“That whiskey went right to my head. I could use a little air.”
“Then let’s go.”
On our way out the door, he leaned over and said in my ear, “What are you involved in, Lucie? I still don’t understand where you’re going with this, but I can tell you right now that I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
I glanced over my shoulder as Quinn held the door for me. Three thousand miles away from home on the other side of the country and I felt Charles Thiessman’s presence as though he were right here with us.
Suddenly I didn’t have a good feeling about what I was dragging Quinn into, either.
Chapter 11
We passed a park as we walked toward Fisherman’s Wharf and the Embarcadero. The steady breeze carried the pungent, briny scent of the Bay and an unexpected fragrant smell of baking.
“It smells like bread,” I said to Quinn.
“Sourdough. Boudin’s is nearby. It’s a pretty famous bakery out here.”
The fog had burned off, leaving a tender blue sky that faded to white behind the dusky hills across the Bay. The water—lemon-lime with froths of white—looked tropical.
“You’re thinking about Southern California,” Quinn said, when I asked him if it was warm enough for swimming. “Northern California beaches are cold with great crashing waves and lots of cliffs and rocks.”
He pulled out his phone and called Scoma’s, asking if we could have a table for two in forty-five minutes.
“Are we walking to the restaurant?” I asked.
“Nope. There’s a Scoma’s here on the Wharf, but we’re going to the one in Sausalito. Taking the ferry. It leaves in ten minutes.”
The Embarcadero was a crowded, bustling tourist strip that seemed part kitschy outdoor carnival, part upscale yacht club. Quinn pointed out Alcatraz as we passed a busker with a sad Quixote face playing Dylan on an acoustic guitar. Sailboats tacked across the water, gulls screeched overhead, and the weather—sharp sunshine, crisp shadows, and that fresh riffing breeze off the water—was flatout perfect. I could almost feel the physical tug this place had on Quinn—its freewheeling openness, the rugged scenic beauty, the live-and-let-live tolerance and lifestyle everyone sang about in those ballads about San Francisco.
He took my hand as we headed down a pier to a building with a BLUE & GOLD FLEET sign on it.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
We passed a silver-faced mime performing next to a souvenir stand with T-shirts that read I ESCAPED FROM ALCATRAZ and cans of San Francisco fog. “Nothing, really. Pretty day.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Most of’em are out here.”
We stayed outside on the deck for the half-hour ferry trip to Sausalito. Quinn loaned me his jacket since the breeze was chilly on the water. I pulled it tight around my shoulders and breathed in his scent, remembering how it smelled on my own skin after we’d made love.
I’d seen the Golden Gate Bridge before, but never from the water and never the full majestic sweep of it—the towering orange-red spans backlit by the sun against an azure sky with tiny dark cars buzzing across like migrating ants. Beyond the bridge, the Pacific Ocean was a straight dark line on a limitless horizon.
“Get a good look at it,” Quinn said. “You might not see it on the trip back. It disappears like a magic trick. Sometimes the fog rolls in late in the day; it’s not just in the morning. The view doesn’t get much better than this.”
The ferry let us off on Sausalito’s main street, Bridgeway, which curved along the waterfront. Scoma’s was a charming wood-framed building located on a pier that jutted out over the water, not far from the ferry landing. A hostess led us through the restaurant to a light-filled room with a breathtaking view of the Bay. Quinn pointed out the landmarks: Belvedere, Angel Island, Treasure Island, and the Bay Bridge. To the right was San Francisco, watery-looking through a gauzy marine haze, like a distant kingdom.
Quinn told me I had to try the Dungeness crab, so I did; he ordered crab cakes. He chose a bottle of California Chardonnay, and we started by sharing a plate of oysters. Our waitress filled our water glasses and set down a basket of warm sourdough bread.
“You want to finish your story from the Buena Vista?” Quinn opened the breadbasket and held it out. “Tell me about Paul Noble and how his suicide ties in with Charles Thiessman and black roses.”
I filled in the blanks while we ate. Somehow in this bright, cheery room, my tale seemed less disturbing, less menacing. It also seemed less plausible. As I talked, Quinn’s lengthy silence and occasional are-you-kidding-me? arched eyebrow made me wonder if he didn’t believe I’d lost a few marbles since April.
“So Charles believes the guy who owned the vineyard before Brooke has gone off the grid and is now finishing off whoever is left of this Mandrake Society after forty years?” he said when I was done. “Just supposing that’s true, why now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think Charles knows?” He asked the question in a calm enough manner, but I could tell he still wasn’t buying any of this.
He picked up the bottle of wine and filled our glasses. I set down my fork. The meal had been fabulous.
“I’m sure he knows more than he told us,” I said.
“Okay.”
I folded my hands together and leaned across the table. “Look, I don’t believe Thelma really communicates with my parents on her Ouija board, and I don’t hear voices when no one’s around. But if you’d been in that lodge with him that night, he made a pretty compelling case.”
“After how much booze?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Were you guys drunk?”
“Not really. I mean, yes, we were drinking.” I pushed my wine-glass to the side. “We shared a bottle of Margaux.”
“After cocktails and wine with dinner, no doubt,” he said. “So was he drunk?”
“He kept pace with us, then he switched to brandy. He wasn’t slurring his words until the end. But he wasn’t that bad.”
“Maybe that’s all it was, then. He got sloshed and started babbling about something he’s lived with like a noose around his neck for four decades.”
“You could have chosen another metaphor,” I said.
“Huh? Oh, sorry. Paul.”
The waitress stopped by with dessert menus. “I couldn’t eat another thing,” I said. “Just coffee, please.”
“Look,” he said after the waitress left. “If Charles is right, then something must have happened recently to this Theo guy, or Teddy Fargo, to open an old wound and get him thinking about revenge out of the blue.”
“Presuming Teddy Fargo is Theo Graf,” I said.
“Presuming.”
“I think it’s odd that both Paul and the other guy, Mel Racine, died with those Mandrake Society wineglasses next to them,” I said. “That’s got to be more than just a bizarre coincidence.”
“I don’t know why that name rings a bell,” Quinn said. “Mel Racine. When I get back to the boat tonight, I’ll look him up on the Internet.”
“He moved out to the Bay Area,” I said. “And he owned car dealerships. Those guys pester you with advertisements and deals worse than politicians at election time. If he’s local, I’m surprised you wouldn’t have heard of him.”
“That’s because you probably don’t realize how much geography you’re talking about in a big state like California,” he said. “The Bay Area goes as far south as Santa Cruz and as far north as Napa.”
I spun my coffee spoon around on the linen tablecloth like a needle on a compass. Quinn figured something must have happened to prompt Theo, or Fargo, to make good on a forty-year-old threat. What if he was almost right?
