Died with a Bow (22 page)

“They look delicious,” I said.

“Do you know
mamaliga
?” she asked. “They are made of cornmeal porridge. I cook it until thick, then make a ball with the hands and stuff with smoked sausage and then fry them.”

“What a lot of work,” I murmured, impressed that she would go to all that trouble to bring me this Romanian dish.

“It was taught to me by the cook of our last queen. They are very popular.”

“The
mamaliga
or the royal family?” I asked.

“Both very popular,” she said. “Although we do not have kings and queens on the throne anymore, we still eat
mamaliga
.”

The doorbell rang again, stopping a possible story about the Romanian royal family and her connection to it. It was Dolce and William. I was ecstatic to see them together, and Dolce looked flushed and happy. But maybe that was due to the long flight of stairs up to my apartment. William looked even better than I remembered, with his salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a casual sweater and slacks. He too had brought some wine, which he opened. And Dolce, bless her heart, had stopped by my favorite bakery and brought a banana cream tart.

“I didn’t know if you’d have time to bake anything,” she said with a wink. She knew perfectly well I couldn’t bake anything if my life depended on it.

I wanted to ask about William, and how she’d invited him or had he called her first, but I didn’t get a chance. I just thanked her profusely and put the tart in the fridge. When Jonathan arrived casually dressed in designer jeans, a rugby
shirt, a cashmere sweater knotted around his neck and retro suede sneakers, I introduced him to everyone. Nick gave him a long look. I didn’t say he was my doctor, but maybe Nick guessed. Maybe he remembered that I’d been treated by him after a fall from a ladder. Nick had been wary. He wanted me to see a specialist, but one look at Jonathan and I knew he was the doctor for me. I thought, ER doctors have to know how to treat everything, especially a concussion and a sprained ankle. And I was right. My head had healed, and my ankle was as good as new.

We all went out on my deck to watch boats on the Bay and drink wine. Meera passed the
mamaliga
, and everyone exclaimed at how good they were. If they wondered who Meera was, they didn’t ask. I saw a few curious looks in her direction, but in San Francisco every day is Halloween, where it’s okay to dress up and pretend to be someone or somewhere else.

I looked around at my eclectic group of friends enjoying the view and the wine. It was just the way I’d imagined my life in San Francisco would be. Dinner parties chez moi, good company, well-dressed men and women, laughter, good conversation. What more could I want from life? It would be nice if murderers didn’t keep killing those I knew, but mostly life was good. I loved my job, especially since Vienna was gone, and there were two men in my life.

Meera talked a lot as usual. But I didn’t mind as long as she was amusing and entertaining. She told how she’d learned to make
mamaliga
in her country, but she refrained from saying she’d been on earth for more than one hundred years and planned on staying around indefinitely. So possibly everyone just thought she was eccentric and liked to role-play, which was most likely true.

I almost forgot to cook the broccoli, but I threw it into a pot at the last minute and took it out when it was very crisp. I tossed it with a little butter and chopped almonds, a combination I’d read about somewhere. Dolce helped me transfer it to a large bowl. Then I put the roast in the middle of the table surrounded with potatoes and onions and the rich gravy that magically appeared when I took it out of the oven. So the butcher was right. The meat was so tender it fell apart as I cut it.

We all sat around my small table, everyone helping themselves to the meat, the vegetable and the applesauce, bumping elbows, spooning sauce on their meat and potatoes and spearing stalks of broccoli, while William and Nick kept everyone’s wineglass full.

I was giddy with success, which is always an omen that something is about to go wrong. I should have known. But I didn’t. When I heard the doorbell ring, I was again startled. I looked around the table. Everyone I’d invited was there. Keep talking, I silently ordered my guests. And they did. As if they were old friends.

I got up, went to the door and called, “Who’s there?”

“Detective Wall,” he said from the bottom of the long stairway. “Sorry to bother you.”

