Last Fairytale, The (12 page)

“So back to the deceased person in the office,” Cooper prompted. “What’d you do, call the police?”

“Nope. Their CEO beat me to it. Apparently he’d discovered Ducane on the floor before I arrived, then came back to find me kneeling over the body. He thought I did it. He held me hostage while he called the cops, who promptly called a homicide goon, who questioned me for a couple hours then took me down to the station before he’d cut me loose. I had to call an attorney–” Bree stopped. “Coop, do you remember Gen Delacourt? She came and got me.”

“Of course, I loved Genny. I didn’t know you’d stayed in touch.”

“We didn’t, I–”

Sam cut in. “So where did he go?”

“Where did who go?”

“The CEO. If he found this guy before you did, why was he just calling the police while you were there? Why did he leave? What’d he go away to do?”

Bree stared at her brother-in-law. “Good question,” she replied. “Genny probably asked, but I didn’t think to with all the ruckus. I’ll tell you what, though, I’m going to find out as soon as I get back to the city.” She tipped up her glass and swallowed a third of her beer.

Gen could tell by the look on Ryan’s face Sunday afternoon that something was amiss. Her arms went around him. He dropped his bag on the floor inside the door and held her, rocking slightly side to side. She felt tears start behind her eyes and blinked rapidly to hold them at bay, glad she didn’t have to bear up beneath his gaze just yet.

“What happened?”

He remained silent for five beats, and when he spoke his voice was low and quiet. “They offered me a new position.”

Hope quickened her heartbeat, and she pulled back to look him in the eye. “Just offered? That’s not so bad.”

When he didn’t reply, she cycled back to fear and disappointment and unloosed him, then turned and dropped onto the couch. “You accepted it.”

“It will mean a transfer.” Ryan followed Gen into the living room and sat beside her. He took her hand, and she let him hold it briefly before she pulled away.

“Aren’t you going to tell me where you’re going?”

He cleared his throat. “I can’t discuss the assignment.”

“You can tell me why you said yes.”

“It’s my job.”

“You have a job right here in San Francisco. And we’re doing so well.” Gen quickly held up a flat palm to ward off his reply. “Wait, don’t answer. Looks like I was the only one who thought so.”

He didn’t speak.

As she rose from the sofa, her anger rose with her. “I deserve some kind of explanation, Ryan.”

He took a deep breath and released it before he spoke. “There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound trite and selfish. I’ve tried to settle into this life, but it just isn’t me. I like things to change. You know what I mean, Genny? I love you, but–”

“Wait, you know what? I was wrong. I don’t need to know more. You’ve said enough.” Gen stared at him. “You requested the transfer, didn’t you?”

Ryan looked wretched when he reached for her. “I’d like to try and see if we can make a long distance thing work.”

She turned and strode into the bedroom, away from his confusion and misery and back into her own world.

Bree drove in out of the darkness and eased the Beetle into its assigned space in the underground garage. She’d just doused the headlights when her heartbeat quickened.

There was a shadow in the rearview mirror.

She locked the doors and reached for her cell, but it was Gen’s face that ducked down with a grave look and a knock on the glass.

Bree lowered the window.

“Where have you been?” Gen asked. “I’ve called and texted. I thought maybe you went off a cliff somewhere after our mug shot marathon.” She scooted into the passenger seat.

“Sorry, my phone’s been off. I drove down to spend a couple days with my sister’s family. Last week was brutal, and I needed to get away.”

“I understand, believe me. It’s been rough around here, too. But I know something that might perk you up.”

“Oh?”

“I took a ride over to Elergene. The company has a card-accessed parking area under the building. It looked like it had a video surveillance system, the kind that takes a picture of every license plate that enters. So I told Mack and he requested the tape for the day Ducane died. He went and picked it up right away and watched.”

“Does Mack live and breathe being the fuzz?”

Gen laughed. “He must. He called me over the weekend and told me what he found.”

“What was it?”

“The tape shows Vonnegon’s Mercedes coming through the gate five minutes before you entered the building. If he was driving, he didn’t have time to get upstairs. It doesn’t seem likely he was actually the one who found Andrew Ducane on the floor. Not before you, anyway.”

“Get out.” Bree’s pulse pounded. “Why would he lie? I wouldn’t say I found someone dead if I hadn’t.”

“Nor would I.”

“What will Garcia do?”

“Depends on what Vonnegon says about the car. There’s a chance he wasn’t behind the wheel.”

“Genny, I’ve been wondering. If he did find Ducane, why would he leave? That night was so crazy I never asked. What did Vonnegon say he was doing between the time he found the body and the time he came back to find me? What reason did he give for not calling the paramedics right away?”

“Mack said he went to the men’s room to barf.”

