Mistress

Ink

ONE

Reebie

Everyone in San Francisco was drunk that night, so drunk that I had to drive the taxi.

St. Patrick’s Day. I was raised to be proud of my heritage, proud to be Rebecca Mahoney, otherwise known as Reebie. Still, I was always amused, in a smug kind of way, to see this entire, mismatched city pretending, for twenty-four hours, to be as Irish as I was all year long.

I was working a temp job. After the fiasco with my ex and losing my winery I loved, I couldn’t settle. Instead I bounced from cosmetic saleswoman to various temporary jobs, to my newest assignment, working through my temp agency, for the local newspaper. This time it was to coordinate the food at this event. I’d coordinated dozens of events at the winery, so this would be no problem.

The Celtic wannabes at the pub were already in their cups, as my dad would say. I should have been, too, crooning Danny Boy, and forgetting about the notebook I’d brought along like a bad date, at the insistence of my supervisor, who had instructed me to her posted, via e-mail, regarding my whereabouts.

Alberta, the newspaper HR director who’d interviewed me, had explained that the paper was sponsoring the event in an effort to drive down its demographics. Translated, get more young readers. Dumb down sounded more like it, but I needed Alberta’s approval for only a short time.

Since I lost the winery, I didn’t care what I was or what I did. I had a second part-time job at a cosmetics counter, but this one would give me a little extra money and an excuse to hang out with my photographer friend Daphne Teng.

The television above the bar broadcast footage of former President Remington, who’d died this morning. The drinkers seemed to be paying little attention. Daphne and I snagged the coveted corner booth, the only one with a good-sized square table just large enough for our two pints. Daph snuggled in against the wall and lifted her glass.

 Cheers. she said in the clipped accent of one who had been taught English somewhere other than America. We don’t have to start for thirty minutes. Let’s get a nice little buzz on and check out the guys.

I should have left it at that, focused on the pub-crawl, a little beer, another easy temp job. Just hand out the corned beef, collect my money, and go home.  But, no. Instead of joining Daph in the consumption of a Harp Lager, I had to unfold my keyboard on the edge of that tiny table, e-mail Alberta that I’d arrived early, then pull out my phone and check my voice mail. When I heard the commanding, yet strangely familiar voice of Jeanette Sheldon booming into my ear, without weighing the wisdom of the move, I called her back.

Clearly disgusted, Daph sighed, picked up her glass, and headed for the bar, which if the noise level were any indication, was where most of the fun was taking place. I didn’t blame her.

Jeanette answered. I introduced myself.

Rebecca Mahoney? She dragged it out, in a velvety, almost-amused voice. I’m Jeanette Sheldon. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.

I drew a blank. In which of my many temporary situations had I offended this woman? And when? Perhaps the Saturday I was hired to make snow cones in the park.  The week I tried to hang wallpaper. 

 I’ve never heard of you, I said.

I forget how young you are. You must have bypassed the rumors. I want to talk to you about the president. President Remington.

A dead former president. So Remington’s death today was the reason I was letting my lager go flat beside me. I took a bitter swallow and smacked my lips, half-hoping she heard. I’m here with a photographer for the newspaper, but she’s only covering the pub crawl. I’m sure the paper will be running a number of stories about Michael Remington tomorrow, but I don’t have anything to do with that.

I felt as much as heard her clear her throat. They’ll print interviews with his son, his son’s wife, and of course, June.

That’s right. I’m sure they will.

But you’ll be the one talking to the president’s mistress.

I shook my keyboard to life, nearly tipping over my pint of ale as I searched the web for Jeanette Sheldon. Maybe she was just a nut. She had to be if, out of everyone in the Bay Area, she’d picked me to confess to.

You were President Remington’s mistress?

You heard me. The old rumors are true. I’m telling you this only so you’ll agree to talk to me.

I hadn’t heard the old rumors, but if there were any, I’d find them online. Why are you coming forward now? I asked.

 That’s part of what I want to discuss with you.

The revelers at the bar launched into An Irish Lullaby, Daphne’s lilting accent soaring over the others. My laptop screen filled with several promising links. This woman might be for real, after all.

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li,

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry.

Leo Kersikovski works in the newsroom at the paper, and I’m sure he’d be interested in talking to you, I said over the song, which seemed to grow in volume by the moment. It would be a good break for L.K. If Jeanette were on the level, he might even scoop the Chronicle. Of course, if she were on the level, wouldn’t she be calling the Chronicle anyway? Mr. Kersikovski might still be at work. If you hang on a minute, I can get his direct extension from the photographer.

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li,

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, That’s an Irish lullaby.

"I said I want to talk to you."

The certainty in her voice sent a tiny chill through me.

