by Leslie Karst
I shoved open the heavy glass door and made my way across the parking lot. The rain had passed, and other than some menacing thunderheads to the south, the sky was again clear. But it was still chilly, and once inside my car, I quickly rolled up the windows I’d left down for Buster.
Tony hadn’t called yet, so my plan was to swing by his house next and see if he was there. I was worried he might have only just learned of Letta’s death from today’s paper and be in a bit of shock, but I also wanted to ask him about taking in Buster. Although he worked as an electrician, I figured there was a good chance he hadn’t gone in today.
I’d never been to his home, but I knew the place well: it was where my great-uncle Luigi had lived before passing on some years back. Tony’s blue truck, with the Nicolini Electric logo painted on its doors, was in the driveway. I parked across the street and admired the front yard as I crossed to his side. I had forgotten what an avid gardener he was. Roses, all just starting to bud out, lined the walkway, and a wisteria dripping in purple climbed up the sunny wall to the right of the front door. The lawn was neatly clipped and edged by beds full of multicolored flowers in various stages of early spring blooming.
A movement caught my eye, and I realized that Tony was on the left side of the house, down on his knees in one of the flowerbeds. As I approached, I saw that he was planting six-packs of red and purple flowers. He looked up as I came down the walkway.
“Hey, Tony. I just stopped by to see how you were.”
He dropped his trowel. “Not so great, as you can imagine. I’m trying to take my mind off it all.” He nodded toward the freshly dug soil. “Putting in verbena. It attracts butterflies, ya know.”
The few times I’d met Tony, he struck me as one of those jokester types, always ribbing you about one thing or another, always ready with the one-liner no matter the subject of discussion. But today his normally laughing eyes were puffy about the edges, his cheeks pallid and taut.
Brushing some of the dirt off the knees of his jeans, he stood up and gave me a stiff hug. “I appreciate your coming by, though.” He stepped back and then spotted Buster’s head hanging out of the driver’s side window of my car. “Buster!” he cried out, his frown becoming a broad smile. “How’s my boy?”
Tony trotted across the road, and the dog licked him frantically as he buried his head in its tawny coat. He opened the door, and Buster bounded out and began jumping up onto him.
“Out of the street, boy.” Buster followed him back to the front yard, still jumping up and trying to plant wet kisses on Tony.
“I was wondering, actually, if you’d be able to take him in. I can’t, and—”
“Of course I can,” he said, crouching down to let the dog have its way with his face. “Me and Buster, we need each other now. Don’t we, boy?” He rubbed the dog’s back for a moment and then stood up. “C’mon inside.”
Buster ran up the front steps and pushed ahead of Tony through the front door, and we all went into the kitchen. The dog headed immediately for the bowls sitting in the corner and began lapping up water. He was obviously at home here. “You want some coffee?” Tony asked.
“Sure.”
As he found mugs and poured us each a cup, I examined the photos held up by magnets on the fridge: Tony with Letta at the beach; Tony on a boat with a much taller guy, both holding up big fish; two teenage boys sitting with Tony and the same tall guy in stadium bleachers.
“That’s my son T. J. with his cousin and my brother,” Tony said, noticing my look. “It was taken a few years back.”
“Oh. Does your son live here in town?”
“No, he lives over the hill, where his mom is. He’s in college now, at San Jose State.”
Feigning more interest than I had, I leaned over to take a closer look at the picture. The two boys were wearing sports jerseys with the number ten emblazoned on the front and proudly displaying their foot-long hot dogs and mammoth cups of Pepsi for the camera. I couldn’t help noticing that the blue jersey did a much better job of hiding the spilled ketchup than the white one.
“I can sure tell which is T. J.,” I said, tapping the stain on the white jersey with my finger. “He looks just like you. Your brother, though, not so much.”
Tony smiled wryly and handed me my coffee. “Thanks, I guess.” I could hear traces of his New Jersey accent coming out. “Here, let’s go sit down.” He led me into a wood-paneled den and nodded for me to have a seat on the couch. Buster hopped up next to me and stretched full out, his head nice and comfy on the pillows.
