by Leslie Karst
Wow, that really worked. Up close it didn’t seem particularly impressive, but from a little distance my white-and-blue splotches actually looked like a real sky.
As I moved on to my foreground subject, outlining the Marcella’s hull and then filling it in with a base layer of cadmium red, my eyes kept darting down to the leather bag sitting at the base of my easel. Why would Gino’s cap be in my father’s fishing skiff? The more I pondered this, the more I rushed through my painting. It’s hard to exercise patience when you know an article of clothing last seen on a dead man is hidden in the purse sitting at your feet.
By two thirty I’d completed my composition, a half hour before the end of class. We were supposed to have Omar assess our finished pieces before we took off, and I was worried I might get a lecture from the instructor about my slapdash work. But when I called him over to take a look, he nodded vigorously.
“Yes,” he said, rewarding me with a broad smile. “It’s nice to see you loosening up some, Sally. Your last two pieces have been rather tight, but this one is much more vibrant and alive. These brushstrokes here, for instance.” Omar indicated the water, where I’d hurriedly slopped on a combination of blue, magenta, and gray, with some yellow and white for highlights, merely trying to get the painting finished as quickly as I could. “They show a real freedom of movement. Well done.” He gave me a congratulatory pat on the shoulder and then moved on when another student called his name.
Huh. I stared at my work, trying to see it as he did.
“He’s right, you know.” Eric had come to stand next to me. “That’s the problem with us lawyers. We’re too controlling, which doesn’t tend to translate well to making great art. But this really is good.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But I think it’s only because I was trying to get it done quickly”
“Why? What’s your hurry on such a beautiful afternoon as this?”
He was being so amiable that I was tempted to confide in him about finding Gino’s cap. It always made me feel better to talk things through with Eric. Whereas my tendency was often toward excitability—especially these days with the hormonal changes I was going through—his default position was to consider the sensible and logical aspect of issues. So he was a good emotional backstop for me.
Should I tell him?
But then an image of my father and Gino grappling in the Solari’s bar flashed through my mind, and I realized I couldn’t tell Eric. Not yet. Not till I talked to Dad first.
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” I lied in answer to his question. “It’s just that I need to talk to my dad about that stupid sister-cities dinner, and then I have to get home to make dinner for tonight, so I guess I’m just kind of feeling rushed for time.”
He let it go at that, and I bent to organize my paints and brushes. Gouache dries quickly, so by the time I’d packed up my easel and supplies, my painting was ready to be slid into the portfolio I’d constructed for the class out of cardboard, duct tape, and string.
Waving goodbye to Omar, Eric, and the other students, I walked across the courtyard and pulled open the squeaky screen door into the Solari’s dish room. Sean was at the sink, spraying down a stack of bus trays. “My dad still here?” I asked, and he jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen.
After dumping my gear in the office, I found Dad, not in the kitchen but in the dry storage room. He looked up from taking inventory of our red wines. “Hi, hon. How was class?”
“Well, no dead bodies today, so that’s an improvement, I guess.”
His mouth formed a smile not matched by his eyes.
“Sorry,” I said, and took a seat atop a case of canned San Marzano tomatoes. “But I actually did find something interesting today.”
“Uh-huh?” He’d gone back to ticking off wines on his inventory list.
“Yeah. And I was wondering, when was the last time you took the skiff out on the water?”
He looked up from his clipboard. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ll tell you after you answer.” It broke my heart, having to interrogate my father like this, but I needed to hear what he had to say with no prompting from me.
Dad gave me a questioning look, but when I continued to hold my silence, he shook his head. “Okay, fine,” he said, “be that way. It’s been a while, a couple weeks maybe?”
“Do you know exactly when?”
He set the pen and clipboard on the shelf with the wine and the turned to face me, hands on his hips. “What is this, Sally?”
“Look, just bear with me. It could be important. Is there anything that might remind you of what day it was you went out?”
Sighing, he stared down at the floor as he considered. “Well, lemme see. It must have been a Tuesday morning, because I didn’t have to get back for work. So, I guess the Tuesday before last. Satisfied now?”
The worst answer possible. At my slumped shoulders, his grin disappeared. “What?”
“That’s the morning after Gino disappeared.”
“So?”
“So I just found his blue fisherman’s cap in your skiff. It had been shoved under the middle seat. I was out there for our painting class and noticed that one of the oars was out of place, and the cap slid out when I put the oar where it belongs.”
“How do you know it’s his?”
“C’mon, Dad. Everyone knows that cap. It’s not like anyone else around here ever wore one like it.” Gino’s hat was what I believe is called a Genovese seaman’s cap—kind of like a puffy beret with a wide brim at the front. And his was made all the more distinctive by the fact that its once-navy dye job had faded over the years to a sort of light denim color.
“But how could it have gotten in my boat?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” I said. “And what the police will wonder, too, once they find out about it.”
Dad’s blue eyes grew wide as the implications of my discovery registered. “But you can’t think I had anything to do with his death?”
“Of course not. But you’ve got to admit it looks bad. Especially since I just heard from Eric that they’re now treating his death as a possible homicide.”
