Murder in the Marketplace (15 page)

Strolling past the other community gardens just beyond the swings, I compared the state of my tomatoes to everyone else’s. I wondered what Amy had found for dinner, and whether I could get any writing done that weekend with her around. It felt good to be free of SoftWrite for the day; by the next evening I would be done with them forever.

Amy was in the kitchen when I got home, bustling distractedly around. Every cupboard door stood open and every pot and pan I owned, admittedly not many, had been pressed into use.

“Making dinner?” I stifled any other comments about the condition of the kitchen.

Amy beamed at me as she stirred something on the stove. "It was gnarly, Aunt Liz. I almost bagged it. I mean, five dollars! And that wasn’t a cheap store you sent me to—everything costs a lot more than at home.”

True, Whole Foods is not known for bargains. “What did you get?”

Amy opened the oven and peered inside. “Well, they had lots of grains, so I got a bag full of some soup mix, like you suggested.” She stirred the pot on the stove again. “Lentils and split peas and like that, with some other stuff. Hope it’s not too gross. I saw this great-looking bread, so I got some. I’m heating it up. And I thought you would make a salad?”

“Sure.” I changed quickly, washed my hands, and started putting together the salad.

Amy pointed to a dollar and some change laying on the tabletop. “Money left over,” she said proudly. “And I got some apricots for dessert—they were on sale.”

“Good work.” I finished the salad and added oil and vinegar to it—I have a taste for good vinegars, and Bridget had given me some herb vinegars she’d made the previous Christmas, so I felt very luxurious. “You’ll soon be as good a skinflint as I am.”

Amy thought about this. “You have to be careful when you don’t have much bread,” she said, as if this was an original thought—and to her, it must have been. “My mom is always saying how we don’t have much and my dad should make more. But there always seemed to be plenty of food.”

I set the table, and Amy dished up her soup. “This is plenty of food.” I took a slice of the bread and tasted the soup. “It’s good.”

“So it is.” She sounded surprised. “I cooked in school, but I’ve never spent much time in the kitchen, you know? I’m a better cook than I thought.”

I kept quiet, spooning up the soup, and she smiled at me. “Actually, it was easy,” she confessed. “I put some water in a pot, but it was the wrong size, so I got a bigger one, and put in more water, and put in the weird things, and added some bouillon cubes, and some bits of stuff from your little jars—” She pointed to the jars of home-grown herbs on the shelf by the stove. “And some celery that didn’t look too good. It was fun.”

“You are hereby dubbed chief cook,” I said, raising my water glass to hers in a toast. I tried not to see the chaos in the kitchen. Cooking is a lot of trouble; often I just eat yogurt and fruit and a salad. “After dinner we can drive to the regular supermarket and get some supplies. You can tell me what you like.”

“I like anything,” Amy assured me, her mouth full. “At home I eat a lot of chips and things, but I noticed in the store that those are pretty expensive. Maybe I’ll wait until I have a job before we get any of that.”

It was actually enjoyable cleaning up the kitchen together. Amy found a lot of my comments wildly humorous, which was certainly endearing of her. It wasn’t quite so much fun in the Co-op later, when we clashed over the groceries.

“Frosted Flakes—I love them!” She held up a box emblazoned with the ‘90s version of Tony the Tiger—wearing a bandanna that looked gang-inspired.

“Shredded wheat is cheaper per ounce,” I pointed out.

Amy’s lower lip made an appearance. “Shredded wheat is old-lady food. That’s what Gramma eats.”

“Oh, well, that does it. We couldn’t eat it as well.”

Amy giggled. “How about this granola stuff? Isn’t that what you like?”

“How about some oats, and we’ll make our own granola?" This compromise was acceptable. She shoveled oats out of the bulk grain bin, and I got some raisins. We went through the whole store like that, battling over just about everything—flavored yogurt versus a big tub of plain, whole wheat bread versus air bread, and the ice cream Amy wanted. We got the wheat bread—but also the flavored yogurt and ice cream. I’m human, after all.

“We can have some ice cream when we get home,” Amy said dreamily on the drive back.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, we’re invited to Bridget’s for dessert.”

Amy wasn’t enthusiastic. I told her about Bridget’s first book, due to come out soon. It was a novel, although Bridget got a little vague when anyone asked what it was about. I told Amy about Claudia, too—her biographies of women whose lives she considers important, the latest being Juana Briones, an early settler in our area. My niece was not really impressed.

