The Hammett Hex (5 page)

“Absolutely. I love San Francisco and it's a great trip. So relaxed. No big deals about anything.”

He blinked. “True, I guess, although I was just about to make a big deal about something.”

Gulp. I drained my pricey cab.

Everybody's after something.

—The Kelly Rules

H
ERE GOES NOTHING
,
I thought with my heart thundering. I didn't want to hurt Tyler. There was no one in the world I cared more for, except maybe my uncles on Christmas morning. But I had no idea what I'd respond if he asked what I thought he was going to. The thought did flutter through my mind that I didn't have many positive role models for happy marriages. I knew very little about my own parents. My uncles had all played the field (except for Mick's two Russian brides, but never mind them). But then Uncle Lucky had married my friend Karen Smith just last year and you could practically see the pink hearts floating in the air around their besotted heads.

“Jordan?” Tyler said. “You're miles away.”

“Another glass of cabernet?” the waiter asked, having materialized out of nowhere, it seemed.

“Why not?” said Tyler.

I did my best to chill out. I wasn't sure how lovely he'd think I was at the end of the meal.

When my seafood chowder arrived, Tyler was fiddling with his bread.

“So,” he said. “Can I just get this over with?”

“Shoot,” I said.

“Really? Shoot?”

“Don't know where that came from. Maybe it's the grape talking.” I raised my glass and took another sip.

“I'm going to shoot. Would you like to meet my grandmother?”

A bit of wine dribbled down my chin and onto my cashmere dress before I could stop it. “But you don't have a grandmother.”

“Apparently, I do now. Would you like to meet her?”

What a relief! It was only a previously unknown grandmother, not a lifetime giving each other the silent treatment in restaurants.

“I really would.”

“Me too. She's here.”

I glanced around. “In this restaurant?”

“In San Francisco. Not all that far.”

“And you are just finding this out right now?”

“Not right now. But, um, not long ago.”

“You are as red as a beet. I'd like to know why.”

“She got in touch.”

“And you didn't know you had a grandmother?”

“No.
You
didn't know I had a grandmother. I just knew very little about her for the last twenty years and the bit I did know wasn't flattering.”

I thought about my large, loud and intrusive family. I knew about fifth cousins in Dublin and the legendary Uncle Olaf from the tenth century who brought red hair and ginger eyebrows to the family from Scandinavia. I knew more than I should have about my own Grandma Kelly, who drove a mean getaway car and could roll a smoke with one hand.
The Binghams were another story altogether, but not a topic for today.

“Not flattering?”

“Well, she was estranged from our family. She cut us off.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. I think there was something about my father she didn't like. When I was a kid, I remember her sending me lots of gifts and there were visits and phone calls and . . .”

“And?”

“And then it just stopped. My parents wouldn't talk about her. I figured she'd dropped us.”

“That's . . .” I stopped short of saying reprehensible. “So, how did this come about?”

“She sought me out and asked to see me.”

“But why didn't you mention it?”

“I guess I felt weird about it. She offered to pay my way.”

“Did you accept?”

“That felt wrong. I said no. I still have bad feelings about what she did. She might be an old lady and she might want to make amends, but I didn't want to feel obliged. If I needed to walk away, I wanted to be able to do that.”

“It's kind of weird that she contacted you around the same time you and I planned a vacation here, isn't it?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, I think you'd better explain.”

The waiter arrived with our entrées and slid the plates onto the white tablecloth in front of us with a flourish. Perhaps he'd been a magician in another life.

“Fresh ground pepper?”

As our meals were peppered, I grinned at Smiley. “And make it good.”

The waiter withdrew with a strange little half bow and Smiley leaned forward. “For many years, I've heard from
her on my birthday. I've never responded, but maybe that was what put the idea of San Francisco in my mind.”

“You never responded?”

“She started up more frequent contact after I joined the police. Maybe she found out I was estranged from my parents.” There it was again, that estrangement. What was with these Dekkers?

“And you didn't—”

He shrugged. “I guess I had trouble getting over her just leaving me when I was a child to go to San Francisco with her new husband.”

