The Devil's Interval (14 page)

“Your father mentioned to me that you were raised by your grandparents, and I know Grace was raised by hers as well.”

“You and Uncle Gus got right down to all the family secrets, didn't you? I guess that's why you're a good reporter.”

“Editor,” I corrected her. “But, I'd actually met your father before.”

She held out her glass to the bartender for a refill.

“Really? Where?”

“At The Devil's Interval.”

Ginger reclaimed her glass, took a sip, and looked around the room.

“Do you know the place?”

“I do,” she said. “It's owned by Travis Gifford's mother, the man who murdered Grace. So, you'll understand if it's not one of my regular hangouts. Even if Ivory Gifford is also my father's—let's see, what shall we call her?”

“Your father's landlady?” I inquired.

“Yes,” she said. “Correct. She is that.”

“This seems like an amazing set of coincidences,” I said.

“Isn't it?” said Ginger. “Downright Dickensian. But then, as you know San Francisco is…”

“A small town,” I finished. “So, you know Ivory as well?”

“Barely,” she said. “Despite what my father thinks, he doesn't supervise my every little move, and I certainly don't supervise his,” she said. “I can't help who my father chooses as his friends.”

Suddenly, Frederick Plummer was at her side. “Ginger, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there are some people we should go thank together.” He gestured across the room. “You'll forgive us, Ms. Fiori.”

I opened my mouth to say “Of course,” but they were both gone. Ginger had her arm linked through Frederick's, and was smiling up at him with what athletes call a “game face.” Freddy, huh? Wonder how many people got to call him by that name? Wonder if the best friend and the widower were consoling each other in particularly intimate ways? And with that, I took my flying-saucer hat and suspicious mind right back to the office.

It wasn't until late that night that I realized what had been bothering me about Ginger's remark that Grace would sing the line “clouds in my coffee” to Frederick.

I went to the stereo cabinet to flip through our old CDs, looking for the Carly Simon album that had the song in it. Michael looked over my shoulder. “Hey, there's
Brenda and the Tabulations
. What's it doing next to the sound track from
The Rugrats
?”

“I don't know, honey,” I said. “Feel free to alphabetize these any old time you want.”

“I did,” he said. “I do periodically. And then you and the boys just throw things back willy-nilly.”

“You must be very secure in your masculinity,” I said, flipping through the discs, “to use a phrase like willy-nilly in public.”

“Not in public,” said Michael. “I believe we're at home,
en famille
. What are you looking for?”

“Make yourself useful,” I said. “I want the lyrics to that Carly Simon song where she talks about ‘clouds in my coffee.'”

“
You're So Vain
,” said Michael smugly.

“That's right! It was supposed to be about Warren Beatty or some other big-deal movie-star boyfriend she had. Sing some of it for me.”

And in a nicely in-tune baritone, Michael obliged.

“You had me several years ago

When I was still quite naive

Well, you said that we made such a pretty pair

And that you would never leave

But you gave away the things you loved

And one of them was me

I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee

Clouds in my coffee…”

He stopped. “I don't remember the rest of it.”

“Okay, so what's the song about?”

“It's about some egomaniacal, careless guy who…”

“Careless, like how?”

“Like giving away the things he loves.”

“So, if a wife sang that song to her husband, what would that mean?”

“That she liked Carly Simon?”

“Come on, put that fine, legal analytical mind to work for me for a minute.”

Michael shrugged. “I guess the obvious reason would be that the husband's a jerk, like the guy in the song. That he's careless with the stuff—or the people—he loves.”

“And what are the clouds in the coffee?”

“Beats me. Impurities? Cream gone bad? Who knows?” Michael leaned past me. “Hey, there's my Shirelles'
Greatest Hits
.” He fished it out of the pile. “This is so cool, I'm going to put it on the hall table so I remember to take it for the car tomorrow.”

“Yet another thing you ought to be embarrassed about,” I called after him. “Listening to old, moldy ‘girl groups.' On a CD. Which is such an outmoded music-sharing technology.”

“You're just jealous,” he retorted. “Because you're not from Passaic, New Jersey, like The Shirelles and me. And how can a romantic not love a song like
Dedicated to the One I Love
?”

I didn't answer. I was thinking about how adding something like cream does obscure the purity of the coffee. How it changes color, taste, everything. But why would Grace sing that to Frederick? Was he the cream? The coffee? The clouds?

M
ichael called me mid-morning the next day. “
Cara
, do we have any mystery social engagements I know nothing about this weekend?”

“That's a Zen-like question,” I countered. “If you don't know anything about them, how could they exist?”

He snorted, “Cut me a break. You're always booking stuff and just telling me I have to show up. And wear a tie. And talk to people I don't know.”

“It's good for you,” I said. “Lubricates those social interaction muscles. But the answer to this particular question is just the usual—Saturday soccer for both boys, birthday party for Josh's little wannabe-Madonna friend, Esme. Why?”

“I'm inviting a couple of students over for Sunday afternoon. Pizza, beer, conversation.”

“Anyone I know?”

“It's the two stars on my moot court team. The one I'm coaching for the competition at Hastings this year. Your little pal Isabella had the reporter's transcripts sent over from Gifford's trial. My office is now a wasteland of banker's boxes. I'm couriering them home.”

“And your moot court team is going to argue about them?”

“Maybe. You ever seen what a special circumstances trial transcript looks like?”

“No. But I'm going to if those boxes are coming to live in our
family room.”

“They're coming to take over our family room. This is 20,000 pages of transcript.”

