by Leslie Karst
“Just wanted to find out how it went yesterday down at the police station. You did go, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I went.” Glancing around to see if anyone was within earshot, I walked around the corner of the Solari’s building and stood facing the wall. “And as you can imagine, Detective Vargas was not pleased that I’d waited so long to turn the cap in to him.”
“You admitted when you found it?”
“C’mon, Eric. I may have taken longer than I should have to do it, but I’m not going to lie to the cops about something like that.”
He was chuckling. “Well, that’s good. I was starting to have my doubts.”
“It’s not funny,” I hissed. “I also had to tell him about my dad’s interaction with Gino, as well as where I found that damn cap.” Detecting movement behind me, I glanced back. But it was just Sean walking from the Solari’s back door to the area where we were setting up the tent.
“Interaction?” Eric asked.
“Don’t you remember? I know I told you. About how the two of them got into that fight.”
“Oh, right.”
“And I gotta say, the detective seemed particularly interested in that information. Anyway, I better go. We have to get this tent up and—”
“You found a tent? Great!”
“Yeah. At least one thing seems to be working out. Anyway, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
I ended the call and headed back to the tent construction site. Bobby was standing a ways off, checking his phone, and Sean and Emilio were leaning on the wharf railing, checking out the storm surge sloshing noisily against the piers. As I rounded the corner of the building and passed Angelo and his friend on their bench, I realized that they had stopped chattering and were eyeing me as I walked by.
Had the two men heard any of my conversation with Eric? And then I realized with a jolt that the man with Angelo was the guy who’d hit my dad’s skiff with his errant bocce ball throw. Same natty pressed slacks and cotton shirt, same head of silver hair. And he was slender and slightly hunched over. Yes, he could definitely be the man Sean described arguing with Gino the night he disappeared.
I stopped to talk to them, eager to learn something about the old bocce player. “I don’t think we’ve ever officially met,” I said, extending my arm. “I’m Sally, Mario’s daughter.”
“Frank.” The man took my hand in a strong grip. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Frank only moved here last year,” Angelo said, “down from San Francisco, to be closer to his daughter who lives here.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “I pretty much grew up on the wharf and know most of the folks who hang out here—that explains why we haven’t met. But I’ve seen you playing bocce a lot lately.”
Frank smiled, producing rows of creases on his tanned face. “That’s one thing I miss from the old neighborhood,” he said. “My bocce club was one of the best in the Bay Area. Down here, well, let’s just say they don’t take the competition quite as seriously.”
And I can imagine you don’t take kindly to cheaters, either, I thought, remembering what Angelo had said about Gino, and also how this man had reacted to the ribbing of his fellow bocce players. But I kept this observation to myself. No reason I couldn’t ask him in general terms about Gino, though.
“So, did you know the man who died a couple weeks back, Gino Barbieri? He used to play bocce here.”
The smile vanished from Frank’s face. “Uh-huh, I knew him,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. I was about to probe him further but, seeing a look of surprise from Angelo, who was staring at something behind me, I turned to see what had caused such a reaction from the old fisherman.
“Ms. Solari, just who I was looking for. May I have a word?”
It was Detective Vargas. And two uniformed officers were with him. Damn.
The detective held out a piece of paper for me. “I have a warrant to seize your father’s boat,” he said. “Could you show me where it is?”
I took the warrant and scanned it to make sure the document was properly dated and signed by a judge and that it was indeed for my dad’s skiff. No procedural errors I could see, alas.
I handed the warrant back to Vargas, trying to ignore Angelo and Frank’s gape-mouths and wide eyes. “It’s over here,” I said. The detective followed me to the other end of the Solari’s building and we stopped at the Boston Whaler. “This is it.”
“Thanks.” He studied the boat for a moment and then asked, “How does your father transport it? Does he have a trailer?”
“No. When he wants to take it out, he borrows a dolly from the boat rental folks to move it over to their davit, and they lower it into the water for him.”
Vargas frowned and then turned to his two cohorts. “Okay, Mark, you stay here and secure the scene, and Lisa, you go back to the station and find a trailer so we can transport this thing.”
“You got it,” the gal said, then trotted back out to the front of the building.
I watched her go and then turned to the detective. “You need anything else? ’Cause I really should get back to work helping put up that tent.” I nodded toward the metal frame and pieces of vinyl scattered across the asphalt, and to Emilio, Sean, and Bobby, who were staring our way with the same bewildered expression that Angelo and Frank wore.
“Yeah, there is one more thing,” Vargas said. “Is your father here? Because I’d like him to come down to the station with me to answer some questions.”
Chapter 21
The detective started for the back door of the restaurant, and, after giving a “just a sec, be right there” sign to the guys by the tent, I followed him inside. We found Dad talking to Joe, the new prep cook, five cases of whole chickens stacked next to them.
“Part ’em all out, cut the breasts in two, and throw the backs, skinned, into this pot for—” Dad stopped when we came through the door. “What’s this?”
“I’m Detective Vargas of the Santa Cruz Police Department, and I have some questions I’d like to ask you pertaining to Gino Barbieri.”
