by A. J. Carton
Molino managed to maintain control of his holding after Mexico won its independence from Spain; only to have it lost by his n’er do well grandson in a game of monte in Yerba Buena (aka San Francisco). The new owner was Eliazer Bliss, an eighteen year old gold seeker who was murdered a year later in a dispute regarding a prostitute at a nearby hot springs. Eliazer’s six brothers and sisters in Utica, New York, who inherited the property when Eliazer died, sold the land off to Moses Stearns on the condition that it include the picturesque town plaza now shaded by maples, sequoias and redwoods, and that it be renamed Blissburg in honor of the family.
No, Emma thought when she heard the story of the town’s founding at her first Blissburg Historical Society Sunday Stroll, Blissburg didn’t boast the illustrious history of a Concord, Massachusetts, home of the shot heard round the world, where her son-in-law’s family originally put down roots after coming to America in the 1600s; or even Pittsburgh or the back breaking quarries of Stonington, Maine where Piers’ family summered on nearby Blue Hill. But it sure was the quintessential history of the California where Emma was born. A place made famous by fortune hunters, crooks, gamblers and quacks. By people perpetually reinventing themselves.
Now, waiting for the rest of the strollers to show up, Emma sat on a park bench next to the plaza’s decorative fountain. With a coffee and a still-warm apricot galette in her hand that she’d bought from the Plaza Cafe, she surveyed the surrounding hills dotted with twenty-five million dollar mansions attached to rolling vineyards protected by electric fences and remote controlled gates. And thought that things hadn’t changed much in a hundred and fifty years. People still came to California to seek their fortunes and reinvent themselves.
Julie and Piers, bless them, lived in a house resembling a Walt Disney French chateau. And what about her Tuesday night date? Where had Jack, the tough guy turned VC, made all his money? Emma took another bite of the galette and wondered whatever happened to plain old, honest, hard work. The kind that trendy, modern-day Blissburg wasn’t built on? The kind that meant showing up on the factory line or at the office nine hours a day for forty years. Till the Big D rewarded you with one long endless nap.
Stop that! Emma slapped her hand. She was happy, right? And at sixty-five who wanted to worry about a French faux chateau? A hermit’s bowl and a tent looked more appealing. Apparently Emma’s thoughts betrayed her.
“It’s a beautiful day. You’re alive. These galettes melt in your mouth. Why are you scowling?”
Emma looked up to see the Goodfella, aka Jack, staring down at her, the identical warm apricot galette in his hand. In the Sunday morning sunlight, he looked short and stocky. Compact but not fat. Or maybe it was the well fitting loden-green corduroys, definitely not GAP, and the (did that tiny logo say Paul & Shark, she wondered) tight weave midnight blue sweater with the canvas elbow patches, that made him look so fit.
Before she could answer, Jack added, “You know how to make one of these?” Except in Jack speak the “these” sounded more like “dees.”
Emma squinted her eyes at him mistrustfully.
“Oh boy! Sorry,” he said.
Was that a blush? No, Emma thought, his complexion was too swarthy for a blush. Or was it?
“Now you think I’m one of those chow diggers who’s after you for your cooking.” Jack covered his face with his hands and peeked out at her through his fat fingers. “Really, no offense intended. I been tryin’ ta make these things at home, but I can’t figure out the, you know. What do they call it? Pat brisay?”
Pate brisée? What planet was this guy from, Emma thought. “That’s because these galettes are made with a mille feuille pastry,” she explained. “Not pate brisée. Mille feuille uses a lot more butter.”
Jack threw his hands out in front of him palms up.
There was another thing she didn’t like. He used his hands too much when he talked.
“See,” Jack winked again, “I knew you’d know.”
Just then, Carter from the Historical Society strolled up to the fountain along with three or four Sunday Stroll regulars.
Jack waved at them. Then he turned back to her and asked, “You here for the stroll? Carter mentioned it to me at the bocce tournament over at da Paolo’s restaurant, the one that has the bocce court. It’s my first stroll, but I figured it was a good way for me to burn off one of these galettes. I’m addicted to them.”
It had been exactly Emma’s rationale. Why, she wondered, did this guy always seem to be reading her mind?
