by Leslie Karst
“I didn’t get a look at his face, unfortunately, but he was a big guy, well over six feet, and he had short, dark hair. He was wearing blue jeans, and a dark sweatshirt, and white running shoes. As for the car I saw before . . . I dunno. One of those big ones from the seventies. A Camaro? Or Duster? Like I said, it was metallic blue. Oh, and I do remember it had those old blue-colored license plates.”
“Well, that’s helpful, at least. You didn’t get any of the license, did you? Even a partial would be helpful.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. So anyway, I’m thinking it must have been that same guy—the one who drove up to Kate’s farm—because of how she described it as a muscle car, just like the one that’s been following me.”
“But you said you didn’t see that car in the garage.”
“No, but I did see a blue car go in, and, I dunno . . . He could have hidden it out of sight somewhere. Maybe there’s another exit I didn’t notice.”
Vargas drummed his fingers on his right thigh and chewed his lip. Then, leaning forward, he said in a soft voice, “Has it occurred to you that—given where this incident occurred—it’s equally likely that it was an associate of Javier’s who jumped you?” He leaned back in the chair and fixed me with a hard stare. “Especially if there was something you saw there that the associate knew could incriminate Javier?”
My face was burning, but with my olive complexion, I doubted the detective could tell. Of course the cops would already know about the yellow jasmine at Javier’s building. That had to be one of the main reasons for his arrest. But how could Vargas possibly know that I’d seen the tox report? Or was this just a bluff?
I didn’t answer and instead pulled the can of pepper spray from my pocket. “You want to keep this as evidence?” I asked.
“No, I think it’s better if you hold onto it for the time being.”
***
Javier’s arraignment was set for nine o’clock the next morning, Friday. I got to court a few minutes early but needn’t have rushed over, as it was almost an hour before his case was finally called. During this time, I tried to work on the scheduling snafu that Giulia had pointed out to me the previous day. But it was hard to keep my mind on it, as my thoughts kept returning to the guy who’d grabbed me in the parking garage and who was still out there somewhere. Plus, there was the threatening letter I’d gotten from Noah as well as the depressing discovery I’d made online that the vine at Javier’s apartment did in fact appear to be yellow jasmine.
They finally brought Javier out in his orange jumpsuit, and the judge read him his rights, advised him of the charges against him—he visibly slumped upon hearing the words “murder in the first degree”—and told him that he was being appointed counsel. At this point, a man in a dark suit stood up and agreed to accept the case. He spoke quietly with Javier for a moment and then turned back to the judge. “Request to put the matter over, your honor, until I’ve had time to confer with my client.”
“Granted. The matter will be heard”—the judge consulted her calendar—“a week from today, at which time Mr. Ruiz can enter his plea. Next case.”
A sheriff escorted Javier out the side door through which he’d entered the courtroom. I waved, but I’m not sure he saw me. I would have liked to talk to Javier’s attorney, but he remained sitting at the defense table after Javier was led away.
As soon as I got to Solari’s, I went in search of my dad. He was at the six-burner range, sampling the sauce for the day’s lunch special: chicken with tarragon-cream sauce.
“Tastes fine, Emilio,” he said, smacking his lips, and dropped the used spoon into the sink behind the hot line. “Don’t forget to sprinkle some chopped tarragon on top when you plate them up.”
I was about to tell Dad that I thought he did need to hire a lawyer to deal with his property-line dispute and that there was a gal at my old firm who would be good for the job. But when he saw me come into the kitchen, he touched me on the shoulder.
“Hey, hon,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. C’mere.”
We sat in the office, he in the folding chair and me on the corner of the desk—there wasn’t room for a second chair—and he exhaled slowly.
Uh oh. What now?
He cleared his throat. “Look, I just want to apologize again for how I’ve been about this whole thing, you know, with Letta’s restaurant.” Dad ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, scratching his scalp. “It’s just that after you came back to Solari’s, after your mother passed on, I was so . . . I don’t know. So relieved, I guess. ’Cause I didn’t have to worry about the restaurant anymore—about who’d take it over after I was gone.”
