Marcia Muller - Trophies And Dead Things

"The detective?" Her voice was a shade sly.

I sighed. "Okay-Greg Marcus."

"You mentioned you'd had dinner with him a couple of weeks ago. Are you seeing him again?"

"We've been going to lunch or dinner together ever since we got over being bitter about our breakup. It's no big deal."

"Amazing how you manage to stay on good terms with your former boyfriends."

I started to say, "Except for Jim," but thought better of it. Rae had introduced me to him last winter, and she'd been disappointed when I broke it off. Instead I said, "Staying on good terms with Greg comes under the heading of good police relationships. I'll check in with you later."

Next I phoned the local branch of Thomas Y. Grant Associates; the switchboard operator told me Mr. Grant worked out of his home office and gave me that number. When I called it and requested an appointment, Grant's secretary hastened to caution me that his legal practice was restricted to men. I said my business was personal and concerned a substantial bequest left to him by an All Souls client. That prompted her to put me on hold. When she returned, she said Mr. Grant could fit me in at ten-thirty and gave me a Pacific Heights address on the section of Lyon Street that borders the Presidio.

The final item on my mental list was to try to contact Jess Goodhue at KSTS. The anchorwoman, I was told, would not come into the studio until three or three-thirty. I left my name and number and said that if I didn't hear from her, I'd check back then. After I replaced the receiver in its cradle I stared indecisively at it: should I call Greg for an appointment or just drop in? Finally I opted for setting a definite time and punched out the number for his extension at the Homicide detail of the SFPD. He was there, and sounded pleased to hear from me. When I explained what I wanted to talk with him about, he invited me to lunch.

"We could try the South Park Cafe," he added.

"No," I said quickly. South Park, a curious little street in the newly trendy SoMa district near the Hall of Justice, had figured in the investigation when I'd met and lost George Kostakos; it still held painful memories for me.

"… Oh, right," Greg said. "Well, there's always Max's Diner."

"Why don't I meet you at your office, and we'll decide then."

He agreed and we hung up.

I went to dress for my appointment with Thomas Grant. After some deliberation I chose a gray wool suit with a short skirt and a long double-breasted jacket-a Chanel knockoff that nevertheless had been outrageously expensive and worth every penny of it. It's the outfit that Anne-Marie has dubbed my "schizoid suit," because it's businesslike and sexy at the same time.

The fog had continued through the weekend and into that morning. Even the quiet streets of Pacific Heights-where the residents are normally blessed not only with affluence but also with good weather-were finely misted. I parked my MG in front of the address Grant's secretary had given me and got out, shivering slightly from the cold.

The house-one of only a few that backed up on the thickly forested grounds of the Presidio-was a large one. Its brown shingles, leaded-glass windows, and shiny black trim were of an early twentieth-century style that abounds in that part of the city. An arched wooden gate led into a bricked front yard shaded by an acacia tree. The bricks had been swept clean of every leaf. Raised flower beds bordered the small yard at the base of its high wooden fence. The geraniums that grew in them were planted at precise intervals; they looked prim and stiff, as if standing at attention.

Grant's secretary, who greeted me at the door and introduced herself as Ms. Angela Curtis, looked prim and stiff, too. Her blond hair was cropped in a style that immediately suggested the word "efficient"; she wore a plain gray suit, simple gold jewelry, and sensible low-heeled pumps. Although she was around my age, she seemed a much older woman. As I watched her cross the large oak-paneled entry to tell Grant I was there, I tried-and failed-to imagine her running on the beach, or laughing and eating and drinking with friends, or making love, or any of the other things that normal, vital women enjoy doing.

When Ms.Curtis vanished through a closed door to the right of the wide central staircase, I turned and studied my surroundings. The other doors that opened off the room were shut, too, as if Grant sought to separate his professional and personal lives. There was a red Chinese rug on the parquet floor and a large oval table in the center under the brass chandelier, but otherwise there were no furnishings, no decorations, no pictures on the golden-oak walls. An austere man, this Thomas Y. Grant.

Ms.Curtis returned and motioned to me. "Mr.Grant is on the telephone," she said. "If you'll go in and take a seat, he'll be with you shortly."

I thanked her and entered the office. At first glance the room appeared to be a typical lawyer's study, with the obligatory wall of thick tomes, the obligatory mahogany desk and leather-upholstered furniture. I couldn't see Grant because he was swiveled around with the high back of his chair to the desk, talking into the phone in a low voice. Ms.Curtis shut the door behind me.

Then I realized that unlike the typical lawyer's study, the room contained no framed diplomas, certificates, or pictures of the attorney with prominent clients or politicians. I smiled faintly, thinking that this office was also different from Hank's, which contains-among other things-a cigar-store Indian and a poster of Uncle Sam saying, "I want YOU for the U.S. Army." But then I realized Grant had some peculiar objects of his own, and went over to the shelves that flanked the fireplace to have a closer look at them.

They appeared to be a bizarre form of sculpture: strange, twisted, unrecognizable shapes of wood and metal intermingled with feathers and tufts of fur and fragments of bone. I looked more closely at one and saw a pair of yellowed fangs protruding from a strip of reptile skin; another had claws- ragged, broken ones. Some sort of primitive folk art, I supposed, unsettling and quite unpleasant.

Behind me, Grant was still talking. I moved to the other side of the fireplace and examined a piece that sat apart from the rest on a shelf of its own. The framework was a crossed pair of rusted metal spikes, each festooned with mockingbirds' feathers. Stretched between the spikes was a swatch of what resembled-but certainly couldn't be-dried I human skin.

I recoiled, and a phrase came to me: trophies and dead things. An odd phrase. I couldn't remember where I'd heard or read it.

There was a footfall behind me; I turned. Thomas Grant was approaching, one hand extended. For a moment I wasn't sure if I wanted the possessor of such nasty artworks to touch me.

Grant was handsome in a conventional way. The body clad in the expensive blue suit was trim and well muscled, and I suspected he didn't have to work at keeping in shape. His hair was iron gray, thick, and so well cut that not a lock strayed from its proper place. His strong-featured face, while not totally unlined, was supple and youthful; its only imperfection was a jagged scar on his left cheek that made him look like the romantic lead in a melodrama about male honor. Otherwise it was as if nothing in his life had touched him deeply enough to leave vestiges of pain, sorrow, or even happiness. As he shook my hand I felt a wave of visceral dislike.

"I see you were looking at my fetishes," he said.

"Is that what they are?"

"In a strict sense, no. But a fetish is a charm, something with magical powers. These certainly do have the power to disturb." His eyes-gray like his hair-remained on mine as he released my hand. Their expression was sly, knowing; he liked the fact that the fetishes had unsettled me.