Authors: Linda Lee Peterson
Edited to Death (10 page)
“Straight arrow? In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t know, as if he could be corrupted by the story—which is too weird for
words, because we don’t even know what it was about.”
Inspector Moon shrugged. “I don’t know. The story may be relevant, it may not. We’ll
continue to look into it.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t a stranger? Some intruder?”
Moon shook his head. “Doesn’t seem likely. Whoever it was, Mr. Hart let him, or her,
in.” He reached into a breast pocket and pulled out his card. “If you get an idea
about anything—the music, the story—please call me.” He looked at me closely. “Let
me emphasize that. Call me. No amateur detecting.”
“I wasn’t.…” I protested.
“No, but I can tell you’re interested.” He sighed. “Journalists always are. This isn’t
a game, and it isn’t the movies. Someone out there, a specific someone, was very,
very angry. Angry enough to commit murder. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I watched Moon make his way to the door. He stopped to shake hands with Michael on
the way out. I watched them together. They seemed stiff and formal, not like two guys
who skated together every week, joked over beers after games. At the same moment,
they looked back into the room and caught me watching them. Inspector Moon put his
hand on Michael’s shoulder, and leaned in close to say something. Then he was gone,
and Michael had wandered away.
Moon was right about my desire to meddle. I was curious and more than a little unsettled.
Despite what Moon said, it seemed at least possible that my hot “breakthrough” story
had something to do with Quentin’s death. Serves you right, Maggie, I thought. You
couldn’t be happy with those fluffy little cooks-and-books stories, could you? You
couldn’t stay on the straight and narrow path with your perfectly lovable husband,
oh no. Let’s just see what trouble we can get into.
I looked around the room. Beautiful people, beautiful food, lots of flushed cheeks
and laughter as the sake and Chinese beer washed out the more sombre feelings engendered
at the Unitarian church.
This whole affair felt like a cross between Noel Coward and Hitchcock, and it didn’t
feel good. Was I, or was I not, sitting in my ex-lover’s flat, wearing the hat he
bought me, angling to retrieve my diaphragm from the bedroom, and wondering who, just
who, among all these well dressed, well educated, well-spoken people had hated Quentin
enough to kill him? And was there some perverse reason in the universe that the homicide
cop investigating the murder had to be a hockey chum of my husband’s?
I eyed the bedroom door, which opened off the living room. It was closed, and I couldn’t
see any conceivable way to get in there and retrieve my diaphragm without calling
attention to myself. I stirred and set out in search of Michael, and promptly ran
into Calvin and Andrea Storch. Both wore coats and were clearly on their way out together.
“Where are you two off to?” I asked innocently.
“Calvin picked a fight with me about New England cooking,” said Andrea. “I’m taking
him home for dinner to teach him a thing or two.”
Calvin struggled without success to wipe a gloat off his face.
As I hugged Calvin goodbye, I whispered in his ear, “One small victory for you, one
major setback for Ms. Saks Fifth Avenue.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed.
If breakfast is served in heaven, it must be catered by the Clift Hotel.
I parked at the Union Square Garage, early enough to beat out all the professional
shoppers, the ladies who lunch who would later prowl through Neiman Marcus, Saks,
and Macy’s. It was five after eight by the time I hurried up Geary to the Clift. Uncle
Alf and Claire Hart were already sipping coffee at a white linen–covered table.
My single friends swear by the Redwood Room; all dark panels and discreet lights,
just the place for a pre-assignation cocktail. But for the rest of us, there’s the
French Room, the hotel’s main dining room, where breakfast has been advanced to a
high art. Fresh, pulpy orange juice, coffee of a serious nature, and fluffy scrambled
eggs on white china.
The waiter held the chair for me, whisked the napkin into my lap, and murmured about
coffee. I murmured back affirmatively. I smiled brightly at Alf and Claire without
a thought in my head about what to say.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” I said. “It’s fun for me to have breakfast with people who
don’t need help pouring syrup on their waffles.”
