If Walls Could Talk (29 page)

All I saw was an old-fashioned, weather-beaten sign in the shape of a boot. It advertised a shoe repair shop.

“Where?” Just as the word was leaving my lips, I peered in the darkened windows and realized it was a restaurant.

“Nobody hangs restaurant signs out anymore,” Zach explained. “This used to be a shoe repair, so they just kept the funky old sign.”

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“Shoe Repair.”

“Seriously?”

“They figured since they kept the sign, they’d keep the name.”

“Then how do people know it’s a restaurant?”

“That’s the point—only the people on the ‘in’ know.”

“I’m never on the ‘in,’”I said. “Anyway, it doesn’t look like they’re open yet.”

“Stick with me, soul sister,” Zach said with a wink, rapping smartly on the window and gesturing at an aproned man behind the bar. Sure enough, the man came over, unlocked the door, greeted Zach, and went in the back to get Rory Abrams.

“You know him?”

“Not really. Sort of. I sort of know everybody. I’m a photographer—I get around. I did a spread on the restaurant when it was new. That’s how I met Kenneth as well.”

Abrams was a large man with a well-trimmed beard, looking a lot like one would expect of a chef who enjoyed his own cooking a mite too much. A fine sheen of sweat covered his broad brow.

When I introduced myself as a friend of Matt’s, and as the general contractor working on the house, he was eager to talk. We took a seat at a small table in a corner near the bar, while two women in white aprons laid out place settings on the tables in preparation for the evening crowd.

“Try this,” he said, setting out some fresh, crusty bread, olive oil with herbs, and olives, both bright green and khaki. Also, there was a tiny plate of some sort of paste.

“What is that? It’s delicious.”

“It’s a kind of truffle pesto. Can’t tell you my secrets, though.”

What he could tell us, apparently, was that he was a dedicated foodie, on the new wave of Italian/French-inspired restaurants. He dropped any number of names, which I’m sure I would have recognized had I been one of those on the “in.” There were days when I forgot the names of dearest friends; I couldn’t imagine a day when I would manage to keep up with local celebrities. He regaled us with tales of his dedication to organically grown local veggies, just like Alice Waters at Chez Panisse. Now, that name even I recognized.

I used to eat at Berkeley’s Chez Panisse from time to time when I was married. Daniel and I would meet after class, and though I would have been happy with any number of inexpensive ethnic restaurants, Daniel preferred to go to the latest wildly expensive—some might even say overrated and overpriced—place that had been written up in all the local rags. But Chez Panisse deserved its reputation as an incredible place to eat, and Alice Waters had revolutionized much of the business by stressing the importance of using local organic produce. On top of everything else, she now worked with local schools to teach kids about growing their own food—amazing how many city kids had never seen a vegetable grow from the ground. Waters was an admirable addition to the Bay Area scene.

But by and large my patience with foodies was limited.

“I wondered if you could tell me anything about the arrangement you had with Matt Addax and Kenneth Kostow with regard to the house in Pacific Heights.”

Abrams insisted on pouring us each a glass of a Sonoma Cabernet.

“That was such a tragedy with Kostow. Will there be a memorial service, do you know?”

“Actually, I don’t know. But I’ll check into it.” With everything else going on, I’d never thought to ask. I wondered whether Matt had been able to arrange anything, whether it had even crossed his mind. I guessed we’d all been pretty busy, but I still felt guilty. Kenneth hadn’t mentioned anything, but it seemed like a pretty egregious oversight, considering.

“Were you good friends with Kenneth?” I asked.

“I doubt Kenneth had what you’d call close friends. An associate, certainly, and we had a few nice evenings together. That last party was a hoot, I’ll tell you that much.” He took a drink of wine. “Hey, even with what happened . . . Matt called me and told me I didn’t have anything to worry about with the investment. He told me you were fixing the place up, and that it would be ready soon.”

“ ‘Soon’ is a relative term. As soon as possible would be a better way to put it.”

