Murder Follows Money Page 6

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “No.” Hannah didn’t look at Naomi. She stared straight ahead, not looking at Kim or me either. “I have an idea what it says. I’ll just save it for the lab.”

  “Lab?” Naomi’s voice came out as a croak. “What do you mean, lab?”

  “I hear they can find DNA these days in even the smallest amount of saliva. Whoever licked that envelope to seal it left their DNA. The police will be able to find out who’s—” She broke off, noticing Kim and me. I was frankly hanging on every word.

  “Since when do you take your fan mail to the police?” Naomi scoffed, but her voice sounded nervous.

  “I think you can pinpoint it, if you try.” Hannah looked at Kim. “You said my water was out here.”

  “Here.” Kim handed over the green glass bottle I had placed in a cup holder. “I didn’t bring a glass. Sorry.”

  Hannah took the bottle, but reluctantly. “You know how I like it.” She looked at me. “You should know too.”

  “Ice halfway up the glass, water, a lime wedge squeezed and then dropped into the glass.” I spoke promptly. “Kind of hard to produce in a car, though.”

  Hannah leaned forward and pressed a button on what I’d thought was just a console between Kim’s and my seats. A door swung open, revealing a small refrigerator compartment, which contained tiny bottles of liquor and wine, but no glasses or lime.

  “There are ways,” Hannah said, “of doing almost anything, if you’re motivated enough.” She stared at Naomi as she spoke, and her voice was very cold.

  We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Chapter 7

  Judi Kershay walked into the demonstration area of the FanciFoods store at 7:10. I was so glad to see her I almost cried.

  “Thank God you’re here. Everything is too, too weird.”

  She patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s make sure the event is set up right, then we’ll talk.”

  Kim and I had been very impressed with the demo area when we’d arrived twenty minutes earlier. The store was a lush temple to food, with sparkling black and white floor tiles and lavish displays of everything edible, not to mention a gourmet take-out section that Kim said rivaled the place where she worked in Boston. On the second floor, up a winding staircase that gave panoramic views of reverent produce pyramids, was an auditorium of food with raked seating. Even those in the back could easily see the action on the gleaming marble counter, inset with stove burners and backed with a rank of ovens, the whole area reflected in a huge, tilted overhead mirror that projected the action to the audience.

  Kim had started right in assembling the spare casserole of huevos rancheros; she was sprinkling its top with grated queso fresco, which Greg, the FanciFoods event coordinator, had been only too happy to supply. The air was scented with chorizo and the tortillas she’d heated on the comal that had been part of Hannah’s equipment. I had been the scullery maid, cleaning up her pots and pans while she worked swiftly to assemble the layers of tortillas, chorizo, and the salsa-like tomato sauce. She had poached eggs in the wide skillet without any trouble at all. Watching Drake poach eggs, I had gotten the idea that it was a major operation with a chancy outcome, but Kim did it in minutes with no fuss. She’d nestled the eggs into hollows in the sauce that topped the warmed tortillas and chorizo, before sprinkling on the grated cheese. She put the casserole in the oven, and Greg showed us how to program it to bake the dish and then turn off.

  I introduced Judi to Kim. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I’m just going to cut up some more limes and make sure all the condiments are okay.” She had arranged a pottery bowl of avocados, limes, and peppers on the counter. “Liz, could you look in the cooler and find that container of sliced avocado? And the jicama batons you cut this afternoon?”

  I checked in the zippered cooler bags, bringing out the containers she wanted. “Here. Should I put them on a plate or something?”

  “These bowls look nicer.” Kim handed Judi a couple of terra-cotta-colored bowls with Aztec motifs, shinily glazed. “Could you do that? And Liz, find the paprika in the crate under here and put some in this little dish.” She handed me another terra-cotta dish, this one very small, stamped with a pattern of blackberries and twining vines. I filled it with paprika while Kim squeezed a couple of limes into its twin.

  “What’s this for?”

  “The jicama. You dip the end in lime juice, then in paprika. It makes a nice-looking accompaniment.”

