CHAPTER FIVE

Put your feet up whenever you can.

—The Kelly Rules

SMILEY WAS STILL fussing over me an hour later. We’d made a quick return to the hotel to clean up and assess the damage. Tyler had insisted.

“I told you I’m okay. What will it take to convince you?” I said.

“Confirmation from a doctor.”

“No way am I sitting in an emergency room because I have bruised knees yet again and my palms are scratched.”

He got his cop face on. That always makes me resist more.

“If you find a doctor who can replace my lost fedora, then we might have a deal,” I said.

“Never mind the stupid hat. What about your head?”

“What about my stupid head?”

“I did not say ‘your stupid head.’”

“But did you think it?”

“I thought that if you hit your head, you could have been seriously injured. You could have a concussion or a brain bleed.”

“Charming. But by some miracle I didn’t hit my head. I only scratched the palms of my hands and lost my beautiful hat. My knees were already beat up from last night and the Attack of the Midnight Prius.”

“Hmm.”

“If you want to worry about something and it appears that you do, how about the fact that I think someone may have actually pushed me deliberately.”

He patted me on the back, in the patronizing way people do when they think you’re being an idiot.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “Someone pushed me, from behind obviously, and that bothers me. I’ve already said that.”

“I didn’t see anyone push you.”

“Just because you didn’t see something happen doesn’t mean it didn’t. As a police officer, you should be well aware of that. While you were pointing out sights, someone gave me a very hard, sharp shove. I think whoever did that meant business.”

His forehead furrowed. “But what business?”

“No idea. I still think it was weird.”

“More than just weird. We’re going to the police.”

“We are not going to the police and we are not going to the hospital. We are going to continue on our vacation and we are going to have a good time. Don’t bother arguing. You know the police won’t do anything about that. This is a huge city and that was only one possible assault.”

“Why don’t you think about it?”

“For the same reason you didn’t think about it last night on our way home from dinner.”

“That was different. We’d had a few drinks and it was a Prius.”

“Right. They might have laughed.”

“Could have been worse. Could have been a bicycle. That would be more humiliating.” He checked out my scraped palms. “But you’ve really scratched up your hands, Jordan.”

“Yep. They sting like crazy. And I broke a nail too.”

“Again, who would want to push you?”

“Nobody has any reason to hurt me or us. And as I wasn’t killed or badly hurt, I’m not going to let it bring me down.”

“The main thing is to be very careful from now on.”

“No. The main thing is that I didn’t ruin another good outfit and I don’t have a concussion.”

“Um, that’s two main things.”

“True. Three if you count that I’ll definitely have to shop.”

“Maybe later. My grandmother is really keen to meet you.”

“When?”

“Today. Remember?”

“Right. So now I’m going to get changed. I want to look good when I meet your grandmother. So glad I don’t have a concussion for the occasion.”

*   *   *

SMILEY HADN’T BEEN kidding about walking off our meals. On our way to his grandmother’s place, we took in a lot of this city. Apparently, Smiley’s grandmother lived at the edge of Pacific Heights, a ritzy part of town at the top of a serious set of hills.

We combined seeing the city—walking and cable cars (keeping our backs covered and our eyes opened)—and we got to see a lot of the vibrant bustling city that was well outside of the tourist area. We rattled down California Street on a cable car as cars whizzed by and buildings towered.

Every now and then we’d get off and walk to get a sense of the area.

Have I mentioned there were hills?

The hills of San Francisco made me appreciate the steep flights of stairs to my attic apartment in Van Alst House. If I hadn’t gone racing up and down those three flights of wooden steps at least a dozen times a day (frequently dodging Bad Cat’s good aim with claws), I might have collapsed in a heap as we climbed toward our destination.

I wasn’t alone in this.

“Good thing I’ve been going to the gym,” Smiley said. He looked like he might have been ready to huff and puff anyway. We both knew he could have gone to the gym a bit more often. I had my own exercise program (aside from the stairs) although lately it seemed to consist of running for my life and dodging the police, too often including the man at my side.

I said, “You couldn’t help but be fit if you lived here.”

“I am fit,” he snapped.

