The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson Page A

custom?” asked Andrea. “The custom of what—spoiled, rich people misbehaving in a pretentious club?”
    â€œNo, not that custom. The one of a man kissing a woman’shand upon introduction. It’s a bit murky, but in the Bible, the hand-kiss—Kings and Job for the citations, if you’re interested—was a way to pay homage.”
    Andrea stared at me. “Oh, dear. How on earth does Michael live with you?” she said.
    â€œI have no idea,” I said. “Okay, let’s get to it. Did you bring the clips?”
    When writers start major features, one of the interns generally pulls clippings on the subject as background. In the pre-web days, it meant trips to libraries and newspaper morgues and lots of copying. Nowadays, it’s mostly Google and a download away.
    Andrea hauled a folder out of her battered leather briefcase.
    â€œYou know,” I suggested, “you ought to get one of those cool Kate Spade knockoff portfolios to carry your stuff in.”
    Andrea looked as if I’d suggested putting her work in a brown paper grocery bag. “First, I don’t purchase knockoffs. They’re illegal and probably immoral. Second, this was my father’s briefcase in law school thirty-two years ago, and it’s still perfectly serviceable.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” I said. “Don’t get all preppy on me. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
    â€œI’ve organized them by Grace, Grace and Frederick, and organizations that Grace seemed to be involved with.”
    â€œWhich were?”
    â€œSocial stuff. She was on the planning committee of the Black & White Ball, and she was on the board of a couple of garden-related places. Now, this one seemed a little odd, A Mom’s Place—a group that served young, single mothers.” She put a printout of a web page about A Mom’s Place in front of me.
    â€œWhy’s that seem odd?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know—she didn’t have any kids, so there didn’t seem to be some natural draw. Plus, it’s certainly not an A-list charity on the social circuit.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œThat’s about it for the organizations. She modeled occasionally for Junior League fashion shows, but there’s nothing surprisingabout that. Wealth and beauty open a lot of doors.”
    â€œWhat about Frederick?”
    â€œBusiness, money, business, money. Most of the clips are about his deals. Seems as if his venture fund didn’t take as big a hit as lots of others during the tech-bust. They appeared to have gone to ground, preserved cash, and they’re in the thick of it now that tech is back. He had one altruistic cause, a philanthropic venture fund that collected money from VCs and made grants with it. I believe he began the fund.”
    â€œOh, yes,” I said, frowning. “I know about that enterprise. Michael’s firm is involved in some way.” I picked up a pile of clips from “Swells”, the Chronicle ’s social notes column, the Nob Hill Gazette , and 7 X 7 .
    â€œThat’s the Frederick-and-Grace-out-on-the-town-stack,” said Andrea.
    â€œAll the usual places—symphony, ballet, opera galas.”
    On the top lay a photo of Frederick and Grace with another couple. All in evening clothes, beautiful women, handsome men. The other woman was shorter and curvier than Grace, poured into a strapless dress, with chandelier earrings nearly grazing her shoulders. Grace wore a tiny evening hat, with a froth of feathers making an elegant comma down to her cheek.
    â€œMaggie, I see you yearning for that hat,” said Andrea. “It’s prudent to remember that the owner ended up dead in the back seat of a car.”
    â€œSo true. But I’d like to know what happened to that hat.”
    Andrea looked horrified.
    â€œKidding, I’m kidding.”
    â€œNow, this other couple they’re with,” she said,