“Oh, no,” he said, his mouth going slack.
I considered Dad’s Boston Whaler. There was definitely enough room to hide a body inside, and Dad kept a big tarp in the skiff to cover it during inclement weather. A tarp that could easily hide a dead body. “Look, even though I may not believe you had anything to do with his death,” I said, the fear no doubt showing in my face as well, “others certainly could. Especially since you and Gino fought just the day before he went missing.”
“Oh, God…” My dad sat—or more like collapsed—onto a stack of beer cases that had been delivered that morning. “What do you think’s gonna happen?”
“So you never saw his cap in your boat?”
“No, I swear.”
“Who knows you went fishing that morning?”
“Well, Johnny and Ralph, since they were operating the davit. But anyone who was out there when I left or came back would have seen me, too. So tons of people. It’s not like I was trying to hide it from anyone.”
“But I take it you didn’t tell the cops about this fishing trip when they were at the restaurant?”
Dad shook his head, his blank eyes staring at the floor. “No, they only seemed interested in how Gino was acting that night at dinner and didn’t ask about anything else. It seemed pretty clear they thought he must have just fallen in the water and drowned. So it never even occurred to me that my going fishing could be relevant.”
“How about your fight with Gino? Did you tell the cops about that?” He didn’t answer. “’Cause it’s hard to say that’s not pertinent.”
“But it’s not.” Dad shot up off the beer cases, fists clenched. “That had nothing to do with his death.”
“Well, that’s probably more for the police to decide than you. If nothing else, it’s evidence of him drinking too much on a previous occasion, and of his pro
clivity for fighting. And once they find out, they’re going to also know that you withheld the information.”
Perhaps I was being a little too hard on my father. He was, after all, no more guilty than I of withholding evidence. In fact, that was very likely the reason for my peevishness. We often react most strongly to the things in others that remind us of our own flaws.
But also, I had to admit, my irritation with him for dragging me once more back to Solari’s wasn’t helping. Yet every time I was tempted to finally have it out with him about this, something more pressing came up. How could I give him grief about some stupid dinner when I’d just discovered a murdered man’s cap in his fishing skiff?
Dad slumped and his arms went limp. “You think I should go down to the police station and tell them?”
I considered a moment and then shook my head. “I don’t think it would hurt if we held off for just a bit. I’ve been doing some poking around about Gino and who knows? Maybe I’ll find out something that will make all of the stuff involving you irrelevant.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Chapter 11
“You think it’s warm enough to eat outside?” Ripping open a packet of shrimp crackers, I dumped its contents into the wooden bowl my guests had already cleaned out once. Buster sat at my feet, hoping for an errant treat to come tumbling his way.
Nichole and Mei, who’d driven all the way down from San Francisco, had arrived for dinner right on time at six o’clock, followed shortly by Allison and Greg, who’d come up from Aptos. Eric, however, whose condo is only about two miles from me, had finally waltzed in just ten minutes ago—almost a half hour late. Some things never change.
“Sure,” Nichole called over the clatter of ice cubes striking glass. “We can always put on sweaters. And we might as well take advantage of the weather. There aren’t going to be many more nights when al fresco dining is even a possibility.” She snatched a cracker from the bowl and then went back to making our second round of drinks. We were a thirsty as well as hungry bunch.
Kneeling down to rummage in the cupboard under the silverware drawer, I came up with a large white tablecloth. “Okay, let’s eat at the picnic table, then. And we can use this.” I unfolded the cloth to display a 1950s-style map of the United States, complete with colorful line drawings of items associated with each region: a retro movie camera for California, several varieties of cactus for New Mexico, a red lobster for Maine, and two fishermen in a canoe for Minnesota.
As Nichole and I came back out to the patio, Buster following me and the bowl of rice crackers, Allison jumped up to help us set the table. “Typical guys,” Nichole remarked with a snort as Eric and Greg remained seated.
“Hey, I always help with the dishes,” Eric replied. “That’s our job, right?”
“Right,” said Greg, flexing his bicep. “It’s what we manly men do.”
Mei stretched out further on her lounge chair and sipped from her Martini. “And I researched and purchased the wine, and am therefore excused from all further labors tonight.”
In Eric’s defense, he’s actually pretty good about stuff like this. So when I headed back inside twenty minutes later for the last-minute dinner prep, he followed me into the kitchen and asked what he could do to help. There wasn’t much, as I’d planned a menu with little last-minute work, but I got him busy setting out plates and dishing into small bowls the pickled cucumbers I’d prepared that morning.
“Oh, man, I love sunomono,” he said as he divided the thinly sliced cucumbers among the six bowls. “Is the whole meal Japanese?”
“Yep. Just to show how much I love you, even if you can be super annoying sometimes.”
My black cod—which they call sablefish in the food biz—had now been marinating for two days in a mixture of sake, mirin, white miso, and sugar, so the sweet and savory flavors had fully penetrated the fish’s delicate flesh. Scraping the excess marinade off the fillets, I pan-fried them in a blistering-hot cast iron skillet till their skin was a toasty brown, then flipped them over onto a roasting pan and set it in the oven. “These’ll only take about five minutes,” I said to Eric, “so you want to start corralling folks over to the table and open the wine?”