  “I did these,” I bragged to Judi, showing her the tray of drink skewers I’d made with alternating maraschino cherries and small cubes of prickly pear cactus. “For the tequila sunrises.”

  “The Sunrise Brunch Beverage,” Kim corrected absently. She’d set up one end of the counter with a pitcher of orange juice, another of grenadine, a bottle of tequila, and the skewers. “You can make them without booze.”

  Judi admired the skewers, then looked around. “Where’s Hannah? For that matter, where’s Naomi?”

  Kim cast a worried glance behind the demonstration area, where a hallway led to offices and restrooms. “Hannah’s freshening up in the manager’s private bathroom. Naomi was supposed to help her, but when I was back there, she’d found the manager’s private stock of Scotch.”

  “Naomi’s drinking?” Judi pursed her lips.

  “She isn’t an alcoholic or anything,” Kim said defensively, “but when she starts, it can get ugly.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I couldn’t figure out how Naomi could get any meaner, and wasn’t anxious to know firsthand.

  “Fill me in quickly,” Judi said as we left Kim at the counter, mincing scallions. “And aren’t you lucky,” she added, “that the food stylist is very nice and willing to do the prep work. Usually they are picky about what they do.”

  “Kim’s delightful.” People were coming up the stairs for the event. Platters of fruit and cheese and bottles of red and white wine had been set out on a side counter, and the customers stood around convivially, chatting as if it was a party. “It’s very nice here. Must be costing FanciFoods an arm and a leg to put all this food out.”

  “The audience paid handsomely to attend.” Judi nodded at a couple of women nearby, each of whom clutched a copy of Hannah Hosts Brunch. “This is the first program in a series. FanciFoods was lucky to get such a big name to kick it off.”

  Naomi appeared at the hallway opening. She pushed her way through the crowd around the food and helped herself recklessly to the sauvignon blanc.

  Judi watched this with a brooding eye. “So what’s happening? Put me in the picture.”

  “Naomi and Hannah have been fighting practically since the moment they landed. It got really nasty in the dressing room at the TV station.”

  “They were yelling?” Judi grimaced. “Terrible place to pick for a falling out. There’ll be gossip for sure.”

  “It seemed kind of personal. Each of them accusing the other of—well, eliminating anyone who stood in the way. It was not pleasant.” I hesitated. I have had some experience, not of my choosing, with people driven to the extreme of murder. The vibes I felt around Naomi and Hannah were horridly reminiscent of that. “Do you think they would really do anything? Like hurt each other?”

  Judi made tut-tutting noises, but she looked worried. “I don’t think it would come to that. You say they accused each other of that—of murder?”

  The word hung between us.

  “Not really.” I shivered a little. “But there was a nasty scene earlier when Naomi found out Hannah was going to promote the new crepe maker on TV. Naomi claims to have invented it, but Hannah sure didn’t give her any credit.”

  “I caught the show.” Judi stared at Naomi, gulping the wine as if it was Kool-Aid. “Hannah is very good at what she does.”

  “Good at the performance aspect, and at knowing everything about food. She’s not good at people.”

  “That has never been a requirement for being a celebrity,” Judi s
aid. “A lot of them aren’t good at people.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go beard the lioness and see how bad it is.”

  I held her back. “Judi, I hope I haven’t ruined your business. If I’d known what I was doing—”

  “You didn’t ruin anything.” She gave me a reassuring smile. “Even a pro would have been hard-pressed to respond differently when slapped. Don’t worry about it. I sure won’t. There are other fish in the sea besides Hannah Couch, and some of them are not only nice to work with but glad to be my clients. I’ll survive.”

  I followed her down the hall into the manager’s office. Hannah was just emerging from the manager’s bathroom. She had fixed her hair without Naomi’s assistance, and it showed by being a bit less perfect than usual. Her makeup had been skillfully applied, though. She looked formidable, an iron-haired woman at the peak of her powers.

  “Well, Hannah.” Judi stopped in the door to the manager’s office. “I just stopped in to monitor the tour. How are you doing?”

