Chocolate Quake (12 page)

“Who doesn’t?” I replied diplomatically, and Bruno and I left to check out the other office on the third floor, Interfaith Women. He was very upset that the jail deputies had taken Kara’s cookies but refused his pizza.

I must have misunderstood the remark about witches. Interfaith Women sounded like an ecumenical organization. A lady in sandals and flowing clothes let us in. She wasn’t wearing a flower crown, but she looked like a participant in an outdoor sixties wedding, and she introduced herself as Marigold Garland (Maria Fortuni’s Pansy Bouquet?). Still, she didn’t look like a witch. Not that I’d ever met one.

Once we’d stated our business, Marigold sighed and said, “Vera wouldn’t want my help. She called me an idiot the last time I saw her. Goodness, she acts as if we’re a bunch of fruitcakes. Even the army—or is it the air force?—recognizes Wicca as an established religion. They authorized services at a base in Texas. It came out in our newsletter several years ago.”

Marigold offered us chairs and provided cups of tea, each of which had a flower petal floating in it. “I bring the flowers from home,” said Marigold, “and I buy the tea at Crystals and Teas in the Haight.”

I just hoped that the tea wasn’t a hallucinogen and the flowers poisonous. I have bushes in El Paso, oleanders, whose leaves and petals can kill a cat or even a baby, but Jason wouldn’t let me have them cut down. He said our children are too old and sensible to eat the leaves off our bushes when they come home from college.

“I don’t know how I can help in finding Denise’s killer. No one from our group was here that night. Of course, we held a ceremony over the weekend to cleanse the building—spiritual cleansing. We didn’t actually scrub it down. I’m not sure they’ve been allowed to clean up the blood in the office. The police wouldn’t even let us in that room to chant.”

“Maybe you’ve heard of someone who had a grudge against Denise,” I suggested.

“Denise was well liked. She’s saved many women from. . . . Wait!” She held her hand up dramatically. “I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t you attend our ceremony tomorrow night? Maybe the Goddess will send us a sign to help with your investigation.”

What goddess?
I wondered.
What kind of ceremony?
“Actually, I just wanted to talk to people who might be able to help.” I emphasized the word
people.

“Then you must come. After the ceremony we have a social hour, herb tea and cookies. We have a channeler. Perhaps Jeanine could put you in contact with Denise herself. Denise probably knows who killed her.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Be here just before moonrise. The ceremony is in the backyard and the social hour in the kitchen. I just had
another
thought! Perhaps you mother’s arrest is punishment from the Goddess for her unkind words about our faith.”

“My mother died when I was a child. Vera is my mother-in-
law.
”

“You poor dear. Have you heard from her since she died? If you haven’t, our channeler will certainly have to try to put you in touch. That’s much more likely to be successful than trying to contact Denise, unless you were close to her.”

“I never met her.”

“There, you see.” Marigold beamed at me. “I’m sure you’ll find it very helpful to talk to your mother. Children who lose their parents at an early age so often have unresolved issues with the departed. It does help to talk it out with the late parent.”

I fled. Bruno was right behind me, muttering that the church used to burn women like that. He wondered if the pope had heard that witchcraft was making a comeback.

I was thinking that I shouldn’t let these strange encounters upset me. This was, after all, San Francisco.

18

The Perversity of Husbands and Mothers-in-Law

 

B
ack in the
apartment at 4:30, I had to forego a nap to call Jason about dinner plans. The conference desk was reluctant to summon him from a session, but I assured them that it was an emergency concerning his mother. I didn’t mention that she was in jail, not in a hospital, as they undoubtedly surmised. Jason must have thought the same thing because he came on the line, saying, “What’s happened? Did the guards beat her up? Or the inmates?”

Good!
I thought. If he hadn’t yet realized how dangerous the murder accusation was, at least it had dawned on him that his mother, in jail among hardened criminals at her advanced age, was in danger. Not that I envied the hardened criminals, who were undoubtedly being subjected to feminist lectures. “I haven’t heard from Vera,” I replied. “Did your father hire the detective?”