“I’m going to need to see a return on my money, the faster, the better. I’m tired of always serving other people’s wines. I want to try my hand at it, get into the vineyard business.”

“Do you know anything about the history of Matt’s building?” I asked.

“I understood it had been in one family since it was built, the same family as the man who built it way back when.”

“That’s true, but I was—”

“How would that affect this? This was a simple, straightforward business arrangement.”

“Have the police questioned you about the party?”

“Someone called. I told them I hadn’t seen anything, and that was the last I heard of it.”

“Do you happen to know the homicide investigator on the case, Brice Lehner?”

I thought I saw a flare of recognition in his eyes, but he got up to grab another open bottle of wine.

“You have to try this one, too,” he said. “I know it’s sacrilege to carry European wine in a California restaurant, but you have to hand it to the French. They know their Côtes du Rhônes.”

The wine was hitting hard on my empty stomach. I hadn’t eaten anything but a quick samosa at an Indian café earlier today. I snacked on bread to soak things up.

“So you do know Inspector Lehner?” I pushed. “He was at the party, wasn’t he?”

“I may have met a guy named Brice, but there were a lot of people there.”

“Brice is a pretty unusual name.”

“Okay, but how was I supposed to know he was a cop?” He looked around the restaurant. “He wasn’t exactly flashing a badge. Anyway, last I heard it wasn’t a crime for a cop to go to a party.”

“But why—”

“Hey, Rory,” Zach broke in. “You know how to make a small fortune in the wine business?”

“How?”

“Start out with a huge fortune.”

Abrams laughed and excused himself, just for a moment, to attend to something in the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you let him answer?” I asked.

“He did answer.”

“When?”

“He answered by not answering. Why is this such a crusade for you? Do you honestly think that Rory Abrams sliced off Kenneth’s hand?”

It was hard to imagine. But then, who could have?

“Besides,” Zach added, looking slyly over at Rory, “if we play our cards right, he’ll comp us dinner. I’ve seen him like this before.”

I looked out the window to see the lights of Columbus flickering on, crowds forming, the whole place starting to feel festive. I felt a surge of—what? Something unusual. The desire to relax and have fun. How long had it been since I’d been out with a man—other than sweet Stephen, of course? I had been feeling sorry for myself and defensive for so long I had forgotten that I used to enjoy this sort of thing.

What would it hurt? Besides, except for the work boots, I was even sort of dressed for it, in my own way.

I made a phone call. My father was excited I was on a date and said he’d take care of the boys, not to worry.

“Say hi to Graham for me,” Dad said.

But the fellow at my elbow wasn’t Graham; it was a man nine years my junior. I was suddenly very worried about sagging. But after another glass of excellent, full-bodied wine, it slipped my mind altogether.

“W
hy don’t you just stay here for the night,or what’s left of it?” Zach said hours later after he’d driven us back to his apartment. I was in no shape to drive. “No funny business; you can stay in my guest bed.”

“What guest bed?”

“Well, I generally take the right side near the window, so the other side’s for guests,” he said with a crooked grin. “Seriously, we can put pillows or something in between us if it will make you feel better, but we’re grown-ups. I’m sure we could survive a night in the same bed. I won’t try anything. Scout’s honor.”

It was so late I called Caleb, figuring he would still be awake at this hour. Keeping things vague, I told him I was spending the night in the city.

“With Graham?”

“No, of course not.”

“With who, then?” the usually uninquisitive boy wanted to know.

“Just a friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

Maybe I should have called my father instead.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Caleb.”

“We’re going camping, remember?”

“Oh, I forgot. You’ll be back on Tuesday?”

“That’s what your dad said. I think.”

“All right, I’ll call in the morning.”

I hung up and closed my eyes. Just for a second. The bed felt very soft.

“Come on,” Zach said, putting his hand out for me. He pulled me up and around the side of the bed. He flipped back the covers with his other hand, then yanked open a drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. “Why don’t you change out of those clothes, put this on, and then crawl into bed. I’ll fix us some cocoa, give you a little privacy.”

