by Leslie Karst
“Assuming that was her MO, I’d say she jumped the gun if she did kill Gino,” Mei said.
“Not if he’d already put her in his will.” Greg turned toward Eric. “Have they found one?”
Eric nodded as he finished chewing the enormous bite he’d just taken. “Yes, but he gave it all to a brother who’s no longer alive. So it’ll end up going to some distant relative.”
“Unless…” Nichole had a gleam in her eye.
“Unless they’d already gotten married before he died,” Mei finished.
“Ohmygod, maybe that’s the reason Gino was so animated that night,” Allison said. “Maybe it was a wedding dinner.” She looked from Eric to Nichole to me—all the lawyers (or ex, in my case) at the table. “Those are public records, right, marriage certificates?”
“They are,” I said. “And I know exactly where to find them. I think a visit to the county clerk’s office might be in order for Monday morning.”
Chapter 12
“Of course they had to use a permanent marker,” Dad grumbled as he scrubbed unsuccessfully at the writing on Solari’s front door. Someone had scrawled “COLUMBUS DIDN’T DISCOVER AMERICA, HE INVADED IT!” across the red paint, and it was not washing off.
“Here.” He thrust the soapy brush toward Sean, who—along with the others who’d just arrived for work—had stopped to see what was going on. “You keep on trying to get it off while I go see if we have any of the right paint to cover this up.” Striding past me and my bike, he refused to meet my eye. No one likes to be proved wrong, especially my father, Mario Solari.
I’d stopped by the restaurant to pick up a cannoli for a post-ride treat and had been planning on going directly home. But seeing Dad’s frustration, I took pity on him and wheeled my bike around to the back of the restaurant and into the dish room. Maybe I could help him get rid of the graffiti before we opened.
He was in the storage room, poking around the shelf holding cans of paint and wood varnish, tubes of window putty, brushes, rollers, and rat traps.
“Don’t you say it,” he growled as I came into the room.
“I wasn’t going to. I just wanted to see if you’d like me to paint that over so you can get the kitchen set up is all. And hey,” I added, trying to diffuse the situation, “I’ve had a lot of practice painting of late. Maybe I can add some clouds to the door, or a boat or something.”
Ignoring my attempt at levity, Dad reached for a small can near the back of the shelf and examined the paint splotches on the lid. “I think this is the right one,” he said, handing it to me. “And thanks.”
That was all I was going to get. But it was a lot, given the situation.
Taking a paintbrush, drop cloth, and a couple of rags from the shelf, I headed back out front. Sean hadn’t had any more success cleaning off the felt marker than my father, so I thanked him for his efforts and told him he could go get to work inside. At least the door was now clean and ready for my paint. And as long as the marker didn’t bleed through, it would be an easy job.
As I was putting on the last strokes, feathering them as best I could to match the texture underneath, a man walked up and stood behind me, watching. “Well, look at that,” he said. “Who woulda guessed you’re such a good little painter.”
I wheeled around. It was Bobby, giving me what I took to be a superior, I’m-the-painter-you’re-just-a-girl grin. I turned back to my work. “Haven’t you got anything better to do than harass people?”
“What?” he said, actually sounding a little hurt. “It was a compliment.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure you would have said the exact same thing to Sean if it had been him painting the door.” But then I remembered I wanted to ask Bobby if he’d known about Gino’s will. Better make nice with him. “So, what brings you out to the wharf this fine morning, anyway?”
He kicked at the asphalt with his heel. “My dad asked me to come down and help out at the store. The guy that was supposed to be there with him this afternoon called in sick. And I could really use the money now, so I didn’t really have the choice to say no.”
“Bummer,” I said. “I completely understand. Nothing like being part of a family business. You’re never really off work, right?”
This time the smile seemed more genuine. “Yeah, totally. But it also sucks ’cause I couldn’t get to sleep till really late last night and so I’m super tired.” A large yawn confirmed this fact. “So how come you’re painting the door? Some gangbanger tag ya?”
