Chocolate Quake (21 page)

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Faulk.” Good grief, the woman sounded like a zombie.

“Yes, but the third time there was no keeping of secrets because I had to go to the hospital for treatment. Broken bones do not heal without medical attention, and my children were very frightened. When my mother-in-law came to see me, I confessed my problem, and she said to my husband that if he beat me again, she would go to his father, who would be very angry. My husband was angry with both of us, but he stopped beating me because, even though his father was sick, Raymond was afraid of him. I then took care of my father-in-law, for which he insisted on paying me, which again made my husband angry.”

“Your husband sounds like a . . . a ferocious man.”

“He was not always so, but he has changed. When his father died and left much money to my mother-in-law, my husband forbade me to see her anymore or to leave this house. He comes home for each meal to be sure that I am here. I think I will divorce him. As you are from the center, which looks after the welfare of women, perhaps you can advise me on how to go about this.”

“Divorcing your husband?” I had no idea what to tell her. “You could ask Margaret Hanrahan. She’s their lawyer and handles cases for clients.”

“Yes. That would be the first thing. A lawyer. And then a job so that I can support my children.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Teresa? And who the hell are
you
?”

The last was addressed to me. Ray Faulk had evidently come home for lunch. How clever of him. It was only 11:30. “I came to extend my sympathies to you and your wife over the death of Mrs. Faulk,” I improvised. If I hadn’t been sitting on their sofa, I’d have fallen down in fright. “Such a terrible thing.”

“Get out!”

“This is Mrs. Blue, Raymond,” said Teresa. “It is her—”

“As in Vera Blue? Why are you nosing around here?”

“Take it easy, Ray, old boy.” Sam had come up behind him and laid a giant hand on his arm. “The lady is paying a courtesy call, and you’re not being very courteous.”

Ray Faulk whirled aggressively, took a good look at Sam, and backed up. “I don’t know you.”

“No. Well, I’m a private detective. Sam Flamboise.”

“The linebacker?”

“Was once. So now that we’re buddies, how about you tell me where you were when your stepmother was getting killed?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, and I resent the implication. They have the murderer. Are you two trying to put the blame on an innocent, grieving relative?”

Teresa Faulk looked so astonished at her husband’s description of himself as a grieving relative that he moved menacingly in her direction. Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the doorway. “You know better than to let strangers in the house,” Faulk said, grabbing his wife’s arm. She gasped in pain.

“Ease off, Faulk, we’re leaving. But maybe you should keep in mind that violence against any woman, particularly another member of your family, would make you look like a good candidate for your stepmother’s murder.”

Faulk dropped Teresa’s arm, and she cowered away from him. Had it finally come home to her that her husband might actually have killed the woman who had rescued her? “We can’t leave her alone with him, Sam,” I whispered as he held the door open for me.

“You wanna come along with us, ma’am?” Sam asked Teresa Faulk.

“No,” she said. “It would be better if my husband left.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you dumb wog.”

“Please do not call me a wog. If you do not leave, I will call the police and report that you have injured me.” She held out her arm, on which angry red fingerprints showed. “I know where to find the files of my previous injuries, and there are hospital records. I do not think you will wish to stay under these circumstances, Raymond. Especially, if you killed Denise, for which I will never forgive you.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Blue and Mr. . . . ah . . . Sam for the insight you have given me on this matter.” With that she went to the door to shake our hands. There being little else we could do in the circumstances, we left.

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt her?” I asked.

“I doubt he’s got the guts,” said Sam. “What did you find out?”

“She said he was at work when Denise was killed, that he always goes back after dinner, and that she’s not allowed to leave the house.”

“That’s a woman who needs to get a divorce, and we need to find out if he
was
at work that night.”

I was pleased to see that Raymond Faulk had left the house too. He cast us a furious look, climbed into his car, and roared away.

32

Zaré: Lunch with a Fashion Plate

 

“Can we get
to the financial district by one o’clock?” I asked Sam. “I’m meeting Yasmin Atta. She was at the center when Denise was killed.”

“Right, and Zaré should provide a column,” Sam suggested.

“Well, that’s good news. Ah . . . did you want to come along?”

“I’ve got to check out if Raymond Faulk was really at his office that night.”

“Good idea.” Then I had an idea myself—leather pants. Vera hadn’t mentioned pants particularly, just leather as the fabric of choice for motorcycling, and Bebe had said Recycled Chic had reasonably priced leather pants. “Why don’t we meet at the center at 3:30? Do we have many stops to make this afternoon? Jason and I have reservations at Foreign Cinema for 7:30.”

“There’s one interview I want you to do—Marcus Croker’s wife.”

Ah, the mean policeman. As long as he wasn’t there, I didn’t mind talking to his wife, and Officer Croker worked 4:00 P.M. to midnight according to Sam. Just then we passed the Transamerica Pyramid, shining glass from its base to its tip high over the financial district. The Montgomery Block Building had stood there until 1959, filled with low-rent studios for artists and writers. Did the office workers there now hear the ghostly whispers of the city’s cultural past?

 

Yasmin Atta was fifteen minutes late, so I had time to peruse the menu and admire the décor at Zaré. Which was beautiful, especially the copper ceiling swathed with filmy white scarves. I sat on the wall side of a banquette done in a grosgrain fabric with colors ranging from dark red to peach. After ordering a glass of pino grigio, the Crab Cakes in Whole-Grain Mustard Sauce caught my eye. I do love crab cakes.