And I told you I’m just a temp, I said. My only connection with the newspaper is setting up the pub crawl. How did you get my name anyway? Why—?" I couldn’t finish. A photograph of her on the computer screen choked off my words.

A dark-haired beauty wearing a retro coral-print top and chandelier earrings to her shoulders, she looked over dark glasses and smiled into the camera. But it wasn’t her flawlessly sculpted features that stopped me; it was those dates beneath her photograph, the second one in particular. Jeanette Sheldon, 1945-1976.

What is it? The imperious voice lowered to a murmur now.

I stared at the screen of my laptop. You’re supposed to be dead.

Things are not what they seem. Do you know that poem?

What poem? I sat frozen to the photograph of her on the laptop. Why was this happening to me, and why couldn’t I shake free of it?

"The Emperor of Ice Cream, by Wallace Stevens, one of the president’s favorites. I could hear the wistful smile in her voice, the softening. It’s time, Rebecca Mahoney, for us to talk, and I have something very important to tell you. Now, how soon can you get over here?"

TWO

I hadn’t wanted to take the cab, but when the driver confessed that his last patron had just shared a pint of Irish whiskey with him, I had no choice.

The first time, the first. The driver kept repeating it, as if he had to answer to somebody. I have never tasted whiskey, and I will never do that again. Never.

I told him I had an emergency and talked him into moving over. Before either of us was exactly certain what I was doing, I’d slid behind the wheel as Daphne jumped in the back with her camera. Now, I feared the driver was beginning to have second thoughts. So was Daph.

Reebie, she ventured. Are you sure this is a good idea?

Through the rear-view, I could see most of her face, the tiny dark glasses, the short sweep of hair for which she forked over more than my car payment to have bobbed in London every couple of months. Its obsidian shine stood out in contrast to the bold, blue streak where it curved against her left cheek.

We don’t have any choice. It’s a Nob Hill address. I can get us there in a couple of minutes.

I still knew the streets of this city I loved, where Geoff and I used to come whenever he could talk me into taking a break from the winery. I shot down Howard to Fourth, crossed Geary, Post, Sutter.

Who’d you call back there, Reebie? Why are we doing this? English might be her second language, but next to her version of it, my flat California vowels always sounded one-dimensional and limited.

We’re going to meet a woman, I said. If she’s for real, you’re going to need photos for Leo Kersikovski.

I know you kind of like L.K. Who doesn’t? But do you really think there’s a story there?

Liking his looks didn’t mean liking. I barely know him, I said. It’s about her, Jeanette. She said she had something to tell me, and I have to check it out. If she really is Jeanette, and the rest of what she said is true, it will be Kersikovski’s lucky day.

Beside me, the cab driver adjusted his turban. I could feel his embarrassment in the gesture. I also believed what he told me earlier, that this momentary lapse was a first and a last. I understood firsthand about mistakes and the motivation they could provide.

I glanced up at his photo ID clipped to the visor. Pargat Singh.

You’d better take the rest of the night off, Pargat, I said. Rebecca Mahoney, great fixer of everyone else’s lives. Not so hot when it comes to her own.

It is against the law. The driver gestured toward the ID.

So’s drunken driving.

Just then, I had to take a sharp corner on Powell I hadn’t seen coming. Pargat and Daphne gasped in unison. Then, stark silence.

Pargat had a point. One look at the hair I like to think of as strawberry blond, but which is probably closer to faded auburn, and the most clueless cop would ascertain that I was not the licensed driver in the photo. What would be the fine for illegally driving this Yellow Taxi that for some ungodly reason was painted putrid green?

Reebie, this is crazy. Daph’s voice had lost its lilt. You don’t need any more trouble.

I know. Oh, did I know.

Then, let’s go back to the bar, finish the pub-crawl photos, and call L.K. about this other thing. That will make you look good. He’s tight with Alberta. Maybe he can get you more assignments. The community relations department hires temp help for all of its events.

The voice of reason, but I wasn’t listening.

Jeanette Sheldon claims she was the mistress of President Remington back in the sixties and early seventies, I said.

I could feel Daph process, the way a computer does—pausing, processing, pausing, and recording. No one taught us that in American History back in Singapore.

No one taught it here, either. Adrenaline fueled my climb up to the fancy address. The media covered up for the president, but the stories leaked out over the years. I did a google search for Jeanette on the computer. You ready for this? She was supposed to have died in seventy-six.

Daph leaned forward in the seat, and I glanced up at the askew mirror in order to see her better.  Her skin was the color of French toast when it’s done right, which is seldom. Wonderful; I’d even started thinking like a caterer. That proves that the woman who called you isn’t the real Jeanette. Probably another San Francisco nut case. Let’s not go there.

