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together, I used my cell phone to make a brief condolence call
     to Claire, the “official” bereaved widow. Wasn’t much of a condolence call. More of
     an announcement call, met with Claire’s cool, “In the flat? He got himself murdered
     at home? Careless bastard,” before I handed the phone over to the inspector. I also
     called Small Town and broke the news that Quentin wouldn’t be back that afternoon—or ever. His assistant,
     Gertie Davies, became hysterical, so I asked for Glen Fox, Quent’s managing editor
     and old friend. Glen swore into the phone and then said he’d handle things at the
     office. I couldn’t figure out what to do about Stuart, Quentin’s companion. There
     was no sign of him. Moon said he’d wait for his return, so I scribbled a note to him
     and left it on the kitchen counter.
    Calvin and I looked in on Madame DeBurgos. She was nestled on the rose velvet loveseat
     in her front room—much, I imagine, as a destroyer might nestle into a slip at the
     Marina—her glass still cradled close to her bosom. She didn’t sit up, but she opened
     an eye and presented Calvin with her hand to say goodbye. When we were halfway out
     the door, she summoned me back. “Maggie, come here, my dear, one tiny little second.”
    I stood at the foot of the loveseat. “Yes, Madame?”
    She waved her Pernod at me. “What a luscious young man, darling. Does Michael know?
     Do you have one of those open, continental marriages?”
    “Madame! I just met him. We were supposed to do an assignment together for Quentin.
     We’re just going to get something to eat.”
    “Mm-hmm, how lovely. Just remember what the French say—a spot of l’amour is delectable for the instrument.”
    I snapped, “Which French proverb is that? I must have missed it.” I was cranky, headachy,
     and, now that Calvin had introduced the idea, badly in need of a drink.
    “It doesn’t translate well, my dear. Just run off and have a lovely time. Think of
     me, though, in the throes of passion.”
    Instead, we thought of Madame in the throes of cracked Dungeness crab at Pier 23.
     Actually, that’s how Calvin did his thinking. I did mine over a very handsome shot
     of Wild Turkey. It burned going down, but didn’t come back up again, to my relief
     and surprise. And then, I did order a pot of English breakfast tea, strong and black,
     and proceeded to watch Calvin eat. I couldn’t imagine how he had an appetite, but
     just watching him work his way through a cracked crab made me feel better. The sheer
     messiness of it was a kind of sensuous re-acquaintance with the business of being
     hungry—and being alive.
    At night, Pier 23 jumps with jazz and jazz-lovers. But during the day, there’s just
     food and drink and gossip, all delivered at ear-splitting decibel levels. If you go
     to make a phone call or use the restroom, there’s a terrific view of the bay from
     the back porch. By the time Calvin had reduced his crustacean to rubble and I was
     on my second pot of tea, the place was almost deserted. I began breaking off pieces
     of sourdough bread, just to put something in my stomach.
    To tell the truth, the events of the day—Quentin’s body, finding out that Michael’s
     hockey buddy was a homicide cop, a big dose of Madame, and bourbon on an empty stomach—were
     conspiring to make me the tiniest bit giddy. Suddenly, I sat straight up.
    “The children!”
    Calvin laughed. “I wasn’t even sure we’d gotten beyond the first date. Are we already
     committed to reproducing ourselves?”
    I glared at him. “No, I’ve already done it. Excuse me.”
    I picked my way through the tables and squeezed by the Rubenesque hostess to find
     a quiet nook to make a call. I needed more privacy than sitting at the table to talk
     on the phone.
    Anya was home. She’d picked up the boys and was making a desultory tour through the
     refrigerator to start dinner.
    “Anya, I’m still in the city.” I re-described how to roast