Edited for Death (9 page)

Clarice is leaning against the doorframe with her cream-licking grin.

“A rest? Is that what you’re calling your runaway weekend? Poor Mac and I sit at home and twiddle our toes while you’re out with a man?”

“What?” I can tell Clarice has something else going on.

“I just spent a chunk of time on the phone with Jim Dodson,” she says. “We were right in wondering where Joe Baldwin was killed. Jim said there was no evidence that he was killed in the lobby, but there was blood spatter at the corner of the bar. So now the question is how did he get into a locked bar? Royce told me that they lock it after 11 p.m. and the kitchen staff usually unlocks it in the morning when they need a wine for lunch.”

“Are there any other doors into the bar?” I ask.

“There is one at the far end, it goes into the private family area. Royce said it’s always locked, he’s the only one who has a key. I think
that’s
because of Stewart.

“I must have touched a nerve ending with Jim, though,” Clarice says. “He got pretty distant and then clammed up when I brought up the ‘locked door mystery’. I just hate it when they don’t tell us everything!”

“I know. It makes me crazy, too. I suppose they’ve been burnt by tabloid sleazes who’ll go tell everything. There are always some things they don’t let out, little things only the murderer would know. This is likely one of those. After all, who would think to put much work into covering Joe Baldwin’s murder? Who would even read the story?”

Even as I say this, I know Clarice and I would put more work in. Both of us are curious, and an unanswered question, like how did Baldwin get a key or was there someone else in the bar, nag us. Questions exist to be answered.

I nod my head.

“Did you remember to buy food for Mac?” Clarice asks. Following Clarice’s line of thought is one of those problems I believe is unanswerable, like the unknown number that will explain all of science.

Clarice agreed to dog-sit for a couple of days and I wonder if this is taking advantage. She and I have an easy relationship and she’s watched Mac when I’ve gone to visit my daughter.

Heather’s a student at UC Santa Barbara and if I want to see her, I better get in the car. She’s too “busy” to make the trip home.

“Phil’s a friend, an old friend, and I’m not sure he’s even still interested in me like that,” I say. Clarice now does her own eye-roll. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh bushwah, Clarice. I don’t expect anything like that to happen and, if it does, it’ll be only as friends, so don’t go getting all girlie on me. Ever since you met Jim Dodson your mind’s been as sharp as a rubber trap.”

At that, Clarice has the grace to turn a faint pink, so I know I’ve hit a nerve. “OK, I’ll leave it,” she says. “Just have a good time and we’ll see you Sunday.”

I packed some stuff this morning, so I hit the freeway headed west while the sun is still high. Traffic to the Bay Area is light. Most people drive up to mountains, lakes or resorts for the weekend, and a flow of cars, campers and boats creeps along the eastbound lanes. I make good time across the flat farmland When the road rises at its last hill before the bay, traffic clots with people heading out for Friday night fun.

Traffic is the consistency of cottage cheese as I come through the toll plaza onto the Bay Bridge. The sun just shows at the top of a fog bank off the Golden Gate. I’m glad I’ve packed both a sweater and dressy jacket. When the valley heats up, the ocean forms fog that gets sucked through the gate and over San Francisco like a wet blanket. Summer dresses are a no-go.

I can’t believe my luck when I find a parking spot near Phil’s Leavenworth Street apartment—only a couple of blocks away, practically on the doorstep in San Francisco. The sun had been shining and the buildings on Russian Hill radiate warmth as I ring the bell. Inside, I can see him leaning out his door and I yell “hi” as I start up the stairs.

Wow. He’s done alright. The building tucks into the hillside which gives him a small, terraced backyard outside the French doors at the end of the dining room. Once I’m in, I see the living room windows look out at Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower. A fireplace and built-in bookcases are right-angled to the windows.

“This is really nice, what a glorious view,” I say. “How did you find this place?”

“I’d like to take full credit, but actually I sort of inherited it from another editor who moved to the East Coast,” Phil says. “It is pretty spectacular and I kind of pinch myself when I watch ships come into the bay. Even the bedroom has a view.”

He gives me a brief tour of what’s left, mostly the bedroom, and goes to make drinks. We sit in front of the windows and watch the lights come up across the bridge and in the east bay.

I feel awkward. It’s one thing to phone and send messages. But now I’m here with this man from my past. And, damn. He’s more dishy than the sheriff.

“Do you like Northern California better?” I ask. Good one Amy. Right out of middle school’s
How to Talk to a Boy
.

“I don’t know better, it’s different,” Phil says. “It’s more, um... compact? It feels like it moves quicker, I guess. San Francisco is so small. There are always people on the streets. L.A.’s so spread out you don’t get the sense of hurry.

“You look good. It doesn’t look as though what’s-his-name left permanent scars.”

Phil knows Brandon’s name. He knows I pushed him away to grab Brandon. He knows I left L.A. for Brandon. He knows Brandon left me to move to Chicago with his pregnant girlfriend.

“Work is a great antidote,” I say. “Keeps me busy so that I don’t think too much.”

“So what’s this latest story about the Calverts? I know you covered some local politics at the
Globe
. You getting involved with bigger things now?”

“I really don’t care about the politics. I’m trying to figure out the murders.”

“You? Putting yourself into an investigation? That doesn’t sounds like you. I thought you always preached the objectivity of the press.”

“I did. I still do. This is just curiosity. It’s the ‘hmmm’ factor. So much of this doesn’t make sense. Why did Royce give up his techie job, sell his house in Cupertino and head to the hills? Would you do that?”

“No, but then my family isn’t famous.”

