The Devil's Interval (35 page)

I smiled politely. “So kind of you, but
Small Town
is actually a media sponsor, so I'm hosting a table as well.”

He drained his glass, and turned around to put it on the bar. He caught the bartender's eye and tapped the glass. The bartender immediately whisked the glass away and began making swift pours into a shaker.

Brand turned back to me. “Need a little liquid sustenance to sit through these things in the middle of the day,” he said.

I scanned the room, nodding, and then I caught sight of a
familiar face. “Look,” I said, “Gus
is
here.” Ginger's father was moving through the crowd like a broken-field runner, coming our way. I gave a little wave. He caught my eye and smiled.

Brand picked up his fresh drink with a snap of the wrist, touched his index finger to his forehead, in an encore of the way he'd made his escape from Michael and me at the event honoring Plummer, and said, “Enjoy the program.” It was fascinating to watch him. Even with a substantial amount of alcohol in his system, he looked unruffled, precise in every word and move.

I caught his arm. “Don't you want to say hello to Gus?” I asked directly.

He shook free of my arm. “Try not to be obtuse, Ms. Fiori. Does it appear that I want to greet that charmless old man?”

“So sorry,” I said, holding his eyes.

“No, you're not,” he retorted, and headed purposefully away just as Gus drew near.

Gus greeted me enthusiastically and knocked on the bar. “Bloody Mary,” he said, “and hold the celery and all that other crunchy, vegetable crap.” He raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “Did I see you shooting the shit with my stick-up-his-ass son-in-law?”

“You did,” I said. “I gather you're not best pals, hanging out watching the Friday Night fights and playing poker.”

“Man wouldn't know a good poker hand if it fell out of the sky and arranged itself in his manicured little girly-paw,” said Gus. “Plus, he doesn't need to play poker. Makes plenty of money doing all that hocus-pocus with other people's money.”

“You mean his partnership with Frederick Plummer?” I asked. “I don't think it's hocus-pocus. It's just what VCs do.”

Gus tossed a five on the bar as a tip to the bartender, who pushed his “vegetable-free” Bloody Mary to him.

“Yeah, well, any work that doesn't involve a little honest sweat seems like bullshit to me,” he growled.

“Oh, really?” I said. “Were you sweating when you won all that money on
Jeopardy
?” I asked.

Gus laughed. “You bet I was, sweetie,” he said. “Those were hot lights. Hey, if you don't believe me, you can rent a compilation of those old shows—I'm on one of the ‘best of the big winner' DVDs. Sweating like a pig.”

“I believe you,” I said. “So, where are you sitting? Since I gather you're not sharing your son-in-law's table?”

Gus shrugged. “I get too restless to sit at these shindigs. I just want a good vantage spot to watch Ginger steal the show. I'll have a couple of drinks, and watch from the sidelines. She'll know I'm here. Then, I've got to make a quick getaway. I'm doing some repairs on my cabin in the Sierra foothills. Getting it ready for summer.” He sighed. “I've never talked Ivory into going up there with me. Maybe this will be the year.”

“She doesn't like the woods?”

“Who knows? Too much time in the car with me, probably. And it's pretty middle-of-nowhere. Once you're there, you're not going anywhere. Nope. Take that back. You can hike to a bait shop that also sells the best mountain trout po'boys you'll ever taste.”

“Stout's Trout?” I asked.

He looked amazed. “That's the place. How'd you know?”

“I used to fish up there with my dad when I was a kid. Hiking to Stout's for lunch was the culinary highlight of my childhood.”

He shook his head. “Amazing. Most people can't even find the place.” He took another swig of his Bloody Mary.

“How'd you get into this reception? Don't you need to be a sponsor or something?”

He grinned, and pulled a crumpled card out of his pants pocket and waved it at me. “My little Ginger gave me a ticket. She looks out for her old man, even if she's always worried I'll embarrass her.”

He raised his glass to me. “Here's how.”

