Obsession, Deceit And Really Dark Chocolate

“Are you saying you want to hire him?”

“I want to find out what happened to my husband, but I don’t want people to know that I’ve enlisted a detective outside the police department. This whole thing is getting enough publicity without making things worse.”

“Ah, right. The thing is, Anatoly’s really expensive. For a case like this he’d charge you at least ten thousand dollars.” I wasn’t exactly lying. Anatoly had quoted that price to me before. Of course that was only because he was trying to piss me off.

Melanie’s eyes fluttered at the figure. “He must be very good at what he does.” She nodded resolutely. “I’ll pay it.”

“Really?” Note to self, those who possess American Express Platinum Cards cannot be scared away by high prices. “But…um…I don’t think Anatoly’s available.”

“I see.” Her disappointment was palpable. I should have probably just put her in touch with Anatoly. No doubt he’d take the case and I could stay out of the whole thing. But for some reason I didn’t really believe that. I was the one who found Eugene. He’d want to talk to me about that. In fact he’d probably spend a lot of time questioning me, coaxing me to go over every detail and nuance. One thing would lead to another and before you knew it I’d be cuddled up in bed with my commitment-phobic Russian love god, sipping espresso. I just couldn’t go there again.

“Maybe you don’t need a detective,” I suggested. “Maybe you just need someone trustworthy who’s sneaky, good at networking and knows how to craft well-worded, probing questions.”

“Someone sneaky?” I could hear the hope creeping back into her voice. “You?”

“And good at networking,” I said a bit defensively. “I could talk to a few people…just try to get a sense of whether or not your fears are founded. If they are, then we could call a P.I. to do some more digging. But if Eugene’s problems can be explained by the typical stresses of working on a campaign then you’ll leave it to the police to find the person responsible for what happened.”

“So this would be a preliminary investigation…a fact-finding expedition, as it were?”

“Exactly.”

Melanie nodded slowly. “I suppose we could do that. Are you up for it?”

I hesitated and thought about what exactly I was up for. A couple of years ago the very idea of using the amateur sleuth tactics I wrote about in my novels in a real-life situation would have been laughable. But within the past few years I had been stalked by a serial killer and my sister’s husband had been killed. I had been instrumental in solving both crimes and I got some satisfaction out of knowing I helped. Furthermore, solving crimes was often a rather enjoyable activity. Kind of like playing Clue with live psychotic actors. Well okay, it wasn’t a lot of fun when people were trying to kill you, but the rest of it wasn’t so bad. Plus, for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I felt compelled to help Melanie with this. Logic told me that Eugene’s death was probably a random act of violence. If that was the case I could talk to a few of his co-workers, tell Melanie she was imagining things and leave it at that. Melanie could rest easy and I would never have to talk to Anatoly again. That was a good thing. I nodded eagerly. “I’m up for it.”

Melanie offered me a shaky smile. “Very well. Should we start the questioning now?”

“You mean of you?”

“Yes. I assume there’s information that you’ll need from me.”

“Um, yeah…okay.” I quickly tried to formulate a few passably intelligent questions. “Who was Eugene closest to on the campaign?”

“I’m not sure I know the answer to that. He was very close to Flynn Fitzgerald, perhaps more so than most of the other strategists and consultants. Fitzgerald’s media consultant, Maggie Gallagher, was a friend. We had her and her husband over for dinner a few times. Eugene was also an old family friend of Fitzgerald’s top political strategist, Rick Wilkes.”

“Had he complained about any problems at work?”

“No. Well, he was frustrated that Anne Brooke is always neck and neck with Fitzgerald in the polls. Considering her character, she should be trailing far behind by now.”

I took a deep breath. A lot of very unpleasant information had come out about Anne Brooke since she announced her bid for Congress. And if the Republicans had run someone who was a moderate, Brooke’s career would have been political toast. But the Republicans had given their endorsement to Flynn Fitzgerald, a man who was just to the right of Pat Robertson. Although Contra Costa County citizens were definitely more conservative than their Bay Area neighbors, they were understandably reluctant to vote for a man who had blamed single mothers and “queers” for the downfall of our society. Unless Brooke was caught making out with Fidel Castro, she could probably prevent Fitzgerald from getting a double-digit lead on her.

