The Hunt Club (13 page)

It left a clear field, and he stepped into it. “Jeannette told us she left the city at around four to avoid the traffic. Do you remember what time you met up with her?”

“This is ridiculous,” Waverly said, angry eyes flashing. “Jeannette did not kill George. She didn't know he was seeing this girl.” She flung her hair, ran her hand through it. “But all right. It was…I got home at my usual time, which is around seven.”

“And you met her there? At your home?” Juhle asked.

“Yes.”

“So she was there when you got home?” Shiu wanted to lock it down.

“No.” She threw them both a challenging look. “I work all day. Usually I don't keep much food at home, and when Jeannette comes, she often goes shopping so we can cook something together.”

Juhle kept up the press. “Is that what she did the other night?”

“Yes.”

Shiu: “And what time did she come home, then? From shopping?”

“I don't know for sure.”

Juhle: “But she wasn't there when you arrived?”

“I've already said that.”

Shiu: “You'd been working. Did you pour yourself a drink when you got home? Or take a shower? Read your mail? Do you remember?”

Still obviously frustrated by this line of questioning, Waverly nevertheless sat back on the couch and gave it some thought. Finally, she opened her water and took a long drink. “I pulled into the driveway, got my mail, went inside, and made myself some iced coffee from the morning leftovers. Jeannette called me from her cell.”

Juhle met his partner's eye for an instant. “What did she want?”

“She didn't know if I had any wine chilled, and she'd forgotten to pick it up at the grocery. She called and asked me to check, which I did, and we didn't have any, so she said she'd swing by Adriano's and pick up a bottle. Adriano's is just up one-oh-one, the next exit.”

“So ten minutes?” Juhle clarified.

“Maybe that, yes.”

Shiu said, “And ten back. So she got to your home when?”

This brought a rise. “Well, if she left the city at around four as she said, then I'm sure she got there at about four forty-five. One of the neighbors might have seen her. You could ask them.”

“We will do that.” Juhle adopted a gentle tone. “Of course, we'll do that.”

“Then, as I've just been explaining to you, she went out to do some shopping.”

Juhle kept on. “But you didn't actually meet her and see her at your house until closer to eight, maybe eight thirty. Would that be about right? Was it dark out, do you recall?”

Waverly leaned back into the couch and closed her eyes. At last she said, “It was just dark. I remember because when she pulled up, I opened the door to say hi and saw that she'd forgotten to turn off her car lights.”

On up to Novato,
Shiu said, “So she forgot to check if they had wine, then forgot to buy it, then forgot to turn off her car lights…”

“Must have had something else on her mind.”

It was a clear afternoon with high clouds. Juhle looked over at the bay and almost dared let himself think they were going to have some nice weather. But he said, “That woman—her sister—she's a force of nature.”

“You shouldn't covet thy neighbor's wife,” Shiu said.

“I got one for you,” he said. “How about ‘You shouldn't say
shouldn't
'? Besides, she's not married. Therefore, she's not anybody's neighbor's wife.”

“You're married, though.”

“Gee, thanks, Shiu, that had momentarily slipped my mind. I wasn't coveting her, whatever the hell that is. I was just commenting that she was a force of nature. This is our exit.”

“I know.”

Adriano's was a small boutique liquor store in yet another Marin County mall with an unreasonable percentage of luxury cars in its parking lot. Shiu parked directly in front of the door, and the two inspectors walked into the empty shop. Classical music was playing in the background, and a bell sounded as they crossed the threshold. A well-dressed, short, white-haired man with a neat mustache came out of the back.

After introductions, it appeared that for once things might be simple. Mr. Adriano told them that he worked the outer store alone. Noon to nine, six days a week. It wasn't difficult at all, and he'd been here twenty-seven years. No one got into the cash register except him.

Of course, he knew Mrs. Palmer on sight. She had been in here many, many times with Vanessa Waverly. “Her sister, right?”

