Murder After a Fashion

by Grace Carroll

  I was about to protest that one was sick and grouchy, one was using me to uncover a murderer and the other was recovering from a broken engagement in Romania, but several customers came into the shop and we both sprang into action like the professional saleswomen we were.

  That afternoon, Dolce insisted I leave early to get ready for my date. But I didn’t want to sit around in my tiny apartment getting nervous about my so-called date. It wasn’t really a date anyway; it was more of an assignment. The job was to find out something. If I didn’t help Jack find out something, subtly of course, he’d be sorry he ever took me there.

  I could see why he wouldn’t want to go to a fabulous restaurant by himself on a Friday night. How would that look? It would look suspicious, I was sure of that. I couldn’t go by myself either; not only would it look suspicious, but it would break my bank. Jack could either write it off as a business expense, or he’d pay out of pocket, and I knew his pockets were deep.

  So I left work at the usual time and took the bus home. I got dressed and studied myself in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. Then I tried on a cropped velvet jacket over the dress because San Francisco evenings are cool no matter what the season. But the jacket hid the appliqué on the dress, so I grabbed a black hand-crotched shawl with a long fringe that I hardly ever wore. Finally an occasion that called for a fringed wrap. It was lined with black satin and felt wonderfully smooth around my shoulders.

  When Jack came, he looked around the apartment as if he hadn’t been there before, although he had.

  “You were here one night when I was having a little dinner party. As I recall, you stayed for dinner.”

  “Thanks for inviting me,” he said.

  “I didn’t. You crashed the party.”

  “Wait a minute. The older woman invited me.”

  “Older? You can say that again. Do you know how old she says she is? Almost two hundred.”

  “She looks good for her age,” he said.

  “She was at the funeral yesterday.”

  “I saw her.”

  “Did you ask her any questions?”

  “A few,” he said.

  Would it kill him to tell me what the questions were? And more important, what were the answers? Like where were you on the night Guido was murdered? Did you have any motives for killing the chef? Do you know how to use a gun? Are you really a vampire?

  “Since you and I are going to investigate a close relative of the deceased chef, I assume you have dispensed with the idea of blaming Meera for the murder.”

  “You know better than to assume anything,” he said. Then he tilted his head to one side and changed the subject. Could it be that I’d hit on the truth and that’s why he said, “Nice dress.”

  “Thanks. You look very cool yourself.” It was true. Jack was wearing a vintage Armani suit with double-pleated baggy pants in the fifties’ style. Something only he could get away with. It was nice to go out with someone who not only wore stylish clothes but also appreciated what I wore too. If only this wasn’t a setup to catch a murderer. Maybe someday Jack and I would have a real date.

  Instead of driving his ultra-expensive sports car, Jack had a vintage Mercedes and driver waiting in front of my house. “This is Charlie,” he said, pointing to the driver. “One of my parolees. I like to give him the business when I can. Keeps him out of trouble.”

  I said hello to Charlie, a hulking bald giant of a man with a jagged scar on one cheek. He’d gotten that either in prison or on the mean streets was my guess.

  “Could double as a bodyguard, if you needed one,” I mused. I hoped we wouldn’t need one tonight. I wondered if Jack was afraid we’d discover the killer, who would pull out his gun and threaten us right in the middle of our crème brûlée, and that’s why he was using Charlie.

  Whatever Charlie’s role was tonight he was a fine driver, taking the hills and the one-way streets with skill and nerve. Both of which were necessary for a career in crime or as a detective’s driver. He pulled up in front of the restaurant, which was tucked away behind a storefront with no name on the door, and said he’d be waiting for us in the parking lot while he listened to the ball game. Jack said he’d have some food sent out to him, and Charlie did not fall all over Jack with gratitude. Instead, he just nodded as if this was the usual procedure.

  “Does this happen often?” I asked Jack as we stood in front of the solid wood door.

  “My going out to dinner? I like to combine business with pleasure. Eating with you—”

  “It’s all business. Don’t tell me, I know.” I knew he was using me, but deep down I thought he enjoyed my company too.