Emma nodded and smiled. Then she stood up and approached the fountain where the stroll was getting underway.
That day, Carter’s short introductory lecture was about the olive industry that long ago had formed the backbone of Blissburg’s agricultural heritage. It seemed that Don Alfonso Molino had planted some of the first olive trees brought to California from Spain. They thrived in California’s warm climate. Eventually, at the turn of the last century, a young entrepreneur from Tuscany bought a subdivision of the land to start an olive oil business. He brought with him dozens of poor relatives from Tuscany to pick the olives.
According to Carter, there were still old residents of Blissburg who remembered hearing them sing what Carter jokingly referred to as Tuscan rap. One group of olive pickers spontaneously calling out couplets and another inventing refrains. During the olive harvest, this form of entertainment went on for hours.
Eventually, the land where the original trees grew had been subdivided into the nearby popular Molino Mall. The trees were all cut down. But some historically minded descendant had transplanted a small grove of the original Spanish olive trees onto his property at the outskirts of town and turned it into a public park. The park was the destination of the morning’s stroll.
Emma glanced at her companions. She already knew a few by sight. Most of the Blissburg women’s walking group, the Walkie-Talkies, were there: Annemarie who owned the local bookstore; Babs the celebrity hairdresser at Cutters the chic downtown Blissburg hair salon; Lila who owned the gourmet culinary shop; and Trish the local realtor. Along with a couple of other women and two men whom Emma did not recognize.
A few of them waved in her direction, but Emma eventually realized that they were waving at Jack who apparently already knew half of the people there. The other half clearly couldn’t wait to be introduced to him. Emma quickly found herself jostled to the back of the pack, Walkie-Talkies elbowing their way past her to stand by Jack in what looked like a round of Women’s Senior Roller Derby.
The few that did recognize Emma gave her passing sympathetic smiles. Some of them murmured things like “what a pity” or “used to love that sauce,” before putting as much distance as they could between her and them.
Eventually, she found herself walking slowly beside a white haired man with a cane whose elbow she had grabbed when he stumbled at the crosswalk curb.
“Hi, I’m Emma,” she introduced herself hoping to ease the awkwardness of her intervention that prevented a nasty fall.
“Tom Fitzpatrick,” he answered, then added, “I’m a native here in Blissburg. In the garbage business since 1948, when I came back from the war. My father owned the land used for the town dump. I turned it into a business. Did pretty well, too, if I do say so myself. Of course, my son Ronnie runs it now.”
Tom stopped talking for a moment, looked sharply at Emma, and then continued.
“’Course I still worked every day, even after I sold the business to Ronnie for a song (don’t tell the IRS that), until the surgery that is. Last March. Open heart. Had me splayed out like a corpse on the table. Come to think of it, I was a corpse. They cut me open from my sternum down to my belly button, stopped my breathing, took my heart clean out of my chest, and put me on one of those heart and lung machines so they could replace a valve. Want to see my scar?”
Before Emma could refuse, Tom unzipped his North Face windbreaker and unbuttoned the top four buttons of his plaid Woolrich flannel shirt. Emma tried to lo
ok away, but not before she clearly saw what looked like a giant red worm crawling in a straight line down his chest.
Emma cringed. Talk about TMI!
Tom caught her look. “Nope. Pretty it ain’t. But my doctor assured me that come summer, this will fade into such a thin line no one will even see it when the chest hair grows back. Nothing to scare off the ladies,” he assured her with a wink. “If you get my drift. Quite something for an old geezer like me. Dead on the table and still kicking. My son calls me Lazarus. Course I think he and his wife were betting I’d kick the bucket and leave them the family jewels. Sure fooled them, didn’t I?” He added with a laugh, “Little do they know. There’ll be nothing left once my three exs get through with me.”
Eeeew! Emma tried to keep a poker face. Double TMI! And why did it seem like all people talked about these days was the Big D?
Emma changed the subject. “So, was that your, I mean your son’s, company that found the stolen items from the Buchanon Vineyards this morning?” Emma had no idea how many trash companies serviced the area; but it seemed like a good guess.
“You heard about that already?” Tom replied. “Thought the police were trying to keep it hush.”
