Authors: Linda Lee Peterson
Edited to Death (25 page)
“He said, ‘isn’t this cozy?’” I interpreted, and gave Michael a gentle nudge under
the table.
Painful small talk, a review of the almost incomprehensible menu, and our first course
followed.
Uncle Alf, with a few Scotch rocks in him, had reached that happy glazed state he
found so reassuring. He lifted his glass and said, “I propose a toast.”
The table fell silent. Michael and I warily lifted our glasses. Claire looked bored
and raised her martini a centimeter off the table’s surface.
“To Maggie,” said Uncle Alf. “She’s doing a helluva job over at the magazine. Keeping
the place running, keeping the natives un-restless. Good show, Maggie.”
I mumbled my thanks, we all sipped, and returned to our highly decorated plates. Michael
began unrolling a piece of endive that had been coaxed into an unnatural shape. Information,
I thought to myself, that’s all I can possibly salvage from this evening.
“So tell me, Claire,” I said, “all about Skunkworks. I hear you’re on the board. And,
of course,” I smiled at her, “Quentin mentioned to me that the Cock of the Walk opening
was a benefit for your group.”
Claire regarded me with a flicker of interest. “I didn’t know you kept up with such
things.”
“Such things?” I asked. “You mean, AIDS groups? Actually, I do try to keep up.”
Claire speared a white asparagus and nibbled the end. She said, “Oh, I meant boards
and things like that. I didn’t think that kind of news actually drifted across the
Bay to Oakland.”
“Yes, we’ve got our little crystal set tuned to High Society-Free America,” said Michael.
“Well,” I persisted, “the Skunkworks isn’t exactly the Symphony or the Opera, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” Claire said tartly. “But I’m very proud of what we do.”
“Wonderful work, wonderful work,” mumbled Alf, draining his third or fourth drink.
“So tell me about it, Claire,” I said. “I’m really interested. You know, Quentin had
talked to me about doing a story on that benefit.”
“Did he?” asked Claire, narrowing her eyes. “Wasn’t that lovely of him?”
“It was,” I responded.
Silence fell again. This was not going well. “Okay,” I prompted, “I know you all help
fund research for drugs that aren’t far enough along in the FDA pipeline. Isn’t that
right?”
“Yes,” she said. “We all know the FDA is much, much too slow in moving drugs along.”
“Point of fact,” interrupted Michael, “I believe they’re doing a little better these
days, especially for AIDS drugs. That’s part of what ACT UP helped push. They’ve got
several drugs on fast tracks, and they’re making them available on a limited basis
to AIDS patients who meet certain criteria. After clinical trials, before final approval.”
Claire looked nonplussed. “You sound quite knowledgeable.”
Michael sipped his wine. “Two of my clients are the nonprofit foundations of pharmaceutical
companies. I try to keep up. With a wife in those fast-moving media circles, I’ve
got to be more than a pretty face, you know.” He patted my hand.
“So then, Claire,” I continued. “The money you raise goes to what? Research grants?”
“Absolutely,” she said, snapping her lighter open and closed again. “Well, some of
it. The rest goes to individuals.”
“Individuals?” Michael inquired.
“Yes, yes,” she said blithely. “People who can’t get into trials.”
“How interesting,” Michael said. “And how does it get distributed?”
Claire looked impatient. “There’s a committee. John Orlando, the fellow who owns Cock
of the Walk, is on the committee. Along with some others. You’re both very welcome
to review our bylaws.”
“I wasn’t questioning your motives,” I said “I was just wondering, just curious.”
Uncle Alf came to for a minute. “And that’s what killed the cat, isn’t it?”
He laughed.
Silence fell again.
“Well,” Claire said briskly, “I imagine that story is moot, isn’t it? The benefit’s
long gone, as is Quentin, of course, so you’ll just have to find some other little
social do to cover, won’t you?”
“Well,” Michael protested, “I don’t think Maggie was planning to cover this as a social
notes story.”
