How to Succeed in Murder Read online

  “What did she do at the company?” I asked.

  “She was Vice President of Client Knowledge.” He saw the blank look on my face and elaborated. “It’s another name for Tech Support.”

  “Oh,” I nodded. “The people you call when things go wrong with your computer.”

  “It used to be just that,” he said, and I saw a brief spark of animation cross his face. “But Clara totally changed the model. She expanded the knowledgebase, and developed this whole new approach…” His voice faltered. Eyes back to the menu. “She was brilliant.”

  The waiter appeared and Jack ordered for all of us. Eventually whatever it was arrived, and we pushed it around on our plates, acutely aware of curious eyes watching every move we made. But the empty routine of the meal seemed to calm Morgan, and he was eventually able to tell us what had happened.

  “Clara was working late last night. I talked to her at about ten. I was flying back from the Boston office and wasn’t due in until after midnight. I called her from the plane and she said she had just finished up writing her annual employee evaluations and she was on her way to the gym before going home.”

  “The gym is close to the office?” Jack asked.

  Morgan shook his head. “Not the one she goes to.” He backtracked for my benefit. “We’re on Townsend, south of Market, near the train station.”

  I knew the area. Ground Zero for the hip high-tech scene, where just about every old brick building in the neighborhood had been torn down and replaced with a glass palace, or retrofitted into retro offices.

  “Clara didn’t like the club that’s just down the street,” Morgan continued. “They don’t have a pool. So she belonged to a gym downtown—WorkSpace.”

  Morgan didn’t seem to notice the look that flickered across Jack’s face, but I realized Jack was as surprised as I was at the news that he belonged to the same gym as the murdered woman.

  “So she left the office for the gym sometime after ten,” I said encouragingly.

  Morgan nodded. “They swipe your membership card at the front desk when you check in, and their computer shows she got there at 10:47.”

  The woman had clearly been more dedicated to her exercise regime than I had ever been.

  “Was that normal for her?” Jack asked. “To go for a workout that late at night?”

  Morgan nodded quickly. “She worked crazy hours—we both do. But she didn’t like going straight home from the office. She said a swim cleared her mind, and a steam relaxed…” He faltered, looking down at his plate. Then he cleared his throat.

  “They found her in the steam room.”

  Jack gave him a moment to collect himself. “What exactly do the police think happened?”

  “The police?” Morgan’s voice turned harsh. “They think she slipped on the tiles and hit her head on the bench.”

  I could believe that. Steam rooms, at least the big ones in gyms and spas, are usually wet and slippery places. And I know some women who insist on putting lotion on while steaming, making the tiles even slicker. But slipping was one thing, and hitting your head so hard you’d die from it was another.

  Morgan was still speaking. “The gym closes at midnight. They make an announcement at 11:30, and again at 11:45, but apparently they aren’t very strict about checking everywhere to make sure everyone’s gone.”

  I interrupted him. “You mean you don’t have to swipe your card when you leave?”

  Morgan shook his head. “You do, but it’s meaningless because their system doesn’t match up the entrance and exits at the end of the day, so it doesn’t tell them who’s still there. And they must have assumed everyone had left because the last couple of employees took off a little after twelve. The cleaning crew showed up at one, and it was them…” His voice rasped and he took a quick gulp of water. “They found her when they went to clean the steam room at 1:30.” His face became even paler as he continued. “She’d bled to death on the floor.”

  Horrible. She must have been knocked unconscious by the fall. At least I hoped she had. It would be even more horrible to think of her lying helpless as she realized the gym was closing and everyone had left her alone to die.

  “You don’t believe she slipped?” Jack asked.

  Morgan shook his head. “I don’t believe someone as athletic as Clara—with her grace—” He focused on Jack, staring into his eyes intently. “I don’t believe she’d just slip and not be able to catch herself. I think someone killed her.”