“Anything else?” I asked. “Was he having problems with any of his coworkers? Or anyone at all, for that matter?”

Melanie shook her head. “Eugene was opinionated, and that sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, but in the end most found that he had a good heart. He had a subtle charm that tended to transcend political differences.”

I smiled slightly. I had been exposed to some of that charm. It had been nice to meet a man who had really believed in something, even if his beliefs differed from mine.

“Tell you what,” I said as I pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll find a way to talk to some of the people he saw or worked with regularly and see if I can find out anything.”

Melanie swallowed hard and looked up at me from her seat. “Do you want me to introduce you to anyone? Because—”

“You don’t want people to know that you’re looking into Eugene’s death…or rather his life,” I finished for her. “No, I don’t need introductions, but if anyone in his circle invites you to a social event and you can find a way of bringing me along without it looking suspicious, give me a ring.”

Melanie f lashed me a relieved smile. “I can do that.” She got up and walked me to the door but hesitated before opening it. “There’s one more thing I was hoping you could help me with.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

“I just wanted to know what—” Her voice caught and she looked down at the floor. “What were Eugene’s last words?”

There were two ways to go with this. I could tell her the truth, that her husband’s last words had been “Goddamn furry shit,” (which was either evidence of the fact that he was completely delirious or that he truly had a problem with sponges that wore pants) or I could lie.

“Tell Melanie I love her,” I said confidently. “His last words were tell Melanie I love her.”

“Really? But wait…” Melanie’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Are you sure he said Melanie?”

“You really need to get over this jealousy thing. He wasn’t cheating.”

“I know, I know,” she said quickly. “It’s just that he so rarely called me Melanie. He always referred to me by my pet name.”

I swallowed and looked away. “Well, it was kind of a stressful moment, I could have misheard him. What’s his pet name for you?”

“Curly. He loved my curls.” She held up a lock of wavy hair that would have been f lat as a board without the help of her stylist.

“I’m sure that’s what he said. There was a lot to take in at that moment.”

For instance, I could have heard “furry” when in fact what he said was “curly.” My mentor and former professor could be a Goddamn curly shit.

I popped in the latest Gorillaz CD and turned over in my mind all the things I had just learned, which wasn’t a lot. With traffic it took me over an hour to get back to San Francisco. Even if I had misheard Eugene, it didn’t mean anything other than that he was in pain, delirious and pissed off at his wife. (Melanie wasn’t capable of violence.) Besides, I was ninety percent sure that I did hear him correctly. Eugene had been cursing someone named Furry. Which, of course, raised another question: was Eugene the adulterous type after all? Wasn’t it possible that someone who was dorky enough to call his naturally straight-haired wife “Curly” might also be dorky enough to call his mistress “Furry”?

But what kind of woman would sleep with a man who called her Furry? No, Eugene had to have been delirious. It didn’t really matter; this entire mess was much ado about nothing. I decided to shelve the whole thing until tomorrow and spend this time on more productive activities like cursing at the traffic.

My cell phone rang just as I was contemplating the best way to stir up a little road rage.

“C’est Sophie.”

“Hello, Sophie, it’s Melanie. I just thought of a social event that you could attend where you would meet almost all of Eugene’s friends and coworkers.”

“And what would that be?”

“His funeral.”

I felt the beginnings of another headache coming on. “Melanie, I can’t interrogate people at a funeral.”

“Of course not. I just thought you might be able to meet a few people and make connections. If someone happens to volunteer something useful you can pursue it at a later date.”

Gee, that sounded like great fun. Melanie would be busy receiving all of Eugene’s friends while I walked around by myself trying to initiate conversations with grieving strangers.

“If I come I want to bring a friend…actually, I want to bring Leah.” My sister was one of maybe ten Republicans who actually lived in San Francisco. If nothing else she’d be able to help me come up with topics of conversation that would play well with the politicians Eugene used to hang with.

“Then bring Leah,” Melanie said. “But…do you think she’ll be comfortable standing quietly by your side while you ask people about Eugene?”

