Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) (9 page)

Candace’s expression revealed that she herself didn’t believe it for a minute. I was tempted to tell her about the phone call and my lurking attacker, just to see if I could wipe the pitying look off her pretty face. If I told her, though, I’d also have to tell her that I suspected Richard of some unsavory activities, and I wasn’t ready to do that. I tried for a measured tone in my response. “I’ve had good reason to think someone is keeping an eye on me. If your father says he isn’t responsible, perhaps he’s telling the truth. In any case, I have no plans for a repeat performance of yesterday. You might reassure him on that score.”

She leaned toward me. “Daddy suggested you get away for a while. Don’t you think that’s a thoughtful idea? You could go somewhere and rest, see the sights. It would give you a new perspective.”

“Since he told you everything else, he must have told you I rejected that plan yesterday. If I need a new perspective, I’ll have to find it right here. And no, I don’t think it’s particularly thoughtful that he wants me out of his hair.”

Our spinach-and-mushroom crepes arrived, and while the waitress put them down Candace was primly silent. As soon as we were alone again she said, with evangelical sincerity, “I wish you’d try not to be so negative, Mother. Daddy didn’t intend to hurt you. He just needed his own space, don’t you see? Couldn’t you at least make an effort to understand?”

His own space, my eye. “Believe me, Candace, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

Later, standing under the drifting pale mauve flowers of the Japanese magnolia while I watched her green MG turn the corner, I wondered if all parents were as baffled by their children as I was by Candace. She had been a child during San Francisco’s hectic ferment of the sixties, and at the time I had been profoundly grateful that she was too young to participate in the Summer of Love, live in a crash pad in the Haight, join the Free Speech Movement at Berkeley, or riot at San Francisco State. Yet it seemed to me odd that such cataclysms had washed past her, leaving not a single discernible trace. Unless her present character
was
the trace they had left.

Candace could be fun. On good days we could shop together, laugh, go to a movie, make a quiche, even talk a little. On the whole, though, I had always represented bedtime-and-take-your-medicine to Candace, while Richard was walks in the park and a new puppy. Now, he was Sensitive Daddy, needing his own space— with a woman in it very little older than Candace herself— and I was Poor Paranoid Mother.

The MG was gone now, and its going had left a pain that made me press my hand against my chest.

Before depression could invade me completely, Andrew called. “We’ve got a mess down here you wouldn’t believe,” he said with obvious relish. “Somebody broke in last night. When Betsy got here this morning, filing cabinets and desk drawers were open, papers scattered around, garbage cans emptied out. But get this— nothing missing as far as we can tell.”

“You think they were after the folder?”

“Could have been. At least you and I left the cabinet open last night, so they didn’t have to take an axe to it.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Two reasons.” I could picture him ticking them off on his fingers. “First, the police are not fond of the
People’s Times.
You remember our series about cops drinking on the job? And the Gilhooly investigation that Larry took apart move by move, showing how inept they had been? This would be an opportunity for them to poke around here and look for a chance to get even, and who needs that? Also, if we can get this together ourselves it’ll be a fantastic story, and calling the cops is tantamount to giving it away to the dailies.”

“I see.” I did see, but it felt strange. I had always been a law-abiding citizen and now, at my age, I seemed to have developed a mistrust of the police as fervent as that of any member of the counterculture. Still, what to do about his break-in was Andrew’s decision, not mine.

“I have something else to tell you,” he went on. “I did some mild snooping around Richard’s office this morning. Nothing too impressive, just posed as an Olivetti repairman looking for a nonexistent city agency. I ended up taking the receptionist out for coffee.”

I suppressed a twinge of resentment that Andrew hadn’t consulted with me before taking action. “Fast worker.”

“All in the line of duty. Let’s see…” I heard a muffled fumbling on the other end of the line. “I have a list here of the people Richard sees and speaks with on the phone most frequently. There’s a Tompkins, a guy named Standish—”

“Jack Standish is his lawyer. I think Tompkins is a tax man.”

“Good. What about a lady named Diane something?”

Could I sound casual? “That’s the girl he’s living with.”

