“A couple of weeks ago at dinner,” he said. “It was so weird. I had gone to Los Olivos to try a new little hole-in-the-wall place I’d heard about. I’m a food fanatic,” he explained. “I live to find places nobody else has discovered yet. I was shocked to see anyone I knew. But there was Marissa, smiling and waving. She was always so vibrant, so full of life.”
“We were told you dated her,” Hicks said.
“We went out from time to time,” he admitted. “Plus One was Marissa’s specialty.”
“What do you mean?”
“She liked charity fund-raisers—the social scene, dressing up, having a good time, rubbing elbows with all the right people,” he explained. “But she never had to buy a ticket. She was always somebody’s Plus One.”
“A party girl,” Mendez said.
“I guess you could say so, but she wasn’t wild. She just liked to have a good time. She was a free spirit. She liked men, and men liked her.”
“Was she ever more than Plus One to you?”
“We were just friends,” Foster said, his expression carefully blank.
“Did she know you’re gay?” Mendez asked.
If Foster was shocked at the question, he did a good job of hiding it.
“I’m not gay.”
Mendez looked at Hicks, pretending confusion. “Really? Someone told us you are.”
Foster shrugged it off. “That’s nothing new. Single artsy teacher, hasn’t gotten any co-eds pregnant—must be gay. I’m not.”
“Huh,” Mendez said. “He seemed pretty sure of it.”
Foster shrugged. “Well, whoever he was, he was mistaken.”
“When did you last speak to Ms. Fordham?” Hicks asked.
Foster thought about it. “Hmm ... Sunday. She called me Sunday afternoon.”
“For any particular reason?”
He shook his head. “Just to chat.”
“How did she seem?
“Fine. Normal.”
“She didn’t say anything about being worried, or that someone was bothering her?”
“No. We talked about the holiday fair coming up. She’s been doing some work with silk. She was excited about having pieces for sale in her booth.”
“Can you tell us where you were Sunday evening?” Hicks asked.
“Dinner and a movie at a friend’s house. Home in bed by eleven thirty. School night.”
A door opened at the top of the room and two of Foster’s quintet came in carrying trumpets.
“Is there anything else?” Foster asked. “I can postpone the rehearsal if you need me.”
“No, thanks, Mr. Foster,” Hicks said. “We’re done for now.”
Mendez handed Foster a card. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything, please call.”
Foster put the card in his pocket. “I’ll do that. Good luck. I hope you find the person that did it.”
Halfway to the door, Mendez turned around. “Mr. Foster, was Ms. Fordham with anyone when you saw her at that restaurant?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She was having dinner with her attorney.”
Steve Morgan.
“I told you!” Mendez gloated as they walked across the parking lot. “I knew it!”
“Could have been an innocent attorney-client dinner,” Hicks said.
“You don’t sneak out of town to an out-of-the-way restaurant nobody knows for a simple client dinner.”
Hicks conceded the point.
“That bastard!” Mendez said. “I want him in the box. Now.”
“It’s not against the law to have dinner,” Hicks said. “Or to cheat on your wife, for that matter.”
“He’s connected to a murder victim.”
“He’s a lawyer. He’ll never consent.”
“He’s got a big ego,” Mendez said, pulling open his car door. “Maybe he’ll want to prove us wrong.”
“What do you think about Foster?” Hicks asked as they got in the car.
“Single artsy teacher with no pregnant co-eds?” Mendez said. “Sounds gay to me.”
“He was pretty cool about it.”
“If he’s used to people assuming he’s gay, maybe it’s no big deal to him.”
“There’s a big difference between someone saying you’re gay and someone being able to prove it,” Hicks said. “We didn’t ask him who he was with at that out-of-the-way dinner.”
“Like you said: There’s no law against having dinner. Unless he was making out with another guy between courses, it doesn’t matter who he was with,” Mendez said.
“I see,” Hicks said. “It’s okay for Foster to meet a boyfriend for dinner, but Marissa Fordham being seen with Steve Morgan gives Morgan a motive for murder. That’s some double standard you’ve got there, compadre.”
“Don’t ridicule my theory of the crime,” Mendez said. “I mean, do you really think the powers that be at McAster would be shocked to find out their music director is gay? That’s like saying they’d be shocked to find out half the girls’ softball team are lesbians. Would they really care?”
“They’d care if there were photographs,” Hicks pointed out.
“So would Steve Morgan,” Mendez countered.
33
The adrenaline for the upcoming confrontation coursed through Mendez all the way to the Morgan home ... then crashed. Steve Morgan’s Trans Am was not in the driveway.
“Maybe it’s in the garage,” Hicks said.
“It was parked outside last night.”
“Last night? What are you doing? Stalking the guy?”
“I was just driving around, thinking. I came by here.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“I’m tenacious. It’s only obsession if there’s nothing to back it up.”
They sat at the curb for a moment, Mendez regrouping his thoughts.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “We’ll talk to Mrs. Morgan. Light a fire.”
Sara Morgan was not pleased to see them. It took her several moments to come to the door. She was dressed like a welder in bib overalls and a heavy leather apron with equally heavy leather gloves. Her hair was up in a messy topknot with long curls slipping free all around.
She looked like she hadn’t slept or eaten in days.
“Detectives,” she said, pulling the gloves off. Her hands were raw with cuts and scratches. She had given up on the Smurf Band-Aids. The sculpture she had told him about was taking a hard toll on her.
“What a surprise,” she said with no surprise in her voice at all.
“Mrs. Morgan,” Mendez said. “Is your husband at home? We need to speak to him.”
“What about?”
“It’s of a sensitive nature, ma’am,” Hicks said.
“Are you going to accuse him of sleeping with Marissa again?” she asked bluntly.
“Uhhhh ... well ...”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “He’ll only deny it. That’s the first three things they learn in law school, you know. Deny, deny, deny.”
“It sounds like you’ve already had that conversation with him,” Mendez said.
