by Leslie Karst
“Oh Jesus, I haven’t even asked you about the funeral. How did it go? And how are you doing, girl?” She paused and held the Beefeaters bottle over the shaker, giving me a hard look. It seemed like I’d been getting a lot of those of late.
“I’m fine. Really,” I added when she continued to eyeball me. “But it has been weird, to say the least. Go on. Finish the drinks, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”
This seemed to satisfy her, and she continued pouring the gin and then added a few glugs of Rose’s lime juice. Next she inserted an inverted pint beer glass into the shaker and deftly shook the concoction until it turned a foamy white. She dumped the ice water out of the now-frosted glasses, dropped a slice of lime into each, and then carefully strained in the pale-green liquid.
“Limeade for grown-ups!” Nichole proclaimed, holding up her glass to clink with mine.
We sat in the living room, and I told her everything I could remember that had happened since I’d learned of Letta’s death. When I got to the part about the papers falling out of the Escarole cookbook, I put on my best poker face as I handed her the copy I’d made of the photograph.
“Here, check this out.”
Nichole snorted. “Dyke,” she said.
“Really?” Since she was staring down at the picture, she failed to notice the grin I now allowed to appear. “How can you tell?”
“Oh, c’mon.” Nichole tapped the photo with her index finger. “Just check out that flannel shirt and the jeans and that short hair: classic lesbian look circa the late 1970s,” she recited as if reading from a textbook. “You have any idea who she is?” She finally looked up and saw my cat-who-ate-the-canary expression. “What the hell?”
“I think she was Letta’s lover,” I said. “Javier told me he walked in on the two of them making out in her office a while back.”
“No shit.” Nichole examined the photo more closely and frowned. “That is so weird. I mean, I met Letta a bunch of times, and I woulda never guessed. So much for my powers of gaydar.” Setting the picture on the coffee table, she picked up her glass and sipped her gimlet.
“Well, since she’s also been involved with men, I guess technically this makes her bi,” I said. “Maybe gaydar doesn’t work so well in that case. Kate’s the woman’s name, by the way. She’s one of the produce vendors for Gauguin. She owns a farm up in Bolinas, and I’m driving up there tomorrow to meet her. Any chance you’d care to come along?”
“Really?” Nichole leaned forward, lips parted in anticipation. “I’ll have to check with Mei first to make sure we don’t have anything else planned, but if not, yeah, for sure. That would be really interesting.” She picked up the photo again. “So where’d you say you found this?”
“In an Escarole cookbook in Letta’s office. That’s why I wanted to go there tonight: to see if anyone knows anything about her. Or these. They were stuck in the book with that photo.” I handed Nichole the two letters, and she read them over, eyebrows arched.
“Jesus.” She dropped the photocopies onto her lap and reached for her gimlet again. “Those are creepy.”
“Exactly my thought.”
“You think whoever wrote them might have killed your aunt?”
“Who knows? But I figure I should at least check it out. Wasn’t it one of those PETA types who fire-bombed that professor’s house at UC Berkeley a couple years back? You know, the one who was using lab goats to produce antibodies or something like that?”
“I think they finally decided it was a more radical group, like the Animal Liberation Front, actually,” Nichole said. “But yeah, those animal rights folks have been known to do some pretty violent stuff.” She read through the first letter again. “But as far as I know, most of their violence has been limited to things like bombings. And toward big corporations and universities or chain restaurants—not privately owned places like your aunt’s. And I’ve certainly never heard of any of them doing anything like stabbing someone.” She set the letter back down and turned to me. “You don’t think this Kate woman wrote them, do you?”
“Well, Letta did put them with that photo of her . . .”
Nichole shook her head. “I dunno. Whoever wrote these seems like he or she has some kind of personal animus against Letta, or Gauguin, not someone who’s romantically involved with her.”