  Jack looked at him steadily. “I can’t imagine—”

  “No!” Morgan cut him off loudly. Once again heads turned to see what was happening at the table.

  Morgan continued in a low, urgent tone. “No, you can’t imagine what I’m feeling. But my feelings are not clouding my judgment. So if you’re about to say I need to give it time and I’ll eventually accept what the police believe, you’re wrong. I don’t. I won’t.”

  I knew what was coming next, and one look at Jack told me he did too.

  “I want you to find out who killed Clara.”

  Jack studied Stokes for a moment. When he spoke his voice was kind but firm. “The sort of security work Mike and I do at MJC isn’t geared toward criminal investigation—”

  I snorted, which caused Morgan to fix a laser-beam look on me. Jack gave me a look of an altogether different variety. I pretended the snort had been a sneeze and reached for my water.

  My husband looked heavenward briefly and continued. “We can reschedule to talk about the original problem you wanted to look into, but as far as a murder investigation…we’re just not that sort of firm.”

  I was surprised at how much Jack’s refusal disappointed me. I’d gotten a little bubble of excitement thinking about tracking down another killer with Jack. Particularly one who—this time—wasn’t trying to kill us. But Jack was probably right. We really had no business looking into anything the police were calling an accident.

  Morgan Stokes didn’t agree. His eyes narrowed and I saw something of the steely backbone that must have been necessary for him to hang on to the position he’d reached in a cutthroat industry. He focused on Jack. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m a man who’ll take no for an answer.”

  It was a battle of wills, and it ended in a draw. Eventually Morgan agreed to a meeting with Jack and Mike in a few days to discuss Zakdan’s original problem, and Jack finally agreed he’d look into Clara’s death and see if anything seemed fishy to him—without getting in the way of the police investigation.

  I didn’t agree to anything, but I made a silent promise to myself that I’d steal a peek at whatever information Jack got and make up my own mind about what had happened to Clara Chen.

  We pantomimed a happy ending to a successful business lunch for anyone who was still watching us, and parted ways.

  In the car on the way home, Jack cleared his voice a couple of times and frowned, clear signals that he was about to say something I wouldn’t like.

  “Charley,” he began, “I don’t want you to think, just because I said I’d ask a few questions, that I believe there was anything suspicious about that woman’s death.”

  “Of course not, Jack.”

  “Stokes has been under a lot of strain, even before this. I just thought I might be able to give him a little peace of mind.”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  “And even if I did find something I thought was odd, I certainly wouldn’t take it upon myself to investigate it.”

  “Of course not,” I said again.

  “I’d just point it out to the police and let them handle it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I let him drive in silence until we pulled up in front of the house, then, “Jack?”

  “Hmm?” He cut the engine and looked at me.

  “What makes you think she was murdered?”

  Chapter Three

  Another day, another lunch.

  I’d made plans to meet the gang at the SFMOMA cafe. The museum was hos
ting a retrospective of some photographer from the thirties, and my friend Brenda had been adamant that I go see it with her.

  It would probably be like most things Brenda dragged me to. I’d think yuk in advance and then love it when I got there. One of these days I’ll wise up and start trusting her.

  I found her staking out a tiny metal table and chairs in the crowded restaurant. She was wearing a full skirt, drapey sweater, and shoes that looked like they were designed for maximum comfort by some practical Nordic walking enthusiast.

  “How come you get to play on a school day?” I greeted her.

  As a professor of Women’s Studies at an elite East Bay college, Brenda’s time was more flexible than most people who have real—meaning non-theatrical—jobs, but a free weekday afternoon was something rare even for her.

  “Isn’t it great?” She put her bag down on an unoccupied chair just as a heavily badged refugee from some Moscone Center conference was about to snatch it. “I only teach morning classes this semester, so I’m free in the afternoons. Well, technically I’m supposed to be working on a paper for the journal, but—” She made a face. “How are you?”

  I made a face back at her.