“You called me from a meeting to ask about a detective?” he exclaimed. “Well, the answer is yes. Dad’s friend recommended one, and he hired the fellow, so you don’t have to feel responsible for the investigation. I hope you haven’t been doing anything dangerous today.”

“I had a lunch concocted by the Food Stamp Gourmet group, which was dangerous to the sensibilities of anyone who doesn’t relish banana and cheese casseroles.”

Jason laughed. “That should make a good column, but don’t say you’re planning to subject me to the dish.”

“Never,” I promised.

“Look, I’ve got to get back. I’ll be home between 6:30 and 7:00.”

“Just meet me at a restaurant called Eliza on Eighteenth Street. They’re reputed to have wonderful Chinese food, an interesting décor, and a collection of art glass. Invite your father and the detective.”

“Well, Dad, sure I’ll invite him, but you don’t need to meet the detective.”

“Of course I do. I have information to pass on.”

“Carolyn, what have you been doing? I specifically asked you not to—”

“If you don’t care what happens to your mother, you might at least consider the effect on our children of having a grandmother convicted of a particularly gruesome murder.”

“
Gruesome?
All the more reason for you to—”

“I’m sure a few more days in jail will lure your mother to my point of view. I’m told that the food is so bad an Irish terrorist, accustomed to English dungeon food, filed a complaint.”

“Mother doesn’t care about—”

“I’ll make the reservation for four people. See you at 7:00.” I then hung up to avoid further argument, and settled down for a nap. I should have known better. I had no more than fallen into a comfy doze when the phone rang. In case it was Jason, I let the answering machine pick up, the result of which was that I had to scramble to the office before Vera hung up.

“Did you just get in?” she asked, sounding peeved.

“No, I just hit my arm on a dining room chair,” I replied, rubbing a painful bruise. “But I have spent the day at the center, Vera, and I have some good leads on Denise’s murder.”

“Didn’t I tell you to leave it to the police?” she snapped. “If the murderer hears that you’re nosing around, you’ll be the next person dead. Denise was a veritable sieve when I got to her. And blood. You wouldn’t believe—”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I retorted peevishly. “We’re going to get you freed, no matter how much fun you’re having in jail.”

“My goodness, you’re in a bad mood. Still, I don’t want you getting yourself murdered. Gwen and Chris will blame me, and I’d never hear the end of it from Jason. On the other hand, since you’ve been to the center, I have an errand for you. Did you meet Maude Kosinski? She’s the head of Working Women.”

“No, they were having a meeting on three when I stopped by her office.”

“Meetings are the ultimate waste of time. If organizations would stop having meetings, they’d get twice as much done. Tell Maude I’m sending her a client. Have you got a pencil?”

I found one in a side drawer and took down the information.
Hispanic female. Jesusita Gomez. Nineteen. Single mother. Two children. To be released from jail Wednesday. Find her a job, housing, child care. Vera suggests starting a Jail-to-Work program in addition to the other three.

“Will the head of the program want to deal with a criminal?” I asked.

“I should hope so,” Vera snapped. “There are all sorts of organizations to help male parolees. We need to help the women, too. And assure Maude that this girl isn’t some dangerous psychopath.” She snorted with laughter, and I thought how few times I’d heard Vera laugh. Jail seemed to have improved her sense of humor. “Jesusita stupidly fell in love with a drug dealer and got scooped up when they arrested him. Poor girl’s frantic because her children have gone into foster care.”

“Doesn’t she have any relatives who could take them?” I asked, imagining the horror of being unjustly arrested and then having one’s babies put in foster care. If she was only nineteen, the children had to be very young. One might even be nursing. “I’ll talk to Ms. Kowolski tomorrow.”

“
Kosinski,
” Vera corrected. “Maybe you can help Maude while you’re here. That should keep you out of trouble if you can’t find enough restaurants to review.”

“You are so irritating, Vera. If you want me to help your friend Jesusita, you’ll just have to let me schedule my time as I please. And since I’ve asked everyone else, I’ll ask you. Who had a reason to kill Denise?”

“Nobody that I know had any better reason than I did,” said Vera sharply. “If you actually have some suspects, give their names to the police. It’s perfectly ridiculous for a housewife to be out looking for a murderer.”