“I mean a person couldn’t help but be fit, not you in particular.” I hadn’t realized that was a sore spot. Live and learn, as Uncle Mick used to say after a close call with a cop. “Take a look.”

The look registered plenty of pedestrians, mothers with strollers, dozens of cyclists and more than a few skateboarders. I didn’t envy the cyclists or the skateboarders on those hills.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hey, not everything is about you,” I said, giving him an affectionate poke in the ribs.

“Maybe it is.” He grinned.

With the mood lightened, we kept walking.

“Not far now,” he promised.

“Great area,” I puffed. “You’ve got a bit of everything here from Victorian to mid-century modern to contemporary. I love it. You never mentioned that your grandmother was rolling in money.”

“She’s not. Now.”

“Don’t be mysterious,” I said, trying to keep up.

“Her second husband, William Huddy, made a lot of money on some kind of invention that improved the performance of plastics. They used it to modify the design of plastic extruders and—”

I held up my hand. “More than I need to know.”

“Me too. When Gram and this new husband came out here, he was trying to sell this process he’d invented. The people who bought out his patent went on to become billionaires, according to Gram, and then William invested the bulk of his share in some tech stock that sank like a stone.”

“So she was left with nothing?”

“Not at all. They had a nice house, in her name, and William had paid Gram back for everything she had invested plus a share of the sale of the patent. She had that. He died not long afterwards. She was devastated, but not penniless. She still has the house and I guess enough income to support her in comfort. She has live-in help.”

“Nice.”

“Maybe ‘nice’ isn’t the word. She’s alone and has some mobility issues. And that so-called help of hers takes a bit of getting used to. But you’ll see.”

“Okay. Well, I really love this neighborhood. I’m sure I’ll like your grandmother too and I’m prepared to keep an open mind about the help. Keep in mind that I’m the help when I’m at home.”

He stopped and threw back his head and laughed. “Not how I think of you. And I’ll remind you of that remark later. We’re not that far away.”

“Good.” It’s a bad habit, I know, but everywhere I go, I find myself wondering what it would be like to live there and comparing an imaginary new life to my tranquil existence of books, food, vintage clothes and cuddly critters (including Smiley) back home. I was spoiled, no question. But San Francisco had a magic quality. My vintage look fit in, although maybe not with the yummy mummies in their high-end active wear, and so far the food had been excellent. I saw no shortage of pampered pooches and I assumed there would be equally pampered cats lurking somewhere. As for books, well, we’d already found one strange source and there had to be others. The only fly in this pot of ointment was real estate, although I thought of it as Unreal Estate.

“What do you think these places would go for?” I asked Smiley. As a cop, he likes facts. I might moon over the pictures in, say, Architectural Digest, whereas he would get the price, square footage, tax rate, cost of utilities and a report on possible exposure to radon before he gave anything a second look.

“There are all kinds of different places, some rentals, but they’d be scarce. There are condos and co-ops and massive old houses. You might get a one-bedroom condo unit for eight hundred thousand, but then again, maybe not.”

“Huh.” Next to my free accommodation, that was as likely as landing on Jupiter. Smiley had bought his fixer-upper, fixed ’er up and sold the tiny immaculate brick house and made a profit. He’d bought a small two-story Cape Cod for one hundred and twenty-four thousand and was slowly whipping it into shape, all for a fraction of the cost of this alleged one-bedroom condo. “You know, if you can just flip another fifty houses, you might be able to get one of those.”

He snorted. “Don’t exaggerate. It wouldn’t take more than ten.”

“I don’t know. There are the condo fees too.”

“Might not be a lot of cops living around here.”

“Even fewer book researchers.”

“That’s a safe bet.”

“So, that’s us out of the market. We’re either living in splendor sponging off elderly eccentrics or sleeping in our cars.”

“Your car is very uncomfortable.”

“Don’t knock my Saab. It’s practically an antique.”