One wall was almost completely covered by an enormous flat-screen TV, and the others were decorated with beer signs and various sports and fishing memorabilia. As I eyed the orange-and-black “San Francisco Giants: 2010 World Series Champs” banner strung up above an enormous stuffed sailfish, I remembered that it was that season that Letta had brought Buster home with her from Mexico. And that, being a big Giants fan, she’d decided to name the puppy after their spunky rookie catcher, Buster Posey.
“The cops were here earlier,” Tony said as he lowered himself into a black leather recliner facing the TV. He was several inches shy of six feet but carried himself as if trying to appear larger than he really was. “I was there at the restaurant, you know, Sunday, the afternoon before . . . it happened. I’d brought by some flowers—small branches from my ornamental cherry tree, actually—to use on the tables. Anyway, I guess it’s not surprising they wanted to talk to me.”
“Yeah, they wanted to talk to me, too.”
He nodded and ran a hand through his curly, dark hair. I guessed his age to be around sixty, but although it was thinning at the temples, his hair showed no signs of graying. Tony leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and grimaced. “Sweet Jesus,” he said, eyes still shut. It looked like he was trying his best not to cry.
I didn’t say anything, letting him get control of himself. After a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “Sorry about that,” he said.
I shook my head and returned the smile, attempting to keep at bay the tears now forming in my own eyes. “No worries.”
He took a sip of coffee to cover the awkward moment, and I did the same. “So,” I asked after setting my cup down carefully on the glass coffee table. “Do you think you had any helpful information for them? You know, for the police?”
“Hell, I don’t know. They asked me a lot about Javier, that guy she has—had—cooking for her. They said it was his knife they found next to her.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Tony, who had been staring at his mug of coffee, looked up at me. “We were engaged, you know.”
This was news to me, and I told him so.
“Well, it was pretty recent. I’d been asking for a while, and she finally agreed.” He stood up and walked over to the window, which looked out onto the backyard. I followed his gaze. A fruit tree—the ornamental cherry, I supposed—was in full bloom, and its paper-like, pink blossoms and black bark reminded me of a Japanese print I’d once seen.
Without warning, I felt desperately hot, claustrophobic almost. For the hundredth or maybe the thousandth time, I marveled at how fast they came on. “Hot flash,” I explained to Tony, who had turned back around at the sudden movement as I pulled off my wool blazer. “Don’t be alarmed. They’ve been happening to me a lot lately.”
“Really?” He was looking at me funny, and I figured I knew why. “I know. I’m not even forty yet. But lucky me, I seem to be starting early.”
“Should I open the window? That’s what Letta always wanted. She had them too sometimes, especially at night.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine now. They tend to pass quickly, thank God.”
Tony sat back down. “So anyway, I told the police I don’t think Javier could have done it. In fact, though I didn’t mention this to the cops, Letta said to me a couple weeks ago that she thought he was in love with her.” He shook his head. “Poor, ignorant chalupa.” I detected bragging in his tone, that Letta w
ould of course choose him over Javier. “I mean,” he went on after a pause, “why would someone who was in love with her want to kill her?”
“I don’t know why anyone would want to kill her,” I said.
***
The next item on my agenda was stopping by my old law firm. Parking in the corner space, as far from the partners’ gleaming Porsches and Jags as possible, just like I used to do when I’d worked there, I crossed the lot to the entrance and stopped at the front desk.
“Good morning, Sally,” said the receptionist, Terri. She had that awkward look that people tend to get when they know something horrible has just happened in your life. “I’m so sorry to hear about your aunt. What brings you here?”
“Monica said she was going to leave a packet for me to pick up.”
“Oh, lemme have a look.” Terri flipped through a stack of files and envelopes sitting next to the phone. “Here it is,” she said, and handed me a manila folder, my name scrawled across the front.