“Uh-huh,” I answered, not wanting to further publicize the actual content of the graffiti. I wiped the edges of my paint can clean with a rag, buying time while I tried to come up with a story to go with what I wanted to ask Bobby.
Ah, got it.
“So, I actually had a question for you,” I said, tapping the can closed with the end of my brush and then setting the brush on the lid. “I met this guy who’s looking to buy one of those old-style fishing boats, and it occurred to me that he might be interested in Gino’s. You by any chance know what’ll happen to it?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “I guess some relative will inherit it, right?”
“Right. If he has any, that is. I gather his will gave everything to a brother who’s now dead, so his next of kin stands to get it all.”
Bobby’s expression displayed no surprise at this information. “Then I guess whoever that is might be interested in selling the boat to your friend. Unless they live around here, that is, and are into fishing. ’Cause it would be a pain to transport a boat like that anywhere far.”
“I guess I’ll just have to find out who does inherit it and then ask them,” I said. “Does it surprise you to hear Gino gave it all to his brother?”
Bobby shrugged. “Not really. I never really thought about it.”
“I only ask ’cause I thought that maybe since you’d been so helpful to him over the past few years with his boat and around the house, and since he didn’t have any kids or anything, maybe he would have given you his boat.”
“Why would he do that?” Bobby leaned forward and stared at me as if I were completely loony tunes. “It’s gotta be worth a ton, and I’m not even related to him. No one would do something like that.” He straightened up with a shake of the head.
“Well, you yourself said it seemed as if Gino thought of you almost like a son, so it wouldn’t be all that weird, really. And it would also make sense if you were therefore maybe feeling a little, I dunno … bitter to find out that his entire estate is going to someone he barely even knew.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Bobby shoved his balled fists into the front pockets of his jeans, arms stiff. But his right foot, I noticed, was tapping out a rapid beat. “The last thing I was ever thinking about was what would happen if Gino died. We were good buds—and he was paying me a good salary, too. The best work I ever had, actually. Now, not only have I lost a friend but I also lost my job, and so I gotta come in like some loser and work for my dad.” He turned to glare in the direction of the gift shop three doors down from Solari’s.
That was certainly one thing Bobby and I could agree on.
* * *
As I was heading for the Solari’s office, a fat cannoli in my hand, Sean called out from the dish room. “You got a minute?” the busboy asked, and I motioned for him to follow me into the tiny room.
I took a seat at the desk and he found a spot between my bike and the metal storage shelf where he could lean against the wall. “What is it?” I asked, then took a large bite of the crunchy, cream-filled dessert.
“It’s just that I remembered something else about that night when Gino had dinner here. I’d forgotten about it until this morning, when I saw these two bocce players arguing behind the restaurant.” Sean took a step toward me and lowered his voice. “Seeing them reminded me that I saw Gino that night in that exact same place arguing with some guy.”
“Really?” I set the cannoli down on the metal desk. “What guy? Tell me exactly what you saw.�
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“Okay.” Sean took a deep breath. “So a while after Gino and that woman left the restaurant, I’m out back taking a break and I see Gino with this other guy, and they were really getting into it.”
“What do you mean, ‘getting into it’?”
“You know, like arguing an’ all. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but Gino seemed kind of out of it. He was swaying, sort of, and his voice was a little slurred.”
“Did you recognize the other man?”
Sean shook his head. “I knew it was Gino from his voice, and I could also tell ’cause he had on that hat he always wore. But it was too dark to see who the other guy was.”
“Well, can you tell me anything about him?”
“Sorry,” Sean said, shaking his head. “That’s pretty much it. But since they were out by the bocce court, I’m thinking it coulda been one of those old Italian dudes who hang out there all the time. He was kinda hunched over, like an old guy.”
I frowned, staring out at the servers readying the dining room for the lunch service. It sure sounded like whoever Sean had seen arguing with Gino that night could have been the last person to see him alive.