  Brenda saw our friend Eileen at the door and waved her over. Eileen wove through the noisy cafe purposefully, speaking sharply into a cell phone and wearing a suit that cut a fine line between dominatrix and librarian.

  “I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of that call,” Brenda murmured.

  Eileen snapped the phone shut, tossed it into her bag, and muttered, “When will these people learn I’m always right?” before giving Brenda a quick hug.

  My turn next. She pulled me sharply towards her, then released me with a slight shove. Eileen’s signs of affection could sometimes leave bruises. “I mean, what is it with my clients? They want me to manage their money and then they get mad when I tell them they can’t spend it.”

  As one of her clients—she’d been my financial manager for years—I wondered if I should be insulted.

  “I’ll trade you an annoying client for a dictatorial dean any day.” Brenda was currently embroiled in a ferocious battle over some minor point of academia that eluded my intellectual grasp. But I was sure if I understood it, I’d be on her side.

  I was just sitting down when I heard a loud, prolonged sigh, followed by the words “Good God I’m bored” drawled from somewhere behind me.

  I turned. “If it isn’t the Thin White Duke.”

  Simon Bannister, the Artistic Director of the Rep.

  “Hi, Simon,” Brenda and Eileen greeted him.

  As the end of the season had approached, Simon had taken to moping around town and perfecting those long, pitiful sighs. He was normally up for anything—or anyone, describing himself as “omni-sexual”—but lately he’d assumed the part of a world-weary British expatriate, circa 1938, complete with unseasonable white linen suits.

  The look worked well with his lean frame, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and floppy blond hair, but I was finding it all a bit, well, theatrical.

  “I didn’t know you were joining us,” I said.

  He waved dismissively and dropped into the fourth chair at the table. “Nothing else to do, darling. I’m absolutely stupefied with boredom.”

  He saw the looks on our faces and amended this statement. “Not that it isn’t enchanting, as always, to be with you three charming—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Eileen held up her hand to cut him off. “It’s a love fest. What are we eating?”

  “I knew you’d be crunched for time so I ordered salads and goat cheese tarts all around,” Brenda said. “We’re number 265.”

  I looked at Simon. “Sweetie, listening for our number will give you something to do—after you go get us all some iced tea.”

  He looked at me darkly. “This is what my vacation has come to.” But he got up to fight his way through the crowd to get us the drinks.

  “What’s his problem?” Eileen asked.

  “Since he bought the loft, he doesn’t have any money to go away for a break,” I explained. “He’s feeling sorry for himself.”

  Simon had done what every San Franciscan dreams of by hugely overextending himself to get into the housing market. He’d bought a trendy faux-industrial loft near the ball park and had been deliriously happy until the arrival of his first mortgage statement.

  I felt a little guilty, as I always do when my friends have financial woes, because I have more money than I could spend in several lifetimes, and all I did to get it was have the right set of parents. But Simon had refused my offer to fund his vacation with a simple “Not the done thing, darling,” so now I figured he was moaning more out of habit than anything else.

  I knew Simon’s window of opportunity for getting away from the Rep was the same as mine. We would both have to be deep into the process of planning the next season by late March, and no matter what we did until then, we’d have to squeeze in reading and evaluating countless plays in hopes of finding the perfect companion piece to the three works we’d already chosen.

  When Simon drifted back to the table Brenda looked at him sympathetically. “Don’t worry, Simon. You’ll be happy you bought a place when tax time comes.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” he answered. “But now I’m bound by poverty to stick around for the rainy season and I’m simply gagging to get away somewhere and get a tan.”

  “Grow up,” Eileen said briskly. “You’re an idiot if you want to trade a sound investment in on a couple of sun-drenched weeks in Maui.”

  Simon apparently only heard one word.

  “Maui,” he moaned.

  “Oh, stop it,” I told him. “You’ve only been on vacation five days. You can’t be that sick of it yet.”

  “Darlings, I tell you I’m positively dripping with ennui.”

