Death in North Beach Read Online Free PDF Page B

when she stumbled upon Lang and his strange little family. And she had to give Lang his due. He was doing his best to keep her from sliding back to the way she lived before, which was, upon introspection, not exactly living. Carly was starting to like the guy she originally thought was just a little too ‘street’ for her. She was also, she’d have to admit, just a little smitten with William Blake.
    â€˜I’ll be at home if you need me,’ she told Lang, who had settled in behind his computer to get background on the folks on his list.
    â€˜Home?’ He smiled.
    â€˜It’s a beautiful day. I’m thinking my laptop, my big old sofa, and a glass of Pinot Grigio.’
    She waited for Lang’s reply. It never came. He simply waved.
    She was still getting used to the lack of regimentation.
    It was a good decision. The afternoon was sunny, warm with an occasional breeze. She opened the doors that led out to the back deck and opened the front window to let the breezes play through her flat. She picked out a selection of CDs that would enhance such a day. The first to click on was Astrud Gilberto. This was the right rhythm. Not too slow, but relaxed.
    She plugged in her laptop and put it on the big, comfy sofa and opened a bottle of white wine.
    â€˜Go slow, now,’ she warned herself about the wine. ‘It’s still afternoon.’
    She looked at her list, the names and William Blake’s brief notations.
    Nathan Malone, Warfield’s prime competitor, successful writer who occasionally focused on the Beat Generation writers and artists.
    Lili D. Young, an artist. Warfield hated her. Not sure why.
    Mickey Warfield, wanderer, Warfield’s son.
    Bart Brozynski, newspaper editor and publisher, visceral.
    Samuel McFarland, SF Board of Supervisors, something personal.
    Frank Wiley, photographer, portraits and North Beach environs, artistic differences.
    The notations were helpful, but vague. What did ‘visceral’ mean in this case? Or ‘something personal’? But this was a start. She’d begin with Google. Next, she would try to arrange a meeting. People who hate passionately – like people who love passionately – often enjoy talking about the object of their affection or disaffection. Of course, it was possible that not one of these people was involved in Warfield’s death. But one had to start somewhere.
    The wine was perfect, cool, its ability to quench a thirst probably less endearing to wine critics than it was to her at the moment.
    The afternoon at her keyboard yielded quite a bit more in the way of biography for those on her list, except for Mickey Warfield, who didn’t come up at all. Unfortunately, there was nothing on the surface that connected any of them to Whitney Warfield in any meaningful way, or helped to explain the various animosities. She found that she could reach Brozynski and McFarland by email through their websites. She could go through the galleries to connect with Wiley and Young. There were no phone listings for anyone and that meant young Mickey Warfield and Nathan Malone would be a little more difficult to locate.
    Before the second glass of wine on an increasingly empty stomach mellowed her a little more than she anticipated, she had gotten phone numbers for the two artists and sent emails to the two who had published email addresses.
    She decided that life was good after all as she prepared the scallops she had bought at the Marina Market. She lightly roasted some asparagus sprinkled with pecorino and sliced some tomatoes. She dined on the back deck as the sun declined, which it was doing earlier and earlier each day. The third glass of wine introduced a little melancholy. Why not, she said, giving in. Enjoy it all. She took a sip of wine and remembered she liked William Blake’s sly smile. There was, though, at the edge of her mind, something dark that tugged at her newfound sunny disposition.
    Gratelli napped.