After a short silence, Andrew said, “Oh.” He cleared his throat and went on, “Next on the list is Jane Malone. I know who she is. Executive vice president, Basic Development. And then we have—”

“Jane Malone?” The name was familiar. “Wasn’t she the woman who offered her cabin to the Channel Eight guy, Kenneth MacDonald, and Larry wrote a story about it?”

“Hey, that’s right. Ken hasn’t worked since. Spends all his time boozing out on Union Street, when he’s not down here demanding a retraction.”

“Do you think he’d know anything? Since he and Richard are both involved with this Jane Malone?”

“I think a better question is whether Ken has
ever
known anything, including the time of day. You’re right, though. Maybe I’d better talk to him. OK, now—”

“Why don’t I talk to him?” My jaw was tensing up. I had started this investigation, after all. I wasn’t in the mood to let Andrew steamroll me with his flashy journalism technique and twenty-five-year-old enthusiasm.

“Dynamite.” Competition, apparently, was not uppermost in Andrew’s mind. “He hangs out at the Golden Raintree, on Union Street. In fact, after you see him why don’t you come by here, and we’ll compare notes. But first, see if these other names mean anything to you.”

None of them did, and in half an hour I was engrossed in the search for a parking place near Union Street— a quest that could easily last hours, or even years. Crawling for the fifth or sixth time down boutique-lined blocks where handmade leather clothing, overpriced kitchenware, and heavily refurbished antiques were displayed with the maximum possible chic, I began to wonder if Andrew hadn’t tricked me into insisting I must have this assignment. I finally found a semi-legal space on a side street only seven blocks away and joined the honeymooners from Chicago and Kiwanians from Des Moines on the sidewalk.

In common with Union Street itself, the Golden Raintree aspired to class but was a little too flashy to achieve it. It was the perfect backdrop, in fact, for Ken MacDonald. A stylized, many-branched tree was painted in gold on the front window. The interior decoration consisted of mirrors, stained glass, dark wood, and enough ferns to outfit twenty forest glades.

Although the place was crowded, I spotted Ken immediately. He was sitting at a table near the window, staring at the drink in front of him. His profile seemed to have disintegrated even more in the short time since I last saw him, and his head was tilted toward his chest, creating a double chin. I walked over and said, “You’re Ken MacDonald, aren’t you?”

He didn’t get up, in fact barely looked up, but unsteadily held out his hand. “Channel Eight.”

“My name is Maggie. We met at the
People’s Times
the other day.”

“That crummy rag.” He continued to contemplate his drink.

I could see that no engraved invitations would be issued. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “I understand Larry Hawkins wrote a story about you.”

For reply, Ken got out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling smoke in a long sigh. “It was my image,” he said.

“What?”

“My image. You know. Clean, rock-solid, upright, intellectual. All that.” He drank. “That’s how Larry did me in.”

Ken apparently lived to recount his problems with Larry. Fine. When he got to the appropriate point in the story, I’d drop in a question about Richard. I didn’t intend to listen without a drink, though. Signaling a waiter, I ordered a Bloody Mary. By the time it arrived, Ken was getting querulous. “Other guys can get away with all kinds of things,” he complained. “Not me. I had to get stuck with an upright image.”

“The story about you wasn’t a lie, then?”

Ken was warming to the subject. “I’ll tell you something, lady. There are lies and there are lies. Yeah, I spent two weeks at Tahoe in that cabin. I don’t deny it.”

“But then—”

He held up his hand. “Let me finish. That place was offered to me by a guy named Nick Fulton. Hell, I guess he may have mentioned it in passing, but I wasn’t really aware that he worked for Basic Development. He used to hang out in here, matter of fact.” Ken glanced around as if he dared Nick Fulton to come in and belly-up to the bar. “So I went up there. I mean, the place wasn’t any palace, you can take my word for it. The thing that’s so insulting”— he pointed his finger at me— “is that everybody believes I’d sell out for something so damn
small.
”

“Well, you did come out in favor of the Golden State Center right after you got back. You have to admit it looks bad.”

