Chapter TWELVE

You’re going to meet a Dragon Lady now and then. Beware the fire breathing. Always bring your badge to protect you from the flames.

~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935

Stuffing the letters into my purse, and the album into my bag, I hustled downstairs. I couldn’t leave my client to face Irenie alone. From the top of the stairs, I announced, “Thank you, Mr. Lockwood, you are a life saver. That’s a lovely water closet, by the way, and ...”

Irenie Coventry turned on me like a cobra who’d grown aggravated at its handler.

Her hair was bombshell blonde-white, ala Jean Harlow, with perfect Marcel Waves formed from scalp to chin. Her eyes were bright blue, large, round, and exquisitely made up. Long lashes and a pouty mouth. Not a wrinkle on her. Porcelain skin. Flawless. Her dress was a pale jade silk, a bias-cut gown clinging to her gorgeous figure and revealing her back from neck to tailbone. In her arms was a matching coat decorated with green marabou feathers.

Her arms were slender but muscled. Diamonds dripped from her neck, ears, and wrists. At the end of each, pale finger was a painted claw I was fairly certain she wanted to use to gouge my eyes out.

Irenie Coventry looked like a model from any number of European fashion magazines. No wonder Elliott Lockwood fell for her. She was perfection.

Before Lockwood spoke, I recalled I promised to handle Irenie, and so I did. “I’m with San Francisco Magazine. The City Architecture and Design Section.” I started down the stairs toward her, bouncing a bit on my toes as if I was just too-too dramatic for the situation. An over-the-top social flitting bird. “As you are aware, our quarterly publication ...”

“What?” She spit the words out at Elliott. “You brought your mistress into my house?”

“No.” Lockwood tightened up. “And technically, I still own this place. No, she is not a mistress, I brought a —,” he scrambled for a viable lie, “A magazine writer here because ...”

I was ready. “San Francisco Magazine periodically does a piece on unique and elegant homes in the City. This little chateau of yours is outstanding, and we’ve had several requests to take interior photographs and interview the occupant. Mr. Lockwood was allowing me a tour,” I waved at the upstairs, “and a little break.”

Irenie recognized the name of the magazine, as her finely plucked eyebrows shot up, and now it seemed, we were the best of friends, as ever could be. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s been a difficult evening. I hope you’ll excuse me. Mr. Lockwood really ought to communicate his plans better in the future.” She shot him a look that shriveled lessor men.

I tisked appreciatively. “How dreadful. You look like this evening was a bit of a trial,” I said, tapping my old Mid-Atlantic voice and upstate New York manners. My glance moved down to her hemline.

Mud coated her feathers and she had a sheen of perspiration on her arms and face. Irenie pulled her fancy coat out of my easy viewing and sauntered over to the housekeeper, on whom she dumped the thing, along with her purse.

The door opened again and in walked a couple. You could tell they were a couple by the way they managed to not touch one another while completing each other’s sentences. The woman of the pair was short, dark haired, and perhaps a little past her prime. The man wanted to be somewhere else. A bit too obvious — body language can tell all.

Irenie drew up her energy and ignored both Lockwood and me as she swept over to the couple. “Gem, darling, how are you this evening.” She rolled the “darling” out with great emphasis.

“Terrible,” the woman replied. “I just heard from Donald Temple, you remember Donald, and he said the fund-raising dinner for Councilman Martens is cancelled. They can’t find a chef. A chef! This is terrible. It’s the worst possible thing to happen.”

I had a list of about twenty things far worse, off the top of my head. Instead, I stood in place with a purposeful, bored look on my face.

“Oh, how ridiculous.” Irenie coddled the woman. The two turned their backs on us and nattered away about the appalling lack of good chefs and why the depressed economy didn’t help make more of them available — at a cheaper price.

The man walked over to Lockwood and offered his hand. “If I have to listen to them go on about another chef, I might just ...” He stopped when I caught his eye. I was standing next to Lockwood the whole time, but only now did he notice.

Lockwood jumped in. “Miss Tanner, may I introduce Harold Harrison? Harold, this is a writer for San Francisco Magazine, Miss Tanner.”

Harrison took a gander at me, checking if I was some sort of temporary toy Lockwood was availing himself of or if maybe I wanted to be his toy for a while. Ten feet from his wife. The rich. Can’t explain their reality.

“How do you do,” I said with a sweetness I didn’t realize I still kept in my bag of tricks.

“Yeah, that’s my wife,” Harrison said. “Ain’t I a lucky man? Damn women.” With that, he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and sauntered over to listen in on a conversation that was likely costing him a bundle.

