Murder Al Dente

by Nancy Skopin

  CHAPTER 5

  Bill got an early call Friday morning and left the boat before I was even out of the shower. He’d started the coffee, so after dressing and pulling my long curls into a ponytail, I filled a thermal mug and grabbed Buddy’s leash. We made the rounds of his favorite trees and bushes, then went to the office where I fed him his breakfast kibble and gave him fresh water.

  I sat down at my desk, anxious to see if I’d received anything from CIS regarding Chet’s cadre of potential assassins. I drained my coffee mug as my e-mail finished loading, and scanned my inbox hopefully. There was indeed an e-mail from CIS with four attachments.

  I opened it and quickly printed the attachments. CIS had recently begun including driver’s license photos with their background reports. I examined Vanessa’s DL before looking over her background. She was a brown-eyed blonde with dark eyebrows, an oval face, an aquiline nose, and a mouth a little too wide for her face. Not what you’d call a classic beauty, but there was something arresting about the way her gaze challenged the photographer. Vanessa was five-foot-six and a hundred and thirty pounds. She had turned forty-five on May 6th of this year.

  Prior to marrying Chet and becoming the CFO of Dr. Feelgood, she’d been employed as a controller with Horacio’s Garden Supply in San Francisco. I didn’t think of garden supply stores as the type of business that would require a controller, but I guess a finance department is critical no matter the type or size of the company.

  Vanessa had been born at UCSF Medical Center. Her mother’s maiden name was Marlene Katzovich and her father was Frederick Poneke. She’d grown up in San Bruno, attending grade school and high school there. She’d attended San Francisco State University and graduated twenty years ago with a Master’s degree in accounting and a Bachelor’s in business management. During college she’d worked part time at Anchor Oyster Bar & Seafood Market. My mouth watered remembering my last visit to that establishment. They had some of the freshest oysters in the Bay Area.

  I moved on to the page that showed her financial history. I read the summary first. According to CIS, Vanessa had a habit of living beyond her means. Prior to marrying Chet her credit score was between 550 and 600. It had improved significantly while she was married to the millionaire sex toy maker, but was now back in the low 600 range. I wondered what kind of salary Chet paid her, and flipped to that page. Vanessa was pulling down $250,000.00 a year as Chet’s CFO. Not bad, but apparently not good enough to fund her expensive lifestyle or self-indulgent spending habits. If she knew Chet hadn’t changed his will since their divorce, she definitely had a financial motive.

  I read the remainder of the background and found nothing more interesting than a DUI on her twenty-first birthday and a prior marriage that ended in divorce in 2010.

  Chance Fortune, Chet’s "cock-wit” son, had been born at Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas. After his parents divorced and Chet moved to California, he’d remained in Dallas with his mother, Chelsie Sinclair-Fortune. I found it disconcerting that all three of their first names began with the letter C. Chet, Chelsie, and Chance. Creepy.

  Chance was a good looking young man. He was six-foot-two and two hundred and ten pounds with an athletic build and brown hair and blue eyes like his dad. He’d graduated from Skyline High School, then gotten into TCU on a football scholarship. With his poor GPA, he must have been a hell of a football player, but he’d torn his posterior cruciate ligament during his senior year of college, putting an end to his football career.

  Chance had moved to San Francisco just last year, and at the age of twenty-five had absolutely no employment history. He was renting a loft apartment on Bay Street in the Marina District. One-bedroom apartments at Marina Cove where he lived went for upwards of $3,000.00 a month. Pricy for a guy without a job. Since Chet had told me he’d recently cut Chance off financially, I wondered if his mom had money and was now supporting him.

  He had no criminal history, though there were a couple of speeding tickets from his college years in Dallas. His financials consisted mostly of credit cards that were paid off monthly. Maybe the kid was a drug dealer or a gigolo. Since he wasn’t in Chet’s will, I decided to put further research into his source of income on the back burner for now. I just wasn’t seeing a motive.