  We did the only reasonable thing and ignored him.

  I turned to Eileen. “Speaking of vacations, how was your trip with Anthony?” Anthony was Eileen’s ten-year-old son, the sole happy product of the third in a string of four disastrous marriages.

  “About how you’d expect a week in Telluride with a pre-teen sports fanatic to be.”

  “Wasn’t it winter there?” Simon was clearly appalled. “I mean, the real kind? With snow?”

  Eileen grimaced. “His latest passion is snowboarding.”

  “You actually took the child across state lines so you could both freeze to death?” Simon demanded. “That’s obscene.”

  “Not obscene, just very, very cold.” Eileen looked at the scandalized Englishman to her left. “I know you won’t believe it, Simon, but I had a great time. The only problem is that getting away made me realize what a rut I’m in. I think I’m just about as bored as you are these days. I’m so sick of my clients—”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Except for you, Charley.” She patted my hand absently.

  Gee, swell.

  “Maybe it’s just post-holiday letdown.” But she didn’t look convinced.

  Brenda spoke up. “Well, whatever is going around, I’ve got it too. You won’t believe what I’ve just signed on to do in the spring.”

  We heard our number called. “Don’t say one word about it until I’m back with the food,” Simon ordered. “I can only afford to live vicariously these days.” He delivered a pitiful gaze and went off to the counter.

  I looked at Eileen. “How can you be bored? You’re never bored. Haven’t you got your usual fifteen balls in the air? Aren’t you still the poster girl for Women Who Have It All? Don’t you still work out every day to keep your size-four figure despite taking advanced pastry classes at the Culinary Institute?”

  “In the spare time you have after structuring multi-billion dollar deals during the day and coaching Anthony’s soccer team in the evenings?” Brenda finished for me.

  “And his science club, and his computer group, and let’s not forget—”

  “Oh, shut up, the two of you,” Eileen
said. And then she did something I’ve never seen her do before. She stared into empty space and sighed.

  Brenda and I exchanged looks of amazement.

  “Do you know,” Eileen confessed, “I got an order from Amazon three days ago and I just dumped all the books out onto the coffee table and left them there.”

  “Oh, sweetie, that’s not good.” Of course, for anyone else on the planet it would be perfectly normal. But Eileen is a woman who takes organization to an extreme. Her spice rack should be studied by graduates in library science. For books to go unsorted and unshelved in her home was unthinkable. “What’s the matter?”

  Brenda, far more astute than I will ever be, asked, “Who’s the guy?”

  Eileen was just sighing again as Simon returned with two enormous trays of dishes. He thumped them on the table. “What did I miss? I always miss the good stuff!”

  “I think we’re just getting to the good stuff.” I reached for a pizza-like cheesy thing.

  “It’s nothing,” Eileen said. Then, looking at Brenda, “There’s no one. I haven’t even had a respectable crush on anyone in ages.” She passed around salads loaded with pear slices and bits of glazed walnuts. “I can’t even talk about it. I’ll fall asleep in mid-sentence. That’s how boring my life is.”

  “Fine,” Simon said, his mouth full of baby greens. “Brenda, what horrible thing have you agreed to do?”

  Simon is not exactly what you’d call a sympathetic listener.

  Brenda grimaced. “I’m taking nine students to five countries for three weeks.”

  “Yikes!”

  “By yourself?”

  “When? Where?”

  Eileen broke through our babble with the most obvious question. “Why?”

  Brenda chewed thoughtfully. “One answer is that the Comparative Lit professor who was supposed to take them has chronic fatigue syndrome and won’t be able to go. So they were looking for volunteers…” She shrugged.

  “Good for you!” Eileen proclaimed. “Carpe whatever. Life’s too short. I mean, I saw something in the paper today about this woman who went for a midnight workout and ended up falling down and bleeding to death in a steam room. Can you imagine? You never know when—what’s the matter with you?”