This was going to be harder than I thought. Grovel, Mary.
“I apologize for my remarks, Thom. I’m soooo sorry. You can’t imagine how horrible this whole experience has been for me. I lashed out at you because you were there. Please forgive me,” I begged. “I want to talk with you about something. I’d be happy to buy you drinks for just a few minutes of your time.”
“Drinks? That’s all I’m worth? I don’t think so, sweetheart. Ta, ta,” he trilled.
“Okay, lunch,” I said quickly before he hung up.
Silence.
“Some place nice.”
Silence again. He was weighing his options. Free lunch with Mary versus stale breadsticks and the dried orange that had been sitting on his counter for a week.
“How nice?” he countered.
“Uh, Rose Pistola?”
“No, I ate there last week. Some place nice.” It was an order.
The emphasis in his voice signaled major credit card time. Okay, I had just paid off my cards and could afford a little debt.
“Look, you choose. You’re doing me a favor,” I reminded him.
“Let’s see,” he murmured. I could almost hear the dollar signs chinging in his head. “Waves. I haven’t had my protein today. Meet you there in one hour. Don’t be late,” he ordered.
Sigh.
Very expensive crow.
Waves has the best fish in town and the most unbelievable prices. I’ve been in the business for fifteen years and still it amazes me what some restaurants charge for their food and what people are willing to pay.
Christ, I’d have to get some clothes. Even with my stratospheric level of chutzpah, I didn’t have the nerve to eat there in a ten-year-old Gap tee shirt.
I tore back down Second Street to the Embarcadero. Parked. Found an Ann Taylor. Ordered the saleswoman to find me something in black, size ten, with earrings and shoes to match. I didn’t even look at the price tags, just handed her my credit card. I rummaged around in my backpack and found my emergency lipstick. Unfortunately, my emergency mascara had dried up. Makeup is not my strong suit.
I was five minutes late.
Thom was already seated, a magnum of Veuve Clicquot at the tableside. A magnum! I had a feeling this bottle wasn’t going to taste nearly as good as the one I’d had earlier, since I was paying for it.
“Hello, Thom. I see you’ve already ordered some champagne.”
He stood with a courtesy that took me by surprise and gave me the once over.
“Mary, for once in your life, you look presentable. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you just bought those clothes. Let me help you with your chair.”
While scooting myself under the table I surreptitiously checked my cuffs to make sure no tags were showing.
As usual, Thom was groomed with a capital G: linen pants, raw silk jacket, and monogrammed shirt. How could he possibly afford it? I might not dress well, but I know what expensive clothes look like.
Thom caught our waiter’s eye and glanced in my direction. Immediately, the waiter filled my glass. I gave Thom a small smile in recognition of his courtesy. Maybe I should give him some slack now and then. I made judgments about people, and then nothing they did ever changed my opinion.
Memo to self: be more tolerant.
“To lunch.” Thom held his glass high in a toast. I toasted him back.
“I think I’ll start with the caviar toasts, then the seafood napoleon. What about you?”
I looked at the menu. Caviar toasts: $29.95. Seafood napoleon: $35.95. Plus the magnum of champagne.
Memo to self: ask Brent for a big raise.
“I had a late breakfast. I’ll pass on the fish and have the vegetarian soufflé.” That was only $16.95.
After we’d ordered, Thom made a grand flourish with his napkin before settling it down on his lap. He looked around the dining room, checked out the floral displays, and nudged the carpet with an expensively clad toe. He let out a contented sigh. “This is exactly the sort of restaurant Brent should own. Class, class, class.”
Another waiter appeared and poured more champagne. Most likely his job was to ensure that everyone’s glass was full, all the time. If lunch entrees were $36.95, I didn’t even want to see the wine list.
“Notice the service?” Thom was in raptures. “We should bring our wait staff here for a refresher course.”
“It’s too…stuffy. Brent didn’t want formal, Thom. He wanted something eclectic. That’s part of American Fare’s charm.” I scanned the dining room, and as beautiful as this restaurant was, it didn’t have the energy of American Fare. It had one sort of clientele, the extremely well heeled.