I just shrugged by way of an answer, and we sipped our drinks and stared out the window at the Muni trolley bus rattling up the street. “So you think someone at Escarole will know who wrote the letters?” Nichole asked after a minute.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s as good a place to start as any. And I have always wanted to eat there. Which reminds me: what time will Mei be home? ’Cause we have a seven o’clock reservation.”
“Soon, I imagine. But I say we have another drink while we wait for her, and you can finish telling me your story.”
***
We took a cab to Escarole. After two gimlets each (Mei quickly caught up once she got home), not to mention the wine to come, we all agreed that would be the most judicious course of action. Plus, parking down in the Civic Center on a Friday night is even worse than in Noe Valley.
“Looks like there’s both an opera and a symphony performance tonight,” I observed as the taxi headed up Van Ness. “I wonder what the opera is.”
“It’s actually the ballet,” Mei said. “Opera season doesn’t start up again until June.” She turned to look at the people streaming into the Opera House, many in fancy evening wear. “My parents had season tickets to the ballet when I was a kid, and I never could figure out what the hell they saw in it.”
The cab turned left and pulled over to the curb about a half block down. “Here, I got this.” Mei handed the driver a few bills, and we all climbed out. “But now that I’m all grow’d up,” she continued once we were standing on the sidewalk, “I finally get it. It’s all those guys with those amazing bodies in those tight leotards. Hell, even I love to watch them leap around and strut their stuff.” She laughed, and Nichole and I waited while she put her wallet back in her purse and zipped it shut.
Nichole and Mei looked quite the odd couple—one, short, blond, and boyish; the other, tall and athletic with long, black hair and elegant Chinese features. Mei is a Pilates instructor, and the two met when Nichole enrolled in a weight-training class at Mei’s gym. They’d been involved for two years now, and I thought they worked well as a couple. Mei’s calm demeanor was a good foil to Nichole’s tendency toward the manic.
Nichole held the door open, and we made our way through the Escarole bar to the reception area. The restaurant was smaller than I had expected but also way more glitzy. I’d always assumed it would be homey in a classy sort of way—kind of like the downstairs room at Chez Panisse, where Escarole’s chef had started. But Ruth Kallenbach had clearly wanted to make a different kind of statement with her own place.
The first thing I noticed was all the gleaming metal. An enormous chandelier with spiky protrusions made of polished steel dominated the ceiling, and the periphery of the dining area was divided into numerous visually discrete alcoves by screens made from the same material. The walls were painted a pale green and were lined with black-and-white photographs of curvaceous vegetables.
We were seated right away in the main center room next to a large modernist sculpture in green glass. I remarked that it reminded me of some sort of sea creature, like coral or maybe an anemone.
“It’s a head of an escarole, you dork,” Nichole said, shaking her head with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.
“Oh, yeah. Duh.” I opened my menu, pretending to ignore Nichole and Mei’s chuckling at my expense.
“So what exactly is escarole, anyway?” Mei asked. “A kind of lettuce, right?”
“It’s more bitter, like endive,” I said. “But yeah, it is a leafy green and is often used in salads.”
Nichole laughed. “Well, aren’t you just the culinary expert. It appears Letta was right to give you Gauguin.”
“Check it out.” Mei held up her menu. “It explains about escarole here.” I looked where she was pointing and saw that there was an entire section on the first page dedicated to salad greens with a description of what they all were.
“Yeah. It says that escarole is a kind of chicory. Isn’t that what they put in the coffee in New Orleans?” I read on, fascinated. “Did you know that endive, escarole, radicchio, and frisée are all members of the chicory genus?”
“Yeah, Sal, we do, since we’re reading the same thing you are.”
I punched Nichole lightly in the arm and continued reading, but this time to myself. There were all sorts of enticing appetizers and salads listed: an endive and leek gratin topped with Gruyère cheese and panko; a salade Lyonnaise made with frisée, lardons, croutons, and a poached egg; sautéed rainbow chard with pine nuts and a balsamic vinaigrette; and, of course, an escarole salad with slices of blood orange and avocado.
