Murder After a Fashion

by Grace Carroll

  “Who died?” he asked. “Maybe you told me but my mind is shot along with my gallbladder.”

  “It was the famous chef I told you about. They had a fabulous spread. All kinds of Italian food, frittata, marinated peppers, mushrooms and a delicious tiramisu.”

  “Stop,” he said. “You’re not helping. I’m not allowed to have anything delicious. Only green soup and beets.”

  “That’s what I brought,” I said. “Try the soup; it may not be as bad as it sounds. At least it’s good for you.”

  I put some in a small bowl and brought it to the couch. He sat up and ate a few bites.

  “I’m not very hungry,” he said, holding the bowl at arm’s length like it contained poison.

  I set the bowl on the table. “Even though you don’t feel like it, you’re supposed to eat something, aren’t you? Something healthy.”

  “Maybe later. Did you make this yourself?”

  “No, Meera did. She knows her way around a kitchen. In fact, I’m taking lessons from her soon.”

  He flopped back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “Who’s Meera?”

  “You met her at my dinner. She’s an older woman who wears long dresses. She calls herself a vampire.”

  “You’re taking lessons from a vampire?”

  “She’s a good cook,” I said a little defensively. Me, defending Meera? What was the world coming to?

  “There was a man in your elevator,” I said, perching on a foot stool next to the couch, “who recognized me from the funeral. I wish I knew who he was because he said something about Guido, the man who was murdered. He lives on the fourteenth floor of your building. Do you know who that might be?”

  “Can’t help you,” Jonathan said. “I just moved in here last month and I don’t know anybody. I can’t believe you’re helping the police again.”

  “I wish I could, but as usual they don’t want my help.”

  “Their loss,” Jonathan said.

  “Yes, well…What I found after circulating around the funeral and talking to people, the crowd seemed to be either pro-Guido or anti. In the anti group are the potential suspects like his ex-wife; his brother, who was his rival; and other chefs, whom he supposedly stole recipes from. There were way too many people who didn’t like him. I suppose that’s not unusual for a celebrity chef. Even one who’s so successful. They say chefs tend to be emotional and difficult and edgy. So who knows?” I said, gazing out the window at the sailboats on the Bay. Jonathan’s eyes were closed, and I was afraid I’d put him to sleep with my long speech. Maybe my voice had a soothing effect on him. I hoped so. Though I was hoping for a more stimulating conversation.

  “How about a beet?” I asked after a brief silence.

  “I hate beets,” he muttered.

  “I didn’t know that. It’s just that they’re good for you. I’ll leave them here. If you get hungry enough, you might want to at least taste them.”

  He shook his head.

  I couldn’t believe this was the same suave, charming doctor with the five-star bedside manner who’d treated me not too long ago.

  I stood by the window, wondering how long I had to stay. Would I want someone hanging around if I felt terrible? Maybe he wanted me to leave but didn’t want to hurt my feelings. “Who’s filling in for you at work?” I asked to make conversation.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Could you hand me those pills on the table over there?”

  I brought the bottle and a glass of water to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. He popped two pills and swallowed them with the water. Then he closed his eyes again.

  “Will you be okay if I leave?” I asked.

  He nodded but he didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t forget to eat some soup and beets,” I said as I went to the door.

  “Wait, Rita.” He propped himself up and managed a weak smile. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it. I really do, and after this is over, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have a night on the town like last time, only better.” He paused, then he braced himself on one arm. “You’re the best. And you look terrific in that jacket. If I wasn’t sick, I’d tell you to take it off. Everything.”

  “Jonathan…”

  “Don’t worry, I’m delirious.”

  “Just get well. And if you need anything…”

  He raised his arm and waved at me, then he sank back down on the couch with a groan.

  I felt terrible leaving him alone like that, but what good was I doing standing around talking when he didn’t want me around? But wait. He begged me to come here. He wanted company. Meera outdid herself with the veggie diet and now he didn’t want it. I reminded myself that when I had my concussion and Nick kept coming by with Romanian food I just wanted him to go away. Maybe that’s how Jonathan felt about me. It was nothing personal. I tiptoed out and closed the door softly.

  I stood at the elevator and pressed fourteen, hoping I might be able to locate the man from the funeral. I felt that he had something to tell me and would have if we’d had more time in the elevator. Too bad I didn’t know his name or where he lived. Too bad I hadn’t followed him upstairs. But I wasn’t thinking fast enough during that first elevator trip.

  There weren’t that many apartments on each floor of this high-rise, so if I just knocked on some doors, maybe I’d find him. It was worth a try. And if I found out something, I’d be one up on Jack Wall. The thought gave me a jolt of satisfaction.

  When I got off the elevator on his floor, I knocked on the first door I saw. A woman came to the door wearing a floor-length gown and bright red lipstick and holding a cigarette holder in her hand. I thought for a moment I’d stumbled into an old movie.

  “Yes?” she said.

  I didn’t know what to say. “I’m looking for a man I met in the elevator,” I said at last.

  “We’re all looking for a man, honey,” she said. “No man here, unfortunately.”

