Marcia Muller
Ask the Cards a Question
For Sue Dunlap
1
I circled the block in my noisy old MG, senses alert and ready for action. Nothing.
Another block, and still another. My frustration deepened. I’d give anything for... a parking space!
With a clash of gears, the car and I hurtled backwards into the spot. At last, after five hours overtime and a twenty-five minute search for this space, I was free to walk four and a half blocks through the darkness to my apartment.
Still, it wasn’t a bad night for a walk. San Francisco weather was unpredictable in April, but this year we had had sun-washed days and mild evenings. I strolled toward Guerrero Street, the breeze banishing my aggravation.
Around the corner, red lights pulsated, their waves shattering the darkness. I stopped outside their range. Police cars. Crowds of onlookers. In front of my building. Panic shot through me, and I ran.
Linnea, I thought. Linnea. Shouldn’t have left her alone so long. Talked about suicide... a lot... since the divorce... all her drinking... God knows what kind of pills... my best friend... comes to me for help... I leave her alone... in there... drinking... day after day.
The crowd seemed a solid mass. I pushed through.
“Hey, lady, don’t shove!”
“What’s happened in there? What’s happened?”
“Somebody died.”
“Dead body.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Hey, quit shoving!”
Sternly, a young patrolman barred my way. “Sorry, ma’am. You can’t go in there.”
I sidestepped, but he blocked me.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he repeated.
“I live here, dammit!”
Confused, he hesitated. I ran up the steps to the lobby.
A crowd of residents milled about, two more uniformed officers holding them at bay from the stairway. Immediately I glanced at the door of my first-floor rear apartment. It was closed, and no light shone through the pebbled-glass panes.
A bulky figure loomed in front of the table near the stairway. Tim O’Riley, the building manager. In the dim rays of the lobby chandelier, Tim’s normally ruddy face was ashen, and his mouth hung slack. His thick fingers, unaccustomed to being without a can of beer, played nervously with the heap of advertising circulars and junk mail on the table.
I put my hand on his arm.
“Tim, what’s going on?”
He started. “Oh, it’s you. Jeez, Sharon, something awful’s happened.”
“I know. Someone died. Who?”
“Mrs. Antonio.” His puffy face twisted with grief.
So my friend was all right! And this was death of natural causes. Molly Antonio, one of the second-floor tenants, was in her sixties and had a history of heart trouble. “Heart attack, huh?”
Tim shook his head and passed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. “Worse. Lots worse. Somebody killed her.”
“Good Lord!” I spun around, almost colliding with one of the patrolmen. “Who’s in charge here?” I demanded.
He stared impassively at me. Older and more seasoned than the first officer, he was not about to let a pushy woman bother him. “We’ll get to you people in a while.”
“Terrific.” I turned back to Tim and, lowering my voice, asked, “Have you seen Linnea?”
“Not for a few hours.” He looked at his watch. “Last I saw her, she was lugging this big jug of wine into your apartment. That was maybe around five. Then the stereo started playing real loud — you know how she’ll do that — but it’s been quiet for probably an hour. She must be stinko by now.”
“Thank God.”
Tim looked shocked. I had to admit it was an odd reaction to my friend drinking herself into oblivion.
“What I mean is that she’s been spared all this.” I gestured around the lobby. “Molly Antonio was particularly kind to her. Linnea’s going to take her death hard.”
Tim nodded sagely. “And if she was conscious, she’d be having hysterics all over the place.”
I didn’t want to talk about my friend’s nervous breakdown just now. “One thing you can do for me, Tim.”
“Sure.”
“Unless the police ask, don’t tell them she’s staying with me. They’d insist on waking her up, and...”
“I get it.”
“Thanks.” I pressed his arm and turned back, determined to find out who was in charge.
Again the patrolman blocked me, looking more bored than annoyed. “Ma’am, you will just have to wait.”
I was formulating a statement that would produce results when a big man in a tan trenchcoat appeared on the stairway. Lieutenant Greg Marcus, of the SFPD Homicide Squad. He loped down the steps, casually brushing his blond hair from his forehead.
“Greg,” I called.
He didn’t hear me.
“Gregory!”
The patrolman’s eyes widened. Normal citizens didn’t screech in such a manner at Homicide detectives.
Greg whirled. “Sharon!” He hurried over and slipped his arm around my shoulders. The patrolman sighed resignedly and turned away.
“I’m ashamed of you,” Greg said. “A murder happens in your very own building, and when I arrive on the scene, you’re not even home. You did just get here, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s pretty slipshod of you. A truly dedicated private eye would have found the body herself.”
I smiled weakly, feeling drained.
“Hey, what’s happened to the old McCone bravado?” Greg asked. “You’re not letting a little murder and mayhem shake you?”
I knew the men on Homicide were hardened characters and that jokes were not uncommon at the crime scene, but such behavior didn’t fit with my conception of Greg. My face must have reflected the thought, because he sobered instantly.
“Sorry. It’s the only way I can keep the job from getting to me,” he said. “Was the victim a friend of yours?”
“You could say she was a friend to everyone who lives here.” It was true. In this highly transient and impersonal building in the Mission District, Molly was the one who baked cookies at Christmas, watered plants for vacationing tenants, and took in packages from the postman so they wouldn’t be stolen. She, along with a handful of others, brought warmth to an urban life that was too often chilled by indifference, hostility, and crime. I would miss her.
“Well, right now I can use your help.” Greg’s arm tightened around my shoulders, and he led me toward the stairs.
“Wait a minute. Where are we going?”
“I need an ID on the body from someone who’s reasonably sane and sober. The husband’s hysterical, the manager’s a boozer, and most of your fellow tenants don’t look any too straight either. So, papoose, it’s up to you.”
“Oh, great.” I grimaced — both at the nickname, which was Greg’s tribute to my one-eighth American Indian ancestry, and at the task ahead. We started for the stairs. “Did Gus find her?”
“The husband? Yes. Around eleven, when he came back from playing dominoes at the corner bar.”
“Ellen T’s,” I said mechanically.
“Right. He fell apart, and we had to call a doctor — they’re in the manager’s apartment.” Greg stopped on the landing and leaned against the wall. His dark-blond eyebrows were drawn together in displeasure, and the shadows elongated his face. “Sharon, there’s something strange about this setup.”
“What do you mean?”
“The husband — Gus — keeps raving about how he always comes here for coffee and cake — before going home.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “I guess it would sound odd if you didn’t know them. Gus is — was — married to Molly, but she couldn’t stand to live with him. So, for the past five years, he’s had his own place up the hill on Twenty-second Street, but he eats all his meals with Molly and comes over every night for a snack when he finishes his domino game.”