“Oh, right. I can see that. But you're an adult now. Did you just ignore her?”

“Yeah. She sent a card every year.”

“That was it?”

“Just a sentimental card. And her address.”

“Huh.”

“Well, what would you do?”

“But isn't she your only relative?”

“There are my parents, who don't speak to me.”

“So then, you're nearly her only relative too?” I turned and gazed out the window. “I don't know what I'd do. I think I'd be very curious.”

“I was. For one thing, how was she always able to find my address?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was away at college. I didn't live with my parents. Then I went on to the police academy and then I moved to my first couple of jobs, just temporary security things, and then on to Harrison Falls. But on my birthday, the card always came.”

I tried not to react to the goose bumps. “That is, um, odd. It's like your grandmother is stalking you.” To be fair to Grandma Stalkington, these days with social media, just about anyone could creep you.

“Exactly. Maybe that's why I resisted.”

The waiter emerged from the ether again to inquire about our dinners. Those would be the dinners that had been rapidly cooling in front of us.

“Good,” Smiley said without glancing at his untouched halibut.

“Excellent,” I said with a fake smile. The waiter's eyes flicked from my face to my virgin plate. He matched my fake smile and departed.

“We should eat,” I said, “midnight or not. I'll try not to badger you about your stalker grandmother. Hey, you know with all the kinds of things that have happened recently, do you really know she's your grandmother? Could it be some unscrupulous—”

“She is my grandmother. There's nothing unscrupulous about the approach. She has nothing to gain financially from me, as you know. And she is who she says she is.”

“How do you know?”

“You may be aware that I am a police officer?”

“Right, I'd heard that.”

“I did my due diligence.”

“What kind of ‘due diligence'?”

“You know, the usual, checked out records, online and all that. I have my ways.”

I sat back and gasped. “You mean you stalked your own grandmother right back?”

There was the telltale flush, right from the collar to the hairline. I loved that.

“I did not stalk my own grandmother as you so ridiculously put it.”

I couldn't hold back the laughter anymore. “Not sure what's worse, your granny stalking you or you stalking her. Next-level creepy.”

Conversation had kind of died down around us. The long-married couple had stopped ignoring each other and started
staring at us. One of the pretty girls with the extensions and the bangles said, “Ew.” Oops. I didn't want my teasing to turn into some viral incident with people snapping shots on their cell phones.

Under the table I gave Smiley a little kick on the ankle and then stared straight at him. Somewhat belatedly, our would-be detective had realized that we were the entertainment in our section of the restaurant.

I said, “That's absolutely hilarious. It still needs a bit of work for your stand-up routine. You'll have everyone on the floor when you get the rough bits worked out. I think it would be funnier if you wanted your granny to be a bank robber instead of a stalker, you being a cop and all. Or you could invent a grandpa who spends all his time in his underwear smoking cigars and talking trash politics. Still it's your time at the mic.”

People around us seemed to lose interest after that.

I grinned at the rose-colored police officer and lowered my voice. “So when do we meet her?”

He leaned forward and whispered. “Tomorrow seems like a good idea. I planned to phone and see what she wants. I don't know anything about how she spends her time. She could be pretty old and maybe's she sick. I wasn't able to find anything personal about her.”

“She might not be that old. You're nearly twenty-nine. She is probably only in her eighties or even younger. She might pass you jogging for all you know.”

He frowned at me.

“Oh, right, you don't jog.”

He said, “Maybe we should try to enjoy our dinner?”

“You're right. It's a shame to waste this.” For a couple of minutes we did justice to the food and hoped we were now very boring to everyone seated near us.

Tyler didn't manage more than half of his, but I did better
than that. Finally I couldn't resist asking, “Is it far from here? I'm betting that you know.”

“It's too far to walk. Maybe we can sightsee in the morning and then go later. Or should I get it over with? What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“I think I mentioned how excited I am about exploring the vintage shops in Haight-Ashbury.”

“Hardly more than a dozen times. But who am I to talk after all my prattling on about Sam Spade and the Continental Op?”