“Dad, I—”
“No, let me finish.” He wiped both hands on the bar towel hanging from his chef’s pants and then went on. “But I realize now that it’s not fair to you. No matter what I may want, you gotta do what you want. I mean, really, that’s pretty much what being a parent is all about: making sure your kids are gonna be able to make their own decisions, not forcing your own on them.” He exhaled again and stood up. “So I just want you to know, if you want to take over Gauguin and run the place—if that’s what you want, not what you think Letta or someone else would want—then I’m okay with that decision.”
And before I could say anything in answer, he’d turned and walked out the door.
It was nearly impossible to stay focused on work during lunch, given all that had happened over the past few days. Plus, how unexpected was that about my dad? Not only what he’d said but also the very fact that he’d managed to say it at all. It was amazing but also daunting—because now I’d been given permission to do something that half of me desperately wanted but which filled the other half with unmitigated terror.
As I rushed about the dining room seating people, serving their bar orders, replenishing their bread, I couldn’t stop thinking about how morose Dad had seemed as he’d essentially told me to leave the nest and go create my own new life. But I also kept seeing Javier’s miserable face, standing there so alone in the courtroom that morning.
And then, while taking a phone reservation for Saturday night, my mind flashed on Ted’s crazed expression at the end of that Slow Food dinner. After making an entry in the book (party of six for seven o’clock), I scrawled a note to remind myself to warn Reuben that he needed to be extra vigilant about checking the food deliveries at Gauguin.
At three fifteen, I’d had enough and sneaked out the side door without telling anyone but Elena that I was leaving. It had been ages since I’d gone for a bike ride, and I knew that rain was forecast for the next day, so I rushed home and changed into my cycling clothes. A trip up Highway 1 to Davenport and back before the busy Friday-night dinner shift seemed like a good way to clear my head.
I followed the bike path from the north end of town up to Wilder Ranch and then jumped onto the highway for the rest of the ten-mile trip north. It was tough going, as I was riding smack into a vicious headwind. To make matters worse, although there’s a wide shoulder, cars were whizzing by at sixty and seventy miles per hour, which was rather intimidating.
But you can’t beat the scenery: sandy beaches and rocky cliffs interspersed with cropland, old wooden barns, and stands of tall eucalyptus. And it was good to work up a sweat and feel my legs burn—the perfect thing to get my mind off Noah and Javier. And the guy in the muscle car.
When I finally made it to Davenport, I stopped at the bakery to refuel with a chocolate chip cookie, which I munched on the bluff overlooking the sea. Davenport is an old whaling town, and I squinted into the sun to see if I could spot any gray whales making their annual migration south. Must be too late in the season, I decided, brushing the crumbs off my jersey and standing up. Nary a whale in sight.
Mounting my bike and clipping in once more, I headed back down the coast. With the strong tail wind now pushing me along, the ride was an entirely different experience. I barely had to pedal, and it seemed like I was back in Santa
Cruz in record time.
As I cruised down Delaware Avenue, I noticed several shrubs with yellow flowers. And then on the next corner, another tall bush dotted with yellow against a garage wall. Yellow plants were everywhere, it seemed.
That was it. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I took a hard left. Tony’s house was just a few blocks over. I remembered lots of blooms in his front yard and had to see if any of them were yellow.
Negotiating my way through the labyrinth of the Circles, a Westside neighborhood confusing even to locals as it is laid out in almost—but not quite—concentric rings, I turned down Tony’s street.
Damn. Not one yellow flower; the only vine in his front yard was the purple wisteria. Nor could I see any yellow plants along the side of the house.
Tony was out in front, sweeping the walkway. I stopped pedaling, and the clicking of the freewheel caused him to look up. He leaned on his broom. “Sally.”
“Hi, Tony.” I coasted up onto the sidewalk and clipped out of my pedals. “How you doing?”
“Okay,” he said, leaning down to pick up a bottle of beer that was sitting on the walkway at his feet. “What brings you here?”
“Nothing. Just out for a bike ride. Before the storm comes in.”
