Dying for a Taste

by Leslie Karst

  I’m no Mario Cipollini, mind you (my dad’s favorite cyclist, and not just because of the shared name). But I do relish the rush of riding hard for an hour or two a few times a week. Plus, by my calculations, for every sixty minutes of cycling, I burn about six hundred calories. That’s two buttery croissants, or four bottles of Bass Ale, or a plate of my dad’s linguine with clam sauce along with a slice of crusty garlic bread.

  And today I could really use some physical exertion. Maybe it would help clear my mind for a while, quiet the continual thoughts of Letta, and still the anxiety that had descended upon learning I was the new owner of her restaurant.

  I changed into my cycling shorts and jersey emblazoned with the Tour of California logo, performed a few cursory stretches, clipped into my red-and-white Specialized Roubaix, and wheeled off. I had a hankering for the salt spray and tang of the ocean, so I decided to ride the length of West Cliff Drive and then up to Wilder Ranch, north of town.

  But first, I had to stop by my dad’s house. I needed to tell him about Letta’s will.

  Dad also lives on the Westside of town—it seems like all my relatives live within just a few blocks of each other—in a small beach-style bungalow. Since my apartment building is near the yacht harbor on the Eastside, to get across town, I took the walkway over the river at the railroad trestle; rode the length of the Boardwalk, its famous roller coaster silent on this weekday morning; and then pumped up the short hill past the entrance to the wharf.

  I cruised down Laguna Street and turned into my dad’s driveway. Unlike most of their neighbors, my folks never remodeled their home to add a second story or punch out a master bedroom, so the building is virtually unchanged from when it was built back in the early 1960s: two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, a kitchen with avocado-green appliances and a Formica countertop, and a living room decked out with shag carpet, an overstuffed couch, and a Naugahyde recliner.

  His truck was there, which meant he was home. Good. I unclipped and wheeled my bike through the gate next to the garage. Dad was out back, atop a ladder leaning against the side fence. He was attacking a peach-colored climbing rose with a pair of large shears.

  “What are you doing pruning now?” I asked, leaning my bike against the fence and removing my helmet. “Isn’t it kinda late in the season for that?” I stepped back out of the way as a huge branch came crashing down, its stems covered in vicious-looking thorns.

  “My damn neighbor. Wanda,” he added, as if the name produced a sour taste in his mouth. “She’s been complaining about this beautiful Westerland rose. Can you imagine anyone not loving it? Just look at the color!”

  “What’s her beef?”

  “She says her grandson plays in the yard and that my plants along the fence line are dangerous.”

  I gingerly picked up one of the spiky branches. “Well, I guess I can see why she’d think that.”

  He just snorted and then pointed with the shears at a trumpet vine farther back along the fence. “And the Brugmansia, too. She insists I prune it back so none of the flowers hang over onto her property.” Shaking his head, Dad climbed down the ladder and gave me a kiss. “So what brings you by, hon? You want some coffee?”

  I clomped into the kitchen with him, still wearing my cycling cleats. “I just stopped by to tell you what I learned about Letta’s will.” Dad handed me a mug, and we went into the living room. He leaned back in the recliner, and I plopped down onto the couch.

  “So,” I said once we were both settled, “she gave you her house, which still has a bit of a mortgage, I gather, and its contents, as well as her car. Oh, and that property she owns in Hawai‘i, too. It’s just a vacant lot as far as I can tell.”

  Dad nodded, but his teeth were clenched. “I gotta say, it gives me the willies thinking about benefitting from what happened.”

  “Yeah. I hear you.” I sipped from my steaming mug. He hadn’t asked about Gauguin. Maybe he didn’t think of it as being one of Letta’s possessions, since she didn’t own the actual building.

  I cleared my throat. Dad had been staring out the window at a woman and a Yorkie terrier, the latter pulling vigorously on its leash, but now looked back at me. “And here’s the weird part,” I went on. “She gave me one thing too: her restaurant.”