I took the T-shirt and cradled it, smelling the scent of laundry detergent.

“Thanks, Zach. I feel like an idiot.”

“Hey, none of that. You should hear some of my stories.”

He took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and gave me a gentle shove in the direction of the bathroom.

 

When I woke up the next morning I felt as though I had been unconscious, rather than just asleep. There was a little wet spot of drool on the pillow. I had the sinking feeling that I might have been snoring.

Was it any wonder that Zach was able to keep his gentlemanly distance?

Perched upon the wall of pillows in the middle of the bed was a note, and upon the paper sat a bottle of Excedrin. Bold, all caps handwriting told me that Zach had to leave for a photo shoot but I should feel free to use his shower, his computer, even his razor.

I lay back and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. I go out on my first date in . . . well, since before I was married. And this is how the evening ends up.

Clearly I shouldn’t be allowed out of my cage yet, unsupervised.

I checked my phone, which I had assiduously avoided all night. Seven calls. Three from Graham Donovan.

Ugh!
I had completely forgotten I was supposed to meet him for dinner last night to show him the gem field map. What a loser.

My head pounded. I downed three Excedrin and two big glasses of water.

It was already nearly eleven, but I turned on Zach’s computer and took another look at the photos from the party, just in case. Rory and Jason were both investors in the house, and they were present at the party. If Inspector Brice Lehner was there as well . . . could he be the final investor, the one Matt hadn’t known about? According to Gerald Buchanan, Lehner had a drinking problem. Could he have ended up at the same New Leaf rehab clinic, where he could have met Matt and Kenneth? And was there anything illegal about a police investigator investing in a property, assuming the entire proposal was on the up-and-up?

Glancing at the clock again, I remembered I was supposed to meet Matt at the Vallejo Street house today. Now. I splashed some water on my face, did what I could with lip gloss and an eye pencil, stopped for quick caffeinated inspiration at Martha & Bros. Coffee Company, and zoomed on over.

“Wasn’t that the same dress you were wearing yesterday?” Kenneth asked on the way.

“None of your business.”

“You wouldn’t go out with me—when I was alive, I mean—but you’ll spend the night with that photographer? That makes no sense at all.”

His outraged sensibilities made me smile.

“None of this is any of your damned business. You were the one so hot on me talking to him. And anyway, why shouldn’t I spend the night with him if I want? I’m no longer married, and he’s a smart, good-looking man.”

“He’s a boy.”

I changed the subject. “Hey, what did you see yesterday in the basement at Matt’s house?”

“I didn’t see anything. But there’s something r e ally . . .
sad
in that basement. Can’t you feel it?”

“I felt
your
sadness.”

“You did?”

I nodded.

“It’s sad . . . and frightening. I don’t go down there alone.”

“A ghost is afraid of the other ghosts? What’s it going to do, kill you?”

“Very funny.”

Matt was as good as his word; I spotted his shiny black BMW as I pulled up to the house. I found him inside, chatting with Spike. Spike gave me a quick rundown of the demo progress, then went back to join his crew.

“Matt, was Brice Lehner at the rehab clinic with you?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“Homicide Inspector Brice Lehner was at the New Leaf clinic with you and Kenneth,” I repeated.

Matt nodded.

“Why didn’t you
say
anything?” I asked. “How can he be acting as the investigating officer on this case if you and he have a prior personal relationship?”

“He’s still a professional,” Matt said. “Just because we knew each other doesn’t mean he’s neglecting his duties. In fact, he’s been trying to help me out.”

“And he’s also an investor in this house project, isn’t he?”

Matt sighed, his blue eyes weary as he looked around the still-messy living room. “He’s a good guy, Mel, really. So he had a problem with alcohol. It happens to the best of us. It’s a disease, you know. You wouldn’t blame a person for having cancer, would you?”

“I’m not talking about his alcoholism, Matt. But if he’s an investor in this house, he might have had a particular interest in making sure Kenneth didn’t sell it and take off with the money.”