But he'd rather talk about Vanessa. Just between them—had they met her?
Mamma mia!
“I would gladly give up my left nut for one night, you know what I'm saying? Although I'm afraid I would have to get in a very long line. But what is it you want to know about her sister. Mrs. Palmer? Jeanne, is it?”

“Jeannette,” Shiu said.

“Ah, that's right. Jeannette. I must remember.” His habitual smile faded. He put a finger to his forehead at the flash of memory. “It just came to me. You gentlemen. The judge. Her husband, right?”

“I'm afraid so, sir. Do you remember the last time she was in here? Mrs. Palmer,” Juhle asked.

Adriano scratched his cheek for a moment. “Not recently, I don't think. A month ago, maybe.”

“Not two days ago?” Shiu asked.

“Oh, no. Definitely not.”

“You're sure? Late dinner time? Say eight or so.”

He stared off into the distance. “No. She may have stopped in and bought nothing if I wasn't out here and then maybe left. I might have missed that. I always try to hear the chime and come out if I'm working the back of the store. Like just now with you gentlemen. But she didn't buy anything where I had to use the register. That I would have remembered. And eight o'clock, not a busy time. Of course”—the impish smile returned—“if she ducked under the chime and stole a bottle…”

“No,” Juhle said. “She wouldn't have done that.”

“I'm sorry, then,” Adriano said. “I haven't seen her.”

“Home sweet home,”
Parisi said. “If you want to come in and wait ten minutes, I can give you your clothes back.”

“I can pick them up later. Or you can drop them by my place.”

“Except we're both here now.”

“Okay, sold.”

Parisi lived in a stand-alone one-story house adjacent to a grassy park almost all the way north on Larkin, as it turned out, a block up from Ghirardelli Square. The house was a Spanish-style stucco beauty with a tiny front lawn strip, a covered stoop leading to the front door. There was a parking spot between Parisi's driveway and the one next door that wouldn't have held anything much bigger than a shoebox, but that's why Hunt had bought the Cooper.

“You've got a whole house?” he asked as they got out of the car. “How do you own a house in San Francisco nowadays?”

She shrugged. “Says the man who lives in a warehouse.”

“Yes, but I rent. More than that, I rent-control rent.”

“You'll see,” she said. “It's a small house. A friend of my mom's retired and gave me a deal.” She fished in her purse, and the small garage door started up. “Don't ask me why, but I never use the front door.”

“I wonder why you don't use the front door?” Hunt mused.

She laughed and said, “Don't ask.” Then, “Come on, follow me,” taking his hand.

They walked into the garage past the black Miata convertible parked there. At what turned out to be the door to the kitchen, she pressed another button on the wall to bring down the garage door again.

Hunt was close up behind her. She was still holding his hand in the darkness, then released it to open the door. “Wait just a second,” she said. “Checking something. Good. You can come in now.”

It was a small kitchen, modern and functional, that looked like it got a reasonable amount of use. She'd hung several pots and pans on a metal canopy against the wall next to the refrigerator, and a block full of what looked like good knives sat next to a canister of cooking utensils—wooden forks and spoons, spatulas, and brushes—on the counter by the stove. “What did you check for?” Hunt asked.

“To see if I did the dishes. I wasn't sure. I didn't want you to think I was a slob.”

“I wasn't going to think that. But if there are dishes to do, that must mean you eat here.”

“Of course I eat here. What do you think?”

“I thought you probably ate out every night. Finished your show and then went to some fine restaurant. The high life. Like last night.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. But no. Most nights I'm here, alone, late, working. Ask Amy. She's got the same schedule. But you should know for the record that I'm not a bad cook. In fact, I may be a great cook. You can't be Italian and not be a good cook. It's illegal.”

“What's your specialty?”

“Well, of course, my tomato sauce is incredible. And eggplant parmesan. What I was going to…no.”

“What?” Hunt asked.

“Nothing.”

“Not fair. You can't start and then stop.”

“You're right. That would be wrong.” She laid a light hand on his arm, then took it away. “I was going to say that as soon as you left, I was going to make my patented peasant spaghetti carbonara, which is really one of the best hangover remedies in the world, and then I was thinking I would see if you wanted to stay and have a bowl with me. But I've already taken up too much of your time.”

