by A. J. Carton
“Who does Piers think did it?” Emma asked.
“Piers is putting his money on the gypsy, Mom.”
“Roma.”
“Right. The Roma,” Julie corrected herself.
“Well, that’s preposterous. And Piers is a bigot if he thinks so,” Emma added. “The Roma are peaceful people who have been unfairly targeted due to prejudice and ignorance. Which are more or less the same thing, by the way.”
“Mom, Piers is not a bigot. But he works in the justice system. And he happens to know that the Roma, as you call them, cause a lot of trouble in the vineyards. Camping out. Stealing stuff. Their dogs run wild and attack people.”
“Hardly murder, Julie,” Emma replied. “And besides, most of that stuff is never proved against them. It just sticks because people want it to. Roma are scapegoats, plain and simple. Always have been. Just read Sir Walter Scott.”
Julie looked exasperated. “Forget Sir Whatever, Mom. And believe me, I don’t want to know. The point is, the Roma don’t play by our rules. OK? They never have. That’s why people don’t trust them. They have their own rules and we don’t know what those rules are. Anyway, that’s a good list of suspects for now. Unless you want to add anyone else.”
Emma thought for a moment. “Yeah. Let’s add the lady killer.” Emma smiled at her pun but it whooshed right over Julie’s head.
“Who?”
”Sacha, the bass. He has a temper. He was drunk. And from what I could see last night, he doesn’t play by our rules either. He was pawing Natasha, and if he was jealous of Barry, which I think he was, there’s no telling what he might do.”
“OK,” Julie agreed, “add Sacha, the Russian bass. But if it was poison, the killer had to premeditate the murder. Get the poison. Bring it to the dinner. And put it in the food. Unless there wasn’t poison and someone bonked her on the head. But so far there was no sign of that.”
“Don’t forget that Kevorkian needle,” Emma reminded her.
“Bear with me, Mom,” Julie continued. “If it was poison, Sacha, the Russian bass, being drunk at the party doesn’t really prove anything. But I agree. If he was jealous, he’s still a suspect.”
“Anyone else?” Emma asked.
“What about Vera? The twin,” Julie suggested.
Emma sighed and shook her head. “She was so broken up. And what was her motive? Jealousy? I don’t think so. She seemed genuinely proud of her sister. And what did she have to gain? From all accounts, Natasha was incredibly generous with her once she got famous. But sure. Add Vera Vasiliev to the list. With sisters, you never know.”
Julie did a recap on her fingers: “Lexie Buchanon, the jealous wife; Barry Buchanon, the jealous husband; Chiara Bruno, the understudy; Carmen, the Roma; Sacha, the Russian bass; and Vera Vasiliev, the twin. That’s six.”
“What about Sergio, the celebrity chef?” Emma asked. She was still smarting from her treatment by him in the kitchen. “Maybe he has Mafia connections.”
Julie waved her finger at her mother. “Wow. There’s a surprise. Now look who’s a bigot. Come on, Mom. Sergio’s from Bologna. He may be a communist, but he’s not Sicilian. He’s not even southern Italian.”
“So?”
“So, Sergio has no Mafia connections. He hates the Mafia and he’s not involved in this. But OK, if you want him on the list, you can check him out along with Carmen and the Russian bass. However, don’t expect Sergio to push your book anymore.”
“Believe me,” Emma answered. “I’m not expecting anyone even to read my book now.”
Chapter 5: Saturday Afternoon - Sleuth
After lunch with Julie, Emma spent the rest of the day in bed not answering the phone. Granted, not many people called. Those who did were clearly off limits. Sergio called. Probably to tell her to pick up the twenty copies of her book that he’d been selling at his restaurant. He didn’t say that in his message; but Emma guessed that was the point of his call.
The local gourmet grocery store’s manager also called. Something about carrying too many frozen pasta sauces. Little Pete’s needed to rethink stocking a new brand.
Then there were three messages from the Blissburg Herald and one from the Santa Rosa Messenger. Until she found Natasha’s killer, she had nothing to say to those scandal mongers.
