Authors: Linda Lee Peterson
“Of course, my dear. I’ll run and get you something.” With that, Madame gathered her
Cio Cio San–themed kimono around her and disappeared inside the door to her flat.
I stood at Quentin’s door. Damn Quentin! Damn lunch! And damn climbing into these
clothes for nothing!
As I fumed, I reached out to give Quentin’s doorknob an angry rattle.
It didn’t rattle; it turned. Careless man. First, he forgets lunch dates, then he
leaves the door unlocked. I pushed open the door and called, “Quentin? Stuart?”
The door opened onto a staircase that led into a tiled entryway. I climbed the stairs,
expecting Quentin or Stuart to appear any moment. Not a sound. Just Quentin’s pristine
flat: all white walls, Berber carpets, netsuke, books, Japanese brush paintings. Michael
always said, “If it gets any more serene in here, Quentin can sublet to Zen monks.”
And that’s the first thing I noticed that fall morning, with Madame DeBurgos caroling
at me from the doorway. “Maggie, I’ve fetched you some note paper!”
What I noticed was this: Quentin’s apartment wasn’t so pristine any more. And, though
I still couldn’t hear a sound but Madame’s labored breath as she puffed up Quentin’s
stairs, it wasn’t so serene either.
A dead body in the living room cuts into your serenity something fierce.
“Ms. Fiori?”
“Yes?” I turned, shivering in Madame’s doorway, to see a tall, slender, Asian man
with salt-and-pepper hair. He was dressed in a decidedly unrumpled trench coat and
followed by two uniformed police officers. He held out his hand. I looked at it blankly,
then remembered the social amenities. Introductions. Handshakes. Things like that.
I extended my hand and wondered why he looked familiar.
“I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this. Yes, I’m Maggie Fiori. I’m the one who called
you.”
“John Moon. Homicide. Don’t worry about not being good at—” He waved toward Quentin’s
doorway. “This. Most people aren’t. It’s a bad enough vocation. I don’t recommend
finding bodies for an
avocation
.”
We shook hands. Mine was icy.
He gestured at Quentin’s doorway. “In there?”
I nodded.
“Go ahead and get started,” he said to the two uniformed officers, and they headed
up the stairway into Quentin’s flat.
“Do I know you?” I blurted. “I’m so addled, I just can’t figure it out, but you look—”
He interrupted. “You’re Michael Fiori’s wife. I should have recognized the name. We
met after one of the ‘Geezrs on Ice’ matches.”
Some memory swam up to the surface. “Oh, of course. Senior hockey. I didn’t recognize
you without.…” I gestured vaguely, up and down.
“Pads. Uniforms,” he said.
“Right. And—you’re a cop? I didn’t know that. But then, I wouldn’t need to.…” I knew
I was babbling and didn’t know how to stop. “I’ll shut up,” I said. “What do you need
to know?”
“Why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
“I was supposed to have lunch with…” I gestured at the door again, “…Quentin, and
he didn’t answer the door. I wanted to leave him a note, but my checks had rocket
ships on them. Zach, my son, draws all over them when we go out for pizza. So. Quentin’s
downstairs neighbor—the lady who lives here, Madame DeBurgos—went to get me some paper.
But the door was open, which isn’t like Quentin, so I came in—and there he was.”
I couldn’t bear to think about looking again. I closed my eyes. It didn’t help. Open
or shut, I could still see Quentin as I’d found him: seated at his writing table,
face down, the back of his patrician head a mess of matted hair and blood. I’d forced
myself to feel his throat for a pulse. Nothing. The nausea washed over me—and I had
just enough time to get to the bathroom before losing my breakfast. When I’d rinsed
my mouth and splashed my face with cold water, I dug my cell phone out of my purse
and dialed 911. The dispatcher ordered me out of the house, in case the “perpetrator
was still on the premises,” as she said. I hadn’t thought of that. I raced down the
stairs and locked myself (and Madame) into her flat. Then, too restless to sit there
among Madame’s overstuffed furniture and memorabilia, I’d gone down to the tiny front
porch to await the police.