  He held the door open for me and then put one hand on the small of my back. I felt a frisson go up my spine. There was no denying that Jack had an effect on me. He was tall, good-looking, smart and up front with his comments. With Jack you never got anything sugarcoated. The question was, did I have any effect on him? He was so cool I couldn’t tell.

  “You don’t know everything,” he said. He was right. There was a lot I didn’t know, especially about him, but I was a fast learner.

  The dining room was cool and sleek. I would have to say it was certainly minimalist with its stark white walls and white tablecloths. The bar was full of young professionals like us as well as a handful of oldsters having drinks. Jack ordered two French martinis, which were new to me. Turned out it was champagne and Chambord and totally delicious. We stood in the bar making small talk as if we were just another couple out on a date. I was so relaxed and into the atmosphere I almost forgot why we were there. Until Jack reminded me.

  He leaned down and said, “Recognize the guy behind the bar?” His lips brushed my ear and I almost dropped my drink. I wondered if he knew how sensitive my ears were. I tried to conceal my reaction to his intimate gesture. I’d show Jack I could be just as cool as he was.

  I pulled myself together and turned toward the bar to see who he meant. I looked and looked again. I thought it was somebody from the funeral, but who? Guido’s cousin or one of his brothers? He stopped pouring a drink and stared at me. But why? Of all those people at the funeral, did he remember me? I like to think I’m memorable, but not that memorable.

  “Who is it?” I murmured.

  “I think it’s a cousin,” he said. After we finished our drinks, a host in a tux came to show us to our table. I half expected him to be one of Guido’s relatives too. Maybe he was.

  “Lobster pot pie is one of their best dishes,” Jack said, glancing at the menu.

  “Sounds good. Do you come here often?” I could picture him bringing other suspects or informants here to soften them up before he threatened them if they didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Or did he bring dates here that had nothing to do with his work? Were they smarter than me? Prettier? Better dressed? More fashionable?

  “First time. What about you?”

  “Same, but I’ve heard a lot about it. What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “First we’ll order. Then—”

  “I mean about the, you know…”

  “We’ll play it by ear,” he said. “But just offhand I thought we would want to thank the chef in person.”

  I knew he’d have a plan. So the plan was to go to the kitchen to meet the chef, or maybe the chef would make the rounds of the tables. And if that didn’t work, Jack would have plan B. If he thought a free dinner was all I wanted, he was mistaken. Of course I loved to eat. Who doesn’t? But I love to get to the bottom of a puzzle, like who killed my favorite chef, even more. Or just as much. And I also wanted some romance in my life. Doesn’t everyone?

  When the waiter came, he lit the candle on the table with a flourish. The atmosphere was romantic, or it could have been if this had been a real date, me in my new dress and Jack looking gorgeous as usual by candlelight. But why not pretend? Why not act like we were a couple? Jack told the waiter we’d have the tasting menu with the sommelier’s wine pairings. So that’s why he’d had his chauffeu
r drive us: so he could drink without worrying. Not that I’d ever seen him worry.

  “That all right with you?” he asked.

  I nodded enthusiastically. It sounded divine and it was. The first course was a lobster salad with sliced Cara Cara oranges and caviar and with it a glass of Alsatian white wine. I thought I could die right then and there and go straight to heaven with no regrets.

  “Not bad,” Jack said.

  I smiled. “Perfect,” I said.

  He leaned across the table and looked into my eyes. “See anything out of the ordinary?” he asked.

  I was startled. Was I supposed to be looking around for suspicious behavior all the while sitting across from him, gazing into his eyes and eating this fabulous food? I guessed so. I took a deep breath and reminded myself why we were there. “Nothing yet,” I told him. “Do you ever take a break? I mean, are you always on duty?”

  “Pretty much,” he said. “Especially when we have an unsolved murder.”

  “Like Guido’s,” I said. “Any new clues?”