“Yeah. I hear you.” Taking a long drink, he nodded toward the power mower sitting on his freshly cut lawn. “I wanted to get this done before the rain started.”
“The yard’s looking great,” I said. “Those plants over there, especially.” I pointed at the beds of flowers lining the walkway.
“Thanks. Just wait till next month, when the roses really get going.”
“Speaking of flowers,” I said, “are you familiar with a vine called yellow jasmine?”
Perhaps it was unwise to broach this subject with Tony. But I still hadn’t gotten any closer to figuring out who had killed Letta, and with Javier now in jail, I guess I was feeling kind of desperate. Maybe I could learn something from his reaction upon hearing the name of the plant.
I studied his face, trying to discern any change in expression. There was a slight raise of the eyebrows, but I read this as curiosity as opposed to guilt. “Sure,” he answered. “You see ’em all over Santa Cruz. Why do you ask?” Tony tossed the now-empty bottle onto the lawn, nearly hitting another that was already there and started sweeping again, piling the errant blades of grass into a mound.
“Letta’s autopsy report just came back, and it looks like whoever stabbed her drugged her first, with something called gelsemine. It’s a sedative that comes from yellow jasmine. Gelsemium sempervirens is its botanical name. But I probably don’t need to tell you that.” At his quizzical look, I added, “You know, being a gardening aficionado, an’ all.”
“Right.” He resumed sweeping, brushing the pile of grass onto a dustpan and tipping it into the green waste container sitting on the sidewalk. “I’m done out here,” he said, slapping his hands against his jeans. “You want to come inside for a beer?”
I considered for a moment before responding. I wasn’t super keen on the idea of hanging out with Tony, particularly after he’d been drinking, but this would give me a chance to check out those photos on his fridge again. As I recalled, one was taken at the beach; it would surely tell me if he had a Giants tattoo on his forearm. Maybe Kate had been wrong, and it was Tony, after all, who’d visited her farm. “Sure,” I said. “But can I put my bike around back? I don’t want it to get stolen.”
“No problem. Come on.” He pushed the lawnmower over to the side of the house and unlatched the gate. As Tony stowed the mower in a little shed, I leaned my bike against the wall in the backyard and removed my helmet, taking the opportunity for a quick look around. No yellow vines in sight. We then went back out front, and I followed him up onto the porch, the cleats of my cycling shoes clunking on the wooden steps, and into the house.
“All I have is Negra Modelo.”
“That’s fine; I love dark beer.” I leaned down to pat Buster, who had come running into the kitchen at the sound of our entry. As Tony got down glasses, I turned to the fridge and studied the pictures again. There was a shirtless Tony, arms displayed for all the world to see but completely bare of tattoos as far as I could tell. I glanced again at the photo taken at the ball game, but he had on a jacket in that one.
And then I did one of those classic double takes. Whoa. Tony’s brother matched exactly Kate’s description of the mystery man: stocky with dark hair, and it looked like he’d be around fifty now if the photo had been taken several years ago. Not only that, but he was a big guy, like whoever had accosted me in the parking garage. I looked to see if he had a tattoo on his forearm, but alas, he had on long sleeves.
And then I saw it: on the boys’ jerseys, the letters ny stitched in lowercase letters right above the number ten.
What a dork I’d been. The tattoo was blue because it was the football team, the New York Giants, whose color was blue. Blue like the muscle car. Without thinking, I let out a little gasp.
Tony turned from opening the beer bottles and stared at me. “What is it?”
“Uh, nothing. It’s just that, uh . . .” I tried to think fast what to say. “I thought I recognized the woman standing behind the kids in this picture, is all. But now that I look closer, I can see that it’s not her.”
Lame, lame!
“Huh.” Tony turned back to the bottles and poured them carefully into our glasses while I pretended to study the woman in the bleachers behind Tony, his brother, and the two boys.
“Yeah,” I continued with my lousy story, tapping the photo with my finger, “it’s definitely not her. But they really do look alike. Funny.”
“Yeah. Funny,” Tony repeated. He set the bottles down on the counter next to a vase of tiny, bell-like white blossoms and handed me my glass of beer.
