Angel With a Bullet (4 page)

Five

Half an hour later,
I knock on Mrs. Pennell's door.

When she opens it, her eyes are puffy and red, while her creased and pallid complexion is a feeble complement to her professionally coiffed platinum hair.

“The girls told me about the note,” I say.

She opens the door wider.

“Cup of tea?” she asks.

“Lovely.”

I step inside and close the door. Instantly, King William brushes against the back of my legs and begins to walk figure eights around my feet. It is the same shape as handcuffs and just as effective. When I bend to pet him, he plops onto his side and rolls over to expose a furry and very generous stomach.

I scratch belly and chest, working my way up to ears and chin as his appreciative purr shakes the walls.

“Oh, come now, William,” Mrs. Pennell scolds affectionately. “At least let our guest in the door.”

King William winks, rolls back onto his feet, and pads down the hallway. I follow.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Pennell pours boiling water into a large brown teapot. Her shoulders are slumped within a flower-patterned housecoat that has large white buttons dotting the front. Indoors, you rarely see her without the housecoat over her clothes, and from the amount of cat dander I find coating my hand, I understand why.

I wash my hands in the sink and ask, “Can I see it? The note.”

Mrs. Pennell produces a small envelope—the size one normally associates with thank-you cards and invitations—from her pocket and hands it over.

The paper feels old, as though it has been sitting in a drawer for a long time without being used. I open the envelope and read the note. The handwriting is neat, but overly cursive and decidedly feminine.

It reads:

I know it was you.

Do not believe for a moment you can simply walk away from your responsibility in this matter.

—Pearl

I return the note to the envelope.

“Who's Pearl?”

Mrs. Pennell shrugs. “I have been trying to think, but I do not believe I know anyone with that name.”

“Someone in your past?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Is there a responsibility you've been neglecting? Something that would spark—”

She shakes her head dismissively. “I'm sure it is just nonsense.”

“If it was, you wouldn't look so worried.”

She sighs. “I have lived a quiet, genteel life for more than a quarter century now. Apart from taking a broom to an occasional creepy crawly, I don't believe I have done anything to warrant such attention. It is obviously a case of mistaken identity.”

I start to respond, to ask what type of life she lived prior to her quarter-century mark of gentility, but she holds up a firm hand.

“Now, would you like a cookie with your tea?”

I have to admire her.

“Sure,” I say softly, “that would be nice.”

Mrs. Pennell places a small plate of cookies on a tray, adds a sugar bowl and tiny jug of cream, two china cups on saucers, and the brown teapot.

“Let me carry that,” I say, lifting the tray and following her into the living room. I place the tray on a coffee table in front of the television set. The TV is broadcasting a morning talk show with the volume turned low.

“Would you like me to look into it?” I ask, pouring the strong brew into the delicate cups. “Just to clear up any misunderstanding?”

Mrs. Pennell raises her shoulders very slightly in a noncommittal gesture.

“If I don't,” I continue, “I'm afraid Kristy may drag Sam down here to sleep on your doorstep.”

Mrs. Pennell flashes a lipless smile as she accepts the tea and a chocolate-coated finger cookie.

“Do you remember the artist, Diego?” she asks, changing the subject. “The gentleman who lived above you before Derek and Shahnaz.”

I nod. “Was it on the news?”

“Yes. You know then?”

“I was called to the scene last night.”

“They say he killed himself.”

I nod again.

Mrs. Pennell sighs wearily. “He didn't seem the type.”

I have to agree.

_____

After tea, I cross the hall to Mr. French's apartment and knock.

“And who could that be, Baccarat?” I hear him say as he clomps his way to the door. “Are we expecting company?”

Mr. French opens the door and beams up at me. He is an old man in a child's body. Standing at three feet, ten inches, Mr. French is dressed impeccably in tweed pants, white golf shirt, lamb's wool cardigan with wooden buttons, and a pair of comfortable Acorn-brand slippers. Clutched in his hand is a burl pipe carved in the shape of a bulldog's head, and the smoke rising from its bowl smells wonderfully of warm chocolate cake and cherry sauce.

“Ms. Flynn,” he booms. “What a wonderful surprise. Come in, come in. Baccarat will be thrilled.”

“I can't stay long.”

“Of course, of course, but you must say hello to Baccarat or I'll never hear the end of it.”

I follow him into the main room and make appropriate kissing/cooing noises to his pet parakeet, which as far as I can tell seems to pay me about as much attention as Bubbles does.

Mr. French claps his hands together in delight.

“Oh, she likes that.” He beams. “Yes, indeed.”

I smile and remove Mrs. Pennell's letter from my pocket as I sit on the loveseat.

“I need your help with a puzzle,” I say.

“Ah, bravo. Let me get my tools.”

