The Devil's Interval (17 page)

Not one irreverent smart-mouthed comment floated through my brain. I just sat there with Purity and watched the apple blossoms drift through the spring air. The voice floating out from the upstairs window had moved from gospel music to the itsy-bitsy spider, and I could hear a child's voice giggling at the end of each line.

“Who's that singing?”

“One of our moms. Doesn't it sound pretty?”

“Angelic,” I said. And meant it.

S
unday evening, kids in bed, Anya out with the latest in a string of yet another so-so romantic choices, Michael and I comparing iPhones.

“Monday night, nothing, Tuesday night, Dr. Mephisto for both of us, Wednesday night is the soccer dinner for Josh's team, Thursday night, nothing.” I sat back. “Those are my hot dates, what about yours?”

“Monday night, partners' dinner, no spouses this time.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” I said.

“I'm not sure Jesus arranged that for you,” said Michael.

“You never know,” I said, thinking of Grace's Garden. “I think I know where he hangs out these days.”

Michael continued, “Tuesday and Wednesday nights, same as you. Thursday, though, we've both got something.”

“Really, what? I was looking forward to dinner at home that night.”

“Haven't you been trying to get to Frederick Plummer, the grieving widower, for a real conversation?”

“I have. Gertie's been working on his assistant to schedule an appointment for us to meet, but he keeps ducking me. And he was too preoccupied at the Botanical Gardens thing to spend any time with me.”

“Perhaps you've forgotten what an amazing, thoughtful, and enterprising husband you're married to,” said Michael. “The Give-
Back Venture Fund is honoring Plummer at this event, and guess who's introducing him?”

“Who?”

“Your brilliant husband. The guy who's chief legal counsel to them is out of town, and the managing partner asked for a volunteer to pinch-hit. I raised my hand. Which means that we get to sit at the head table, and I've asked the woman who's coordinating arrangements for the event if you could be Plummer's dinner partner. She said ‘no worries,' as long as you were attractive. Apparently Mr. Plummer is pretty picky about his dinner companions. I told her you were one hot babe, at least in my opinion.”

“Michael!” I leapt up and draped myself in his lap. “You know, between those students you put to work on my behalf and this little coup, I'm really enjoying having you as a codetective.”

Thursday was a packed day at work, so I'd schlepped my lowest-cut, tomato-red evening getup to work to make a quick change there. Andrea perched on the worn-out easy chair in the ladies room and watched me put on fresh makeup.

“Far be it from me to complain,” she said, “but precisely why do we have an easy chair in the ladies' room?”

“I think at one point we didn't have just a bunch of dried-up crones like me and unspoiled young things like you working here. There must have been some nursing mother in the mix at some point in time. Do I have too much blush on? I can't tell with this light.”

“Look at me,” said Andrea.

I turned from the mirror. “Well, I'd say you simply look flushed with good health. But I'd stop now,” she said. “On the other hand, you can load on a little more eye shadow. That's all the look.” She stood up. “Here give me the eye goo. I'll give it a try.”

I stood obediently still, with my eyes closed, while Andrea brushed on something called Mauve Twilight.

“This is kinda fun,” I said. “Like getting ready for the prom
with a girlfriend.”

“Don't talk,” said Andrea. “It makes your face move. And I'm hardly the right person to do this. My mother still thinks that only vulgar women wear anything but pale-pink lipstick. There we are. Take a look.”

I turned to the mirror and blinked. My green eyes looked smoky and intense, or maybe I'd just read those exact words in the last issue of
Vogue
. Even in the bathroom's unflattering light, I looked pretty damn good. “Cool. Thanks, and as long as you're here, you can help me zip up the side of this slutty sausage casing I'm wearing.” I took the dress out from under the plastic, shrugged out of my bra and tossed it over the empty hanger, and wriggled into the dress. Then, I raised my arms and said, “Just pull the zipper very slowly. If you catch my tender skin in this you'll hear a whole lot of screaming.”

Andrea held the top of the dress together with one hand and slowly tugged on the zipper. “This is a marvel of engineering,” she said.

“It is,” I said. “You'll see in a minute, when I'm in place. All that boning and built-in infrastructure gives me the illusion of cleavage. Which is good, because I hear that our Frederick enjoys sitting near sexy-looking broads.”

Andrea frowned. “Maggie, don't you worry…” she trailed off.

“Worry what?” I asked, screwing the backs into the small diamond-stud earrings Michael had given me for our tenth anniversary.

Andrea was silent. I caught her eye in the mirror. She looked preoccupied and distracted. “Oh, it's probably nothing,” she said. “But nobody knows who did kill Grace, after all. Just be careful.”

I stepped into my backless, red brocade heels and began throwing essentials—lipstick, mints, keys—into my evening bag. “I'm careful,” I said. “But even if we don't know anything else, we know that Frederick couldn't have killed Grace. Remember he had a rock-solid alibi that night: he was having dinner with some of his venture capital pups, and they vouched for him, as did the
entire waitstaff of the restaurant. Plus, Michael will be sitting right nearby, and I hardly think Frederick is going to make an attempt on my life in front of an entire ballroom of people. And he can't exactly follow me to the ladies room. Okay, this is it—as good as it gets. Will I do?”

“You look great,” said Andrea. “Very unmatronly.”

“Don't you wish Brooks Brothers made strapless tweed evening gowns in red, so you could go right out and buy one?” I said.

Andrea shook her head. “That is neither kind nor accurate, Maggie,” she said. “You can sound mean, you know.”

“I'm sorry,” I said hastily. “I shoot my mouth off without thinking.”

She regarded me closely. “Watch yourself, Maggie,” she cautioned.

“I will, I will,” I said, gathering my cast-off work clothes and tossing them in a handled shopping bag.

