Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) (21 page)

In a few minutes, I was struggling across an alien landscape— crawling over dun-colored hills, clambering into creased valleys, then pulling myself up hills again. It was so difficult I almost cried with frustration. As far as I could see, there were more brown hills. Then I realized that the ground I was standing on wasn’t really earth. It had a bumpy, elastic texture— I woke with a start. The landscape I had been crawling over was Richard’s crumpled pigskin glove.

The water was tepid. I shivered and got out, dried myself briskly, and put on boots, blue wool pants, a white turtleneck. Andrew was standing in the living room. “Ready to go?” he said when I walked in.

I had no choice. “I have something to tell you.”

He smiled. “Speak.”

“I don’t believe Richard shot at me tonight. I think someone is trying to make things look bad for him. I can’t go to the police and accuse him of something I don’t believe he did.”

Andrew’s face stiffened. “Why don’t you think he did it? What about the glove?”

“The glove is the reason. Richard was very fond of those gloves, and he wouldn’t treat them like that. It’s against his nature.”

“What about Larry? Do you think he killed Larry?”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe he shot at me tonight, and I don’t believe he killed Larry. Somebody’s trying to frame him.”

Andrew looked grim, remote. “I saw this coming. Saw it a mile off. Ever since we started this thing, you’ve shied away from believing Richard was guilty. You’d rush forward one step and fall back two. Do you admit it?”

“No, I don’t. I was always perfectly willing—”

“Why don’t you face facts? You were angry with Richard for leaving you and you wanted to make him sweat, and that’s all there was to it. You were never serious about the investigation.”

I had been threatened, shot at, abducted. I had discovered a dead body. I wasn’t serious about the investigation? “I’ve never been so serious about anything!”

“Yet you won’t go to the police when you know Richard’s guilty.”

“I
don’t
know he’s guilty! I won’t go because I don’t believe he killed anybody. The bribery, yes. Fine. But I don’t think Richard or anybody else should be wrongfully accused of murder.”

“So what do you propose to do now?” His demeanor was elaborately polite.

“I’m going to ask Richard about his gloves and see what his explanation is, and—”

“Then you’ll have to do it by yourself!” Andrew exploded. “I’ve had enough kowtowing to Richard and asking his explanation for everything!”

I retreated into frigidity. “If that’s the way you want it, fine. There’s no reason to continue discussing it.”

He thrust his hands angrily into his jacket pockets and started for the door. He stopped once and threw me a bitter glance, then the door slammed and he was gone.

I stood motionless in the living room, stunned by the intensity of our fight— how quickly it had sprung up, how hotly it had raged. I was also overcome by
déjà vu
. Not so long ago, Richard had stormed out. Now Andrew had done the same thing. I wondered if life consisted of playing the same scenes over and over, with different actors.

I was stung by Andrew’s defection. Even considering the strain we’d been under, his response struck me as an overreaction. He had been my friend, my confidant, my lover, my co-investigator. Now he was so anxious to nail Richard that it all meant nothing. An unpleasant thought entered my head. Was he perhaps too anxious to nail Richard? I had only his word for where he was when the shooting was going on, only his word that he had found Richard’s glove in the park. He could’ve had it in his pocket the whole time.

Andrew could have been working to frame Richard, to convince me that Richard killed Larry. Why? Maybe Andrew killed Larry himself. Andrew was in charge of the
Times
now. He and Larry hadn’t always gotten along. Maybe something boiled over that night, and …

I felt dirty. How could I possibly suspect Andrew? Surely he had done a thousand things that proved his innocence. But had he, really?

I didn’t want to think about it any more. I had something else to do. An advantage of my fall in the grass was that whoever had shot at me probably thought I was dead or wounded, and had taken off. In that case, nobody would be watching the house. I could come and go as I pleased.

I picked up the glove, put it in my purse, and went out. I got in the car and headed for Russian Hill to see Richard.

Although his job required him to be an apostle of the new, Richard had always preferred the old when choosing his own residences. He was living in the Towers, an ever-so-elegant Russian Hill apartment building dating from the twenties, which was elaborately decorated with terra-cotta mermaids, dolphins, seashells, and varied picturesque flotsam. A uniformed man in the unobtrusively sumptuous lobby announced me on the telephone and told me to go up to apartment 3-A.