“I know,” Hunt said. “It's been awful.”

“Don't you have to go to work?”

“As it happens, yesterday I closed a case that I thought would take at least two days but only took one. So lucky for you, as it turns out, I'd cleared my schedule for today, anyway.”

“Lucky for me.” Parisi glanced at the wall clock. “Well, despite my doctor's orders, I've got to go in later. I've got an appointment at three. But that still gives us plenty of time. If you want.”

“To stay?”

“For lunch.”

“You're going to have to twist my arm.” Hunt held out his hand. And it worked, she took it again. “That's enough,” he said before she'd even pretended to start.

While the bacon cooked
and the water boiled, she showed him around. The rest of the house lived up to its billing—small. But like the kitchen—modern, efficient, warm. Parisi kept the house more neat than surgically clean. No clothes lying around, no dishes in the sink. Hunt did stand mesmerized for a minute, surprised by the contents of a locked glass case in the dining room; she had a collection of handguns—pistols and revolvers; a couple of tiny, derringer-style weapons; old-fashioned gunbelts with leather holsters; what looked like snuff boxes.

“You like guns?” he asked.

“Not so much nowadays.”

“This looks like a pretty good collection.”

“I know. When I was younger I went through a Wild West phase. But I never touch these anymore.”

“But they work? They shoot?”

“Oh, yeah. All of them shoot. No point in having a gun that doesn't shoot, is there? But don't worry, they're all registered.”

“I wasn't worried.”

“I should probably just get rid of them, but…”

Hunt threw a look at her. “Richie?”

Nodding, she sighed and said, “Maybe a little. Come on.” She took his hand and led him to the adjacent living room. “After your place, it seems a little cramped, doesn't it?”

“Cozy is more like it. Does the fireplace work?”

“Perfectly. It's the best part of the house.”

“Although it might be a little dark.”

She squeezed his hand and went to open the plantation shutters over the double-wide living room window. The light brought out a sense of life that had seemed missing before. The blond hardwood floors shone. The framed prints were bright with cheerful color, yellows and reds and greens. Turning, she said, “I don't really open the blinds too often, and I should, shouldn't I? It makes a difference, doesn't it?”

“It's beautiful,” Hunt said. “I mean it. You were really getting ready to leave this place?”

She looked around. “I've kind of stopped seeing it, Wyatt.” A sad smile. Then, abruptly, “The bacon!”

While the water boiled
in the kitchen, she made a comment about how warm it was and took off Hunt's pullover, draping it over a chair. “Do not, I repeat, do not forget this,” she said. She was braless under the T-shirt, which was sleeveless and tucked tight into his jeans. He sat at the table and watched her move from the utensil drawer to the table, the table to the stove, the refrigerator to the table. Putting out a bottle of Pellegrino and two glasses. Placing the cooked bacon on paper towels to drain. Some large pinches of salt went into the water pot. She put place mats down on the table, set out red-and-white checkered napkins. One fork and one large tablespoon each. A wedge of Parmesan and a metal grater, then a pepper grinder in the center of the table.

He watched her stir the spaghetti, a fetching frown of concentration on her face, her elbow up and the T-shirt shimmying with the movement. She pulled a strand from the water. “You know this?” and tossed it up against the wall, where it stuck. “That's the test, you know. It's al dente when it sticks to the wall.” She turned the flame up under the bacon fat.

He watched her take the large pot of boiling water and pasta and pour some of the water into a huge glass bowl, then dump the remainder of the pot into the colander in the sink. He watched her lift the bowl filled with heated water and pour it off over the spaghetti in the colander. And then—so quickly he couldn't believe it wasn't burning her hands—she poured the drained spaghetti back into the heated bowl.

All of it was fluid, with no wasted motion. But fast. She crunched the bacon over the spaghetti. He sat entranced, and as she turned back to the stove, she stopped for just a second, grabbing the bacon pan, to smile at him. “Twenty more seconds,” she said. “You're going to love it.”

