by Leslie Karst
“Well, there’s the waiting period before the estate can be distributed, of course . . . But yeah. I guess I do.” I slowly scanned the walls around me. “And however bizarre you think that is, all I can say is, multiply that by five gajillion and that’s how bizarre it is for me.”
“So I gather she hadn’t told you . . . that you were her beneficiary?”
I shook my head. “I never had a clue.”
“But really,” Eric said, “when you think about it, it’s not all that weird that she’d give it to you. I mean, who else would make any sense?”
I’d been obsessing about her bequest for the past twenty-four hours and had eventually come to the same conclusion. “True. Other than my dad, I am her closest relation. And no matter how much she tried to act like she’d left it all behind her, she was still Italian at her core. You know, famiglia,” I said with an exaggerated intonation and a wave of the hands, “so I don’t imagine she even considered leaving it to anyone outside the family. But I bet she really didn’t want Dad taking over Gauguin, given how she felt about Solari’s—you know, that it’s way too old school, with its veal parmesan and chicken piccata. She probably was afraid he’d turn it into something like that if he got hold of it.”
Brandon arrived with the wine and poured some for each of us. Since we were still working on our cocktails, there were now six glasses crowding the small table. Eric swirled his Merlot and examined its ruby color.
“Yes,” he said, returning to my last comment, “God knows what Mario would have done to Gauguin’s wine list.”
“Don’t even go there,” I said with a short laugh. “Besides, Dad already owns a restaurant, so it makes sense that she gave him the house instead of Gauguin. I imagine he’ll be pretty relieved about it, actually.”
“You haven’t told Mario yet?” Eric grinned. “I get it: you’re chicken—afraid of how he’ll react when he learns you’ve inherited the place. ’Cause it means now you’ll be leaving Solari’s. Again.”
“It does not necessarily mean that,” I said with more sharpness than I’d intended. “I have no idea what it means or what I’m going to do. I’m still just trying to get used to the fact that Letta is gone.”
I stared at the woodblock print above Eric’s head, noting the fluid lines the artist had used to outline the taro leaves. “But getting back to why she gave it to me, I dunno . . . At least I worked here a few times and got to know some of what the whole ‘foodie’ thing is all about. And who knows, maybe over the last few years, the closer we got . . . Well, maybe she just started to, you know, trust me in some fundamental way.” I finished the bourbon and set the glass down with a shake of the head. “But, man, it sure is weird. All of sudden, I own Gauguin?”
Weird, too, I was thinking, because she’d made the provisions of her will back when I was still working as an attorney, long before I’d returned to the restaurant business. It was as if she’d known, before me, that the law and I were not such a great fit after all.
I was about to mention this to Eric but then noticed that, though listening and nodding, his eyes were tracking a woman in a tight sweater crossing the room. Something in my chest tightened. Jealousy? I shook off the thought. We’d broken up years ago, after all. And a good thing, too: here I was pouring my guts out to the guy, and he couldn’t even keep his eyes from bugging out over a pair of breasts?
Once the woman disappeared out the front door, his focus returned to me. “Did Letta ever work at Solari’s?” he asked.
“Yeah, when she was a kid, I’m sure, just like I did. Hell, I bussed tables there from the time I was big enough to carry a dish tray, and then my folks had me doing odd jobs at the place all through high school. I bet Nonno Salvatore and Nonna Giovanna did the same thing with Letta and Dad.”
“Letta didn’t take to it, I gather.”
“Not much. As soon as she finished high school she skedaddled up to Berkeley. Mind you, this was the early seventies—you know, those halcyon days of peace, love, and whole wheat bread. So I bet lots of her friends were doing the same thing.”
Eric chuckled. “Yeah, right. I’ll take my Bombay Sapphire any day over what they were ingesting back then.” He drained his Martini and exhaled in satisfaction. “Hey, speaking of whole wheat bread, didn’t you tell me she worked for Chez Panisse for a while?”
