The Devil's Interval (18 page)

“So, what's tonight about?”

“Big milestone. The fund hit $100 million this year. Plummer isn't as involved any more. There's a small staff that runs the administrative side of the fund, accepts applications, and makes grants from the endowment. Lots of Frederick's buddies made
extra, personal gifts to the fund in Grace's memory over the past few years, so the slow-down in IPOs hasn't really hurt the growth of the corpus.”

I shuddered. “Cold?” asked Michael.

“No. There's something creepy in hearing the word corpus associated with money, when there's an actual corpse involved.”

“Maggie, corpus means the ‘body' of the fund, as opposed to the growth it generates.”

“I know what it means. I'm just saying it sounds a little peculiar in this context.” I sipped my champagne and looked around the room. “So, these folks are all rich, rich, rich from VC money?”

“More or less.”

“I always feel like an imposter at these things,” I said. “I'm not rich or social.”

“No, but you look the part,” said Michael. “You and I are nothing but staff to these folks. I keep them out of trouble and you cover their world.”

I laughed. “We don't live in the big house.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, a fundraiser friend of mine always says that. When you hang out with rich people—like she does, because she's always raising money for one cause or another—you start to know these folks, and they know you. But she says it's always good to remember that we don't live in the ‘big house.' We're just glorified servants.”

“My point exactly,” said Michael. “Now go mingle with the big house types; I've got to check in with the event chair and see when my five minutes of fame come up and I'm at the podium to introduce your pal, Frederick.”

Half an hour of drifting in and out of conversations followed. I did know a fair number of people—from Michael's firm, from various organizations we'd covered one way or another in
Small Town
, even a college chum or two who'd either married well or was in a mover-and-shaker job.

Just when I was wondering how much longer I could teeter around on the red heels, a beautiful Asian woman in a lime-green
cheongsam
tapped on the mike. She was one of the apparently limitless supply of ethnically diverse, well-dressed, well-spoken news anchors who showed up to emcee every charity event in town.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” she called with a polished voice-over authority.

“I'm Pearl Soo, and it's my pleasure to welcome you this evening. Please enjoy your dinner and the opportunity to visit with your friends. We'll be starting our program to honor one of our own, sometime between the organically grown lamb and the flourless chocolate cake.”

Michael and I made our way to the head table, and found our place cards. True to his word, I was seated next to Frederick Plummer. He was standing by his chair, and Ginger Brand was at his side. He had inclined his head downward; she was on tiptoes, apparently whispering in his ear. They moved apart as Michael and I approached. Ginger gave us both a pasted-on smile and disappeared.

“Mrs. Fiori,” said Plummer, “I'm delighted to see we're dinner partners.”

He didn't look delighted, but I was willing to take him at his word. He held the chair for me, and Michael beat a retreat to the other side of the podium, where the rest of the head table waited.

A carefully composed salad, the kind Julia Child used to say made her think someone had had their fingers all over her food, waited in front of each place. Splayed Belgian endive, a tiny heap of exotic mushrooms, a puddle of what appeared to be hothouse raspberries, and a nut-crusted, baked goat cheese.

“No iceberg here,” I observed.

“Mmmm,” said Plummer, noncommittally. Though the din of people talking, forks gently raking on china, and glasses clinking continued to rise around us, the table suddenly felt very quiet. The man on the other side of me, another lawyer from Michael's office, was deep in discussion with the glamorous Pearl Soo. There was nothing but a podium on Plummer's other side, so for better or worse, the guy was stuck talking to me.

“This is such a remarkable milestone,” I offered. “The fund you started, hitting $100 million. You must feel a great sense of accomplishment.”

“Many people were involved,” said Plummer. “This is hardly a one-man show.”

“Still,” I persisted. “I know you started the fund. And,” I said, nibbling on one of the unidentifiable mushrooms, “it must be so meaningful to you that so many people have added to the fund in your late wife's name.”

Plummer put his fork down. He put a pleasant smile on his face and leaned close to me. “Mrs. Fiori, why don't you put your cards on the table? I know that your assistant has been trying to get an appointment for you to see me. And, in all candor, I find it disingenuous of you to suggest that this evening's seating is a coincidence.”

“Okay,” I said, putting on my oh-so-gracious smile from the head table, right back at him. “You're right. I have been trying to see you. We're doing a story on your wife's life and death in
Small Town
, and I wanted a chance to talk with you.”

“I have no obligation to talk with you about some sleazy, tabloid piece you're trumping up.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm sure all of this must be painful to you. But the reality is, your wife's murder was big news in our small town. And, since you've been candid with me, I'm going to be candid with you.”

He looked stony, picked up his wineglass, and took a long drink of Merlot. I glanced out at the audience and saw a couple at the table just below the dais giving us curious looks. Probably didn't understand how head-table small talk could evince such intense reactions. I fixed the nosy pair with my best, noncommittal “caught you looking” smile.

Frederick broke his silence. “Imagine how much I'm looking forward to your candor,” he said.

“We started working on this story because we were interested in the fate of Travis Gifford, the man who…”

“Murdered my wife. Brutally.”

“The man who was convicted of murdering your wife,” I continued. “There's a contingent of people…”

“Hysterical, besotted women criminal attorneys who have misguidedly fallen for Gifford's charms,” he interrupted.

“A contingent of people,” I persisted, raising my voice just a bit, “who believe that the actual murderer is still at large. Still not brought to justice.” Now, I saw that Pearl Soo and her dinner companion were giving us curious, sideways glances.

