Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) by Michaela Thompson Page A

this kind of harassment. Please call it off.”
    He spread his arms in an exasperated gesture of having nothing to hide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never even considered having you followed.”
    Of course he would never admit it. I felt my face reddening. “Look. There’s no point in denying it. I know I’m being watched.”
    “You do?
How
do you know?” I saw patronizing pity in his eyes. His tone implied that he was dealing with a lunatic.
    “Because…” I began furiously, then stopped. If I answered his question, I’d have to tell him about my visit to the
Times
. Presumably, if he’d had somebody make the phone call he already knew of it, but I myself wasn’t ready to bring it out into the open yet. “Let’s just say I have good reason to think so,” I finished weakly.
    Now the patronizing air was stronger. “I’m quite sure you do,” he said. “But if someone is following you I’m not responsible. You said it yourself. What would I have to gain?”
    “I don’t know.” I made my tone as frigid as I could, but I had lost ground and I knew it.
    Richard glanced at his watch. “You know, Maggie, if San Francisco is getting on your nerves, why don’t you consider getting away for a while? You could go back to Mazatlan. You liked Mazatlan, didn’t you? Or Greece. We never got to Greece. I could have Tabby make all the arrangements for you.”
    At this false solicitude, I felt a stirring of something more solid than anger. After a moment I identified it as pure, astringent, honest dislike. “I have no intention of leaving town, Richard,” I said. “If my presence is getting on your nerves,
you
go to Mazatlan. And in the meantime, if you’re lying and you
have
had someone watching me, I suggest you call him off before I contact the police.”
    I left him no time to reply and sailed out past the assiduously typing Tabby and down the hall to the elevator.
    The afternoon traffic was beginning to fill the streets, and the drive home seemed many times longer than the trip downtown had been. Sitting behind a bus, watching the traffic light ahead change to red once again, I felt my head begin to throb. Maybe it was impossible to get a foothold on the slick surface of Richard’s urbanity. He said he wasn’t having me watched. Even after being married to him for twenty years, I couldn’t tell if he was lying. A stronger throb went through my head, and I put it on his lengthening account. Seeing him again had been a mistake.
    When I got home I again looked around for unfamiliar cars or suspicious characters, but the only person in view was the Japanese gardener digging in a neighbor’s yard. I climbed wearily to the front door. Who would care if I visited the
Times
? Only Richard. If Richard knew what I was up to, he would care, so Richard must be responsible for the phone call. I should get in touch with the cops. Put the cops on him, let them take care of it. I pictured myself explaining to the police that my husband, a distinguished political figure who played tennis with their bosses, was behind a threatening phone call to me. I pictured the police calling Richard to discuss it with him, and Richard explaining that I was a little bonkers but he’d try to see that they weren’t disturbed again.
    My head was worse. I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the couch, but I couldn’t rest. “There could be trouble,” the voice had said. I wouldn’t call the police, but there was something I would do. I got up to call Andrew Baffrey.

Eight
    Andrew sounded surprised, but not displeased, to hear from me. “What can I do for you?”
    “It’s about what we discussed this morning. Something’s happened, and I wanted to ask you—”
    “Wait a second,” he broke in. “I don’t want to dazzle you with cloak-and-dagger tactics, but I’d rather not discuss this on the phone. I was just leaving. Would you like to meet me in a dark alley, or preferably your neighborhood bar, for a