I gave Michael another gentle kick.
“Really?” asked Claire. “What did you have in mind, then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I was going to meet Quentin the day he died. We
were going to talk about a story angle. I thought you could help me out on that?”
Claire sighed. “Sorry. No idea; I simply thought Quentin was doing the right thing
and giving us a little publicity.”
“
Do the Right Thing
,” said Alf, drifting into the conversation again. “Isn’t that the movie by that colored
fella, Lee Spike, Spike Jones, something like that? All the rage a few years back?”
Michael gave me his most innocent look. “Don’t think you’ve got that quite right,
Alf. But you might want to put that question to Maggie’s friend Calvin next time you
see him.”
“Oh, actual filmmaker, is he?” asked Alf.
“No,” said Michael. “Actual colored person.”
The dessert cart came and went. It was actually a highly anodized wheelbarrow with
pedestals spiraling from its bed, each holding an intricately engineered concoction,
heavy on cloudberries and light on chocolate. We all passed.
“Looks just like the one I use to haul chicken manure around the backyard,” observed
Michael.
“Funny people, Claire,” said Alf. She ignored him. “Damn fine senses of humor. Keeps
things moving merrily along, I s’pose.”
“Very merry,” said Michael. “The fun never stops at our house.”
Over coffee, Alf got down to business. He and the Witch-Woman were pleased with what
I was doing at the magazine. Would I be willing to stay on for another six months?
I took a deep breath and said precisely the right thing. “Oh, thank you so much. Michael
and I will need to discuss that first.”
“In a merry, merry way, of course,” said Michael, very solemnly.
Claire rolled her eyes.
“May I get back to you?” I asked sweetly.
“Of course, of course,” said Alf. “Don’t wait too long, though.” He waved for the
check. Meanwhile, Claire was scanning the room looking for someone, anyone more interesting
than the present company. Bingo! Her eyes lit up, and she waggled her fingers in the
air. Across the room, John Orlando waved back and headed over to the table.
He and Claire air-kissed, both cheeks, very European, he shook hands with Alf and
Michael, then turned to me.
“Mrs. Fiori, out celebrating an anniversary on the new job?” he asked dryly.
I smiled, “Something like that. I’m surprised to see you here. Who’s running the show
over at your place?”
“Busman’s holiday,” he said, “got to see what the competition is up to. Research,
you know.”
“Must get expensive,” I said, “all this dining out. Guess the restaurant business
must be very lucrative.”
“Maggie,” chided Michael, turning to Orlando. “You’ll have to forgive my wife. Once
a journalist, always a journalist, ask anybody anything.”
Orlando smiled. “Quite all right. Quite. Yes, well, this is a restaurant town, isn’t
it?” He gestured around the room. “Fortunately, there seems to be more than enough
business to go around.” He bent and air-kissed Claire again. “Must run, must get back
to my own little lunchroom.” He looked pointedly at me. “’Fraid the new regime isn’t
tip-top market for my artwork, so I’ve got to grind out my living at the restaurant
trough.”
“I’m sure we’ll find a way to work together in the future,” I said stiffly.
“Yes, well, mustn’t put all the eggs in one hopeful little basket,” he said. Gestured
at the table. “Lovely to see you all.”
“Didn’t follow all that, did you?” asked Alf, after he’d gone.
It seemed best not to explain. We thanked Alf and Claire for dinner and headed out
to redeem our beat-up stationwagon from the contemptuous young valet.
On the way home, Michael suggested I say yes to Alf and Claire’s offer to extend my
employment.
“Really?” I asked. “You think it’s okay?”
“I think it’s great,” he said. “Keeps you too busy to play amateur detective, cuts
down on the time you have to ask people nosy questions. Plus, there doesn’t seem to
be anyone else on that staff for you to have an affair with.”
I started to protest.
