in-law ask questions,” Alicia told him. “Anyone wants to make tomato sauce, I can tell them.”

“That comes in a can,” said the boxed-pasta enthusiast, “but you don’t have to put nothin’ on the pasta. The kids like it plain.”

15

Canvassing 1-B

 

W
e climbed the
steps between C and B buildings, knocked, and entered the office of the Crone Cohort. What a dreadful name! I had gathered from Alicia that it was the service arm for older women, but what aging woman wanted to be called a crone? We found a tiny lady with white hair and a thin face that displayed the vestiges of former beauty. Maria Fortuni. She told me that I wasn’t old enough for her group, then said to Bruno, “Don’t you know the meaning of the word
crone,
old man? It means old
woman.
”

“I’m-a think it mean ugly, old woman, but you are a beautiful lady.” He clasped his hands over his heart. “An’ from Italia, too.”

“My father was from Italy,” she said crossly. “I see you know of the Fortunis. Maybe you think you can get your hands on my money.”

Bruno looked stricken. “You break-a my heart, pretty lady.” Then he burst into a sobbing rendition of “Una Furtiva Lagrima” from
Elisir D’Amore.
That means “one furtive tear,” and Mr. Valetti produced several as he sang to her.

Before he could launch into a second verse, I cleared my throat, and Mrs. Fortuni said, “I don’t like tenors. My late husband was a tenor, not to mention a lecher, who cared for nothing but sex and money.” Mr. Valetti looked shocked. “As soon as he died, I took my family name back, and I intend to keep it to the end of my days.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I interrupted politely, “but I’m investigating the murder of Denise Faulk.”

“Why? She was a horrible person. Determined to call off building the ramp for women my age. How can they expect us to climb those dreadful steps in front? But then they obviously don’t care about our problems. If they did, they wouldn’t have given us such an offensive name.
Crone Cohort.
My mission in life is to get it changed. Someone should murder Pansy Bouquet, or whatever the witch is called. The name was her idea.”

“Witch?” I echoed weakly.

“Oh yes, we have witches and lesbians and men who’ve had their privates cut off. The only sensible thing the center has done is put them up there in the attic where no one sees much of them. It’s a scandal. Almost as bad as Denise saying we couldn’t have a ramp because it would run insurance rates up. Security concerns or some such.”

“There’s an unguarded entrance that anyone can use?” I asked.

“Of course not. Only we
crones
are supposed to use it.”

So much for security and knowing who was in the building that night,
I thought, greatly discouraged.

“Well, I beat her on that. And if she hadn’t been stabbed to death—probably by someone whose project she cancelled—I’d have won on getting female-only legal assistance and financial counseling. Have you any idea how many old ladies are cheated by men, particularly their own male children or their lawyers? Declared incompetent so the families or lawyers can grab all the money and put them away in nursing homes? My clients aren’t all as sharp as I am. I’ve got women who can’t remember which office I’m in, much less what’s going on with their money. What are you staring at, old man? Did you just realize that your children are stealing you blind?”

“Bruno of Bruno’s Napoli got lots of money an’ no children,” Bruno retorted. “Now I got a nice apartment house, bring in rents for my old age.”

“In that case you can ask me for a date, but I’m not saying I’ll go.”

“Were you in the building the night Denise was killed, Ms. Fortuni?” I asked, unable to think of any more subtle way to put it. She could have been here. All she had to do was climb the middle ramp.

Maria Fortuni snorted. “You think I killed her? I don’t go out after dark.”

I’d have to check on that.

“You hear, old man? You want to take me out, you have to ask for an afternoon. On the weekend. The only one of us old folks who was here was Yolanda Minarez. She’s suing the center, so she came to see some lawyer. You can bet he’ll take her for a pretty penny. The silly twit forgot to lock the bathroom door when she was in there, and the Russian walked in on her. Now she’s suing to keep men out of the toilets, and Denise said we couldn’t afford both men’s and women’s toilets. She’ll probably say we can’t afford water if the place catches fire.”

“She’s dead,” I murmured. Yolanda Minarez hadn’t been on the list. She’d obviously come in the side door too. I wrote the names of both women down on my list. Before I could ask any further questions of Maria Fortuni, we were interrupted by a high-pitched tirade in a foreign language. It seemed to be coming from across the hall, Female and Fit, if I remembered correctly.

“It’s the Chinese,” snapped Mrs. Fortuni. She pushed herself up from her desk and hobbled, using a cane, to the door, where she shouted, “Be quiet in there!”

Obviously Maria Fortuni had not killed Denise Faulk. Ms. Fortuni was no taller than my mother-in-law and considerably less mobile. Bruno whispered in my ear, “As if I’m-a date her. Does she look-a like she go dancing? Anyway, I’m inna love with you mother.”

“
In-law,
” I corrected. I thanked Ms. Fortuni for her time and crossed to the enclave of Female and Fit, where an elderly Chinese lady was shouting at a Chinese girl while a woman in a white doctor’s jacket, big black-framed glasses, and long, black hair looked on with interest. I imagined the Chinese grandmother as a young bride in an embroidered satin dress and slippers, wearing an elaborate hairdo, one of the “first chop ladies,” being led from a steamer by her husband, a Chinese merchant in the city. Their pictures on rice paper had been for sale in Chinese stores, but they themselves were never seen again outside their husband’s houses. A romantic idea, but this lady would have to be about 150 years old to fit that scenario.

