The Devil's Interval (46 page)

“He did set that fire at The Devil's Interval, didn't he?” asked Calvin.

“Indeed he did. Part of his continued efforts to make Ivory
completely dependent on him,” Moon responded. “And he had, foolishly, mentioned to Maggie that he'd been a volunteer firefighter in the past. So he clearly knew enough to set a fire that would burn hot and move fast.”

I threaded my way to the DVD player and inserted a disc.

“Here's the thing,” I said. “On some level, I think Gus actually wanted somebody to figure all this out. He told me that there was a ‘Top Winners' of all time compilation of old
Jeopardy
episodes. And I just got around to watching it the other night.”

I pressed play, and a much younger Alex Trebek and Gus Reeves showed up on the screen. I fast-forwarded to the right spot. “ ‘Illegal Hot Stuff' for $800,” said Gus. And as we watched, the window opened and revealed the words:
Carbon Disulfide
. Gus went for the buzzer, “What is a common accelerant used in arson?”

I hit pause, catching Alex in midacknowledgment, that once again, Gus knew his ‘hot stuff.'

“And, according to the arson forensics, there were traces of carbon disulfide at The Devil's Interval.” I hit stop, and ejected the DVD. “Of course, Gus told me about the Top Winners compilation DVD before he torched the club. I just wish I'd taken it out of its little Netflix sleeve a lot sooner.”

“Even the great detective, Maggie Fiori, isn't a psychic,” said Lulu briskly. “If you'd seen the tape, would you have been able to predict Gus would set a fire?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Okay, just wanted to share that little scene with you all.”

“So we know exactly what happened the night Grace was murdered?” asked Hoyt. “I've pulled the story from the next issue, so we can do an update. That means it would be helpful to actually
have
an update.”

“Here's what we know,” said Moon. “Gus was becoming increasingly distraught about what he thought Ginger was up to, and was convinced that if she were only free of Grace's influence, she'd become the paragon he knew her to be. Travis had been at the bar that afternoon and had mentioned to his mother that he
was going out that night. Gus boosted the spare keys, drove out to the Plummers' home, waited 'til Grace got back from her date with Travis, knocked on the door, and told her some story about Ginger having been in a car accident, and that she was asking for Grace.”

“That's why I saw her racing out the door,” said Carol Ann.

“Exactly. She gets in the van, and off they go toward SF General, or at least, that's what Gus tells her. And he introduces Doc, who's in the back seat, as a friend who knows Ginger, too.”

“And that's the shorter person I glimpsed in the backseat?” asked Carol Ann.

“Yes,” I said. “And here's what's weird, I remember thinking about Doc's height when we danced together at…” I paused, glancing at Josh. “When we danced together. He was really a good dancer, and I wondered at the time if it's easier to dance with someone your own height. But it does seem odd that Grace didn't recognize Doc from the club.”

“Not really,” says Moon. “She's distracted enough, worrying about Ginger, and it's dark in the car, so she doesn't look at Doc closely enough to recognize him as someone she might have seen somewhere else.”

“And did they go to the hospital?” asked Krissy.

“They headed in that general direction,” said Moon. “SF General is hardly Grace's usual stomping grounds, so she's disoriented about where they're headed. She's not suspicious when Gus pulls into an empty parking lot. Doc reaches over from the backseat, pulls a gun on her. Together, they force her into the backseat and tie her up.” He stops, looks around the room. “According to Gus, they didn't mean to kill her. They meant to scare her to death, and give her an ultimatum about ending her friendship with Ginger.”

“What went wrong?” asked Krissy.

Moon shrugged. “Who knows? Gus said things got out of hand. They were taunting her about how she enjoyed being tied up. Pollack leaned in really close to her, and she spit in his face. Pollack grabbed her head and wrenched—and broke her neck.”

“On my God,” whispered Krissy.

“That's more or less what Gus kept shouting, when we found him,” said Moon. “He alternated between rage about how things went wrong and remorse, that he'd only meant to protect Ginger and take care of Ivory.”

