by A. J. Carton
“OK,” Piers shrugged his shoulders. “All I want to add is this. Speaking objectively, more objectively than Julie, he is nice enough personally. If you’re on his side. He’s smart. Maybe savvy is a better word. But I’ll warn you, if you cross him, he can be a very difficult man. He’s aggressive and determined to have his way. All the time. Of course, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. And sure, he’s Italian. Apparently he even likes opera. But despite the Harvard education,” he hesitated, “well, he just doesn’t seem like our type. Maybe what I’m saying is, Julie and I just don’t get what you see in him, that’s all. Of course,” he added, “that’s your business, not ours.”
Darn right, Emma thought. She answered, instead, “Piers, what I’m trying to tell you is that you’re right. He’s not my type. I don’t see anything in him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t go to the Opera with him.”
By then they’d pulled into the driveway of Piers and Julie’s elegant, 5000 square foot mansard roofed mini Versailles on elegant Silver Creek Road. It had a huge pool, sat on two acres of lawns and gardens, and was surrounded by vineyards. Yes, Piers had done well for her daughter, Emma noted as she opened the car door. And she liked Piers. So she decided not to end the ride on a strident note.
“Piers,” she touched his shoulder before he got out of the car. “I just want you to know that I appreciate the fact that you and Julie always look out for me. I couldn’t ask for better children.”
The minute she passed through Julie’s front door, Harry threw himself at her.
“Nonnie, Nonnie! Yay, Nonnie’s here,” he shouted. “Come on. Let’s play Go Fish in the living room.”
That was reward enough for coming to dinner with nothing but house dust on the soles of her shoes.
Go Fish it was. For an hour. Along with a glass of wine and some local goat cheese. Emma played with her grandson, sipped the wine, savored the cheese and figured that if the Big D came that night, she’d die happy.
Then the phone rang. Emma heard Julie’s voice. Something in her tone activated Emma’s antennae. Her reaction was justified by the look on Julie’s face the minute she walked into the living room.
“I’m sorry, Mom, but,” she began.
Emma knew immediately what was coming. If only by now she’d been able to convey to her daughter that it was OK. She really didn’t care anymore. In fact, it was all sort of amusing in a zany Fox sitcom sort of way. Her completely mismatched marriage to a philandering felon. It really didn’t matter.
Or did Julie want it to matter? Emma considered this for a moment. How could Julie not want it to matter? How could she think that something so hurtful did not matter?
“Dad’s coming over,” Julie explained. “He wants to see Harry. I told him you were here. Of course, that only made him want to come more. Like if he didn’t, he’d miss out on something. Is that OK?”
“Of course,” Emma answered. “It’s fine.”
“Sure?” Julie asked.
“Sure.”
Twenty minutes later, Andy arrived.
“Emma, so good to see you,” he greeted her with a hug. “My don’t you look well? By the way, I saw you on the news. I almost called. But I thought, everyone will be calling her. Then Julie explained that those poor Roma, the ones the police have been trying to pin Natasha Vasiliev’s murder on, were people you know. It’s terrible how the police have scapegoated those Roma, isn’t it?”
Emma had noted that, since his conviction, Andy had become an expert on scapegoats. .
“I read all about it in the paper,” Andy continued, becoming more and more agitated as he spoke. He turned to Piers. “How can they hold those people? They have no proof. It’s obvious they were framed. The real killer probably poisoned Natasha Vasiliev before the dinner. Otherwise, how did she have time to digest the poison?”
Emma and Piers exchanged amused looks. Apparently Andy was now a toxicology expert as well.
“What kind of poison was it, anyway? Have they done the final toxicology report?” Andy asked.
“It’s due Tuesday,” Emma answered.
Andy shook his head as if to say what bozos. “Anyway, it doesn’t take a toxicology report to see that the killer poisoned Natasha Vasiliev, then took the ring off the body after she died, and planted it in that poor Roma’s trailer.”
“What about the stolen stuff in Tonio’s trash?” Piers asked.
“Allegedly in his trash,” Emma corrected him.
“Trash, smash,” Andy dismissed it. “Don’t you see? This was premeditated. The killer stole the stuff and hid it in Tonio’s trash. The same person probably alerted the police to it. All to frame those poor defenseless Roma.” Andy was in tears now. He took out a Kleenex and wiped his eyes. “It makes me sick just to think about it.”
