The Nitrogen Murder(6)

Outside Bette’s, Phil kissed Elaine, shook Matt’s hand and mine, and crossed the street. He got into a snazzy BMW driven by a white-haired man, about the same age as all of us.

Elaine waved at the BMW driver. “Howard Christopher, Phil’s boss,” she told us. “Nice guy, but always on Phil’s back to do more, work more hours. You know the drill. I keep telling him, ‘You’re not marrying Christopher.”

I’d caught the parting I-love-yous between Elaine and Phil. That had made me happy, but by the time Phil left, I’d given myself enough mental slaps to keep me alert for two weeks.



Elaine wanted to check out the wedding site—the magnificent Berkeley Rose Garden. True to her name, my best East Coast friend, Rose Galigani, loved roses and insisted on visiting the garden every trip she made to visit me when I lived in California.

“There are three thousand bushes and two hundred fifty varieties,” I’d told her the first time, reading from the guidebook, pleased with myself for finding such a treasure for her.

“They’re not all blooming at once, Gloria. Different varieties peak at different times.”

“You mean pink one month, red another?”

Rose shook her head and rolled her eyes at the idea that a woman whose bedtime reading was the latest news on the Big Bang wouldn’t know the life cycles of roses.

What I liked best about the Rose Garden was the surprise of it. Even with the newly installed viewing area, walking or driving along Euclid Avenue in northeast Berkeley, you might miss it. Bushes and trees partly hid the entrance. Once you turned down the path, however, an enormous amphitheater of six terraces opened up below you. Berkeley’s own Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Roses everywhere.

In the bright sun, I enjoyed sharing the pleasure with Matt.

“Whoa,” he said. The expression he reserved for special occasions.

Today’s roses were a breathtaking pink and white, their scent swirling around like clouds of charge around a heavy nucleus. Steep, wide stone steps, as beautiful as they could be treacherous to any but the sure-footed, led down, down, down, to a small clearing—a few square feet that were as lovely as any sanctuary.

Straight ahead, looking across to the horizon from the street level, were San Francisco Bay and the hills of Marin County. A postcard scene in Elaine’s backyard, and mine at one time.

A wedding ceremony was coming to a close as we arrived. In the Rose Garden, no invitations were needed. It was normal for families and passersby enjoying the park’s tennis courts, paths, and picnic areas to pause and “attend” a wedding in progress, settling on the stone steps or leaning on bikes and scooters. We watched as the bride and groom and their attendants—all youngsters, compared to Elaine’s and my wedding parties—climbed up to the street level and rode off in a Model A Ford appropriately decked out in streamers. Cameras clicked and rolled as the driver, in a vintage 1930s cap, cranked up the car.

For no good reason, I wondered whether Hollywood producers had ever used the Rose Garden for an action-movie car-chase scene, sending motorcycles and police cars up and down the narrow walkways. For all I knew it had been done.

Elaine had made arrangements for us to hold a rehearsal here in two weeks, before the Saturday afternoon Cody/Chambers wedding. Saturday was the third of July, so everyone would be celebrating all night, Elaine had told me.

“You’ll walk in from this direction, Gloria,” Elaine said, indicating a set of steps that began at the Euclid Avenue entrance. Her arm swept to the aisle sixty degrees away “Dana will come in from there. Phil and I are going to come in together from the other side.” She turned to me and said in a soft voice, “Too late for me to be given away, don’t you think?”

I smiled. “No comment.”



Elaine felt it would be a good idea for us to stop in to see Dana. She called ahead and reported that Dana sounded very grateful we’d thought of it. We stopped at Fourth Street again and picked up pastry from Bette’s takeout annex, coffee beans from Peet’s, and a small purple plant (Elaine called it by name) at one of the many home and garden shops. If Dana was at all ready to be cheered, these items would do it.

I could hardly wait to meet Dana Chambers. Like father, like daughter? I hoped not.

“Open mind,” Matt whispered as he held the car door for me. I always marveled at how well he knew me.





CHAPTER THREE

Dana’s neighborhood in the flats, where the cities of Berkeley and Oakland overlapped, was densely packed with single homes and duplexes, mostly run-down, their unkempt front yards dotted with rusty toys and car parts. Battered old autos and trucks were parked bumper to bumper on both sides of the street. We’d been lucky to find a parking spot around the corner from Dana’s. I doubted the chirp chirp of Elaine’s car alarm meant a lot, but it did give some comfort.