In the silent, mirrored elevator with its polished brass fittings, I wondered if I’d been wrong, if I were putting myself in danger by coming here. I almost wished I could change my mind, believe Richard was trying to kill me. If I believed that, Andrew and I could be together again. I tried, but I couldn’t.

Voices came from apartment 3-A, and before I rang the bell I stood listening. Richard’s part of the conversation was an indistinct monotone, but an agitated female exclamation, “Well, I won’t! I’m staying!” was clearly audible.

My God. Was it possible that I had completely forgotten about the woman whose reputed charms I had brooded on for hours, whose existence had led me to constant tranquilizers and musings about suicide? I had come here without stopping to consider that the visit would probably bring me face to face with Diane, the law student Richard had left me for. A confrontation I had played in my mind thousands of times, always with myself in a wounded but dignified role, was about to take place. Not only was I unprepared for it, I wasn’t even interested in playing it through.

When Richard opened the door I noticed the familiar lines of irritation around his eyes and mouth. But when I entered the room I realized that this time, for a change, the lines hadn’t been caused by vexation with me. The young woman standing by the fireplace with her hands on her hips, glaring at Richard, looked as exasperated as he did.

“Maggie, this is Diane. Diane, Maggie,” said Richard. Under the circumstances he did it smoothly, I thought. Leaving off the last names was a good touch.

“How do you do.” I could hear traces of temper in Diane’s voice. Richard’s attempt to exclude her from the conversation had apparently struck a nerve. I looked at her curiously. She was a slim, tanned, attractive woman in her twenties with very short taffy-blonde hair by Clairol, a freckle-sprinkled nose, and blue eyes. Tennis court looks. A certain determination about her mouth told me that when she played she liked to win. She wore gold hoop earrings, a yellow turtleneck, and gray tweed slacks— an outfit very much like the one I was wearing. She was a nice-looking girl, I thought with detachment, but she really had nothing to do with me.

After returning her greeting, I turned to Richard and said, “I’m sorry for barging in, but I came to ask whether you still have the driving gloves Candace gave you Christmas before last.”

He looked very surprised. “Why the hell would you ask that?”

“Do you have them?”

His mouth contorted. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. They were stolen out of the car yesterday afternoon. Just another rotten episode among many that have happened lately. Why?”

I took the glove, still crumpled, out of my purse and showed it to him. He looked at it blankly, then back at me. “That was a good glove, for God’s sake,” he said. “Couldn’t you have managed not to wad it up?” His eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

“It was dropped by somebody who shot at me tonight.”

“Who did
what?”
Richard looked genuinely shocked as I launched into the story. Diane stood unmoving by the fireplace.

When I finished, Richard shook his head. “You say this happened around six? Well, I was here then. I was already here. Wasn’t I, Diane?”

“Yes, you were.” Her voice was firm, but I believed she would lie for him. I wondered how much she knew about Richard’s current problems, and whether she’d latched on to more than she’d bargained for when she got him.

Apparently worried by my silence, Richard rushed in again. “Like I told you, they were stolen yesterday. I had stopped at the little wine importer in the Pacific Bakery Mall to pick up a few bottles of the Bordeaux Diane likes.” Did the look he shot Diane contain an element of blame? “Anyway, I was rushing because I had to meet you and Baffrey, and I had a great deal on my mind, and I must’ve forgotten to lock the car. I’m lucky the whole damn Porsche wasn’t stolen. Anyway, I thought I’d be just a minute, but they were having some kind of promotion and I had to fight my way through it. When I got back to the car, the gloves were gone.” He was defiant. “That’s what happened.”

“I believe you,” I said.

Richard’s face sagged in disbelief. “You do?”

“Yes. I think someone’s trying to make it look as if you murdered Larry Hawkins.”

“Oh God, Maggie, I…” Richard sat down on the couch, his eyes red. Diane moved swiftly and sat beside him, putting her arm around his shoulders. The scene embarrassed me, mostly because I thought Diane was playing it for my benefit. Richard was now hers to comfort, to protect, she was telling me. She was welcome to him.