Whoops! Emma didn’t remember Piers saying that it was hush. She shrugged, “Word gets around.”
“Well,” Tom continued, “I guess there’s no harm in telling you. Our guys found the stuff, all right. ‘Course, once it lands in the truck, who knows whose can it really came from? But they do know for sure it was the can nearest to that gypsy’s trailer. Or it was the cans servicing the dry cleaner and the Goodwill store. Or that Mexican grocery on the outskirts of town.”
“Wait,” Emma’s head was spinning. “I heard it was in Tonio’s trash can. No one said anything about the drycleaner, or the Goodwill, or the Mexican grocery store.”
Tom squinted at her. “I don’t know anything about a Tonio. Is he that gypsy? The one whose wife tells fortunes? I hear he plays Flamenco guitar sometimes at that Mexican bar in Guerneville.”
Emma nodded. Clearly Tom got around. Then she backed off. “Really, I’m not sure. I just heard someone say the name, Tonio. It sounded sort of foreign, so I took note.”
Tom appeared to relax. She could almost see his foreign sympathizer antennae retreating behind his ears. Hopefully he’d tell her more.
“Look, obviously the stuff was in the gypsy’s trash can. Right?” Tom continued. “With the lid on. He was hiding it there. Unless it was in the Mexicans’ can, but they work for us. They don’t cause trouble anymore.”
Hiding stolen goods in a trash can on trash day really didn’t make sense. But Emma nodded anyway. “So, of course,” she added, “your son didn’t even mention that the trash might have come from anywhere else. Why should he? We all know the gypsy stole it. Right?”
“Exactly!” Tom nodded, clearly pleased with her analysis. “Why complicate things? Why throw the police off the track? Get that Tonio, or whatever his name is, behind bars. Along with his wife, or whatever she is. I don’t think those gypsies even believe in marriage.”
Unlike you, Emma thought to herself. All three of them!
Tom stopped walking and looked at Emma again. They had reached the park and Carter had started lecturing about the old olive trees. Tom leaned on his cane and waved the noise of the lecture away with his free hand.
“Listen, Emma,” he said. “I know more about this place than Carter and that whole gosh darned Historical Society put together. I came here for the company. Not the speeches. So I’m gonna level with you. I recognized you this morning. You’re the lady who wrote that silly cookbook, Dining with the Stars. I mean, first of all, who’d want to dine with the gosh darned stars anyway? What stars? I leafed through the book at Annemarie’s shop and I didn’t recognize a one of those names in it. What do I care what a bunch of Eyetalians ate a hundred years ago? But frankly, I like a woman who can cook and I liked your picture on the cover. You’re kind of a fatter, senior version of that lady on the television, Jade.”
“Giada,” Emma corrected him wondering if she should take that as a compliment.
Tom laughed. “Eyetalian name. Like yours if I remember correctly. Anyway, all day yesterday I heard the jokes on the news. About the title of the cookbook and the poor Russian singer who died. Pretty girl from the look of the picture in the paper. And I remembered your photograph; and well, being the sentimental kind of guy that I am, I felt sorry for you.”
Emma nodded, encouraging him.
“‘Course even though the police know that the gypsies killed her, till that toxicology report comes out, they can’t rule out your spaghetti sauce for sure,” Tom continued. “I figured, the sooner they pin it on the gypsy, the sooner a nice little lady like you can get back to business. So when my son found that trash and told the police it was in the gypsy’s can, I was glad. Figured it would speed things up. Then I recognized you here today, and thought I’d find out what you were like. Well, you know what?”
Emma shook her head. “What?”
“You made a good impression. Now, is that worth a home cooked dinner for an old softie?” Tom winked. “Unless you know something that I don’t, and I’m taking my life in my hands.”
Emma forced a laugh. “I’ll check my calendar as soon as I get home.” She made a mental note to turn off her phone. “So, Tom,” she added, “you’re absolutely sure your son isn’t going to tell the police there is any doubt about where the Buchanons’ stuff was found?”
“You have my solemn promise about that, young lady,” Tom grinned.
Emma hesitated. “But what about the guys who actually found the stuff? The trash men. Your employees. If the police question them, won’t they tell the truth?”