I tried to imagine Leah doing anything quietly. “I’ll bring my friend Mary Ann, too. That way Leah will have someone to complain—I mean talk to, no matter what.”

“I think I met Mary Ann once. Is she the pretty girl with the long curly hair?”

“That’s her.”

“Very well, bring them both. And Sophie?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

I smiled and beeped at the idiot who had just cut me off. How many times had I said those words to Melanie? I owed her a lot, but I was fairly sure that when this was over we would finally be settled up.

3

I would rather burn in the fires of hell than spend eternity in heaven listening to a bunch of religious zealots say I told you so.

—C’est La Mort

It was like a black-and-gray sea of St. John and Brooks Brothers suits. I looked down at my own dark brown Old Navy dress as Mary Ann, Leah and I found seats in one of the rows toward the front, and then eyed their designer black dresses with undisguised resentment. “I thought you said earth tones were the new black when it came to mourning.”

“They are,” Mary Ann said slowly, “but being in mourning and attending a funeral are different things.”

“Oh?” I regarded her skeptically. “Don’t people come to funerals to mourn?”

“Really, Sophie.” Leah let out an exasperated sigh. “People mourn on their own time. They come to funerals to get credit for mourning. There’s a huge difference.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”

“I didn’t expect them to have an open casket,” Mary Ann whispered. “Gosh, it’s so sad,” she added, tugging at the ends of her hair. “And look, they put way too much blush on him.”

“Is anyone sitting here?” I looked up to see two men, both wearing the prerequisite gray suit. The one who had spoken was probably in his late thirties and was smiling down at Mary Ann. Or at least his mouth was smiling. His eyes were far too red to twinkle. He seemed fairly calm at the moment, so I wasn’t sure if the redness was due to a morning of crying or a night full of drinking. Still, he was cute in a teddy bear kind of way. His hairline was receding but he had a healthy tan that hinted at a love for the outdoors and a pug nose that automatically gave him a youthful air, despite his conservative attire. The other man was younger, taller and maybe in his mid-twenties. His dishwater-blond hair was cut a little too short for his round face and he was fidgeting with the knot in his tie in a way that made me think he wasn’t accustomed to wearing one.

Mary Ann scooted over enough to make room for them. The older man nodded his appreciation and slid in first; the younger sat at the aisle and pulled out the prayer book in front of him.

“I’m Rick,” the older said, presumably addressing all of us, although I noticed that his gaze lingered a little longer on Mary Ann. “And this is Johnny.”

“Hi there!” Johnny chirped, then immediately looked a little abashed as if his tone had been too cheerful for the occasion.

“I’m Mary Ann,” she said, “and this is Sophie and her sister Leah.”

“Sophie…” Johnny looked at me and his eyes widened with recognition. “You’re that novelist…the one who found him!”

“Yes, that’s me.”

Rick did a quick double take while Johnny kept talking. “It must have been horrible. The newspaper said you didn’t see the crime actually happen, but surely you must have seen something, the make of the car driving away, perhaps? It doesn’t seem possible that someone could do something like this and not leave any evidence behind.”

“Probably not, but if there was an eyewitness it wasn’t me.”

“So it’s true, all you really saw was Eugene,” he said glumly. He looked like a kid who had just been forced to witness a Harry Potter book burning.

“I can’t imagine what that was like for you,” Rick said. “You must have been terrified and—”

“Did you know Eugene well?” I asked, cutting him off before he could miscast me in the role of innocent damsel in distress.

“I spent time with him every day. I’m Flynn Fitzgerald’s main strategist. Johnny here is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant.”

So he was that Rick! Perfect! Networking made easy.

“Flynn Fitzgerald?” Mary Ann asked. “He’s a writer, right? I think I might have read one of his books a long time ago. Didn’t he write about parties and socialites?”

Rick knitted his brow and studied Mary Ann as if trying to determine if she was joking.

Leah cleared her throat awkwardly. “Mary Ann, you’re thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

Rick nodded in agreement. “I actually love F. Scott Fitzgerald. I just reread Tender Is the Night last month.”

“He was a great writer.” I patted Mary Ann’s knee. “But I’m fairly sure he doesn’t need an assistant or strategist.”