When he returns from the bedroom, he's holding a slim velvet wallet. He moves to the coffee table and props his pipe in an electronic ashtray that sucks the smoke from the air and filters most of it away. Mr. French notices my gaze.

“Baccarat doesn't approve of me smoking,” he explains. “But I grew tired of going outside every time I wanted a puff.” He tilts his chin to a metal box in the corner that resembled an air conditioner. “The HEPA air purifier takes care of the big job, but this little guy also helps.”

He lifts his pipe to take another puff and then unrolls the wallet like a mat, exposing a series of stainless-steel tools, each in its own velvet sleeve.

I hand him the envelope as he slips on a pair of thin, white gloves and places a magnifying loupe against his eye. Mr. French stands at the coffee table, which is at counter height for him.

“It doesn't have a stamp,” I say.

“Oh?” He looks up, puzzled.

“It's the paper,” I explain. “I was wondering if you could trace where it was sold and who might have bought it.”

“Ahh.”

“It feels old,” I continue. “Not antique. Just …” I can't find the word.

“Let me take a look.”

Mr. French places the envelope on the velvet mat, pulls out two pairs of long, very thin tweezers, and expertly removes the note without using fingers. After reading it, he lifts it to his nose and inhales.

“You're right,” he says. “Not actually old, but stale, musty. Remainder stock most likely.”

“Remainder stock?”

“Stock the vendor couldn't sell. It usually gets shoved to the back of the store until its price is discounted enough for its quality to no longer matter to the purchaser.”

“Do you think you could track it?”

He looks up at me with furrowed brow. “We will have to assume several factors.”

“Such as?”

“The sender lives nearby, which is why the envelope didn't require postage.”

“Delivered by hand.”

“Exactly. The second assumption is perhaps the larger leap. We have to assume the paper, although old, was purchased recently and hasn't been sitting for years in the sender's desk drawer.”

I nod. “I know this isn't your usual area of expertise.”

“Nonsense.” Mr. French beams again. “Although some see philatelists as mere stamp collectors, if anything, we adore a good mystery. The story behind the stamp is often worth more than the stamp itself. For example, would you believe that I have stamps licked by Albert Einstein, Charlie Chaplin, Elizabeth Taylor, Winston Churchill,
and
Richard Nixon? A fellow philatelist that I know has more exotic tastes. He has stamps licked by Mussolini, Stalin, Adolph Hitler, and Eva Braun. So let's give this the old college try.”

I lean down and hug him.

“I'll be in touch,” I say, making my retreat in such good humor that I even wave goodbye to Baccarat.

She doesn't appear to notice.

Six

I never grow tired
of riding cable cars. Crammed in a rickety metal box with three dozen tourists, weaving and bobbing to avoid being smacked in elbow, breast, or face by swinging cameras at every bend is the highlight of going to my office.

The bus is cheaper and drops me closer, but regular working people don't amuse me as much. Only on the cable cars can you watch model-thin women shiver violently because they thought San Francisco was going to be as warm as L.A.; or laugh at the pot-bellied men with bulging billfolds and garish T-shirts adorned with double entendres that make one groan; or wonder at the wide-eyed children dangling precariously from side rails, limbs inches from injury.

The offices for
NOW
are housed in the top three floors of a squat four-story brownstone, one block west of Alta Plaza. The ground floor, painted blue and white, contains a tasty little Greek restaurant named for the mythical flying horse, Pegasus.

The trouble with working above a Greek restaurant is the tantalizing aroma. The big buildup to lunch often makes it difficult to concentrate and results in inappropriate adjectives creeping into my work, such as the time I referred to a local politician as
succulent
. Fortunately for both my editor and my waistline, I do most of my work from home.

As usual, my mouth begins to water the moment I enter the stairwell to climb the three flights to the newsroom. The higher I climb, however, the fainter grow the smells of feta cheese, garlic tzatziki sauce, and the house specialty of fresh oven-baked pita finished with a light spray of olive oil and sprinkles of tarragon and cracked sea salt.

My stomach stops grumbling when I spot my paycheck lying alone in the dark notch of my mail slot. I snap it up and carry it to my desk, wondering hopefully if the deposit stub inside feels just a little fatter.

The spacious newsroom has the potential to be filled with natural light, since windows dot three sides, but because everyone sits in front of computer screens, the blinds are drawn tight to cut down on glare.

When I first started in this business, the newsroom was a continual hive of excitement. The pounding of keyboards, the chatter of police scanners, and the still-functioning though archaic brass bell that rang whenever the production department sent a page proof through the vacuum tube delivery system. It was a cacophonic combination that fired a surge of adrenaline directly into my bloodstream.

The reporters were noisier, the editors more belligerent, and a bottle of whiskey could usually be found in someone's desk drawer when deadline pressure made your temples throb. Back then a rookie still started at the bottom and clawed her way up, trying to stay sober and smart and unmolested along the way.

