“Jeez, Harry, we’re being shown up by a gay private eye and a professor’s daughter-in-law,” said Cammie Cheever. “I told you no way did a little old lady inflict those big stab wounds on Denise Faulk.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” I exclaimed, “I may know what knife killed her. I pulled out my digital camera and turned on the screen. “It’s a Japanese-made sashimi knife. A center volunteer discovered its absence last night.”
They both stared at the two-inch screen. “How big is it?” asked Harry Yu. “I sure can’t tell from that postage-stamp image.”
“Ten inches long, and two inches wide, maybe less, at the widest part. It costs eighty-six dollars at Macy’s. And I might add that my mother-in-law has no interest in cooking or cooking utensils.”
“If someone stole the knife from the center kitchen and took it away after the murder,” said Cammie, “that sort of makes it a crime of opportunity, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, hell,” grumbled Harry Yu. “I knew you were going to be a pain in the neck the first time I saw you.” This to me. “We’ll send a S.W.A.T. team after Piñon and put out a bulletin on Faulk. OK?”
I beamed at him. “Thank you so much. And could you keep me informed?”
“I’ll call Sam. He’s got a cell. I didn’t see one in your purse when you were dumping it on my desk.”
“There are places you can rent one by the day,” said Cammie helpfully. “You could call Harry with the number.”
Harry gave her a disgruntled look, but I was delighted. “I’ll do that. Thank you again. And if you have no questions for me, could you tell me how to get to the Legion of Honor? It’s a museum.”
“Take a cab,” Cammie advised.
“Well, I was hoping to take a bus so that I could inquire about a young schizophrenic who likes that bus and might be a suspect. She’s obsessed with knives and was angry at Denise because Denise suggested that having someone like that at the center could run their liability insurance up.”
“What’s her name?” asked Inspector Yu.
“Bad Girl. Or possibly Martina L. King. She isn’t black, but she has a—what do you call it?—cornrow hair-style. It’s so dusty I’m not sure of the color.”
“This investigation must have been a real eye-opener for you,” said Inspector Yu. “How’d you hook up with Sam?”
“My father-in-law hired him.”
“The old woman’s married?” He looked astonished.
“Divorced. Many years ago.”
“Figures.” Cammie Cheever grinned. “She doesn’t much like men. You want me to call you a cab? You’ll never get to the museum trying to take buses.”
So I took a cab. The driver first drove to a cell phone establishment and waited while I rented one. This investigation was costing a fortune. Of course food, if it was interesting, was tax deductible, but none of the other investigation expenses were. During the drive to the park and museum, perched high over the city, I called Inspector Yu to give him my temporary number.
“I hate cell phones,” said the driver as he accepted his fare and tip.
“And you’re quite right to,” I agreed. “My husband says they scramble your brains. I only rented this because I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and have to keep in touch with the police.”
“Yeah, right,” he said and drove away.
39
Lunch with a Philanthropist
Carolyn
T
he first thing
I saw after leaving the cab was a bus heading toward the Legion of Honor. Second, I noticed the beauty of the building and its setting—trees, grass, flowers, and a clear view all the way across the bay to the Marin headlands. I took pictures before sprinting over to the bus, number eighteen, the one Bad Girl liked to ride. After the passengers climbed off, I climbed on and was told I couldn’t do that. I had to get on at the proper stop. I ignored this reprimand. “Do you know a passenger named Bad Girl? She wears a black T-shirt, little braids, and—”
“Sure, the crazy one,” said the driver. “Talks to herself. Scares the passengers.”
“Were you, by any chance, driving this route last Thursday evening?”
“Nah, I’m senior. I don’t do the night runs.”
“Oh.” How disappointing. “Could you give me the name of the driver who did drive this bus at night a week ago Thursday?”
“How would I know, lady? Now get off, would you? I gotta drive over to my pickup stop.”
Oh well, it was worth a try. Because I had arrived a half hour early, I wandered through the permanent collection. They had some wonderful paintings: for instance, an El Greco of St. Anthony meditating on the crucifix, and a Lucretia stabbing herself, bare-breasted and ghostly of face, a painting to haunt one’s dreams.
