CHAPTER TWO: Across the Bay
No one needs to issue lunch invitations twice to Maggie Fiori. Not to mention dangling a big, serious, and — okay — moral story.
By eleven thirty, with visions of a congratulatory letter from the Pulitzer Committee and a really good lunch as motivation, I had knocked out a first draft of the lox piece, given instructions to Anya about starting dinner and retrieving the boys at school, and cleared up the worst of the kitchen clutter.
Quentin prompted a woman to rise to the occasion. The denim skirt was gone, replaced by a gabardine suit, silk shirt, pearls, and the little brown derby Quentin liked so well. I surveyed myself in the mirror. "Maggie," I said, rearranging an undisciplined red curl under the derby, "you may feel like a suburban matron, but you put together a damn fine masquerade."
The feeling of fashion-forward well-being lasted until I opened the garage. The Fiori family owns matching turbocharged Volvo station wagons. So I had my choice of station wagon or station wagon, red or blue, but that was it. Today, Michael had left me the blue one, looking wholesome and cheerful underneath its battle scars of dents and grime.
Oh well, I thought, at least these things can move, and putting suede pump pedal to the metal, I whisked down MacArthur, onto the freeway, across the Bay Bridge, and into the City. Out Broadway, past the strip joints, past Chinatown, and then into the Broadway Tunnel and beyond, sweeping across Van Ness and up the hill into Pacific Heights. My favorite view in San Francisco comes at the corner of Broadway and Fillmore. Just past the block of exclusive private schools that educate the children of the privileged into a lifetime of noblesse oblige, the view waits. From the corner of Fillmore and Broadway you see: a precipitous descent into the Marina and the Bay, with boats snuggled close to the St. Francis Yacht Club, and the Bridge — the one and only, graceful and gleaming — the Golden Gate linking San Francisco with Marin County.
Quentin's no fool, I thought for the hundredth time, living here. For Quentin's flat, one of two in a meticulously restored Victorian, commanded th at same view.
But the neighborhood has its drawbacks. Parking within three blocks of Quentin's flat could drive a person to desperation. Fully half my annual quota of parking tickets (a cost of living in the Greater Bay Area) came from throwing in the vehicular towel and, after countless circles around Quentin's block, parking in whatever illegal spot I could find. Driveways, fire hydrants, bus zones; you name it. I am pleased to report, however, that I always steer clear of disabled parking spaces. It seems like a bad example to set for the boys, and I didn’t want it coming up in their “it’s all my mother’s fault” therapy fifteen years hence.
It was twelve fifteen and I was late. Quentin considered lateness in the same light he considered social diseases — an unforgivable lapse in manners. Still, I was getting my excuses in order. Quentin had promised on the phone to put his aged-but-perfect little Audi in his perfect little garage and leave me his driveway space. He must have forgotten, I thought. There sat his car in the driveway.
Live dangerously, I thought, as I trotted up the steps to the tiny porch in front of the doorways to the two flats. Life passes the conservative and cautious right on by. I'd acted on that philosophy. Since Quentin had so thoughtlessly co-opted his own driveway, I decided to go ahead and block him. Of course, the police had been known to put people away for eight to ten to punish lesser offenses, but I trusted Quentin and I could be in and out of his flat and we on our way to lunch before any of San Francisco's finest discovered my transgression.
Two rings on the bell. No answer. Some raps on the door. No answer. "Quentin," I called. "It's Maggie." No answer.
He's gone, I thought. This is what happens when you're late to lunch with Quentin. "Quentin!" I tried again. "It's Maggie. Come on, I'm just fifteen minutes late and it's not even my fault," I could hear the whine in my voice, and stamped my foot in frustration. Very adult.
"He's not there, Maggie dear. Don't yell. It just wastes your instrument."
I whirled, embarrassed to be caught mid-tantrum. Quentin's downstairs neighbor was standing in her doorway.
"My instrument?" I asked the kimono-ed figure who confronted me.
"Your voice, darling, your voice," she explained patiently. "It's terrible to shriek. You mustn't, mustn't do it."