“So, Gus,” I began, “I was wondering.”

He shook his head. “You ask a lot of questions. Don't you remember what killed the cat?”

“Nothing,” I said grimly. “My kids have two of them, and they
seem to have nine thousand lives. The cats, not the kids. But, I was just wondering what all the tension is between you and Ginger's husband?”

“No tension,” he said. “He thinks I'm a carbuncle on Ginger's perfect little life. And I think he doesn't treat my daughter right.”

This was getting interesting. “What do you mean?”

With that, Gus launched a small litany of wrongs he felt Bill perpetuated on Ginger from not taking her arm to cross the street to not having children, etc. etc.

“Whoa!” I said. “Maybe Ginger doesn't want children?”

He frowned. “She'd be a great mother. She's terrific at everything she does.”

“You really know he never takes her arm when they cross the street?” I asked.

Gus put down his glass and curled his hands into two circles and brought them up to his eyes, mock binoculars at the ready. “I miss nothing,” he said flatly, “when it comes to the people I love.” He glanced at me. “You've got kids, right?” I nodded.

“Thought so. Then you know, it's your job to protect them. I wasted a lot of years not looking out for Ginger. I won't make that mistake again.”

“How about kids looking out for their parents?” I asked.

“I can take care of myself,” he said gruffly.

“I didn't mean you.” I said, “I meant Travis looking out for his mother.”

Gus shook the ice cubes in his glass and polished off the rest. “You mean, Travis
protecting
Ivory from an unclassy guy like me, don't you?”

“I don't know exactly what I'm asking,” I said. “But Travis seems very proprietary about his mother, even from prison. Seems like a hard club to get into.”

”Damn near impossible,” said Gus. “I've tried. The Prince of the manor will always be first in her heart, and Ivory tells me to chill because Travis hasn't approved of any of her boyfriends. And believe me, I know I'm not the first.”

A horn fanfare sounded in the next room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” called an amplified voice. “Please find your seats in the dining room. Luncheon is served.”

I reached out my hand to give Gus a farewell handshake, and he ignored my hand, pulling me close for a hug. “I like you, little lady,” he said, directly into my ear. “Even if you ask too damn many questions.”

He released me, and made a general swat in the direction of my backside. I sidestepped, waggled my fingers goodbye, and hurried off into the dining room.

Small Town
was definitely a “second-tier” sponsor, so it took a few minutes to navigate halfway back and to the side to our table. I spotted Andrea's mother and Calvin first. Mrs. Storch was simply a slightly faded version of Andrea—her skin a little paler, her hair a slightly washed-out blond, her cashmere twinset a softer gray than Andrea usually wore. Regulation pearls, in place, but unlike Andrea's standard single strand, Mrs. Storch featured a double-strand.

But, here was the surprise. Even from several tables away, I heard her let loose with a delighted shout of laughter. Her head was close to Calvin's, and as I watched, she dug in her handbag, and pulled a handkerchief out to dab her eyes.

The rest of the table—advertisers we had invited as our guests, the columnist who covered the social scene, and Gertie—were all chatting amiably, but sneaking surreptitious glances at Calvin and Mrs. Storch, wishing they were part of their conversation. Calvin stood as I came to the table, and gestured to the empty chair next to Mrs. Storch.

I slipped into the seat and shook hands with Andrea's mother. “So lovely to have you here,” I said. “I know it means a good deal to Andrea.”

“I'm delighted to be here. And Mr. Bright promises me that Andrea is wearing neither tweed nor Burberry. This is a bit of a thrill!”

Thrill, huh? Hold that thought, Mrs. S.

A few speeches, a multiscreen presentation on the Junior League's projects, a breeze through the artfully arranged seafood salad, and it was time for the show. The lights went down again, and then came up on the elevated catwalk, edged on either side with larger-than-life white orchids.