  Ray Hardwick, the pool boy, had black, curly hair that looked like it might have been dyed in his DL photo. The color was too uniform. His eyes were hazel, his nose aristocratic, and his lips sensuous. He was twenty-seven years old, five-foot-eleven, and a hundred and ninety pounds. Ray had been born at El Camino Hospital in Mountain View. He had attended Homestead High School and later De Anza College, where he was on the swim team. I wondered how that translated to pool cleaning. Ray had one arrest for solicitation in 2009. Apparently he’d accepted money from an undercover vice cop working a male prostitution sting operation. I wondered if Vanessa had paid him for sex.

  Last on my list of suspects was Marty Aptus, the Polk Street Dr. Feelgood store manager who’d been caught till-tapping. Chet had surveillance cameras mounted above all the registers, and he’d told me that all of his employees had been made aware of that. How stupid did you have to be to steal from your employer while on camera? Maybe Marty didn’t think anyone would look at the video, but Chet had noticed a decline in cash sales, which was a dead giveaway. Credit card sales had remained consistent, but cash sales had dropped during the hours when Marty was working, so Chet started watching the videos just during Marty’s shift, and voila. He was ringing up “no sale” on the register, which caused the cash drawer to open so he could make change for customers and pocket the amount of the purchase. It kind of surprised me that no one had noticed Marty wasn’t giving the cash customers receipts, but maybe people purchasing sex toys didn’t want to draw too much attention to themselves. Paying cash would keep them under the radar, and Chet’s line of products were high-quality, according to Chet himself, so I thought it unlikely there would have been an issue with merchandise being returned.

  Marty Aptus was thirty-seven years old, five-foot-seven, and a hundred and forty pounds. Born and raised in Daly City, he’d started working retail jobs even before graduating from high school. He’d taken some business courses at Community College, and worked his way up from the stock room at The Gap to store manager at Dr. Feelgood. Since his entire career had been in retail, the odds of him finding another job weren’t too bad, unless he tried using Chet as a reference. It could have been worse. Chet could have pressed charges.

  Marty had a few parking tickets but no criminal history. He paid his bills on time and rented an apartment in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district.

  Once I’d reviewed the reports on Chet’s list of suspects, I checked my schedule for the day. I had two lunch, two dinner, and one bar survey to do, so I locked the background reports in my desk and made a quick call to Elizabeth to see if she was interested in overeating tonight. She answered on the first ring.

  “What?”

  Not her usual cheerful greeting.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I’m just so stressed over the wedding I feel like my head’s going to explode.”

  “Sounds like you could use a distraction. How about having dinner and drinks with me tonight?”

  “I guess so. Where?”

  “You’re turning into a bridezilla. You know that, right?”

  “I know. I’d love to have dinner with you tonight, Nikki. Just tell me where we’re going so I know how to dress.”

  “Abner Bailee’s at six and Michelino’s at 8:00. Drinks will be consumed at Michelino’s bar.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll meet you at the marina at five-thirty. Will you be in your office or on the boat?”

  “Probably on the boat, but call my cell when you get here.”

  We ended the call and I sent Bill a text letting him know I’d be working tonight and asking what time he expected to be home. He texted me back immediately saying he’d caught a homicide case and might be
late. I’d have to leave Buddy on Kirk’s boat with D’Artagnon again.

  I completed two mediocre lunch surveys for clients that used to be Sam’s. At least they weren’t donut shops. Sam had two donut shop chains that he did weekly surveys for. I’d managed to palm those off on Jim Sutherland by saying I’d take the second half of the alphabet. I think he knew what I was doing at the time, but he’s since hired Sherry Troop as an agent and she now handles all the donut shop jobs. Sherry originally came to work for Jim to cover Heather’s maternity leave. Heather has been Jim’s receptionist and office manager for years. When she returned, Jim trained Sherry as an agent and she was doing a brilliant job.

