The Hammett Hex (9 page)

Someone is always listening to you.

—The Kelly Rules

T
HE HOTEL STAFF
had done a commendable job of putting my belongings back in order. The smiling young chambermaid knocked to deliver extra fluffy snow-white towels. I recognized her from the fourth floor. I supposed that she was the person who'd lined up my shoes precisely on the closet floor and arranged my notebook, camera and sightseeing books neatly on the desk. I was glad I'd left her a tip at our previous room. She or someone had shaped our fluffy facecloths into swans.

My toiletry bag was hanging on the back of the door in the huge marble bathroom. They were falling all over themselves to make it right.

“You're working long hours,” I said as she backed out of the room.

“I need to,” she said as she left.

I sat on the crisp white duvet on my new king-size bed and told myself to get it together. This was a vacation and one we both needed. It was a chance to rebuild trust. Even
though we'd had our hotel rooms trashed in what seemed like a very personal way and even though I'd been attacked by persons unknown, I had to admit Smiley and I had been through a lot worse than this.

“Dinner,” I said out loud, “will be the best medicine.”

*   *   *

I HAD A
little red dress I'd been saving for a special occasion and this situation certainly needed help. The dress was cotton jersey and required some serious undergarments to make it cling in just the right places. Plus it was just long enough to cover my battered knees, a very good thing.

A thin gold vintage belt hugged my waist. It made me feel like a femme fatale, so I was surprised that Smiley didn't even offer a “you look nice.”

He continued to be silent on our stroll to Magari
.
I tried to get back to the buoyant frame of mind I'd been in before the break-in, but whenever I glanced at Smiley's closed face, the mood slipped. If this kept up, he was going to need another nickname. Surly perhaps or Grumpy.

We passed many restaurants full of happy tourists spilling out into the street, as we left the more touristy areas and ventured into the parts of San Francisco where people actually lived. So many places to eat and we were walking past all of them. I liked the looks of the bistros in old storefronts and the eateries in converted homes. They all seemed to be overflowing with twentyish trendy locals, eating, laughing and making noise. On the main streets, we passed a surprising number of gelaterias. I love gelato. On a normal night I would have suggested that we get gelato after dinner, but this night I would be having dinner in a lovely restaurant compliments of the hotel.

Officer Grumpy was walking slightly ahead of me, his head down, hands in pockets. If this had been our first date,
it would have also been the last. But I figured Smiley was in there somewhere. As I didn't have anyone to talk to, I could spend my time speculating about his mood.

I didn't have time to do much speculating when after twenty minutes—much of it uphill—we arrived at the restaurant. Magari was a traditional restaurant, heavy on the dim lighting and velvet drapes. It seemed out of step with the city. It screamed vintage 1974, which was perfect for me, of course, although it was before I was born. And the price was right. Along with the low lights, comfortable leather chairs and crisp white tablecloths, red cloth napkins and bud vases with red carnations, there was a collection of older waiters, all of whom had a tendency to bow slightly and snap their fingers at each other. Inside we found only five other couples seated, all with a good thirty years on us. At least they were having a good time. I liked the quiet clink of wineglasses and the exclamations when food arrived. The couples within my view were smilers and chatters, all caught up in each other. In fact, they all looked like lovers, not old-marrieds. Only Grumpy and I would have given the impression that we'd been married for thirty years, all of them less than happy.

It was after nine by the time we were seated. The tall doughy waiter passed us menus with an old world flourish, bowed, lit the candle on our table and recommended an Italian red as their featured wine. Grumpy didn't put up a fight. The valpolicella sounded good to me.

I had a bit of nostalgia for the signora's dinners as each plate went sailing by to our fellow diners. My experience was that restaurants couldn't really compare. But I had decided to enjoy it anyway despite the sourpuss sitting across from me. Every now and then I used my phone to capture the restaurant's décor, the other diners and the hilarious waiters.

I went for the
gamberi in Sambucca.
I didn't recall the
signora ever cooking shrimp in Sambucca and cream, so I had no feelings of disloyalty. It did not disappoint. I oohed and aahed over it, camping it up a bit. “So creamy and with just a tiny hint of garlic.”

Grumpy had the soup special and apparently not a word to say about it. It smelled wonderful from across the table.

All that lack of conversation gave me time to think about our break-in, about our relocation, about the strange inconsistent behavior and the over-the-top generosity of the manager, including dinner in this out-of-the-way time-warp restaurant.

For my second plate I opted for the
agnolotti
stuffed with butternut squash. I love all pastas, but especially stuffed ones, and Vera couldn't abide squash. We all know that what Vera can't abide doesn't turn up at Van Alst House. Once again, I could enjoy it with a clear conscience. My dining companion moved on to the lasagna, a safe choice.

The
agnolotti
were plump and stuffed with flavorful squash and a hint of what? Sage? Brown butter? Whatever it was, the dish was worthy, served as it was, alone with no distracting vegetables, but with large shavings of very good
parmegiano reggiano
.

Apparently, the lasagna didn't merit a single comment. In fact, Smiley didn't eat more than a third of it, pushing the rest randomly around the plate.

I, on the other hand, considered ordering a second plate of
agnolotti
for dessert. I didn't think the waiter would cope with that break with tradition, however, so I stuck with the dessert menu. Like the dinner list, there were no surprises. I went with
tartuffo
. Again, something the signora didn't serve.