  “Forget Guido. Just enjoy your dinner.”

  “I am, or I was until you brought it up,” I said pointedly.

  The next course was the local petrale sole with a heap of local fresh peas and asparagus with garlic butter. After a few bites, Jack asked if I’d found a cooking teacher to take Guido’s place.

  “I’m not really looking,” I said. “I don’t have time. I take my job very seriously. Even when I’m not at the shop, I’m working. I’m looking and I’m studying what people are wearing. Take the woman across the room at the table for two.”

  He turned his head and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Well, she’s wearing a pair of Christian Dior’s latest blunt square-toed shoes.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked, a look of surprise and what I assumed was admiration for my good eye and my fashion sense.

  “Yes, I saw them featured in a magazine. I thought they almost looked like what a dancer would wear.”

  “If you say so,” he said. “I’m impressed. No time for classes so you can concentrate on fashion.”

  “I also have to clear my schedule to solve the odd murder here and there,” I reminded him. “In all modesty I confess to a system I call time management,” I said, hoping he’d think my social calendar was packed full. “Then there’s swimming at my club and the usual.” I left the meaning of “the usual” up in the air. It could mean symphonies, the ballet, parties, cocktails, whatever. Let Jack assume whatever he wanted to assume that meant.

  After we’d finished our main course and had been given the dessert menu, Jack was tapping his fingers lightly against his wineglass.

  “Can’t decide between the coconut pie with the caramel rum sauce or the handcrafted trio of ice cream?” I asked him as I studied the menu.

  Just then the waiter passed and handed Jack a note. He glanced at the paper, stood and said he’d be right back.

  I watched him stride across the floor toward the bar. I tell you, I could hardly stand to sit there, that’s how consumed I was with curiosity. What was in that note? Was Charlie in trouble? Had he started a fight with the other chauffeurs? Or was there a break-in at the Bank of America and Jack had to take off? This was worse than going out with a doctor. At least they weren’t on call every night.

  Instead of reading and rereading the dessert menu until Jack came back, I got up and went to the ladies’ room. To get there I had to go through the bar where I saw Jack in the corner talking to the bartender. He didn’t see me.

  Back at the table, I waited for him to return, then I asked, “What was it?” Of course I didn’t expect him to tell me.

  “I had to see someone,” he said.

  “The bartender?” I asked. “What did he want?”

  I had to give Jack credit. He didn’t explode and criticize me for spying on him. He didn’t even look surprised. “Just a private word with me, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “The least you can do is tell me who he is. Especially if he’s connected with Guido.”

  “Okay, he’s the bartender and he’s connected with Guido.”

  I sighed, and the waiter came to take our dessert orders.

  “I think I’ll go with the pie,” I said. “What about you?”

  “Fresh berries.”

  “Very sensible and healthy,” I said.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me how well you knew Guido,” he said.

  “I think I’ve already told you: I took one class from him and that’s it.”

  “Except for the night he was murdered,” Jack said.

  “Well, yes, but that encounter was only a few minutes and we’ve already been through that.”

  “How many of your customers at Dolce’s knew the chef?”

  “Quite a few, I think. Do you want me to find out? Give you names?”

  “That would be helpful,” he said.

  “On second thought, there aren’t that many.”

  I hated to think of Jack summoning our customers down to the station to be interrogated, but what else could I do?

  A few minutes later Jack told the waiter he’d like to meet Eduardo if possible, to compliment him on the wonderful food. Did that mean that Biagio was the cousin behind the bar?

  The waiter said he’d ask him to come out but it was a busy night in the kitchen.

  “What will you do if he says no?” I asked Jack while sipping the champagne left in my glass.

  “He won’t,” he said. “Leave it to me.”

  I was a little concerned, but this was Jack’s plan, not mine. So if Eduardo didn’t come, let Jack figure out what to do next. I was still hoping I’d find out more about the bartender. Especially if he was Biagio.