  After collecting Buddy from Kirk’s boat and giving him a walk around the marina, I unlocked the office and typed up the lunch surveys, e-mailing them off with attached invoices. It was only 3:30, so I took the time to check my e-mail and delete the forty-two ads suggesting I needed penile enhancement, a nose hair trimmer, or canned meat. At 4:00, Buddy and I strolled down to the docks.

  I fed my boy an early dinner and took a shower, then slid into a turquoise sun dress and a pair of strappy sandals. I scrunched up my curls with gel and applied a little lip gloss and mascara.

  My cell phone vibrated at 5:25.

  Even though she lives with Jack now, Elizabeth keeps her trawler at the marina so she still has a gate key. She let herself in and came down to the boat to say hello to Buddy before we took off for our first dinner survey. She was wearing a Venus halter dress with a print of blue, white and red geometric shapes and a pair of white ankle strap sandals. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a knot with a few wispy curls framing her heart-shaped face. Buddy stood up on his hind legs and gave her a kiss without mussing her dress or her make-up. Smart dog.

  “Sorry I’ve been such a bitch lately,” she said, turning to me. “It’s a good thing I only plan on getting married once.”

  “I forgive you. I just wish you would relax enough to enjoy the process. Not every detail has to be perfect, you know.”

  “I do know that, intellectually. I just can’t seem to stop obsessing. I feel like I’m losing control of my life. Is that crazy?”

  “No. I think it’s normal when you’re planning something this important. But if you don’t enjoy it because you’re so busy controlling it, then what’s the point?”

  “That’s what Jack says.”

  “You ready for dinner?”

  “I’m ready for a cocktail or six.”

  “Close enough.”

  We dropped Buddy off with D’Artagnon and walked up to the boat owners’ lot where I’d parked my Bimmer. If Elizabeth was going to be drinking, I was going to be driving.

  CHAPTER 6

  Abner Bailee’s is an English-style restaurant in Atherton. I’ve had the account for a little over a year and still haven’t convinced the owners to let me conduct pre-employment background checks. As a result, they’re experiencing a lot of turnover primarily due to my diligence in assessing employee performance.

  Our reservation was for 6:00, and we arrived a few minutes early. The hostess asked if we’d like to wait at the bar. I glanced at Elizabeth, who was nodding enthusiastically. I told the hostess that would be fine and we strolled into the pub-like area beyond the dining room.

  Elizabeth hoisted herself onto a stool and leaned forward, eyeing the liquor selections. When the female bartender approached, Elizabeth pointed to a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and said, “Double shot. Straight up, please.”

  The bartender smiled and poured for Elizabeth, then turned to me with a raised eyebrow.

  “What kind of coffee do you have?” I asked. “I’m driving.”

  “We have a very nice dark French roast tonight. I just made a fresh pot.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “I don’t suppose you have any lactose-free milk?”

  “I’ll check with the kitchen staff.”

  She made a quick call and moments later I had a glass cup of French roast in front of me, along with a small pitcher of Horizon organic lactose-free milk. Things were looking up.

  Elizabeth sipped her Bombay and I savored my coffee until the hostess called my name. The bartender placed our drinks on a tray, which the hostess carried to our table. Once we were seated, she handed us menus and told us our server, Avery, would be with us shortly.

  Avery was another new hire about whom I had not been consulted. I watched him as he delivered entrées to a neighboring table. He was in his early thirties with wavy dark blond hair and an almost pretty face that included a dimple in his left cheek. At five-foot-ten and about two hundred pounds, he may have chosen to work in the restaurant business because he was a foodie and his career allowed him to indulge. They say, “Never trust a chef who isn’t overweight.” Maybe the same is true of servers. Besides, Avery appeared to be of Scandinavian descent, so he was big-boned and the extra weight wasn’t unattractive on him.

  He approached our table, bowed slightly—yes some servers do bow—and said, “I’m Avery, and I’ll be your server this evening. Do you have any questions about the menu?”