When she saw us, Dr. Rosamunda Tagalong skirted the warring Chinese, and offered her hand for a brisk shake.

“Isn’t Tagalong a Philippine language?” I asked with interest.

“It is,” said the doctor crisply, “and I am from the Philippines. When I came to this country for my medical training, your immigration service was so kind as to mistake one of the languages I speak for my family name, which was, in a past life, de Corona. My student visa, my work visa, and finally my citizenship papers are forever in the name of Rosamunda Tagalong.”

“Many Americans,” I replied pleasantly, “carry names that are the result of mistakes by immigration officers. I’m Carolyn Blue, and I’m investigating the murder of Denise Faulk.”

“Ah, the estimable Mrs. Faulk, may she rest in peace. Are you related to the murderer?”

“
La professora
is-a no murderer,” said Mr. Valetti.

“Well, she certainly wasn’t the only person to exchange words with Mrs. Faulk, just the one at the scene of the crime with blood all over her. I myself had a much better reason for resenting Denise. Our late business manager was unbelievably shortsighted. In fact, had the mammogram machine I requested been financed earlier, Denise wouldn’t have died.”

Is she confessing?
I wondered.

“Two years ago when I first suggested it, a mammography facility here would have caught Myra Fox’s cancer early so that she wouldn’t have had to undergo radiation after surgery. In that case, she’d have been back at work before someone could kill Denise.”

While I was trying out that line of reasoning, Dr. Tagalong said, “Every woman over forty should have a yearly mammogram, not to mention learning self-examination techniques, and—” She noticed at that point that the old Chinese woman was glaring at her and said, “That includes you, Mrs. Yu. At your age mammography is a necessity.”

A stream of Chinese issued from the old lady, and the young one translated, “Grandmother says she will not have people taking pictures of her private parts, and she will not do exercises in a swimming pool wearing an immodest garment that even a concubine would shun.” The young woman sighed. “I’d hoped you could convince her, Dr. Tagalong, but Grandmother is very stubborn and old-fashioned.”

“Are you and your grandmother, by any chance, related to Homicide Inspector Harry Yu?” I asked. “He mentioned his grandmother when I talked to him about my mother-in-law’s arrest.”

“You know my father?” The young woman looked astonished. “I’m Ginger Yu. Well, Dolly Madison Yu.”

“Ah yes, the presidential and first-lady naming tradition. I’m Carolyn Blue. My husband knows your cousin, Millard Fillmore Fong.”

“My cousin! Wait. Blue? And you said my father arrested your mother-in-law? I can’t believe it.” Tears filled her eyes. “He did it on purpose. To keep me from living in the dorms.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said he arrested your mother-in-law. That has to be Professor Vera Blue. She was going to get me another scholarship so I won’t have to live at home when I start at Berkeley this fall. Daddy doesn’t want me to live in the dorms, and he claims he can’t afford to pay for a dormitory room. Now he’s—” She couldn’t continue because her grandmother began to lecture her in Chinese.

“What did she say?” I asked, hoping more light might be shed on Inspector Yu’s ignoble reasons for arresting my mother-in-law.

“She says only if I live at home can my family protect my virginity so that I will be marriageable when they find a suitable husband for me. Have you ever heard anything so hopelessly retro?”

I smiled at Grandmother Yu and replied, “I know just what you mean, Mrs. Yu. I worry about my daughter every day she’s away at school, but there does come a time when we have to let them find their way, trusting that we have raised our daughters to act according to what we taught them.”

Both Yu’s nodded, each evidently thinking I supported her position. Dr. Tagalong said, “What young women need to be taught is safe sex. And, of course, breast self-examination. It’s never too early to start, you know.” This last was addressed to Ginger. “If you practice safe sex, your grandmother won’t have to worry about you, and self-examination will keep you from dying of cancer.” Evidently Mrs. Yu not only understood English but again disagreed with the doctor.

Ginger disagreed as well. “The experts are saying that self-examination is a waste of time.”

“They’re wrong,” snapped the doctor.

“Dr. Tagalong, were you in the building the night Denise Faulk was killed?” I asked.

“No, I was attending a meeting on STDs. That’s sexually transmitted diseases. Many of our clients either have them or are at risk. And, as I believe I said, I did not kill Mrs. Faulk. I respect my oath as a doctor—do no harm.”

More sharp words from Mrs. Yu.

“Grandmother wants to see the garden,” said Ginger. “She likes gardens.”

“Fine. Fresh air is good for the elderly,” said the doctor, “but you must convince her to get a mammogram and start water exercise at the Y. Small-boned, elderly Asian women are at risk for osteoporosis. Tell your grandmother that a few hours every week in the pool are much better than a broken hip.”

Mrs. Yu glared and left; her granddaughter trailed along after telling me how proud I must be to have such a wonderful woman as my mother-in-law.

“I believe that Marcus Croker teaches a class in your division,” I said to the doctor.

“Indeed. The Centers for Disease Control have declared violence an epidemic in this country. Consequently, I feel that our clients should be able to protect themselves.”