It was about what you'd expect—a local anchorman plus a
SF Chronicle
fashion reporter providing commentary, an onstage combo that changed tempo and tune every time the clothes changed theme—casual wear, mom-about-town wear, sports clothes, elegant work clothes. Mrs. Storch leaned over to me, “I told Calvin I thought they'd put Andrea in one of those handsome tennis outfits,” she said. “She's such a tennis addict, you know.”

“Guess not,” I said, blandly. “I think the sports part of the show is over.”

“He did tell me that he thinks she's dressed for indoor sports.”

“Really?” I whispered noncommittally, not anxious to hear Calvin's speculations on Andrea's participation in indoor sports.

The lights on the runway dimmed once more, and came up with a little silver sparkle edge to them.

“And now,” intoned the fashion reporter, talking directly into the mike in a hoarse, sexy voice, about an octave lower than she'd been speaking. “Here's a little segment we're calling Fashion on the Edge.”

“Oh, goody,” I said aloud, realizing that this segment had to feature our own leather-and-lace prepster.

The musicians laid down a disco beat, and the notes of “I Will Survive” began rocking the room.

Andrea was the first model out. Gone was the hesitancy and apprehension I'd seen as she'd slid off the high makeup chair. Instead, she strode out on the catwalk as if she were taking possession. The impeccable Starchy Storch posture was there, shoulders back, chest out—and oh, my, what a chest it was. But in addition to that classic New England field-hockey/tennis-playing stance, she'd clearly had some model-coaching as well. She led with her hips, seemed completely secure on the spike heels, and
had a look on her face that suggested decadent-European-film-star-as-dominatrix. Charlotte Rampling in
The Night Porter
. I could hardly bear to look away, but I had to watch Mrs. Storch. She leaned forward, back no longer touching the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She blinked a few times. And then leaned over to Calvin and whispered something. He listened intently, shook his head, and pointed to me. “What?” I asked.

“Shh,” said Mrs. Storch, “we have a question. We'll ask you after Andrea is offstage.”

The anchorman was speaking: “Lovely in leather and lace from Ella True,” he said, “a local designer who's all about the bad girls. Welcome our first-time model, Andrea Storch.” A ripple of applause and a few whistles pierced the clatter of cutlery in the dining room. “Andrea's a film critic from
Small Town
, one of this year's media sponsors,” he added. “And her friends tell me that her nickname is…” He looked down at the card in his hand, “Starchy Storch.” Laughter washed across the room. Andrea had reached the end of the catwalk, posed, one hip thrust at an angle. Her mouth twitched, and then she broke into a wide grin.

The anchorman waited 'til the laughter died down. “I'd say Miss Storch needs a new nickname—and fast.”

The smile disappeared; Andrea was all business again. She turned smartly on her spikes, and strode back down the runway and disappeared.

The rest of the segment featured other models in edgier fashion—shredded shirts, miniskirts with seams on the outside, a shocking-pink, faux-fur tankini, and the closer, a spiky-haired mom in black hot pants and a fringed, black leather jacket over a red lace bustier pushing a twin-stroller with towheaded kids, also dressed in black. All very homage to Vivienne Westwood.

The big finale segment, as always, was evening wear. Ginger was the last model out in that segment, before the traditional bridezilla closer. Dressed top to bottom in Ralph Lauren British racing-green, beaded silk, with a knockout heavy emerald-green necklace topping the strapless bodice. “My word,” said Mrs.
Storch. “Those emeralds must weigh more than the model.” When Ginger paused to strike her pose, a yodel-like “Yahoo” pierced the air, punctuating the applause. Gus, I felt sure, was expressing his fatherly approval. And then, the music changed once again, and lush strings played poor old, worn-out Pachelbel's
Canon in D
to signal the parade of brides. Since it was the San Francisco Junior League, in addition to the elegant Vera Wang zillion-dollar white slip dresses, there were models in traditional red Chinese wedding gowns and an Indian bride wearing a gold-embroidered red sari.