  Since I was working, I would, of course, have questions about the menu, but I also wanted to ensure that Elizabeth was distracted from her wedding woes, so before responding, I turned to look at her. She was scrutinizing the appetizer portion of the menu with a degree of intensity previously reserved for wedding details.

  She looked up at Avery, tilted her head coquettishly and said, “Avery, if you were planning a wedding reception for thirty guests, how many of each hors d'oeuvre would you order?”

  “Depends on how many different types of hors d'oeuvres we’re talking about,” he responded without hesitation. “And will there be other menu options? Entrées, salads, deserts?”

  Elizabeth beamed at him. “There will be five different types of hors d'oeuvres. And, yes, there will be entrées, salads, and deserts. We’ll get to those in a minute. First, how many of each of the five hors d'oeuvre for thirty people?”

  “Sixty of each should be more than enough.”

  I had to restrain myself from blurting out, I told you so.

  “Great,” Elizabeth said. “Now about the entrées. There will be a vegan lasagna, but for the non-vegetarian crowd would you serve chicken or salmon?”

  “Definitely salmon. Everyone serves chicken at wedding receptions. Unless it’s something special, like Chicken Kiev, it’s just boring.”

  Elizabeth nodded as though she’d been thinking the same thing all along.

  “Swiss chocolate cake with cream cheese icing or vanilla cake with raspberry compote between the layers and whipped butter cream frosting?” she asked.

  Avery had other tables to attend to, but he seemed delighted to answer Elizabeth’s questions. “I’d go with the Swiss chocolate cake with the cream cheese icing. I’m assuming this is your wedding we’re planning here?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Frankly,” he said, “vanilla you are not.”

  Elizabeth giggled and Avery smiled showing her his dimple.

  “So,” he said, returning to business, “any questions about the menu, or would you like to hear tonight’s specials?” He turned to me as he asked and I jumped in before Elizabeth could further hijack my survey.

  “I’ve never had the Beef and Parsnip Pudding,” I said. “Have you tried it?”

  “I’ve sampled everything on the menu,” Avery said. “That one’s actually a favorite of mine. The beef and parsnips are cooked in a dark ale, and the pastry is made with pork lard. It’s total comfort food, and very English.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but I’m on a diet. How are the Venison shanks?”

  “The venison is free range, so no hormones or antibiotics, and it’s prepared with juniper berries and red currants. Delicious!”

  “Would it be possible to get that with a side of Brussel sprouts?”

  “Of course.”

  I set my menu on the tabl
e and Avery turned to Elizabeth.

  “I think I’ll have the Asparagus and Halloumi Salad, and another double shot of Bombay Sapphire, please.”

  Avery collected the menus, bowed politely again, and stopped at the bar to request Elizabeth’s drink before heading back to the kitchen to deliver our orders. He was very good and I was relieved. I hate getting people fired.

  After a wonderful dining experience at Abner Bailee’s, we moved on to Michelino’s in San Mateo. It’s only about twelve miles from Atherton, but it was Friday night, so naturally we hit traffic. I asked Elizabeth if she was planning to accept Avery’s advice about her wedding menu.

  “Well, he basically agreed with everything you’d already told me, so I guess so.”

  “You need to get a grip, Elizabeth. You’re driving yourself crazy with things that won’t matter six months from now. Why does everything have to be such a big deal? What’s really going on?”

  She sighed as she looked out the window. “It’s my mother,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My fucking mother is coming to the wedding.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was stupid enough to invite her.”

  “Why would you do that to yourself? You and your mother have absolutely no relationship. And if you did have a relationship it would be a lousy one. What on earth possessed you to invite that bitch to the most important occasion of your life?”

  Elizabeth burst into tears and I immediately felt bad for being so blunt, but it was all true. Her mother had caused her nothing but misery, which was why as soon as she was able, Elizabeth had moved from New Orleans to California.

  I reached into my purse and found a packet of tissues, which I handed to her.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I should have kept my mouth shut. It’s your wedding, and if you want your mom there, well, I’ll do my best not to shoot her in the ass during the reception.”