I tried to concentrate. Moon was speaking again. “And Madame DeBurgos?”
“She’s in her kitchen. Restoring herself, I think.”
“Restoring herself?”
“With a little Pernod. She’s not very good at this either.” From the end of the hallway,
I heard a throaty wail.
“Maggie, what’s going on? Come tell me.”
Moon put his hand on my arm and steered me into Madame’s entryway. “Let’s stand in
here for a minute.”
He pulled the door nearly closed and began, “Why don’t you—” when footsteps sounded
on the front steps that led up to Quentin and Madame’s apartments.
“Quentin? Quent? Did you get picked up for bothering little boys? There’s a bunch
of fuzzmobiles out in your driveway.”
Moon pulled Madame’s door open and called, “We’re in here. Come in, please.”
A young man stopped between the two front doors, puzzled. “Who’re you? Where’s Quentin?
What’s going on?”
“Inspector Moon, homicide. Ms. Fiori, a friend of Mr. Hart.”
“Homicide? Quentin doing a story? Where is he anyway? We’re supposed to have lunch.”
The porch grew very quiet for a moment. The young black man was beautiful. Early thirties,
dressed in artfully, expensively casual clothes—leather boots, pleated pants, oversized
sweater, plaid shirt and cashmere scarf.
Moon spoke. “He’s in the living room in his apartment. And, I’m afraid lunch is… off.”
“He’s dead,” I quavered. “Quentin’s dead. Somebody killed him.”
The young man looked from Moon to me and back again. “Quentin? Dead? Holy Christ.”
Moon watched the young man a moment. “And you are?”
The young man shook his head, trying to understand. I sympathized; I still wasn’t
too clear myself. “I am? Oh, I’m Calvin Bright.”
“I know you,” I blurted.
He looked at me. “You do?”
“I know your work, I mean. Your photography. You shoot for
Small Town
. I’ve seen your fashion stuff in
Town & Country
. I’m Maggie Fiori.”
Moon cleared his throat. “Well, you certainly seem to know all the players, Mrs. Fiori.
And I’m sorry to interrupt the networking, but I have to get to my work now.” He surveyed
us. “I’ll need to speak to you both. May I assume I can find you in…” he looked at
his notes, “… Mrs. DeBurgos’ apartment?” We nodded in unison, two chastened children,
and watched Moon leave.
“Well,” said Calvin, “Not quite what I expected in a homicide dick.”
“Me either.” I leaned against the wall. “What am I saying? What did I expect? I’ve
never seen a homicide detective outside a whodunit or the tube. I just happen to know
this one—a little bit.”
Calvin looked puzzled. “You know this guy?”
I shrugged. “He plays hockey with my husband in a seniors’ league. I mean, they’re
not senior citizens, they’re just over forty.”
“Ice hockey? In California? He can’t windsurf or bungee jump or something normal?”
“That’s almost precisely what Quentin used to say.”
Calvin peered past me, into Madame’s jungle-like hallway, lined with hanging ferns
and dusty potted palms. He whispered, “Where are we? Who lives here?”
“Madam DeBurgos, Quentin’s neighbor. Well, obviously she’s his neighbor; but his friend,
too. Could we go sit down? I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
“Maggie, darling,” called Madame.
“Coming,” I said, and I gestured for Calvin to follow. In a few minutes, she had us
settled at her kitchen table, littered with a week’s worth of newspapers, back copies
of
Opera News
, and several sticky jars of honey. She excused herself and returned from the sofa
with a “just freshened-up” glass of Pernod.
Calvin cased the table. “She into bees?” he asked, looking at the honey.
“It’s for her instrument,” I whispered. “Her voice. She’s a singer.”
“Oh.”
Silence fell. The sound of Madame’s sniffles came from the living room.
“You found him?” asked Calvin.
I nodded.
“Jesus.” Calvin shook his head. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. But it looked as if—” I took a deep breath. “It looked as if somebody
smacked him from behind with a walking stick.”
“A walking stick?”