  He blinked a couple times, like he had something in his eye, and then swallowed. But he didn’t say a word. After a moment, he stood up and walked back into the kitchen. I jumped up to follow and placed my hand on his shoulder.

  “Babbo.”

  “I shoulda known,” he said, shrugging off my touch. “You two were always conspiring against me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “After Letta came back to town, you were always way more interested in spending time with her than with me and your mom. And it was obvious you were completely infatuated with Gauguin, that you thought it was some kind of, I dunno, French Laundry, come down here to the backwaters of Santa Cruz. I bet you and Letta were talking for years about how you’d take the place over after she was gone.”

  “But that’s just so untrue. I had no idea I was even in her will.”

  “Go on,” he said with a wave of the hand. “Go ahead and run that snooty restaurant with all its gourmet cuisine and leave me to my low-class diner that serves up peasant fare. The same place, mind you, that paid for your food and clothes all those years and helped you through college. I know it’s mostly just an embarrassment for you, Solari’s.” He turned away and busied himself with rinsing out his coffee cup.

  “Dad, it’s not like that at all. I didn’t ask for Gauguin, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it now that I have it. Why are you being so unfair?” The tears were starting to come, and I just wanted my father to hug me tight and tell me it was all going to be okay.

  But instead, he simply wiped the cup dry, replaced it in the cupboard, and then started for the back door. “I gotta finish pruning that rose before work,” he said. “I’ll see you there in a little while.”

  Why was everyone in my life so damned stubborn?

  Chapter Seven

  Eyes still damp, I retrieved my bike from the backyard—Dad studiously avoiding my look—and pedaled off. When I got to the ocean a few blocks away, I headed north on West Cliff Drive, a winding road that hugs the rocky coastline.

  I rode for about a mile and then stopped, inhaled deeply, and gazed out across the bay. From the cliffs to the horizon, the sea displayed multiple hues in the bright sunlight: A foamy white where the waves crashed on the rocks, turning gray where the sand was churned about in the shallows. Farther out, a vibrant turquoise as the ocean floor dropped off, then aquamarine to indigo, made darker where patches of kelp floated near the surface. And then, finally, where the water stretched out to meet the sky, a deep steel blue—almost black—broken only by the numerous whitecaps glinting in the sun as they were caught up by the wind.

  The tension began to drain from my shoulders and neck. Yes, this had been a very good idea. Precisely what I needed right now.

  Looking north toward Natural Bridges, I could see surfers taking advantage of the breeze that was picking up and starting to bring in swells. I squinted to try to see if one of them might be Eric. I knew he liked this spot, but the black, wet-suited figures in the water all looked alike from this distance.

  With a smile, I got back on my bike and pedaled off, a sort of exuberance overtaking me. It’s almost too much, this panorama. No matter how many times I come out here, it always affects me; the beauty of the coastline is simply astounding.

  But then, seeing a fishing boat heading back toward the harbor, my thoughts slipped back to my dad and the conversation we’d just had, and the smile faded as quickly as it had come. I knew his anger came from hurt, but why couldn’t he see someone else’s point of view for once in his life?

  And then I passed the place along the cliffs where Eric and I used to come at sunset to watch as fiery pinks and oranges lit up the sky, bundled up against the chill a
nd armed with cocktails decanted into water bottles. I started thinking about how I missed that: having someone to watch a sunset with.

  As I pumped up the coast, I felt the transformation in my body. Where just a moment before I had been in high spirits, euphoric almost, I was now back to where I’d been when I’d left my dad’s house, tears once again forming.

  Damn these hormones and the violent mood swings they cause.

  Not that I didn’t have good reason to be down, of course. Letta had also loved this place. Never again would she get to gaze in wonder at the brown pelicans soaring up the coast in bomber formation, or hear the sea lions’ hoarse barking as they lazed on the rocks offshore, or watch the packs of dogs chasing each other and romping in the surf down at Mitchell’s Cove.