“I’m not a housewife anymore. I’m a professional writer. Just like you. Except more people read what I write.”

Vera was chuckling when I hung up. Too bad I hadn’t fought back from the beginning. We might have been friends.

19

Pot Stickers with Clients

 

H
aving lucked into
a parking place for the bike, I arrived extra early. Tourists can usually be counted on to choose a restaurant with high prices and mediocre food, but the clients had chosen a good place. That’s why I planned to get there early enough to order and eat some pot stickers before the Blues could decide on three plates for four people, no appetizers, and, if I was lucky, something alcoholic—not, pray God, plum wine. I ordered beer.

This didn’t look like my kind of case. An old lady arrested for knifing some woman at a middle-class-women-getting-their-jollies-helping-out-welfare-mothers kind of do-gooder center? I took it as a favor to a bunch of scientists paranoid about industrial espionage and coughing up big bucks for my services. Not too sexy, but it pays my share on a great Victorian in the Castro. Since I got hired by Bay Tech, Inc., even my portfolio going down the toilet with the bear market hasn’t affected my standard of living.

So here I am, dunking the world’s greatest spicy pork pot stickers into a great hot sauce that looks like berries but isn’t and waiting for my new clients, an old scientist from Chicago, the ex of the alleged knifer; a middle-aged science prof from Texas, who’ll probably want his Mongolian beef cooked to shoe leather; and the Texas guy’s wife. The scientists’ wives at B.T., Inc., cocktail parties aren’t my idea of a jolly bunch. Most of them would faint if I took it into my head to discuss the gay lifestyle.

I looked up from pot sticker number three and saw a woman who could be the Texas guy’s wife—blonde hair tied back with a scarf that matched her jacket and slacks—chatting politely with the Chinese waitress, who spoke little or no English because she was actually a bus-girl. A real waitress hustled over to point the lady in my direction.

Bad luck. I’d have to share the last of the pot stickers with her. Maybe she’d be too polite to take one. She looked sort of shocked when she saw me, and I hadn’t even stood up yet, but hell, I’d put on a tie and sport jacket, so what was her problem? Still, she headed gamely in my direction, introduced herself—Carolyn Blue—and held out her hand. By then I’d stood up, prepared to shake it. “Sam Flamboise.”

Her eyes widened. Well, I’m 6’6” and weigh 280, and since my hair started to recede, I shaved my head. I suppose she thought she’d introduced herself to some pro wrestler by mistake.

“I’m the P.I.,” I said to ease her mind. I didn’t want her to run off screaming before the paying customers showed up, so I held her chair for her, and she sat down. Then she spotted my pot stickers. Hell! She was going to want a taste, maybe a whole pot sticker.

“Have you eaten here before, Mr. Framboise?” she asked, whipping out a notebook.

“That’s
Flam
boise,” I corrected. “Like a French combination of flamboyant and raspberry, and yeah, I’ve eaten here before. I’m eating my favorite dish right now.”

“I’m a food writer. Can I have one?”

I pushed the plate toward her. “Dip it in the sauce if you don’t mind hot.”

“Not at all,” she replied, dipped, and tasted. “Oh, yummy.” She flipped the notebook open to the middle pages and began to make notes. “What a wonderful sauce! Let’s order another plate.”

That was fine with me. You can’t ever get enough Eliza pot stickers. I waved the waitress over and reordered. Mrs. Blue devoured her first and reached for another.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, but not before she’d taken a bite, so what could I say? I grabbed the last one before she could scarf that down too. “I’m really starving. I spent too much time at the center, but a man your size probably requires a lot of food. Maybe I should have waited for the second plate. Are you starving?”

“Sweetie, I’m always starving.” I grabbed two pot stickers off the new plate, just in case the food writer thought she was supposed to get the whole bunch. She looked pretty surprised to be called
sweetie.
“So what were you doing at the center? That’s the site of the murder, right?”

“I was detecting. I didn’t really believe they—my husband and father-in-law—were going to hire anyone. I wonder what’s in this sauce. If I knew, I might try to make it. Do you cook?”

“Every other day, except when we’re going out to dinner.”