Irenie turned back to us, with a look asking, oh are you still here. “Well, Elliott?” she asked. “Are you staying? I’m sure Miss Tanner doesn’t need you, as you are hardly familiar this delightful home now that I have improved on it. I would be happy to provide Miss Tanner with all the information she needs for her article.”

“Uh — we may be done.” He faced me. “Have you seen everything you need, Miss Tanner?”

I smiled in a cultured way my mother approved of. “Yes, Mr. Lockwood. I believe my editor has green-lighted the article.”

“I hope, ‘Mr. Lockwood’ will be so kind as to inform me when this interview is to be conducted. I like to have gatherings of my own and I wouldn’t want to have them collide.”

Lockwood took a heavy breath and held it in squeezed lungs — like a man dying to do some serious damage but trained well enough not to.

My smile was tight enough to bounce coins off of. “Of course, Ma’am. I’ll be sure to contact your social secretary to make proper arrangements.” I kept smiling.

Irenie’s face fell. She glanced over at the Harrisons. “Oh, don’t bother. I’m between, I mean, she’s on holiday. For the moment, I control my own calendar.”

Jemima Harrison toddled over and seemed to be a bit confused, which made sense since she wasn’t part of the original conversation. “You are ...”

“Oh!” She squeaked with delight, nearly reaching the sound only dogs can hear. “Perhaps you would consider our modest home. Nob Hill? Other side of the church?” The woman was a flurry of gestures, like a chicken attempting a long-distance flight. Irenie ignored it.

“My husband is a Vice President with one of San Francisco’s most prominent banks. I’m sure many of your subscribers would be excited to read about how business leaders of San Francisco live. Might I have your card,” Gem asked.

I heard a sharp intake of breath from Lockwood. It was a trap and I sensed it. “Card? My cards are in my auto.” Big lie. A little risky too. “We didn’t expect to meet anyone. But I’m sure if you give Mr. Lockwood a call tomorrow he can provide you with my contact information. And I’ll leave a set of cards with him. Would that be acceptable?”

Oopsie, I might have blundered. I didn’t think of that when I made up my disguise, and it cost me. No one to blame but me.

But, before Gem grilled me more, Harold made a go at me. “What do you drive? Gem wants me to buy her a car. I haven’t got the notion of what a woman wants to drive these days and Irenie doesn’t drive.” Oh, I had an inkling a little insult was tucked in his comment.

“For me, they did. They should build them again,” I answered in my brightest voice. “V8 engine, 125 horsepower, front wheel drive. What else would a girl want?”

It was the perfect answer, and I felt a twinge of pride that I managed to impress Lockwood with my broad range of knowledge. Another spot the Pemberton’s manual didn’t quite cover. It was good, old finishing school to beat that education into me. If only people knew what a bizarre and ridiculous childhood I had.

Irenie made a move to take him by the arm. “Elliott, I need to talk to you.” She glared then smiled at me. “Alone, if you please.”

I couldn’t help him out of this one. He either had to refuse or deal with her. I waited near the door.

It was an animated talk, they had. The Harrisons acknowledged their allotted place in Irenie's magnificent world. They stayed over by the large mirror.

Irenie was keeping her voice down, but it did little to hide her demanding nature. She gesticulated wildly. He stood his ground, folding his arms and bracing his stance. Good man. She pleaded. He stayed still. I thought she might cry. Yeah, he didn’t hold out too long after that. He gave her some cash and hurried to my side.

She stared after us. “I warned you she would lose interest in your company.”

Wait, this was an opportunity to go fishing. “Oh, might I ask for your opinion?”

Both Irenie and Elliott stood stunned for a moment, but for different reasons. Even the Harrisons looked up.

“I’ve been given the name of Cab Proctor as a potential interviewee, and I —”

Irenie was up on her haunches in a flash. “That worthless souse? Why would you even want to interview him?”

Mrs. Harrison joined Irenie up on the high seat — metaphorically speaking. “My dear Miss Tanner, whatever you do, do not associate yourself with Cab Proctor. Men like him ...” she gave Harold a dark, brief glare, “... are not to be trusted. You wouldn’t want your magazine’s reputation and business sullied.”

Irenie did one better than Gem, which I suspected happened often. “He was after my daughter, Francis. Don’t you remember, Elliott? Of course, you don’t. You don’t care anymore, do you?” She looked me in the eye and lied like a seasoned, professional shyster. “All he wanted was Frannie, because she has money. Access to money. Anyway, he was quite relentless. Wanted to be seen with her, to take her picture, you understand how these young brats act.” I wasn’t quite sure who she was referring to. “Well, I put a stop to it. Frannie is destined for bigger and better things, even if her stepfather won’t help.”

