I was happy to be back in my office. It was one of those rare, drizzly days in May, not quite rain falling or fog misting. I’m not a workaholic, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that paper multiplies like breeding rabbits when it sits in the in-box. In addition, it was almost time to submit next year’s budget, my least favorite task. Teeni, dressed in dangly earrings, and a red leather skirt that appeared to be poured onto her curvy frame, was distracted by details about the Funk Art project, and only put out her fist for a quick bump as we passed in the hall. “Hey,” she said, “back in fifteen.”
Deep into negative numbers, I jumped as a shriek from somewhere down the corridor interrupted my contemplation of the computer screen, causing me to drop the bagel I’d picked up in the downstairs café, cream cheese-side down, onto the printout on which I was trying to make revisions that would turn red ink into black.
Before I could get up to see who might have won the lottery or, more likely, scalded themselves with hot coffee, Teeni burst into my office.
“Hot damn,” she said, pumping an arm in the air. “I’m a finalist. I’m one of two. I know I’m going to get this job, Dani, I know it.”
To a stranger, it might seem odd that someone looking for a new job would share her excitement with her current boss, but everyone around here knows the story. Teeni is a woman of many talents, the least of which is being my super efficient aide. Her passion is art history, and museum outreach. She’s a budding museum curator and her retrospective of California Funk Art opens here in two months. It will get rave reviews, so Teeni’s days in the office down the hall are numbered. I’m trying to get used to the idea, but it’s not easy. Like everyone else, I relish Teeni’s company and count on her talents.
“Which one is this?” I said, wiping cream cheese off the page. “Dallas? They’re hot for you, I know.”
“They haven’t called yet,” she said. “This is the women’s college in Maryland I told you about, the one that received a humongous collection of American ‘outsider’ art. They want an American art specialist who can create a series of exhibitions, plus pull in new gifts of art and, of course, money.”
“They’re going after the right person,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “You know how to keep board members and staffs happy, look someone in the eye and ask for big bucks, and talk to artists. That’s what I’ll tell them when they call for a reference. Now, if only you could fix this damn budget for me.”
“Never fear. For that kind of recommendation, I’ll get the annual fund director to shave ten percent off his projected costs, and get the old copier working like new.” She winked and sailed out of the office, taking all the oxygen with her. The spreadsheets looked drearier, the computer screen more boring, and the bagel unappetizing. I tossed it into the wastebasket and stood up.
Being vice president of fundraising activities at the Devor had its high moments—parties, openings, dinner with society mucky-mucks, working with the brilliant museum director. This rainy day wasn’t one of them. My hair had gotten wet on the way to the office and was threatening to sort itself into corkscrew curls. The classic Calvin Klein slacks I had been so happy to fit into again after dieting back down to a size 12 had also gotten damp and were creased in all the wrong places. I paced the confines of my office for a few minutes, trying to fire up my brain cells and tamp down my urge for chocolate.
I had forced myself back into my chair when she buzzed me a half hour later. “It’s the most cheerful man in San Francisco for you,” she said.
“The boss?”
“Are you kidding? With third quarter reports on his desk this week? Trust me, you don’t want to run into Peter in the elevator right about now.”
“Oh. Then you must mean…?”
“Yes, I do,” she sang out. “And brimming over with good cheer.”
“Tell him I’m in a meeting, or that I don’t have time to talk.”
“He’s way ahead of you, Dani. He said if you tried that I should tell you he’ll send a basket of fruit, a very large basket with balloons attached, which he knows you would hate.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Okay, put him through but be prepared to hear the phone in this room slam down in about thirty seconds.”
“Be kind,” Teeni said. For some reason, she finds my ex-husband funny. She didn’t know him back in the day.
“Dickie, I just got back from Lynthorpe and I’m buried in paper. Can this wait for another time?”
“Hello to you too, Dani,” he said, using the hurt little boy voice that makes me want to strangle him. “You finished so fast? Bummer. I mean for the reunion.”
“Going to your reunion was a non-starter, Dickie. I have to believe you understood that.”
“Hmmm,” he said, and changed the subject. “I’ve got an idea that might be good for the Devor. Do you want to hear it?”
“Okay, okay,” I said, simultaneously rude and suspicious, even to my own ears.
“There’s a charity polo match in Palo Alto Sunday. I’m sure a few of the Devor’s biggest donors will be there for you to chat up. Champagne by the bucket, some South American players to keep up the level of the game, maybe even an incognito member of the royal family. What do you say?”