“Why not?” Mary Ann asked innocently.

Even sitting several feet away I could tell that Johnny was working hard to stop from giggling. “Well, for one thing, he’s dead, Mary Ann,” I explained.

“Oh!” Mary Ann put a gentle hand on Rick’s arm. “And you loved him! So much loss in such a short time! When did Scott pass away?”

For a second Rick just looked stunned, but then his expression changed and it was clear that he was amused despite himself. “I never actually met F. Scott Fitzgerald,” he explained. “Just Flynn Fitzgerald. The one running for the House of Representatives.”

“The man Eugene worked for!” Mary Ann smacked her hand against her thigh, the whole situation becoming clear to her. “That would explain how you knew Eugene.”

Rick broke out into a full grin. “Yes, that would explain it. Were you acquainted with Eugene?”

Mary Ann shook her head, causing her perfect chestnut curls to bounce around her face. “No, I’m just here to support Sophie.”

“That’s a shame. Eugene would have liked you.”

She cocked her head to the side. “What makes you say that?”

“Eugene liked sweet, compassionate, genuine people.”

Mary Ann blushed slightly. “That’s one of the nicest compliments anyone’s ever paid me.”

“They’re flirting,” Leah whispered in my ear. “They’re flirting at a funeral.”

I glanced over at our three other companions. Johnny was engrossed in the Bible and Rick had his head bent toward Mary Ann in a rather intimate fashion. I could make out that he was telling her about Eugene, but his voice was too low for me to really eavesdrop effectively. I would grill Mary Ann later. I shrugged and turned to Leah. “I had sex after your husband’s funeral,” I whispered.

“That’s different. You were bereaved, and bereaved people can have sex after a funeral. It’s a coping mechanism.”

“But I wasn’t all that bereaved….”

“Well you would have been if my husband hadn’t been an adulterous parasite. The point is that you and Bob were family, and any person who’s related to the deceased is allowed to have sex with someone after the funeral.”

“Melanie actually told me about this guy. Eugene was a friend of Rick’s family, which means they were almost related, so he should be able to almost have sex…or at the very least flirt.”

Leah clucked her tongue in disapproval. Just then a distinguished-looking couple walked down the aisle toward the front row where Melanie was sitting. The man was in his early forties, and was wearing a perfectly fitted, very expensive-looking suit. The woman on his arm was about ten years younger, dressed equally well, with sandy blond hair coifed in an elegant updo.

“There’s the boss man and the missus,” Johnny said, finally looking up from his reading. “I should probably sit with them. Never know when Fitzgerald might need his personal assistant.”

“At a funeral?” Leah asked skeptically.

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe he’ll need me to provide him with Kleenex.”

I started to laugh but checked myself when I noted that Johnny wasn’t joking. He jumped up and took a place at Fitzgerald’s side.

“Johnny’s very enthusiastic about his job,” Rick noted.

“Clearly,” I said, but I didn’t have a chance to add more since the priest had just taken his place at the pulpit.

The funeral consisted of one long-winded speech after another. Flynn Fitzgerald spoke, as did his speech writer, who claimed to have been close to Eugene. Neither of them said anything that would make me think someone would want to kill the man they were eulogizing. It was a full hour into the service before the priest called up Rick Wilkes. Rick walked to the front of the room and adjusted the microphone. His initial statements were basically the same as everyone else’s, just reworded. I was beginning to drift off when Rick started talking about Eugene’s previous vocations.

“Eugene excelled at everything he did. My father continually told me that Eugene was one of the best agents in the FBI, and everyone working on Fitzgerald’s campaign can tell you that he was a star….”

“Did you know about that?” Leah asked in a hushed voice.

“No!” I said a little too loudly. The woman in front of us shot me a mean look and I slipped down lower in my seat. “I can’t believe Melanie didn’t tell me,” I said in a much softer whisper. “If he was in the FBI, he could have been dealing with any number of unsavory types.”

“Maybe Melanie didn’t think it was important because he wasn’t that kind of agent,” Mary Ann whispered. “Maybe he was like a…a travel agent for the FBI.”