“The Mexicans?” Tom shook his head. “Nah. They’ll say whatever Ronnie tells them to. Besides, the Mexicans hate the gypsies as much as we do.” He winked again. “Kind of like us Irish and you Eyetalians in the old days, right? You hate whoever’s the next rung down on the ladder.”
By then, Carter had finished his lecture. The stroll was starting to break up. Some people headed back to their homes; some back to the plaza.
Emma noticed Jack watching her out of the corner of his eye as she waved goodbye to Tom. Then he excused himself from a gaggle of adoring female fans.
“Emma, wait up,” he called, pulling off his sweater in the midmorning Blissburg heat. “If you’re going that way, I’ll walk with you back to town.”
Emma nodded. “OK.” It was hard not to enjoy the disappointed looks on the faces of his admirers.
“See you soon, Jack,” Babs called after him. “Don’t forget to come in for that complimentary manicure.”
Jack didn’t answer. He was already sprinting towards Emma. She noticed that his sprint wasn’t half bad.
“Do you have time to grab another coffee with me at Claud’s?” He asked. “Maybe we could discuss that dinner I bought.”
Emma laughed. “Sure. But how do you manage to hit every good bakery in town and still stay so fit?”
“I like Claud’s multigrain sourdough,” Jack explained, smiling at the compliment. “They only bake it on Sundays. And, by the way, we gotta make tracks. They sell out by noon.”
Jack meant what he said. They walked so fast down Blissburg’s tree shaded lanes, past hundred year old gingerbread Victorians, the local high school, at least six churches and finally across the old plaza, that by the time they joined the multigrain sourdough line at Claud’s Emma was out of breath and sweating.
“So, was that another ex husband, boyfriend, brother you were talking to on the stroll?” Jack asked. He had purchased the sourdough and two lattes, and found a table in a corner of the café. “Forgive me for noticing,” he said, pulling her chair out for her to sit down, “but he’s a little old for a boyfriend. Frankly Emma,” he winked, “you can do better. But who am I to judge? Just tell me, is it the cane? Do you have a thing for canes?”
Was he flirting, Emma wondered? Or d
id he kid everyone this way? Emma was beginning to believe the latter. She liked it.
She shook her head. “He runs the dump. Actually, he told me some very interesting things about the death Saturday night. As you can imagine, I have something of a personal stake in solving this thing quickly. In proving that it was murder. Not food poisoning.”
Jack blew out his breath. “Yeah. I get it. I gather your daughter’s feeling the fallout too. I ran into Buchanon at the Chatham Club yesterday…”
Jack stopped talking and gave Emma a dirty look. He shook his finger at her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I don’t know either why the son of a Sicilian bricklayer from Providence, Rhode Island would ever join a snooty country club called The Chatham. When I moved here, my son-in-law thought it would be a place to meet people. To hang out. It was a mistake. Anyway, to get back to my story, Barry was pretty hard on your daughter. Said he’d never hire her again. Funny thing, I remember seeing him at the club with Natasha. I didn’t recognize the singer though. She just looked like another blond. Bigger teeth than an American blond. I figured she was foreign.”
The news that Barry publicly blamed Julie for the tragedy gave Emma a jolt. “He really said that about Julie?” she asked.
Jack nodded. “He blamed your tomato sauce too. Bottom line, he’s convinced there was no foul play. That Natasha’s constitution was just too delicate for your robust red sauce.”
At that, Jack started laughing in spite of himself. Emma could tell that laughter came easily to this man. When he finally stopped, he continued.
“Emma, look, I didn’t want to bug the guy. He was hurting. And let me tell you, I know when a guy is hurting. But finally, I just had to say something. I said, Barry, be reasonable. I know you don’t want to think that anyone would murder that angel.”
Jack stopped talking again and glanced sideways at Emma. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t know if she was an angel. The word at the Club is that she took Barry’s cash and delivered the goods elsewhere. Be that as it may, to make him feel better, I told Barry that I didn’t think an angel like Natasha Vasiliev could be mixed up in a murder. But realistically, I said, Barry, it wasn’t the sauce. You can’t blame the salsa di pomodoro.”