by Leslie Karst
Eric laughed. “Well, they certainly got that wrong. Hey,” he said, readjusting Letta’s hat to a jaunty angle and striking a dramatic pose. “Maybe someday someone will unearth a previously undiscovered self-portrait of Gauguin in his Stetson hat.”
“Oh, God, that would be awesome.” I slapped my knee and had another drink of bourbon. “With palm trees and plumeria, and an idyllic, turquoise blue ocean in the background.”
“Oh, and speaking of oceans,” Eric said, “that reminds me. I heard from a woman at work this afternoon that, based on the autopsy, they think Gino’s body was in the water for about four or five days.”
I did the math. So that meant it probably was Monday night when he had died. The same night he’d eaten dinner at Solari’s. Not good.
“And,” Eric went on, “they did find saltwater in his lungs, which means he was still alive when he ended up in the ocean. The coroner has ruled the cause of death to be asphyxia due to drowning, but they’re thinking that as to the manner of his death, it was accidental. At least that’s the buzz around the office right now.”
“Really?” I lifted my brush midstroke form the outline of the tree trunk I was working on and set it on my palette.
“Yeah. They apparently found fragments of mussel shell embedded in that gash in his temple. The guys on the case won’t make an official determination until they get the tox report back, but I gather that based on this new evidence, along with the eyewitness testimony that Gino appeared drunk when he left Solari’s, they’re thinking he must have fallen off the wharf. Then, once he was in the water, he got slammed by the surge up against the pilings—which, as you know, are covered in mussels and barnacles—and that’s what gave him the abrasion and gave the skin there that purplish tinge. The report also said the blow was severe enough that it would likely have knocked him out. Hence his drowning.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s good, I guess. You know, that there was no foul play.”
But I didn’t mean it. Because this finding would be sure to put the heat more on Solari’s for letting a drunk old man leave the restaurant and then take a tumble into the ocean. If it were a homicide, on the other hand, that would be the story and folks would quickly forget that he’d been intoxicated when he left the restaurant.
Eric looked up from his paper. “Is that why you wanted to know about Gino’s will? Because you think there was foul play?” He chuckled to himself and went back to filling in his shed with an undercoat of white.
“Well, you have to admit that a finding of murder would be better for Solari’s. You know, that he didn’t die just because we let him leave the restaurant drunk.” I picked my brush back up and dabbed it in the smear of sepia paint on my pie pan. “’Cause right now’s a really lousy time for any bad publicity, with the dinner coming up.”
“Don’t you mean the big Columbus Day dinner?”
“Ha, ha. Not.”
“But seriously,” Eric went on, “why would anyone want to whack Gino on the head? Wasn’t he supposed to be this guy that everyone loved?”
“Well, I gather he’d become pretty crotchety of late. This other fisherman I was talking to the other day told me Gino had gotten really mean in the last few months, he thinks because Gino had been drinking a lot.”
Eric frowned.
“Yeah, I know. Not so good for us. But that’s why I asked about the will. Because I found out that Gino was supposedly going to give his boat to this guy, Bobby. And if he knew about it, that would provide a big-time motive to knock the old man off.”
“Well, sorry to burst your murder bubble. I found out they did find a will, but it gives everything to a brother who’s now dead. So this Bobby guy isn’t going to inherit a thing. It’ll all go to whoever’s Gino’s next of kin.”
I sucked on the end of my paintbrush and contemplated a brown-and-orange skipper that had alighted upon the lantana bush nearest me. Angelo had obviously been wrong. And since Gino hadn’t willed the boat to Bobby, he wouldn’t have told him he was going to. Bobby’s sadness at the fisherman’s death must have been sincere, after all.
Dang. There went my prime suspect. So who else could have killed him?
* * *
Sure enough, there were two more letters to the editor in next morning’s paper. One was in defense of Solari’s from a woman who came in frequently for lunch. But since she hadn’t been there the night of the incident, I doubted her plea would be all that helpful.
