Homicide in Hardcover

Chapter 9

“That’s so sweet,” I said, reaching out to hug her and almost falling off my stool. “I would miss you, too.”

“Yes, but I’m serious.”

“I know.” I patted my heart. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean about your atrocious taste in clothes,” she said with a smirk.

I glanced down at my gray suit. “You picked out this outfit. And come on, my shoes are hot.” They were killing me, too. Working in four-inch heels should be against the law.

“Okay, you look good today,” she allowed. “But I still have nightmares about those Birkenstocks.”

“This is San Francisco,” I shouted over the din. “Everybody wears Birkenstocks.”

“If everybody jumped off the bridge, would you jump, too?”

I rolled my eyes and turned on my stool to check on the bartenders. I’d lost count of the number of drinks I’d had, but that didn’t mean it was time to stop, did it?

The mirror behind the bar reflected both Robin and me as well as the burgeoning crowd and the lights of the bay behind us.

“So you didn’t call me stupid and I appreciate that,” I said. “But you did call my clothes stupid.”

“No, I didn’t. I called them atrocious.” She sipped her drink. “Atrocious. I like to say that word.”

I stared in horror. “Oh my God, you’re drunk.” I giggled. “You never get drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I don’t get drunk. I’m a control freak.” She downed her drink. “We should go.”

“Not yet.” The Irish whiskey was definitely taking effect and I couldn’t quite figure out why I’d been so offended by Robin’s words.

Oh yeah, my atrocious clothes. But she’d hate to see me dead, which was nice, although it implied that I was stupid enough to get myself killed.

I pointed at her. “I have no intention of getting myself killed simply because I’m looking for a few answers.”

“Okay, good.”

“But if you think it’s a possibility that I could get myself killed, then you must think I’m stupid.”

“How do you figure?” she asked.

“Is that a trick question?”

She laughed, but I knew she was trying to confuse me. And thanks to the booze, it was working. Robin thought she had the upper hand just because she was relatively sober compared to me. Maybe I was two drinks ahead of her, but I was also a Wainwright. We did all our best thinking when our brains were marinated in alcohol.

And coffee fueled the brilliance. I was fast approaching the intellectual level of Albert Einstein.

“What was the question?” I asked.

Robin laughed and sipped her drink.

“Miss?”

“He’s talking to you, Brooklyn,” Robin shouted.

I turned. It was the bartender, the kid. What was his name? Oh yeah, it was right on his shirt. Neil. “Yes, Neil?”

“Anandalla’s at the end of the bar if you want to talk to her.”

I tensed up. Here was my chance. I leaned back on the stool but couldn’t see her from where I sat. Then I remembered the bar mirror. Now I could see the whole room, including the woman sitting at the end of the bar. She looked short, with dark curly hair, cute, probably in her mid-twenties. She twisted around in her stool, searching the crowd, her eyes wide, her jaw tight.

I watched her gaze drift to the mirror and her eyes suddenly met mine. She recoiled but recovered in a flash, threw some cash on the bar and disappeared in the bar crowd.

“Hey!” What was that about? Did she know me?

I jumped up. “Let’s go!”

“Are you nuts?” Robin said. “I’m not finished. We haven’t paid our bill.”

“Hold my bag,” I shouted. “I’ll be back.”

My heavy bag hit her in the stomach, but she managed to grab it before it slid to the floor.

“You’re insane,” I heard her say as I thrust myself into the horde.

Once I was out the door, I looked both ways and saw Anandalla sprinting up Hyde Street toward North Point. I took off after her, watched her reach the crest of the hill. She glanced left and right, chose right and disappeared.

The hill was unbelievably steep. Halfway up, I had to stop and hold my stomach, which was starting to cramp from the combination of alcohol, four-inch heels and a skirt that was tighter than it had been when I put it on this morning.

I leaned one hand against the building, panting and puffing like an old man.

It wasn’t my best moment.

But why had she run away from me? How did she know me?

I turned and saw Robin waiting patiently at the bottom of the hill. With another heavy breath, I shuffled back down and she handed me my bag.

“I paid the bill,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You owe me.”

“I know.”

We crossed Hyde when the signal changed. For a few minutes we strolled without speaking, enjoying the evening air. We’d walked three blocks and were passing Ripley’s Believe It or Not when Robin finally spoke.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“That was the girl I was looking for,” I explained as I stared at a two-headed ferret in the Ripley’s display. “That was Anandalla.”

“Anandalla? The one whose note you found in Abraham’s studio?”

“Right. And as soon as she saw me, she ran away.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“The bartender said so.” I absently studied Ripley’s poster of a pregnant man who used to be a woman. “And how many women have a name like that?”

Robin twisted her lips. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“She looked straight at me, Robin. She recognized me. I don’t know how, but she knew me. And as soon as she saw me, she raced out of there. I tried to catch up with her, but I guess I’m a little out of shape.”

“You’re in great shape,” she said. “You’re just drunk.”

“Not anymore, sadly.” I cast an artful glance her way. “Maybe we should have one more.”

“That’s one of the seven warning signs,” she said.

“Okay,” I conceded. But a tingling sensation along my spine made me glance around. Why did I feel as though someone was watching me? I’d felt it earlier at the Covington. I rubbed my arms briskly to ward off the icy apprehension. I’d never experienced this before. Then again, I’d never had a friend murdered in cold blood before. And I’d never been surrounded by so many suspicious characters before.

I took another look around. Was Anandalla standing in the nearby shadows, watching me?

“You’re getting weird,” Robin said with a sigh, and slipped her arm through mine. “Come on. We can’t come this close to Ghirardelli Square and not stop for a hot fudge sundae.”

I woke up in my own bed wearing my own underwear, always a good thing. I just couldn’t quite remember how I got there.

I was shaking. Had I forgotten to turn on the heater? As I contemplated whether to jump out of bed and check, I considered the distinct possibility that the shaking might be a result of consuming four-five?-Irish coffees the night before.

If yes, I didn’t need to turn the heater on, I just needed some aspirin and more sleep. I was going with yes.

I jumped out of bed and my legs almost crumpled under me.

“Oh Lord, that hurts.”

Why did my legs feel like two lead weights? I wobbled into the bathroom, where I gulped down two aspirins, then scuffled back to bed and pulled the covers up. I had a vague memory of ru

The next time I opened my eyes it was nine o’clock. I threw the covers back and jumped out of bed. Then moaned and sank back down, clutching my pounding head with one hand while trying to knead my aching calves with the other.

“Oh, sweet Jerry Maguire, what did I do?”

The sudden and distinct memory of sucking down all that alcohol and caffeine did little to help my swirling stomach. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower to do what I could to wash away the misery.