“Thanks.” I returned to my car and got in. I knew what was inside: the trust documents that Monica, the firm’s probate attorney, had drafted for my aunt. I’d introduced the two of them years ago and had also agreed to be Letta’s successor trustee, which status had now been triggered by her death. But I didn’t know any of the provisions she had made.
After reading through the papers carefully, I replaced them in the envelope and set it down on the passenger seat. Staring vacantly out the front window at the redwood grove across the street, I found myself unable to move.
She’d given me the restaurant.
Chapter Five
My prediction to Javier proved to be accurate: Gauguin was indeed packed when I showed up there at seven thirty the next evening. So much so that I had to elbow my way through the animated and boisterous crowd to get to the reception desk. Nothing like a murder to stir folks up.
Though, to be fair, there were also all the flowers and other tributes that had been left outside the restaurant over the past two days. Bouquets, cards, stuffed animals, and even a couple baskets of fruit lined Gauguin’s low bamboo fence. Not fifty deep, like at Buckingham Palace after Princess Diana died, but there must have been at least a hundred of them there at Gauguin. I’d had no idea so many people even knew Letta; she’d seemed to keep herself so apart from folks in general. But then again, maybe this was simply a show of solidarity—not so much about Letta herself as about the horrific loss of one of our community.
Gloria, the hostess that night, spotted me from afar (my height does have its advantages) and pointed to the far wall, under the large woodblock print of a taro plant. Mouthing a silent “thank you,” I made my way to where Eric was already seated, a half-finished Martini and the New York Times crossword puzzle on the white tablecloth in front of him.
He’d called me at work that morning and asked to meet for dinner, saying he had more information from the police I should know about. Dad wasn’t too happy when I told him I’d be leaving Solari’s early that night, but I knew Elena would be able to handle it fine without me. Still reeling from learning the provisions of my aunt’s trust, I’d suggested Gauguin for our meal.
He rose to give me a hug and then pulled out my chair, a gesture I had told him countless times I find to be annoying. I didn’t say anything on this occasion but did pick up his glass and take a large swallow as a form of private retribution.
“So how you holding up?” he asked once I’d set his drink down and taken my seat.
“I’ll be fine once I have my own cocktail.” I swiveled in my chair to try to catch the attention of someone to get my bar order.
“No, really.” Eric tucked the crossword into the briefcase at his feet and then, leaning forward, looked me in the eyes. “I’m serious, Sal. How are you doing?”
I let out a sigh. I honestly didn’t know how I was doing and had been doing my best to avoid thinking about the subject. I can get pretty worked up about stuff in my life: my job, relationships, even a baseball game or a meal. And now with my hormones all out of whack, it was even worse. But I’m also a pro at the denial game. So although I can sometimes be over-the-top emotional, I’m not at all crazy about analyzing where those feelings may be coming from.
Eric, on the other hand, is tenacious and is always stubbornly trying to force me to examine my feelings—to look inside, delve into places I don’t want to go. I suppose that’s one of the reasons we split up. I find it far easier to simply ignore those pesky emotions, hoping they’ll just disappear, an attitude that never fails to drive him bonkers.
But best to play the game his way right now. “I guess I’m okay—all things considered.” I took a sip of water and set the heavy glass back down. “It’s just that I feel like it’s only recently that I was really getting to know Letta. That—after what, has it really been nine years since she came back to town?—I’d finally cracked her shell, and we were finally becoming close. Not just the kind of relationship you have because you happen to be related by blood, but real friends. But it was just the beginning, and I was so looking forward to getting to know her even better.” I sighed again. “Now I’ll never have that chance. I dunno . . . I guess I just feel robbed somehow.”
I had been studying the intricate napkin-folding job before me, which looked like a sort of white linen bird of paradise, without paying attention to Eric. So I was surprised when he reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. I looked up at him, suddenly self-conscious that my eyes were welling up.