It was tempting. The international players I had seen were pretty hot, with flashing smiles, muscled limbs, elegant manners, and all the earmarks of extreme wealth. The British royal, if it was the same one attached to a famous player who graced the society matches every year, was only one through a former marriage and was a disappointment—scrawny, unhappy-looking, and a little drunk. The champagne would be good, however, and the atmosphere quite upscale. There’s not much that is more conducive to daydreaming about being an aristocrat than the tradition of strolling cross the grassy field in between chukkers, fluted glass in hand, pausing in the happy chatter to tap clots of uprooted turf back into place with the toe of one’s trendy shoe. Especially if the heel is flat or at least wide enough not to sink into the turf, which happened to me the first time I pretended to know what this polo business was all about.
“Thanks, Dickie. I appreciate the thought. Can I call you back when I have some idea of what else I need to get done this weekend?”
“Absolutely. Right up to the morning of.”
“Wait,” I said, suddenly having a horrible thought. “You’re not playing, are you?” I was remembering the last time he set out on borrowed ponies to relive his college experience, only to have a bad fall that resulted in a weeklong stay at Stanford Hospital, where his mother insisted on camping out in his room even though he and I were married at the time. Mrs. Richard Argetter II (I was Number Three) had argued that, having lost her husband a year earlier, she had no intention of losing her only child, which also might have been a reference to our marriage, an arrangement of which she did not approve and which she did all she could to undermine.
“No one’s going to let me near a pony. They’re happy to have me as a member of the club as long as I pay my dues and tip the grooms, but you know me. I’m much too lazy to do the practicing that would keep me in the saddle, and too old to bounce off the turf if I crash.”
“Good,” I said. “Not that you’re lazy, but that you’re staying out of the fray. Maybe Peter will want to go.” I knew from experience that if I stayed on the phone longer, or was too nice to him, Dickie would sense an opening and wind up inviting me to dinner or to Paris, which is about as likely to happen as me taking up spelunking.
****
It had been my intention to wait until Charlie Sugerman called me, but I only lasted until lunchtime Saturday.
“Hey, are you back in town already?” he said when I reached him.
“I had my cell phone with me,” I said. As in, you could have called me to check.
“Yeah, but it’s nicer to talk in person. I don’t suppose you’re free tonight?”
I’m in my thirties, past the vague “mid-thirties” and definitely past the time when girlish pride rules my behavior. In other words, I wasn’t going to play too hard to get. “Free as a bird. Are you asking me out?”
“Sure, er, well, maybe.”
Nice, very nice. Sound of romantic balloon bursting.
“Your best friend Andy Weiler and I offered to trade on-call status with the guys on another team, one of whom is about to become a father. If it stays quiet tonight, let’s do pizza in North Beach. Sound good?”
What could I say? It sounded somewhat good, but not like a sure thing given San Francisco’s murder rate and Homicide Inspector Weiler’s habit of jumping on every case that comes along. I long ago decided he had no personal life and that he was working to keep Charlie from developing the bad habit of having one. Seeing as I didn’t have a lot of other offers—none, in fact—and Charlie is special, if hard to pin down for any length of time, I said, “You’re on,” crossing my fingers.
****
My luck was holding and we were on the tiramisu and espressos when Charlie said,
“What do the cops say now about the guy who drowned?”
“It’s not clear. The police searched his office, and I did notice a couple of officers walking around campus. My impression is everyone at Lynthorpe thinks that the checking around is only a formality.”
“What does the coroner say?”
“Easy, Inspector. You’re talking to a complete outsider. I’m not sure they have a coroner in this little town.”
“If not, they’ll call in someone, most likely from the county. He must have had a regular doctor, and the people he was playing with ought to know if he was feeling okay. People having heart attacks frequently have symptoms in the first stages, long before they go into crisis. Where were they, anyway, while he was drowning?”
“In the bar. He went back up to the course after their first round of drinks was finished. Then they left. One of the foursome was the donor whose gift I was hired to review.”
Charlie nodded as he sipped his espresso. “Hardly suspicious. After all, if the gift is approved, he’s happy. If it’s not, he still has his mega-bucks to offer someone else, right?”
“So it would seem.” Charlie had a nice way of cutting to the heart of the problem. What did Margoletti have to gain by killing his alma mater’s vice president? If there were a problem, they’d deal with it privately. Part of me was shocked that I would even consider Margoletti as a violent criminal. He was a hard charging lawyer, which is not, I reminded myself, the same thing as being homicidal.
“The first few hours in an investigation are full of unanswered questions,” he continued, “but these things sort themselves out pretty quickly. The cops will interview everyone on the golf course and by the time you get back, it’ll be settled.”
As we walked back to my car, which was parked in the multi-story garage next to the North Beach police station, Charlie’s arm rested on my back, sending little electric charges through me. Suddenly, I heard my name. I turned around and saw Dickie coming out of a far fancier Italian restaurant than our cozy pizza joint. The pressure on my back vanished in an instant, as did the good feelings. I felt myself stiffen. It was bad enough that my ex was interrupting my reverie. It was even more annoying that he was holding the elbow of a stunning woman while he did it.