“He sure looked composed when I saw him just a few minutes later.”

“You already know Taylor Vonnegon is a cool customer.”

“Well, if finding Ducane made him puke, someone else was driving his car. Maybe his secretary, Mrs. Buttinsky.”

Bree collected her overnight bag from the back seat and regarded Gen. “Want to come up to my place? Unless you have plans. Is Ryan back yet?”

Gen’s glum expression told a story, but Bree didn’t know quite what.

“Sure,” Gen replied. “Let’s order Chinese. Maybe my fortune will perk me up. And how about a funny movie? I could use a laugh.”

“If it’s chuckles you’re after, we better invite Oliver to join us.”

* * *

An hour later they were in Bree’s living room with half a dozen take-out containers open on the sofa table. A bouquet of egg rolls peeked above one box top. A wisp of steam rose from a porcelain sake vase. Gen sipped at her thimble-sized cup and stared at the food.

“Okay,” Bree said. “What aren’t you telling us? Something’s going on.”

Gen took another generous sip before she replied. “Ryan’s leaving San Francisco next week for parts unknown, and this time he’s not coming back. We’re breaking up.”

Oliver gasped. “Oh honey.”

“Genny, no.” Bree put down her plate. “I don’t get it.”

“Ryan told me when he came home Sunday that he requested a reassignment.”

Bree and Livvie both looked stricken.

“I know,” Gen said. “It’s sudden. But maybe not so unexpected.”

Oliver stroked her arm. “We’re sorry.”

A ball of sadness swelled Gen’s chest and threatened to close her throat. She drew in a deep breath. “He wanted to try long distance, but I said no. So he’s at a hotel. We figured the atmosphere at the condo would be tragic with both of us grieving, and we didn’t want to tiptoe around. So he’s coming next weekend to pack. I’ll make myself scarce while he does it.”

“Are you okay?” Bree whispered.

When Gen nodded, Oliver topped off her sake and patted her knee. “Nothing a bottle of Jack and a handful of pills wouldn’t cure,” he said. “Oh no, wait, that’s me.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Bree reached for her friend’s hand. “I feel so bad for you.”

“Part of me is devastated, but the rest of me is surprisingly all right.” Gen tried to smile. “I think it’s better to know sooner than later. Before Ducane’s funeral, I remember thinking I’d been spared that kind of loss, the tragedy of losing family.” She tapped her chest. “But this is what that feels like.”

Bree’s face crumbled. The news was too close to home; Bree was probably reliving her fiancé’s loss again. How many times had she replayed it?

“As much as I didn’t want to at first,” Gen added, “I understand. Women don’t have a single unspoken thought, but men don’t talk about how they feel. When something isn’t working, they just try to power through it. So we’re spilling our guts, and we think they’re listening and they feel the same way. But that’s not true.”

Livvie sniffed. “Not all men.”

“I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t want to see it. So I ignored the signs and hoped it’d go away.”

“Honey, we all do that when we love somebody,” Livvie said.

“I suppose,” Gen replied. “But you know what? I’ve changed. I’m not the person Ryan fell in love with. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just something that happened. Some things work out, and some things don’t.” She sat up straighter. “So I’ll cry it out today, but next week I move on.

“The truth is that Ryan likes his life and his world to change. He’s used to taking on new things, living in different places, and I can’t hold that against him. That’s who he is.”

“To Genevieve.” Oliver raised his sake, sipped, then set his cup down on the table. “At least he had the guts to tell you the truth.”

“Yeah.” Gen flashed them a grin. “Chin up.” She downed the contents of the cup.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Bree said, “how anyone manages to stay in a relationship.”

“Maybe Gen has the answer,” Oliver said. “Cry, get over it, then move on.”

“Look,” Gen said, “It hurts like hell, but life isn’t for the faint-hearted. You know what would help? To take our minds off the dang sadness. Let’s find a distraction. Swim or bake?”

Bree stared. “What?”

“Do you want to go get in the pool and work out, or bake up a giant batch of something?”

“I’m not in the mood for either one,” she replied.

“Of course you’re not. Neither am I. So what? Choose one.”

“Count me out,” Oliver said. “I’m not getting my hair wet, and I’m not sweating over a hot oven.”

“Okay Bree, it’s you and me. I won’t take no for an answer. Choose.”

“Oh, all right. Bake, I guess.”

Gen sprang up from the couch and strode to the kitchen door, where she stopped and turned and regarded her friends. “Come on, let’s get to it.”

“Oh,” Bree replied. “You mean right now.”

“What did you think I meant? I have a plan, and we need to get busy. How much flour do you have?”

“A lot.”

