A dour-faced man with oil-slicked black hair emerged from the stockroom. He wiped his hands on his long white apron and came forward. “You have heard the news, Miss McCone?” His words were accentuated not so much by his native Arabic tongue as by excessive formality.
“You mean about Molly Antonio? Yes.”
“A terrible thing. A truly terrible thing.” Briefly, he bowed his head, then slipped around me and turned the sign in the window to CLOSED. Locking the door, he added, “I do not wish to speak of such a thing in front of my customers. You would like coffee, perhaps?”
“That sounds good.”
He filled two Styrofoam cups and scrupulously rang up the price, depositing change from his own pocket. I sat on a wooden stool next to the counter, watching him and thinking back to five years ago, when I’d first met Mohammed Makhlouf, or Mr. Moe, as he was called.
The first time I’d ever come into the store, I’d gotten a loaf of bread and approached the counter in time to observe the grocer close in on a neophyte delinquent bent on stealing from the candy jar by the cash register. The would-be offender took one look at Mr. Moe’s deep-set eyes and upraised hand and backed toward the door. In a flurry of arms and legs, he vanished.
“If you frighten them enough, they will learn,” Mr. Moe said. He rang up the bread, made change, and offered me a paper bag, which I declined. As I left, he called out after me:
“Thank you for saving the trees!”
Although on the surface a friendly expression of appreciation from one ecologist to another, the remark — and countless others directed at me over the intervening years — had contained an undertone of mockery, accentuated by a thin smile that never touched his eyes. As time went by, my inability to pinpoint the source of this scorn had filled me with a wary curiosity that persisted to this day.
Now Mr. Moe handed me coffee and leaned against the counter, cup between his slender hands. The store was silent, save for the whir of an overhead fan. After a minute, the grocer asked, “You were at home when they found Mrs. Antonio?”
“I arrived right afterwards. Gus was hysterical, so I identified the body.”
“And why would the police permit a pretty young woman like you to view such a horror?” His characteristic irony colored the words.
“My job makes me tougher than I look. I’m a private detective, with All Souls Legal Cooperative, the legal services plan.”
“A detective?” Something flickered in the pools of the grocer’s eyes and his lids, almost lashless, slid down, lending his face a faintly reptilian cast.
“That’s right.” I watched him closely.
“I did not know.” He set his coffee down untouched and began to straighten some brushes hanging from a display rack beside him. A sign on top of the rack read: THESE PRODUCTS MANUFACTURED AT THE SUNRISE BLIND CENTER... HELP THE BLIND HELP THEMSELVES.
“The morning news said a burglar invaded Mrs. Antonio’s home and killed her,” Mr. Moe went on. “What could she have worth stealing?”
So that was the story the police had given the press. “Not much,” I said. “Did you know her well?”
“I knew her, yes. There are many old ladies like Mrs. Antonio in the neighborhood. They come in here every day. I cash their Social Security checks, extend them credit at the end of the month. We are as close to friends as is possible in a place like this.” His gesture took in all of the Mission District, maybe all of San Francisco.
I asked, “What time did Molly come in here last night?”
His hooded glance slid sidelong toward me. “Why would you think she did?”
“She spilled her bag of groceries, probably when she was attacked. I saw your cash register receipt.”
“I see. Yes.” He left off the brushes and turned to face me, his arms folded across his white-aproned chest. “Miss McCone, I did not mean to be untruthful. I am afraid for my business. That she was here immediately before she was killed—”
“You say immediately before. How do you know when she died?”
His tongue darted out, licking at his dry lips. “That is a figure of speech. Minutes or hours, what is the difference?”
“It could be important. You may have been the last person to see her alive. What time was it?”
“Perhaps seven o’clock. I did not look at the time.”
“How did she seem? Was she in good spirits?”
“She was the same as before.”
“Before?”
“Yes. At five o’clock, she stopped in and asked me to tell Gus to come to her place when he brought Sebastian, the blind brush man, in here. She wanted him to be sure to see her before he returned Sebastian to the Blind Center.” Mr. Moe gestured at the rack. Sebastian, the brush man, lived at the Sunrise Blind Center, a few blocks away. Led by Molly’s husband, Gus, he traveled about the neighborhood restocking the vending racks in various grocery stores. The Center paid Gus a small salary in return for acting as guide.
“Okay. How did she seem then?” I asked.
“She was upset. Agitated. I asked her what was wrong.”
“And?”
“She laughed and tried to make nothing of it. She said she had received an evil prophecy from her fortune teller.”
“Her fortune teller? What on earth?”
“Mrs. Antonio, like many of the foolish old ladies around here, went once a week to a fortune teller. She took it very seriously.”
“For heaven’s sake. Who is this person?”
The grocer hesitated. “Fortune telling is illegal here, so they keep their identities secret. They use flyers and word of mouth, advertising as ‘Madame So-and-so.’ The city is full of these prophetesses and faith healers.”
“And you don’t know which one Molly went to?”
Again he hesitated. I sensed he wanted to protect the fortune teller. “No,” he said. “Surely you don’t think a prophecy killed Mrs. Antonio?”
“Of course not. But it’s interesting. I never would have taken Molly for a superstitious woman. She seemed so down-to-earth.”
A rapping at the door broke the silence. The grocer went over and opened it, turning the sign back around. Two truckers from the Produce Terminal stood there, eager to make their deliveries.
I tossed my empty coffee cup in the trash can and stood up. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Moe.” My voice sounded thin and evasive.
“Yes?”
“Do you know my friend, Linnea Carraway? She’s about five-three, with long blond hair.”
“The lady who buys all the wine.” His face was a polite blank.
“Yes, that’s the one. Was she in yesterday?” Since Linnea had drunk wine last night, rather than the Scotch she preferred, she’d probably bought it locally. The stores in the surrounding blocks only stocked beer and wine.
“Yes,” Mr. Moe replied. “She bought some wine immediately before Mrs. Antonio arrived. In fact, Mrs. Antonio scolded her for it. She told her to run along home and she’d stop in later for a chat.”
I stood, staring at him.
“Is that all, Miss McCone? I have a great deal of work to do.”
“Oh, of course. Thank you for your time.”
I threaded my way through the deliverymen and crates on the sidewalk, thinking I would need to have a chat with Linnea, too. As I reached the curb, I spotted Greg Marcus on the opposite corner. He waved and came toward me, jaunty in his blue pin-striped suit. We met in the center of the street.
“Looks like you’re ahead of me, papoose. Find out anything interesting?”
“Me?” I widened my eyes, miming innocence. “All I did was have a cup of coffee.”