We deked to the left to dodge a couple with a velvety gray Weimaraner and a stroller built for two. They required a sidewalk to themselves. On this outing we’d dodge a number of baby strollers and toddlers. They were everywhere. The parents all appeared to be puffed with pride. I glanced at Smiley and found he was staring with interest at another couple in their late thirties with a fat, pink baby in some kind of carrier on Dad’s chest and a curly-haired toddler being herded by Mom. They seemed to have a mountain of gear. I didn’t understand any of it and was just about to whisper that to Tyler when I caught a new expression. Interest had upgraded to fascination. I hoped it was the gear, but I feared it was the children.

Weird. He’d never shown an interest in kids. I hoped he wasn’t going to get all domestic on me. First you find your grandmother and then you want a houseful of kids. Was that a thing? If so, it was way too early.

I said, “I guess the people who live around here must have made a bundle in the tech sector to live in this neighborhood and bring up a family.”

He blinked.

I said, “It’s just that I read somewhere that on average it costs nearly a quarter of a million dollars to raise a child. And that’s if they don’t decide to go to some Ivy League college.”

Smiley’s blink had turned to a stare.

“Have I just grown horns on my forehead?” I said.

“What?”

“Spinach in my teeth?”

“No.”

“Revealed myself as an alien?”

“What are you talking about? Why would you even—”

“Just the look on your face.”

“Okay, it’s just that I think kids are about more than money. People love them. For themselves.”

Tough one. And of course, I knew that people loved their kids. I wasn’t suggesting that they shouldn’t. It was just that I wasn’t ready to start thinking about children, and from the look on his face, Smiley was.

I chose to keep walking along, not saying much of anything and hoping he got it out of his system. I still wanted to travel and to find the life that would suit me. I knew it wouldn’t be one with a lot of money, and even if by some lottery winning miracle it was, children were for the distant future. I decided we should try to avoid them for the time being.

Easier said than done.

A young mother pushing a pricey-looking stroller passed us while jogging up the last long hill before his grandmother’s place. I figured her casual activewear cost a bomb too. She pushed the stroller with one hand and held her Starbucks cup in the other. Her honey-brown ponytail swayed as she ran.

“Did you notice that baby carriage has two cup holders?” he said. “She doesn’t need to hold that latte or whatever. She’s just showing off.”

I shook my head. I knew nothing of babies or strollers, although I am familiar with Starbucks and high-end activewear.

“Police training,” he said. “Let’s us observe details.”

“How much do you think her outfit cost?”

“No idea, but I bet that stroller is over a thousand.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. One of the guys at the new station was pricing them. His hair was practically falling out when he’d check the bottom line.”

“Who knew? And who can afford something like that?”

He shrugged. “People in finance, banking, real estate, and around here, high tech.”

“Lots of money in this city.”

I knew that the headquarters for Google and Facebook weren’t far. I’d heard that many of their young and hip employees lived in the city. It was hard to imagine how different this bustling trendy city was from sleepy little Harrison Falls and the equally dozy Town of Cabot.

The woman with the carriage had stopped to stretch and we gradually caught up with her.

As we strolled past, she gave us a big, unexpected smile. Smiley smiled back. He pointed at the covered-up infant and asked about the baby.

No wonder he was smiling. The yummy mummy had pale luminous skin and flawless teeth to match. She was a naturally beautiful woman who looked fabulous in her exercise gear and simple hairstyle. I imagined the child would be photogenic too. “Harry’s sleeping,” she whispered. “The little beast kept us up all night.”

“Really?” I said, secretly pleased.

She shrugged. “Teething. Nothing to be done but wait until they’re all in.”

Smiley, who probably knew even less than I did about babies—so nothing—nodded in agreement.

At least he hadn’t insisted on peering under the blanket at the tiny sleeping being. I knew no one with a baby, had no baby cousins or even distant relatives and not a single friend who was longing for babies. I knew the little creatures were out there and could be very appealing. I even understood that they were important to the continuity of the human race, but that was about the extent of it. I understood nothing of teething or the other surprises of parenthood, but was happy to be standing still and not climbing the rest of the hill.

After a few minutes of pleasant chat, she excused herself to go into a small shop for “supplies.” “See you soon!”

We waved good-bye and continued our slog. I was doing my best to look energetic. Even Smiley’s face was getting flushed. More training was obviously required and we were definitely trudging as we neared the top of the hill.