The other letter was from a guy who’d heard from a friend that Gino had been seen by someone else weaving down the wharf on the Monday night before his body was found, and who therefore blamed Solari’s for his subsequent drowning. Double hearsay, I thought as I ate my banana and sipped my morning brew. Not that anyone would give a hoot just how unreliable that made the letter writer’s accusation.
Tossing aside the newspaper, I set about making a list for my morning’s shopping: tortillas, cheddar cheese, lettuce, onions, bread, milk, more bananas. Oh, and stuff for Saturday night. Nichole and Mei were going to be in town, so I’d invited Eric, as well as Allison and her husband Greg, to come to my place for dinner along with my pals from San Francisco. I was going to try out a recipe for black cod marinated in miso and sake that I’d recently read about in a magazine.
The grocery shopping didn’t take long, but afterward I had to stop by the drugstore to pick up some vitamins and a packet of the special olive oil soap my grandmother liked and then swing by her place to drop them off. Then Nonna wanted to tell me in great detail about a parishioner who was having a spat with one of her fellow churchgoers and how the two women who’d once been close friends now no longer even sat in the same pew for mass. Although Nonna professed shock and sadness at this development, it was obvious she also took great pleasure in having such a juicy story to recount.
As a result, I didn’t get home until after eleven. And then, just as I’d picked up Buster’s leash to take him for a walk, my cell buzzed. It was a text from the Solari’s waitress, Cathy: “woman w/gino that night outside restaurant right now!”
“Sorry, Buster,” I said, replacing the leash on its hook. “Change of plans.”
After sending a quick text back, I grabbed my keys, gave the disappointed dog a biscuit (which did cheer him up), and ran back out to my car. If I could talk to that mystery woman, maybe—just maybe—I could get a definitive answer as to Gino’s state the night the two of them had eaten together at Solari’s.
Ten minutes later I pulled up in front of the restaurant and dashed into the dining room. “Where’s Cathy?” I asked, interrupting Giulia as she took the lunch order at table two. The matronly waitress frowned her disapproval but nodded toward the wait station before turning back to her customers.
Cathy looked up from measuring coffee into a filter and frowned when she saw me. “Oh. I guess you didn’t get my second text. She’s gone already.”
My face fell.
“Sorry. But you did tell me to—”
“I know, I did. And you were right to text me. So what was the woman doing? Just walking by, or talking to someone?”
“She was over there.” Cathy pointed out the window at the line of benches facing the bocce court. “Sitting and talking with that man who’s still there, the guy you were talking with in here the other day.”
I squinted into the bright sunlight to make out who was on the bench she was indicating. It was Angelo.
“Really? How long were they talking, do you know?”
Cathy shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Well, at least I could go find out from Angelo what he knew about the woman—and why they’d been talking together. What, did she have a thing for old Italian fishermen?
He smiled as I walked up and patted the place next to him on the bench.
“Ciao, Angelo,” I said, taking the proffered seat. “Lovely morning. How come you’re not fishing?”
“I went out yesterday and got skunked. Not one bite.” Angelo touched his forefinger to
his thumb, forming a zero. “Niente. Even down in Capitola, off the Slide, where I always find rockfish. So I decided to just take a few days off.”
“We couldn’t get any rockfish at Gauguin the other day either, so you’re in good company.” I shifted in my seat. “So I wanted to ask you about that woman you were just talking to. Do you know her very well?”
Angelo grinned. “Not as well as I’d like,” he said, giving me a little nudge. “Though I have seen her out here before. She’s a pretty hard gal not to notice.”
Oh, boy. “Well, how did you meet her?”
“She just came up to me and asked if I’d be willing to talk to her. Said she wanted to find out about the old days out here on the wharf and that I looked like someone who might be good for that.”
“Which means she thought you looked old,” I said, nudging him back.
“True.” The fisherman slapped his knees and laughed. “But I don’t mind the age difference if she doesn’t.”