We have to. Something about her voice. I think she’s on the level.

I didn’t say the rest. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Daph—who had met me at the start of this assignment and decided to befriend me—that I had a feeling about Jeanette Sheldon, a link that went beyond our conversation. I was certain I’d heard her voice before. I wasn’t sure when. I just needed to do this one thing before I returned to my anonymous life.

The moment we crossed Jones Street, I recognized the building to our right from Jeanette’s description. Seven stories laced with ascending fire-escape ladders, an awning shading its entrance. This was the place.

High-rent district, Daphne said. Piss-elegant, isn’t it? She loved to use words she considered American. I’d often thought she was more of this country than I. She embraced it with much more passion, celebrated every aspect of it, including its tackier ones.

Bring your camera, I said.

Are you sure it’s worth it, even if this lady really was President Remington’s mistress? Everyone at the paper who’s worked with you, even that bitch Alberta, likes you. You might have a chance to go fulltime in community relations.

Just what I wanted. A fulltime job organizing pub crawls, fundraisers, and let’s not forget wine tastings, like many of those I had attended when I was a legitimate winemaker.

Bring your camera, I repeated.

***

Jeanette Sheldon had told me to ask for Nora McFarland. I no longer use my own name, for obvious reasons, she had said.

After an unpleasant exchange with a doorman whose accent seemed a cheap imitation of Daph’s, we took the elevator, which was musty and claustrophobic as a closet.

Daph crossed her arms over her black jacket. That asshole needs to brush up on his customer-service skills.

Never trust a man with lifts in his shoes.

Really? How can you tell?

I’ll show you when we leave, and I hope it’s soon.

The fourth floor had the hushed, carpeted feeling that was more hotel than apartment. We found the right one at the end of the hall. I stood looking at its large pewter knocker. I’d never used a doorknocker in my life. With a sigh, Daph reached across me and pressed the bell hidden along the carving of the doorframe.

No one answered. She rang again.

Well, that solves that problem, I said. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to leave.

She paused, eyeing the doorbell again, as if trying to make up her mind. But why would she call you, insist that you come over here, and then not open the door?

Not my problem. This was my new, post-winery, post-Geoff attitude. I needed to stick with it.

What if there’s something wrong? The concern in her eyes reminded me, surface flippancy and spoiled-brat lifestyle aside, how deep the vein of decency ran in her.

You want me to try the knob? Is that what you’re saying?

If you don’t, I will. We can’t just walk away.

Why had I come here? Why couldn’t I ever learn? I shrugged. Then, do it, if it makes you feel any better.

She twisted the knob, and I half-expected it to open, if only because she commanded it to. Nothing. I breathed relief.

It’s locked, she said.

Good. Whatever game Jeanette Sheldon had been playing no longer involved me. Now, let’s get out of here.

Daphne brushed the blue strand from her eye. It looked eerie in the dim light of the hall. Maybe we ought to talk to the doorman, she said. Just be sure everything is okay.

You really want to tangle with him again?

She toyed with the diamond at her throat, the only embellishment to her understated attire. We can just ask him to ring up the apartment. The woman sounded serious about seeing you, didn’t she?

Very. I had no choice. Okay, I said. Let’s try talking to that asshole of a doorman.

We’d barely turned toward the elevator when we heard it. A single, piercing scream, coming from inside. And then, what could only be a gunshot.

Doors opened. Heads poked out. The previously silent sanctuary of wealth immediately filled with activity.

Daphne turned to me. I knew something was wrong, she said. Do you think—? She swallowed the rest of the sentence, but I knew what she was imagining, knew as surely as I could still feel that scream in my gut, what we would find inside.

The doorman arrived, holding his circle of keys.

What happened? he demanded with a look so caustic with suspicion that I felt compelled to defend myself.

I don’t know. She never answered the door.

Step back, please. He moved ahead of Daph, rapped his knuckles against the door, and then unlocked it.

Mrs. McFarland, he called. Is everything all right, ma’am?

He went inside, and so did we.

Holy shit. The haughty doorman demeanor had vanished. In its place was a scared, speechless little man in a uniform a size too big for him.

I wanted to turn around, leave, run away from this, but it was too late for that. Instead, I stepped beside him and steeled myself.

A woman sprawled across the once-white sofa, now splashed with the same blood that leaked from the hole in her head. She’d been shot as Daph and I stood outside her door, debating which steps to take next.

I stepped back from this surreal scene. The paintings on every wall were smoke-wrapped images of women’s faces and torsos, black and white except for the vivid reddish-purple lips. They would have struck me as eerie in a different setting. Now, they seemed mild compared to what I was witnessing.