“We can each explore what we want. We have plenty of time here. Maybe you should find out what works for your grandmother first and we'll plan around that.”

“Of course. It's actually planned.” He exhaled.

I guess I hadn't realized he must have been holding his breath. “What is it?”

“I feel so relieved. I've been carrying this thing around in my head. Why does she want to meet?”

“Maybe she feels bad about abandoning you.”

He shrugged. “I wasn't feeling too friendly towards her. She reminded me to call her ‘Gram,' but I can't do that yet.”

“And now?”

“There's a lot of water under the bridge. I'll see what she has to say. It's set for tomorrow morning.”

I raised my glass. “Here's to reframing the past.”

Clink. Clink.
Yet again.

He said, “I guess we're doing that for ourselves too.”

Well, that was an understatement.

Stay out of dark alleys.

—The Kelly Rules

T
HE STROLL TO
the hotel was as romantic as it could have been for two people who had each had more wine than they were used to and who found themselves feeling their way through the fog in an unfamiliar city. We took a shortcut through a short alley, walking hand in hand, leaning against each other and feeling like this was turning into the perfect holiday together after all. Note to self: Do not tempt fate.

We weren't paying attention to our surroundings, to this city steeped in the history of adventures, gold rush and disaster. The alley captured the mood of the town. But we weren't giving it much thought. We were only thinking about each other.

I was teasing Smiley about the effect his stalker grandmother had made on our section of the restaurant. He was taking it well, showing that he had the strength of character to be a police detective. Neither of us minded the cool night. We needed the fresh and foggy air to wake us up a
bit. In the gloom, I could almost imagine the Continental Op gaining ground on some hapless criminal who didn't realize that the fat and ordinary little man was the best in the business.

“Feels like we're in a Hammett novel right now,” he said, probably wanting to change the subject.

“It does kind of feel like that. Maybe I want to be one of those girls in Hammett's world.”

“What do you mean?”

“You known, the kind of woman who isn't quite who she seems to be. The type who would steal your heart and then your wallet and then leave you alone to face the music.”

“Remember that you are dealing with a highly trained professional,” he joked back.

“So sorry, sir. I had forgotten.”

“Better keep it in mind, miss,” he said.

Never one to be told what to do, I waggled his wallet under his nose. “You call that highly trained?”

His eyes widened.

“You should never challenge me,” I said, handing it over. I felt the mood change a bit. Of course, lifting a wallet while you have distracted someone who wouldn't have suspected you is a bit of a parlor trick in our family. We pick each other's pockets at every opportunity. It's a game. Christmas is musical wallets and funerals, well . . . You don't even want to know. But of course, Smiley wouldn't see it that way

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just being silly. All the Kellys do that to each other all the time. But I won't do it again if you're going to have that particular expression on your face.”

“As long as you can take it as well as you dish it out,” he said.

“Of course. I—where did you get my phone?”

“You think you're the only one who knows how to divert attention?” He planted a kiss on my cheek.

We resumed our slow stroll, arms touching, no need to talk every minute. I found myself imagining future scenarios, but none of them involved having him shout “Look out!” and pushing me forward into a concrete planter. Smiley was flattened against me. I looked ahead to see a black Prius rocketing off the sidewalk past us toward the end of the block and, with a screech of tires, around the corner and out of sight.

“Are you hurt?” Smiley said. “Don't move in case something's broken.”

“Seriously? We were almost run down by a rogue Prius? That doesn't even make sense.”

“Yeah, yeah, a Prius, so unlikely, but are you okay?”

I shook my slightly addled head. “Nothing broken. Skinned knees maybe. I tore my favorite tights, though, and they matched so well with my dress. Are you okay?”

“What?” Smiley was obviously a bit addled too.

“Did that car hit you?”

“Missed me. That guy must have been hammered.”

“Guess so.”

“I hope he doesn't kill someone driving like that.”

We talked about calling 911, but in our state of tipsiness, reporting being nearly wiped out by a Prius might lead to even more embarrassing conversations or hysterical laughter.