What was he doing here, and how did he get in through the front door? “This is not a good time,” I said with a glance over my shoulder. My guests were still talking and laughing and enjoying themselves. I hated to think of what a damper the presence of an agent of the law would put on my dinner party. I assumed this was not a social call. I assumed he had more questions for me. But why here? Why now?

“I won’t take up any of your time. I just need something you have.”

Hmm. What could that be? “I don’t have anything,” I said.

“I think you do. I’m coming up.”

“I’m having a dinner party.”

“I won’t disturb you.”

“You already have.”

“Rita, don’t make me get a search warrant.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said as I closed the door to my place with a loud slam. I could just picture him sighing, frowning at my lack of cooperation, racing up the three flights and lifting his fist to pound on the door. Or firing a few shots in the air as a warning. I wouldn’t put it past him.

I gave up, grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open.

As usual Jack wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead, he was dressed in his customary San Francisco casual. Today it was khakis. If I had any doubts about khakis making a comeback, I could now throw them out the third-story window. Jack Wall would never wear anything that wasn’t totally in style. In the past, like last week, khakis were not serious enough for business wear but not cool enough for after hours, and if today wasn’t after hours, then I didn’t know what was. I read that most men have on average eight pairs of jeans. But khakis? How much would you bet the average well-dressed San Francisco man had zero to none.

It’s a fact that men prefer jeans to casual slacks and with good reason. Stylish, well-fitting jeans are an essential part of a man’s wardrobe. As long as they’re not too short or too long. Pants should cover the ankles and tops of the shoes. A glance at Jack’s feet told me his pants, while not denim,
fit the requirements. Khakis have a way to go, but if Jack Wall was wearing them, it shouldn’t take that long for them to rank higher than they had. The beauty of khakis is that they go with everything, especially with the dark tan Dunlop shirt Jack was wearing.

While I stared at him, he was staring at me as if he expected me to invite him in. What, in the middle of my first dinner party?

“Look,” I said.

“I’m looking for some yearbooks. I understand you have them.”

What could I say? He knew I had the books. Someone had told him, probably Lex. But did he have a court order or would he really get a search warrant, or did he just rely on his authority and his ability to intimidate to make me hand them over? At least that’s what they’d use on TV crime dramas—court orders or intimidation.

“Why do you want them?” I said. I didn’t want to admit I had them, although he probably knew that.

“Why do
you
want them?” he countered.

“If I tell you, you’ll tell me to mind my own business.”

“Possibly,” he said. “Let’s cut to the chase and give me the books.”

“How did you know I had them?”

“You’re a smart girl. How do you think I knew?”

“Lex told you. You know he’s not the only one who had copies. Everyone in the class had them. Why didn’t you ask the school…Prep?”

“They’re closed today.”

“So you’re desperate.”

“I’m working.”

“And I’m having a party.”

“I’m sorry to intrude. Just hand over the books and I’ll go.” He held out his hand. That’s how confident he was. But I’m stubborn.

“Get your own books,” I said.

He shook his head as if he’d never heard anything so audacious as my refusal to hand them over. I’m not entirely sure we wouldn’t have come to blows over it if Meera hadn’t interrupted.

“Officer Wall,” she said, suddenly sneaking up behind me. “I said, who is that arriving so late? Nice to see you once more. Not too late to try one of my Romanian cornmeal dumplings. Have you ever had
mamaliga
?”

I never expected Meera to go into hostess mode. That was my role. But then nothing she did should ever surprise me.

Jack just stood there looking from me to Meera until she couldn’t stand the uncertainty anymore. Brushing me aside, she took him firmly by the arm and escorted him into the living room. I wished I’d had the nerve to do that. Only I would have escorted him down the stairs and out the front door. Sure enough, someone had pulled up an extra chair and set another plate on the table, no doubt assuming as Meera did that he was a guest arriving late.