“Pollack confessed, too?” asked Seth.

“Nope. He's lawyered up. This is Gus's version. He says they panicked. Pollack decided it would make things harder to figure out if they shot her. And conveniently enough, Gus had a plastic tarp in the back of the car.”

I shuddered. “This is so creepy to imagine,” I said. “But it makes more sense. Somehow I couldn't picture Gus shooting someone in cold blood.”

“Don't romanticize the guy,” said Moon. “Murder is murder.”

“I'm not,” I said. “In fact, Lulu had figured out something important while we were sitting there in the waiting room. That's what her call was about.”

Lulu shook her head, as if she was still trying to get clear on things. “It occurred to me there was a lot of ‘tying up' in this story. More than you run into on an ordinary day. And I wondered what the details were about the girl Gus and Doc had ‘restrained' in Vietnam.”

“That's going to help us nail Pollack,” said Moon. “We're getting more details about their misadventure all those years ago in Vietnam. In fact, they had tied the girl up when they threatened her.”

“So awful,” said Krissy.

Moon continued, “At some level, these are guys who think they get to play by their own rules. Anyway, you know the rest. The irony is, Gus had taken keys to Travis's apartment, thinking he might have to wrestle the body inside. Instead, the door to the limo was conveniently unlocked.”

“What happened to the gun?” asked Calvin.

“We don't know where he hid it all this time, but it turned up again,” said Michael. “That's the gun he left in the hotel room for
Ivory. Eventually, the ballistics would be run—and it would be tied back to the gun used on Grace.”

“This,” said Hoyt, “is such a sad story.”

“It's a long line of sad stories in Grace's life,” I said. “That's the worst part.”

“On a more cheerful note,” said Isabella. “Ivory is recovering, Travis was released last week, and someone has underwritten six months of rent on a new spot for The Devil's Interval 2.0.”

“And,” added Hoyt, “it's a heckuva cover story for
Small Town
.”

The evening wound down after that. By 11 p.m., Michael had driven Esme home, Josh was in bed, and I was collecting glasses for the dishwasher. Moon was helping.

“This drives me nuts,” he said.

“Oh, me too,” I said. “No matter where I put the glasses, Michael will rearrange them.”

“Don't be obtuse, Maggie,” said Moon. “What I meant was, I think tonight's tie-it-up-with-a-bow denouement is a dangerous reinforcement for your detecting career.”

“Not career,” I said. “Just the occasional avocation. And lovely pronunciation of denouement, by the way.”

“Try not to be so patronizing,” he said. “And why can't you take up knitting, like your friend, Lulu?”

“Lulu's knitting is like Madame Defarge's,” I countered. “You can only speculate what it's a cover for.”

S
ometimes Travis dreamed about Grace. He'd awaken with a bitter taste in his mouth, knowing already that she was gone, remembering very little of the dream. But here was the strangest thing. Sometimes while he was still in that just-awakened state, some word he didn't even know would pop into his head
. Excimer. Langerhans.
And he'd pick up the Webster's on his nightstand, and just like Grace, say the word aloud, trying to sound out the spelling so he could look it up
. Elision
was the word this morning, right around daybreak. He had to try a couple of spellings to find it, but there it was. Meant something in poetry, but also in music. “A note that serves as the last note of a phrase and the first note of a new phrase.” Travis let the dictionary fall on his chest and glanced up at the mirror over the bureau facing his bed. It was as if he was looking in the rearview mirror again in the limo, glancing into the backseat to catch Grace's eye. “Amazing Gracie,” he said. “You're talking to me.”

T
hree months after Travis was released, Michael and I celebrated our sixteenth anniversary with a night out on the town. I wore a gift Frederick Plummer gave me, the frothy black evening hat I had coveted the moment I saw it perched on Grace's sleek head in a photograph. True to my word, I had called Plummer as soon as the pieces came together to tell him what we had discovered and elaborate on the cryptic explanation he'd received from the cops. We sat at his kitchen counter, drinking coffee, and he told me more about Grace. We both wept.