  Making a snap decision, I made a U-turn and headed back the way I had just come. The attempt to clear my brain obviously wasn’t working, so I figured I might as well do something productive—like checking out Letta’s office. Maybe there was something there that could shed light on why the hell she was murdered. And it was a good time to poke around Gauguin. The prep cooks wouldn’t show up until midafternoon, so I’d have the place all to myself. Fortunately, I’d gotten a key to the restaurant from Javier the night before and had put it on my key chain.

  I wheeled my bicycle around the side of the building and unlocked the door I had been trying to peer through just three mornings before. Leaning the frame against the garde manger sink, I closed and locked the door behind me; removed my sunglasses, helmet, gloves, and cycling shoes; and set them down on the floor in a heap.

  I looked around. Although it had felt fine being in the crowded dining room the night before, it was unsettling standing alone in this room, where it had happened. There was the counter where her purse and the teapot and cups had been sitting. And there, on the floor, was where she had been found, Javier’s bloody knife beside her.

  Shaking off the wave of nausea that was starting to overtake me—I really should’ve had some preride breakfast—I padded in my wool socks up the stairs behind the reach-in refrigerator and around the corner into Letta’s office.

  This had been her sanctuary: her escape from irate customers who’d neglected to make a reservation, from broken hollandaises and shorted meat deliveries, from back-of-the-house squabbles. The wood-paneled room was dominated by a large oak desk. On it sat a lamp made from what looked like a ceramic Chinese vase, a red Bakelite telephone, an old-fashioned adding machine, a small carved-wood tiki, and four neat stacks of papers.

  The police must have already been through all this, I figured. No way would Aunt Letta have had the papers so organized, in such precise piles. Tidiness had never been one of her virtues.

  I sat down in the chair, a sturdy oak piece to match the desk, and flipped through the pile closest to me: invoices and bills. The next one consisted mostly of files of employee time sheets. Another was tax returns.

  Ugh. I was going to have to start dealing with all this pretty damn soon. Or get someone to do it for me. Letta must have had an accountant or bookkeeper who could help me get up to speed and maybe even take over a lot of the paperwork, at least for a while.

  But I wasn’t going to think about that right now. I picked up the last stack: a few food-related articles and a bunch of trade magazines.

  Next I pulled open the desk drawers and rummaged around. Two were empty; the paperwork on top of the desk must have come from those. Another was full of office supplies: pens and pencils, yellow stickies, paper clips, Wite-Out, tape, and a stapler. The last was equally disappointing: Gauguin stationary and envelopes, unused manila folders, and accordion files. Damn. I slammed the drawer shut.

  What about her computer? That might have something on it. I knew she had a laptop that she brought from home to the restaurant when she was here, but it wasn’t in the office.

  Duh! Of course the cops would have taken anything of interest away—especially a computer. And her cell phone, too.

  I got up from the chair and went to the window. You could see down into the neighbor’s backyard, which was full of fruit trees with white and pale-pink flowers, a shaggy lawn, and an unkempt flower garden in full bloom. Aunt Letta must have enjoyed this view.

  I’d been in her office on numerous occasions but had never paid a lot of attention to its contents. I leaned over to examine a photo that hung next to the window and was surprised to see that it was of our family, taken at Salvatore’s ninetieth birthday party shortly before he died. There was my grandfather in a silly paper hat, his arm around Giovanna, with my mom and dad and me on one side and Aunt Letta, in loose batik pants and a silky blouse, on the other. It was taken in Nonno and Nonna’s backyard; you could see their espaliered pear tree hugging the brick wall in the background.

  Tucked into the corner of the frame was a small snapshot of Letta and Tony that looked like it had been taken at a park up in the redwoods. They were sitting at a picnic table spread with a red-and-white tablecloth and covered with food: a wedge of cheese, a round loaf of bread, some red grapes, and a few oranges. Someone else’s arm protruded into the picture, partially obscuring Letta’s lower body.

  I moved on to the next picture on the wall: a print of a Gauguin painting of two women in skirts—but nothing else—one holding a slice of watermelon, the other a sprig of pink flowers. I’m generally not much of a fan of what I believe is called “primitive” art, but I have to say I quite like that painting: a sort of mix of Polynesian, Impressionist, and old-school “classical” styles.