  Hannah scowled at both of us. “I would be doing better if you’d given me a professional instead of this ignorant woman.” Her indignation lent a spark to her stern countenance. “She knows absolutely nothing about keeping the clients happy.”

  “Is it necessary for the clients’ happiness to beat on the escort?” Judi sounded mild, but I could tell she was upset. “Because that isn’t allowed. If you want to physically abuse your help, you had better go elsewhere to find it.”

  The two locked glances, and Hannah looked away first. “It wasn’t me,” she mumbled. “It was Naomi. I don’t condone that sort of behavior. I’ve spoken to her. And I gave the girl back her job.”

  I didn’t know whether to be flattered at being called a girl—something that has not happened to me since I turned twenty, and that was fifteen years ago—or irritated at the idea that I was so unimportant that my name could be forgotten at will.

  “It’s not for you to give or take away,” Judi said gently. “You signed a contract with my agency. I do all the staffing. Frankly, no one on my staff wants to work with you. If I cut you loose, and word of this slapping gets around, you will be hard-pressed to find any reputable public relations firm to deal with.”

  “I can do it myself if I have to,” Hannah said, tossing her head. “I did when I started out.”

  “Right. You call up Leno’s people and tell them you want to be on the show.” Judi snorted. “You don’t have the Rolodex for it anymore, dear.” She gave Hannah that measuring look again. “I told Liz I’d take over the rest of your stay here.”

  “You?” Hannah appeared to be trying to find words. “No. No way. I certainly don’t want you around.”

  “That makes it mutual, as I don’t want to be around.” They stared each other down again, and again Judi won. “But if you can’t keep a lid on it and be pleasant, and make Naomi be pleasant, that’s what you’ll get. Me.”

  “This is, quite simply, blackmail.” Hannah narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t tell her—”

  “I’ve said nothing to anyone, as per our agreement.” Judi was adamant. “But if no one else will work with you, and no other agency in town will touch you, you’ll be stuck with me. This time only. Next time, I won’t be able to help you out at the last minute. Your reputation as a horrible person to work for is going to make it difficult for you when Hannah Cooks for the New Millennium comes out.”

  “How did you—” Hannah pressed her hands to her face. “Listen, I have a demonstration to do. You’re purposely upsetting me before I have to go out and appear in front of an audience. And I might add that this is my third public appearance today. I would think you, of all people, would have some sympathy. I am not feeling well.”

  Judi studied her thoughtfully. “You’ll do a wonderful job. You always do. And it’s very simple, really. I only want reassurance that you will treat my employees with the utmost respect while they’re working with you. It wouldn’t hurt you to treat all your employees the same way, but that’s not my concern.”

  “Okay, okay.” Hannah smoothed her hair. “I’ll speak to Naomi. Not that she’ll listen,” she added, low-voiced. “She’s drinking, and that’s always a bad sign. But I’ll do my best to make Liz here feel happy.” She gave me a saccharine smile. “Is that good enough to avoid your tender ministrations?”

  “For the time being.” Judi stepped aside from the doorway, just as Naomi came lurching down the hall.

  “Where’s our little star?” Naomi said loudly. “Where’s that celebrity chef? Where’s little Hannah got to? Her audience is waiting.” She dragged out the last word.

  Hannah looked exasperated. “Naomi, how could you start drinking? You promised …”

  “Promises, promises.” Naomi was singing, though it took a minute for that to become apparent. “Promises are nothing,” she said with emphasis, coming right up to Hannah, who recoiled from the wine breath. “A dime a dozen.”

  “If you’re going to start this, you’ll have to go home.” Hannah stepped around Naomi to get to the doorway. “You know we talked about this.”

  “You talked, as usual.” Naomi began to look sullen. “You talk way too much, know that? But you don’t say what the people want to hear.”

  “And you know what the people want to hear?” The casual contempt in Hannah’s voice was somehow shocking.

  “They want to hear this! ‘Naomi Matthews invented this wonderful crepe maker.’ Not you! That was mine! You stole it, you bitch!”

