“She was such a fighter, right up to the end.” Her distant, hollow tone matched my mood.

  I dropped onto my sofa. “If she’d only learned to quit the fights she couldn’t win, she might still be alive.”

  “Maybe so, but I can’t entirely blame her.” Jenny sat in the armchair. “If I beat Alvarez in the upcoming election, it will be by the skin of my teeth, but I’m not going to give up.”

  “Really?” I’d assumed her reelection was a given, with her tangible progress on affordable housing. She was a darling of the newspaper, scoring a glowing headline nearly every week, while I’d barely heard a thing about her opponent.

  “He’s buddies with Camilla Ferris.” The former district attorney recently won a national senate seat. “And he’s courting the mayor, whose support I cannot afford to lose.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, then sucked in a big breath and looked at me. “I didn’t drop by to talk about the never-ending battle for reelection. You realize you left us waiting at El Sinaloense for our warden’s lunch yesterday?”

  “Crap.” I’d been at Lynn’s, and my standing date with the chairs of St. Giles’ governing committee had escaped my mind. Not smart, since they were effectively my bosses. “Don’t hesitate to text me if I’m not where I’m supposed to be.” Sadly, it happened more than I wanted to admit.

  “I didn’t want to bother you after everything—”

  “Still, I’m so sorry I didn’t cancel. I went over to Oakland with Detective Garza when he made the death notification. As ad hoc police chaplain, I guess you could say.” A pathetic excuse, considering how busy Jenny was.

  “I figured it was something like that. I told Al what happened. He was very distressed and came straight over to make sure everything was cleaned up properly.”

  When I’d come back from David’s after dinner with Naomi, the sidewalk had been scrubbed clean. I’d just assumed the police had done it. I’d thank Al tomorrow at church.

  “You should know, he wasn’t thrilled to learn about it from me. He thought you should have called your senior warden right away with news like that.”

  Fair enough, but he should have told me himself. I squeezed a foam football that I kept on my desk for whenever a parishioner tried to triangulate me. “I’m sorry to hear he felt out of the loop. It would be really helpful if you’d encourage him to tell me directly about his frustration.”

  “Oh, I know.” She waved away my concern. “I nudged him your way. But you know how he is…”

  I did. Opinionated as hell, a tad conflict averse, but as devoted to the parish as Jenny.

  “You know—” She dropped onto my couch. “After you were late to the finance committee last week, and then you decided to read that sermon from Martin Luther King instead of writing one yourself, Al’s a bit stirred up. He thinks you’re not focused on your job, you don’t do enough pastoral care, you aren’t ever in the office.”

  “You can’t do pastoral care only in the office.” A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes. I closed them and gently pressed my thumbs against my lids, then opened them to add, “You have to go to where the sheep are.”

  “Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.” She held up both her palms. “But, Al can’t carry a tune, so to speak. And he has a rector mold in his head that you couldn’t fill no matter how hard you tried.”

  It probably had a penis and two-point-five kids or a bouffant of grandma hair and a matronly bosom.

  The bishop had appointed me vicar of St. Giles’ a year and a half ago. We’d shared the high hopes that if the parish could become financially sound, they would hire me as their rector. The congregation was doing well on the money side, but apparently I wasn’t rector-shaped enough for Al.

  I dropped onto the sofa next to Jenny, slumping and letting my legs splay wide. “Well, if Al decides to speak directly to me about his concerns, I will let him know I spent the whole of Thursday ministering to the victim’s family.”

  “He might ask you if she’s a pledging member before he counts that in your favor.”

  Ugh. Why didn’t people like Al recognize that churches only grow when you focus outward, on the folks who don’t yet belong? As soon as St. Giles’ had started growing, the long-time members got antsy that they weren’t getting enough of my attention.

  “Want some tea?” A steaming cup of gunmetal green might shake me out of my funk.

  “No thanks, I’ve got a rally at the hospital this afternoon, then a fundraiser for Senator Thacker to attend.”

  “Your schedule is relentless.”