The truth is, she really didn’t believe Natasha was murdered. Murders took place in the movies, mystery novels, and crime shows. Not in Blissburg. Not among her acquaintances. Not in her everyday life! And if there were a murderer in her midst, Emma Corsi would be the last person to find him, or her.
As Julie pointed out, however, murder was the only cause of Natasha’s death that completely let Emma and her family off the hook. Even if Natasha did have a heart or allergy attack, people would still believe that, somehow, Emma’s sauce triggered it.
It was that realization that finally got Emma out of bed. At 2:00 pm. She’d already blown off most of the Saturday free legal clinic that she volunteered for every other week. But it was open three more hours. If she pushed herself, she could get her hands on Carmen’s file before the clinic closed, and begin to check out her first suspect.
Emma noticed there was one last unopened message on her phone. It turned out to be from Jack Russo, her other dinner partner and winner of her home cooked dinner for six.
“Ciao bella. OK to say that in Italian, right? No offense. Saw the headline in the Herald. Just calling to say that I loved your sauce. I’m alive and well. Had a great night’s sleep. And bought a copy of your cookbook on line this morning. Also want to mention that there’s an Ormon Society Rising Young Stars concert at the Opera House in San Francisco Tuesday night. It’s the concert for people who donate money to support young opera singers. Would you care to join me? Maybe over a glass of wine we could discuss that dinner I bid on at the auction. No pressure. I’m going anyway. Just thought we could kill two birds, so to speak, if you’re interested. Ciao. By the way, it’s Jack.”
Jack the Sicilian, Emma thought, then caught herself. Julie was right. Maybe she was the one who was prejudiced? But as her grandmother said, there is no one an Italian mistrusts more than another Italian. And when one Italian is from the north and the other is Sicilian, the mistrust runs deep.
Emma weighed the invitation. On the one hand, Mr. Goodfella definitely was not her type. But so what if the guy looked like a Hollywood hit man? She was only going to a concert with him. And sooner or later they’d have to discuss that dinner he bid on. Not to mention the fact that he was Piers’ client. No need to offend.
Emma picked up the phone and hit Jack’s call back number. The line went straight into voice mail. “Hi. Jack. Leave a message.”
“Hi Jack.” Emma tried to sound jaunty. “I’d love to go to the Ormon Concert with you on Tuesday and discuss that dinner you bought. Talk soon. Emma.”
The minute she hung up the phone, Emma panicked. What if this East Coast transplant was really part of a gangland witness protection relocation program? What had she just done?
The Blissburg Free Legal Services Clinic was located a few miles north on 101 in an all but abandoned shopping mall outside of town. The four large storefronts surrounding the empty two acre central parking lot bore faded signs for Borders Books, The Liberty Store, the Hat Box and One of a Kind. Businesses that had either closed their doors for good or moved away. A couple of smaller storefronts bore signs for Luigi’s Pizza and Jack’s bail bonds shop. Emma wondered if these were some of JJR Capital’s investments. Then she mentally slapped her hand. Still, there was something about Jack Russo’s tough guy accent that reminded her of gangsters and red sauce.
Fortunately, parking was always easy in the half-abandoned place. Emma pulled her Prius into a spot in front of the clinic, exited her car and entered the building through the sliding electric double doors.
Barbara, the receptionist, shot her a sympathetic smile. Obviously, she read the Herald. Barbara had been one of the first recipients of a free signed copy of Emma’s cookb
ook.
“Well look who’s here. I thought you might skip today, honey, given the bad news.” Barbara shrugged. “That headline was so unfair. I’ve used your tomato sauce recipe twice now, and never been sick. Anyway, don’t worry about being late. It’s been slow. Mrs. Hunt is in with Steve discussing another eviction notice. He may need some help later.”
Emma nodded. “Thanks.”
She made her way to her cubicle at the back of the vast, open retail box that now served as a free legal clinic. It was staffed by one paid lawyer named Steve and an ever-changing stable of volunteers.
