I stepped backward. “Yes, of course.” Now I’d done it. Started her down the path to the good old days, and I do mean “old.” From experience I knew it was best not to contradict her but merely treat her like it wasn’t unusual to hear about the past from someone who claimed to have lived it. That’s what her tour was all about, the sights and sounds of the San Francisco underground world past and present. I admit it had been interesting. The woman loved performing for a crowd; that was obvious. And the crowd had eaten it up the night I took the tour.
What was also obvious was that she knew her history. She’d gone out and bought some old clothes and told anyone who’d listen that she was a vampire. And voilà, she was no longer just a woman of a certain age who liked to wear old dresses, she was an icon, a link to the past who made her living giving city tours and now, apparently, cooking classes too. She was still in vintage clothes. What next?
“Do you sell jewelry at your store?”
“Yes, of course. Are you interested in acquiring something new?”
“I’m interested in selling a few choice pieces left to me by my mother. An antique brooch with a cameo figure of an angel set in gold, an eighteen-carat snake ring that was my grandmother’s and a few other items you won’t see anywhere else.”
“I’m sure my boss would be glad to have a look at them,” I said. If they weren’t saleable, Dolce would know how to turn Meera down gently. And if they were really outstanding, she might take them on consignment.
“Very well.”
Then I wished I hadn’t said anything. I could just see her walking into the shop one day in her bustle skirt and feather-trimmed hat with her odd jewelry and suddenly starting to examine the fixtures and the woodwork. She might peel back the wallpaper to test for authenticity. Perhaps reminisce about the meetings held there and the balls and the parties. Then she’d open her reticule and spread her jewelry collection on the counter. What would our customers think?
“I must be going,” she said, taking an antique windup watch from her pocket to check the time. “I’m late for work at the restaurant.”
I assumed she meant the pizza place called Azerbyjohnnie’s where she was a hostess the last I’d heard. She was certainly a jack-of-all-trades. And tireless to boot. I had to give her credit for that. Besides the upcoming cooking classes and her guided historic tours of the city, she was still working at the restaurant. And all while wearing long skirts and lace-up ankle boots. The thought of one of Azerbyjohnnie’s designer pizzas made my mouth water. Lunch had been a Caesar salad delivered from the restaurant around the corner because we were too busy to go out. No wonder I was hungry. Some women can live on lettuce and a few croutons, but not me.
“Thanks for the drink,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.” I tried to sound vague, but of course she was having none of it.
She handed me a calling card bordered in pale flowers with her name and address (of what I guessed was the bed-and-breakfast she was house-sitting) written in calligraphy.
“Forget about Torcelli,” she said, waving her finger at me. “He may be famous, but he’s worthless as a chef, and furthermore, he won’t be around much longer, I can tell you that.”
Now how did she know that? Was he going to retire and move back to Italy when he was doing so well here in the U.S.? He was on a level with Mario Batali, Lidia Bastianich and Giada De Laurentiis. I watched while Meera briskly crossed the street, the hem of her dress brushing the pavement. I wasn’t surprised to see how many people turned to stare at her. Yes, this was San Francisco where the people were unpredictable, but even so, there weren’t that many women in Victorian dresses, at least not in this neighborhood. Not too surprising, I don’t think she minded being stared at. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the attention.
It wasn’t late, so after I was sure Meera was out of sight, I walked to the corner and hopped on the Twenty-Two Fillmore bus, which went within two blocks of Tante Marie’s Cooking School. Not that I was afraid of Meera trying to stop me, but I didn’t want to make a scene right on the street where I worked. If I was lucky, it was possible that the renowned Chef Guido was giving a class that night and I could join in on the spot. At least I’d be able to register for something in the future.
A half hour later I was at the door of the cooking school. I peered inside the window but didn’t see anyone. Not Tante Yvette or Guido or any students. I had yet to meet Tante Marie; perhaps she didn’t even exist. But Guido did. I knocked on the door.
I was in luck. The handsome chef, wearing a striped collarless shirt and a chef’s toque, came to the door and opened it just about six inches.
“It is Ms. Jewel, I believe. Are you alone?” he asked, peering out at the street. As if I might be traveling with a posse.
I nodded yes to both questions. I was flattered he remembered my name. He was now a huge star in the world of celebrity chefs, and I was hardly the star of the class I’d taken with him. Maybe that’s why he remembered me, because I’d had a few problems following directions. After all, at the time I hadn’t known the difference between chopping, slicing, mincing and dicing. I wondered who he thought I’d be with. Maybe he’d asked because I was alone the last time I’d been here and he was worried that I didn’t have any friends. I was worried too.
“This is not a good time,” he said, his foot wedged against the door so I couldn’t have squeezed in if I’d wanted to. “We just finished a class. And I’m about to call it a day. Shouldn’t you be on your way?”
Maybe he was right. After a tiring day and drinks with Meera, I ought to go home. But not before I’d at least tried to enroll in one of his future classes. Even in the dusk I could see the chef looked tired. His face was creased and his voice sounded hoarse. It must be grueling teaching cooking to the socialites who were attracted to him and his classes. Almost as tiring as selling accessories to the same rich women.