  “Yep.” She yawned, so I did too. Only, afterward, she remained bright-eyed, and I wanted to curl up on my couch and sleep until Tuesday.

  “Thanks for the heads up about Al, and for your efforts to re-frame his perspective. I’m lucky to have you on my team.”

  “You’re doing a great job, Alma.” She patted my knee, then stood. “Sundays are so joyful since you came to St. Giles’. Al will come along, I promise. We just have to help him see the big picture.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

  Once Jenny left, I sat at my computer to tighten up the sermon. With its focus on Cindy’s death, tomorrow morning wasn’t likely to be joyful in the least.

  Chapter Six

  As I fine-tuned my sermon, I remembered an article the paper published about Cindy a few months earlier. I found it online, scrolled through it, and cringed at a quote. “Kevin Kearney is what’s wrong with San Francisco. He evicts grandmas, raises the rent on struggling families and doesn’t give a damn about the traditional populations who’ve taken refuge in this city for decades.”

  The newspapers’ site linked to a follow-up article with a video clip. In it, Kevin Kearney stood in a conference room somewhere, behind a podium with a white and blue Kearney Properties logo on it. Those fluorescent lights were not kind to his fading strawberry blond hair.

  “The Carlos Club is a blight on the neighborhood. Its clientele are the wrong sort of people for the new Mission, and its proprietor couldn’t turn a profit selling snow cones in hell.” He laughed at his own joke.

  I’d wanted to punch him the first time I’d seen it. Now that Cindy was dead, I might go for a kick to the groin instead.

  Were the police looking into him, or did they have enough evidence to charge David Cohen? Cesar would never tell me, so I may as well ask the guy myself.

  I texted Naomi. Is your brother home?

  Came home at 3 a.m. and went straight to bed.

  My thumbs flew over the screen. Good. Let me bring you two takeout.

  Really? That would be awesome.

  Damn. This subterfuge might come back to bite me later. I called in an order to the falafel place down the street and glanced outside.

  Those bright blue skies could be deceptive. It looked warm, but in early June they meant I should trade out my vegan leather soldier jacket for a puffy down parka.

  Sure enough, the day was frigid as only summer in San Francisco can be. Gales came barreling over the city from the ocean, blowing off the fog and turning Sixteenth Street into an arctic wind tunnel.

  I’d almost reached Abbey Street, falafel in hand, when I skidded to a halt. My frozen brain had started working again, and it wanted to know what the hell I was doing. Al had indirectly dressed me down for spreading myself too thin, and I was off to stick my nose deeper into Cindy’s murder.

  Phenomenal plan, Alls. Maybe you should drop off the falafel and run.

  Outside Garfield’s coffee shop I gazed inside, but really, I searched the reflection of my own shadowy silhouette in the glass. Should I be Al’s timely meeting attender and provider of insular pastoral care, or keep letting the spirit carry me wherever it wanted?

  And, as ever, my reflection provided me with no answer. Without one, it was easy to continue to go with the flow, which always led me to the most interesting places.

  And why not poke around about the case? Cesar said I was too nosy for my own good. But if you want to be helpful, to rally people, to show them how to make a difference, you've got to know what’s going on.

  On the other hand, I was no Miss Marple, or even that badass priest/helicopter pilot in those mystery novels everyone in seminary read. What was her name? Oh, right, Clare Fergusson. If Cesar found out, he'd rage at me like he had in the good old days, before he got too fed up with me to bother shouting anymore.

  I really, really shouldn’t feel all tingly inside at the prospect. But hey, they were my good old days for a reason.

  And of course, I wanted to atone for my neglect of Cindy and honor Lynn’s request. I wasn’t snapping to attention because of Naomi.

  I could imagine Cindy’s cackle in my ear. Nice try. It’s totally about the girl. But I won’t hold it against you.

  The bunched-up muscles of my throat relaxed for the first time since I’d seen her body. Had she just sprinkled mercy on me from above?

  I turned onto Abbey and rang the bell.

  David answered. Dark circles hung under his eyes like something perfectly round had punched both sides of his face.

