door.
“Jeremy Fullerton didn't do a damn thing. He started a conversation with the next person in the line as if nothing had happened, as if his wife's outburst had been nothing more than the ignorant comment of an ill-mannered stranger.”
“Fullerton was having an affair with Goldman's daughter, and his wife found out about it?”I asked intently.
Bobby was still thinking about what Fullerton had done, or rather, what he had not done.
“He just let her go like that, let her walk away. He didn't care what she felt; all he cared about was to somehow smooth it all over, treat it as if it were some minor unpleasantness best forgotten.”He paused and, with a significant look, added, “Yes, she knew he was having an affair. And if you had seen the expression on her face—the torment, the outrage—you knew she had known about it for a long time.”
For a moment we just stared at each other.
“Are you thinking that Fullerton's wife could have killed him?”asked Bobby.
“He was sleeping with another woman, and he had just finished humiliating her in front of a couple hundred people. Yes, I could imagine that might be a motive for murder.”
Four
A lbert Craven lived in the Marina, directly across the street from a small grass-filled park and a thin strip of sandy beach. A few blocks down the shore, white-hulled boats bobbed lazily at a gray cement dock. In the other direction, a black-funneled freighter steamed under the Golden Gate, bound for somewhere the other side of the Pacific, somewhere the other side of the world, where San Francisco, like Mecca and Marrakech, was the name of other men's dreams.
I stood on the doorstep of the pale yellow stucco house, beginning to regret that I had accepted the invitation to dinner. It was a gorgeous Saturday late afternoon, the warm air crisp and clean. I would rather have spent the time wandering in the city by myself than sitting around a table with strangers engaged in the kind of meaningless small talk that passed for polite conversation and that usually made me self-conscious and tense.
The door swung open before I had rung the bell. Albert Craven's pink face was beaming.
“I was afraid you might decide not to come after all. I saw you through the window,”he explained as he took me by the arm and led me inside.
I had been the last to arrive, and Craven, a smile floating on his oval mouth, introduced me to his other guests, gathered together in the living room. Robert Sanders—or Sandy, as he insisted I call him—was in his early sixties but shook hands with the firm grip of a man who had taken care of himself. As I gathered from Craven's endless commentary, Sanders was an investment banker who had grown rich through the acquisition of large holdings in small start-up companies that had gone on to become famous names in the high-tech industry. Sanders had dark, intelligent eyes, and when he spoke used the fewest words he could find to make his point. He was someone used to saving time.
His wife, Naomi, had nothing of her husband's easy precision. With large, cavernous eyes and high, sharp cheekbones, she held out her hand with a rigid, wincing smile. Certain we had not met, she thought it unlikely I was anyone she wanted to know.
“And this is my date,”Craven announced as I let go of Naomi Sanders's tepid hand.
With a shrewd smile, Ruth Winthrop lifted her wrinkled red-splotched hand from the black-lacquered cane she held in front of her and fixed me with her ancient rheumy blue eyes.
“Don't let Albert fool you,”she said in a voice that had more life in it than I would have expected. “I'm much too young for him.”
“They say she was already here when Sir Francis Drake first sailed into the bay,”Craven whispered cheerfully under his breath as he moved me from one side of the living room to the other. “Old San Francisco in every sense,”he added. “She loathes the nouveau riche, which of course includes everyone who made their money after
“Jeremy Fullerton didn't do a damn thing. He started a conversation with the next person in the line as if nothing had happened, as if his wife's outburst had been nothing more than the ignorant comment of an ill-mannered stranger.”
“Fullerton was having an affair with Goldman's daughter, and his wife found out about it?”I asked intently.
Bobby was still thinking about what Fullerton had done, or rather, what he had not done.
“He just let her go like that, let her walk away. He didn't care what she felt; all he cared about was to somehow smooth it all over, treat it as if it were some minor unpleasantness best forgotten.”He paused and, with a significant look, added, “Yes, she knew he was having an affair. And if you had seen the expression on her face—the torment, the outrage—you knew she had known about it for a long time.”
For a moment we just stared at each other.
“Are you thinking that Fullerton's wife could have killed him?”asked Bobby.
“He was sleeping with another woman, and he had just finished humiliating her in front of a couple hundred people. Yes, I could imagine that might be a motive for murder.”
Four
A lbert Craven lived in the Marina, directly across the street from a small grass-filled park and a thin strip of sandy beach. A few blocks down the shore, white-hulled boats bobbed lazily at a gray cement dock. In the other direction, a black-funneled freighter steamed under the Golden Gate, bound for somewhere the other side of the Pacific, somewhere the other side of the world, where San Francisco, like Mecca and Marrakech, was the name of other men's dreams.
I stood on the doorstep of the pale yellow stucco house, beginning to regret that I had accepted the invitation to dinner. It was a gorgeous Saturday late afternoon, the warm air crisp and clean. I would rather have spent the time wandering in the city by myself than sitting around a table with strangers engaged in the kind of meaningless small talk that passed for polite conversation and that usually made me self-conscious and tense.
The door swung open before I had rung the bell. Albert Craven's pink face was beaming.
“I was afraid you might decide not to come after all. I saw you through the window,”he explained as he took me by the arm and led me inside.
I had been the last to arrive, and Craven, a smile floating on his oval mouth, introduced me to his other guests, gathered together in the living room. Robert Sanders—or Sandy, as he insisted I call him—was in his early sixties but shook hands with the firm grip of a man who had taken care of himself. As I gathered from Craven's endless commentary, Sanders was an investment banker who had grown rich through the acquisition of large holdings in small start-up companies that had gone on to become famous names in the high-tech industry. Sanders had dark, intelligent eyes, and when he spoke used the fewest words he could find to make his point. He was someone used to saving time.
His wife, Naomi, had nothing of her husband's easy precision. With large, cavernous eyes and high, sharp cheekbones, she held out her hand with a rigid, wincing smile. Certain we had not met, she thought it unlikely I was anyone she wanted to know.
“And this is my date,”Craven announced as I let go of Naomi Sanders's tepid hand.
With a shrewd smile, Ruth Winthrop lifted her wrinkled red-splotched hand from the black-lacquered cane she held in front of her and fixed me with her ancient rheumy blue eyes.
“Don't let Albert fool you,”she said in a voice that had more life in it than I would have expected. “I'm much too young for him.”
“They say she was already here when Sir Francis Drake first sailed into the bay,”Craven whispered cheerfully under his breath as he moved me from one side of the living room to the other. “Old San Francisco in every sense,”he added. “She loathes the nouveau riche, which of course includes everyone who made their money after
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