By then it was time to locate the café, where I told the cashier that I was to meet a Mrs. Nora Farraday Hollis for lunch. The cashier looked as if I’d said I expected to have lunch with the mayor. Another person was called to escort me to a table. On a day so beautiful I’d have preferred to sit in the brick courtyard with its live oaks, ivy, sculptures, and tables, but my escort said Mrs. Hollis never sat outside. I soon discovered why. She was a very tall, very thin, very distinguished-looking woman of eighty or so, wearing, without a sign of perspiration, a loose wool sweater with a high neck and a long wool skirt. If she was comfortable here in that outfit, she’d have thought herself in danger of frostbite outside.
We introduced ourselves and consulted our menus, from which I ordered their Heirloom Salad: red and yellow tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, excellent olive oil, and a marvelous balsamic reduction. Mrs. Hollis then insisted that I try one of the café’s sandwiches, so I ordered roasted eggplant and zucchini on focaccio. After all, I had given my cookies to the Homicide Department and had no idea what, if anything, I’d get for dinner. Mrs. Hollis ordered smoked turkey with all sorts of wonderful accoutrements on a sourdough roll and had half of it wrapped up to take home. Then I felt like a glutton, but she didn’t seem to notice. I ate, and she did the talking.
First, she told me that sourdough bread was made from fermented starter dough, saved from day to day, and had probably been brought to San Francisco during the gold rush by Basques or Mexicans. Being the wife of a scientist, I had to wonder whether the yeast might not have mutated over the years, working its way toward toxicity. But my bread wasn’t sourdough. She followed up the sourdough dissertation by telling me that the original Indians had made acorn bread, which was, according to some conquistador, “deliciously rich and oily.” “Of course, they also ate insects, entrails, shellfish, and whatever else they could get, a diet that makes you appreciate our lovely café.”
Then she told me with relish that the museum had been built on the bones of paupers from the gold rush era and that, in fact, the backfill for the café no doubt held thousands of skeletons, while their gravestones, which had been kicked over to build the golf course, were often found by nude sunbathers on the beach below. What was backfill, I wondered, and was my chair sitting on top of it? This was worse than dining with Jason when he got started on some dreadful subject like mad cow disease.
Third, she explained how she came to be associated with the center. She had given them the building, which had been the family home from the 1870s, her family being of gold rush origins and later prominent in banking. “When my ancestors moved on to a better neighborhood, the house was converted into apartments and rented out. In fact, the city was full of them in the old days, many identical to each other, the tract houses of the 1870s. The owners ordered all the fancy woodwork from catalogues or factories South of Market, and now people think they’re so unique and delightful.”
Mrs. Hollis chuckled at the foibles of the young and said that when the house finally came to her on the death of her mother, she gave it to the center because she was interested in the work they did and disapproved of the neighborhood in which they did it. Of course the tax deduction was welcome, as well.
Then she told me that she herself had started the arts program and talked Fiona Morell into directing it. “Poor Fiona is a very cultured woman, but she can’t get used to the art projects that appeal to our clients: gospel choirs, Diego Rivera look-alike murals, poetry slams. Did you know that Diego Rivera was invited to a reception at the Chinese Revolutionary Artist’s Club? Evidently, the event wasn’t a great success. He arrived with a large group of friends and fans, overlapped the little chairs, didn’t speak their language, and the food ran out much too soon. This was in the early thirties. Yun Gee, one of their founders, was quite good. We have Rivera murals here in San Francisco.”
Mrs. Hollis was my kind of woman. I love historical trivia.
“ But I was telling you about the arts program. I managed to get a grand piano for the gospel choir, and Fiona was sure it would fall through the floor. For that matter, Denise was appalled when she saw how the floor sagged under it. She worried about the insurance liability problems. And then Fiona was so hoping last month to bring in a string quartet of Asian youngsters, but the clients voted for a poetry slam. Fiona does have trouble mediating among so many different ethnic interests, and Marina can be a bit stiff-necked when trouble arises. I’m afraid the arts program has proved to be a problem, but I feel that art is important, even if it isn’t traditional.”
