The Devil's Interval (12 page)

“Maggie, I see you yearning for that hat,” said Andrea. “It's prudent to remember that the owner ended up dead in the back seat of a car.”

“So true. But I'd like to know what happened to that hat.”

Andrea looked horrified.

“Kidding, I'm kidding.”

“Now, this other couple they're with,” she said, mollified. “They could be interesting to talk with.”

“Who are they?”

“Ginger and William Brand. He's Frederick's business partner at the venture fund, and Ginger was Grace's best friend. When you look through all the social clips,” she fanned the stack on the tiny table, “you'll see the two of them together in lots of places.”

“And one place you could see them together, but not in the papers,” I said, “The Crimson. Travis said they went together sometimes. I'm sure the police talked to Mrs. Brand. In fact, I think she might have testified at the trial. I'll have to go look at the transcripts again.”

“Maybe so,” said Andrea. “But don't you think she'd be a little more open with us?”

“Could be,” I said. “Though when Gertie tried to make an appointment for me to talk to Frederick, he was pretty brusque. I'm not sure why we'd have better luck with the Brands.”

“We're going to put you in the natural habitat of our prey,” said Andrea. She dug in her briefcase again.

“Voila!” She pushed a heavy, cream-colored envelope in front of me. An engraved drawing of a pale-green vine wound around the envelope.

“What's this?”

“It's an invitation to the dedication of the new Cloud-Forest Garden at the San Francisco Botanical Gardens. It came to the office, and Gertie passed it on to me because she knows I like to garden. But you should go, because Frederick Plummer will be there. This was one of Grace's causes, and take a little glance at this.”

She pointed one impeccably manicured, natural-polish index finger at the invitation. I'd never seen Andrea with colored polish. Too vulgar, I was sure.

I read aloud: “Join us as we honor the memory of Grace Plummer with the dedication of a fountain named for her.”

“You're right,” I said. “I'll go. I'll tell Gertie to R.S.V.P. for me.”

“I knew you'd warm to this idea,” Andrea said. “It's a splendid outing for you. You can wear a hat.”

“Goody,” I said. “I've got a great, broad-brimmed pink number. Very Audrey Hepburn in her
Funny Face
era.”

“Uh-huh,” said Andrea. “Sorry I won't be there to witness it. But when you're not admiring yourself in the mirror, chat up the grieving widower, why don't you?”

“I will,” I promised. “Plus, I bet Grace's best friend, Ginger, will be there. And I can interrogate her, too.”

Andrea finished her coffee, took out a monogrammed compact, and inspected her lipstick. “It's difficult to think of someone in a flying-saucer hat conducting a serious interrogation,” she said. “Don't let the investigating go to your head. I believe Hoyt assigned you to be
my
researcher on
my
story.”

“Hey, why doesn't anyone ever treat me like a boss?” I protested.

“That's a question you ought to ask yourself,” said Andrea.

“Beautiful compact,” I said.

“It was my great-aunt Amelia's,” she said. “We have the same initials, AFS. ‘Use, reuse,' that's the New England motto, you know.”

I
t was May Day and in honor of spring, Dr. Mephisto had on even more color than usual. If that was possible. Turquoise everywhere—silk sweater, teardrop earrings, several bracelets. When she met me at the door, I couldn't help myself. “Is turquoise the new black this season?”

She allowed herself a smile. “The new black?” Sometimes I thought she always countered my question with a question because that's what shrinks learn in Therapy 101, and sometimes I thought she did it just to annoy me. I was leaning toward the annoyance option.

“You know, like last season pink was the new black? Or,” I hesitated. “I guess you don't read
Vogue
.”

“It's teal, not turquoise,” she said. “And yes, I did read that teal is the new black. At least in my closet.” She gestured up the stairs to her office. “Shall we go up? Michael's already here.”

Michael, the inveterate espresso drinker had either been
replaced by an alien or brainwashed. He sat on the couch, contentedly sipping a mug of tea.

“How are things?” asked Dr. Mephisto, once I had declined the tea and was seated primly on the sofa. I knew what was coming. I could feel the little-boy braggadocio radiating from Michael, sending out waves of testosterone.

“Good, I think,” he said eagerly. And prepared to spill the beans about our lunchtime interlude.

Dr. Mephisto's eyes went from Michael's face to mine, back and forth during the telling.

“Sounds like you had fun,” she said to Michael.

“I did,” he said, and reached over to put a hand, possessively, on my knee.

“And I think Maggie did, too.”

“Perhaps she'll tell us herself,” said Dr. Mephisto.

I sighed. “I did. It
was
fun. Very.”

Michael looked at me, “But what,
cara
?”

I shrugged. “I thought it was private. Between us. Now I feel—” I hesitated.

“As if Michael's reporting back to teacher?” asked Dr. Mephisto.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Maggie,” said Michael, removing his hand, “lighten up.”

We both sat silent. I sensed a pout coming from Michael's end of the couch. I had spoiled his fun. I felt grouchy and petty.

“Okay, enough steamy sex,” said Dr. Mephisto, completely deadpan. “Let's talk about something else. Maggie, the story you both mentioned to me, about the murdered socialite. Is that raising any issues for the two of you?”

I gave a brief report, pausing to point out that I was keeping Michael informed. “Every step of the way,” I said. This time, I reached over and put my hand on his knee. So this was therapy—you simply show up and take turns patting your partner's knee. I felt I was getting the hang of it, though I was perfectly willing to play kneesies at home. For free. With a glass of wine instead of
mungy herbal tea. And without voyeuristic Dr. Mephisto sitting around and watching.

“Is that how you feel, Michael? Well-informed?” asked Dr. Mephisto.

