A petulant note crept into Landau’s voice. “And there must have been two dozen people who heard that fight between Jerry and Luc last night. Why aren’t they going after him ?”
“I think the police are talking to a lot of people,” I said. “It’s standard to speak to anyone who might have been with the victim in the time before death.”
“They’ve got it in for me.”
“Have they said anything to make you think you’re a person of interest?”
“Not in so many words. But I can tell by the way they look at me. You know, I’ve always been socially awkward, an outcast. Sometimes my reactions . . . well, they’re misunderstood.”
My heart went out to him. True, there was something off-putting about Walker Landau, but I of all people understood what it meant to be an outsider. It became a Catch-22: The more you tried to fit in, the more awkward everything became. Social misfits were doomed before the first school bell rang in the morning.
“Walker, why were you asking Susan Rogers about the bell tower?”
“I found her book, and I thought she might be able to cast some light on the history of the building. This is going to sound crazy, but there’s something inspirational about the bell tower. Whenever I get stuck, I go climb those stairs—it’s also part of the new get-fit program Todd’s been helping me with.”
It was beyond me why anyone would climb indoors when San Francisco’s famous hills—not to mention the steep, scenic stairs to Coit Tower—beckoned right outside the school’s doors.
“That explains the pull-up bar,” I said, gesturing to the chrome bar suspended in an archway.
Walker curled one arm as though to show me his biceps, an amusing but unfortunate gesture that reminded me of the old cartoon about a ninety-eight-pound weakling . . . in this case writ very tall.
“Anyway, the kids say the bell tower’s haunted,” Walker said. “That’s crazy, isn’t it? But I started hearing things myself, and wondered. Besides, I wanted to know the story; thought it might inspire my work even more. So I looked into it.”
“And do you think the stairs are haunted?”
He shrugged. “They’ve brought me nothing but luck, personally.”
“Luck with your painting?”
“That and . . . other things as well.”
“Walker, is it true that Jerry Becker wanted you and Andromeda to get together?”
He blushed. “Yes, you see, that’s another point in my favor. Unlike a lot of people, I wanted him to live—he was in favor of my marrying Andromeda.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but ... why would he want you to marry his daughter, in particular?”
“Why not?” he asked, sounding defensive.
“I don’t mean to suggest she shouldn’t. But were you two . . . involved?”
He blushed again. “Not really.”
“This is the modern world, Walker. Fathers don’t arrange their daughters’ marriages anymore.”
“Jerry wasn’t your average father. He knew what was best for him, and for his daughter. And if you don’t believe me, talk to Andromeda yourself.”
He ripped a corner off a sketch and wrote down a number and address. “She lives on Russian Hill, not far away. Ask her. She’ll back me up on this.”
By the time I left Landau’s studio, I was feeling a lot like Alice down the rabbit hole. What did a group of turn-of-the-last-century nuns—and the supernatural assault on the closet upstairs—have to do with a suicidal ghost on the bell tower stairs? And should I presume said ghost killed Jerry Becker, who was trying to force his talented and pretty young daughter to marry a not particularly successful artist fifteen years her senior?
Maybe Andromeda was right—a situation this convoluted sounded as if it grew out of some kind of ancient-cemetery curse. It was enough to make a witch consider recommending razing this historic building and starting from scratch.
Snap out of it , I scolded myself. If I was ready to run away, imagine how everyone
“I think the police are talking to a lot of people,” I said. “It’s standard to speak to anyone who might have been with the victim in the time before death.”
“They’ve got it in for me.”
“Have they said anything to make you think you’re a person of interest?”
“Not in so many words. But I can tell by the way they look at me. You know, I’ve always been socially awkward, an outcast. Sometimes my reactions . . . well, they’re misunderstood.”
My heart went out to him. True, there was something off-putting about Walker Landau, but I of all people understood what it meant to be an outsider. It became a Catch-22: The more you tried to fit in, the more awkward everything became. Social misfits were doomed before the first school bell rang in the morning.
“Walker, why were you asking Susan Rogers about the bell tower?”
“I found her book, and I thought she might be able to cast some light on the history of the building. This is going to sound crazy, but there’s something inspirational about the bell tower. Whenever I get stuck, I go climb those stairs—it’s also part of the new get-fit program Todd’s been helping me with.”
It was beyond me why anyone would climb indoors when San Francisco’s famous hills—not to mention the steep, scenic stairs to Coit Tower—beckoned right outside the school’s doors.
“That explains the pull-up bar,” I said, gesturing to the chrome bar suspended in an archway.
Walker curled one arm as though to show me his biceps, an amusing but unfortunate gesture that reminded me of the old cartoon about a ninety-eight-pound weakling . . . in this case writ very tall.
“Anyway, the kids say the bell tower’s haunted,” Walker said. “That’s crazy, isn’t it? But I started hearing things myself, and wondered. Besides, I wanted to know the story; thought it might inspire my work even more. So I looked into it.”
“And do you think the stairs are haunted?”
He shrugged. “They’ve brought me nothing but luck, personally.”
“Luck with your painting?”
“That and . . . other things as well.”
“Walker, is it true that Jerry Becker wanted you and Andromeda to get together?”
He blushed. “Yes, you see, that’s another point in my favor. Unlike a lot of people, I wanted him to live—he was in favor of my marrying Andromeda.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but ... why would he want you to marry his daughter, in particular?”
“Why not?” he asked, sounding defensive.
“I don’t mean to suggest she shouldn’t. But were you two . . . involved?”
He blushed again. “Not really.”
“This is the modern world, Walker. Fathers don’t arrange their daughters’ marriages anymore.”
“Jerry wasn’t your average father. He knew what was best for him, and for his daughter. And if you don’t believe me, talk to Andromeda yourself.”
He ripped a corner off a sketch and wrote down a number and address. “She lives on Russian Hill, not far away. Ask her. She’ll back me up on this.”
By the time I left Landau’s studio, I was feeling a lot like Alice down the rabbit hole. What did a group of turn-of-the-last-century nuns—and the supernatural assault on the closet upstairs—have to do with a suicidal ghost on the bell tower stairs? And should I presume said ghost killed Jerry Becker, who was trying to force his talented and pretty young daughter to marry a not particularly successful artist fifteen years her senior?
Maybe Andromeda was right—a situation this convoluted sounded as if it grew out of some kind of ancient-cemetery curse. It was enough to make a witch consider recommending razing this historic building and starting from scratch.
Snap out of it , I scolded myself. If I was ready to run away, imagine how everyone
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