Dad looked from the detective to me, his eyes initially registering confusion but then changing to understanding as they came to rest on mine. “Oh,” he said, and his shoulders wilted. “Okay, I guess I can give you a few minutes. Let’s go into the office.”
Vargas bit his lip. “I’d actually prefer it if you came down to the station with me.”
“Is he being charged with anything?” I asked, cutting in. “Because if he is, then he’s not going to say anything without an attorney present. A criminal defense attorney, who hasn’t gone inactive with the bar,” I added, when Dad raised his eyebrows as if to suggest I might be that attorney.
“No, you’re not being charged,” the detective said to my dad. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened and feel that you might have information relevant to the case because of where that cap was found.”
“So that means you don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. And I recommend that you don’t.”
Vargas glared at me but, since he knew I was right, remained silent.
Twisting the side towel hanging from his apron into a giant knot, Dad swallowed and blinked a few times. “Well,” he finally said, “I guess I’m willing to talk to you, if it could really help with your investigation.”
The detective smiled, but I groaned. “Oh, Dad…”
“No, it’s okay, hon,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong, so what’s to worry about?”
Lots, I thought, but kept this to myself. I didn’t want to further antagonize the man who would shortly be grilling my father like a flank steak on the Gauguin charbroiler. Besides, I knew full well that once my dad had decided on a course of action, it was nearly impossible to get him to change his mind.
He untied his apron and tossed it on the counter. “I’ll go down to the police station with you, but can I drive myself?”
Vargas nodded. “Yeah, I guess that will be okay. I’ll follow you.
”
“I’ll be back soon,” Dad said to me. “If I’m not back by the time you get that tent up, why don’t you and Emilio get started on the chicken cacciatore. And once that’s cooking, you can get going on the cabbage rolls. Emilio knows the recipes for both of them.”
I watched my dad go out the front door with a tightening of the gut. Why did he always have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t he listen to me just this one time? Because although the police weren’t charging him with any crime right now, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t later.
* * *
Sean, Emilio, and Bobby were standing back from the crime tape that had now been strung around Dad’s skiff, watching the cop, who’d put on latex gloves, cover the boat’s top with plastic sheeting.
“C’mon, guys,” I said, clapping my hands, “back to work,” and the trio reluctantly turned away from the engrossing scene and followed me over to the half-constructed tent.
“How come the cops are interested in your dad’s boat?” Emilio asked.
“It’s ’cause I found Gino’s cap in it,” I said. No point keeping it a secret any longer, now that Vargas knew. “You know, that faded blue fisherman’s cap he always wore? So they think there might be more evidence in the boat, too. And my dad’s gone down to the police station to see if he can provide any information that might help them out with the case,” I added, pleased at this spin I’d come up with to make my father the good guy rather than the suspect.
At eleven, I sent Emilio inside to cook the lunch orders, with the prep cook, Joe, as his second. Hopefully Dad would return before the usual rush began at noon.
A little while later, three police officers came around the side of the building, one of them dragging a large dolly. The cop who’d been guarding Dad’s boat helped them lift the skiff onto the dolly and then push it around to the front of the restaurant where they no doubt had a trailer waiting.
After a couple more minutes, the first cop came back and handed me a sheet of paper. “It’s a receipt for taking the boat,” he said.
“Do you know how long you’ll keep it for?”
The man shrugged. “Who knows? It depends on what happens with the case. Oh, and you might want to know there’s a group of people out in front of the restaurant with signs protesting something.”
“Great. Like I haven’t got enough to worry about right now. But thanks for telling me.” I pocketed the paper and turned back to my tent construction.
It took Bobby and Sean and me about an hour to finish setting up the tent, but once we were done, I was pleased. The sides looked stable enough to withstand even strong gusts of wind and would surely keep out any rain that fell during the dinner.
“It looks like the circus has come to town,” Sean observed.
Circus, indeed. Between the protestors, the rain, and the possibility of my father being arrested for Gino’s murder, the analogy was not that far off. “Let’s just hope no one falls off the tightrope between now and tomorrow night,” I answered, eliciting blank stares from my two helpers.
Dad and I had devised a plan for lighting the inside of the tent, which involved running heavy-duty orange extension cords and clamping aluminum reflector lights all over the place inside. Probably not up to code, but I was hoping the fire department wouldn’t come round to do an inspection between now and tomorrow night.
After getting Sean and Bobby started on the lighting, I headed out front to take a look at the protestors. There were only five, and they were standing well back from the restaurant door. Nodding thanks to the man I’d spoken to before, I went inside. The dining room was about half full, which normally would be a piece of cake. But without my dad here, it meant Emilio was probably going nuts.
I was right. “I’m totally in the weeds,” the cook shouted when I came into the kitchen. He had six sauté pans going as well as several steaming pots of pasta and sauces bubbling on the range top.
“Where’s Joe?” I asked.
“In the prep room chopping more zucchini. We ran out and I’ve got eight tickets on the rail right now.”