“You don’t have to believe me, but I swear to God this is true.” He looked as pious as a man is able to look when he can hardly sit upright. “That was sheer coincidence. I really do think they ought to build that goddamn development. Christ”— he grasped my arm, his face pink with earnestness— “It means jobs, it means a new look for the waterfront, it’ll give the city a tremendous boost all the way around.”

“And you never discussed it with Nick Fulton?”

He let go of my arm, looking hurt. “I’m not saying we never discussed it. Could be we did. But Nick never emphasized that he worked for Jane Malone. At least, if he did I don’t remember it.”

“Do you remember if Nick ever mentioned Richard Longstreet?”

Having delivered his defense, Ken had apparently lost interest in the conversation. He lapsed back into his brooding pose and when he answered it was without interest. “The Redevelopment honcho? Sure. Nick told me it was his private understanding that Longstreet was extremely high on the project. It must have been true, too. The proposals went through his office and the Board of Supervisors like greased lightning.” He finished his drink and signaled the bartender. “And that,” he said with finality, “is one in the eye for the Sierra Clubbers.”

“I guess it is.”

“If that little fucker Larry Hawkins hadn’t started snooping around, everything would’ve been fine.”

“He’s dead now.”

“It’s a damn good thing for San Francisco that he is. I’m only sorry somebody didn’t string him up by the balls.”

Ken was drifting away from me, back into the boozy private realm of his hatred. I reached for my wallet, but he stopped me, saying, “It’s on me.”

I got up. “Thanks.”

His eyes were bloodshot in his doughy face. “You remember what I told you, now.”

“About stringing Larry up by the balls?”

“No, no, no.” He shook his head a number of times. “About the image. The upright, intellectual image I had. That’s what did me in. Remember?”

“I won’t forget.”

Outside, Union Street was hazy in the waning sun. I looked back at Ken through the window. He was staring at his drink, his lips pursed, shaking his head. I turned and hurried toward my car.

By the time I reached the
Times
office the sun was gone and a chilly spring twilight was descending. The evening fog had started to roll in, and the blackened brick edifices that lined Cleveland Street looked sinister and cold. My head bent against the buffeting wind, I hurried into the
Times
building, intent on talking with Andrew. In my rush, I nearly tripped over two bare feet.

The feet belonged to a figure huddled like a sack in the doorway. This was too much for my already overburdened nerves, and I let out a shriek of fright that reverberated like a cymbal crash in the little foyer.

“Jesus, lady, chill out a little,” a soft voice said. The figure stirred and coalesced in the dim light. It was a girl, chubby and barefooted, wearing a dirt-streaked T-shirt and Indian-style white cotton pants with a drawstring at the waist. She sat on the floor, her tousled dark hair blending with the wall’s dingy gray, her eyes dark blotches in her grimy face. She was about Candace’s age. “Aren’t you cold?” was the first thing I thought of to say.

“No, not cold. Not a bit cold.” Her voice had an indistinct, singsong quality. I thought she was probably on some sort of drug.

Thank God it wasn’t Candace. “You shouldn’t sit here. It’s cold, and it’s getting dark.”

The girl rested her head on her knees. Her voice was a mumble I had to kneel to hear. “Cold and dark. You should ask Larry about cold and dark. That’s what it’s like where he is.” She rocked back and forth and then began to cry, her shoulders shaking.

Her plump, short-fingered hands were over her face. Tattooed on the back of the left one was a small red apple with two green leaves. “Do you work for the
Times ?”
I asked.

She continued to cry. Kneeling there in the semidarkness, I wondered what I could do to comfort her. If this girl were Candace, I would want someone to try to help. While I dithered, her sobs subsided and she looked at me. “You’ll get your fancy clothes dirty, here on the floor,” she said.

I was aware of my beige suit, the silk scarf at my neck, my warm shoes. “Can’t I take you home? Do you have friends upstairs at the
Times ?”

“The only person I ever cared about is dead,” she said dully.

The young are so dramatic. “You’re talking about Larry Hawkins?”

“Larry.” The soft reverence in her tone would have been more fitting in church.

Her bare feet were making me shiver. It was time to be authoritarian. “You can’t stay here. I’m going to drive you home. Where do you live?”

It worked. She got to her feet and stood swaying in the doorway. “Not far.”