  “Yeah?” His gaze held no recognition we’d met.

  “Hi, I’m Alma.” I stuck out my hand, simultaneously hoisting the takeout bag. “I’m here to see Naomi. I brought food.”

  “Oh, right. She said you were coming.”

  He gave my hand a limp squeeze, then stepped aside. The shoe rack now housed Naomi’s black Mary Janes and a pair of men’s leather slide-ons.

  “Come on up.”

  Above, the apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. The monkey was no longer lying face down in the entryway. I climbed the stairs.

  “Hey.” At the end of the dark, narrow hallway, Naomi stood in the bright kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel.

  I passed closed doors and entered the cluttered, cozy room. A rich aroma filled the air—baking butter—the glorious scent of temptation. Despite sitting at the back of the flat, the kitchen was clearly the center of activity. As it should be. Had that been true when Melissa and Aviva were home? I shoved the sad thought aside.

  “Hey, yourself.” I stood a meter from Naomi, not sure how to greet her—a hug, a smooch on the cheek, a body-smashed-together kiss with lots of tongue? Planting my feet, I waited for a cue.

  She gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

  Well, that was definitely the least desirable option. I dropped my butt in the chair. Its hard slats slammed against my sit bones.

  “So they didn’t charge him?” I asked in a near-whisper.

  She lifted one brow, shaking her head. “David, come tell Alma all about it. She wants to know if the police think you’re a murderer.”

  Okay. So she’d ferreted me out in two seconds flat. Hopefully the falafel would win me her forgiveness.

  David entered and sat across from me, elbows on the table, chin on his knuckles, as if the weight of his head was too much to carry. Was that the burden of guilt for bludgeoning my friend to death?

  The lump in my throat re-formed.

  “Tell her about the keys,” Naomi said.

  He unfolded and refolded a paper napkin. “So, when the police were questioning me, they kept asking me about keys. Had I received keys to The Carlos Club? Where were they now? They’d ask me where I was, how much was in my bank accounts, where Melissa and Aviva were. Then, always, they’d drop another question about these keys to the bar.”

  I leaned an inch closer to him over the table. “They found them at the crime scene?”

  “Yeah. That’s what they said. Somewhere inside the club.” He blinked, as if nodding required too much strength.

  It wasn’t so weird to find a set of keys inside the building they opened. “Were they Cindy’s or one of the bar tender’s?”

  Naomi tapped her fingers on the table. “Come on, the cops would have ruled that out.”

  Oh, right. See what I mean? I’m so not Miss Marple.

  David twisted in the chair and grabbed something off the countertop. He dangled a ring with a single Schlage key and a square, white fob. It read Kearney Properties.

  “The thing is, I did receive a ring identical to the one they found. It arrived by courier on Thursday morning, the first day of my lease on the bar, before I heard what happened to that woman.”

  “Cindy. Her name was Cindy.”

  He winced. “Sorry. Of course. Naomi mentioned she was your friend.”

  The simple acknowledgement softened me toward him. Even if they weren’t his keys, it didn’t prove him innocent. But it might implicate someone else—namely a greedy son of a bitch named Kevin Kearney. Was David suggesting the same thing?

  I studied the bruised bags under his eyes, the tension in his mouth. He caught me looking and pulled a tight smile.

  Naomi opened the oven and drew out a sheet of cookies. The source of the glorious-yet-taboo aroma. No cows should have to live in tiny stalls hooked up to pumping machines so I could eat buttery cookies. Plus, their farts account for 4.2% of greenhouse gasses.

  “So.” She spun and leaned against the counter, wielding a spatula. “Let's head over to Kearny Properties and learn who else had a key.” She scraped the cookies off the sheet. Chocolate chip, by the looks of them. Doubly easy to refuse. I only eat vegan, fair trade chocolate, and I’d have put money on those being Tollhouse morsels.

  “Are they open on Saturday?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” David said, “But why would they talk to us?”

  She wagged the spatula at him. “Because you are a very upset new tenant, shocked that a murder has taken place on the property and offended that you've become a suspect because of their key chain gone astray.”