  The only other thing in the room was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. I stopped before it and gazed at the titles, a good 90 percent of which appeared to be about cooking. There were food essayists, such as Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin and Ruth Reichl, and biographies of people like Julia Child and Auguste Escoffier. And lots of cookbooks. I bent over to read some of the titles: Sam Choy’s Polynesian Kitchen, Alice Waters’s Chez Panisse Menu Cookbook, Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cookery, Jacques Pépin’s La Methode, Ruth Kallenbach’s Cooking at Escarole.

  I pulled this last one out. I’d never been to Escarole, the San Francisco restaurant started by the now-famous Ruth Kallenbach after she left Chez Panisse. But I’d always wanted to try it, especially since I knew she’d taken Letta with her to become sous-chef for the new restaurant. Eric and I had long talked about going up to the City to see an opera and eating at Escarole beforehand, even though Letta had long since left the place, but we had never managed to do so.

  As I opened the book to flip through the recipes, two envelopes and a small photograph slipped out and fell to the floor. I stooped to pick them up.

  The photo was of a woman with short, blond hair, who looked to be in her thirties. She was standing in front of a two-story wood-shingled house, wearing jeans and a green-and-white button-down shirt, and laughing at whoever held the camera, her eyes squinting into the sun. It was an old photo—from the 1970s or 1980s, I guessed from the faded colors and the pinkish tint. I set it aside and picked up the envelopes.

  Both were addressed to Letta, care of Gauguin. Neither had a return address, but the postmarks, which were dated November of last year and March of this one, said San Francisco. Sitting back down, I slid the paper out of the earlier dated of the two, unfolded the sheet, and smoothed it out on the desk. It was a short, printed letter written by someone overly fond of boldface, italics, and exclamation marks:

  Traitor!

  You of ALL people should know better! Factory-farmed chicken? CAFO beef? Veal?! Not to mention farmed salmon and imported shrimp? Didn’t you learn anything during all those years in Berkeley and San Francisco? How could you?!!

  It’s time to switch your menu to humanely raised meat and sustainable seafood! Do the right thing—NOW!

  We’ll be watching you.

  There was no signature.

  Wow. I set the paper down and exhaled. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t condone either cruelty to animals or the overfishing of our oceans. I buy free-rang
e eggs when I can, and it’s been years since I’ve ordered Chilean sea bass at a restaurant. But whoever wrote this letter seemed to be pretty, well . . . fanatical. And that last sentence sure was disturbing—all the more so given the letter’s anonymity.

  I read it again. Of course I knew what factory-farmed chicken was: those big sheds with thousands of birds all crammed together. But what the hell did “CAFO” stand for?

  I reached for the second envelope and found another letter inside in the same style:

  Shame!

  It’s been over four months and still no change at all to your menu! Serving industrial pork is odious! Particularly when done by someone like yourself, who knows better! Pigs are sensitive, intelligent creatures. Do you have any idea what it would be like to live your entire life in a farrowing crate?

  Maybe someone needs to teach YOU a lesson and give you a taste of just what, by supporting the heinous practices of corporate ag, you are guilty (just as guilty as them!) of inflicting on all those poor, helpless, suffering animals.

  Change NOW. Or we won’t just watch anymore.

  Oh my God. Could this be the reason she was murdered? I’d heard that some of those animal rights people could be pretty nuts. But would they really go so far as to actually kill someone?

  I set the letter down and pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my cycling jersey. I had to find out if Letta had said anything to Javier about getting these letters.

  After four rings, I figured I was going have to leave a message, but then he answered, in a groggy, sleepy voice.

  “Mmmm . . . hullo?”

  Oh, shit. What time was it, anyway? Eight thirty? Nine? Of course he would still be asleep; I knew enough about chefs’ hours to know that.

  “Uh, hi, Javier. It’s me, Sally. Sorry to call so early . . .”