“I’m sorry,” I said, glancing behind him to the rear of the room and the spotless kitchen where I remembered watching the chef in action and then eating a delicious dinner with him and the other students. “I just wanted to sign up for another class.”
“You can register online. In fact, I recommend it. That way you can be sure of getting the class you want. Beginning Italian cuisine, sauces, antipasto, pasta and more.”
“I’ll do that. I just wanted to tell you—”
“Not now,” he said. “For the moment I am fully booked.”
“Let me give you my phone number and you can let me know when you have an opening,” I said.
He didn’t say yes or no, so I reached into my bag and scrawled my number on a take-out menu from Meera’s restaurant, Azerbyjohnnie’s. I handed it to him.
“I’d really love to take the class because I—” He then closed the door, and I heard him turn the lock with a definite click. I stood there wondering if I’d said something to offend him. Had I been so inept at that last class he wanted to get rid of me? I wasn’t used to being shut out like that. That was when I realized I might have come all this way for nothing. Would he really contact me, or had he forgotten about me already? Or did he have no intention of letting me in another class but didn’t want to go into the reasons? I hadn’t even had a chance to tell him how much I’d enjoyed his last class. Maybe that would have made a difference.
I don’t know what I’d thought, that Guido would throw his arms around me in true Italian style, kiss me on both cheeks and invite me in for some leftover antipasto? Since I’d taken his class, he’d become even more famous than before, publishing a cookbook of family favorites called Rustico—Regional Italian Country Cooking. I’d fooled myself into thinking that I’d made as much of an impression on him as he had on me. If I had, it was probably a bad impression because I was such a klutz in the kitchen. Now I realized I was just one of many students who’d fallen under the spell of Italian cuisine and the dramatic chef who made it look so easy.
I walked slowly down the street thinking maybe a cooking class wasn’t what
I needed after all. When I thought about it, I realized the reason he’d even remembered my name was because I stood out and not in a good way. He must have been extremely tired after a day of nonstop classes, and then I had to show up just as he was ready to call it a day and remind him of how hard it was to teach cooking to novices. Even well-connected novices with lots of money. I tried not to let myself take this brush-off personally. But what else could I think?
No matter how hard I tried to cheer myself up, I still felt low. It had started before I left work, and now I was really in the dumps. I knew what was wrong. I was hungry. I stopped on the corner and leaned against a fence. First, I called a cab to pick me up on the corner, and second, I phoned Azerbyjohnnie’s to order a pizza.
“Meera?” I said.
“Meera isn’t in tonight. Not yet. Can I help you?” said an unfamiliar voice.
I ordered their Tuesday special vegetarian pie with mushrooms, olives, red onions, red peppers, artichoke hearts and arugula, to be delivered to my house. It was a relief not to have to deal with Meera on the phone. She always tried to talk me into a different pizza than the one I wanted. Or she insisted on having a conversation with me when all I wanted was to place my order. But I wondered where she was. She’d definitely said she was on her way to work.
When the pizza came to my house a half hour after the cab dropped me off, I asked the delivery man where Meera was tonight. He said she’d called in sick.
“You know her? She’s a character,” he said.
I had to agree. But was she really sick? And if so, was it contagious? She’d breathed on me more than once at the bar. I went to my tiny little bathroom, barely big enough for my claw foot tub, which I absolutely could not live without. With a job like mine, after a day like I’d had, I needed a long, hot, relaxing soak. I stared into the oval mirror and stuck out my tongue. It looked smudged and bumpy to me, but what did I know? Maybe it was always that way and I’d never noticed. My face was flushed. I could be coming down with something. Maybe I should put in a call to Dr. Jonathan and ask what was going around, if anything. I could also ask the Admissions Department if any vampires had checked in tonight. They’d get a kick out of that.
I could also call Nick, Meera’s nephew, to see if he knew anything about her. Just to make sure she was all right. However wacky Meera was, she was always dependable as far as I knew. So why hadn’t she gone to work?
But before I called anyone, I had to eat my pizza while it was hot. If I was coming down with something, I needed some to keep my strength up and fortify my immune system. Fortunately my appetite was good. In fact, I was ravenous and soon polished off the entire pizza along with a glass of two-buck-Chuck Merlot.
Feeling so much better, I changed out of my new work clothes and filled the tub with hot water and some all natural Pacific sea salts and sank into the water until I was so relaxed I felt like a jellyfish. Then I put on my Barefoot Dreams cozy bathrobe over the subtle blue and white striped pajama set Rachel Roy made famous by wearing it on the red carpet of a movie premiere. No movie premiere tonight for me, but I like to look my best at all times. With my phone in hand I went into my bedroom. Propped up against the distressed oak headboard, I called the ER at the hospital and asked to speak to Dr. Rhodes. The snippy clerk asked if it was an emergency. I hesitated a minute, then confessed it wasn’t. I did leave my name and number and my symptoms, but from the way she acted, I took it that having a flushed face and bumpy tongue was no big deal, so I wondered if she’d even give the message to him.