Emma’s cubicle was formed by three plastic partitions that barely afforded the privacy she needed for the client intake interviews she conducted as part of her job. It was a far cry from the carpeted cherry paneled private room she’d occupied at Foley, Dunn & Munster from the time Andy left until just a few months ago. And so was the work. Fighting insurance companies for health benefits or property damage coverage on behalf of Sonoma County’s disenfranchised poor was nothing at all like fighting over defense coverage for directors and officers of multi-national billion dollar corporations who had screwed their shareholders. Let me see, Emma reminded herself for the umpteenth time as she sank into the definitely non-ergonomic computer chair in front of a battered third-hand metal desk. Which is more satisfying? Bingo! At least if the cookbook failed, the Free Legal Services Clinic still needed her.
First Emma checked her email. Nothing pressing. Still plenty of time to reinvent herself as a – sleuth? Preposterous, she thought. Then she remembered Julie’s unkind jab. That her father’s conviction was sexy compared to her mother’s tomato sauce fiasco. She decided to get to work.
Based on her discussion with Julie, she had three suspects to investigate: Carmen, Sacha Kuragin the Russian bass, and Sergio the celebrity chef. Emma had already decided to begin with Carmen. First because Piers thought Carmen killed Natasha. Second, because Emma was determined to prove that Carmen had not.
Emma grimaced. She’d watched too many Inspector Lynley episodes on Public Television not to know that was the wrong approach.
Emma could hear the aristocratic detective lecturing his frumpy sidekick. “You must begin with an open mind, Havers. If you lose your professional objectivity, you don’t belong on this job.” Or something to that effect.
OK. She’d admit it. She didn’t have any professional objectivity. The Roma was innocent and she was out to prove it.
Emma removed Carmen’s intake file from a cabinet behind her desk and reviewed what little she knew about the suspect.
According to her file, Carmen was born in New Jersey under the name of Sylvia Louisamaria Stella Reboso-Moreno. She was thirty-eight years old, except her driver’s license had her listed as Carmen Havlek aged forty-two. The age discrepancy due, Carmen said, to a clerical error.
Carmen lived with a man named Tonio Havlek, but was actually married to a man named Louis who was in jail for a theft which, according to Carmen, he didn’t do. She and Louis were divorced, and she and Tonio married, under Roma law not recognized by the State of California.
Carmen was listed in the public school files as having three children in the Santa Rosa public school system. But on further investigation, one of the children had turned out to be her cousin’s daughter who had assumed the name of Carmen’s grown daughter by Louis whom Tonio had adopted under Roma law but who currently lived in Mexico.
Emma exhaled slowly. That had all sounded perfectly logical two months ago when she and Steve applied for, and got, coverage for the whole family under Covered California. Why, she wondered, did it suddenly sound so sketchy?
She was trying to recreate their winning Covered California argument when her phone rang.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello, Blissburg Free Legal Services. Emma Corsi speaking.”
“Hi.” The voice on the line was husky and hushed. “Emma. It’s Carmen. Are you at the clinic? Can we talk?”
Wherever she was calling from must have been nearby. Carmen walked into Emma’s cubicle a few minutes later.
Unlike the night of the City Opera fundraiser, Carmen’s dark, petite frame was covered in an Indian print summer skirt and a pink tunic top, her black hair pulled back in a long ponytail. She wore plastic flip-flops and carried a large Peruvian woven sac slung over her shoulder.
“I can’t stay long, Emma,” Carmen explained. “Tonio is watching the kids, but he leaves for work in about an hour.” Though Emma didn’t ask, Carmen volunteered, “He plays Flamenco guitar at a restaurant in Guerneville on Saturday nights.”
“What’s up?” was all Emma managed to reply.
“Well, I heard about that headline in the Herald this morning,” Carmen answered lowering her voice to barely above a whisper. “By the way, I can’t believe what they’re doing to you, Emma. I mean, the cookbook. It’s terrible. And you, completely innocent. I mean, that opera singer? She didn’t die of no bad cooking.”
“How do you know?” Emma interrupted. “I mean, the toxicology report won’t come out till a week from Tuesday. Yes, I agree that she didn’t die from my cooking. But so far, no one knows how she died, Carmen.”
Carmen shook her head. “Emma. I know. Believe me, I know how she died. I know.”
