by Leslie Karst
“Maybe,” Eric said. But he didn’t sound too convinced.
Chapter Nine
I swatted at the buzzing alarm clock at seven thirty the next morning and then fell back on the pillow, allowing myself to doze a few minutes more, relishing the realization that I did not, in fact, have to take a test in cellular biology. Slipping in and out of consciousness, I was half aware of the rhythmic pattering on the windowpane.
Hmmmm . . . it’s so nice to be snuggled up all warm and cozy while it rains outdoors . . .
Rain? Oh, shit. I jerked myself up and turned to look out the window. It wasn’t just drizzling; it was pouring down. And the wind was blowing like crazy, too. I could see the neighbors’ trees thrashing about with a vengeance. Great. What a day to stand around outdoors in a cemetery.
With a shiver, I turned back the covers and slid my feet onto the cold hardwood floor. Coffee. Now. I had to pick up Nonna in an hour and had a tough day ahead.
All the Italian American families I know adhere to a strict regimen for funerals. First thing in the morning, the family and close friends convene in the viewing room at the funeral home for a quick Hail Mary and Our Father with the parish priest. Then it’s off to the church, where everyone—extended family, friends, and anybody who wants to get in good with the family—attends a full-blown mass, with the open casket sitting front and center on the altar.
After the mass, there’s the funeral procession to the cemetery, which has its own special set of rules. The hearse leads the way, with the priest following in his own car. Next comes the immediate family in a hired limo and then the rest of the mourners pulling up the rear. Everyone drives at a snail’s pace with headlights illuminated, which, given the foul weather, would have been necessary in any case for our procession.
Letta’s mass and funeral were long and well attended, and we all got a good soaking as we stood around the mausoleum area of the cemetery listening to Father Camillo intone the final commitment service. I examined the faces of the mourners one by one. Could any among them be Letta’s murderer? Would it show if they were?
Noticing the priest glance up at something behind me and frown, I swiveled around to see what had caught his attention. Eric, who was by my side, turned to look as well. Detective Vargas walked up and came to a stop at the back of the group of mourners, rain streaming from the shoulders of his black jacket. Our sudden movement attracted his notice, and the detective’s gaze rested briefly on Eric and me. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he continued to scan the crowd. I wondered if his expert eyes would be able to spot anything mine had missed.
At last, Letta’s gold-colored casket was slid into its crypt, and we all bowed our heads. It was an eye-level space, I noted—the most expensive kind. Nonna had really gone all out.
Afterward, there was the repast, a big luncheon, at Solari’s. That’s when the trouble started.
My father had closed the restaurant to the public for the occasion, and all the mourners were invited. As folks arrived in little groups from the cemetery, they shook out their umbrellas and raincoats, sat down, and started helping themselves to the breadsticks and carafes of wine that sat on each table.
I took a place at one of the big, round tables and lay my trench coat over the chair to my right to save a place for Eric. As I was trying to surreptitiously check my messages, Dad steered Nonna over and sat her down on my other side. I hid my phone away and offered her the basket of breadsticks, but she nodded for me instead to pour her half a glass of white wine. I did the same for myself, except it was a full glass of the red, and we solemnly drank a toast to Letta.
I asked Nonna if she liked Father Camillo’s service, but “Sì, ben fatto” was all she had to say with a quick bob of the head, and then she looked away. Surmising that she wasn’t in the mood for talking, I turned to face the enormous plate-glass window that covered the back wall of the restaurant. This is one of the main draws of Solari’s—it’s mentioned in all the guide books—as the panorama is truly magnificent.
Sipping my wine, I thought about how, when Eric and I were still together, one of our favorite after-work activities had been hanging out at the Solari’s bar, which has the same view. We’d play old Frank and Ella tunes on the jukebox, sip our Martinis, and chat with the suave, old Umberto, who’d been Dad’s bartender since before I could remember, gazing out at the fishing boats floating in the shallow inlet and across the water toward the Spanish bungalows and Victorian mansions lining West Cliff Drive.