  I had a sinking feeling that unless I found Mr. Right in the next year or two, it was likely I’d end up just like her. “I met him at a funeral,” I said.

  “Really. So that’s how you meet men these days. I’ve got to get out more.”

  I didn’t want to get into a discussion about the unavailability of suitable men and where to meet them in San Francisco, so I continued with my line of questioning.

  “He was wearing a dark suit, and he may be Italian. I think he lives on this floor.”

  “Maybe it’s Alfredo at number 1409. But I don’t think he’s your type.”

  “Thank you.”

  I went to 1409 and knocked, but no one answered. Maybe it wasn’t Alfredo. Maybe it was someone who was visiting like me, who didn’t live there at all. I sighed, and then I went from door-to-door on that floor, but had no luck. Until I got to 1418 and he answered, the man from the elevator. He was wearing a pair of dark Zanella slacks and a black Kenzo polo shirt.

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m the woman from the elevator. Rita Jewel.”

  “Gioccomo Parcisi,” he said, shaking my hand. “You’re the friend of Guido’s from the funeral.”

  “Not really a friend. I was in one of his classes, and I was at the funeral. I wanted to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come in,” he said with a sweeping gesture that, along with his name, made me think he had to be Italian. I know it’s not good to stereotype people, but in this case, I couldn’t help it.

  Unlike Jonathan’s, this apartment was done completely in stark ultramodern Italian furnishings. A huge white couch and large armchairs were facing the windows. The view was more spectacular than Jonathan’s, and I gasped in admiration.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” he said. “Guido said it reminded him of Florence.”

  “The view?” I was puzzled. I’d never been to Florence, but I didn’t think it was on the ocean or very hilly.

  “No, the apartment. Probably because I had the same Piero Lissoni furniture in my place there.”

  “Guido was a
good friend of yours?”

  “Very good. I’m going to miss him,” he said sadly.

  I nodded. “Even though I didn’t know him well, I knew he was an excellent chef and a fine teacher. Do you have any idea who killed him? You said something about a girlfriend.”

  “But why would she kill him?” he asked with a frown.

  “Maybe she was mad because he tried to dump her. Didn’t you say he was trying to get rid of her? That can be painful.”

  “You’re not trying to excuse her, are you?” he asked.

  “No, of course not. I don’t even know her. I’m just trying to establish a motive.”

  “You sound like a detective.”

  I wished Jack Wall could have heard that. “I saw Guido the night he was murdered. The police think I had something to do with it.”

  “Did you?” he asked.

  “Of course not. I thought he was great. Of course, he’s the only professional chef I’ve ever known, but still. I had no reason to kill him. I went to the school on Potrero to sign up for more classes. He acted nervous and didn’t let me in. Then later that night I heard about it. I was just wondering…”

  “Wondering if his killer was on his way?”

  “I was wondering if you knew who his girlfriend was.”

  “I never met her,” Gioccomo said. But he didn’t really answer my question. Why not? “Maybe it was one of his students, like you,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of the window. “It’s too terrible. I can’t believe anyone would kill Guido. He has had many girlfriends since his marriage ended, but I don’t believe any one of them ever threatened him.”

  “What about his ex-wife?” I asked.

  “Gianna? She might have wanted him dead after what he did to her, but she’s not a killer, and she just got here. At least that’s what she told me. I agree with you it might have been a woman, knowing Guido. He was irresistible to women—until it all fell apart, that is.”

  I waited, hoping he might elaborate. Or give me the name of his girlfriend. Had she been at the funeral today? Did he mean Guido had had tons of wives and girlfriends and cheated on all of them? He didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.

  “So it’s a case of cherchez la femme, as they say in France,” I said.

  “Cerca la donna.”

  He stood at the window watching the street below. I didn’t want to leave without extracting every ounce of information from the man, and I still had another question.

  “Do you know Guido’s brother?” I asked.

  “Which one?”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “It’s a big family,” he explained.

  “The one who’s also in the food business.”

  “You mean Raymundo.”

  “Is he a chef at Eduardo’s?”

  “He’s at Fior d’Italia. Didn’t you meet him? He was at the funeral.”

  I thought I’d gotten around, but I’d missed one of the brothers. So they were all in the food business. Perhaps rivals. This brother was at another high-end Italian restaurant. All I could think was that I’d have to go and eat there too. I was starting to feel dizzy from the overload of information. Or maybe it was the altitude. This detective work was hard, but somebody had to do it.

  “Which one was Raymundo?”

  “He was wearing a dark suit.”

  Now that was helpful. What man wasn’t wearing a dark suit at the funeral?

  “So who works at Eduardo’s?” I asked.

  “Guido’s cousin Biagio. But Eduardo is the owner.”

  Who was it I was looking for? Had I misheard? Were there still others I should look into?

  “The other brothers are still in Italy,” Gioccomo said.

  That’s when I said to myself that I’d gotten all I could digest for today. I thanked him for his time, and he saw me to the door. Probably relieved to get rid of me and my incessant questions. A lot of people feel that way about me. All I’ve ever tried to do was get to the bottom of a murder and save my own hide at the same time. Either I’m stopped by the long arm of the law or by people who have something to hide or just want to be left alone.