As we approached the block where we expected to find Smiley’s Gram’s home, the young mother passed us again, waving with her free hand when she jogged by and crossed the street in a diagonal without breaking stride. She stopped and managed somehow to pull the stroller and its teething inhabitant up the wide stairs and through the door of a substantial house that looked to be from the early nineteenth century. As we watched, impressed, she waved cheerfully and vanished.

“Well,” I said, “I feel like a tree sloth after that performance.”

He shrugged. “Me too. Maybe I’ve been eating all wrong.”

“Right. Maybe you should try eating green smoothies and taking cleanses.”

“Be careful.”

I was still chuckling at my silly joke when we approached Gram’s house.

Tyler’s grandmother’s house was on the high ground. It was a grand Victorian style, like the famous Painted Ladies but without the vibrant color. This one was a sedate mauve and gray with a charming set of turret windows in front as well as a set of bay windows. Tyler stopped talking as we approached. He was clutching a gift-wrapped puzzle featuring five thousand pieces of Antarctic ice relieved by a few lonesome penguins. I really hoped this visit went well for him. I’d had second thoughts about accompanying him. But he wanted it. So I was there, bruised knees, scraped palms and all. I’d have to remember to call her Mrs. Huddy after the new husband and not Dekker.

As I’d also been dipping my pedicure into the dark and shady land of Hammett, I knew that in that world, no one was to be trusted. That included sweet little old ladies. Just ask the Continental Op how they can pull the rug out from under you. Smiley was such a bundle of suppressed excitement that I couldn’t quite bring myself to mention this.

We walked up the well-maintained wooden front steps to the covered veranda with a solid purple door. I smoothed my navy romper with the cream lace detail (back in fashion yet again) as we stood at the door, and did not let myself peer through the turret window. Smiley pressed the doorbell and we listened to the pleasant chimes that announced our arrival. A small smile played around the corners of his very nice mouth. The door was opened by a tall, whippet-like, dark-haired woman who looked to be mid-thirties. Her wide silver eyes were full of wariness. Her hair was pulled into a stylish topknot with little strands artfully framing her face. With high, broad cheekbones like that, she didn’t really need any artful assistance.

“Comb in. Mrs. Huddy iss expecting you,” she said, flatly. I tried to place her accent. Russian? Latvian?

She turned to me. “I am Zoya. And you are . . .” She could easily have been straight out of a noirish thriller.

Tyler said, “Jordan Bingham. My grandmother is expecting her as well.”

She shrugged, gave a contemptuous sneer at my taupe desert boots and turned on one of her shiny black heels. “Zis way.”

We kept up. The foyer was on the dark side with dated teal and pink wallpaper and dark mahogany tables every few feet, including a console table I would have killed for, even without the stunning sterling bowl. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling but it hadn’t been turned on. I was trying not to think that silver-eyed young women in Hammett’s world were inclined to betrayal. But this wasn’t Hammett’s world. It was Hammett’s town, but this, in some strange and soon-to-be-discovered way, was Tyler Dekker’s world.

We followed our guide past a long formal parlor, then a vestibule with a substantial dark mahogany staircase. Before we hit the library, I peeked into the dining room with rows of botanical prints (heavy on the pink), a massive sterling candelabra on the glossy table and a magnificent Chinese lacquered screen. This entire house was a delicious crowded dream. A half-opened door off to the right showed a second staircase, a narrower flight of steps to the second floor that must have been for the servants back in the day. We turned right opposite the kitchen to arrive at a sunroom of sorts. It had beautiful windows looking out over the fog shrouding the possibly spectacular view below.

Inside was a different story. For starters, there was enough furniture to fill three rooms. Most of it was well-worn white wicker: chairs with flowered cushions, tables crowded with African violets, several ottomans with woolly throws, and a sideboard with teapots and small china figurines, heavy on the shepherdesses and smiling dogs. Not to forget the plant stands with a community of Boston ferns. A small pug glowered at us from beneath a wicker love seat. Clearly, we’d ruined its day.