I shook my head. What was this? Why the hell did I keep dredging up these old memories the last few days? Get back to the present, girl. I focused again on the view.
The rain was still pelting down, and the enormous cypress trees across the water on the cliffs where I’d ridden my bike two days earlier were being battered by the wind. The gulls were out in great numbers, wheeling beneath the black clouds and racing across the sky as they got caught by the strong updrafts.
I started as a hand rested on my shoulder. Eric grinned at my reaction and handed me my soggy coat just as my father stood up and clinked his wine glass with a knife to get everyone’s attention.
Eric slid into his chair, and the noisy room settled into silence. Dad cleared his throat. I knew he hated public speaking, so I figured this was going to be short.
“Uh, I just wanna say thanks to everyone for being there this wet morning and for all you’ve done for the family during this sad time. Letta was a one-of-a-kind gal. As they say, they broke the mold after they made her.” We chuckled politely, and he glanced at a slip of paper in his hand and went on. “But no matter how . . . uh . . . different she may have been, one thing you could always say about her was she was always genuine, always true to herself, and always fun.” This prompted claps and shouts of “Yes!”
Dad cleared his throat again and looked around the room. “So I just want to conclude by saying that she’s truly going to be missed. By her friends, by the folks she worked with, by her family.” And in a voice so low I could barely hear, he added, “Especially by her big brother.”
He sat down quickly and took a drink of wine and the rest of the room raised their glasses in turn and drank to Letta. Almost immediately, as if on a signal, the swinging red door to the kitchen opened, and three waitresses filed into the dining room and started distributing cups of soup to the tables.
My father had preordered the courses for the repast: minestrone soup, green salad with balsamic dressing, garlic bread, linguine with pesto sauce, a platter of breaded calamari steaks, and tiramisu for dessert. Classic Dad, to just assume we’d all like what he picked. I couldn’t help wondering if he had taken advantage of the situation to use up some excess squid he had on hand.
The noise level rose again as everyone started talking and digging into their soup, and within a few minutes, the sound of boisterous laughter and clinking spoons filled the room. Yes, we had indeed just been to a mass for the dead and an interment. But now was the time for rejoicing in Letta’s memory and enjoying the company of family and friends. A good tradition—very healthy, in my opinion.
I had just speared one of the crispy, golden-brown calamari steaks and was dabbing it with Marinara sauce when a commotion erupted at one of the tables across the room.
“You son of a bitch!” a male voice shouted. This was immediately followed by the sound of a chair crashing to the floor, and I looked over just in time to see two men lunge for each other and start wrestling. They were quickly pulled apart by the other guests, and once untangled, I saw that it was Javier and Tony who were being restrained, panting and glaring at one another.
“What’s going on here?” My father had jumped up and now stood before the two men, disbelief and anger in his eyes. “How dare you! At a funeral—”
“He started it,” Tony interrupted, pointing at Javier. “He grabbed me first.”
“I don’t give a damn who started it. Out! Out, the both of you! You’re both a disgrace.” He turned his back before either coul
d respond and walked slowly to his table, shaking his head in disgust. Several large men escorted Tony and Javier to the door, and I heard them warn that any continuation of the altercation out in the street would not be tolerated.
That sure put a damper on what had, up till then, been an almost festive occasion. It put my dad in a foul mood, and the guests, not wanting to further upset him, kept their conversations quiet throughout the rest of the meal. Nonna wanted to know what had happened, and I responded with a shrug. But I did have an idea.
***
Eric walked me outside after the repast was over. I pulled out the copies I’d made of the letters and photo I’d found in Letta’s office and showed them to him as we took shelter from the rain under the restaurant awning.
“Looks like an old photo,” he said. “I’d say from, what, the 1970s, ’80s?”
“That’s about what I thought, yeah. Back when Letta was living up in the Bay Area.”
He read through the two letters, a scowl on his face, and then handed them back to me. “Freaks—that’s what those people are. They love their animals more than their fellow human beings.”
