Both Ends of the Night Page 27

  “Jamie hasn’t even opened her presents.”

  None of us cared to comment on that. Rae patted Ricky’s hand; Hy went to tend the fire. And I found myself becoming seriously pissed off at my niece. I stood and said, “Be back in a minute.”

  Upstairs I knocked at the door behind which fifteen-year-old Jamie had been sulking since yesterday evening and, when there was no reply, simply walked in. She was curled up on the bed listening to her Walkman: a slender young woman with tiny features that were overwhelmed by ferociously permed brown hair. When she saw me, she glared and turned up the volume.

  I glanced around. The room could have been in a hotel; it contained absolutely no trace of its occupant except for a largely unpacked duffel bag on the bureau. When I looked back at Jamie, she was ostentatiously ignoring me, so I went over and yanked the earphones off her head.

  “What the hell d’you think you’re doing, Aunt Shar?”

  I wanted to scream at her for spoiling her father’s—and her own—Christmas Eve. I wanted to grab her by the arm and forcibly march her downstairs and make her apologize. But neither action would have produced the desired results. Instead I studied her, trying to figure out which button to push.

  Finally I said, “I came up to tell you good night.”

  “You’re going to bed already?”

  “Uh-huh. We all are.”

  “But—”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She shrugged elaborately.

  “We had a great time tonight. Everybody liked their presents.”

  “Are they mad at me for not coming downstairs?”

  “No, why should they be? It was your choice. Actually, I don’t think anybody noticed you weren’t there. Well, except for Chris.”

  “Chris? What’d she say?” Ever since her older sister had gone off to Berkeley, Jamie had entertained an intense—and one-sided—rivalry toward her.

  “She asked if we could open your present from your dad and divvy it up among us.”

  “She what!”

  “Relax, we didn’t; it’s still under the tree. Not that we didn’t want to, but it’s tailored especially for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I promised not to tell.”

  She pushed her lips out in a pout. Directed a flinty look toward me. Then she got off the bed, hitching up her jeans and tugging at her Hootie and the Blowfish sweatshirt.

  “Oh, all right,” she announced. “I’ll go down there and open the damn thing!”

  When we came into the living room, Ricky looked up, pleased and surprised. Jamie aimed her scowl at him, then transferred it to Hy, who said, “What did I do?” She didn’t so much as glance Rae’s way.

  Rae said, “Hy, will you pour Jamie a glass of champagne?”

  Ricky no longer looked pleased. He surveyed his daughter as if she were a stray cat looking to take up residence and said to Rae, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, serving my kid alcohol?”

  Completely unruffled, she replied, “She’s a young woman, not a kid. Mick and Chris each had a glass; Jamie should, too.”

  He grunted.

  Jamie took the flute from Hy, glancing tentatively and suspiciously at Rae. Rae flashed her a crinkly-nosed grin and winked. I went to the tree and fetched the present, a red envelope with a green bow. Jamie frowned as she took it, probably thinking it contained money and what was so specially tailored about that? But when she opened it and read the note from her father, she flushed with pleasure.

  “Really, Daddy?”

  “Really.”

  “Thank you!”

  “You’d better thank Red. She pointed out the error of my ways and suggested I make amends. When I tried to send you off alone with my credit card during your visit in October, I was all caught up in my own life and being very insensitive. I’m sorry, and I’ll make up for it on Thursday.”

  In his note he’d promised that the two of them would spend the entire day after Christmas together: buying things for her room, having lunch, and doing whatever else she wanted.

  Jamie hesitated before looking at Rae. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. Then she went over and flopped down on the couch next to her father, still looking at her. She might not like Rae yet, but she definitely found her interesting.

  I yawned and held out my hand to Hy. “Let’s take these people up on their offer of a guest room.”

  “Sounds good to me. We’ll get up early, go to your house and feed Ralph and Allie their Christmas chicken livers, and be off to Touchstone.”

  The message light was blinking on the answering machine when I came into the cottage. I set Hy’s Christmas gift on the coffee table and hit the play button; the tape was rewinding when Hy entered, carrying a black plastic garbage bag that had been in the back of the Citabria when he arrived from his ranch on the twenty-second.

  “What,” I said, “you’re giving me your trash for Christmas?”

  He smiled mysteriously, deposited the bag next to his present, and waited to hear the message.

  Craig Morland: “Sharon, I can’t track you down, so I’m leaving this on both your machines. Talked with a buddy of mine in D.C. this morning, and he says Justice is moving cautiously but quickly on the Reade matter. Deals have been cut with two people who can link him solidly to the murder-for-hire operation, and there’s also a possibility charges can be brought for the murders of Wildress, Cutter, and Matthews. Looks like they’ll go for an indictment on the Arkansas matter before New Year’s. So how’s that for a present? Merry Christmas!”

  “Case closed,” I said to Hy. “Really closed this time.”

  He got champagne from the fridge while I hung a gold filigree star in the window overlooking the sea. We toasted: to each other, to Matty, to closure. Then he said, “You want to open your present?”

  “You go first.” I slid the gaily wrapped package along the table to him.