I nodded. “From the umbrella stand. Quentin always kept a couple of walking sticks
in there. I think they were his father’s.”
“Hey,” Calvin said. “I just got it. You’re Maggie Fiori? You write all those wiseass
food and literary pieces, right?”
“Right.”
“I know your stuff. I like it.”
“Thanks.”
Silence. We looked at each other.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
“Kill Quentin? No! Jesus, what a question!” I bridled.
He managed a grin. “Just asking. Quentin didn’t always see eye-to-eye with his writers.”
“He was my pal.” I felt myself losing control. “He was a great editor and the best
person in the world to have lunch with. And, besides.…” I stopped.
Calvin began patting his pockets. “Geez, my mom always told me to carry a handkerchief
for moments like this.”
I sniffled and dug in my purse. “It’s okay. I’m a mom myself. I carry my own tissues.”
“You know,” said Calvin, “we were all supposed to have lunch together.”
“We were?”
“Yep. Quentin called this morning, told me his favorite feature writer was shedding
her suburban disguise and coming to town for lunch and that I should come on over.
He said he had something we should work on together. He said it was a perfect job
for me and ‘the JIP’. You’re the JIP, aren’t you? The one Quentin calls the Jewish
Italian Princess.”
I sniffled some more. “Suburban disguise. That’s not fair.”
Calvin licked his thumb, reached over and rubbed at my cheek.
“Your mascara’s running.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s do it.”
“What?”
“Let’s get out of this…” he dropped his voice, “beehive mausoleum and have lunch.
We’ll drink to Quent.”
It was an appalling thought. I was starved, though the thought of food made me feel
nauseated all over again.
“I couldn’t eat anything,” I said.
“Fine,” said Calvin. “You can watch me eat—and you look like you could use a drink.”
“Or some hot tea,” I said faintly.
Calvin gave me an exasperated look. “I’ve seen these movies before—the person who
discovers the body is supposed to have a belt of something.”
“This isn’t a movie,” I said.
His shoulders sagged. “I know. I’m just wising off ’cause this is all too weird for
me. I’m sorry.” He looked stricken.
“It’s awful, but I mean, he wasn’t exactly my friend or anything. Were you guys close?”
“Something like that,” I said. And just like a bad movie montage, images of Quentin
in a variety of settings flickered across my mind.
Calvin touched my cheek, “Hey, maybe you just need to be by yourself.”
Time alone? Time to keep that Quentin movie playing along in my brain? Absolutely
not.
“You know what?” I said, “I’d love a drink.”
I stood up. “We have to talk to the cops before we go. Let’s get it over with.”
It was almost three o’clock by the time Calvin and I walked into Pier 23 and claimed
a minuscule table for our own.
We’d answered the inspector’s questions while a battalion of people from the coroner’s
office swarmed over Quentin’s flat. When I asked if I could go back into the flat,
Inspector Moon hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded and put his hand on my elbow
and walked me across a crinkly plastic runner the cops had put down in the living
room. I had the unshakable feeling he was watching my every breath. I crept over to
Quentin’s body and stood there a minute. It was, after all, not the awful sight of
his head that bothered me. It was his right hand, those perfect manicured fingers
so still and so disengaged from everything they did well. I thought of that hand and
all its past intimacies and felt cold in every part of me.
When I pulled myself together, I used my cell phone to make a brief condolence call
to Claire, the “official” bereaved widow. Wasn’t much of a condolence call. More of
an announcement call, met with Claire’s cool, “In the flat? He got himself murdered
at home? Careless bastard,” before I handed the phone over to the inspector. I also
called
Small Town
and broke the news that Quentin wouldn’t be back that afternoon—or ever. His assistant,
Gertie Davies, became hysterical, so I asked for Glen Fox, Quent’s managing editor
and old friend. Glen swore into the phone and then said he’d handle things at the
office. I couldn’t figure out what to do about Stuart, Quentin’s companion. There
was no sign of him. Moon said he’d wait for his return, so I scribbled a note to him
and left it on the kitchen counter.