“Well, maybe the animals deserve love more than we do. At least they haven’t started wars or poisoned the planet with DDT and car emissions.”
Eric snorted. “Animals can be plenty vicious, Miss Pollyanna. I watched a pair of coyotes rip a house cat to shreds last year not too far from this very spot. Anyway, are you really going to stand there and defend those radicals when one of them may have been who stabbed your aunt to death?”
I returned the copies to my purse. No point responding to a purely rhetorical question.
“Sorry.” Eric used his sleeve to wipe a raindrop off his glasses. “Those PETA types just sometimes really piss me off is all.”
“No worries.” I started across the road to where I was parked, and Eric followed.
“So,” he said. “About that altercation between Javier and Tony . . .”
“Yeah. What the hell?”
“Javier was the one who started it—he shoved Tony pretty hard. You have any idea what’s going on between them?”
“Well . . . I did find out that Javier was in love with Letta.”
“That’s certainly something.”
“But not enough to make them this weird toward each other, it doesn’t seem. After all, she was involved with Tony. Engaged to him, it turns out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Tony told me that the other day. I guess it was pretty recent. And both Javier and Tony knew she wasn’t interested in Javier. Javier says he hadn’t even told her how he felt, though it turns out she did know and told Tony about it.”
We stopped behind the T-Bird, and a brown pelican perched atop the wood railing nearby flapped clumsily off, disturbed by our intrusion. “Nice ride,” Eric said.
I smiled and searched for the car keys in my bag. “Yep, real nice. But I’ve gotta say, I’m having a hard time getting used to the idea of it. It’s still very much Aunt Letta’s car to me.”
“She’d be glad you were using it, I’m sure.” Eric ran his fingers along the ridge of the left fin. “Very Jetsons. I hope the ragtop keeps the rain out.”
The showers had now slowed to a drizzle, but I quickly unlocked my door and slid behind the wheel. “So far, it seems to work pretty well,” I said, pulling the door shut and cranking down the window.
Eric buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. “Getting back to Javier and Tony,” he said, “it does sound like there’s reason for jealousy on both sides—even if it’s not rational. Jealousy often isn’t. And it’s a nasty emotion. Especially when mixed with your dad’s cheap Chianti.”
I reached through the window and poked him in the ribs, even though I agreed that the wine had been pretty bad. “Look, I am going to ask Javier about him and Tony; don’t worry. I just need to find the right time.”
Eric nodded. “So does it surprise you? Javier being in love with her?”
It had, actually. And when I’d first heard it from Tony, I thought Letta must have been mistaken about Javier’s feelings. But after talking to Javier the other night at the restaurant and seeing his face when I brought up the subject, I realized that it made a lot of sense.
“Well,” I said, “she was really kind to him when he first started at the restaurant. I think he’d only recently arrived from Mexico, and she sort of took him under her wing. And it’s been, what, almost seven years they’ve known each other? They must have become pretty close, working together like that for so long. And even though she was a lot older than him, she was still quite the looker.”
An image of my aunt flashed through my brain—cruising down the road in her yellow convertible, red sunglasses on, ebony hair shot through with silver streaming back in the wind. “I bet he’s been smitten with her for some time.”
Chapter Ten
The next afternoon, I called my father. We’d decided it would be best to skip Nonna’s Sunday dinner this week; after the wake, funeral, and repast, it just would have been too much for her. So I figured he’d probably be at home zoning out, watching golf or baseball on TV. I’d be seeing him that night at Solari’s but still wanted to check in beforehand.
He picked up after the fourth ring, slightly out of breath. “Hi, hon. I was out back trying to prop up that rotted part of the fence down by the tool shed. With all this rain, it’s starting to really sag.”
“Oh, sorry to make you have to rush in. I just wanted to see how you’re doing, since we didn’t talk after the repast.”