But the dominant aspect of the place was the noise and its source. The sounds of birds were almost overwhelming. I noted at least seven cages: Uncle Kev used to have a thing for birds so I knew who was who here. A yellow cockatiel with bright orange cheeks made the sound of a cell phone ring.

Trill trill trill.

A small green parrot that I thought was a Quaker said, “Hello.”

In the corner a pair of bright-eyed lovebirds snuggled on their swing together.

A second cockatiel showed off a doorbell imitation. Very nice.

“Who is it?” the parrot said with dangerous overtones.

I laughed out loud.

I loved this place.

In the far corner with at least two pastel throws on her lap, an elderly lady watched us with what looked like glee.

Tyler and his grandmother glowed at each other.

She had a little gap between her two front teeth, and yes, she was blushing from the neck of her baby-blue polyester top to the scalp that showed pinkly through her soft white waves. A serious cane rested by the chair, the only dark item in the room. The metal bird on the handle stood out next to the mahogany finish.

“Tyler!”

“Gram.”

He dashed across the room, dodging ottomans, small tables, standing lamps and a brass umbrella stand that held a collection of canes.

She gripped his hand and beamed. He beamed back. She said, “Oh, pet.” Her voice held an echo of English origins, the accent worn by many years in the USA, but still there and still appealing. She patted the chintz ottoman by her feet. “Zoya will get you some cookies and milk.”

Zoya’s head jerked. She looked like she’d just as soon drop strychnine into the milk and add crushed glass to the cookies.

“No thanks,” Tyler said with a nervous glance in Zoya’s direction. He did perch on the ottoman, though.

“Oh, Tyler, make an old lady happy, have some. And your little friend too.”

We glanced at each other.

Smiley said, “Gram, this is my fiancée, Jordan Bingham.”

Fiancée? I looked down at my hand in case the proposal had just slipped my mind.

“How lovely. Welcome to the family, my dear.” She beckoned me forward and squeezed my hand. Her grip was a lot stronger than I’d expected. Maybe she lifted weights when she wasn’t bird-watching or smiling at the figurine collection. I got a pleasant whiff of her delicate lavender scent. Tyler didn’t talk about his family. As far as I knew, aside from his estranged parents, the entire Dekker clan was standing in this room. That made it emotionally significant, that and the fact I’d agreed to spend the rest of my life with one of them, apparently.

“Jordan loves La Perla,” Smiley said.

“It’s a beautiful hotel. Was it your suggestion?”

“It came highly recommended from a relative. I’m so glad it worked out.”

“Thank you. I really love it there.”

“We all love a bride, my dear,” Gram trilled. “This is such good news about your engagement.”

Prior to that moment, I hadn’t believed that people trilled outside of fiction, but this was a day of surprises. I blushed at her sweetness and at the awkwardness Tyler had dropped me into.

Zoya, returning with a tray containing cookies and milk, looked surprised too. The look didn’t suit her any better than her other expressions: disdain, disinterest, dislike and so on.

Gram turned to Smiley. “When did you propose, pet?”

I was also interested to hear his answer.

Gotcha. He blanched. “Um, just on this trip actually.”

Exactly, and that would be on the part of this trip that hadn’t actually occurred.

She clapped her hands, apparently in delight. Zoya’s eyes bugged out. Mine might have too. The pug’s definitely did. “We must have an engagement party! We’ll have to invite your new cousins.”

I said. “What? No. We couldn’t possibly—”

“Darling boy,” she said. Apparently, she could only hear him. “I’m thrilled.”

The Quaker parrot squawked, “Party party!”

Zoya pushed into the room. “No parties, missus. You are supposed to rest.”

The parrot said, “Time to go.”

I laughed at the little green tyrant, but I had no problem with the sentiment. We didn’t stay long and promised to return as soon as possible. The minute we said good-bye, we found ourselves hustled toward the front door, while Gram called out, “Come back tomorrow! We’ll plan the party.” The pug circled our ankles yipping and snapping. The birds shrieked a variety of shrieks. Zoya merely scowled.

“Do not come back here again,” she said, closing the door on us. “I know what you up to and you not velcome.”