“You know what?” I said in as chipper a tone as I could muster, though my voice broke slightly. “Sailor, I’ve got this. Honest. Tristan and I go way back. Why don’t you head on back to work, and Tristan and I will catch up over a nice cup of tea?”
“No tea,” answered Tristan. His deep monotone was all the more threatening for its lack of animation. “Just the bēag.”
“The what?” Sailor and I asked at the same time.
“Is that the way it is going to be?” Tristan asked, his expressionless light eyes never leaving mine.
“Honestly, Tristan, I have no idea what—”
“Forty-eight hours. I’ll come back.”
“You come back,” Sailor said, his voice a study in anger, “and you’ll deal with me.”
Tristan nodded.
“Listen, Tristan,” I began, “why don’t we—”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Make no mistake, pal. You come anywhere near her, you lay a hand on her,” Sailor threatened, “and I’ll kill you.”
At that moment I heard a car door slam. Homicide Inspector Carlos Romero, of the San Francisco Police Department, had double-parked his unmarked police car on busy Haight Street, causing an immediate traffic snarl. Relief warred with consternation in my chest. Carlos was a friend. But he was also a cop.
“Everything okay here, folks?” Carlos said as he joined us, his dark brown eyes evaluating the tense scene.
“Just peachy,” I piped.
“Lily Ivory stole from me,” said Tristan.
“Is that right?” Carlos said. “And who might you be?”
“I am Mr. Tristan Dupree,” Tristan replied in his stilted way.
Carlos turned to me, a faint smile on his face. “Lily, did you steal something from this gentleman?”
“This is one of those complicated situations. . . .” I trailed off.
“Meaning what, exactly?” asked Carlos.
“Meaning I’m not sure what he’s talking about.”
Tristan repeated: “Forty-eight hours.”
“What happens then?” Carlos asked, his eyes boring into Tristan.
“Am I free to go, Inspector?” Tristan asked.
Carlos and I exchanged a glance. He was dressed in plain clothes, and no one else had called him by his title. How had Tristan known he was a cop—and an inspector at that?
“Not if you’re making threats against Ms. Ivory, you’re not,” said Carlos.
“I am not the one who is making the threats,” Tristan said. He nodded at Sailor. “He is the one with whom you should speak. One moment ago he threatened my life. Lily Ivory, I am staying at the Hotel Marais. On Bush Street, not far from the Chinatown gates.” He handed me a business card from a downtown hotel. “Room two seventeen. I shall be waiting to hear from you.”
Carlos, Sailor, and I watched as Tristan Dupree turned and walked down the street. He had a slight limp but was nonetheless an imposing figure.
“Lily, you sure do know some interesting people,” Carlos said, breaking the silence. “Friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance, at best,” I replied. “I met him in Germany many years ago, and haven’t seen him since.”
“What did you steal from him?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
“So you did steal something?”
“Honestly—”
“You have no idea,” Carlos finished my sentence with a nod.
“What brings you here, Carlos?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Just so happens I was down the street at Coffee to the People when Maya called. She thought there might be trouble.”
“No trouble here,” I chirped.
Sailor glowered.
“That a fact?” Carlos said. “So what’s with the forty-eight-hour deadline?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about; Tristan’s a bit of a drama king,” I said. “I’ll look through my old things, see if I might have accidentally squirreled something away.”
I was lying through my teeth. I had no idea what a bēag was, much less whether I had stolen one from Tristan. I needed to give this some thought, away from the presence of the police inspector.
Sailor was staring at me, his confusion apparent. Carlos glanced at him, then at me. “All righty, then. Lily, let me know if there’s any more trouble. And, Sailor—don’t kill anyone. Matter of fact, stop threatening to kill anyone. We clear?”
Sailor didn’t react. He did this often: The curtain would come down over his handsome features like a wall of ice. On the rare occasions that ice melted . . . well, it made my heart go wonky.
But right now it irritated me. Couldn’t he just once be cooperative and say, “Sure thing, Inspector”? Then again, I reminded myself, not everyone lies as easily as I’ve learned to do.
Carlos waited. “Sailor, I’m serious. You got a history with this guy?”
Sailor shook his head.
“Did you threaten him?”
Sailor shrugged.
“Sailor was feeling protective,” I volunteered, “because Tristan’s a bit of an odd fellow, as I’m sure you noticed.”
“And because he gave you a mysterious forty-eight-hour deadline,” said Carlos.
“That, too.”
“I have no plans to do anything to him,” Sailor said. “But if he bothers Lily—”
“You won’t back down. Okay, got it. Lily, may I see the card he gave you, please?”
I handed Carlos the business card for the Hotel Marais. He nodded. “I know the place. I’ll have a uniform go over and have a chat with this Mr. Tristan Dupree, make sure he understands we don’t want any trouble in our fair city. You’re certain you don’t know what he’s after?”
“Very certain. But I’ll look into it—that’s a promise.”
“You do that,” Carlos said as he headed for his car. He paused before getting in and said, “In the meantime, both of you: Keep the peace, will you? I’ve got homicides to deal with. I can’t afford to be riding herd on the two of you.”
* * *
? ? ?
As Sailor and I stepped into Aunt Cora’s Closet, Oscar peeked out from behind the brocade curtain that separates the workroom from the display floor. Apparently relieved to see it was only us, he ran around in circles, his hooves tapping on the wooden floor, then excitedly butted my shins.
“A lot of help you are,” I grumbled, but gave him a smile and a scratch behind the ears. “So much for being a fearsome guard pig.”
“What was all that about?” asked Maya. “Who was that guy?”
“An old acquaintance. He thinks I have something of his.”
“Like what?”
“A . . . blegh, I think?” I tried to recall what Tristan had said.
“A blog?” Maya asked. “That can’t be right. You’re scared of the Internet.”
“No, not a blog. A . . . bag, maybe?”
“Sounded more like a beeg to me,” said Sailor.
“And what’s a beeg?” asked Maya. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the shop laptop—the one I avoided like the plague—and started to search the Internet.
“We don’t know,” I said, moving to look at the computer screen over her shoulder. “Does anything come up?”
“Let’s see. . . . There’s a movie review site, and Bleeg is a last name . . . and the Urban Dictionary says ‘bleeg’ is slang for something sex-related, but no surprise there. ‘Beeg,’ without the l, brings up nothing but porn. Lily, I know your past is a bit mysterious, but were you at one time into pornography? Because that really doesn’t sound like you.”
“Pretty sure I wasn’t,” I said, elbowing Sailor, who looked amused—and perhaps a little intrigued—at the idea of my being a secret porn princess.
“None of this makes sense—you say he’s looking for an item of some sort?” Maya asked.
Sailor nodded. “He claimed Lily stole it from him.”
“Given my previous encounter with Tristan Dupree, it’s probably something arcane and magical, or at least he thinks it is,” I said. “I have a few boxes of mementos tucked away upstairs; I’ll look through them and see if I can figure out what he’s talking about.”