  Rip, shred, tear: Hy was as voracious as the Little Savages when it came to gifts. “McCone! New dual headsets! I can toss out those antiquated pieces of junk I’ve got now, and we won’t have to scream to be heard anymore.” He lifted the padded carrying case from the box, opened it, and pulled one unit out. “Jesus, these’re light. Telex Airman ANRs! What’d you do—rob a bank?”

  “You’re worth it.”

  He put the headset on, sat there grinning happily. “Your turn now.”

  I opened the garbage bag; inside was a long tube wrapped in red foil. I did some ripping, shredding, and tearing of my own, pried the cap off the tube, and felt inside. A thick roll of paper.

  I looked questioningly at Hy; he continued smiling.

  I slipped the roll out and smoothed it on the table: an architectural drawing of a graceful wood-and-stone house that matched the style of the cottage. Quickly I flipped to the next sheet: floor plans.

  “Our house?” I whispered. We’d often talked of the home we would someday build on the foundations of the one that used to stand on this property, but that had seemed a far-off event.

  “Our house.” He scooted over next to me. “An architect buddy of mine designed it, with plenty of input from me.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I ran my hand over the elevation of the front.

  He began pointing out various features: a huge central area with a pit fireplace that combined living and dining rooms and kitchen. A bedroom wing for guests at one end and a bedroom-and-den wing for us at the other. The house was very like the previous one, which had been destroyed by explosion and fire. Although Hy had never visited there, I’d described it to him, and he’d incorporated its best features into the design.

  “What’s this?” I pointed to a circle in an area on the ocean side, off the master bedroom.

  “Hot tub. I’ve seen those lustful glances you cast at Rae and Ricky’s. Someday we too will be able to sit in one without our swimsuits and gaze at the Pacific. Of course, these plans’re only preliminary; my buddy’ll make any changes you want.”

  “
No, it’s perfect just as it is.” Suddenly I felt overwhelmed. To build a house together was such a commitment.

  He put his hand under my chin and tipped my face up toward his. “McCone, is this scaring you?”

  “A little.”

  “Me too.”

  We both laughed.

  “So what do you say?” he asked. “Is it a go?”

  I pushed my fears aside. “I say, how soon can we lay the cornerstone?”

  Marcia Muller has written many novels and short stories. She is the 2005 recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award—their highest accolade. Her novel Locked In won a Shamus for best novel from Private Eye Writers of America, and she is also the recipient of PWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award. Marcia Muller lives in northern California with her husband, mystery writer and fellow MWA Grand Master Bill Pronzini. You can visit her website at www.MarciaMuller.com.

  Also by Marcia Muller

  Sharon McCone Mysteries

  THE NIGHT SEARCHERS

  LOOKING FOR YESTERDAY

  CITY OF WHISPERS

  COMING BACK

  LOCKED IN

  BURN OUT

  THE EVER-RUNNING MAN

  VANISHING POINT

  THE DANGEROUS HOUR

  DEAD MIDNIGHT

  LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

  A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE

  WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP

  BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT

  THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND

  A WILD AND LONELY PLACE

  TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN

  WOLF IN THE SHADOWS

  PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES

  WHERE ECHOES LIVE

  TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS

  THE SHAPE OF DREAD

  THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY

  EYE OF THE STORM

  THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF

  DOUBLE (With Bill Pronzini)

  LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE

  GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY

  THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE

  ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION

  EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES

  Stand-alones

  CAPE PERDIDO

  CYANIDE WELLS

  POINT DECEPTION

  Settled into their new home, Sharon McCone and her husband, Hy, are beginning to at last feel comfortable. But the seeming calm is shattered when Hy gets a visit from a troublemaking former colleague, while Sharon takes on a new client desperate to save his home from thugs and drug dealers.

  Look for Someone Always Knows, available in July 2016.

  A preview follows.

  11:12 a.m.

  “It’s awfully different from the artist’s rendering,” I whispered to my nephew, Mick Savage.

  He and I and several of my staff were standing at the spacious entrance to the recently remodeled McCone & Ripinsky building on New Montgomery Street in San Francisco’s financial district. Workmen had just removed the tarps from a sculpture we’d commissioned—at great cost—from the world-renowned artist Flavio St. John.

  “What do you suppose Flavio’s intention was?” Julia Rafael had recently been dating a prominent Latino painter and was into all things artistic.

  “He needed a cure for a hangover,” Patrick Neilan offered, scratching at his thatch of red hair.

  “Don’t be facetious,” I said. “What is it supposed to be?”

  “Looks like clam shells.” This from our office manager, Ted Smalley. “A cheap concrete clamshell fused to a larger fake gold one. Flavio must’ve been hungry for seafood the day he came up with the design.”

  The workmen with the tarps seemed anxious to pack up and go. A small crowd had gathered, blocking their trucks.

  “Where is Flavio?” I asked.

  “Rome,” Patrick said. “He had urgent business there, so I drove him to the airport the other night.”

  “Urgent business? Without letting me know he was leaving? More likely he was escaping the scene of the crime—with our check in his wallet. I’m putting a stop on it.”

  “Ma’am,” a gentleman in the growing crowd said, “can you explain why you people elected to put such an eyesore on your beautifully restored granite building?”