As I scanned over the rest of the menu, my eye was caught by a box at the bottom of the page with the following statement:
Escarole is committed to promoting responsible agriculture and food practices. We therefore serve only organically grown produce, free-range/pastured meat and poultry, and sustainable seafood. We also strive to obtain our ingredients from local sources wherever possible.
I set down the menu. Ah yes, the reason I was here. I’d momentarily forgotten, what with the gimlets, the taxi ride, and the excitement of being in the City with Nichole and Mei. But I’d have to start asking questions about Letta at some point during the dinner.
Chapter Fourteen
“Okay, I think I’m going to start with the roasted red pepper soup,” Mei said, reading from her menu, “and then have the grilled halibut with porcini and sorrel risotto.”
“Well, since I’m here, I’m going to try the escarole salad,” Nichole said in turn, “and then I think the pork with apple coulis. Though why they don’t just call it apple sauce, which would be so much clearer, is beyond me.”
They were both looking at me expectantly. From experience, they knew of my difficulties with making up my mind in restaurants. “You guys go ahead and pick a wine,” I said. “I promise I’ll decide by the time the waitress comes to take our order.”
Nichole and Mei conferred over the wine choice, concluding that a Côtes du Rhône would go best with both red meat and fish. Meanwhile, after much agonizing and prompted by the sight of our approaching waitress, I finally settled on the lamb chops with cracked pepper sauce and potato croquettes and the endive and leek gratin for my first course. I’m a sucker for anything with cream in it.
When the waitress returned with our bottle of wine, I decided the time was right to begin my sleuthing. “So um . . . I have a question.” Lame! Miss Marple would have had a much better opening line, I berated myself, remembering what I’d said to Eric that night at Gauguin. You can do better than that. “My aunt was the sous-chef here back in the early eighties, and I was wondering if Ruth Kallenbach might be available to come out and talk to me?”
“Absolutely,” the server answered, working the cork off. “She often comes out to chat with patrons.” She pulled the cork out with a satisfying pop and poured a small portion into Nichole’s glass for her to sample. At Nichole’s nod of approval, she poured us all a glass, then set the bottle down on the table and turned to go.
“Oh, and you can tell Ruth I’m Letta Solari’s niece.”
“Will do.”
After just a few minutes, Escarole’s owner approached our table. I recognized her from the picture on the cookbook in Letta’s office: short and slightly plump with dark eyes; an elegant, aquiline nose; and shoulder-length gray hair pulled back into a single braid. I stood up and started to reach out to shake her hand, but she grabbed me in a hug instead.
“I was so sorry to hear about Letta,” Ruth said, giving me a final squeeze before releasing her grip. She stepped back and looked me in the face. “You have her eyes.”
Blushing—I don’t know why—I mumbled, “Uh, thanks. I’m Sally. And these are my friends, Nichole and Mei.”
Ruth nodded toward the empty place. “May I?”
“Please.”
“It’s a good time for me now,” she said as she got herself settled, “before the rush really gets going. But I can only stay for a few minutes.”
“That’s fine. I totally understand. I just had a couple things I wanted to ask you. About Letta. Her death, that is.”
Ruth sighed and squeezed my hand again. “How you holding up, dear?”
“Okay, I guess. It’s just so freaky, having someone you know—your aunt—be murdered.” It was still hard to even say that word out loud, and I shuddered a little as I did so. “Look, I don’t want to keep you too long, so I’ll get to the point.” I fumbled for my bag under the chair and pulled out the copies of the letters and the photo. “I wanted to show these to you. I found them in the Escarole cookbook in Letta’s office, and so I thought maybe they were there for a reason?”
I handed the letters to her, and she pulled a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her chef’s jacket. A frown grew on her face as she read through them. “So this is what she was talking about,” she said when she’d finished.
“Who? Letta?” I asked.