As we said goodbye, he asked if he could give me something of hers. “She had beautiful jewelry,” he said. “I know, because I bought it for her.”

I shook my head to the jewelry. “There's one thing,” I said, and told him about lusting after that evening hat. “I'm sure you've given her clothes away to charity,” I said. “But if that little hat were around…”

He disappeared into the back of the house and returned with a simple red hatbox. The hat rested inside like a perfect, ebony egg in a spun-sugar nest.

I didn't look anything like Grace in the hat—but I didn't put it to shame, either. And it seemed lovely to be taking it out for an elegant evening. We were splurging on dinner at the too-cool-for-
words eponymously named Michael Mina for two reasons. First, it was located in the lobby of the St. Francis, and it was good to replace the memory of finding Ivory there with something entirely positive. Second, we could afford a lavish dinner out because we'd cut back on our therapy budget so dramatically.

Dr. Mephisto had fired us. Or released us back into the wild. Or something. Instead of weekly sessions, she'd suggested we check in with her every three months or so. Or, if something critical came up. “Which does not include,” she said, “your endless negotiations about unloading the dishwasher.”

Turns out a really good dinner with the man you love is excellent therapy in and of itself. After dinner, we walked up Powell to Pine, ignoring a threatening sky and moisture in the air. We climbed the stairs to a new, tucked-away spot over the lobby in a worn but still classy apartment building. It was now the location for The Devil's Interval, and we showed up just in time to hear the late set. We joined Lulu and Hal at a small table in the back. “Nice space,” said Michael, looking around.

“Isn't it?” said Hal. “Lulu shook some of her old finance trees and scared up some investors.”

Lulu patted his hand. “Just listen to the music, darling.”

At the end of the set, the pianist—Travis Gifford by name—waved to his mother to come join him on the bench. They sat side by side and began a simple, stripped-down version of “Come Rain or Come Shine.” At the end of the piece, Ivory sat with her right hand in her lap, and her left hand on Travis's shoulder. We all waited for Travis to sign off with The Devil's Interval. Oddest thing, though. He resolved the final chord. In a major key.

And then we all went out into the starry night. The clouds had dissipated, the moon was perched high above the Starlight Roof at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. It seemed unseasonably mild for a San Francisco summer night. Hal and Lulu were meeting friends for a late drink, so we parted ways.

Michael tucked my hand into his arm, and we started the walk to BART. “By my estimation,” he said, “we're not more than a ten-
minute stroll from the Crimson Club.” He glanced at me. “Want to drop by?”

I was silent for a moment. “You remember that story we did on the chefs who were experimenting with exotic game dishes?” I said.

“I remember.”

“So, I tried everything—including the rattlesnake.”

“And?”

“It wasn't bad. But once was enough.”

Michael dug in his pocket and pulled out our BART tickets. He handed me one. “Home?”

“Home,” I said.

W
riting may be a lonely gig, but I always feel surrounded by what my mother called my “amen corner.” To all of you in that corner, I send love and gratitude.

This book would not have been possible without my friend Evan Young, who provided an insider's guide to the death-penalty appeal process and San Quentin, and who patiently answered many dim-witted questions. The fact that she's a great reader as well was lagniappe. Despite Evan's excellent coaching, errors may have crept into the book. Evan is responsible for what's right. I'm responsible for what's wrong. And it's possible that Evan's given first name, Eugenie (which also belongs to her mother), inspired some aspects of Travis's mother. The Women Defenders are a real-life group (
womendefenders.net
), and they are doing God's work, in whatever way you care to define that. The backstory of Grace Plummer's childhood was inspired by heartbreaking tales I heard during my work as a mentor and board member at Youth Homes, an agency that cares for young people in foster care (
youthhomes.org
).