My lunch companion arrived, escorted to the table by the proprietor, Hoss Zaré, dark-haired and charming. And Yasmin Atta—what can I say? Slender, over six feet tall with a long, graceful neck, close-cropped black hair, satin dark skin, and the carriage of a princess. And her clothes! They flowed and shimmered. I’ve often felt too sedately dressed, but never before too short.

We introduced ourselves, she immediately chose the Wild Mushroom Soup from the list of specials mentioned by the Chinese waiter, and then she recommended it to me. Although I had ordered crab cakes, I took her suggestion as well. Unfortunately, Ms. Atta did not order anything else; she did tell the waiter to bring her soup immediately. Then she apologized for being late and, in advance, for leaving early because she had a meeting with someone who had developed a new line of lip creams for women of color.

“Oh my goodness, that’s what Nightshades means,” I said.

“What did you think it meant?” she asked.

Now I was embarrassed. “Well, my husband does research on toxins. I’m afraid when I heard the name of your company, my mind immediately jumped to—the poison,” I finished in a small voice.

“There’s a poison named nightshade? Lord help us. That could be a problem when we launch the IPO.”

“What’s an IPO?”

“Initial public offering. Of stock in the company. I want to raise money to expand.”

“Congratulations,” I said, glad she didn’t want to expand a company that made poisons. Since she was leaving early, I got right to the point. “I’m investigating the murder of Denise Faulk, and I wondered what you could tell me about that night, or if you can give me the name of anyone who might have had reason to murder her.”

The waiter put down her soup and my crab cakes. Did they specialize in the fastest service in San Francisco, or were they accommodating her schedule? The latter evidently, because I heard a woman say, “Aren’t those
my
crab cakes?
I
ordered before
she
did.” I quickly took a bite before the waiter could take mine away, and oh, my! They were wonderful! Crispy outside, deliciously flavored inside with crab and yummy taste enhancers, and served with an ambrosial mustard sauce, garnished with watercress.

I wondered if watercress might be the winter purslane called miner’s lettuce in gold rush days. Ten thousand miners died of scurvy in three years, but many survived by eating purslane. Sailors dying in a city hospital were told by a visiting minister to walk out on the hills and collect the lettuce for salads with vinegar. Because of his advice, they lived.

Ms. Atta took a sip of her mushroom soup and sighed with pleasure. “I really shouldn’t order this,” she said. “But it’s so mushroomy! And the cream! Well, I don’t even want to know how many calories are in this bowl.

“So, last Thursday. Well, I was on another floor teaching a class in makeup and clothing selection, so I didn’t see anyone go into Denise’s office carrying a knife, and I didn’t go downstairs until after the fuss was over. Then I took the middle stairs and the old ladies’ ramp because I had a meeting.

“Let’s see. One woman left my room as soon as the screaming started. Cammie somebody. She’s a policewoman, so she’d be the person to ask. All I know about her is that she’s got good skin but dreadful taste in clothes.

“As for motives, money would be my guess. Since Denise took over, no one can get funding for anything. I don’t mind providing Nightshades for the black and brown women. It’s good publicity for my product, although I’d have preferred to send an employee to teach the class. But Nora Hollis got hold of me, and nobody says no to her. But the white women can’t use Nightshades, so
I’m
buying the makeup for them. If I didn’t, there’d be accusations of reverse discrimination. I have to hire token white girls at my business for just that reason.

“And it’s not that I can’t afford to buy the white-girl cosmetics. It’s the principle. But Denise said she didn’t have an extra penny to give my class. Now how could that be? Nora’s the best fundraiser in the city, and Myra, before she had to drop out with cancer—God, I need to call her. I’ve got her the name of a woman who makes breasts. Well, Myra got lots of grants. So where did all the money go?”

“Is there anyone besides you who’s upset about Denise’s handling of the finances?” I asked, attacking another crab cake and swishing every bite through the sauce.

Yasmin took another tiny sip of her soup and said, “The lesbians. I’d check them out. They’re furious because Denise said there wasn’t enough money to pay another staffer in the lesbian and transsexual group. They don’t think poor Kara really represents their interests.

“Now there’s a woman with clothes problems. I gave her a few tips yesterday on how to overcome the width of those shoulders, but when push comes to shove, Kara’s going to end up looking like a pro basketball player in drag. Not that the lesbians care about her shoulders, but they purely hate the novels she writes, which aren’t half-bad. I told her she ought to write one with a black heroine, and we could do some sort of joint promotion.

“Also the lesbians are miffed because they’re upstairs with the witches, who they consider kooks, but no one on two will switch with them, and Denise said the center couldn’t afford to hire furniture movers even if the Women of Color would agree. I think Bertha refused to swap because she’s a devout Christian and considers gays and lesbians flouters of God’s laws.

“Well, I’ve got to run.” She glanced at her watch, waved to the waiter, and gave him her credit card.

“Please,” I exclaimed, “let me pay.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I know you’re trying to help Vera Blue, and she’s the one person I
don’t
think would have killed Denise, not that Denise wasn’t a popular staffer until she had to give up Battered Women for finances. Is Vera a relation?”

“Mother-in-law,” I admitted as Yasmin signed the credit card slip and rose.

“Lucky you,” she said. “If I were married, she’s just the person I’d want for a mother-in-law. Someone who likes to see women making it in business. You can’t imagine how much more fun it is to run your own business than it was to be a model, where you’re just meat on the hoof. Of course, I’d prefer my mother-in-law to be black.” And she was out the door just as the waiter served my mushroom soup, which was really superb. Was that truffle oil floating on top? I ate every drop.