“Perfect.” Gen walked back into the living room and pulled Bree to her feet. “I know one way to wash the poor-me’s out of our system, and it doesn’t involve alcohol. Copious amounts of flour will do a better job.”

“Time for me to go,” Oliver said. “I need my beauty sleep. And a client requires my presence early tomorrow, there’s some kind of crisis over a paint color. And I have a huge decorating job to bid, and a friend’s dog is sick and I need to take some flowers over. You know how it is. ”

“Goodnight Liv.” Bree laughed and blew him a kiss. “You’re excused.”

He waved himself out the door.

They laughed and baked muffins until nearly midnight. Ten batches, each with a different filling. Even when they were covered with dough and dozens of muffins were turned out to cool, Gen refused to reveal what she planned to do with them.

She headed home with a final chuckle and a cryptic parting message. “Get some sleep. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock tomorrow morning, and you better be dressed and ready to go.”

* * *

At the crack of dawn the next day they poured travel mugs of coffee and bundled the baked goods into the back seat of the car. Gen drove east through the city and parked in the asphalt lot of a quiet industrial center near a working stretch of the waterfront.

“Where are we?”

“We’re in Dogpatch.”

“I can see that. What are you up to?”

Gen set the parking brake. “Grab some bags and come with me.”

Bree angled herself out of the car and tightened her muffler against the cold wind that slanted straight off the water. She spied the choppy swell of the bay and was glad she’d pulled on gloves; the chill in the air was almost cruel.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the sting of the breeze, she began to make out mounds of cloth here and there. They were people. Dozens of people quietly populated the edges of the tarmac, sitting, standing, leaning against the nondescript buildings. They formed a ragged queue that slowly worked its way to an open door.

Gen hurried toward the light spilling through that doorway. Bree picked up four of the plastic shopping bags of muffins and lit out after her. She reached Gen’s side and followed her into a cavernous hall.

The room hushed.

A hundred pairs of eyes were riveted on them. Although few stopped eating, they watched as Gen raised an arm in greeting and was answered with a nod from an older man who stood near the kitchen.

The man started toward them, walking as though his feet were sore. Dressed in baggy slacks and a pilled sport coat, he fastened the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie as he approached. His bushy hair and eyebrows had gone completely gray, and his face was the color of cement.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Hello again,” Gen replied. “Martin Richie, this is my friend, Bree Butler. We’ve brought muffins. I was hoping we could stay and help serve breakfast.”

“Of course. Thank you. This way.”

“What are you getting me into?” Bree whispered.

Gen turned her head and whispered, “Your self-pity will evaporate once you get a taste of the circumstances these people live with every day. I thought this was the exact right place for both of us to be.”

Bree donned the apron Gen handed her. They piled muffins into an empty chafing dish, then stepped into the serving line and doled them out, one by one.

Bree felt awkward and self-conscious. Gen spoke to every person who passed as though she knew them well. She told herself to buck up and focused on the man before her. She smiled and put a muffin on his plate.

His watch cap was tattered and dirty and his shabby coat lacked buttons. He was at least two years past a proper haircut. His nails were ragged and rimmed with filth. He hands quaked, shaking the tray, yet his smile was genuine and his quiet voice strong as he thanked her.

A hundred faces later, she recognized the scruffy, silent pair who’d reached to touch her coat at the police station the night of Ducane’s death. They were young and thin and threadbare.

They still did not speak, but their faces softened as they shuffled by and bobbed their heads. They’d known her, as well. It seemed an age ago. She felt ashamed she’d ignored them that night.

The pastries were gone in half an hour and the stretched-thin kitchen staff heaped the empty chafing dish with toast. Gen and Bree continued filling plates until the line thinned and they were no longer needed.

Bree retrieved the gloves and a wool muffler from her coat, then wound through the tables until she found the boys, eating placidly in the far corner of the room. She placed the things beside them and left.

Back in the kitchen, Bree traded the apron for her jacket and walked outside. A fog bank hung off the coast, but the mist of the early morning had brightened into a sunny day. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and walked toward the water.

A concrete skirt held back the bay. The edge that lapped its solid wall was thick with seaweed. Below, bits of Styrofoam and unknown pieces of flotsam mingled with the cast-off garbage flung from a thousand boats, all of it bobbing up and down together, as though the lullaby of the ocean had somehow sent it all to dreamland.

“Food is a fleeting form of art, don’t you think?”

Bree glanced aside to see Martin Richie standing close by. “I’ve probably never thought of food as art,” she replied. “Only as a hobby. Or a necessity.”

“It’s both of those, certainly,” he replied. “It’s also a lesson in detachment. A cook is an artist. Their creations bring pleasure to others, even as their artistry disappears. Meals must be created again and again, day after day. The artist would go mad if they didn’t learn to let go.”