And therefore could also be his murderer.
* * *
I was at the Solari’s coffee station helping myself to a cup of regular to chase down that rich cannoli when I heard a familiar baritone laugh. Angelo was at his usual table, sipping from his own cup of coffee. As I watched, Giulia set a pair of to-go containers down on the table and poured him a refill. Once she’d left, I walked over to the red leather booth. “You’re dressed awful spiffy today,” I said, indicating his dark suit and red tie.
“I was at Gino’s funeral this morning. Sit, please,” he added, as I hovered over his table. “I’m meeting someone in a little bit, but I can stay and chat for a couple minutes.”
Could that someone be Anastasia? I wondered as I complied, setting my coffee down before me. A romantic picnic in some secluded spot, perhaps? But I kept this thought to myself. “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t even know the funeral was happening or I would have attended. Was it a full mass?”
He shook his head. “Just a short service at the funeral home, but the parish priest was there. And the burial was private, so I didn’t go. I think it’s happening right now.”
“Were many people at the service?”
“No, not many. A couple women from the church who go to all the parishioners’ funerals, and a relative—a second cousin or something who came out from back East. Oh, and Bobby was there, too.” Angelo drained his cup, then raised his arm to signal Giulia to bring his check.
“Huh.” I sipped my coffee as I considered this. It made sense for Bobby to have been there, given how close he and Gino had been. “This cousin who was at the funeral, he was the only relative there?”
Angelo’s eyes were following the rotund waitress as she crossed the dining room floor, but he turned back at my question. “As far as I know. He’s the son of Gino’s cousin, I heard someone say. And I think he may be the only living relation. He came out here to organize the funeral and deal with Gino’s effects.”
“I bet he’s the one who’s going to inherit his estate. Was anyone else there?”
“Just some of us old geezers who’ve known Gino forever—a few of his bocce buddies and several other fishermen.”
“I didn’t know he played bocce,” I said.
“Well, he hadn’t much lately. He made himself not all that welcome when he started cheating. Oh, thank you, cara mia.” Angelo gave Giulia a wink as she set the bill down on the table, prompting a giggle from the waitress.
“Cheating? That seems kind of petty.”
The fisherman smiled. “The way I heard it, Gino was nudging his balls closer to the pallino—you know, the little white ball you try to get your ball nearest to—when he thought the others weren’t looking. Except they were, of course. And then he’d argue and deny it. After a while, no one wanted to play with him anymore.”
“Well, you know what they say about Italians having a reputation for cheating and scamming, how they’ll take advantage of you if you give them half the chance.”
Angelo didn’t join in my laughter. “Not so,” he said, thrusting his chin forward. “At least not the ones here, who came from Liguria. We may be shrewd bargainers, but we’ve also always been respected for our integrity.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “In fact, the Genovese down here in Santa Cruz were so well known for their honesty and paying their bills on time, my father could buy a whole year’s supply of spaghetti, aged cheese, and olive oil on credit from the grocers up there in San Francisco.”
“But what about all the rum runners I’ve heard about who were in Santa Cruz back in the twenties, you know, during Prohibition. They were Italian, right?”
“They were not from around here. And besides, their families were mostly from Naples and Sicily—not Genoa.” Angelo chuckled. “Of course, I’m not saying all the Genovese were—or are—perfect. They could be very competitive, especially when it came to fishing.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Absolutely. And there’s still lots of rivalry, mind you, over who catches the most fish, who makes the most money.” Angelo picked up the check, examined it, then reached for his billfold. “I’ve even heard stories of lines and nets being cut by other fishermen.”
“Whoa. That’s not cool. Does it still go on, the line cutting and stuff?”
Angelo poked around inside, searching for the correct bills. In what seemed like slow motion, he finally extracted a twenty and a ten, smoothed them out on the table, and returned the wallet to his front pocket. “No,” he finally said, his eyes on a new foursome that had arrived at the bocce court and were taking practice throws. “Those days are long gone.”