“Well, it’s my kind of place.” Thom cupped a hand over one side of his mouth and in a mock whisper said, “Did you see what they were charging for their appetizers?”
I knew only too well what they were charging. I took a big swig of champagne. There’s nothing worse than destroying that smug euphoria you feel with a passel of debt-free credit cards by racking up hundreds of dollars in charges in the space of two hours.
The substantial dent to my pocketbook aside, here was my opportunity to drill Thom about the restaurant’s finances.
“Think of their start-up costs for this place and compare it with what Brent needed to open American Fare. And the downtown rents,” I reminded him.
“True, but you know restaurants have a shelf life. Good places have a five, seven year heyday. If lucky, they can hold on for another five years. I never thought I’d see the day when Trader Vic’s closed. But not even Vic’s could survive the essentially fickle nature of the dining public. These people are maximizing their lifespan.”
The waiter brought Thom his appetizer and filled our glasses again. My stomach rumbled. The champagne, espresso, and Snickers bars hated each other.
Thom began ladling big hunks of crème fraiche on top of the caviar toasts and popping them in his mouth. All conversation had stopped. At this rate I wouldn’t get any more information out of him until dessert.
“How did Brent get the capital to open American Fare?” I tried to sound nonchalant.
“Mmnn, don’t know,” Thom mumbled. Little bits of roe clung to the edges of his mouth. “Family money, I assume.” I looked away. Normally I adore caviar, but the thought of fish on top of chocolate made my stomach clench.
Thom didn’t know Brent’s father worked an oil rig.
“No partner that you know of? Providing cash flow when we run short.”
“No. Although between you and me, some months we could use a bailout. I bet this restaurant doesn’t have a cash flow problem.”
The waiter appeared with our entrees. I pushed my soufflé to the side and tried to not panic about losing my job. Was it only yesterday that I was blithely contemplating quitting? What was I thinking? I was a single woman with a mortgage and working for a restaurant that might not make payroll next month. Despite the state of my stomach, I drained my champagne flute.
“Are you telling me American Fare is in financial trouble?”
My voice must have been too loud.
“Ssh,” he said, his hands fluttering up and down ordering me to be quiet. “You didn’t hear it from my lips,” he backpedaled. “And it’s not really financial trouble. Some months Brent doesn’t take a salary to cover payroll.”
I didn’t bother to hide my astonishment. How could Brent forgo his salary for even one month, never mind several? The house in St. Francis Woods, the expensive clothes, kids in private school, the designer girlfriend. Who was paying for this?
“Why so curious about the restaurant, Mary? What’s so important that you’d suffer through lunch with me?” Thom may have been snotty and pretentious, but he wasn’t stupid.
Memo to self: stop underrating people.
“I wanted to see how we were financially. I need a new car and was hoping to hit Brent up for a raise.” It was shocking at how easily the lie popped ou
t of my mouth.
“Well, having seen that heap you drive, it’s about time. However, I wouldn’t ask Brent for a raise. If I were you, I’d hold on to that hunk of junk for a while. Brent’s very testy these days. A couple of weeks ago I suggested we pare down our wine suppliers to maximize the volume we get from certain brokers to get bigger discounts. You’d think he’d have gotten down on his knees and thanked me for trying to improve the restaurant’s cash flow. Let me tell you, he went berserk, yelling at me that we weren’t to change anything to do with the wine. Then he stomped out of the office. Thank God, Juan was there. He ran after him and calmed him down. Brent apologized later. I was just doing my job,” Thom sniffed.
Was Brent shaking down one of our wine brokers?
“Which brokers did you want to cut?” I asked casually and took a bite of my soufflé in an attempt to calm my stomach.
“I thought we’d start out by consolidating a couple of the Australian brokers, and Juan assured me he’d negotiate with the South American brokers to get a better pricing structure. You know how corrupt it is down there. Twenty bribes before it even leaves the country.”