  “Well,” I began, “we thought… The concept is as—”

  “As ugly as my Aunt Stella Sue’s butt.”

  That came from my husband, standing on the edge of the crowd: tall, lean in his tight jeans, with the brim of his cowboy hat pulled down over his roughly-hewn face. People erupted into laughter at his remark.

  Trying not to laugh myself, I said, “The gentleman who just spoke is my partner and co-owner of the building, so I suppose he has a right to express his opinion.” I shot Hy a dark look and added, “And you don’t have an Aunt Stella Sue.”

  He shrugged.

  “You may as well come up here and say a few words.”

  He shouldered through the crowd.

  “Actually, folks, I was just joking. The designer of this dramatic entrance, Flavio St. John, is one of the finest sculptors in the world. His talents in any form of sculpting surpass even those of the late Beniamino Bufano who, except for that horror of a spire that looks like a totem pole at Timber Cove Inn up the coast, did all of us Californians proud.”

  I stepped on Hy’s foot—hard.

  He added, “Apparently our clamshells are Flavio’s equivalent of Bufano’s totem pole.”

  Then, mercifully, he shut up.

  “Thanks for coming!” I called to the crowd, and turned to glare at Hy.

  He backed up, holding his hands out defensively. “What could I say? It’s a piece of shit.”

  “Of course it is.” I took his arm and hustled him through the lobby to the elevators.

  “We ought to sue that rat-faced little bastard,” he added.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Crappy concrete and bogus gold that look like clam shells with chipped edges are not the way to inaugurate our new partnership.”

  “We’ll do something about it.”

  “What? There’s probably some goddamn clause in our contract with him that says we can’t alter it without his permission.”

  “Then it’ll just have to meet with an accident. A terrible accident.”

  “McCone, I love the way you think,” he said as we entered the elevator.

  Maybe I was just used to downscale, but many times when I came through the door of the high security building—express line, where all the guards knew me—I felt as if I were sneaking in under false pretenses. The offices seemed to demand that I spiff up my public image: dress more stylishly, use more artfully applied makeup, and for Christ’s sake get those nails done!

  All this paranoid hoopla induced by a building! One owned by my husband’s company and, since we’d merged our firms, by me too.

  We entered the reception area on the second floor, and I spotted a freshly opened bottle of champagne and several glasses on the desk. I looked at my watch: it was after noon. Why not? I needed a drink.

  In the area beyond the desk, staff members were milling around, their faces studies in shock and disbelief. Most were imbibing wine in quantity. In spite of my outrage over Flavio St. John’s ridiculous sculpture, I couldn’t help but take pleasure in seeing all the people—both new hires, old timers, and friends.

  Since the merger, there had been quite a few changes: Hy and I consulted on all cases together. Mick had hired more tech people, many of whose activities I couldn’t fathom; they populated the third floor below us. Ted Smalley, our office manager, had also hired a large support staff, some of whom I suspected were practically living in the building—at least I’d seen many sleeping bags, duffels, and clothing on hangers passing by at all hours in the second-floor hallways. Sometimes, in the dark hours of the morning, I worried about the city finding us out and trying to levy a hotel tax or maybe penalize us for violating some ordinance. They’d been closing in on such home-sharing services as Airbnb and VRBO. But recently our rate of close
d cases had climbed steadily, and our employees were compensated well enough that they could relocate if necessary. So who was I to complain about a few squatters?

  I accepted a glass of champagne from Ted and tapped on the desk. Everyone quieted and turned to me. I toasted them. “Here’s to Italian sculpture, twenty-first century style.”

  Many laughed, but others—especially those who had been involved with the designer of the new façade—looked as if they’d rather be at their desks preparing their resumes.

  “Come on,” I said, “it’s not the end of the world. We made some mistakes and were too trusting, that’s all.”

  Ted moaned, “Why did we allow Flavio to keep his ‘art’ covered up until today? Why didn’t we sneak looks at it instead of unveiling it for everybody to see?”

  “Because we were caught up in the mystique—which Flavio wove all too well—of ‘great artists must be allowed to create in private.’”

  “At least there weren’t any press people there,” Patrick said. “They’d be accusing us of destroying a perfectly beautiful building.”

  “Uh,” Ted said, “there was one representative of the press—”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Jill Starkey.”

  Oh, shit!

  Starkey was a former Chronicle reporter and owner/editor/sole employee of a dreadful right-wing rag called The Other Shoe. A terrible little troll—oh, I’d pay in my next life for thinking such things, assuming there was a next one, but right now I didn’t care—Starkey had frizzy brown hair, a pinched lopsided smile, and hated most things (except for ice cream, and she wasn’t too sure about it). One of the chief objects of her hatred was me.

  I’d never understood what I’d done to deserve such venom. When she was at the Chron, I’d been cordial to her, even though I didn’t really like her. But since she’d been dismissed from the major paper for causing a libel suit that forced them to settle a large amount of money on the plaintiff, she’d found herself an investor and set up her own publication. Then the gloves had come off. Over and over she’d aimed journalistic jabs and punches at me that I’d learned to duck or roll with. It was either that or throw her off the Golden Gate Bridge.