Phil is French-Canadian. A Quebecois. Not only is he fluent in both languages, he has family in Northern France, mostly Normandy. His perspective is European from spending summers with aunts and uncles. It’s also where he got his foodie-ness, his wine knowledge and a certain
je ne sais quoi
. Particularly with women. He’s just 6 feet tall with brown eyes and fine, brown hair that lies just perfectly on his head, including the piece that slips down over his right eyebrow. I’ve never known Phil to be without some eye candy on his arm, so I ask.

“I’m alone,” he says. “I guess after forty the chase loses something. It takes too much energy now.”

I nod. But there’s nostalgia, too. It’s unnerving to realize that we’re both the other side of forty; just the other side, but still. Phil and I have known each other for almost twenty years. A generation.

“Before we both get teary for our lost youth, let’s go get some dinner,” he says.

“I thought we’d walk down to Washington Square for dinner and then I’d take you

to my favorite bar.”

“You have a favorite bar? I don’t remember you as being much of a drinker.”

“Well, Tosca is different. It was even a favorite of Rudolph Nureyev when he was in San Francisco,” Phil says. “It’s changed, gotten fancier, but...you’ll see.”

We eat at an Italian restaurant—of course—in North Beach and share a bottle of wine. Between the drinks at Phil’s, the wine with dinner and what I drink at Tosca, I’m on autopilot climbing back to the apartment.

It is wonderful seeing Phil again. I realize I’ve missed the company of men—men who treat me like a woman, not a boss—but I’m not going to expect anything. Whatever happens, happens. At least I’m having a good time.

Once inside, Phil disappears into the kitchen and I can hear glasses rattling. I’m watching the city lights as Phil comes back with a couple of brandies and puts an arm around me.

“I remember once that I asked if I could kiss you. I’m asking again.”

“Yes, I remember,” I say

I fully intend it to be a casual friendship kiss, and it begins as that. But when his tongue slides over my lips I find myself answering him. He pulls back and says, “I wasn’t wrong. I know I’m still interested in you and I’m pretty sure that you feel the same way, after that.”

We make love a second time in Phil’s bed. He’s an even better lover than I suspected. No wonder he had always had such a group of high-powered, classy women around him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Shadows of trees flash by, black and white stripes blurring together like an old movie reel stuttering off the sprockets. Eucalyptus? But they smell like coffee. Music, just notes, a haunting voice. A feeling of wind. I must be in a car, moving fast, driving down the San Francisco Peninsula somewhere.

I come awake slowly, vestiges of the dream still wisping through my mind. I’m not moving, there’s no wind, but I hear some strange music and smell real coffee.

I’m suddenly awake, remembering last night and where I am. I’m in Phillipe Etange’s bed. He isn’t. Fresh coffee is brewing and the strange music is coming from the living room speakers. Oh, God.

I scoot to the edge of the bed and head for the bathroom before Phil comes in. Panic starts to form in my chest. I turn on the shower, sit on the closed lid of the toilet, and started talking to myself. What was I thinking? This is a friend, a very nice man. What is this going to do to the friendship? Is he going to take this seriously? What if he wants to start getting involved? Maybe worse yet, what if he doesn’t? What do I want?

Stop it, just stop it, I tell
myself. Last night I had dinner, drinks, conversation and great sex with a man. Millions of women do this every night. If it hasn’t been part of my life for a few years, well, so what? We’re both grown people.

In the bedroom, I grab a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, pull them on, and take a deep breath before I go through the living room into the kitchen.

“Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you. I have coffee and I ran out to get some muffins and fruit. Did you sleep OK?” Phil says as he leans over to kiss me.

“Fine. I had a strange dream as I was waking up. What is that music?”

“Those are fado, Portuguese revenge songs, sort of tavern songs. It’s nice enough that I thought we could have breakfast on the patio.”

I look out at the tiny brick area built into the side of the hill that is just now getting sun. It will be a beautiful day. We eat muffins and drink coffee at a wrought iron table, the fado plaintively following us.

My panic is gone and I just smile when Phil says, “I really enjoyed you last night. I told you I’d remind you how.”

“Well, everybody says it’s like riding a bicycle, you never really forget how. You’re a good reminder.”

“Do you have anything you’d like to do today? I thought we could go down to City Lights and browse for books. There’s a gallery opening tonight. It’s not an assignment so I’d only go for an hour or so then I’ve made reservations at a small French restaurant out in the Richmond. Does all that sound OK?”

I think that sounds wonderful. I’m learning to love independence, relish making decisions, am glad every day I don’t have to take anyone else into consideration. But it’s nice occasionally to have someone do the planning and organizing and just tell me when to show up.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a free day in San Francisco, and it’s a city I love. My grandmother lived in the city before her death and as a child I came to stay with her sometimes. After my move to Southern California there hasn’t been time or opportunity to visit.

North Beach is crowded with tourists, regulars and residents, all out enjoying the day, and the bay is full of white sails as though every marina ringing it had shaken its winter laundry out onto the water.

We spend two hours in the bookstore. I’m just drifting, moving from subject to subject and shelf to shelf, picking books up only to put them back. My indecision is pleasurable, but I finally carry Antonia Fraser’s biography of Marie Antoinette around long enough that I feel possession and take it up to the cashier.

When we change for the gallery and dinner, I take extra time. This will be the first time I’ve met any of Phil’s contacts or coworkers. I pull my hair back into a smooth cap held by a big silver clasp, and do a complete makeup job including lip liner. I brought a little black dress and as I slip it over my head, I feel a tingle of excitement. Going out in public with someone new, catching his eye across a room and remembering making love, is electric.

We take a cab to the gallery in Maiden Lane, an alley off Union Square. I see the crowd beginning to gather in amoeba clusters, forming and dissolving as friends greet each other in front of the gallery. Circle Off The Square is in a brick building mid-way down the Lane. As we get nearer I see the namesake circular ramp that leads to the second floor. Installation pieces follow the curve of the ramp upward, but I can’t see all of them for the crowd.