“Uh-huh. And is that what you talked about, the old days?”
He nodded. “She’s writing a story for a newspaper about the history of the wharf and the fishing community out here. I guess people are interested in us now because of the hundred-year anniversary they celebrated a while back.”
“Do you remember the name of the paper she’s writing this story for? ’Cause I’d love to read it when it comes out.”
“The Santa Cruz Tribune. She said it was one of the weekly papers.”
I’d never heard of a publication by that name.
“But I could tell she was interested in more than just that,” Angelo added with a wink. “I think we made a special kind of connection. She told me she wants to see me again—for dinner sometime.”
And it would be Angelo’s treat, no doubt. “What’s her name? You know, so I can look for her byline?”
He smiled. “Anastasia. Isn’t that beautiful?”
Boy, was he smitten. I made a mental note to ask Cathy who had paid for dinner when Gino came in with Anastasia, if that was indeed her name. Because I was starting to sense a pattern here.
“Well, when you do have dinner together, why don’t you come to Solari’s so I can meet this wonderful woman? I’ll comp you the wine if you do.”
“Why, that’s awfully kind of you, Sally. Thanks. We’ll do that.”
It was my turn to smile. Even if Angelo and his femme fatale came in on a night I was working at Gauguin, as long as Cathy texted me right when they arrived, I’d have plenty of time to get down here before they finished their meal. So maybe I’d get to meet this mystery woman after all.
Angelo leaned his tall body back on the bench and stretched out his thin legs, which were almost lost in the baggy black canvas pants he wore. “Mario was telling me this morning about the big dinner he’s hosting for that Italian mayor,” he said.
“Did he tell you it’s going to be a Columbus Day celebration?”
“He did. And that you weren’t too happy about that. But I think your father is right. It’s a good thing to honor our Genovese tradition. And the menu he’s planning for it sounds straordinario. I think maybe I will have to buy a ticket myself.” The old fisherman smacked his lips in anticipation. “You realize how important your heritage is to the Italian cuisine, don’t you?”
“Sure. Pesto, focaccia, ravioli—they all come from Genoa.”
“Yes. And don’t forget stoccafisso,” Angelo added, prompting a grimace from me.
“Oh, I think we can definitely forget the dried codfish stew our forebears used to eat. I am so glad Dad decided to opt out of it for the dinner.”
“And remember that it was the Genovese Christopher Columbus who first brought the tomato to Italy from the New World,” Angelo said.
I was fairly certain this wasn’t true; I’d read that tomatoes hadn’t arrived in Europe till later, after Cortez conquered the Aztecs. But I didn’t bother arguing this finer point of history.
“And we all know how important the tomato is to Italian cooking,” he went on. “My mama, she used to make her own conserva. Never bought it from the stores. I remember how she would grow the tomatoes in the Italian Gardens, up where the sewage treatment plant is now, by Neary Lagoon. Then, late every September, this same time of year, she’d get me and my brothers to pick and cart home the bushels of tomatoes from her plants, and she’d chop them all up and put them in a big wooden barrel with a spigot. She’d let the liquid drain out for a week or so and then strain out all the skins and seeds.”
Angelo smiled at the memory and I pressed him to tell me more. I love hearing the old stories about food.
“Well,” he said, pleased to have an audience, “then she’d pour the strained pulp into cloth flour sacks and hang them from the clothesline to drain even more. It would take days and days for the conserva to get thick enough and then, once it was done, she’d salt the purée, put it into jars, and pour olive oil on top. Preserved that way, it would last years without spoiling. And what a flavor. So intense.”
“I remember my nonna’s sun-dried tomatoes,” I said. “She didn’t make her own conserva, but she’d slice and salt the fresh tomatoes and lay them outside on racks to dry. She stored them in crocks with salt and would soak them overnight in water when she wanted to use them. I think there are still a few jars down in her basement.”
Angelo was nodding. “Yes, I remember those, too. In fact, Gino used to salt his tomatoes to preserve them and would sometimes give me some. He made the conserva too. You know he was a great cook, right?”