“Oh God, that’s a great story. You should hear Dad talk about how furious their papà was when he learned that Letta had started working at ‘that hippie place,’ as Nonno referred to it.” I did my best to imitate Salvatore’s lilting Italian cadence, like my father always did: “If she had-a wanted to be a cook, why couldn’t she have come back home, where I could-a taught her how to make real food: lasagne col pesto or burida stewed with anchovies that I catch with my own hands. Not that rabbit food they eat up there in Berkeley.”
Eric and I laughed—more at my terrible, fake accent than anything else—but when he excused himself to go to the restroom, I found myself feeling a bit down again. Why hadn’t I taken the opportunity to spend more time with my aunt when I’d had the chance?
As so often seems be the case, our plates arrived while Eric was still gone. After he returned, we ate without doing much talking. This was unusual for us, but Eric seemed to sense my changed mood.
I couldn’t help thinking about Letta. Everywhere I looked, there was something to remind me of her: the frosted-glass banana-leaf sconces she had special ordered from Thailand, the bamboo-motif flatware she had brought back in her luggage from Indonesia, the framed woodblock prints on the walls from the Big Island of Hawai‘i. It was so strange being in Gauguin and not having her there like she always was, bouncing from table to table and chatting up the customers.
And now it was mine.
But what on earth was I going to do as the owner of a restaurant? I mean, sure, I had given up the law to work at Solari’s, but that was just because of what happened to my mom. Not only had Dad been heartbroken by the loss of his wife, but he’d also been devastated by the hole that was left in Solari’s staff. Mom had run the front of the house ever since she and Dad had been married, and he had no clue how to manage the waitstaff; do things like void tickets and cancel credit card charges; or, God forbid, deal with irate customers.
So I’d agreed to come back; it was the obvious solution. But just for a while, until my dad got back on an even keel and we found someone else to take over. I had never intended to spend the rest of my life dealing with linen services and scheduling lunch shifts.
It might have been different if I’d been allowed to cook, but Dad had always refused to teach me the hot line. It was some sexist thing of his: that women should be at the front of the house and men at the back. Which was weird, really, ’cause his father had encouraged Letta to learn to cook at Solari’s. Dad and I had argued bitterly about this when I was a teenager, but it just didn’t seem like it was worth the fight anymore.
Watching the line cooks in their black chef’s caps moving about at the back of Gauguin, I could see Javier darting back and forth on the hot line, tending sauté pans and plating up entrées. I still didn’t believe he could have killed Letta, but my belief didn’t mean diddly. It certainly wouldn’t keep him from being arrested for the crime, not if the police thought there was enough evidence to hold him over for trial. And I had to admit, one of my biggest worries—even though it was out of pure selfishness—was who would run the restaurant if he were arrested.
By the time Eric and I finished our dinner, the place had emptied out some, and it looked like most of the remaining tables had their food. Brandon came to inquire about dessert, which we declined. I would have loved a slice of the creamy macadamia nut pie but knew it would go straight to my hips, so I resisted the urge. But I did order a cappuccino, and Eric an espresso.
“I get the sense you think there’s something I could do for Javier,” I said once Brandon had set down our coffees and gone back into the kitchen. “You know, when you said earlier that you think Jav
ier’s likely to be arrested ‘unless some new evidence emerges’?”
Eric unwrapped a sugar cube and dunked half of it into his espresso, letting the black coffee wick up the sides. “Well, the police aren’t going to do any investigation on his behalf, that’s for sure. If he is in fact arrested, I suppose the public defender might have an investigator do a little snooping around. But let’s face it, they don’t have the funds to do much.” He sucked the coffee from the cube, dropped the remaining sugar into his cup, and looked up at me.
“So . . . what? You’re suggesting that I investigate the murder? Jesus, Eric. Do I look like Miss Marple or something? I don’t know jack about criminal investigation. Besides, I’ve already got a job that keeps me pretty damn busy—and a second restaurant to worry about now, too.”