Windows, I said to Daph. Someone was in here.

The doorman stopped me with a firm grip on my arm. No one’s been in here but you.

That’s ridiculous. I shook myself free. I told you we never came in here.

So you say.

Of course I say. That’s how it happened. Shouldn’t you be calling the police?

I did, from downstairs. You aren’t leaving until they get here, either.

A woman screamed from the hall. A man in a suit crowded into the room. When he saw the sofa and the woman on it, he said, Oh, my God, and left as rapidly as he entered.

Another scream. The same woman.

Daph shouted from the next room. The window’s open. Someone could have gone down there.

I moved closer to the murdered woman, as if pulled to her by an invisible chain. She was fifty, possibly older, one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, with highlighted dark hair pulled back from her smooth forehead and eyes full of the same fear that had filled her final scream. Horrified, I stood there, unable to turn away.

I tried to swallow, to breathe through the dizziness that overtook me.

Reebie, Daph touched my arm. What is it?

I know her, I said. I mean I’ve seen her.

You have? Are you sure?

I nodded. I talked to her just last week.

THREE

The Mistress

Cabo San Lucas

1975

They called it Mistress Eve. Jeanette had coined the term when the four of them had decided to gather, dateless, at what Marcus called his hideaway in Cabo San Lucas. Not much of a hideaway with the likes of his actor buddies flying in, demanding everything from margaritas to women in the local bars. Eddie Palacios, her old lover, and good friend, was on his way from New York and would be there in time for dinner.

Jeanette and Kim had worked all day in the beach house on her new idea for what she wanted to call the Scheherazade Pose. She photographed Kim from every angle with her wonderful old Nikon with its huge motor drive, better than the cliché Hasselblad most photographers flashed like Rolexes. They’d smoked almost a carton of Winstons before they got it right. Not smoked, actually, Kim pointed out, as they collapsed in laughter and Kim finally threw on a robe. They just puffed.

While Kim rested from the photo shoot, Jeanette and Marcus finished the food. She wrapped slices of bacon around fresh, briny-smelling prawns, and then made fondue in a large pot, a votive illuminating its tarnished silver finish.

You know this little rendezvous of ours will be in the gossip columns tomorrow.

One can always hope. Marcus returned to trimming the tree full of tulle bows and bubble lights. With his Van Dyke beard, his velvet jacket, and his dark hair parted in the middle, he looked as if he belonged in a Renaissance painting. If anyone can keep the press off my ass, it’s your lovely self on my arm.

Why, thank you, sir. She nodded at the Edwardian jacket. Right now, you look like anything but a television doctor.

I’ll cut the hair, maybe rearrange the beard a bit when we start shooting. What do you think?

You’re preaching to the choir, Marcus. I think you’re the sexiest actor in Hollywood, with or without the Van Dyke.

Standing at the primitive counter across from him, Jeanette added the flour-dusted shreds of Swiss cheese into the chafing dish and nudged the mixture with a wooden spoon until it began to separate and thicken.

Mistress Eve, she said, just to test the sound of it in this large room, determined to hide the stab of pain with humor. "But I’m the only legitimate mistress. Kim’s getting a divorce. Eddie’s doing what he refers to as freelancing after that embarrassing breakup with Miss Fluffball. And in spite of what you say, you haven’t been dumped, my dear Drama Queen. This is just the latest of yours and Hal’s many tiffs."

Tiff, is it? Marcus raised a bushy brow. I’m gay, so it’s a tiff. But Kim splits with her husband, you get stood up by the prez, and it’s the end of the world.

At least you don’t have to picture the man you love celebrating with the first frigging family while you’re alone. No matter how free they say they are or how much of an understanding they say they have, married men always head home for Christmas. Even the President of the United States.

I know you’re hurting, honey, but pain’s pain. And alone’s alone.  He stood up from the tree, partially decorated by his standards, but splendid by anyone else’s. It conjured a multitude of memories and wishes, this tree that managed to balance both nostalgia and style. And I think it’s time we had some champagne.

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle, and placed it on the other side of the block. Jeanette leaned across and touched his cheek. He could always make her smile, even when he was chastising her. Why do you have to be so damned smart? she said. You’re absolutely right, of course. These days, I can’t seem to see past my own soap opera.

It’s not a soap opera. Marcus rocked the cork gently out of the napkin-wrapped bottle. Indeed, I fear it’s the real thing for you.

It is, she admitted. For years, she wouldn’t have cared if a man of hers, president or not, had stood her up. But she’d made the major mistake of indulging in what she believed would be only a one-night stand. The prez, as you call him, isn’t as bad as you think, she said, as much to assure herself as him.

Of course not. The scowl only enhanced his  features. "When you’re in