“By the way, O Mighty Detective, exactly what do we want to find out from Frederick this evening?” Andrea asked.

“I don't know exactly,” I confessed. “But lots of things could be interesting to get his perspective on—like, why did he think Grace got so involved at A Mom's Place? Did he know about Grace and Travis? Why did they first start going to the Crimson Club, and whose idea was it to keep going—his or Grace's? And I'm just wondering if he's absolutely sure Travis killed her? And just how close is he to Ginger Brand?”

“And you'll be uncovering all this information before dessert?”

“I'll be lucky if I discover anything at all,” I said. “But at least I'll get a chance to talk to him. And see what he's all about.”

“Have fun tonight,” said Andrea. “You do look like a million bucks, cleavage and all.”

“Or, as your peeps would say, like a very well-endowed trust fund.”

“My ‘people' would never say anything remotely like that,” Andrea called as I headed out the door. “And they only know ‘peeps' as those disgusting little yellow things you eat at Easter.”

Michael was already chatting up folks near the bar when I arrived at the St. Francis Hotel. In the old days, before the hotel's face-lift and the upscale Michael Mina restaurant moved into the lobby, like generations of San Franciscans before us, we'd rendezvoused “under the clock.” The grand clock had been the traditional place shipping-out soldiers and sailors had promised to meet their sweethearts when they returned from war. My own grandparents had kissed goodbye under that clock. But, alas, in the hotel's sleek new remodel, the clock had been banished to an upstairs corner, far from the lobby.

I waved to Michael and made my way through the buzzing, black-tied crowd to his side. It was still a thrill to see his eyes widen. I leaned in for the perfunctory spousal kiss greeting, and he whispered in my ear, “Who are you? And what have you done with that soccer mom I'm married to?”

“She sent me tonight,” I whispered back. “And maybe you'll get lucky, and I'll go home with you.”

Michael let go, and turned me to meet the couple he'd been talking with. “Maggie, this is…”

“Hello, Ginger,” I said. “Maggie Fiori, we met at the Botanical Gardens the other day.”

Ginger took my outstretched hand and looked momentarily puzzled. “Oh, yes, the magazine editor. I remember your hat.”

“Better than not being remembered at all,” I said cheerily. I turned to the man she was with, “Hi, Maggie Fiori. Good to meet you.”

The man looked like a whippet, sleek, thin beyond belief, with slicked-back graying hair. “Bill Brand,” he said. “A pleasure.”

“Bill and Ginger are friends of Frederick Plummer's,” Michael explained.

“Yes,” I said. “I had the opportunity to meet Ginger with Mr. Plummer the other day.”

For the tiniest second, I saw Bill shoot a quizzical look at Ginger.

She put her hand on his arm, “You remember, Billy, I told you
Frederick and I were on the program to dedicate the fountain in Grace's memory at the San Francisco Botanical Gardens.”

“Of course,” he said, and took a slug of his champagne. I watched him carefully, certain I'd be able to watch the progress of liquid go down his reedy throat.

Ginger began surveying the room, looking for more interesting—or more important—people. “Billy,” she said, “I really need to go say ‘hey' to some people. Will you come with me?”

“Your wish is my command, my pet,” he said, with absolutely no affect. It was impossible to tell if that was a send-up of a Stepford husband or completely straightforward.

He nodded to Michael, and touched his hand to his forehead in a mock salute to me. “Mrs. Fiori, an honor. I'll look forward to talking with you again.”

Michael and I watched them walk off, her hand slipped in his, halfway across the room.

“I think we just got dumped for more important people,
cara
,” said Michael.

“Or they both just wanted to get away from us,” I said.

“From you, maybe,” said Michael. “Who could possibly want to escape the pleasure of my company?”

“Who, indeed?”

“So, how was your day? Did you talk to the boys?”

“Day was fine. Talked to the boys, haven't seen them. Zach squealed on Josh, that he's allegedly texting Esme and writing on her Facebook wall when he's supposed to be doing his homework. Isn't he a little young? Isn't he still supposed to hate girls?”

“I don't ever remember going through that phase,” said Michael. “He's just a chip off the old block. Precocious in matters of the great feminine mystique. You just don't like being replaced as the most important woman in his life.”

“I will never be replaced,” I said. “I'm studying your mother's every controlling, clingy move.”

I continued with the litany of the day. “Anyway, Anya was on pickup and dinner duty. I just changed into this getup in the ladies
room at the office.”

“And a fine getup it is,” said Michael. “How come you never look like this for dinner at home?”

“I do,” I said. “You just never notice, right down to the backless ‘fuck-me' shoes.”

I placed a hand lightly on Michael's shoulder, and lifted my foot to dangle the shoe off my toe for his admiration.

“I can't wait 'til you explain to the boys why that's what you call those kind of shoes,” said Michael.

“Don't hold your breath. You're the dad, you've got to have those father-to-son talks with them.”

“I love how you throw off those feminist principles and turn traditional every time something awkward or difficult comes up.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Okay, brief me on this shindig a little more. So I can make small talk with Mr. Philanthropist at the head table.”

“There's a program at your seat,” said Michael. “But here's the executive summary. The Give-Back Venture Fund was established about twenty years ago, when the dot-com heyday was in early sizzle. And it was Plummer's idea—the deal was that every time one of the start-ups that a venture capital outfit had funded went public, the venture firm would put a portion of their IPO money into a charitable fund. It was a no-risk way of deflecting some of the negative press about the obscene profits these firms were realizing. They'd look like good guys after an IPO made them even richer, and they'd shelter some of the profits at the same time. Anyway, Plummer cooked up the idea, and rounded up half a dozen other VC funds to join him as charter members. And it just grew from there. Today, there's virtually no local VC firm that doesn't participate in the fund. And we are, very happily, their legal counsel.”