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

negative, Mother. Daddy didn’t intend to hurt you. He just needed his own space, don’t you see? Couldn’t you at least make an effort to understand?”
    His own space, my eye. “Believe me, Candace, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
    Later, standing under the drifting pale mauve flowers of the Japanese magnolia while I watched her green MG turn the corner, I wondered if all parents were as baffled by their children as I was by Candace. She had been a child during San Francisco’s hectic ferment of the sixties, and at the time I had been profoundly grateful that she was too young to participate in the Summer of Love, live in a crash pad in the Haight, join the Free Speech Movement at Berkeley, or riot at San Francisco State. Yet it seemed to me odd that such cataclysms had washed past her, leaving not a single discernible trace. Unless her present character
was
the trace they had left.
    Candace could be fun. On good days we could shop together, laugh, go to a movie, make a quiche, even talk a little. On the whole, though, I had always represented bedtime-and-take-your-medicine to Candace, while Richard was walks in the park and a new puppy. Now, he was Sensitive Daddy, needing his own space— with a woman in it very little older than Candace herself— and I was Poor Paranoid Mother.
    The MG was gone now, and its going had left a pain that made me press my hand against my chest.

Twelve
    Before depression could invade me completely, Andrew called. “We’ve got a mess down here you wouldn’t believe,” he said with obvious relish. “Somebody broke in last night. When Betsy got here this morning, filing cabinets and desk drawers were open, papers scattered around, garbage cans emptied out. But get this— nothing missing as far as we can tell.”
    “You think they were after the folder?”
    “Could have been. At least you and I left the cabinet open last night, so they didn’t have to take an axe to it.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    “Nope.”
    “Why not?”
    “Two reasons.” I could picture him ticking them off on his fingers. “First, the police are not fond of the
People’s Times.
You remember our series about cops drinking on the job? And the Gilhooly investigation that Larry took apart move by move, showing how inept they had been? This would be an opportunity for them to poke around here and look for a chance to get even, and who needs that? Also, if we can get this together ourselves it’ll be a fantastic story, and calling the cops is tantamount to giving it away to the dailies.”
    “I see.” I did see, but it felt strange. I had always been a law-abiding citizen and now, at my age, I seemed to have developed a mistrust of the police as fervent as that of any member of the counterculture. Still, what to do about his break-in was Andrew’s decision, not mine.
    “I have something else to tell you,” he went on. “I did some mild snooping around Richard’s office this morning. Nothing too impressive, just posed as an Olivetti repairman looking for a nonexistent city agency. I ended up taking the receptionist out for coffee.”
    I suppressed a twinge of resentment that Andrew hadn’t consulted with me before taking action. “Fast worker.”
    “All in the line of duty. Let’s see…” I heard a muffled fumbling on the other end of the line. “I have a list here of the people Richard sees and speaks with on the phone most frequently. There’s a Tompkins, a guy named Standish—”
    “Jack Standish is his lawyer. I think Tompkins is a tax man.”
    “Good. What about a lady named Diane something?”
    Could I sound casual? “That’s the girl he’s living with.”
    After a short silence, Andrew said, “Oh.” He cleared his throat and went on, “Next on the list is Jane Malone. I know who she is. Executive vice president, Basic Development. And then we have—”
    “Jane Malone?” The name was familiar. “Wasn’t she the woman who offered her cabin to the Channel