“Geez,” I said, taxing my brain to remember how long
War and Peace
was. “That's like more than twenty volumes of some really big, dense Russian novel.”

“Uh-huh,” said Michael, “and without the cool plot twists. Though actually, that's what we're going to be looking for. Plot twists. My students are each going to look for different things, try to identify anything that needs more exploration or offers some possibilities for alternatives to the ‘Travis Gifford did it' scenario.”

“And these are criminal-defense lawyers-in-training?”

“Nope, not either one of them,” said Michael. “You've got plenty of those types with Isabella and her cronies. I'm just building on your idea about fresh—by which I know you meant, ignorant—eyes. I've got a bunch of tax and corporate geeks on my team. But, the two I'm asking to take this on are very analytic, and besides, they'll do anything for pizza and beer. They're all starving students. Sunday, our house, I'll order the pizza; you make sure we've got plenty of beer.”

“Done. Michael, thank you. This is a very, very big favor.”

“Oh, I know that,
cara
. I just hope you do when it comes time to calculate those partner points. I'm thinking I'll get a hall pass out of going to Seder at your Aunt Goldie's for the next ten years. Or at least until somebody else volunteers to make the matzo balls. Or she stops asking me if I really believe the Jews murdered Jesus.”

On Sunday, Michael invited me to drop into the family room and kick off his meeting with a briefing about the case. I was happy to do so. “Seth, Krissy—my wife and our client, Maggie Fiori.” They both scrambled to their feet and shook hands. They looked young and smart and happy to see the pizza and beer. And maybe me.

I gave them a quick overview of the case, Travis Gifford, and how I'd become involved. Two young lawyers in training, a guy and a gal, both in variations of the jeans-and-T-shirt uniform, listened
intently. Seth was wiry, intense, and seemed to take down every word I said on his laptop. The front of his T-shirt read: “First, kill all the lawyers.” Krissy's jeans-and-T-shirt ensemble included a form-fitting, scoop-necked camisole. She was luminous, from the top of her extra-curly gelled blond head to the end of her Rockette-worthy long, long legs. And while she and Seth watched me as I talked, I couldn't help but notice that Michael watched Krissy. When I finished my ramble, Michael stood up. “Thanks, Maggie—I appreciate you stopping in. I'll let you get back to the boys, now. We've got plenty to get started.”

“I'll bring homemade brownies in a little later,” I said. “I appreciate everything you two are doing.”

“Wow,” I heard Seth say. “That is so nice of you, Mrs. Fiori.”

“Oh, I'm just the delivery girl,” I corrected him. “Michael baked them.”

Four hours, two extra-large pizzas, a platter of brownies, and more than a six-pack later, Michael called Josh and Zach to help schlep the boxes out to the curb. Josh looked starstruck, just being in Krissy's presence; Zach was completely bewitched by the motorcycle Seth was riding and watched him snug a surprising number of boxes in the hard cases on either side of the bike. When Seth hoisted him onto the seat, put his helmet on Zach's head, and shot a photo with his cell phone he promised to e-mail, I thought Zach was going to swoon with pleasure.

“Would you look at the two of them?” I said to Michael. “I thought we were raising our sons as feminist models of un-stereotypical behavior. You put them in front of hot wheels and long legs, and they revert to type.”

Michael put his arm around me. “Get over yourself, Susan B. Anthony. You couldn't even make a go of your crummy little one-dollar coin. You think you're going to fight biology? Cars and babes and the NFL draft, and when they're old enough, cold beer. That's it. That's what occupies guy gray matter.”

“And to think,” I said, watching Josh practically trip over himself to help Krissy load bankers' boxes in her trunk, “I always
tell the boys what a model feminist dude you are. Oh, well. So, how'd you think it went tonight?”

“Good,” said Michael. “This is a piece of genius, if I do say so myself. Free, exploitable labor. They're both sick of poring over tax codes, and ready for blood, sex, and sensationalism.”

The boys were finished “helping,” so Michael escorted them back into the house after they watched Seth put on his helmet, wave, and zoom off on his bike. Krissy slammed the trunk and came back to say goodbye to me.

“I really appreciate you taking this on,” I said. “I know how busy every minute of every day is when you're in law school.”

She shook her head. “I just came back to say thanks to you, Mrs. Fiori.”

“Maggie, please. Otherwise I'm worried someone will get me confused with my mother-in-law. And why on earth would you thank me?”

“This will be interesting to work on and it's about something that matters,” she said. “Plus…now I know what I want my life to look like.”

“You want to do criminal law?” I asked.

“No. I mean I want the life you and Professor Fiori have. A beautiful house that looks like real people live there. Two great kids. And the two of you…” she faltered. “The two of you seem as if you have fun together.”

Oh, my, I thought. How simple things could look on the surface. She turned around and gestured at the house. “What do you call this kind of home?” she asked.

“I call it messy and in constant need of repair,” I said. “But I think it's meant to be Mediterranean in style. Probably shows our longing to be in some beautiful Tuscan town, I guess. We both love old houses, so we're willing to live with all the problems they come with.”

“Mediterranean,” she said. “I'll remember that. Just look how beautiful your house is right now, lit up from inside.” For a moment, I did see it through her eyes: floor-to-ceiling windows
that ran the length of the dining room and faced out onto the street. A heavy, dark-oak front door, teak planter boxes overflowing with early jonquils and tulips. Not to mention two skateboards and a bocce set on the front porch. “I know it's just your house to you,” she said. “But it looks like a whole world to me.”