Free Looking for Yesterday by Marcia Muller Page A

Peninsula. That gave me pause: Green had presented himself as down on his luck, ruined by the scandal following Amelia’s murder. Of course, he could’ve bought the house before that, when he was making big money as a stockbroker.
    Dave Walden, a close friend of both Amelia and Caro who had testified as a character witness for the defense, owned a winery up north in the Alexander Valley, with his wife, Kayla. I scanned through the clippings again; there was no other mention of Dave or Kayla Walden.
    I turned to the computer to Google them. A few sounds made me pause—metal on metal. I glanced at the old elevator to see if someone might be coming up, but the arrow on its dial remained at P .
    Penthouse, my ass.
    The problem, I thought, was that I didn’t really like the building—or Sly Lane. I’d allowed Ted to talk me into leasing it because it was in proximity to the Embarcadero (and his apartment, now that I thought of it). He loved the place—especially its blue color, and the fact that it was a former whorehouse where the madam had been murdered in 1894.
    But I felt isolated here on the hill, even though I wasn’t very far away from the liveliness I had enjoyed on the Embarcadero: the salt tang in the air, the Bay breezes, the walkers and runners and bicyclers and roller skaters, the restaurants.
    South of Market—SoMa—had changed since I’d moved the agency to Pier 24½, for the better and also for the worse. Construction was at an all-time high, with the resultant noise and dust, but many of the more ambitious projects had been halted by lack of funding. Many buildings that had sat empty because of the recession were now attracting tenants, and interesting new shops and restaurants abounded. The Museum of Modern Art had prospered and was soon to be expanded, and “parklets”—large boxes filled with ferns and other low-maintenance plants—brightened alleyways that I used to cut through on my way to and from the locations I frequented.
    The good and the bad, I’d take all of it. But not this building. The blue façade looked downright frivolous. The clanking elevator cage annoyed or intimidated clients. Having to run up and down stairs to have a face-to-face with staff members wasted time. But we’d signed a long-term lease.
    I turned my attention back to Google. Walden Vineyards was located on Alexander Valley Road near Healdsburg, a prime wine-grape-growing area. The winery was small, producing only a few hundred cases of sauvignon blanc and zinfandel per bottling, and had been in operation seven years. The photos on the website showed a small, high-ceilinged tasting room and a terrace overlooking vine-covered hills topped with tall pines.
    Tomorrow was Saturday; a jaunt to the valley could be pleasurable—and fruitful, in more ways than one.
    I put my computer to sleep and pushed back from the desk. The arrow on the elevator still pointed to the “penthouse.” For a moment I considered taking the stairs, then shrugged and pressed the button. The grille groaned and wheezed back, and I stepped on and pressed the Down button.
    The elevator started, then stopped. I punched the button again. The elevator moved a few inches, then lurched violently to the right. I was thrown off balance, my shoulder slamming into the wall. Sparks of pain shot up my neck and down my arm.
    What the hell…?
    I clung to the handrail for a few seconds, my blood pounding in my ears. When I righted myself, the elevator floor groaned under me. Quickly I balanced my weight evenly in the middle.
    Those noises I’d heard earlier—they weren’t normal for an elevator at rest, but I’d been so involved with my searches that I’d dismissed them. Had somebody disabled it? Was that person still around?
    I held on to the handrail and shifted my weight slightly.
    The cage stayed where it was.
    I tried punching the buttons again, all of them. Nothing.
    Stuck.
    There should have been an escape hatch on top of the cage through which I