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I guess so. Plenty of bulletins from the front.”

“That sounds a little removed,” said Dr. Mephisto. “As if Maggie were off fighting a battle and writing home to you.”

“Well, she's got a life and a job,” said Michael. “I do, too. We can't be involved in every single moment of each other's lives.”

“Actually,” I said, as a brilliant idea washed over me, “I'd like Michael to be more involved in this, this story or investigation or whatever it is.”

“How so?” asked Dr. Mephisto.

“He's a lawyer,” I said. “I'd love for him to read the transcript from the trial and help me understand it. Look for stuff that doesn't make sense. What do you think?” I asked, and this time, my hand on his knee felt legitimate.

“You don't need me,” Michael said. “You've got all those criminal-defense chicks working on this.”

“I do, or at least Isabella does. But they're reading it with criminal-defense eyes. I just want another lawyerly, analytic set of eyes on the transcript, someone who might notice something that the regular criminal bar types wouldn't notice. Plus, Grace's husband is a financial type. You can put those hot, number-savvy brain cells on the case.”

“Is this some make-work, WPA project?” asked Michael. “Because I have more than enough to keep me busy at my day job.”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I wish I'd thought of it sooner. You'd be doing me a big favor, and plus, you'll know as much as I do, and we can talk about the case.”

Michael raised an eyebrow again. “You mean…talk about the story, right?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“What do you think, Doc?” asked Michael, turning to Dr.
Mephisto. “Is this some manipulative way to prevent me from objecting to Maggie's involvement?”

“What I think isn't so important,” said Dr. Mephisto. “But what you think is. I did hear Maggie say she's asking you a favor. That seems pretty straightforward.”

I
was a vision in my wide-brimmed, flying-saucer-shaped black hat, with the Elsa Schiaperelli shocking-pink lining, at the Botanical Gardens dedication ceremony. The social ladies-who-lunch had turned out in force for the fountain dedication. I assessed the crowd. On one side, the traditional botanical garden supporters—well-heeled, St. John-suited, pearls-and-pumps ladies of a certain age. Surrounding Frederick, though, was a covey of Grace's contemporaries—dressed with a little attitude from San Francisco's newest, slightly edgy young designers like Colleen Quen and eco-happy Kelly B.

Frederick Plummer looked even better in person than he did in the clips with Grace: late forties, slightly receding hairline, hair cropped close enough to look like a vaguely decadent European film director, tall enough to carry off the double-breasted navy blazer and pleated fawn trousers. He either visited his money in some offshore Caribbean bank or frequented a tanning salon. He was the color George Hamilton used to be, before we all got freaked about sun damage and skin cancer.

“Mr. Plummer.” I touched his arm.

He turned, smiled automatically, and extended his hand. “Hello, how nice of you to come.”

“I'm Maggie Fiori from
Small Town
.
”

The smile disappeared. “Ah, yes, Ms. Fiori. Your assistant called the other day.”

“I'm here today because our magazine supports the Botanical Gardens,” I said. “I'm not trying to chase you down.” Well, that was a lie.

“Comforting to hear,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Grace's close friend, Ginger Brand.” He put his arm around the woman standing next to him—I recognized the hourglass-figure brunette from the photo.

“Ginger,” said Plummer, with just an undertone of warning in his voice, “this is Ms. Fiori, from
Small Town
. She tells me she's joining us today because the magazine supports the Gardens.”

“In fact,” I said, telling at least part of the truth, “we publish a special insert for your Garden Ball every year. I think we're one of your media sponsors.”

“That's right,” said Ginger, “and we're grateful for your support. Today is a wonderful occasion for all of us who loved Grace.” Her eyes filled. “I'm sorry,” she said to Frederick. “I'm not trying to make things harder for you.”

She dug in her Kate Spade bag—real, not knockoff—for a tissue.

“I picked up a program at the gate,” I said. “It's wonderful you're dedicating a fountain in your wife's memory.”

Frederick tightened his hold on Ginger, “All Ginger's doing,” he said. “I don't know a lobelia from a libel suit, but Ginger and Grace, they could rattle all day long about this stuff. And Ginger was insistent that we do something in the Cloud-Forest Garden.”

“It's a beautiful space,” I said. “Where does the name come from?”

“Am I wearing mascara all down my face, Freddy?”

He took her hand and pulled her close to inspect her perfect face. “Not one drop.” He released her. “I'll let you ladies chat about flowers,” he said. “I need to check in with the Garden director—I think we're waiting for the mayor to arrive, so we can get things under way.” He headed toward the podium set up near the new fountain.

Ginger watched him walk away, then turned back to me. She
seemed distracted. “Sorry, you were asking?”

“The name of the garden—Cloud-Forest. What does it mean?”

“Cloud-forests are high-mountain places, very tropical, very wet and often cloudy, even during dry seasons. They're interesting because such a variety of plants can grow there.”

“I get it,” I said. “That's why the plants around us are so abundant-looking—but San Francisco isn't a cloud-forest, is it?”

“Not exactly,” said Ginger, warming to her topic. “But it has some of the same characteristics, especially on the wet, Sunset side of the park. It's one of the things that Grace loved about the Botanical Gardens. Her grandmother had always tried to re-create Midwest gardens that looked a certain way at a certain time of the year. But Grace just reveled in the fact that Bay Area weather is so mild, so many things can grow all year long.” I looked across at Grace's fountain. Passion vines, tree dahlias, lush rhododendrons surrounded the stone basin. “So, even though we're not at high altitude, the way cloud-forests generally are, our climate lets us have two different kinds of cloud-forest gardens. Plus,” she hesitated, “all of us who loved Grace thought of her as a kind of cloud. Beautiful, changeable, a little elusive.”