As our large waiter bowed his way toward the kitchen with our orders, Grumpy stared at the table and drummed his fingers on it. I turned my attention to the other couples on the other side of the restaurant. One couple was head to
head, foreheads touching as they shared a laugh, seemingly oblivious to the rest of us. I suppose I must have leaned sideways a bit to get a better look at them, maybe soak up a bit of that joyful spirit. As I did, my red napkin slipped to the floor. I bent over to get it, and for some unknown reason I lifted my head a bit too fast and banged it on the underside of the table. I gave the table a dirty look as if that made any sense. Of course, the way the evening was going, I could expect a bit more sympathy from that wooden table than from my dinner companion. I rubbed my head and did a double take. The waiter had hurried back, bowing, as I sat up straight in my seat. “Signorina! So sorry! Are you all right? More wine. Yes!” He snapped his fingers and a much smaller waiter came running with an emergency refill. He was obviously of the same school as the signora. I found myself shaking my head and saying, “No, thank you.” It didn't work, of course.

“I'm fine really,” I said, caving in to the extra wine. Why fight it?

Grumpy managed to ask, “Are you okay?”

I had just clearly said I was fine, but I let that go and nodded.

The waiter filled my glass and for good measure Mr. Grumpy's glass too.

Both waiters eased away from the table with a flurry of well-wishing, the older one giving the occasional bow. I raised my glass and smiled at him.
Thank you
, I mouthed.

“There's something I need to tell you,” Mr. Grumpy said.

Uh-oh. What was up? Rethinking the relationship now that we were on the other side of the continent? “Can it wait?”

“It can't. And I am sorry.” The old familiar blush was making its way to the roots of his hair. He still wasn't making eye contact.

I glanced over at the waiters, who were no longer paying
attention to us because they were busy snapping their fingers at the busboys, and then I turned my eyes toward to the laughing couple, who had never even noticed us in the first place.

Smiley leaned forward and opened his mouth.

I made the international sign for “zip your lip.”

“Don't be like that,” he said. “I'm trying to—”

Sometimes you just have to take action. I knocked over his water glass onto his lap. The look on his face almost made up for all the glowering.

“Let me help you,” I said, grabbing napkins from the next table as well as ours. I moved to his side and began to “assist.”

“Please stop,” he said.

I leaned in as if to give him a peck on the cheek, as the other couple seemed to be doing again.

“Have you lost your mind?”

I whispered in his ear, “Don't tell me anything. There's a bug under the table, a listening device.”

Already waiters were scurrying to address our problem.

“No problem,” Smiley said to them. “We can manage.”

“So clumsy of me,” I said with a bit of a simper. I returned to my side of the table and swilled a bit of wine. I raised my glass to Tyler and winked.

He lifted his glass, shrugged and managed a weak grin.

I beamed at the waiter. “You know, I think I'll have the
tiramisu
as well as the
tartuffo
. One lonely dessert never seems to do the trick.”

Before and during the second dessert, I filled the air with chatter, especially my hope of doing a boat cruise around the bay and maybe going to Napa for a wine tour. I babbled merrily about everything except what I was really worried about: the strange things that had happened since we'd been in San Francisco.

As for Tyler's big secret, I'd already known he was guilty
about something. He's a very ineffective liar, having missed the formidable training that growing up with my uncles provided me. Despite that, I preferred to be honest with each other whenever possible.

We finished our second desserts and ordered Spanish coffees. Tyler was starting to squirm, but I felt like running up the bill for whoever had arranged this dinner in order to tape our conversation. My money might have been on the hotel manager, but this whole day had been so full of unknowns. One thing I did know—that manager had whopping big feet and he wasn't the person who had dropped that bedspread over my head. The mic under the table of the restaurant he'd sent us to certainly made it look like he was implicated. But how? And who else was involved for whatever reasons?

Perhaps I'd know more when Tyler finally was able to get that confession off his chest. Whatever it was, I was hoping it wasn't a breakup.

We did at least leave a tip. After all, it's not every day you get all those bows and all that finger snapping. The other couples did glance up as we stood to leave. Tyler managed to preserve his dignity by folding his jacket over his arm and letting it hide the water stain on the front of his pants. Face it. Wet pants aren't a good look for anybody.

As we finally made our way out of the restaurant, waiters bowing and waving as we went, I leaned into him, this time without doing him any damage. He seemed to be feeling a bit better, all things considered, but something was still weighing on him.

I wondered if he could have hidden something in his hotel room that caused all this trouble and why he wouldn't have mentioned it. I could see how that would make a person feel bad.

We strolled past the many gelato shops on our way back, but even I couldn't have managed another bite.

“Whoever planted that bug didn't get their money's worth tonight,” I said, giving him a little poke in the ribs, “but we sure did.”

He nodded grimly. I took that to mean he would have enjoyed it more if he hadn't had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Sure I'd made a few remarks about Mr. Grumpy, but it really hadn't bothered me all that much, maybe because I eat three meals a day with a woman who has raised disagreeability to an art form.

I gave him a nudge with my elbow to follow up on the poke. “Sorry about the glass of water on your lap. I wasn't aiming for you but I did need you not to say anything you didn't want to have taped. Not that I know what you were going to say, but I'm sure you'll tell me in good time.” I added a silent “or else” to that.

Figuring that I could wait, I linked arms with him and said, “When you're ready.”

I decided to relax and enjoy the evening walk. Unlike our quiet town of Harrison Falls, the sidewalks were teaming with people, ambling along in twos and threes, walking dogs, wheeling bikes, relaxing in outdoor cafés, eating gelato, you name it. Some older women in uniforms trudged with heavy shopping bags, younger men and women jogged by in sleek sportswear. A place for everyone, this town.