Madame DeBurgos (or DeBurger, as Michael likes to say in recognition of her generous proportions) was a retired operatic star. A minor diva, to be sure, but she had, in her time, sung roles in many of the major opera houses in Europe. We'd heard about "her time" each and every year at Quentin's Christmas party, which Madame DeBurgos always attended in one bejeweled extravaganza or another. She and Quentin and Claire had been neighbors for more than fifteen years.
"What do you mean, Quentin's gone? Did you see him go out? We had a lunch date."
"No, cherie, I didn't see him go out. But, I heard him. My, my, I heard him." She broke off, looking smug and mysterious, patting the elaborate concoction into which she’d spun her improbably-colored hair that morning.
I was getting impatient. "What do you mean? You heard him leave?"
"Well, I can't be certain," she hesitated.
"Oh, Madame, try." She looked as if she might waver. "If you know something, you should tell me. I'm really feeling cranky with Quentin right now."
"Well," she began with obvious relish. "You know, Quentin is such a considerate neighbor. I hardly hear a peep out of him. But, this morning — such a noise. First, his stereo was turned up — my dear, I thought I might be deafened. Such a noise! And, such music! It must have been — whatever is that strange young man's name?"
"Stuart Levesque," I supplied, beginning to feel nervous. I had an all-too-clear mental picture of Quentin popping out onto their shared porch any moment, finding me deep in speculation about his private life with Madame DeBurger.
"Yes, Stuart, that's it. Anyway, this dreadful noise was shaking the building. It stopped a little later, and I assumed Quentin had returned from walking Nuke and ordered Stuart to cease and desist that racket." She fluttered her hand in the air; half a papal wave, half an imperial order.
Nuke was Quentin's terrier mutt, a preternaturally ugly little creature Quentin had named for what he assumed would happen to our species if a nuclear device were exploded at the corner of Broadway and Laguna. "We'd all end up looking like Nuke," he said. Despite Nuke's lack of visual appeal, Quentin was devoted to the dog and faithfully walked him each morning and evening.
"So, you heard him go out after that?" I asked.
"Goodness, no," she said. "Then I heard — well, I heard the most awful quarrel. Such shouting and noises!"
"What was it about?"
"Maggie, dear!" She looked shocked. "Would I eavesdrop? However would I know what it was about?"
"I'm sorry. Of course not," I muttered.
"Then I heard the door slam, and that was that."
"Perhaps Stuart went out," I suggested.
"No, my dear. It must have been Quentin. Because shortly after the door slammed, that dreadful music began again. Now, you know Quentin wouldn't put that on."
"Well," I said, peering into the etched-glass panel on the door. "Then Stuart must be home."
"I should think so," said Madame. "I haven't heard music for a bit, but I haven't heard the door slam, either."
I rapped again. "Stuart," I called. "I t's Maggie. Open up."
No answer. "I'll just leave Quentin a note," I said, rummaging in my bag. The only paper that came to hand was a book of deposit slips. I noted that Zach had already decorated them with rockets and monsters. "Madame, could I possibly borrow a piece of notepaper?" I asked.
"Of course, my dear. I'll run and get you something." With that, Madame gathered her Cio-Cio-San-themed kimono around her and disappeared inside the door to her flat. I stood at Quentin's door. Damn Quentin! Damn lunch! And damn climbing into these clothes for nothing!
As I fumed, I reached out to give Quentin's doorknob an angry rattle.
It didn't rattle; it turned. Careless man. First, he forgets lunch dates, then he leaves the door unlocked. I pushed open the door and called, "Quentin? Stuart?"
The door opened onto a staircase that led into a tiled entryway. I climbed the stairs, expecting Quentin or Stuart to appear any moment. Not a sound. Just Quentin's pristine flat: all white walls, Berber carpets, netsuke, books, Japanese brush paintings. Michael always said, "If it gets any more serene in here, Quentin can sublet to Zen monks."
And that's the first thing I noticed that fall morning, with Madame DeBurgos caroling at me from the doorway. "Maggie, I've fetched you some notepaper!"
What I noticed was this: Quentin's apartment wasn't so pristine any more. And, though I still couldn't hear a sound but Madame's labored breath as she puffed up Quentin’s stairs, it wasn't so ser ene either.
A dead body in the living room cuts into your serenity something fierce.