Emma felt a shiver run down her spine. “What are you talking about, Carmen? How could you possibly know what happened to her?”
Carmen threw her hands up and stared at Emma as if to say, isn’t it obvious? Then she lowered her arms, sank down into the chair facing Emma’s across her desk – up to then she had been standing – and leaned forward to speak in a voice even lower than before.
“I read her cards,” she said. “Remember? First I read the little dark fat one’s.”
“Chiara’s,” Emma nodded. “The understudy. Yes.”
“Then everybody got very excited and the little fat one said something about losing weight. Right?”
“Right.” Emma remembered the scene quite vividly.
“Then, I read the blond’s cards. Or started to. Not the ugly twin. The pretty blond,” Carmen said.
Emma nodded. “Yes. And then you felt faint, or something. And you didn’t finish reading the cards because you weren’t feeling well. That’s when you left.”
Carmen shook her head. “No.” Her voice trembled. “No. I…I was feeling fine. Physically fine.”
Emma didn’t buy it. “Carmen, I saw you. You turned pale as a ghost. Remember? You felt ill. You looked ill.”
“I wasn’t sick. It was the cards, Emma. It was what the cards said that made me look sick. I read the cards. Before I left, I read the blond lady’s cards. And the cards said MURDER. Loud and clear. The cards said the blond was going to get murdered. Soon. Very soon. Like, it was in the cards. She just disappeared from view. And it was bad. Very bad. Emma, I never seen cards that bad before. What could I do?”
Emma nodded. “Under the circumstances, it would be hard to know what to do.”
“I couldn’t tell her,” Carmen answered her own question. “You don’t tell someone whose cards you’re reading something like that. What if you’re wrong? You could kill them with such news. Or they could kill you. Or sue you. I mean, if I said something like that about the Buchanons, they could have me put away. I was scared. That’s why I said I was sick and got out of there as fast as I could.”
“I guess I understand,” Emma agreed.
“But all night, I felt so bad,” Carmen continued. “What if I was right? What if the pretty blond twin really was getting murdered that night? I should have warned her. Right? It was my duty to warn her, right? That’s why I was given these powers.”
Emma shrugged. “Honestly Carmen, I don’t know what to say.”
Carmen resumed her story. “So, later I snuck back into the vineyard. That’s when I heard someone screaming that Natasha – that was her name, right? The woman whose fortune I was supposed to tell? I heard this guy screaming that Natasha was dead. And I saw him. I saw him leani
ng over the pretty blond’s body, doing something to her. I couldn’t see what. I felt so bad, Emma. Then I ran. Because you know how things go. If anybody saw me, they’d blame it on the gypsy. Just like it happened to Louis. And I have three little children to take care of, Emma. I can’t let that happen. You understand? You have to help me not let that happen. You’re a lawyer, right? You can help me.”
Carmen was shaking so badly, Emma reached across the desk to grab her arm.
“First of all,” Emma said, “I’m not a lawyer, Carmen.”
Carmen’s face fell.
“But I will try to help you,” Emma added. “Listen, when you read the cards, did they tell you who the murderer was? Did you see anything that might give us a clue?”
Carmen shook her head. “Honestly Emma, I was so freaked out when I first saw the cards, I just shuffled them up and put them away. Now I wish I had never gone back to that party. If anyone saw me. I know. They’ll blame the gypsy.”
Emma didn’t want to tell her that some people already were blaming the gypsy. She thought for a minute. If Carmen saw Barry Buchanon with Natasha right after she died, Carmen probably had a duty to go to the police. The bigger question was, if Carmen wouldn’t go, did Emma have to go to the police herself? If Emma were an attorney, the answer would be simple. Anything Carmen told her would be confidential. But Emma wasn’t an attorney. The problem was, Carmen had come to her thinking she was.
Emma made a quick decision. “Carmen, I think you should go to the police and tell them what you saw. Go now. They are going to question you anyway. Someone at the party told one of the policemen that you were there last night. He took that information down. Sooner or later they are going to call you. Better that you volunteer the information, before they come looking for you.”