“I'm feeling more like a Hammett novel every minute,” I said. “Should we call the police?”

“And tell them what? I didn't get the plate, did you?”

“No.”

“I suppose there are a gazillion Priuses in this town.”

“We're not hurt. Let's let it go.”

We may have leaned on each other a bit more on the stumble home. I was glad that I had a guy who would put
his life at risk to toss me into a cement planter, even though I normally like to look after myself.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING,
I snuck into the bathroom with my cell phone to receive a secretive call from Uncle Mick. Uncle Mick is conspiratorial by nature. Smiley and I had lovely adjoining rooms but with the connecting doors open, there was no privacy and I really wanted to make a few calls, and in addition to talking to Mick, I wanted to surprise Tyler with something special, say, a highly collectible Guy Noir Bobblehead. How cool would that be? I could give it to him when he came back from seeing his grandmother. It could be a celebration or a compensation, depending.

Uncle Mick is a man of magic and he had located a copy of
Red Harvest
. He “had a guy,” an old friend of the family. This guy had slightly unconventional business practices. Of course he did. Apparently he owned a rare book and curiosities shop that not only had a signed first edition of
Red Harvest
, but Uncle Mick was sure he'd have a Guy Noir Bobblehead, whatever that was, or he could get one fast. Mick would make the contact right away. I was ecstatic about both. Since Smiley would be getting reacquainted with his grandmother, all I had to do was make my way to Farley's Finest
.
It was somewhere near Mission and Valencia, a trendy, mostly Hispanic neighborhood. That made it even more attractive, since Tyler and I hadn't gone there yet and I heard tales of lots of funky inexpensive shops.

“What are you up to today?” he said.

“Shopping,” I said.

I left a tip on the pillowcase, something I'd done ever since I read about the life of hotel maids in a mystery by Elaine Viets. Another reason why mysteries make the world a better place. I checked myself in the mirror and left the room. I passed a cheerful chambermaid in the hallway and
stepped into the waiting elevator. Outside, I flagged a cab to the street corner that was nearest to my destination, Farley's Finest. The neighborhood was just too interesting not to walk through but my instructions on how to find Farley's included turning right at the mural of Salvador Dali and down the alley past Puerto Alegre but before the lady selling puppets. Not exactly Google maps but I didn't care. As soon as I stepped out of the cab onto the curb and looked up at the colorful buildings against the bright blue sky, I was enamored with this spot. Every wall had eclectic street art and every storefront was crammed with bright and exciting items, promising hidden gems in back and worlds begging to be explored. I would, of course, have to control my spending until I got my mitts on that
Red Harvest
and Tyler's Guy Noir Bobblehead.

My phone chimed with a text from Uncle Kev.

Whatever you do, don't mention Sea World to Farley! Trust me.

While I was fairly certain I would be able to steer conversation away from Sea World, trusting Kev was a stretch. Why was he getting involved anyway? Sounds and smells filled my senses, making it even more difficult to concentrate. For example, I was now craving a churro on top of everything else. So, I let it go. “Kevin can wait!” as we say in our family. I spotted the Dali mural, the artist's upturned mustache pointing down the alleyway. The street art continued on the walls. A pair of elderly men sat on stools sipping steamy coffees from tiny china cups. Beside them an orange rusty door was slightly ajar, the sounds of Spanish speakers and the chaos of a commercial kitchen emanating from within. The men nodded at me solemnly as I passed. I was glad I brought my sweater scarf in my tote bag, because out of the brilliant sunshine, only feet away, it was
cold and damp. I gave the cozy scarf another loop around my neck and walked on, my footsteps echoing off the narrow space.

Farley's Finest was literally a hidden treasure. At the end of the alley around another corner, there it was. A small sandwich board announced my arrival. The parameters of the space were difficult to comprehend, and merchandise had obviously spilled out of the closet-like shop into the alley, adding to the whole magical quality. Maybe six feet wide and five feet deep, the place was stacked with books to the ceiling. Two teetering curio cases flanked the door inside. They were jammed with twinkling vintage jewelry, collectibles and what appeared to be a pair of stuffed peacocks crowned this display. My eyes couldn't take it all in. I could see dozens of things I wanted. I would have stepped back for a better view, but there was nowhere to step to, only another brick wall painted in years of old graffiti. There was no one in the shop. There was no room for anyone to actually be in the shop.