  It was not easy being an amateur detective. Now, if I were a professional like Jack, I could go anywhere, pull out my badge and ask any questions I felt like. Maybe in my next life. In the meantime I was happy to have a new nugget of information to share with Jack. Although I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he already knew everything I knew.

  The next day I realized how much I liked my own day job. I was no longer bored with it. I looked forward to it as a place I could relax and be myself and not worry about who killed who and why. I didn’t even mind doing mindless jobs like hanging a shipment of metallic jackets on hangers, as long as I didn’t have to wear one. All that glitter at nine o’clock in the morning was as much as I could handle. In total contrast I was wearing a pair of sleek, buttery, black leather Helmut Lang leggings I’d tucked into a pair of black, low-heeled Steve Madden boots, a black J.Crew tank and a long black Alexander Wang vest. Just the opposite of what was all around me at the moment. Maybe it was the funeral that had inspired me to wear so much black. Who knows?

  When Dolce asked me how Jonathan was, I hesitated. I didn’t want to sound heartless. “He was so sick,” I said, “that he couldn’t eat much of the beets or the green soup. I think he was glad to see me, but he seemed preoccupied.” Maybe I was spoiled and I wasn’t happy unless all attention was on me. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe it was true.

  “Now, Rita,” she said, “you know what I told you about men when they’re sick.”

  “But he’s a doctor,” I protested. “And I’d gone to a lot of work for him. Or rather Meera had. She’s the one who made the soup and the beets.”

  Dolce opened her mouth to tell me that he was a doctor second and a man first, but her words were interrupted when my cell phone rang. Normally I turn it off when I’m at work, but since there were no customers around yet, and it was Detective Wall, I took the call.

  “Just wanted to remind you of dinner tonight at Eduardo’s,” Jack said. “Eight o’clock.”

  “Okay,” I said. How like him to announce it instead of asking if that was all right with me. “Any instructions, warnings or tips?”

  “We’re going to see what we can learn.”

  “And eat,” I reminded him. “Can I ask questions?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

  “Dr. Jonathan?” Dolce asked when I’d hung up.

  I shook my head. “Detective Wall,” I said. “We’re going to a restaurant tonight that is owned by Guido’s brother Eduardo and where his cousin Biagio works. Neither one was at the funeral, which I think is strange.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Sounds like fun,” she said.

  “It’s not a date really,” I explained. “It’s a hunting expedition. Hunting for clues to Guido’s murder. That’s all.”

  “Expedition or not, it’s exciting to go out with such a good-looking man,” she said. “And one who knows how to dress for the occasion.” Then she got down to the nitty-gritty. “What will you wear?”

  “We’ll find something smart and low-key,” Dolce suggested. “And make it look effortless.”

  The first thing she found was a short black Nicole Miller dress that hit me midthigh and was embellished with a bold design. I tried it on with black tights and I liked it a lot.

  “It says glamour but it’s not over-the-top,” Dolce said, stepping back to get some perspective.

  I agreed but when I looked at the price tag, I gasped.

  “Don’t worry about the price,” Dolce said. “You can return it and we’ll have it dry-cleaned. Unless you want to keep it.”

  Of course I wanted to keep it, but I already had a closet bursting with designer clothes she’d either given me or sold me.

  “You’ll be the best dressed in the whole place,” Dolce promise
d.

  “Except for Jack. He usually takes the prize with his Armani suits, his Ferragamo shoes or his Marc Jacobs pants.”

  “You’ll look great together,” Dolce said. “I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for that detective. I’m glad to hear he needs you as much as you need him. Or is he just looking for an excuse to see you?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “He uses me to get information, and I use him for the same purpose.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Dolce said. “Unless you decide a doctor is the one for you. So you think Guido’s brother or his cousin who works there are going to tell you something over drinks at the bar?” She sounded dubious. “If either knows who killed Guido, why haven’t they told the police?”

  “Maybe one of them did it or they’re protecting someone else, like each other. I don’t know. I do know Eduardo wasn’t at the funeral, something about a banquet. If Biagio was there, I didn’t meet him. Don’t you think it’s strange when close relatives don’t show up to the funeral?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But not if they’ve got work to do. If he’s the owner, he’s probably out chatting up the customers at his restaurant.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “If they have the personality for it. If Eduardo is the chef and/or the owner, we’ll go back to the kitchen on the pretext of complimenting him.”

  “And then?” Dolce said.

  “I don’t know. Jack will ask some questions. This is really Jack’s job. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Rita, you’re too modest,” she said. “You have a way of finding things out. You know you do.”

  I blushed at the compliment, but I had to agree I sometimes did get to the bottom of things because of my persistence.

  I changed back into my all-black work outfit and hung the dress on a hanger. “I’ll be very careful not to spill anything on it,” I promised.

  “It’s too bad about your doctor,” Dolce said.

  “He was downright cranky,” I said. “There’s no other word for it. He’s not a good patient.”

  “Doctors never are,” she said. “Just don’t give up on him. He’ll get well and he’ll be himself again. I’m glad to hear he’s not the only man in your life. There’s Nick the Romanian also. That makes three men in your life,” she said.