  “That could backfire big time.” I’m all for the direct approach, but when it comes to information gathering, subtlety usually works better. “Plus, if David goes over there and Cesar finds out, he’s going to be furious. Charge you with interfering.”

  “Cesar?” Naomi slid a cookie on a plate in front of her brother.

  David inhaled deeply. “The homicide detective, Cesar Garza.”

  “You call him Cesar?” She set a cookie before me.

  I held up my palm. “No, thanks.”

  She took the plate for herself, her gaze never leaving my face. So much for avoiding the question.

  “Yeah. I’ve known Cesar since we were kids.” Way easier to explain than to get into the whole bisexual discussion over cookies with David. I leaned forward. “He’d kill me for meddling, too, so this will just have to be our secret.”

  “Let’s go,” David rose.

  Naomi gave her brother a withering look with another cookie on the side. “Not you. Alma and I will handle this one.”

  Naomi sprung for an Uber. On the way, I asked her about rabbinical school and we discussed our favorite classes on the Bible.

  “I lead services twice a month, teach, do Bar and Bat Mitzvah tutoring, and spearhead the social justice programs at Tikkun Olam. I only started last month, but so far I like it.”

  I told her about St. Giles’ visiting shut-ins, housing a shelter in our parish hall one week a month, and the healthcare for the homeless task force I’d organized at the hospital. We swapped stories about wacky members of our congregations and exchanged laughs over preaching foibles while our driver frowned at us in the rearview mirror. The inside jokes only priests and rabbis can understand—further evidence we were perfectly suited for each other.

  “How do you like St. Giles?”

  “Love it. The bishop appointed me priest-in-charge to revitalize the parish. They’re working hard, and growing, and they’re great people. Plus, they feed me and bring me little gifts all the time. It’s like having a dozen doting grandmothers. I have more flowery smelling hand soap than a queer girl can use in her entire lifetime.”

  “Soap's nice, but I like the food.” She patted her trim tummy, sighed, and rested her head on my shoulder. “Best job in the world, right?”

  “Absolute best.” I closed my eyes and held still, hoping she wouldn’t move.

  The offices of Kearney Properties occupied the ground floor of a Nob Hill apartment building. Odd place for a real estate office, considering Kearney was so interested in eking every penny of profit from a property. One of those fifty-bucks-a-workout barre studios would net way more money there than his cubicle farm, which could be housed anywhere in the city more cheaply.

  We entered. Right away, I recognized the meeting room to the left as the place where Kearney had given his wrong-sort-of-people press conference. One day, new tenants would need to smudge it with sage to ritually cleanse the evil.

  I marched right up to the front desk. “Hi, my name is Allison Lemmon. I’m a master mixologist. Did you see the spread about me in Frisco Magazine?” Such an awful name for a magazine. Locals never call our fair city Frisco.

  A young man with a bowtie and immaculately groomed handlebar mustache popped up from his swivel chair, which rolled backward. “Totally! Ms. Lemmon, I’m a huge fan. How can I help you?”

  If you’re feeling bad for the real Allison Lemmon, don’t bother, I made her up.

  “Well, I saw on the news about that horrible murder on Fourteenth Street, and I thought it would make a perfect location for the new high-concept cocktail bar I’ve just had financed. Is the property available now?”

  “Well, technically, no. It’s under lease. But…" He lowered his voice to a reedy whisper, yet it remained just as loud. “Between you and me, the new tenant might fall through.”

  At my side, Naomi stiffened and made a squeak in the back of her throat.

  “Excellent,” I said. “It must be kismet that someone killed that poor woman just when I needed a hot piece of real estate.”

  The receptionist blinked, likely flabbergasted silent by Allison Lemmon’s self-absorption. I probably should have toned it down, made my character less memorable. But it’s best not to second guess your instincts in improv scenes, and she seemed like the sort of heartless person Kevin Kearney might admire.

  “When can we see it?” Naomi asked.

  “Well, technically, it's an active crime scene.”

 

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