A velvety “Jordan” at my back scared me right out of my boots. I pirouetted to see the shop's namesake. He was not much taller than me, but his shoulders were broad and straight. A little shock of silver through his dark, thick hair was “silver fox” sexy. He wasn't imposing, though, and sparkly black eyes peered over chiseled brown cheekbones at me. I recognized that twinkle of mischief from my own uncles' gazes and felt instantly at ease. Mischief makers in mysterious shops down dark alleys? These are my people. I extended my hand from under the many layers of scarf.

“Farley Tso.”

“Jordan Bingham.”

“Ah yes. I've been expecting you for a while, Jordan. So, Bingham. Not Kelly?”

Waiting for me?

“Um, well, no. The Kellys are on my mother's side. As you know, Uncle Mick sent me and there's Lucky and Kev—”

“And Seamus?”

“Oh yes. Seamus.” I was surprised he knew about Seamus.

He looked at me long enough that we could have boiled an egg. Finally having sized up the situation, he nodded. “Bingham. Okay.” He gestured toward his inventory so I could continue to browse. Just trying to keep focus in this dizzying array of items was hard. There were books stacked on a steamer trunk that varied in subject matter from
The Far Side
to
The Cold War.
Sitting atop that stack was a precariously balanced mini-Eames Rocker in all its bright yellow, molded fiberglass glory. I wanted it, for no other reason than it existed. Much like the turquoise “squash blossom” necklace that looked very authentic to my eye. I dabbed the drool from the corner of my mouth.

As I sniffed about the goodies, Farley pulled a brown bag from under the smallest curio cabinet. It smelled of cigars and leather. Inside was a Guy Noir Bobblehead, in its original packaging.

“And don't you worry about that
Red Harvest
, I've got one for you, it's just going to take a day or two to be delivered.” Farley's eyes shone with pride, seeing my obvious excitement. I wasn't even trying to hide, knowing that Mick, his name and reputation would have already secured me the best price.

“Half now, half on delivery?”

“That will be six hundred dollars then, Miss, um, Bingham, plus the bobblehead.” I paid for Smiley's gift and then fished half of Vera's cash out of my trusty orange satchel, and pressed the bills into his leathery hand. We shook again and smiled.

“Are you sure I can't interest you in the necklace?” Farley teased, with a strange undertone in his comment.

“Oh, I'm interested! But I hardly have the money for
that.” Even with my basic knowledge of authentic Southwest turquoise, I knew that piece had to be worth at least two grand. “But I might have to take home that antique French handkerchief box.” Again, Farley looked at me for a really long time. I started to twitch under his gaze. He picked up the six-by-six-inch flat wooden box, with the faded early-twentieth-century embellishments and turned away. I heard the crinkling of tissue paper.

“Please.” He said, pressing another small bag into my hand, “It is a gift.” Farley's deep brown eyes fixed on mine. I could not say no.

“I will be sure to tell Uncle Mick how helpful and kind you were. Thank you so much, Mr. Tso.”

“Please give my best to them all, Mick, Lucky, Kev, and of course, Seamus,” he said as I turned to leave. I did jump a little when he mentioned Seamus's name again. I guess because we really didn't speak about my uncle often in recent years. He was merely the stuff of whispers and legends from my childhood.

I bundled my purchases and gift into my bag and strode back down the alley toward the busy street. The older gentlemen had taken their coffees and gone inside, maybe because of the two tall burly men flanking the mouth of the alley when I got there. I wondered if they were some kind of “store security.” Something in my lizard brain told me not to strike up a conversation with these guys. Maybe it was the long black leather coats or perhaps the cold dead eyes. Minutes later as I flagged a cab from the street, I turned back to get a better look but they had evaporated into the crowd.