Andy checked his watch and looked at Julie. “By the way, when are we eating? I have to pick something up at Target on the way home. And this,” he pointed to his ankle bracelet, “goes off at eight o’clock. If I’m not home, the darned thing calls my probation officer and snitches on me. Is there time for dinner? Or should I just munch on this cheese and paté?”
“Better load up on the cheese and paté, Dad,” Julie answered. “Dinner won’t be ready for at least a half hour.”
Half an hour later, Andy waved good-bye from the front door. “Sorry I have to run. Great to see everybody. Especially you, my little munchkin.” He reached down to give Harry a hug. “Handsome, isn’t he?” he said to Piers. “Kinda looks like me, don’t you think?”
It wasn’t till they’d finished eating and Piers took Harry upstairs for his bath that Julie motioned her mother into the kitchen to discuss her day at the Honorage Spa.
“I found a few things out,” she began. “Piers doesn’t buy any of it. He still thinks the Roma did it. But even allowing for Dad’s paranoia, there might be some truth in what he said.”
Emma nodded. “Go on.”
“Here’s what I learned today. First of all, Oleg, my well informed masseur at the Honorage Spa, adored my eyewitness account of Lexie’s drunken show last night. He hates Lexie more than I knew. Going way back to when she first worked at the Honorage. I mean, Oleg used words to describe Lexie like conniving, scheming, stop at nothing to get her way. By the way, she grew up in Connecticut. Oleg thinks she left under some kind of cloud.”
Emma remembered the shoplifting charges the free legal services clinic had dug up. She kept that to herself for the moment and nodded.
Julie continued. “Right after the Honorage hired Lexie as a masseuse, she bragged that she’d snag a rich husband and quit her job in three months flat. Well, you can imagine how Oleg reacted to that. He’s worked at the Honorage for twenty years looking for a rich sugar daddy without a bite.”
“Then,” she continued, “Barry Buchanon cancelled his regular appointment with Vera Vasiliev, Natasha’s twin sister. Vera had worked at the Honorage since she and Natasha moved to California three years ago when Natasha won an Ormon Rising Young Star Fellowship. By the way, Oleg says Vera’s the best for deep tissue. I believe him after wrestling with her at Jardin last night. So that’s when Lexie started doing Barry and figured she’d just got her chance to marry a billionaire.”
“She had, right?” Emma asked.
“Not exactly,” Julie replied. “According to Oleg, Lexie didn’t know that Vera Vasiliev had already made other plans for Barry’s nuptial bliss. A few months before, when Vera started doing him, strictly massage, Vera discovered that Barry loved opera. So she set him up with her twin sister, Natasha, hoping Natasha would marry rich Barry, who would pay off their debts and kick start Natasha’s career. Who needed an Ormon Fellowship with Barry footing the bill? For a while Vera’s plan for her sister seemed to work. Barry fell head over heels in love with Natasha.”
“Onassis and Callas,” Emma sighed, “like the rich Greek tycoon and his mistress, the ill fated diva.”
“Right,” Julie nodded. “But then, just when Vera thought her sister
had sealed the deal and would marry Barry Buchanon, something unexpected happened. At one of Barry’s parties, Natasha met…”
“Sergio, our handsome celebrity chef,” Emma completed the sentence. “And Natasha fell head over heels in love.”
“Exactly,” Julie nodded. “Natasha dropped Barry like last year’s Prada flats. And her sister’s carefully laid plan to marry her to the rich Barry Buchanon, completely unraveled. Lexie saw the opening to lure Barry to her well made bed, and married the old fool on the rebound a few months later.”
“Wow,” Emma exclaimed. “Vera and Lexie must hate each other. They were rivals, of sorts, at the spa.”
“Of sorts,” Julie agreed. “But Vera had only told her co-worker, Oleg, about her plans for her sister’s marriage. Lexie never knew. Oleg and Vera even went to Lexie’s wedding. After all, it wasn’t Lexie’s fault that Natasha chose a gorgeous celebrity chef over an old billionaire. Then Natasha’s career took off and she moved to New York.”
“So why didn’t that end it?” Emma asked. “With Barry, I mean.”