Eric was about to say something when Brandon approached the table to take my drink order. I withdrew my hand and quickly used my fingers to wipe away the tears.
“Brandon,” I said, sitting up straight and trying to regain my composure, “I must say I’m a little surprised to see you here tonight.”
“Yeah, I didn’t know if I’d freak out, coming back again so soon,” he said. “You know, after finding her like that. But I really need the money, so I didn’t want to give up my shift.” He scooted over and allowed Gloria to pass with a threesome being seated at the next table, and then continued. “But I have to admit,” Brandon said, leaning closer to us, “it is a little weird being here. After all, they don’t know who did it, do they?” He looked quickly about him. “I mean, it could be someone here . . . tonight, right?”
I watched Brandon as he headed to the bar with my order. When I turned back, Eric had that look he gets when he’s convinced he’s been right about something. “What?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking.
“He’s not the only one,” he said. “Nobody’s going to come out and say it, of course, but all the staff—you know, they’ve heard it was Javier’s knife. And they’re just that little bit worried it might in fact be him that did it.”
I fiddled with my table setting: shaking out my napkin and smoothing it out on my lap, readjusting the positions of my flatware and water glass, doing my best to avoid eye contact. I did not want to be having this conversation, did not want to think about the possibility that Javier could be the one. When I finally glanced up, Eric was still staring at me. “Okay,” I said, “so what’s this new information you have?”
“I got a copy of the crime scene notes and some of the witness interview notes from one of the detectives on Letta’s case. It was definitely Javier’s knife that was used for the stabbing. And Letta’s key chain, with her key to the knife cabinet, was in her purse. Since there’s no evidence of any forced entry, either on the restaurant doors or on the cabinet, and since no one else but Javier has a key to the cabinet, it’s looking more and more like he’s the only one who could have done it.”
I didn’t say anything, and Eric adjusted his glasses and took a sip of Martini before going on. “Vargas is convinced he’s the one. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrested him pretty soon. Unless, of course, some new evidence emerges,” he added.
I had continued to fuss with my silverware while Eric was speaking but withdrew my arms as Brandon
returned and set down my bourbon-rocks. “Would you like to hear the specials?” he asked.
“Oh.” Eating was the last thing on my mind right at that moment, but we were there for dinner after all. “Sure.”
Gauguin is noted for its fresh fish and changes its seafood menu weekly. Seared ahi with papaya chutney, broiled mahi-mahi with a red miso glaze, and panko-encrusted shrimp with house-made wasabi mayonnaise were what Javier had come up with for that week’s specials. He certainly had come a long way from his days as a busboy when he first started at Gauguin. Letta had taught him well.
Brandon left us to ponder our choices, and I considered the fact that Letta would never again get to taste her beloved Polynesian-French cuisine. Which immediately put me back into my funk.
“Can I look at the notes you got?” I asked.
“Yeah. I figured you’d want to see them, so I made a copy for you.” Eric rummaged through his briefcase and came up with a sheaf of papers stapled together.
“Thanks.” I took the papers and flipped through them—at least twenty pages—before shoving them into my bag.
We then set to work examining the menu. After careful thought (I always have a hard time making up my mind about what to order), I decided on the seared tuna. Eric chose the rib-eye steak, rare, with garlic mashed potatoes. Knowing what a wine snob he was, I told him to go ahead and pick one for us, and he ordered a bottle of the Beringer Merlot.
“Sideways be damned,” he said to Brandon, who laughed politely at this well-worn joke.
After Brandon left, I said, “Well, I have some news, too.” Eric raised his brow as I paused for dramatic effect, sipping my Maker’s Mark. “I read Letta’s trust and pour-over will today. She left her house and that land she has in Hawai‘i to my dad.” Setting down my glass, I returned Eric’s gaze. “And she gave me the restaurant.”
He almost spit out his mouthful of gin. “You?” he sputtered after managing to swallow and then wiping his chin with a napkin. “You mean to tell me you now own Gauguin?”