“Okay, I’m on it,” I said, donning a chef’s jacket and washing my hands at the stainless steel sink. What could be taking Dad so long? This was not good.
* * *
At one thirty the lunch rush finally tapered off and I was able to turn my attention to the chicken cacciatore for tomorrow’s big dinner. I’d just gotten the flour-dusted chicken pieces browning in olive oil and was chopping up a case of bell peppers when my father shuffled into the kitchen and sat heavily on the stool in the corner by the Robot Coupe.
“Thank God,” I said, setting down my knife and rushing over to give him a hug. “It was taking so long I was worried they’d—”
“Arrested me?” Dad let out a short laugh, but the accompanying frown belied any actual humor. “No, they didn’t arrest me. But the way they kept at me, asking the same questions over and over again in different ways, I was sure at some point they were going to snap the cuffs on and cart me off to jail.”
“But they didn’t,” I said.
“No. They did tell me not to leave the area, though.”
It was my turn to let out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s just posturing, Dad. You’re either under arrest or you’re not. The police have no right to keep you from leaving town. So what did they ask you about?”
“Mostly about my eighty-sixing Gino. What exactly happened, who hit who, was I angry at Gino, why did I let him in the next night if I’d kicked him out the day before?” Dad shook his head impatiently. “I swear I told them the same story about a hundred times.”
“That’s what they do. They figure if you have to repeat it and it’s a made-up story, you’ll slip up at some point and say something that proves you’re lying. Did they ask about your taking the skiff out the morning after he came in for dinner?”
He nodded, staring blankly at the mound of green bell peppers on the counter. “They wanted to know what time I left and came back, where I went fishing and what I caught, who saw me go out.” Dad sat up straight, hands on his knees. I could see beads of sweat forming on his temple and upper lip. “They can’t really think I did it, right?” he asked, twisting on the stool to face me. “That I took him out in my boat and…”
I knelt at his side and took his rough hand in mine. “They’re just doing their job. They have to cover all the bases. And since Gino’s cap somehow ended up in your skiff, it makes sense that they’d ask you about the last time you used it. But I bet they also asked whether you noticed anything odd about the boat or around the area where you keep it, right?”
“Uh-huh. They did.”
“See? So they’re not focusing only on you.” I stood back up, giving his hand a squeeze before I let it go. “And the most important thing is, they let you go after questioning you. If they really thought you could have done it, they’d have kept you there.”
“I know.” Dad ran a hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair and forced a smile. “So, how did lunch go? I saw that those people are still out front.”
“Yeah, but they seem to be behaving themselves, at least.” I caught him up on all that had transpired in the three hours he’d been gone, including the fact that his beloved Boston Whaler had been taken into custody.
I detected a tightening of the jaw, but he didn’t say anything. Even Dad had to recognize that in the grand scheme, this was a minor issue.
“But at least the tent looks like it’s going to work out well,” I said, “so there is some good news.”
After going out back to inspect the tent and the lighting that Sean and Bobby had run, Dad and I returned to the kitchen to work on the dishes for tomorrow’s dinner. By six o’clock we’d finished the chicken cacciatore and all the cutting and chopping for the sautéed zucchini and the salad, and I was ready for a break.
As I poured myself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the wait station, I checked out the early dinner crowd. A husband and wife in their sixties who were
regulars sat at table three, and four much younger people—tourists, by the look of the men’s form-fitting T-shirts and pressed blue jeans—were at table five. Most of the booths along the picture window were filled, which was not surprising, since they have the best view in the house.
But who was the tall woman in the far corner with the perfectly coiffed raven hair? As I peered out at the dining room to get a better look, she bent over to reach for something in her purse and I saw that her companion was Angelo, in his usual spot. It had to be the mysterious Anastasia!
Setting down my iced tea, I strode across the dining room. “Good evening, Angelo. How nice to see you here.” I turned to the woman, who I now saw had on lipstick in a shade Sophia Loren might have worn in one of her early films. A perfect match for the crimson bolero jacket she wore. “Hi, I’m Sally Solari.”
“Oh, pleased to meet you,” she answered with an enthusiastic smile to match the flaming red lipstick. “I’m Anastasia.”
Bingo.
Chapter 22
I checked out her left hand: no wedding ring. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Was there any way I could casually bring up the subject? So, I was just wondering, did you by any chance happen to marry Gino right before he ended up drowned? Probably not the best way to start a conversation.
Small talk was a better idea. “I see you still have your menus,” I said, “so you haven’t ordered yet. May I recommend the Albacore Steak Florentine, which is tonight’s special? The tuna was caught just this morning, and we’re doing them like a traditional bistecca Fiorentina, grilled with olive oil, garlic, and a hint of rosemary. We’re serving it with cannellini—those small white beans—and sautéed chard.”
“Oooh, that sounds delish!” Anastasia crowed. “I’ll have that.”
“Make that two,” said Angelo, directing a loopy smile at his dinner partner.
“Great. I’ll go tell your server. And would you like any wine to go with it?” Anastasia responded with a vigorous nod. “Red or white?”