“I guess I’ll go with you,” she said. Barker, who was along for the ride, jumped into her lap. “Can we bring the puppy?”

“Better not.” I pulled into the driveway. “We’ll fence him into the kitchen. He’s got to learn to stay by himself sometime.”

A chair across the kitchen door was enough to keep Barker in during this, his small stage of life. As we walked away, we could hear him whining. Amy felt sorry for him, but his howling made me shiver a little. It reminded me of the previous day, when I’d heard him whine while on my census rounds.

I hoped it wasn’t a portent.

Chapter 15

"Nice to meet you, Amy." Bridget opened the door. “Come on in!” She gave me a hug and shook Amy’s hand. “We’re just hunkering down in the kitchen while Emery puts the kids to bed.”

The boys’ room opened off the living room, not too uncommon in these old houses. Corky popped out. “Hi, Aunt Liz. Say, is this your niece?” His eyes widened when he saw Amy’s hair. Sam wedged his way in beside his brother.

“Hi.” Amy shook their hands as if they were grown-ups. “I’m Amy. What are your names?”

“I’m Corky. He’s Sam.” Corky indicated his brother with a careless wave. “Your hair is radical!”

Emery came up behind them. “Boys, we’re trying to read here.” He greeted us, his finger holding a place in the pages of
The Sailor Dog.
“Nice to meet you, Amy. Glad you could make it, Liz. I’ll come get acquainted after I put these brats to bed.”

“Not a brat!” Sam was indignant. “I want her to read to us.” He pointed at Amy with the hand that wasn’t holding his blanket.

Behind Emery, Mick began to howl. Bridget shook her head at her boys.

“Amy is a guest,” she said sternly. “Your dad loves to read to you. Get back in there and let him."

Sullenly they retreated, and Emery shut the door. “I don’t mind reading to them,” Amy offered, following me into the kitchen.

“That’s nice of you, Amy.” Bridget pulled out a chair for her. “They sure took to you. Maybe if you have free time some evening you would babysit for us.”

Claudia and Melanie Dixon were gathered at the round table. Bridget poured cups of mint tea from the big teapot and passed a plate of still-warm brownies.

“That was some party you had last night,” Claudia said. “You’re brave to invite us over again.”

Bridget laughed. “It was so hectic I felt cheated out of talking to the people I really wanted to see.” She lifted her own mug of tea. “To the ladies who write!”

We clinked mugs. The brownies were heavenly—gooey and so chocolatey I knew they would keep me up late. I ate one anyway. Amy deliberated carefully before choosing the largest one.

“Those computer types." Melanie Dixon sounded disparaging. “A lot of them act like they never see food unless it’s at a party.” She was a dainty little woman, always well put together. She could afford to be a poet; her husband was with a hot venture capital firm, and she herself came from an old and well-connected Palo Alto family.

“Hugh must entertain a lot of techies in his line of business.” Bridget passed the brownies again.

“Some of them seemed quite presentable.” Claudia took another brownie. “The one who spilled his beer on you, for instance, Liz. He was very attractive.”

“Ed Garfield?” Bridget set the plate down beside Amy. “He’s not usually so clumsy. A few years ago he and Emery thought of going into business together, but Ed and Suzanne decided to do their own thing.”

“He’s pretty dreamy, for an old guy,” Amy said, making a contribution to the conversation. “Does he own a company?” She turned big eyes on me. “I didn’t know you were hanging with VIPs, Aunt Liz.”

“I’m not. I’m temping, that’s all.”

Emery came into the kitchen in time to hear that. “Do you ladies mind if I join you?” He reached for a brownie but turned down the herb tea. “I need something stronger after getting the monsters to bed.” He took a beer out of the refrigerator, raising his eyebrows in invitation. Claudia accepted a beer; the rest of us stuck to tea.

“We were just gossiping about your cohorts,” Claudia told Emery. "They’re even louder than writers in a social setting.”

“And they eat more.” He pulled up a chair between Bridget and Melanie. “Biddy was a little steamed at me for taking over her get-together.” He gave her an affectionate bonk on the arm. "

That’s why I’m stuck with bedtime for the rest of the week.”

“Nonsense, dear. You love bedtime.” Bridget smiled sweetly at him. “Just because your buddies ate all the hors d’oeuvres before they’d even defrosted, let alone been served around—”

“Okay, okay, the young guys are a little rambunctious. But don’t forget about the time one of your writer friends got tanked up and demonstrated his pitching arm by knocking all the flowerpots off the porch railing.”