“I find that nearly impossible to believe,” he said.

“As I started to say,” I pressed on, “I'll confess to you, I was persuaded to look into the story because there are people who believe, deeply believe, that Travis Gifford is innocent.”

“But you've changed your mind?” he asked.

I picked up my wineglass. “I haven't made up my mind about Gifford, one way or another,” I said. “Frankly, I'm not sure what I think about him anymore. But I became very interested in your wife's life, as well as her death.”

He shook his head. “Death of a shallow, beautiful socialite? Is that where you're going with this?”

I was startled. How did he know what we were planning to call the story—minus the shallow, of course.

“Not exactly. I admit that's where we started. But the more I learn about Grace, the more I admire her—and the more puzzled I feel.”

“What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath. Now or never. “She seemed paradoxical,” I said. I held up one hand, and began to tick off what we'd learned. “A beautiful woman, who marries very well indeed, and becomes a beautiful,
wealthy
woman.” One finger goes down. “To use your own word, yes, a socialite, one who seems to revel in the spotlight—the photographers captured your wife at every high-profile event, in every beautiful evening gown, all over town.” Another finger goes down. “But then…” I hesitated.

“You're counting on your fingers,” said Plummer. “Go on.”

“Okay. Then, there are all the pieces that don't fit together.”

“Such as?”

“Her involvement at the Botanical Gardens. She didn't just show up for parties, she got dirty—in the nursery, out in the beds.” Another finger down. “Then, there's her involvement at A Mom's Place.”

“What about it?”

“I don't know. Why don't you tell me? You don't think it was an odd place for Grace to get involved?”

“Because it wasn't ‘social'?” asked Plummer, his voice tired and bitter. “You think that Grace was only interested in the kinds of things that get you in the
Nob Hill Gazette
or the “Swells” page in the
Chronicle
.” He shook his head. “I wish you'd known her. You wouldn't make such…such blind and narrow assumptions.” Glancing to my left, I realized that the lawyer and Pearl Soo had fallen completely silent. They were both eavesdropping with frank interest. I cheated to my right a little more, effectively giving them a fine view of my not-so-covered back, and giving Plummer and me a little privacy.

“Okay,” I said softly, “I didn't know her. Why don't you tell me what you wish I knew?”

Plummer sank back into his chair. “I don't even know how to start. Grace was so full of life, so full of ideas and energy. Yes, she had fun with the social scene. She was a beautiful, beautiful woman, and she loved to walk into a room and enjoy the effect she had on people. She loved the cameras, and as you could see in every photo, the cameras loved her right back,” he said. “But most of all, she loved to work.”

“To work?” I asked, puzzled. “At what?”

“At whatever she picked up,” he said. “She came home in filthy jeans with broken nails from the gardens. She used to scrub the bathtubs at A Mom's Place—for fun. She had the sensibility of that Norwegian grandmother of hers. No matter what was bothering her, she would cheer up if she could make something clean. I don't think I ever saw her with a sponge or cleanser at home, but that's
what she'd do at A Mom's Place.” He sighed. “It made her happy to make things clean and beautiful.”

“And why was she drawn to those girls?”

He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Really?” I pressed. “You didn't ever talk about it?”

“If you'd known Grace, you'd understand. She did what she wanted to do. And you didn't want to get in her way.”

“So, did you disagree about her involvement in A Mom's Place?” I asked.

“There would have been no point,” he said. “And if you're hinting around, wondering if Grace had been, at some time in her life, an unwed mother or a junkie, the answer is no. Now, how about if I ask you some questions?”

I smiled my sweetest. “Seems only fair.”

“Why are you doing this story? Grace is…” He picked up his wineglass and took a healthy sip. “Grace is dead. And Gifford's been tried, found guilty, and sentenced.” He waved his hand in the air. “I know, I know, there are appeals pending, but unless there's evidence no one has seen, it seems highly unlikely that Gifford won't pay for what he did.”

I put my hand on his. “Forgive me. This must seem very insensitive to you.”

He withdrew his hand. “Insensitive, but more than that. Intrusive. And frankly, deeply distasteful.”

“Distasteful?”

He shook his head. “You're looking for dirt, I think.”

“We're looking for whatever we find,” I said.

“I wonder,” he said, stabbing a mushroom.

We both fell silent. “Why don't you finish what you started?” asked Plummer. The waiter appeared over our shoulder and whisked the plates away. “You want to ask about going to the Crimson Club. About why Grace got involved with my driver?” I glanced over my shoulder. The eavesdroppers seemed to have given up and re-engaged each other in conversation. A little chemistry seemed to be developing; maybe if they started steaming things up,
they'd lose complete interest in our conversation.

“I've read the trial transcripts,” I said. “I know what you said in your testimony.”

“Of course,” said Plummer quietly. “Of course, you and your criminal bar friends would have combed through every dark moment of my life.”

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “were they really all dark moments?”

He looked at me bleakly. “Are you really this insensitive?” he asked. “Or just insane?”

“Look,” I said, “here's what I mean. I can't even imagine how awful this must be—losing your wife in that terrible way. But, my impression was—that at least your activities, your involvement at the Crimson Club was something you enjoyed together.”

Plummer regarded me curiously. “Mrs. Fiori, how long have you been married?”

I took a sip of wine. It was dark and fruity and almost washed away the vaguely bitter taste in my mouth. “Fifteen years,” I said.