“Well,” Julie resumed, “according to Oleg, what Lexie never expected was that Barry would carry a torch. A few months ago, when Natasha returned to San Francisco for the Trovatore rehearsals, he wanted Natasha back.”
Emma threw up her hands in confusion. “What about Sergio, our hunky celebrity chef? Wasn’t she still in love with him?”
Julie rocked her hand back and forth. “Not really. By then, Sergio didn’t look so attractive anymore. According to Oleg, he was deeply in debt. And Natasha was famous. Of course, Barry was married to Lexie. And Sacha Kuragin, the sexy basso, was in Natasha’s life. Not exactly a Barry Buchanon in the finance department, but a famous and attractive man. And they both spoke Russian. They understood each other in more ways than one.”
By now, Emma’s head was swimming. “So where does all this leave us?”
“It leaves us here,” Julie concluded. “According to Oleg who heard it from Vera, Barry Buchanon had been using every financial inducement he had to lure Natasha back to his bed. Paying off loans. Buying her expensive jewelry. Even slipping her wads of cash. If Lexie knew about that - and obviously she did - well, as we’ve said before, it’s a motive.”
Emma blew out a long exasperated breath. “That’s all very interesting, Julie, in a confused sort of way. But we need proof. Carmen’s sitting in jail with a 100K stolen ring found hidden in her trailer. What concrete proof have we got that Lexie Buchanon committed the murder?”
Julie’s face fell. “I guess you’re right. Nothing yet,” she agreed. “Oh,” she seemed to remember something. “Oleg had another interesting tidbit. It doesn’t incriminate Lexie, though.”
“What?” Emma asked.
“It’s about his co-worker and confidant, Natasha’s twin, Vera Vasiliev. Oleg said Vera had a huge crush on Sacha Kuragin, Natasha’s lover, the basso.”
Emma nodded. “I know. I think she still does. Last night at the party, she practically threw herself at him.”
“Well,” Julie continued. “At the very end of my massage, which was great, I might add. It did me a lot of good. You should get one. Anyway, at the end of my massage, Oleg told me Sacha complained bitterly about Vera’s annoying advances. Oleg got all this from Sacha, himself, by the way. Sacha is one of Oleg’s old buddies.”
“Like from way back in Russia?” Emma asked.
“Actually, they’re both from the Ukraine,” Julie explained. “According to Sacha, Vera could not understand why Sacha wouldn’t leave her sister alone when Barry resumed his advances to Natasha. Vera offered herself to Sacha instead of Natasha, her twin. Oleg says that in Vera’s mind, she and Natasha are identical and therefore interchangeable.”
“Except, of course, they aren’t,” Emma added. “And everyone knows that.”
“Everyone except Vera,” Julie explained. “She was furious when Sacha rejected her.”
“Poor deluded Vera,” Emma sighed. “Now she has nothing. No sister. No Sacha. She’s probably the biggest loser of all.”
Julie shook her head. “No, Mom. Face it. Natasha is the biggest loser.”
Just then Piers poked his head into the kitchen. “The little man’s finally asleep,” he announced.
Emma checked her watch. Time to go. She stood up and looked at her son-in-law. “Can you give me a ride?”
“I’ll drive you,” Julie offered.
They were almost home when Julie turned to her mother. “Any chance you can babysit Friday? Piers and I need to be at Opening Night. Clare is announcing Barry Buchanon’s big donation. It seems he and Lexie have reached some sort of agreement, according to Clare.”
“Sorry, honey. I’m busy Friday night,” Emma said.
Julie looked disappointed. “Is it something you can change?”
Emma took a deep breath. “Jack asked me to the Opera.”
Emma could almost see Julie bite her tongue. “Great,” she managed. “You’ll have fun.” She paused. “What are you going to wear? You can borrow something if you need to.”
Emma let her breath out slowly. “Thanks, honey, but no. I’ll make do."
Emma got out of the car and climbed the front steps to her door. Otis Redding’s song echoed in her ear. Yes, she mused, even old girls get weary wearing the same old dress.