While waiting for the cod to finish cooking, I set about plating up the side dishes. I’d settled on steamed white rice with a little black rice added for texture and color, as well as roasted baby bok choy with a sesame-shoyu glaze.
Eric returned to the kitchen as I was arranging a small nest of pickled ginger next to each piece of black cod. “Perfect timing,” I said, and we carried the plates out to the picnic table. I made Eric go back for the last one, since he does not possess my three-at-a-time skill gained from years as a waitress.
“To the cook!” Nichole said once we were all settled, and all five guests raised their glasses in a toast.
The table quieted down for an entire minute—long enough for everyone to taste their food and murmur “yum”—before conversation started up again.
Greg was the first to speak. “So tell us about discovering that the old guy washed up on the beach,” he said. “I gather you have my lovely wife to blame for being there to find it?”
Allison swatted him on the arm. “She might not want to talk about it, you know?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not as if it’s not on my mind, anyway. And yes, I do place the blame a hundred percent on you, Allison, since you’re the one who told me about Omar’s class.”
Nichole leaned forward, eagerness radiating from her round face and baby blue eyes. “Since you’re willing to talk about it,” she said, “he’s someone you knew, right?”
“Uh-huh. A fisherman who used to come into the Solari’s bar most afternoons. And as you probably know if you read the local paper, there’s a bunch of folks who blame us for his death. They say he was drunk when he left the restaurant and that’s why he fell in the water and drowned.”
“But didn’t he have a mark on his head?” Greg asked. “That’s what I read, anyway.”
“Yeah, he did,” Eric answered. “So at this point—and this is in strict confidence, okay?” He waited for solemn nods from all of us before continuing. “Okay. So they’re actually thinking it might be a homicide.”
“Dude.” Nichole said, and then turned and poked me in the ribs. “You gonna investigate, try to find his murderer?”
“All I said was that they think it might be a homicide,” Eric repeated, “not that they’re sure that’s what it was.”
But everyone at the table—except Eric, that is—continued to stare at me, waiting for an answer to Nichole’s question. I took a sip of Gewürztraminer and savored its notes of lemon peel and ginger. Mei had chosen well for our meal. “Well,” I finally said, setting down my glass, “I actually have been doing a little snooping around.”
“I knew it.” Nichole punctuated her exclamation with another jab to my midsection.
“Ow. Stop that, or I won’t say any more.” She bowed her head contritely and forked a piece of fish. “Anyway,” I went on, “here’s the thing. Gino, the old fisherman who died, had only two beers at Solari’s that night, along with a full dinner. And the waitress who served him swears he wasn’t drunk when he came in. But other people say he was acting weird after he left the restaurant. So it just seems like there’s something fishy going on. No pun intended,” I added when Nichole barked out a laugh.
“Maybe somebody slipped him a Mickey,” Greg said, and then chuckled.
“That’s actually not that far-fetched.” I recounted what I knew about Anastasia, how she had dined with Gino the last night he was seen and how since then she’d been hanging out with Angelo.
“But why would she want to slip something in his drink?” Allison asked. “It’s not like young women are known for drugging old men to take advantage of them.”
Mei lifted her wine glass and studied its straw-colored liquid, now backlit by the setting sun. “There’s a different kind of ‘advantage’ tha
n what you’re thinking,” she said.
Several voices piped up in unison: “Money!”
“And I’m pretty sure Gino was relatively wealthy,” I agreed. “He owned a boat, which has to be worth a bundle, and a house just a block from the water. If that was paid off…”
Everybody nodded at this. Anyone who lives in the Bay Area knows how pricey real estate is in Santa Cruz, especially houses near the coastline.
Allison set her fork down and reached for the wine bottle. “I still don’t see how slipping the guy a Mickey could get her money, besides maybe what he had in his wallet that night.”
“True.” I ate another piece of fish (perfectly cooked, I was pleased to note—crispy skin, but tender and flaky inside) and considered the mysterious woman. “Angelo said she was writing a story for the Santa Cruz Tribune, but there’s not a paper called that, is there?”
Eric pulled out his phone and did a search. “No,” he said after a moment. “Nothing comes up with that name—no newspaper, magazine, journal, e-zine, anything.” He slid the phone back in his pocket. “She’s definitely up to something.”
“Agreed,” I said. “Pretending to be a journalist would be the perfect cover for asking lots of invasive questions. But what would she have to gain from that? Or from flirting like she did with Gino? A couple dinners out doesn’t seem like enough reason. And now, just a week after throwing herself on Gino, she’s doing the same thing with Angelo.”
Of course, Gino was no longer in the picture, I mused as I cut a piece of bok choy. Angelo must simply be her number two choice for whatever she’s after. And then I flashed on a film I’d seen years ago.
“Remember that movie Black Widow?” I asked. “You know, about the woman who marries rich, lonely men, gets them to name her in their will, and then kills them off? What if that was what Anastasia was up to? You know, she pretends to be a journalist as a way to meet the guys, then seduces them.”