Chapter 13
Neither Dad nor I mentioned the graffiti incident during Sunday dinner that afternoon. I didn’t want to rub his nose in what pretty much confirmed the fears I’d expressed about the whole Columbus Day thing, but at the same time I took my father’s silence as a sort of concession that I’d been right after all.
It was a hollow victory, though, as there was no going back at this point. “Let’s just hope that defacing the restaurant door is the worst of it,” I said to Buster as we pulled away from my grandmother’s house.
Utterly stuffed from Nonna’s Sunday gravy—and in Buster’s case, all the tidbits she’d snuck him under the table—the two of us returned home after the meal for a nap. Like Bobby, I was also suffering from lack of sleep, since my dinner party the night before hadn’t ended till almost one. Nichole and Mei had slept in and were only just getting ready to drive home to San Francisco when I’d gotten back from my bike ride and then the long detour at Solari’s. After seeing them off, I’d had barely enough time for a quick shower and dog walk before heading off to Nonna’s.
Buster and I dozed for about an hour, but at four o’clock I had to rouse myself to go to work at Gauguin. The dog, however, stayed put, shifting position just enough to roll over onto the warm spot I’d left by vacating the bed.
A half hour later, I pulled the T-Bird up to the side entrance of the restaurant, switched off the ignition, and stared through the garde manger window at Tomás, already at work on his dinner prep. I hadn’t talked to Javier since our spat Friday night, and the prospect of seeing him again was making my palms sweat. Of course, it could also have been another hot flash. But the tightness in my shoulders and gut suggested otherwise.
The chef was up in the office, talking on his cell. I could tell from his giggles and animated voice that it was her on the other end—Natalie. Not wanting to eavesdrop (okay, so I did want to, but I restrained myself), I waited in the stairwell until all was quiet.
He was grinning at something on his laptop when I came into the room, but the smile disappeared when he saw me. “How was your dinner party?” he asked, closing the screen.
I didn’t detect any sarcasm in his question, but then
again, I was pretty sure he didn’t want a detailed response either. “Fine,” I said, and took a seat in the wing chair across from him. “Was it busy again last night?”
“Seventy-three covers,” he said. “So, yeah, we were pretty slammed.”
“Dang.” Gauguin had only twelve tables for four, so that meant some had to have been double seatings. “How many reservations for tonight?”
“Eight tables so far.”
I nodded. That wasn’t a bad number for a Sunday. “So, look, Javier, I wanted to talk about what happened—”
“I know,” he said, cutting me off. “Me, too. And I’m sorry I said what I did.”
“Sorry you said it,” I repeated. “Okay … does that mean you really do feel that way, but you’re just sorry you let it slip out?”
Javier didn’t respond right away, instead picking up the small carved wooden tiki on the desk that he liked to rub with his thumb when anxious, much as a Greek might finger a set of worry beads. Uh-oh, not good.
He replaced the tiki and leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good boss,” he finally said, “because you are. You’ve been great, actually. It’s just that, I dunno…” Running a hand through his fine, black hair, he exhaled slowly, like an athlete preparing for a feat of strength. “I guess maybe I’ve been thinking I don’t want to have a boss anymore, even a great one. That maybe it’s time to go off and, how do you say? Spread open my wings and start my own restaurant.”
I gaped at Javier. He can’t have just said what I think he did. But the combination of discomfort and elation he was displaying was answer enough. Ohmygod. He did.
You know how your face feels when you’ve experienced a shock—as if your muscles are frozen in place and all the blood has suddenly drained away? Well, that’s exactly the sensation I had. And I must have looked as bad as I felt, because as soon as Javier finally glanced up to meet my eye, he started out of his chair.
“No, I’m okay,” I said, waving him back. “Okay, maybe not okay … but I’m not going to faint or anything.” I tried to smile but pretty much failed. A series of emotions were sweeping through me: disbelief, anxiety, anger. Ultimately, though, the one that overwhelmed all the others was fear.