Chapter 16: Thursday Morning - Outlets
Emma woke up Thursday morning unable to get Otis Redding out of her head. She put a sweater over her green fleece muumuu and made her way downstairs to the bright country kitchen where she brewed a small pot of coffee. Yes, she reminded herself as she foamed up a pitcher of milk, the legendary mountain man’s farmhouse that Piers and Julie had fixed up for her suited her just fine.
The best part of all was the backyard. One third of an acre of fruit trees, flowers and lawn abutting a small wildlife preserve. The large redwood deck off the kitchen had a picnic table for grilled dinners on hot summer evenings that in Blissburg lasted well into the fall. What more did she – what more did anyone – need?
It was early September. The sun was out. Birds were singing in the fruit trees. Emma brought a tray of the coffee, milk and Claud’s biscotti out to the deck to enjoy the warm morning air. When the phone rang inside the house, Emma didn’t even bother to get up to answer it.
Then her cell rang inside the pocket of her muumuu. It was Julie. Just checking in. Emma assured her daughter that she was fine. That the tears Piers saw in the car were for Otis Redding, not for herself. And that yes, she was all set for Opening Night.
Or was she?
Emma hung up her cell. Then she mentally searched her wardrobe to see what was there.
First she pictured the brilliant red and orange Missoni sweater, but she’d already worn it with Jack to the Ormon thing. There was the black velvet Prada skirt she got on sale ten years before; but the last time she tried it on it was way too small. The flowered dress she wore to Julie’s wedding was too summery and already looked dated. Her own wedding dress wouldn’t fit her left thigh.
Pants of any kind didn’t feel right, especially if Jack’s seats were in the orchestra section. At the one Opening Night Emma had attended, many years before when Mary’s husband got stranded in New York, every woman from the orchestra to the mezzanine wore an evening gown. The last time she looked, the San Francisco newspapers still covered Opening Night in the fashion column.
Of course, she reminded herself, Jack had assured her that he didn’t care if she wore sweat pants Opening Night. Sweat pants indeed!
Suddenly Emma realized that it didn’t matter whether Jack cared what she wore. She had a date for Opening Night at City Opera. With a man who looked vaguely like Robert de Niro and who was more or less her age. The music would be great. The food good. The company posh. All that mattered was that, for the first time in months, she cared.
She checked the time on her cell phone. It was already 9:15. The day before, she had told Steve she’d find a way to talk to Sergio. The sooner
the better. Carmen was rotting in jail. The police, sure of their suspect, were unlikely to turn up any new leads.
Emma thought for a moment. Sergio’s chic restaurant in downtown Blissburg only opened for dinner. He probably didn’t even start cooking until noon. By the time she got dressed it would be 9:30. It took an hour and a half in traffic to drive to Petaluma and back. That left almost an hour to get the job done. Yes! She pumped her fist. There was time to hit the outlets.
Emma showered, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and got in the car. She told herself that driving fast, with no traffic, she could complete the trip to the stores in a little over half an hour. The stores opened at 10:00. With luck, she’d have time to spare.
She pulled out of her driveway on to Blissburg Avenue and drove by the fire station towards the center of town. Passing the tree-shaded plaza with its chic wine bars and upscale boutiques, she realized she hadn’t really been shopping in years. Shopping? Why bother, she’d asked herself every time she passed the outlets on her way into the City or heading south to San Jose. The clothes, now, were too expensive. Besides, nothing fit. Even if it did, the clothes were not appropriate. Who wanted to look like a senior slut?
But that morning, driving south on 101 at a reckless 80 miles an hour, Emma realized that something was different. She cared. She wanted to shop. She felt it. The rush. The longing. Desire. The thrill of, once again, wanting to possess! She hadn’t felt those things in years.
Thirty minutes south of Blissburg, the Saks Off Fifth outlet sign loomed into view. Emma quickly decided that would be her first stop. At Saks she hoped to find a kind of overview of a market she’d abandoned seasons ago. She swerved her Prius across two lanes and made the exit. Then she pulled into a parking space in front of the store. As she stepped through the sliding glass doors her heart was full of hope.
And she was right to hope. The first thing she saw started her heart racing. A plain, floor length black satin strapless Armani sheath. It graced a dummy at the very front of the store. With the green paisley pashmina that Julie and Piers brought back as a gift from India almost eight years before, Emma knew the gown would look stunning. She approached the Armani rack crossing her fingers they’d have her size.