“It’ll be a lot harder to deal with Gauguin if Javier’s in prison,” Eric replied. “And you do know, as much as anyone does, about Letta, about her family and friends. And hey, it’s perfect: Now that you’ve inherited Gauguin, you have every reason to be asking lots of questions about her life and about the restaurant. It’s the ideal cover.” Eric leaned back in his chair and smiled in that self-satisfied way that used to drive me nuts.
And still did, I realized, especially when he was right.
Chapter Six
Eric drained his tiny cup and stood up, pleading an early-morning court call. He insisted on paying the bill—which I let him do; no reason for me to pay myself money, now was there?—pecked me on the cheek, and took his leave.
I pulled out the papers he’d given me and turned to the crime scene notes. Though the Saroyan law firm doesn’t handle criminal cases, over the years I’d seen my share of police reports, which these notes reminded me of, as they’re often part of the evidentiary record in civil actions. But it was eerie reading the description of a crime scene concerning people in my own life.
The notes started with a detailed, clinical description of the state of Letta’s body, which I skipped over, instead moving on to the description of the premises. In the garde manger area, other than the body, there were two pieces of evidence that struck me as particularly relevant.
First, the evidence regarding the knife cabinet. As I already knew, it had been unlocked and was left standing open. Letta’s key to the cabinet had been found on the key chain in her purse, which was sitting on the counter in the same room. A chef’s knife (the twelve-inch Wusthof Trident Classic Wide model, I learned from the notes of Javier’s interview) was found on the floor next to the body. It had been wiped clean of fingerprints, but there were traces of blood, which was presumed to be that of the deceased. The knife had been sent off to the lab for testing.
Second, a ceramic, Chinese-style teapot and two small cups were found on the counter next to Letta’s purse. They had also been sent to the lab for testing, but it looked like they had been washed and wiped clean of any prints.
Skipping over the rest of the crime scene notes for now, which consisted largely of measurements, sketches, and descriptions of the contents of the room, I turned to the interviews.
The notes of Brandon’s interview merely confirmed what I already knew about the knife being Javier’s and that it was kept in a locked cabinet to which only he and Letta possessed the keys.
Eric was right, I thought gloomily. This was not good news for the sous-chef. I turned the page and kept reading.
Sunday night’s hostess, Tess, reported that the restaurant had been cleaned up for the night and the tables and kitchen set up for Tuesday dinner. The evening’s take had been locked in the safe, as usual, before she left for the evening. No cash was missing Monday morning.
Tess also stated that when she left for the night on Sunday, the only two people remaining were Javier and Letta. Javier confirmed this but stated that he had only stayed for a few minutes longer after Tess had gone and that when he left, Letta was in her office going over some papers. He couldn’t recall if she was drinking tea or not. But yes, he did sometimes share a pot of green tea with her after work.
The restaurant staff all confirmed that it was Letta’s practice to drink green tea, often with whomever happened to be around, after hours. But no one interviewed admitted to drinking tea with her the night of the murder, nor could anyone remember seeing anyone who had.
As I was reading, a shadow fell on the report, and I looked up to see Javier standing before me. His smooth, fine features were drawn and tight, and his dark eyes looked tired. I couldn’t help noticing that his white chef’s jacket had a few yellow-colored spatters next to the Gauguin logo—the restaurant’s name with a pink-and-white plumeria blossom—which was stitched above the pocket. I motioned for him to join me.
“All done for the night?” I asked, slipping the papers back into my bag.
He pulled out the chair and nodded as he sat down. “There’s a few more desserts, but all the hot-line orders are finished.” As Brandon passed by to serve the three-top next to us their coffees, Javier asked him to bring out two glasses of dessert wine. I did not object.
“I saw that guy who was with you here tonight,” Javier said. “He’s a cop or something, right?”
“A district attorney. They’re the lawyers who prosecute criminal cases for the government.”