“Okay, I guess. It seems like it all went pretty smoothly yesterday, especially given the rain an’ all.” He seemed to be acting completely normal with me, as if nothing had happened between us. Well, if he was going to just let it slide, I guessed I’d do the same.
“Up till the end,” he added. “What the hell is up with those two—Tony and Javier? Fighting like that? At Letta’s repast?”
“Yeah, that was pretty bad. I’m not exactly sure what that was all about, but I think there may have been a jealousy thing going on between them. Over Letta. Which doesn’t excuse it, of course.”
“Sure doesn’t. And Jesus, with her killer still out there somewhere? Makes ya wonder if maybe one of them . . .”
I let this unfinished sentence hang there in space, having nothing reassuring to say in response.
After we hung up, I spent the afternoon vegged out on my couch watching the Giants beat the Padres one to zip. Nothing like a good pitching duel and a cold bottle of Heineken to take your mind off the stresses of work, family discord, and murder.
I had to be at Solari’s at five, but before heading over there, I pulled the Escarole website up on my laptop. I wanted to see if it had any information on how long the folks working there had been at the place—whether they might have known Letta, in other words. There was of course no list of employees; I hadn’t expected such a thing. But there was a link titled “Our Chefs,” which I clicked on.
Voilà: descriptions of all their work histories. Ruth Kallenbach was listed as “Chef de Cuisine,” Tom Nakamoto and Laurie Evert simply as “Chefs,” and Martine Dufour as “Pastry Chef.” Besides Ruth, the only one of the four who’d been at Escarole since Letta’s time was the pastry chef.
I checked the “Contact Us” page, but the only phone number listed was one for reservations. I dialed this number, and a man with a smooth voice answered the phone: “Escarole. May I help you?”
I asked when Ruth Kallenbach would next be working, and he consulted a schedule. “Not till this coming weekend,” he informed me. “She’ll be in both Friday and Saturday nights.”
“And Martine, the pastry chef?”
“Oh, she only works mornings—early, from about five AM to eleven or so. And let’s see . . . she’s scheduled for Saturday morning but is off Sunday.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d like to make a reservation for three for this Friday night at, say, seven?” Nichole, a law-school pal
of Eric’s and mine, lived up in the City with her partner, Mei, and I was hoping they’d be up for joining me.
***
Solari’s closes at nine PM on Sundays, so after cleaning up, balancing the register, and setting up the dining room for the following day, I was able to make it home before eleven. Less than twelve hours later, however, I was back there again.
Monday lunches can be hectic at the restaurant, since lots of other establishments are closed that day, and the business crowd always needs a place to eat. But this one thankfully didn’t seem to be too bad.
As soon as I had a free moment, I phoned Javier, figuring he should be up by now. He was, and I told him I wanted to get together to talk about a plan for Gauguin. But although this was true, what I really wanted was to find out what the hell was going on between him and Tony. He agreed to meet me that evening at Dixon’s, a burger-and-beer joint across from the Boardwalk that I knew he frequented.
At three fifteen, I was getting ready to leave for the day, when Dad found me in the wait station. Giulia was at a small table, prepping a stack of Solari’s red cloth napkins for the dinner shift in a simple pyramid fold—Nothing like the exotic fans and flowers at Gauguin.
“Can I talk to you a sec?” Dad asked and motioned toward our office. I followed him inside, and he closed the door. So maybe he did want to iron out our differences after all.
“Look, if this is about Gauguin,” I started, but he cut me off.
“No. It’s something else. It’s about my neighbor.”
“Wanda,” I said, and he nodded and frowned.
“It seems she’s gotten herself a lawyer. At least, so she says. I saw her this morning on my way out to my truck, and she told me she had a surveyor come out. Don’t they need my permission for that?”
“Not if they don’t go on your property, they wouldn’t.”
Dad grunted. “Well, anyway, Wanda’s now saying that it turns out the fence is on her property, which means she can cut the rose and the Brugmansia back herself if she wants. In fact, she’s threatening to take the plants out altogether. So I thought I’d ask you about it. She can’t do that, can she?”