Next he watched her crack two raw eggs over the spaghetti in the large bowl, then pour all the hot bacon grease over it. Now finally using pot holders, she picked up the bowl and brought it over to the table where Hunt had his front row seat. She held a wooden fork in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other, and she began to toss the eggs and bacon and fat into the pasta until it was well mixed. Grabbing up the wedge of Parmesan, she grated furiously, again with that frown of deep concentration, until the cheese covered the spaghetti like a fresh dusting of snow.

He watched her now turn the pepper mill a dozen times over the dish. She brushed a rogue hair away from her forehead. She had the wooden fork and spoon in her hands again now and tossed the pasta one last time before lifting a perfect serving and placing it in the center of Hunt's plain white bowl. Then she did the same with her own and sat down across from him. “More Parmesan and pepper is okay. You can't have too much,” she said. “How is it?”

Hunt was nearly swooning from the smells coming off the dish as well as from the simple and stunning beauty of the ballet he'd just witnessed. Twirling a few strands onto his fork with the spoon up under it to catch the strays, he brought the bite to his mouth. “It's the best thing I've ever eaten,” he said.

They were in the middle
of eating. “Okay, now what about you?” Parisi asked.

“Not much,” Hunt said. “What don't you know?”

“Well, I know you weren't a cop before you became a private eye, and that's pretty unusual. You worked with kids, right?”

“Correct. CPS. But actually I was a cop first.”

“How can that be, if Amy doesn't know about it?”

“I know. It can be our secret. I guess I don't talk about it too much. It wasn't in the city.”

“You're going to make me guess, aren't you?”

He laughed, feeling good. “No. Here's the exciting story. I was CID during the first Gulf War. But when they sent me back stateside, I had another year or so on my hitch, and I got involved dealing with abusive home situations with service families. By the time I got out and came up here to the city, I'd had enough of the army and the police, both. But the kid thing…I don't know. That seemed to matter.” He smiled at her. “And we've only got time for a few more questions.”

“All right. Where did you grow up?”

“I'm a Peninsula guy. San Mateo.”

“Really? I had you as a city boy all the way. I mean, how you know your way around. I've been here six years now, and take me outside of downtown or west of Van Ness, and I'm lost. I just figured somebody who knew the place like you do must have been born here.”

“Nope. Moved here at twenty-five.”

“Same as me.”

“Except with me,” Hunt said, “it wasn't six years ago. It was fifteen.”

She furrowed her brow. “That math doesn't work.”

Bowing, acknowledging the compliment. “You're too kind, but, yes, it does.”

“All right, I'll believe you. But one more question?”

“One.”

“How'd you get to be buddies with a homicide cop?”

“Actually,” Hunt said, “it was pretty cool the way we reconnected. Dev and I used to be best friends. We played high school baseball. Then college, you know, and the army for me. Anyway, I hadn't seen him in something like ten years, then…” He gave her a truncated version of his reunion with Juhle—the Holly Park projects, Keeshiana tied up to her kitchen chair.

When he finished, Parisi was sitting forward, turned to him, one foot on the floor and the other tucked under her. “But that's an incredible story, Wyatt,” she said. “Is that the kind of thing you did all the time?”

“No. Sometimes. Not all the time. Thank God. Anyway, after that,” Hunt said, “Dev and I just kind of picked up where we'd left off in high school, except, of course, for the small details like him being married and the three kids.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“Never married, no kids.” He didn't want to lie to Andrea and this, technically, was the truth. Never married, no kids. Engaged, yeah, and only six weeks from a wedding. Sophie had been twenty-six years old, two months pregnant, in otherwise perfect health, when the aneurysm had struck her down.

He must have struck the right carefree tone. Andrea kept on. “Do you wish you had? I mean, all your years of working with children…”

He lifted his shoulders, came out with the response he'd perfected long ago: “I guess I've seen too much of the way a lot of families turn out.”

“But not all.”

“No, not all. That's true.”

Parisi's expression had turned inward.