“Just joking,” he said. “But, you know, I actually think it’s making the boys a tiny
bit more independent, and Anya a little more competent. Takes her mind off that perpetually
broken heart. And if it’s making you happy.…”
And I realized it was. I liked the routine, I liked the people, I liked the sense
of accomplishment of moving from one issue to the next. “It is,” I said. “It surprises
me, but it is.”
“And very little time to play detective?”
I was silent.
“Maggie, why can’t you leave this alone?”
“Because I keep thinking that I can put this together and make it all go away.”
“Oh, that’s not arrogant, is it?”
“Well, yes, it is. On the other hand, I was there! And the truth of the matter is,
the cops haven’t figured it out, so I don’t think they have much to feel arrogant
about either.”
“I can’t forbid you.”
I snorted, “You certainly can’t.”
“But I can ask you in the strongest possible terms to think about what you’re doing.
Think about the kids and think about me. And then it’s up to you.”
“Thank you,” I said meekly. “I’m being very careful, I’m really just passing along
anything I figure out to John Moon.”
“Well, here’s the good news in all this,” said Michael. “With your new job, I think
you’ll continue to feel conflicted and guilty, and you’re just Jewish enough to make
that up to us by cooking better dinners, and keeping Anya out of the kitchen. So I
say we may all come out ahead.” He turned back to the road, humming a little under
his breath.
“Michael, is something up with you?” I asked.
“Why?”
“You’re way too easy about this.”
He shook his head. “For a smart girl, you can be so, so dumb. I don’t care if you
want to work at the magazine. I never cared if you wanted to go out and be a captain
of industry. I just wish you’d talked to me before.”
“Before Quentin,” I said.
“Yeah. Before him. But what’s done is done. And the son of a bitch is dead and gone.
I want to trust you; it’s now abundantly clear to me that I can’t unless you’re happy.
And if working at
Small Town
, in Quentin’s old job, makes you happy—and too busy to get into trouble—then I’m
happy. QED.”
“How lawyerly,” I said.
“Yes, well, that can’t be a big surprise to you, can it? Frankly, I’d prefer for Quentin
and anything that had anything to do with him to vanish off the face of the earth.”
“I’m really sorry—” I began.
“Enough, Maggie. I know you are. And I’m almost getting used to the cops showing up
at my office to ask questions from time to time,” he said bitterly. “My poor protective
secretary keeps telling everyone that all these guys are potential new squash partners.
Oh, one thing I should mention.…”
“What?”
“It’s not a big deal, at least not to me.”
“Michael, what is it?”
“The senior partners have asked me to step down from the management committee. At
least until the murder investigation is over.”
How much more wretched could I feel? “I’m so sorry,” I began.
“Maggie, don’t bother. I don’t care. It’s one less thing to worry about.”
Silence fell in the car. Then Michael spoke. “So I’m very motivated to keep you busy
and out of mischief. I’d prefer not to put any of us through this again. Ever.”
Maybe I can make it all go away, I thought to myself.
“Are you listening to me, Maggie?” Michael said.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I heard every word you said.”
The weeks sped by. The sycamores and birches in our front yard were completely denuded,
the kids had celebrated Halloween and were recovered from their sugar rush. The home
magazines were featuring photographs of brown and glistening turkeys, exhorting us
drop-out Martha Stewarts that our lives would be richer, more complete, if we grew,
harvested, shelled, and roasted our own chestnuts for the stuffing.
At work, as Michael had observed, I was genuinely enjoying the rhythm of getting out
the magazine. Glen and Gertie knew everything there was to know about the production
side, but that left me presiding over the unruly group of writers who gave
Small Town
its voice. Thinking about story angles, chasing deadlines, and showing up for periodic
reviews with the alcohol-addled Uncle Alf pretty much drove detecting out of my everyday
consciousness. Quentin, on the other hand, was still omnipresent. I felt him in the
room with me, watching me at his desk. Would he be glad I was there, or tsk-tsk over
some lame decision I made?