What a walking contradiction he was. The brash, sports-loving New Jersey macho man versus the tender boyfriend who’d bring Letta flowers from his garden for her restaurant and who worried about sea lice on salmon.
As we sat once more in his den, sipping our beer and making small talk, I tried to imagine Tony as the crazed maniac who murdered Letta. The clues did seem to fit, and I knew that most murders were recommitted by a family member or lover. But the idea of this guy, sitting here chatting with me calmly about spring bulbs, being someone who could stab his fiancée repeatedly in the chest until she was dead? It seemed way too surreal for me to accept as possible.
Tony was talking in a slightly slurred voice—I wondered just how many beers he’d had before I arrived—about bearded irises. There was a yard not too far from here planted with hundreds of them I should check out, he was saying, in a wide variety of hues: blue, lavender, yellow, cream, brown . . .
I pictured all those irises. It would be like a Van Gogh painting. His are mostly blue and purple, aren’t they? The colors Tony described began to swirl about my head. Nice . . . I took another drink of beer. Is it hot in here?
My face was beginning to feel flushed and my hands cold and clammy. Great. Another damn hot flash. I tried to push the sleeves of my cycling jersey up, but they were too tight to go very far. Tony was still talking, but all of a sudden, my head started to hurt, and it was difficult to focus on what he was saying. Something about dividing the iris rhizomes every few years . . .
Oh my God. This can’t be a hot flash; he must have put something in my beer.
I stood up.
“You okay, Sally?” Tony stood also and started forward. He was looking at me intently. Trying to decide if the drug had taken effect yet?
I had to get out of there.
“Uh, I just need to use the bathroom.”
He watched as I walked unsteadily down the hall. Once inside, I locked the door and threw open the shower curtain. Thank God—there was a window. It was a struggle in my woozy state, but I somehow managed to hoist myself up and squeeze my large frame through, dropping clumsily down into the backyard.
I stumbled to where my bike was
leaning against the house, wheeled it through the gate, and jumped on, pedaling off down the street as hard as I could.
My heart pounding, I turned to look back. No sign of him. Downshifting, I exhaled to get rid of the excess carbon dioxide that had built up in my lungs. And then I started to feel silly. Was this melodramatic or what? I’d obviously imagined the whole preposterous scenario. My dizziness must just be a combination of the strenuous bike ride up the coast, a half glass of beer on an empty stomach, and a general lack of sleep—plus maybe a hot flash, after all. No doubt, I was going to get home and take a couple Advil and feel just fine.
How embarrassing. Tony was probably wondering what the hell had happened to me and when I was finally going to emerge from the bathroom.
I turned left from the Circles onto California Avenue and into the wind. Feeling the breeze blow through my hair, I realized I’d left my helmet at Tony’s house. Should I go back for it? Just then, I heard the squeal of tires from behind me. Glancing around at the noise, I almost lost my balance. So I wasn’t imagining the woozy part. At the gunning of an engine, I looked back again.
It was Tony’s blue pickup truck. And it was coming up on me fast. Oh, shit.
Leaning over and gripping my handlebars in the drop position, I shifted back onto the big ring and stamped down on my pedals. I took the right turn onto Bay Street way wide; luckily no one was coming up the other way at that moment. There was a fair amount of rush-hour traffic on the street, but I was able to go faster than it, passing on the right in the bike lane. By the time I got down to West Cliff, half a dozen cars separated Tony from me.
I bombed down the hill, passed the entrance to the wharf, and tore down Beach Street. The bad news was that almost all the traffic had turned left onto Pacific Avenue, so there was hardly anyone remaining to keep Tony from gaining on me. If only I could make it to the end of the Boardwalk, I could cross the river at the railroad trestle, and I’d be home free. Tony would have to either go all the way around to the car crossing at Riverside or ditch his truck and follow on foot. Whichever way he chose, I was sure that if I could make it to the trestle, I could beat him over the river and lose him on the Eastside—if I could just manage to keep my balance on the bike, that is.