She laughed and ruffled his flaming red hair. “Evidently we have the friends we deserve.”

Emery turned to Melanie. “Speaking of Ed Garfield, as I heard you doing, is it true SoftWrite is going after more venture funding?”

Melanie wrinkled her forehead. “Not from Hugh’s group—that name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“They’re talking to money people,” I put in, and immediately felt indiscreet.

Amy spoke up. “SoftWrite?” She glanced around the table. “I read an article in
Barron’s
today about small companies that were, like, going public. There was a company from Palo Alto mentioned—I think it might have been SoftWrite. Something like that, anyway.”

Emery started to laugh, but Bridget’s elbow in his ribs changed it to a cough. “You follow the stock market?” Bridget looked at Amy with respect. “That must be interesting.”

“I’m looking for a job in a brokerage house,” Amy confided. "The market is so deep, you know? In a school project we picked different stocks, and I did really well. I’m, like, just a beginner, but I want to learn about it.”

Melanie regarded her thoughtfully. “I know someone at Fidelity,” she said, breaking her brownie into pieces.

Bridget and Claudia exchanged smothered smiles; the scuttlebutt in the local poets’ group, of which Melanie was a founding member, was that she knew everyone, and had something on half of them.

Emery finished his brownie. “So you saw SoftWrite mentioned as on the verge of going public?” He took a swig of his beer, his eyebrows drawn together in thought. “That surprises me. Someone mentioned a public offering to Suzanne last night, and she squashed the idea.” He grinned at Bridget. “Of course, I would too.”

“Yes, we have lots of stock in Emery’s company.” Bridget borrowed Emery’s bottle for a swallow. “We just don’t have any money."

“Going public gives you money?” I asked.

“Hopefully.” Emery stole the beer back. “Kind of embarrassing if you have a stock offering and nobody buys.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Bridget patted his hand. “Poor unpopular baby.”

“It’s a concern.” Emery shrugged. “And of course, it really does dilute your stake in your own flesh and blood, so to speak. That’s how I feel—not that I’m in any position to go public.”

“But if SoftWrite is talking to venture capitalists, why would they go public, too? I mean, they’d get money from the venture capitalists, right?” Amy’s forehead wrinkled She appeared to find all this financial talk interesting.

“Guess Ed really wants to cash out,” Emery said. “Maybe he’s afraid this MicroMax stuff will affect his sales, and wants to weather a slump with some capital. Dunno.”

“A reporter mentioned MicroMax today,” I said. “What’s the story, anyway?”

Emery took another brownie from the platter and broke it in half. “Like a lot of the big companies, MicroMax sues anyone it thinks might be using its proprietary software to accomplish a task. Sometimes it’s a whole program they object to, sometimes it’s just look-and-feel, which means the software acts like theirs does.”

“I didn’t know that was against the law.” Amy’s eyes were round. “You mean, like when you use Windows it’s the same as MacWord? I thought that’s the way they were supposed to be.”

“It’s complicated. But the big guys often reach agreements with each other about stuff they can use. Any small company that hasn’t got an agreement or paid a royalty is in trouble if MicroMax brings them to court. The legal fees are huge and the outcome’s uncertain. Sometimes the little guy wins, but not too often, and even then it’s expensive.” Emery got to his feet and stretched. “Well, it’s been real, ladies. But I’m one of the little guys, and I hear some proposals calling my name.”

After he left, the conversation switched to writing. I listened more than I talked, since I hadn’t been writing that much lately. That made me feel worthless and guilty, and my brain was stuffed so full with food for thought that I had mental indigestion.

Melanie got up. “Well, I have an early day tomorrow, so I’d better get going.” She glanced at Bridget. “It’s my Food Closet day. Didn’t you say you had some fruit or something?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bridget hauled a cardboard box in from her back porch. “We got all our peaches at once this year, and I can’t possibly deal with them. Do you need help out to the car?”

“I can handle it.” Melanie turned her gimlet gaze on me. “We could use some volunteers at the Food Closet, Liz. I thought you’d be interested.”

“I don’t really have the time right now,” I said politely. The suggestion made me writhe inside. I would feel hopelessly condescending in the role of Lady Bountiful handing out food to the unfortunate. Last year I was on their side of the counter. Considering my income, I probably still was. I’m not knocking what the Junior League types do to help the street people and homeless families. I just can’t see myself as one of the haves. Handing a bag of food to a vagrant like Old Mackie with a gracious smile would make both of us feel too weird.