by Leslie Karst
She looked at Angelo, who shrugged. “Whichever you want, my dear.”
“White, then, I guess. Since it’s fish, right?”
“Good choice,” I responded, though I actually thought a light red would pair better with the bold flavors of the garlic, rosemary, and tuna. “I’ll bring it right out.” Gathering up their menus, I headed for the wait station, filled a glass carafe with the house white, and returned to their table. “The wine’s on us by the way,” I said with a wink at Angelo, who flashed me a subtle thumbs-up.
“Wow, thanks!” Anastasia raised the glass I’d poured for her in salute, then took a sip. “Very good. Nice and smooth,” she said, setting the wine daintily on the red tablecloth.
“Yes, I like this Pinot Grigio more than the Soave, which I think you had last time you were in.”
Anastasia pursed her lips and looked down at her glass, and Angelo frowned. I knew neither probably wanted to be reminded right now of her previous dalliance with Gino, but I needed to get some information out of her if I could. Maybe a change of tactics was in order, though. “So, Angelo told me you’re writing a story for some newspaper about the history of the Italian fishermen out here on the wharf.”
That did the trick. Her head popped back up and the sparkle returned to her eyes. “I am, for the Santa Cruz Herald. You know, that new weekly paper?”
Aha. Angelo had said the Tribune, not the Herald. Maybe she was legit after all. “Well, it sounds like an interesting subject, if I do say so myself—being the daughter of one of those Italian fishermen.”
Anastasia laughed and took another sip of wine. “It really is, though. I’ve lived in Santa Cruz almost five years, and I had no idea about the whole Italian culture that still exists on the West Side—and how friendly they are.” She touched Angelo’s forearm flirtatiously, and the old fisherman ducked his head in response. Had it not been for his tanned, olive complexion, I’m sure we would have seen a flush of red jump to his cheeks.
“I guess that must be why you had dinner here with Gino, then. Because of your article.”
“Right. And he was very helpful. He had so many fascinating stories about the old days.” She looked down once again. “It’s so sad about his death.”
I studied her face for signs of guile or deceit, but all I could detect was genuine sorrow. “I don’t know if you know this,” I said, “but you were probably one of the last people to see Gino.”
Her head jerked up, accompanied by a quick intake of breath. “Really? I had no idea. It was days after our dinner that he was found, wasn’t it?” And then her hand went to her mouth. “Ohmygod. Does that mean I’m a suspect? I mean, no one’s tried to contact me or anything.”
If she was faking this reaction, it was an Oscar-worthy performance.
“That’s probably because they didn’t know how to find you,” I said. “But I bet the police would very much like to talk to you.”
From the blanching of her face, it appeared that this possibility disturbed her even more than the prospect that she might be a suspect in Gino’s death. Could she in fact have something to hide from the police?
And then I had an idea how I could get information from her without sounding like some interfering busybody. “You know,” I said, leaning in toward the table, “if you wanted to tell me about what happened that night, I have connections with the police and could talk to them for you. And then they’d only have to contact you if they needed anything more.”
This was most certainly false. The cops would obviously want to talk to her themselves, not to mention that Detective Vargas would be apoplectic once he found out I’d been interrogating an important witness before he had the chance to do so. Oh, well.
“Yeah, maybe…” Anastasia said, taking a breadstick from the basket and breaking it in two.
“Do you mind?” I asked, and nodded at a chair sitting at an unoccupied table.
“Please.” Angelo jumped up to help me get seated at the end of the booth.
“So…” I cleared my throat as I tried to figure out where to start. “There are some people who thought Gino appeared rather … intoxicated when he left after dinner that night.”
Anastasia nodded. “Yeah. He seemed fine at the beginning of dinner, but by the end he was pretty out of it. I figured he must have been drinking before we met up.”
“Did it come on all of a sudden, or was it gradual?”
She thought a moment. “I think it was kind of sudden, actually. Because one minute he’s telling me about his parents, and then he stands up to use the restroom and I notice he’s kind of unsteady on his feet. He’d already paid the bill, so I waited for him out in front of the restaurant. I thought maybe the fresh air would sober him up and it did seem to help, ’cause once he’d been outside for a bit he said he wanted to show me this old boat they have on display.”
“The Marcella,” I said, “behind Solari’s.”
“Right. And Gino was acting more normal now, so I said okay and we walked around the building and stood and looked at the boat for a few minutes, him going on about the huge fishing fleets they used to have here in the bay.”
She stopped to take a sip of wine, then glanced at Angelo with a quick frown.
“And…” I prompted her, pretty sure I knew where this was going.
