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And right then and there, tears I didn’t know I still had for my father spilled over. Cat put her arms around me and I got makeup on her suit jacket.
“Oh, no, Cat. Your jacket…”
“It’s nothing. Nothing.”
Joe complimented Cat on her eulogy. He met Darla and Austin, said sweet things to his nieces, shook hands with Cappy and the Spinogattis. Then he swept me into his big black car. Before we pulled out onto Ashton Avenue, I was sobbing into my hands.
CHAPTER 39
THE WOMEN’S MURDER Club met the next evening at what we referred to as our clubhouse. Susie’s Café is a Caribbean-style restaurant at the edge of the Financial District, close to the Hall where Yuki, Claire, and I worked. Cindy was a cab ride away.
As usual, Yuki, Claire, and I arrived first. We walked through the front door and we were home. The room welcomed us with delicious aromas, the sounds of the steel drum band warming up, boisterous laughter coming from the regulars at the bar where everyone knew theCheerssong backward and upside down.
We greeted Susie and the bartender who calls himself “Fireman” and a bunch of guys we’ve known and had laughs with for years. Then we continued through the ochre, sponge-painted main room, down a corridor that took us past the kitchen into the back room, which was smaller, quieter, and cozier. The booths provided perfect privacy for four best friends to speak freely, to share secrets, and we’d worked out a few knotty cases here, never to be forgotten.
But tonight, the occasion was just to unwind. Our waitress—the wry, red-headed Lorraine O’Dea—waved in our direction and said, “Take your pick.”
There were six red leatherette upholstered booths and five of them were taken. It almost seemed that Lorraine had saved one for us. She brought us chips and dips and a pitcher of beer from the tap and set a place for Cindy.
Claire said to me, “Cindy has headlines this big,” holding up thumb and forefinger opened wide. “I hope you’re the one who gave them to her.”
“Some came from me. Some from Rich. We both had the go-ahead from Brady—and here she comes.”
Our friend Cindy Thomas, who covers crime like she was born to do it, is petite, five four, with curly blond hair that she holds off her face with a headband. She wore jeans, a pastel-blue pullover, and a cream-colored scarf—soft, harmonious colors that are a form of camouflage. Wrongdoers and criminals don’t make her as the pit-bull reporter she is until she’s gotten her story.
As she crossed to our booth, Cindy looked particularly happy. She was waving the print edition of today’s paper with the headline,SFPD HAVE SUSPECT IN CUSTODY.
Cindy slid into the booth next to Claire, across from me, and gave hugs and fist bumps depending on how close or far we were from her.
“You’re an ace,” she said to me. “And I’ve got a scoop for you.”
I said, “Tell me.”
“Your man Jack Robbie is out of the ER and in ‘observation.’ He’s alive.”
“Wow, thanks, Cindy. Please tell me you didn’t print our suspect’s name.”
“Trust me a little, would ya? NO. I didn’t mention his name or even allude to it.”
“Whew,” I said. “Tonight, I’m buying.”
Lorraine came over, said, “Good going, Lindsay, and you, too, Cindy.” And then she read the specials.
We gave Lorraine our orders, including a new pitcher of brew. And Yuki said, “Wait. What’s that hanging around your neck?”
“It’s my Grandma Frances’s ring. I’m going to wear it as a pendant for a while, then lock it up before I lose it.”
Yuki leaned over to lift the ring.
“Four carats,” Yuki said of the solitaire. “Rose cut. White gold. An antique, Linds. Very, very nice.”
I had to laugh, then said, “Girlfriends, something a little different tonight.”
I took the card-sized envelope out of my jacket pocket and showed it around.
I said, “Cindy, what am I going to say now?”
“No idea,” she said, cocking her head like a baby chick.