  When the waiter brought our desserts and coffee, he said he was sorry but Eduardo was too busy tonight. I have to say this for Jack, he didn’t even raise an eyebrow, just said he was sorry too. Then he took his card from his wallet and wrote something on the back of it.

  What was the deal here? First he got a note from someone, presumably the bartender, and now he was writing a note to someone else, probably the chef.

  I could only imagine what he’d written. Maybe it was, “You’d better cooperate with the police or you’ll be in big trouble.” Or maybe he’d scrawled, “I can arrest you now or you can play along with us.” Or just, “Wonderful food. Kudos to the chef.” If it was me, I’d take another tone. I’d be polite but firm. I’d write, “Please meet us after dinner in the alley to discuss the murder of Guido or else.” But then no one asked me what I’d do.

  Jack gave the card to the waiter with instructions to give it to Eduardo. I was glad this wasn’t my plan because I wouldn’t have enjoyed my pie as much if I’d been worried how it would turn out. But when the waiter returned, he looked worried. “The chef says this isn’t a good time,” he said and left.

  Jack didn’t look happy. He frowned and folded his napkin a few times.

  “Oh well,” I said cheerfully, “at least we had a great dinner.” I leaned forward and whispered, “Maybe your note was too…” I never finished my sentence because the fringe from my shawl caught the flame from the candle, and in a second the fire had shot into the air above the table. With the flames licking at my shoulders, I stood and flung my shawl to the ground. Jack jumped up and stomped on the handmade garment, but it got away from him and rolled across the floor. The nearby guests jumped out of their seats and started screaming. Waiters were emptying pitchers of water on the shawl, which I feared would never be the same again.

  The next thing we knew, a man in a chef’s toque and a white apron came running out of the kitchen. Was this Eduardo or Biagio? As the waiter picked up the burned scrap of fabric, all that was left of my shawl, I picked up a scrap of paper from the floor and put it in my purse. The chef told everyone to calm down. He ordered champagne for every table and said he was sorry for the fracas. Then he came to our table. By that time I was sitting down again and Jac
k was still standing and watching the scene unfold.

  “I’m sorry. Candles are very romantic but dangerous too,” the chef said with a rueful smile.

  I assured him the scarf didn’t matter and our desserts were still intact.

  I thought he looked like Guido, but I wasn’t sure if this was his cousin, his brother or no relation at all. Maybe all Italian men looked alike to me. Whatever he was, why would he kill Guido to get his cooking school when he had a job as chef in such a place as this? It didn’t make sense.

  “You must be Eduardo,” Jack said. “I don’t believe I met you at Guido Torcelli’s funeral. I’m the detective looking into his murder.” He handed Eduardo his card. Now the chef had two cards, both from Jack.

  Eduardo stared at the card, then looked at Jack.

  “Very sad,” said Eduardo, pulling up a chair. “He was a fine chef. I hope you catch the monster that did this to him.”

  “We will,” Jack said, now back in his chair. “Were you close?”

  “He was my favorite brother. We played together in Lucca when we were children. Our mother would let us roll the dough, mix the batter and taste everything.”

  “I’m Rita,” I said, determined not to be left out. “I met your daughter Maria at the funeral.” I hoped he got the message, which was, I met your daughter but I didn’t meet you. Please explain why you didn’t attend the funeral of your favorite brother.

  “I couldn’t make it,” he said. That was it. No explanation at all. I thought that was strange. Especially for an Italian family member.

  “It’s no wonder you both turned out to be chefs,” I said. Was he going to say anything about their relationship? Why they’d split up after working together? “I had a class with Guido a short time ago.”

  “How did he seem?” he asked.

  “Cheerful and charming,” I said. “He invited us to take some more classes at the family chateau in Florence in the summer.”

  “Yes, it’s a wonderful place. You would have enjoyed it.”

  Eduardo shook his head, and I thought he might have a tear in his eyes. I glanced at Jack hoping he’d seen it too. Then Eduardo said he was sorry about the incident of the burned scarf and of course our dinner would be taken care of.