“Frannie? ‘Bigger and better?’ Like what?” Harold started smiling. A smile you’d expect on a lion after catching and eating its prey. Gem glared at him, and he stopped smiling — put in his place — and declined to speak further.

I had to wonder if that was firsthand knowledge Harold tapped for his opinion. Was he one of Frannie’s trysts? From the look on Gem’s face, a mix of rage and hurt, I didn’t think my imagination was over-working by suspecting Harold. “I hope he didn’t compromise her reputation.”

“No chance of that,” Harold shot out, a little surprised at his outburst, before turning his back on Gem.

Gem turned the whole of her small body toward her husband, marched over to him, and started chastising him in a furious whisper.

Irenie rolled her eyes and whispered to me, “Nouveau Riche. You’ll have to forgive them. They do have an acceptably nice home, on the lower side of Nob Hill, but it hasn’t this view.” She swept her hand out toward the front windows while simultaneously sweeping her friends under a proverbial on-rushing train. “Perhaps, you would like to bring your photographer over during one of my gatherings?” She hugged my arm as if we’d been school chums for decades. “Cab Proctor is also new money and,” her laugh was a light, artificial tinkle, “so unsure of good manners. I’m sure you’ll enjoy one of my dinner gatherings. All the best people and only the highest matters in discussion.”

Lockwood coughed. “Not one of the salons?” The level of resentment in his voice surprised me.

“My salons are private. My dinner gatherings are much more to Miss Tanner’s wants and needs,” she spit back at him.

“Will your daughter be at your gathering? I would very much enjoy meeting her.”

“Oh no,” she blurted out, before covering by using her practiced laugh. Irenie appeared mildly annoyed, either by Lockwood’s faux pas of bringing up the topic of her notorious salons or by the suggestion that she include her daughter in her fancy dinner parties. “Frannie is not fond of intellectual discussions.”

Ouch. I glanced in Lockwood’s direction. He looked far more than mildly annoyed. “She’s busy, learning the family business. My family, that is.”

I pulled a little on my arm, forcing Irenie to look at me. “Perhaps I can reach her —”

Irenie let go of my arm. “Sometimes. These children today. Always out and about. When I talk to her next, I’ll tell her that you might want to chat with her. But, in the meantime, I’ll make sure you have my schedule for gatherings.”

Dear God, how had Lockwood been so blind? Had she been like this when they’d met? Her daughter was missing and yet all she wanted was the fame of a magazine article. No doubt this woman had everything that exuded beauty — except compassion.

That close, I had a detective’s epiphany. I’d been slow on the uptake regarding the pictures of Frannie. The ones I was stealing from her room told a more interesting story now that I took a long gander at Irenie too. Frannie’s haircut and style change, from a year ago? Frannie remade herself as Irenie. Or Irenie remade her daughter into a dark-haired image of herself. I left my stomach knotted and twisted.

“I’m glad I asked about Mr. Proctor. Thank you so much — a disaster averted. Perhaps I need to send Mr. Lockwood a list of those we expect to speak with.”

Irenie harrumphed. Gem looked hopeful, having overheard my comment, as if she expected to be on that invitation list. Gem practically ran to my side, as if I was giving away free candies and stockings. And Harold looked like he wanted to escape through the mirror like Alice through the Looking Glass.

Putting her hands on her hips, Irenie snapped, “I hope Mr. Lockwood is more careful with scheduling, since I expect to be hosting several salons and dinner parties in the upcoming months. A pleasure meeting you Miss Tanner. I fully expect to see you again soon at an upcoming gathering?” That was, what, the twentieth time she mentioned the damn gatherings? I tried to look impressed. With that, she sashayed off to the parlor, the Harrisons hot on her trail.

Once outside, all Elliott and I did was sigh, take a deep breath, and then laugh.

“My Mother was good and I paid close attention. Can I ask how much that little argument cost you?”

“Less than last time.” He pulled off his hat for a moment and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked rather good as a rumpled fellow. Why was he so good looking?

He nodded reluctantly. “Her so-called gatherings do draw in some prominent people, and a few politicians. They’re not bad. She usually brings in some popular Chef. It’s the monthly salons ...”

“Let’s just say they aren’t advertised or promoted by anyone’s social secretaries.”

The big Buick from the corner drove past us, having turned around in the cul-de-sac, lights off. Further down the road, he still hadn’t gotten his headlights working.