Claire stared at me blankly. Alf managed a weak smile. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Quentin
often remarked that you had a delightful sense of humor.”
Claire looked even stonier. “I’m afraid the joke eludes me,” she said.
“God Almighty, Claire, the woman means she usually has breakfast with her children.”
Claire shrugged.
“But you wouldn’t know. You and Quentin never had any little vipers of your own.”
I began longing for my bagel, my own little vipers, and breakfast at home. “Listen,
I’m sorry,” I began. “This is a terrible time to make wisecracks. Truly, I just don’t
know what to say. I miss Quentin already, so I can only begin to imagine how it must
be for the two of you.” Silence. “Being family and all.” More silence.
Impulsively, I reached across the table and put my hand on Claire’s. “I want you to
know how much Quentin meant to me,” I said. “I really loved him.”
She withdrew her hand. Her perfectly lined and lipsticked mouth twitched. “Really?
And were you sleeping with him, too?”
I felt my cheeks begin to burn and I stood up. “I’m sorry. I seem to be saying one
wrong thing after another. I hope you’ll accept my condolences.”
Uncle Alf was on his feet, grabbing my hand. “Sit down, dear, sit down. Claire doesn’t
mean anything. She’s just upset.”
I sat. Uncle Alf still had hold of my hand. He smiled and reached out to hold Claire’s
hand as well. We looked as if we were having a séance. “Now, let’s order some of that
splendid French toast and have a nice chat together. If Claire can concentrate and
remember not to be so poisonous, she’ll recall we asked Mrs. Fiori here for a special
reason.”
We ordered. Contemplating the French toast distracted me for a moment from the “special
reason.” Whatever it was, I hoped it didn’t have to be carried out in Claire’s company.
That kind of nastiness could only be contagious.
I took a sip of coffee to brace myself. “Mr. Abbott, when we were talking in the kitchen
yesterday, you suggested that I could do something to help. I’d really like to.”
Claire snapped her silver lighter open and looked at me. For a moment, I thought she
was considering immolation. But Uncle Alf took it from her hand and lit her cigarette.
Smoking was, of course, banned in all San Francisco restaurants, but who had the courage
to confront Claire? She said, “Why? Why would you like to help?”
“Claire, please,” said Alf.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m happy to tell you. I did love Quentin. I loved him
because he was a tough, stylish editor.
Small Town
isn’t exactly
The Paris Review
. But it’s a good city magazine, because Quentin pushed all of us. I was terrified
of sending him half-baked work. And he understood that. Maybe the rest of my life
looks a little half-baked—I only write part time, and the rest of the time I run around
doing a pretty mediocre job of behaving like Beaver Cleaver’s mother. But I didn’t
write like the Beav’s mother, and if I ever did, Quentin would never have given me
another assignment.”
It occurred to me that the Beav probably had not made it to syndication on the evil
planet on which Claire was spawned. But I was warming to my task.
“I know there was a lot of fluff in the magazine, but Quentin did some of the earliest
pieces on the ways AIDS was devastating the arts community, and he sponsored journalism
internships at some decidedly unprivileged city high schools, and—”
Claire snorted. Alf looked uncomfortable. “I’m not an economic genius, either,” I
said. “But I also know a little about the history of
Small Town’s
advertising revenue.” I picked up my coffee cup and smiled sweetly. “As far as I
can tell, the magazine came back from the brink of economic disaster under Quentin’s
guidance.”
The waiter arrived with the French toast. He was a welcome diversion. I’d hoped to
touch Claire and Uncle Alf with my little speech about Quentin. Instead, they both
looked as if I’d put my elbows on the table and burped the theme to
The High and the Mighty
.
We busied ourselves with the butter and the syrup.
“Well, Mrs. Fiori, I’ll tell you why I called this little meeting. We’re in a bit
of a jam. You know that I own
Small Town
. And, though I’m publisher, I’m just not much of a magazine man. Got into the whole
business by accident. Bad investment, didn’t use the old noggin,” he tapped his balding
dome. “If you know what I mean.”
