Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) by Michaela Thompson

something?”
    Candace was named for Richard’s mother, and she had inherited that estimable woman’s penchant for speaking her mind and damn the consequences. In appearance, fortunately, she was like Richard rather than the old lady. Perhaps this physical resemblance had contributed to the closeness that had always existed between them. “Hello, Candace,” I said, kissing her cheek. “You’re looking wonderful.”
    She was. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was beautifully groomed, her makeup understated and impeccable, and no particle of lint clung to her plum-colored blazer and gray slacks. But she wasn’t in the mood for idle maternal admiration. “Daddy called me yesterday,” she said briskly. “I tried to get you last night, but you didn’t answer.”
    “I got in rather late.”
    “Mother, he said you came crashing into his office yesterday while he was in a meeting, insulted Tabby, insisted on talking to him, and then accused him of having you followed. I couldn’t believe it.”
    “You might as well. It’s a fairly accurate representation of what happened.”
    “Oh, Mother.”
    If tones could wither, I would’ve been a shriveled leaf on the bedroom carpet. “Candace, I just got up. Before we go on with this, I insist on having a cup of coffee. Or, listen. We’ll go to La Belle Bretagne and have crepes for brunch. How about that?”
    It was a play for time. The words
brunch
and
crepes
were an assured sop to Candace’s notions of sophistication. The frown smoothed out a little. If I were capable of such a suggestion I must have a shred of sanity left. “OK,” she agreed. Relieved, I went to pick out something to wear.
    The atmosphere at La Belle Bretagne was as chichi as usual— bright green walls, tiny glass-topped white wicker tables, bentwood chairs, and lots of stylish ladies drinking Bloody Marys. Candace and I followed the
maître d’
to a white latticed booth that resembled an Easter basket. Although feeling less than stylish myself, I decided I still rated a Bloody Mary, and ordered one, while Candace settled for a glass of white wine. “So, how are classes going?” I asked, with my best imitation of brightness.
    Candace wasn’t to be deterred. “I cut today because Daddy asked me to talk with you. I think he’s worried.”
    Leave it to Richard to call out his most potent ally at the first sign of trouble. “Worried?”
    “This business about somebody following you. It’s so paranoid. Daddy doesn’t know what to think, because he certainly hasn’t had you followed. And this morning. My goodness, Mother, you were
barricaded
in your room. Do you really believe someone is after you?”
    Candace’s expression revealed that she herself didn’t believe it for a minute. I was tempted to tell her about the phone call and my lurking attacker, just to see if I could wipe the pitying look off her pretty face. If I told her, though, I’d also have to tell her that I suspected Richard of some unsavory activities, and I wasn’t ready to do that. I tried for a measured tone in my response. “I’ve had good reason to think someone is keeping an eye on me. If your father says he isn’t responsible, perhaps he’s telling the truth. In any case, I have no plans for a repeat performance of yesterday. You might reassure him on that score.”
    She leaned toward me. “Daddy suggested you get away for a while. Don’t you think that’s a thoughtful idea? You could go somewhere and rest, see the sights. It would give you a new perspective.”
    “Since he told you everything else, he must have told you I rejected that plan yesterday. If I need a new perspective, I’ll have to find it right here. And no, I don’t think it’s particularly thoughtful that he wants me out of his hair.”
    Our spinach-and-mushroom crepes arrived, and while the waitress put them down Candace was primly silent. As soon as we were alone again she said, with evangelical sincerity, “I wish you’d try not to be so