I looked away, studying the living room. What struck me was its similarity to my own. The carpets were rough-woven Peruvian instead of Oriental, and there were pre-Columbian figurines instead of Daumier etchings, but the essential feeling of careful good taste was the same. Richard had placed his imprint on his new home as surely as he had on his former one. I wondered if he would do that with his new woman, too— as thoroughly as he had with me.

After a minute or two Richard spoke, hoarsely. “Who would try to frame me?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d have some suggestions.”

“No. I can’t think.” He was silent. Then, his voice shot through with hope, he said, “Does this mean you won’t tell the police?”

“I won’t say anything about Larry’s death in relation to you. You’ll still have to answer for the bribery. You’re on your own there.”

“I see.” Richard looked worn out, enfeebled, like a very old man. In contrast, Diane was smooth, unlined, and self-possessed. For a moment, it seemed that Richard had invested all his former attributes in her. Then he regained his presence and said, almost normally, “Let’s have a drink. How about Scotch? Still a Scotch drinker?”

“Scotch would be fine.”

“I’ll get some ice.” He left the room, and Diane and I were alone. She looked at me directly, keenly. “This has been terribly upsetting for Richard,” she said.

I was nettled. I didn’t want to discuss Richard as if I were his mother and she his first-grade teacher. “Richard ought to be delighted he’s not going to face questioning for murder.”

“Yes, of course. But this bribery thing. It’s going to be hard on him.”

“I expect it is.”

She glanced over her shoulder, making sure he wasn’t coming back. “You don’t think— it wouldn’t be possible to—” She stopped, studying her gray tweed knees. “Couldn’t you just forget about it?” The words came out rapidly, and her scarlet face told me how difficult they had been to say.

“No. I couldn’t.” Whether she had been trying to or not, she had made me feel sorry for her. “It isn’t up to me alone, anyway, but even if it were I’d have to say no.”

“Oh.” Her voice trailed off in a long sigh.

Richard came back, holding an ice bucket. “Sorry I took so long. Diane, the refrigerator is acting up again. The ice is hardly frozen.”

I was sorry I’d agreed to a drink. Diane and Richard were making me feel claustrophobic. Whatever was happening between them, I wanted it to happen without me. I’d finish my drink fast and get out. As I took a swallow, I remembered Andrew’s news about the Corelli murder. I had never really understood what Richard’s relationship with Corelli had been. “I hear they have a lead in the Corelli killing,” I said.

“Oh?” Richard sounded only minimally interested.

“Yes.” I decided to ask. “What exactly did Corelli have to do with the Golden State Center, anyway?”

Richard gulped his drink. “Corelli was the worst of the obstructionist bastards. He owned a corner of the site, and by God he was going to hang on to it. I argued with him till hell wouldn’t have it. Jane talked to him several times, and he still held out. Thought we could do better moneywise, so he had a whole battery of delaying tactics he was threatening us with. May Corelli rest in peace, and all that, but his getting killed didn’t hurt us a bit. His number-two man will take over, and we think he’ll be a lot more cooperative.”

Strange. Richard talked as if his entire house of cards wasn’t going to fall in on him. He obviously couldn’t accept the fact that he was going to face a bribery scandal. The thought made me even more anxious to leave. I finished my drink, said good-bye, and turned to go. Diane walked me to the door. I saw the strain in her pretty face. She knew what was in store, even if Richard wouldn’t admit it. “I hate to beg,” she whispered, “but I will if you make me.”

I could only shake my head. I stepped across the threshold and the door closed behind me. I was out, and free.

There was a window in an alcove at the end of the hall. Lightheaded, I walked to it, trying to regain my mental and physical balance in the wake of emotional overload, a too-strong drink, and no dinner. I looked out on light-spangled San Francisco. Burned down over and over, shaken by earthquakes hundreds of times and all but destroyed in 1906, it had grown again, prospered again, become new like the phoenix on the city and county seal. I rested my forehead on the glass. I shouldn’t have had that drink. I was getting sentimental about a town where political corruption was as common as low-lying fog. I was allowing myself to wonder whether my life, too, like San Francisco’s phoenix—