Today, the noise is gone and with it a lot of the energy. The rookies hold degrees in English, political science, economics, and psychology; their haircuts cost more than I used to earn in a day; they're healthier and smarter and duller than you can imagine.

The blinds stay closed. Welcome to the Word Factory.

My desk sits in a corner, piles of books and paper making it look like an abandoned hovel for the resident troll. My antique wooden chair, which I refused to let them replace with some modern ergonomic contraption, awaits me, but looks bare. Someone has stolen my cushion.

With a muttered curse, I sit on the hard seat, put my feet on the desk, and rip open the familiar aqua-blue envelope. The direct-deposit statement inside shows I am still being underpaid, and after a quick calculation of my outstanding bills, I come to the conclusion that a raise would be welcomed.

From across the room, a bloated giant watches my mental gymnastics before lifting himself out of his chair.

Edward Stoogan plods across the room like a Beluga whale that has suddenly sprouted legs, the strain of the exercise reddening his flour-white face. He stops halfway to catch his breath, disguising the fact by looking over a reporter's shoulder and pointing out the obvious question she has failed to ask during an interview. The reporter blushes slightly before picking up the phone.

When he reaches my desk, Stoogan pushes a large pile of paper from the edge and rests half his ass on the clearing. He is puffing slightly from the short walk and he peers down at me through moist salmon-pink eyes.

Stoogan is senior news editor. An albino with shock-white hair, he is the kind of man you can't help staring at. He tips the scales at around three hundred and his ghostly complexion makes my ancestral Celtic pigment appear as a healthy glow.

In one puffy hand, Stoogan clutches a miniature extending telescope that he needs to read the small type on the computer screen. It is a handicap that hasn't stopped him from being a master of his craft.

Most of us in the newsroom have a hard time admitting that a man who wears purple socks with brown pants can bring such life to our prose. But he always does.

“Have you seen my cushion, boss?” I ask cheerily.

“I've got it,” he replies in a windy, high-pitched squeak. “I figure you're such a pain in the ass you owe me something to rest my sore cheeks on.”

I grin as his face turns serious.

“Sorry about wasting your time last night,” he continues. “I heard it was suicide.”

I shrug. “Maybe, but I think there's still a solid story there.”

“Don't play with me, Dix. I'm too frail.”

“No, I'm serious. The human-interest angle alone is terrific. Talented but unfulfilled artist makes a final, drastic statement, ironically creating his greatest work. And there's even the possibility—”

“The dailies didn't bother re-plating for it,” he interrupts. “I thought the
Chronicle
might have tried to slip something in for second edition, but it's a dead story to them now.”

“The dailies are idiots; I'm not.”

Stoogan massages his temples in small, circular strokes. “I received a call this morning from the police commissioner.”

“Does he miss staring at my ass, the letch?”

Dixie's Tips #4
:
Short skirts and windy crime scenes don't mix
.

Stoogan sighs. “He heard you were at the artist's apartment and harassing two of his officers. He claims you were trying to get them on record even though you're well aware it's departmental policy not to comment on suicides.”

“Hmmm, sounds like I was doing my job.” I reach over my shoulder and pat my back. “Good for me.”

“He also wanted to assure us the story wasn't worth our attention.”

“Prick! What's he covering up?”

Stoogan smirks. “Nice to see you're not getting paranoid in your—”

“Don't say it,” I warn. “Besides, when do we allow bureaucrats to dictate what's newsworthy?”

“We don't.”

“Exactly. So you trust me on this?”

“No.”

I tut. “Come on. Why not?”

“Because you're the one who keeps trying to sell me on the ‘ghost of Al Capone' story.”

“Hey, I'm still researching that. It'll be a hell of a story once I track down who the mystery waitress was. Maybe I can reunite their ghosts.”

“See. That's what I mean.” Stoogan sighs again. “There are days when I don't know what to do with you, Dix,” he says despairingly. “And I'm not just saying that.”

“Our love has always been a one-way street,” I say soothingly, while flashing a cheeky grin. “Just think of it. The daily buffoons will bury this story because Commissioner Gordon Vanmoore tells them it's nothing. But we'll hit the stands in five days with a cover story that at its worst will explore the human tragedy of a sensitive artist driven over the edge by his need to succeed in a too-competitive commercial world.”

“And at its best?”

“Murder.” I lock on to his watery eyes. “You didn't see the body, boss. There was nothing left of his head except what was splattered on the walls and canvas. It was a plea, signed in blood, too powerful to be made by accident.”

Stoogan studies me intently. “Is this personal?”

I shake off the suggestion. “We hadn't talked in over a year. Old news. Diego was living the dream he always talked about. He'd quote-unquote ‘made it,' so why throw it all away? That's the hook.”