“Everyone,” Meera said, “meet our friend from the police, Detective Jack Wall, a little late, but never mind.”

Now everyone thought he was someone I’d invited but somehow had forgotten to set a place for. I guessed that was better than knowing the truth: that their hostess was a murder suspect and the officer who suspected her was here to put the squeeze on her and not in a good way.

Fascinated, I watched while Meera put a generous serving of pork roast, potatoes, applesauce and broccoli on his plate as well as a crusty
mamaliga
. I suddenly remembered
I’d forgotten about the bread. But with
mamaliga
on the menu, who needed bread?

Dolce filled Jack’s wineglass and gave me a knowing look. I smiled at her as if I were delighted with the way things were going. Maybe she too thought I’d invited him. If she was worried, she didn’t let on. I hoped that no one knew the truth. That no one suspected his real purpose in ringing my doorbell on a Sunday evening. As if I’d invite three men to dinner at the same time. Unless I owed them. I owed Jonathan, and Nick too, of course. So I gave up and just pretended this was how I’d planned it.

Dolce looked better than I’d seen her since Vienna died. She was smiling frequently, talking often and even eating a second helping of pork. But then she was sitting next to her friend William, who was giving her admiring looks between bites. If that wouldn’t cheer a person up, I don’t know what would. And if nothing else came of this evening, this dinner was worth having if it brought them together. Of course, maybe they were together anyway, but if so, why hadn’t Dolce said anything? Why hadn’t I heard her mention his name? Or taken a phone message from him?

After I cleared the table, I thought Jack would leave. Not without the yearbooks of course, but I expected him to make another attempt or pull out a search warrant and demand them. Instead, he let Dolce serve him and everyone else a piece of the scrumptious pie she’d brought while I poured coffee. He even leaned back in his chair and laughed at something William said. Jack Wall laughing? He caught my eye, and I shook my head signifying that I was shocked and stunned by his erratic behavior. From stern lawman to genial guest. Was he just softening me up so he could walk out with the yearbooks? He’d do it no matter how I acted. I
wondered what would happen next. An earthquake? Another knock on the door?

Even though Meera loved the spotlight, telling stories of life in Romania and of historical figures she claimed to have known, she had to give way to others who wanted to talk. I couldn’t believe it. It gave me courage to think I’d done something right. I’d invited interesting people. I’d served interesting food, and it had all come together despite the party-crashing detective, who, much to my surprise, stayed until everyone else had left.

“Wonderful party,” Dolce said as she and William stood at the door. “Don’t hurry in tomorrow. You have a lot of dishes to do.” Then she peered over my shoulder to see that Jack was standing behind me.

“Good night, Detective,” she called merrily. “How nice to see you again.”

As they all trooped down the stairs, I turned around to face him. He was holding the yearbooks in his hand. My mouth fell open in surprise. I don’t know why. It was typical police procedure. Don’t ask, just take what you want.

“I didn’t want to trouble you any further,” he said by way of explanation.

“How thoughtful,” I said. What else could I say? The man never quit. First he stays for dinner when he wasn’t invited except by Meera. Then he goes into my room and takes the yearbooks. “I don’t suppose I can have a look at those before you go.”

“No time for that,” he said. “But as you said, they’re available other places from other people. You won’t have any trouble finding some books to look at.” He went to the door. “Thanks for the dinner.”

“You’re welcome. What next?”

“What about the antiviolence program I signed you up for. You were a no-show.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have called. Things have been a little hectic.”

“You mean without Vienna.”

“Yes, I mean no. It’s not that. It’s…everything. I’m training for an open-water swim.” It wasn’t exactly true. I was thinking about training for an open-water swim. And it sounded good. Better than saying I was at a dead end thinking about Vienna and her friends and family and hadn’t had the energy to join the police for a ride-along or weapons training no matter how much I could use the practice in defending myself. I wanted Jack to think I had a life other than the shop. Maybe tonight he’d seen that.