Thom’s plate was clean. My soufflé sat mostly untouched despite the mambo going on in my stomach. I couldn’t eat another bite. Between the two of us, the magnum was almost empty. I’d never felt more sober in my life.
Chapter 12
I might not have been drunk, but by the end of the meal I had a hangover. Thom insisted on ordering dessert and an espresso. The dessert menu consisted of those structural confections that Thom adores and is always nagging me to put on our menu. A chunk of chocolate covered with ice cream flew across the table as Thom tried to cut into his dessert and landed on the arm of my new outfit. On top of the charges for the clothes, lunch, and parking, I now had a dry cleaning bill.
At the end of the meal, Thom insisted on paying the tip.
“Mary, that was lovely. I must pay the tip. No arguments. And don’t worry about American Fare. That was the champagne talking. Let’s do this again. Soon. Next time, my treat. You know, given half a chance, I think we could be good friends. We have the same snide sense of humor. And I mean that as a compliment.”
He was so sincere I blushed. I had wooed someone I made no secret of despising with food and champagne to divulge information about American Fare we both knew was none of my business, and here he was thanking me profusely for my lies and treachery.
Memo to self: really work on your intolerance.
My headache was so intense that I went straight to bed when I got home. Carlos’ funeral was the next morning and I wanted to be on time. I still had a headache when I got up the next morning. I wasn’t sure if it was champagne or angst. I tried to ignore the tom-tom of worry beating in the back of my head.
You have a thirty-year mortgage and drive a fifteen-year-old car with one hundred and twenty thousand miles on it. You are single. You are the breadwinner. And your employer might not make payroll next month.
Of course, it wasn’t that dire. I could always borrow money from my parents if I needed to, plus I had a fair amount in savings, but never since my divorce had I felt so vulnerable. So alone.
Arriving early, I found the church almost empty except for the ubiquitous old ladies dressed in black from head to toe hunched over their rosary beads. It was so familiar and soothing that my headache disappeared.
This was one of those glorious old-fashioned churches they don’t build anymore; its ceilings arched forever, its niches graced with the obligatory, oddly touching religious statues. The altar and pews were bathed in red and blue light from the ornate stained glass windows above. If I’d been born in the Middle Ages I probably would have been a nun. As a child the beauty of the art, architecture, and music of the Catholic Church seduced me. I stayed in the church for many years after my faith had lapsed because I so loved singing in the church choir.
I stood just inside the door, savoring the old-fashioned majesty of the nave, until I saw O’Connor’s broad back in the corner of the last pew. Seeing him sitting there with the intention of waylaying me made me all the more determined to avoid him as long as possible. I veered off to left and took the side aisle up to the front. I ignored his heavy warning coughs coming from the back of the church. If O’Connor wanted to see me he could come get me.
Out of habit I lit a candle for Carlos and sat down in the fourth row, the first three rows being reserved for family. Ten minutes later I saw a young, pregnant woman in a voluminous black veil and dress herd three children into the front pew. Carlos’ widow. Slowly, the church began filling up, the monotonous shuffling of feet, the clunk of the kneelers as they hit the floor, and the ill-timed chatter of children and their mothers hushing them, sounds that precede every mass.
Right before the mass started, someone sat down next to me and touched my sleeve. Expecting O’Connor, I was pleasantly surprised to see Juan. I turned to him and whispered, “Thanks so much for calling everyone. I really appreciate it.”
“De nada,” he whispered back and then put a finger up to his lips as the priests marched to the altar to begin Carlos’ funeral.
The mass was in Spanish, but the cues were the same. I effortlessly crossed myself, stood, and knelt at the appropriate times. Mesmerized by the ritualistic beauty of the mass, I felt calm for the first time in days. I hoped Carlos’ wife derived comfort from this ritual. I envy people who have faith. In some ways it’s so simple. You believe and assume God will provide. Although atheism is intellectual high ground, heathens like me are a little bereft when, say, your husband leaves you or you find someone strangled in a linen closet.