Stoogan holds up two fat, pink, baby-soft fingers. “Two days,” he says. “If you can't show me you've got the makings of something meaty by then, I'm assigning you to work on a lifestyles piece with Clooney.”

I glance over at the petite Barbie doll three desks down who is fast-tracking an Eighties fashion revival by leading the charge to bring back big hair and shoulder pads. Without a care, she applies a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick to collagen-plump lips and blows a kiss at her reflection in a desktop mirror.

Mary Jane Clooney's last opus was headlined “The Twelve Secret Erogenous Zones You May Not Know You Have.”

Stoogan follows my gaze and grins.

I shudder.

_____

After two hours on the phone, I've only found one gallery in the entire Bay Area, the Gimcrack, that specializes in Diego's work. Unfortunately, the owner is at a showing on the white sandy beaches of Carmel and isn't expected back until tomorrow.

I scratch my head, not wanting to admit Diego's death is looking less artistic and more self-pitying than I hoped. I try one more.

“Avenida Gallery, how may we help you?” The voice is smooth, gentlemanly and instantly likable.

“Dixie Flynn of
NOW
calling,” I reply, just as friendly. “Is the owner in?”

“Speaking.”

“And your name?”

“Jonathan Smithwick, Jr.”

“Any relation to the British beer maker?”

“None.”

“Pity, it's a nice brew, especially poured slow into a frosted mug.”

He laughs. “You're not wrong.”

“I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me?”

“About art?”

“Or imported beer. Unless you're an expert in other areas that'll make for a good story.”

He laughs again, sealing our friendship and dulling his natural defenses.

“How may I help you? Dixie, was it?”

As a reporter, I'm used to people not wanting to talk. The trick is to come across like an old friend or sympathetic relative. Whatever makes them forget you're a single-minded bloodsucker whose only interest is in the inches of gray matter below your byline.

If they laugh, they're yours.

“I understand you carry Diego Chino's work?” I begin.

“Not any longer, I'm afraid. Diego really hasn't produced anything of interest in the last six months or so.”

“I understood he was very popular.”

“That was last season. I'm afraid his work has become rather …” He hesitates, searching for the right word. “Stale.”

“Do you know of anyone who still carries him?”

“I believe the Gimcrack on Union Street does.”

This is the same story I heard from the other galleries.

I switch topics. “Do you carry Adamsky?”

“Certainly. He is very popular.”

“Do you have any in stock?”

“Originals or prints?”

“Originals.”

“Not at the moment, but we are expecting a shipment of new works to arrive this week, and I'm planning to get my hands on several choice pieces.”

“Where does the shipment go when it lands?”

“Stellar Galleries is Adamsky's North American agent. But several galleries, including my own, have an agreement to purchase works directly from them.”

I scratch my head again. “Why doesn't Stellar keep all the paintings?”

Smithwick Jr. chuckles softly. “Adamsky is quite prolific and Stellar doesn't have the space to show all his work. Plus, it can be rather overwhelming for the client to make a decision when facing an entire gallery full of work from a single artist. It's easier to find a favorite piece when there are fewer options. Under our agreement with Stellar, we purchase the paintings at an agreed price. Everyone benefits.”

“How many galleries are involved?”

“There are ten of us within the city. Stellar also opened a new gallery in Carmel recently that is attracting buyers from L.A.”

“Does Stellar have originals for sale?”

“Yes, I believe they do.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as he adds, “However, if you are interested in purchasing, might I add that the paintings I choose become some of his most sought after.”

“You have a good eye?”

“One of the best. It keeps me ahead of the pack.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Jonathan. Thanks.” I add a touch of feminine laughter to cement our secret pact.

After hanging up, I flip through the Yellow Pages and discover Stellar Galleries has a high-rent showroom in Ghirardelli Square overlooking San Francisco Bay. A quick fumble through the reverse directory tells me the owner is one Declan Stellar.

I dial.

“Stellar Galleries, Casper Blymouth speaking.”

The nasally voice is familiar, and I instantly have a mental picture of the annoying little man who wanted to remove the blood painting from Diego's apartment before it even had time to dry.

“Is Mr. Stellar available?” I ask, using my most polished voice. No, not the phone-sex one.

“He is presently having lunch at the Hyatt. May I take a message?”

He emphasizes Hyatt, just to let me know that if I can't afford to eat there, I am wasting his time.

“No, that's all right. I was planning to stop by. Do you know what time he'll be returning?”

“Two o'clock. Can I leave your name?”

“Just tell him Dixie called.”

He sniffs as if the plainness of the name annoys him and then hangs up without a goodbye.

I stretch my arms above my head, feeling a vertebra in my spine pop back into place, and rub my ear. I've never liked the phone, and I have a bad habit of holding it too tight. But in this economy, the paper frowns on taxi fares to a dozen galleries for background into a story based on a hunch.