  Swaying, Naomi started for Hannah, her slapping hand raised. But Hannah was quicker off the mark than I was. She pushed Naomi farther into the office, then joined us in the hallway, shutting the door in Naomi’s face and producing the key from her pocket. Dimly we could hear Naomi cursing, but it was a well-constructed door.

  “She can sleep it off until we leave,” Hannah said, putting the key back in her pocket. “She’ll quiet down once she sobers up a bit.”

  I exchanged glances with Judi. Perhaps Hannah didn’t realize that most doors could be unlocked from the inside.

  Perhaps Naomi didn’t realize it either. She banged on the door and hollered a little bit, then was silent.

  Judi and I trailed down the hall after Hannah. She strode ahead, ignoring us, and swept out into the demonstration room to great applause. The clock on the wall said 7:27. Two more hours until the end of a long and exhausting day, for all of us.

  “You don’t need to stick around if you don’t want to,” Judi said. “I’ll tuck them into the limo for the trip back to the hotel. Why don’t you get the driver to take you home? He can get to Palo Alto and back here before nine, and we won’t be ready to leave until after then.”

  “That’s very tempting.” My little house, my refuge, had never been more desirable.

  “But can you come to the City early tomorrow? It’s another long day. That radio interview at seven, and then the Cordon Bleu in Sonoma County at ten, and a bookstore in Santa Rosa at one P.M., then Berkeley at seven P.M. Lots of riding in the car.”

  I must have cringed, because she searched my face with concern. “Would you just as soon not do anymore?”

  I thought of that lovely money. With the money Judi was giving me for these four days, I could easily pay my property tax and have a bit left over for the emergency fund. Then I could write next week instead of looking for more temp work.

  “I’ll do it. The worst is probably over.” Even as I said the words, I knew it was a lie. Driving around the Bay Area with Hannah and Naomi, no matter how luxurious the automobile, was going to be awful. But a lot of temp work is awful, and not nearly so well paid.

  “Great.” Judi looked relieved. “Get along, now. Just be there tomorrow before seven A.M. so you can facilitate the radio interview, then herd them around to the other events.”

  The limo was waiting when I stepped out of the FanciFoods store. Judi had called the driver, and he opened the back door with a flourish. I had it all to myself for the forty-five-minute ride to Palo Al
to, and I reveled in every minute. I opened the refrigerator, though I didn’t drink anything for fear that Hannah had counted all the little bottles of wine and booze. I found controls for music, air, even humidity, and played with them all.

  The driver let me off in front of Paul Drake’s house. Both houses on the long lot had come to me, but Paul was buying the house in front; I kept the little cottage in back. My half of the lot was roomy enough for a good-sized garden as well as running space for Barker.

  I could hear Barker; Drake had let him out, and he was charging up and down the fence that separated my house from Drake’s parking area. I went to quiet him.

  He was happy to see me, but no happier than I was to be home. While I petted him and smoothed his black and white fur and kept him from planting his big paws on my shoulders, Drake’s kitchen door opened.

  “So you’re back.” He stood in the doorway, rumpled, his wiry hair standing out around his face, holding his place in a book with one finger. “How was your day as a worker bee?”

  “You wouldn’t believe the half of it.”

  He shivered. “Don’t stand out in the cold. Bring your dog and tell me about it. I saved you some dinner.”

  I opened the gate for Barker, and we hustled into the golden light of Drake’s warm kitchen.

  Chapter 8

  I drove into San Francisco early the next morning with the commuters, instead of taking the train. The train has many advantages, but in case there was more shopping to do, I wanted some transportation. My ‘69 VW bus, called Babe because it was blue and somewhat ox-like in disposition, was actually a great commute car that traveled well at thirty to forty miles an hour. I didn’t have much occasion during my drive to reach its top speed of sixty.

  The sky was still dark when I got to the city. I made my way to Nob Hill, dodging delivery trucks, bike messengers, and homeless people. The entrance to the hotel’s parking garage was guarded by a gnome who peered suspiciously at me and my clunky transportation.

  “Are you a guest? This garage is for guests only.”