“Speaking of Denise,” I murmured, having swallowed a bite of garlicky eggplant. This had an aioli on it. “As you know, I’m trying to find out who really killed her, my assumption being that—”
“Your mother-in-law didn’t do it. Of course, she didn’t. Have you come to any conclusions?”
“Well, we’ve . . . my father-in-law hired a private detective, Sam Flamboise, with whom I’m working.”
“Oh yes, the football player. But my dear, are you aware that he’s homosexual?”
“So he said.” Didn’t she approve of gays? Well, no need to get into that. “We’ve come up with several suspects, whose names we’ve passed on to the police, and there are also some questions. I hope you can shed light on one of them.”
“Oh, my goodness, you don’t think
I
killed Denise? No, of course you don’t. Denise was my favorite person there. She saved so many women at risk from brutal husbands and boyfriends. You’d be amazed at how many women live with men to whom they are not married.
“It was a shame, taking Denise away from the battered women. She was wonderful there, but then Myra was diagnosed with—well, it was very sad, her affliction—and we had to have someone who understood accounting. Denise was very unhappy in that position, always having to deny people money that they needed to run their programs. And she made certain discoveries. Well, the less said about that the better.”
“Discoveries?” Finally something that might be helpful.
“Yes. I’m afraid they were of a . . . possibly . . . criminal nature.”
“Really? Did they have anything to do with theft of money, checks written for services never rendered or to center activities that didn’t exist?”
“Why, how did you know? You and the football player must be excellent detectives. Poor Denise was poring over those books trying to find out where the funds had gone. I do raise a lot of money for the center, as do friends of mine, and we’ve been quite successful at getting grants. Denise shouldn’t have had to stop funding activities, but the money just disappeared, and she couldn’t tell how or where it went, although she’d developed some ideas. But then she was killed before she could identify the thief. I suppose I must go into it myself, but I’ve been so distressed by her death—”
“Do you think it’s possible that Denise herself was stealing the money?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Hollis, looking offended.
“But finances didn’t get tight until she took over, according to the staff.”
“Oh well, they’re all devoted to their own areas of service. Women will bicker, you know. But it was not Denise’s fault. I tend to think that when Myra became ill, someone took the opportunity to steal while she was too distracted and frightened to notice. Yes, I’m sure that’s what happened.
“And now that you’ve finished your lunch, my dear, let me give you a personal tour of the Henry Moore exhibit. It’s quite fine, and I do pride myself on an extensive knowledge of the artist and his work.”
She was a veritable encyclopedia of Henry Moore information. I’ve always liked Moore’s sculpture, but before I left the museum I’d been exposed to early work influenced by primitive Egyptian and South American Indian art he’d seen in the British Museum and to drawings of people huddled in London underground stations during the Blitz, drawings that brought him his first fame and popularity. I also learned that he’d been the last child in the large family of a British coal miner. There were drawings of men in the mines, too.
It was one of the best tours I’ve ever taken. Mrs. Hollis and I parted on very good terms, pleased with each other and Henry Moore. What a nice break from detective work. On impulse, I asked if Cliff House and the seals were nearby. At that moment I almost wished that I could spend the rest of my time in San Francisco playing tourist, but I couldn’t, of course. There was my mother-in-law to rescue.
“Sea lions, dear,” said Mrs. Hollis. “Not seals.”
Do sea lions balance balls on their noses?
I wondered nostalgically.
And why call the place Seal Rocks if there aren’t any seals?
40
Following the Money Trail
Carolyn
S
ince I had
time before the cake course, I decided to visit Myra Fox. Even if the thefts had occurred when Myra was too ill or worried to catch on, still she might have noticed something, had some suspicion, be able to suggest who might have raided the coffers. Of course, I’d have to be very tactful. I didn’t want the poor woman to feel that she had been negligent. According to someone, she had her hands full—what with horrible treatments, depression, and losing her hair.