I’d just hung up when my phone rang. It wasn’t Jonathan.
“Rita,” Dolce said. “Have you heard the news tonight?”
Before I could say no, she said, “Isn’t your culinary school on Potrero Hill?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Didn’t you say you were going there tonight?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Because the celebrity chef Guido was shot to death at his cooking school.”
I gasped.
“But I just saw him,” I protested.
“Was he alive?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. “At least I think so.”
It’s hard to even think about getting a good night’s sleep when the person you saw alive a few hours ago is later reportedly dead and the cause was not natural. At least that’s what they said on the ten o’clock news. The police were investigating the incident as a homicide. They showed Guido’s photograph, a photo of him grinning at the camera with some of his Hollywood buddies who’d hired him or hung out with him, and then gave a brief history of his stellar career as a chef. There was also a mention of Tante Marie, who was actually a one-time resident of Potrero Hill. The news included a tour of the school and a video of the sheet-covered body being carried into the ambulance. That’s what did it, convinced me he really was dead. Even another extra hot bath with herbal Dead Sea salts couldn’t stop me from shivering and shaking.
I kept thinking of how Guido wouldn’t let me into the school tonight. Was that because his murderer was already on the premises? Was Guido protecting me? What if I had been able to prevent this heinous crime by forcing my way into the school and disarming the killer, but instead I’d allowed the chef in a heroic gesture to send me out of harm’s way?
Or was Guido expecting his killer, only he didn’t know it was a killer. He thought it was a friend or a relative or a student of his. If only I had access to his cooking school, I was sure I’d find something written on his calendar or his bulletin board. Right now the police were probably combing the place for clues like the menu I’d scrawled my number on. So once again I’d be on the list of suspects when they realized whose number that was.
I kept expecting the phone to ring. Either from the police or from Meera, because she along with Dolce knew where I was going tonight. But my little apartment under the sloped roof of an old house on Russian Hill was quiet except for the voice of the newsman going over the gory details of the murder. The suspicion that it was an inside job. No evidence of a break-in. Interviews with neighbors who reported seeing a woman in an off-white Juicy Couture blazer at the door earlier in the evening. Me, wearing Juicy Couture? Never. Must have been someone else.
There was an interview with the detective assigned to the case, my sometime friend Jack Wall, who looked tough and suave at the same time in his tailored off-the-rack Alfani suit and a solid black skinny tie. He said he would find the perpetrator and bring him or her to justice. What else could he say? How long would it take him to figure out I’d been there at the scene?
Turned out it didn’t take him that long. I had a half hour to figure out what to say. Of course I’d tell the truth, but the truth isn’t always so easy to figure out.
I just had to tell him I didn’t kill Guido. Of course not. What possible motive would I have? I adored Guido. Everyone adored Guido. He was an inspiring teacher, a TV star, a man whose memory would live on through his books and his TV classes. Not the Guido I’d seen tonight; that Guido was not himself. The Guido I knew, the Guido who taught our class and countless others, was urbane, suave, gregarious and fun. By the time Jack called, I had calmed down and jotted down a few questions for him. I knew he’d have a few for me too.
“Tell me you weren’t on the scene of another murder tonight,” he said, his voice stern and official. We were off to a bad start. But he had to sound that way. It was his job. I pictured him in his office, not in his suit, but instead he’d have changed into something casual but pricy, like boot-cut jeans that fit as if they’d been made for him and a designer pin-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And on his feet, propped up on his desk, he’d be wearing Gucci black leather sneakers. He might have had them on when he was on the news.
“Are you referring to Guido Torcelli?” I asked calmly.
“I am,” he said. “May I ask where you were this evening?”
“Of course. I have nothing to hide. And a good alibi. Are we doing this over the
phone?” I asked.
“At this hour I assume you don’t want to come down to the station.”
“Not in my jammies and bunny slippers, no,” I said. Though I had no intention of hustling downtown at this hour, I wanted to see how far I could push the envelope. Surely he wouldn’t make me come down there tonight, would he? “But if you want to come here…”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient,” he said. There may have been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I wasn’t sure.
“Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave the country?”
“Do I have to?”
“I hope we can work together on this, Jack.”
There was a long silence during which he was probably trying to decide how to tell me politely to mind my own business. That he didn’t need my help. That he was the cop and I was a suspect.
“I’m counting on your help,” he said at last. “I feel sure you want this case solved as soon as possible so we can all get back to our jobs.”
“But this is your job, isn’t it? To solve murders. If you have any others on your desk, I’d be glad to—”
“Rita, let’s not go overboard, shall we?” he asked. I could tell I was pushing his buttons, but somehow I couldn’t help it. I wanted to remind him of the past murders in which I had helped him whether he’d wanted my help or not. Of course, he was trying hard to stay calm and not alarm me. That must be what they learn at the police academy.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to sound contrite. “I just want you to know that—”
Murder After a Fashion Page 3