Leah started giggling and the woman in front of us shot us another glare. We all fell into silence as Rick continued to wax poetic.

When the service was over I tried to get a moment with Rick, but he was whisked away by other friends. I tried again during the wake at Melanie’s house, but while he took pains to check in with Mary Ann a few times, he never got more than a few words out before someone else took him away to discuss something. Flynn Fitzgerald was equally unavailable.

I was fiddling with my necklace while listening to Mary Ann and Leah discuss the wisdom of serving fondue at a buffet when Johnny sidled up to me, offering me a glass of wine. “I have a confession to make,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’ve read every one of your books. I just finished C’est La Mort. You’re one of my favorite authors.”

“Thank you, that’s sweet,” I said, referring to both the compliment and the wine.

“I’m an author, too, you know.”

“Really?” I asked. “What have you written?” My eyes sought out Melanie. She was in the middle of a group of women engaged in what looked like a friendly but somewhat somber conversation.

“I haven’t actually written anything, but I do have a book. It’s all up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.

I managed not to roll my eyes. I had long since lost track of how many people (from lawyers to waiters) had told me that they were really writers at heart. As far as I was concerned that claim didn’t mean a lot until you wrote something. It was a detail that most of these unrecognized “authors” didn’t seem to be willing to address.

“I was a computer science major in school,” Johnny babbled. “But computers aren’t exciting. I mean, can you see me as a computer geek? Not my thing. I’m still amazed I didn’t flunk out due to intense boredom. Then I got my master’s in poly sci and somewhere along the line I said to myself, hey, I can write political thrillers! I still think that’s my true calling, but for now I’m a personal assistant. I love my job and Fitzgerald’s great, but I don’t think I want to go into politics. I want to be a writer like you, or maybe a journalist.”

I wrinkled my nose ever so slightly. Johnny was a spaz. Maybe he could write scripts for the Wiggles or something.

“Look at poor Melanie. I feel so bad for her. I bet she’s feeling kind of alone. Maybe I’ll invite her to come to church with me on Sunday. I’m not Catholic, but maybe she’ll come. It might make her feel better. Just look at her standing in the corner by herself! Doesn’t she look sad?”

“By herself?” I looked back at Melanie. Sure enough, she had managed to extricate herself from the crowd and was now enjoying a rare moment of solitude.

“Leah, hold this.” I turned and handed my glass to my sister, who was standing a few feet behind me as she and Mary Ann continued to chat about the buffet.

Johnny started to say something but I ignored him and made a beeline for Melanie, who greeted me with a fragile smile. “Sophie, thank you so much for being here.”

“Don’t you think you should have mentioned that Eugene was in the FBI?”

“Is it relevant?”

“Of course it’s relevant! What if someone whom he investigated while at the bureau decided to get revenge? Maybe that’s why he’s dead!”

Melanie shook her head. “Eugene hasn’t worked for the FBI in over twenty years. If someone wanted revenge, they would have gotten it by now.”

“Are you sure? I mean, come on, Melanie, my theory has to be as good as the one you have.”

“I don’t really have a theory.”

“My point exactly.”

Melanie sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve given you nothing to go on. I suppose I’m not thinking straight these days. It’s just that nothing seems to make sense anymore.”

“Melanie,” I said, cutting her off, “I just need to know if Eugene was involved in anything or anyone else that might have led to his death. Is the FBI thing the only bit of information you were keeping from me?”

“That’s it…really.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Melanie gave me a pained look before turning her attention to a couple of well-wishers who apparently had no qualms about interrupting our conversation. I marched back to where Leah and Mary Ann were standing. Johnny had moved on.

“I can’t believe you just handed me a wineglass like I was hired help,” Leah spat.

“Sorry, I wanted to catch Melanie while she was alone, and I knew that was probably going to be my one and only opportunity to do so today.” I checked my watch. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting late and I’m not finding anything out.”

“Fine with me,” Leah said. “Liz isn’t expecting me for another few hours, but I like the idea of showing up early to make sure she’s not doing anything she shouldn’t. I think her boyfriend may be stopping by for the occasional visit while she’s watching Jack, which is completely unacceptable. I will not have Jack exposed to his babysitter’s love life.”