“Right. Uh . . .” He glanced at the next table, but they were laughing at something and clearly paying no attention to us. “Did he say anything about me?”
“Yeah, he did.” I waited while Brandon set down two dainty glasses of white wine, and then I continued, trying to keep my voice low. “And you’re right, Javier: it looks like you are the prime suspect.”
I tried the wine. A little sweet for my taste, but even after a cocktail and half a bottle of wine, I was feeling way too sober to be having this conversation. I drank it down. “And given the facts—the knife, the locked cabinet, you being the last one besides Letta to leave—I guess I can see why they suspect you.”
Javier’s head was down, and he was swirling his wine around and around in the glass. At this last comment, he looked up.
“But that’s crazy,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it, and . . . well, c’mon. If I wanted to stab someone, would I use a chef’s knife to do it? They’re so wide, it would be hard to get one to go very deep. A boning knife would work way better. Don’t you see?” he said, leaning forward and slapping his hands on the table. “It’s gotta be someone who doesn’t know about knives.”
I didn’t care to think about Letta’s stabbing in such detail and changed the subject. “Eric, the DA who was here tonight with me, thinks I should get involved,” I said, “and do some investigation on your behalf.”
“Really? Would you?”
“Maybe. But only if you’re completely honest with me.”
He leaned back in his chair and frowned, his chin tucked.
“About Letta. And you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. But I could see his grip on the wine glass tighten.
“Look, Javier. It’s, um, just that . . . well . . .”
Okay. I know it may seem weird—me having been a lawyer and all—but I was finding it difficult to interrogate Javier about his personal life. What can I say? It’s different with strangers than with people you know. And it’s not like I had ever been all that crazy about prying into the details of my client’s lives, either. But if I was going to find out what happened to Letta, I had to know what Javier’s relationship with her had been.
I spat it out. “I heard that you were in love with her.”
He didn’t say anything right away and just looked at me, lips tight. But from his sad eyes, I could tell—it was true. He had been in love with her. Oh Jesus. That sure threw a spatula in the works.
“Did you tell the cops?” I asked.
He shook his head and drank down the rest of his wine.
Great. Suppressing information, too. “Well,” I said, “they’re going to find out, you know.”
“How?” he responded. “And I don’t
see why it’s important, anyway.”
“Come on, Javier. If I know, they can certainly find out. And don’t be so dense. Of course anyone who’s in love with the victim is going to be of great interest to the police. Especially if he’s hiding it.” I tapped my index finger impatiently on the table. “Did you tell her? Letta?”
“Nuh-uh. I never said anything. She was involved with Tony, so what would have been the point?”
“Yeah.”
Javier started to get up. “I should really be getting back to the kitchen.”
“Wait. Stay for another minute, can you? There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
He sat back down.
“Did Letta ever mention anything about who she wanted the restaurant to go to if she died?”
I could tell the question piqued his interest. There was a look of—what, hope?—in his eyes. “No,” he answered.
“I just asked, since I was, well, frankly flabbergasted when I read her will yesterday.” He continued to hold my gaze. “Because, uh . . . she gave it to me.”
His whole body appeared to deflate slightly, just for a moment. Could he have been expecting her to give it to him? I guess that would have made some kind of sense, his being her lieutenant, so to speak. But folks generally tend to will their possessions to family members, not business associates.
Then he seemed to catch himself. “Wow, Sally, that’s great. Congratulations.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Glad to have you as the new boss. Just don’t go changing Gauguin into a singles bar.”
“No worries on that front,” I said. “In fact, I’m going to be pretty damn dependent on you to keep it going exactly as it has been.”
“Well then, you better do your best to keep me out of jail,” he said with a grin. But I could see the fear behind the smile.
***
The next morning I woke early, brain churning. I pulled back the curtains to check on the weather. Not a cloud in the sky. A good, long bike ride was what I needed before my lunch shift at Solari’s.