Once we filed out of the church, I made a beeline for the bathroom in an effort to ditch O’Connor. When I came out fifteen minutes later the hall was filled to capacity. Long tables had been pushed against the perimeter of the room and volunteers were setting up the food. The atmosphere reminded me of an Irish wake. People were talking loudly and children were playing tag, the boisterous voices in strange contrast to the somber clothing.
Knowing I’d have to talk to Carlos’ wife, I stood for what seemed like forever in a receiving line. The veil was gone, and her dress strained across her stomach with a sort of last-minute-need-a-black-dress Salvation Army feel to it. Her face, anguished but polite, had that angelic and vulnerable expression of the statues upstairs. The weariness of her shoulders and the visible effort she was making to keep her back and her face straight convinced me this woman knew nothing about her husband’s death. She looked battered by grief.
Finally it was my turn. Not knowing the extent of her English, I shook her hand and said simply, “Hello, Mrs. Perez, I’m so sorry about Carlos. I really liked working with him. I’m Mary.”
I could tell at first she thought I was some sort of nameless prep cook who worked with Carlos, but when she heard my name her face became animated. She said slowly, “Wait, Señora,” and held her hand up in the air in an effort to reiterate she didn’t want me to go. She fired off something in Spanish to the person next to her, who then ran off. A ten-year-old boy came running up and started speaking to her very quickly in Spanish. She replied, then he turned to me and said in English, “Mrs. Perez wants you to come to her house at four today, after the reception. She wants to talk with you.”
Great. My face must have shown my reluctance because she grabbed my hand with one of her heavily gloved black ones and squeezed it. She looked at me very intensely and begged, “Please,” those Madonna-like eyes pleading with me. The wimp in me nodded. The little boy gave me the address, and I promised I would be there.
I glanced over at the food table to see if any lines had started forming. Not yet. God, I was starving. Out of the corner of one eye I saw O’Connor up against the wall watching me. He crooked his finger and beckoned me to him. It would have been childish to refuse.
Crossing the hall, I stood next to him, my chin high, my fists clenched. I was ready for battle.
“I�
�m sorry about Saturday night, Mary. I’m real worried I’m going to be removed from this case. I lashed out at you. Christ knows you don’t need that right now.”
My combative stance melted with every word. “It’s all right,” I mumbled. “What do you mean, they’re going to take you off the case?”
“You have to admit, I’m not exactly in an unbiased position here. The captain is aware of our relationship and has given me a week to solve this case, then it goes to someone else.”
“R-r-relationship?” I felt myself blush.
“Jim, me, you. The captain doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the fact you discovered the body. The only thing that’s keeping me on so far is the violence of the murder. Once he got the autopsy report, he ruled you out as a suspect. Perez was beaten to a pulp before he was strangled. No one in their right mind could see a woman inflicting that much damage.”
We were both silent. Carlos’ poor mangled face loomed large in my mind. I hugged myself tightly.
I cleared my throat. “O’Connor, I want to apologize, too. I didn’t thank you for bringing dinner. It was very thoughtful of you.”
O’Connor shrugged and smiled. “Forget it.” Then he became all business. “What’s the scoop on these people. Are most of them from the restaurant?”
“Well, all the Latinos who work in the restaurant are here. Some of the others, too, but a lot of people I don’t know.” I looked around the hall one more time. That’s strange, I thought, Brent’s not here, nor Amos or Thom. “I haven’t seen Gilberto, if that’s what you’re hinting at. He wasn’t in the church as far as I know, and I haven’t seen him down here either. O’Connor, he didn’t kill his own brother. I know these guys.”
He sighed. “Mary, you don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. You see them at work, maybe at a few parties. Do you think that makes you an authority? I’ve known your husband most of my life. I never would’ve believed he’d leave you for another woman.”
That shut me up.
“I won’t learn anything here. If Perez shows up, page me right away. Here’s my business card.”
Beat Until Stiff Page 11