I didn’t really, but it seemed safest just to murmur an assent.
“So here we are with no editor in chief. Frankly, I’m going to take my time filling
that spot. I might sell the magazine, I might bring someone in from New York or L.A.
But in the meantime, we need a pinch hitter. I don’t want to use someone from the
permanent staff; I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t, actually. What about Glen Fox? He’s the managing editor already.”
“Oh, Mr. Fox is still relatively new to the magazine, not to mention new to our shores.
This is really his first assignment dealing with a, shall we say, for-profit publication.
Which brings us to you.”
I put my fork down. “Me?”
“You,” he beamed. “You’ve edited before, even though it was for one of those dreadful
trade magazines. As you point out,
Small Town
has a competent chief cook and bottle washer, that Irish fellow, Fox. So we just
need someone to oversee the show, so to speak.”
“Thank you, I think. But what makes you think I could… run the show?”
“You could. Quentin told me so.”
My stomach turned over. “He picked his successor before he died?”
“Of course not. Good God, woman, how macabre! But we used to chat about who might
succeed him in the job. I think he thought that when he and Claire finally divorced,
we’d boot him out. Well, you’ve got the editorial credentials. According to Quentin,
the staff likes you, and you haven’t got a job already. So here’s the bargain—fill
in for a few issues until Claire and I decide what’s what. We’ll make it worth your
while. Financially, I mean.” He named a figure that made me think longingly about
deep-sixing one of the ancient Volvos, remodeling the kitchen, or even taking a vacation
that didn’t involve camping gear.
I turned to Claire. “What do you think of this idea?”
“I really couldn’t care less,” she said, removing a flake of tobacco from her tongue
in a gesture I thought had disappeared with 1940s Bette Davis movies. “Alf wanted
to see some jolly family unity, so I came along. It’s a silly, shallow magazine, and
I really don’t see that the sun will rise or set on who runs the damn thing. I suppose
you’d be as… serviceable as anyone.”
I felt myself flush again, this time in anger. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Abbott,”
I said. We shook hands over the bud vase.
“Wonderful! Marvelous! Let’s celebrate. Where is that waiter?” He waved and the waiter
appeared. “Bloody Marys all around,” he said. “Then we can drop by the office and
you can rally the troops. I told ’em to be ready for a potential all-hands-on-deck
sit-down this morning.”
I started to protest, but Alf interrupted. “Just being optimistic, not presumptuous.
But no time like the present. Magazine issues have to get out, don’t they?”
I stole a look at my watch. It was ten minutes before nine. I’d just accepted a job
I didn’t think I wanted and probably couldn’t do. I’d also broken a cardinal Fiori
family household rule: consult your mate before making big decisions—or else. Should
I worry first about the kids, Michael’s reaction, or actually figuring out what to
wear to work in the city again after all these years? My boss was a drunk. My predecessor’s
ex hated me. And the person who murdered the last editor in chief was still at large.
Oh, go ahead, Maggie, just put a bulls-eye on your back and call it a day.
Clearly, a Bloody Mary was just what the doctor ordered. Perhaps two.
The editorial offices of
Small Town
are just four blocks from the Clift.
A few minutes before ten, we parted company with Claire out in front of the hotel.
I hoped my few sips of Bloody Mary would insulate me from the frostbite I seemed likely
to contract from her parting handshake.
Alf, warmed by either his two Bloody Marys or my foolish, persistent good cheer, tucked
my hand in his arm and we strolled down Geary, cut across the recently face-lifted
Union Square, avoiding the early junkies, late drunks, stupefied pigeons, and shoppers.
At 270 Sutter, we turned into the door. The building and the elevator are faded San
Francisco splendor—rococo, chipped gilt, and the lingering lobby smell of expensive
perfume and less-expensive muscatel. But when the elevator doors opened directly onto
the fourth floor it was clear that Quentin had very recently held court.