“No, I had no idea. But that explains his kitchen.” I told Angelo about seeing the beautiful stove and copper pots the other day at Gino’s house. “I wish I’d known he was so into food. I would have loved to talk to him about it.”
“He never married,” Angelo continued, “so he had no wife to cook for him, and being Italian, of course, he loved his food very much and would not settle for store-bought pasta or conserva. He was very proud of his skills as a cook. But back when we were young, it was not so surprising to do one’s own cooking like that, even for a man. All the Genovese here, they’d make their own fresh pasta and conserva, as well as bread, wine…”
“Yep, that certainly describes my family,” I said with a laugh. “It’s no wonder we all opened restaurants.”
Chapter 9
I almost didn’t want to open the next day’s paper, knowing what I’d find inside. Dad had told me Friday was when they’d be running his notice about the sister-cities dinner and, sure enough, there it was—a quarter-page full-color ad near the end of the front section. Not only did the words “COLUMBUS DAY” scream out in block letters, but Dad had included clip art line drawings of the Niña, Pinta, and Santa María floating through the ad copy as well as a pair of American and Italian flags top and bottom. Directly under the cartoon rendering of the sailing ships were the words “Hosted by Solari’s Restaurant on the Wharf.”
My landline rang before I’d finished my first cup of coffee, and I knew without even looking at the number that it would be Eric.
“Nice touch, those ships,” he said. “I think Mario missed his calling as an ad man on Madison Avenue.”
I sighed. “Do you have a reason for calling other than to taunt me in my misery?”
“Nope.” Eric took a noisy sip from what I figured was the cup of Starbucks he bought every morning on the way to work. “But since I’ve got you, is there anything you’d like me to bring tomorrow night?”
“How about dessert? I hadn’t planned on asking anyone else to bring anything, but since you’re being such a brat, that can be your punishment.”
“Fair enough.”
“Nichole and Mei are coming down from the City, and Allison and Greg will be here, too, so we’ll be six.”
“Right; see you then. No, wait. I’ll see you before, at class tomorrow afternoon. Where are we meeting, again?”
“On the wharf, at the old ship near Solari’s.”
“Oh, right. Okay, g
otta dash; I have a witness interview in a half hour and I still have to read through the case file.”
After hanging up, I returned to my newspaper. The autopsy results Eric had already told me about were finally in the news—that Gino had saltwater in his lungs and had died of drowning and that, pending the results of the toxicology report and “other evidence which may come in,” the coroner’s office was ruling his death an accident.
I closed the paper and pushed my chair back from the red Formica table. Yes, the ruling of accidental death was not good for Solari’s, but it also made no sense from a practical standpoint. Even if Gino had been drunk when he left the restaurant that night, how could he have fallen over a railing that must have come up to almost chest height? And why would his body have washed onto Its Beach if he’d fallen off the wharf?
But if it was murder, who would have wanted to kill him? Bobby had seemed like the obvious suspect, but now that I knew he hadn’t been a beneficiary in Gino’s will, I could think of no reason for him wanting the fisherman dead. If anything, the opposite seemed true. Not only did Bobby seem to have genuinely cared for the old man, but he had been Bobby’s employer. With Gino gone, Bobby no longer had a job.
There was also Angelo’s new crush—Anastasia. She was the last person known to have seen Gino alive. And I couldn’t help but think that her spending so much time with Gino and Angelo, men more than twice her age, was suspect. Could she have been trying to get money out of Gino? And now that he was dead, she’d switched her attention to Angelo?
I was going to have to find out more about the mysterious Anastasia.
* * *
Gauguin was completely booked Friday night, with people on a waiting list hanging out in the bar hoping for no-shows. What a difference a rave review can make.
Javier had me on the hot line along with him, with Brian at the grill station and Kris on garde manger. “Two duck confit, two fish,” I called out to the head chef, reading off the next ticket on the rail.