Ruth nodded. “She was here last month and told me about getting some nasty letters.” She handed the pages back to me with a shake of the head. “Ugh. Makes me almost embarrassed to be a part of the sustainable food movement. Though whoever wrote these, of course, is way out on the fringe. It’s one thing to have those beliefs, and I’ll be honest with you, I do share most of them. That’s why we’re so careful about where we source our food here. But to make threats of violence like that?” She pursed her lips. “I cannot condone such behavior.”
“Do you have any idea who might have written them? I mean, it’s not like I think you would hang out with people like that,” I quickly added. “It’s just ’cause of where I found them, in your book, you know. I figure Letta must have had a reason for putting them there.”
Ruth shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. Letta asked me the same thing and even showed me a photo of someone she suspected, but—”
“She did? Really?” Nichole and I exchanged glances. “Can you tell me anything about the photo? ’Cause it might be important. For all we know, the person who wrote these letters is the one who killed her.”
“I can do better than that. I can show it to you. Wait a sec.” Ruth stood up and headed for the kitchen.
“Ohmygod,” I said and reached across the table to grab Nichole’s forearm. “This could be the breakthrough I’ve been hoping for!”
Ruth returned, smartphone in hand, and sat back down. “It’s a shot Letta took with her phone of this man who’d been coming into Gauguin and harassing her about her meat sourcing. When I said I didn’t recognize him, she asked if I’d be willing to ask around about the guy and sent me the picture. Here, lemme find it.” Scrolling through a series of photographs, she finally stopped on one and handed me the phone.
The photo was dark and out of focus, but you could tell it was of the Gauguin dining room, taken through the pickup window in the kitchen, it looked like. The man pictured had shoulder-length, but neatly styled, dark hair—not what my dad would call a “hippie cut.” He was wearing a gray, button-down shirt that hung loosely on his slight frame. Another man sat across from him with his back to the camera.
“Javier—that’s Letta’s sous-chef—told me about a guy that had come to the restaurant a couple times and given her grief for not serving free-range beef or whatever. This must be the guy.” I handed the phone to Nichole, who studied the photograph. “He looks to be in his thirties or maybe forties,” I said. “Younger than Letta, anyway.”
“Probably,” said Nichole, passing the phone on to Mei. “But it’s hard to tell for sure from this picture.”
I turned to Ruth. “But what I’m wondering is, if he was a customer, why wouldn’t Le
tta have had a name and number from the reservation?”
“I asked that same thing, but she said he was apparently a walk-in both times he came.” Ruth took the phone back and set it on the table. “She thought maybe that was on purpose, that he intentionally didn’t make a reservation so she wouldn’t have his information.”
The chef had been staring down at the image on the screen, but when she looked up, I saw there were tears in her eyes. “I told Letta she should go to the police if she was frightened, but she didn’t want to get them involved, she said. And now I can’t stop thinking that if only I’d been a little more persuasive . . .”
“I doubt it would have made any difference,” Nichole said. “All the cops would have done is take down her report. There’s no way they would have actually opened an investigation based only on a couple kooky letters and an obnoxious customer.”
“But it would probably be good if you sent them that photo now.” I nodded at the phone.
“Oh, I already did—as soon as I heard about the murder. And I talked to a detective down there—”
“Vargas?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s his name. I e-mailed him the photo and told him what Letta had told me.” Ruth started to get up. “Look, I should probably be getting back.”
“Before you go, there’s one other thing I wanted to show you real quick if you don’t mind.” I handed her the photograph, and she put her glasses back on. “You recognize her by any chance?”
She shook her head. “No. Sorry. Was she a friend of Letta’s? It looks like an old picture.”
“She owns a farm up in Bolinas, and Letta was buying produce for Gauguin from her. And I think they may have been more than friends.”
Ruth raised her eyebrows and took another look at the photo. “Huh. Interesting. Perhaps you should talk to Martine, my pastry chef. She was closer to Letta than I was, and she’s been around the Bay Area food scene for decades. She’ll be here tomorrow morning if you want to stop by. I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you.”