“It’s okay, honey,” the old fisherman said. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.”
“Okay.” Anastasia smiled uncomfortably. “It’s just kind of embarrassing. We were standing there looking at the boat, and then all of a sudden Gino turned and grabbed me and started kissing me. It caught me totally off guard, and it took a minute for me to react and push him off.”
“Once you made it clear you weren’t interested, did he stop?” I asked.
Angelo was staring intently at her, waiting for the answer to my question.
“Oh, yeah, he did. And he even apologized, too. But by this point he’d gotten kind of out of it again. His balance was off and he was sort of slurring his words. So I hung out with him for a bit longer to make sure he was okay. But after a little while he told me to go, that he wanted to sit and look at the moon and think. I asked him if he’d driven to the restaurant—I certainly didn’t want him driving home—but he swore he lived nearby and that he’d walked. So I left him there.”
Anastasia took another drink of wine and turned to look out the picture window. I followed her gaze. The forecasted rain hadn’t yet arrived, but gusts of wind were now buffeting our big party tent. I was glad I’d taken Bobby’s advice to anchor heavy weights all along its sides, because the structure seemed to be holding fast.
At the sight of Giulia approaching with plates of grilled albacore, I stood up. “Well, I should let you eat in peace. I do appreciate you telling me all this, and I’ll make sure the information gets to the police.”
Anastasia nodded absently, brows furrowed. She bit her lip, opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, then closed it again.
I waited till Giulia had set down their dinners and then left again to fetch a pitcher to top off their water glasses. “Was there something else?” I asked. “Did you see Gino again after you left?”
She shook her head. “No, but I did see someone else.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was as I was heading back out to the street. I realized there’d been someone watching us, standing behind that kiosk—you know, the thing with those photos and stuff about the Italian fishing fleet that’s right near the boat?”
“Sure, I know it,” I said. “Could you see who was watching you, or what they looked like?”
“No. It was too dark, and he was hunched over behind the kiosk. The whole thing seemed kind of creepy, and I just wanted to get away.”
“So it was a man you saw.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I mean, who else but a man would do something like that?” Anastasia glanced up at Angelo with a quick smile, as if to say, “Not that all men would act like that, of course.”
> But it took a second for the fisherman to return the smile. And in that short moment, I glimpsed a hardness in his eyes I’d not seen before.
* * *
Back in the kitchen, Dad was working with Emilio on the dinner tickets, but when he saw me come in he hollered over the din of the exhaust fan and banging pots and sauté pans that I should get started on the cabbage rolls. He’d left instructions in the prep room, so I headed in there with my iced tea and read through the handwritten sheet of paper.
First off, I needed to get the ten heads of cabbage simmering for the wrappers, but since four of the six burners on the stove were already in use, I’d have to do them in separate batches. I got two stock pots of water heating up on the back burners, then started prepping the ingredients for the filling: more cabbage, onions, garlic, and potatoes. These would be sautéed—also in several batches, after the cabbage heads were done—then mixed with ricotta cheese and chopped basil and parsley and wrapped in the cooked cabbage leaves.
As I chopped my way through a pile of yellow onions, I thought about what Anastasia had just told me, wondering who could have been watching her and Gino that night. Was it the same guy that Sean saw arguing with Gino just a little while later? It seemed likely, especially given how both Sean and Anastasia had described the man as being hunched over. Maybe whoever had watched Gino and Anastasia had not been happy about what he’d seen and had confronted Gino afterward.
Then Angelo’s expression as Anastasia had been telling her story—those cold, steely eyes—came back to me. I would never have described the old fisherman as being hunched. He tended to carry his slim form ramrod straight, shoulders back. But it was obvious that he’d fallen hard for Anastasia.
What if he’d already become smitten with her before she started hanging out with Gino? Angelo had made it clear he’d been checking her out for a while before they actually met. How would he have reacted if he’d seen his old friend, with whom he’d recently had a bitter falling out, coming on hard to the woman of his dreams?
Setting down my chef’s knife, I walked from the prep room to the wait station and poked my head around the corner. Angelo and Anastasia were still at their table, and Angelo was nodding and smiling at something his companion was saying. He didn’t appear to be upset or unhappy, and as I watched, he poured both of them another glass of wine.
My view was temporarily blocked as Giulia arrived to take their dessert order, but when she’d retreated I saw that Angelo was now leaning forward and had taken Anastasia by the hand. Since she was facing away from me, I couldn’t see her expression, but she didn’t pull her hand away.
Interesting, I thought as I made my way back to the prep room. Was she leading him on or merely being polite? Or was it possible that the affection went both ways?
The last step for the cabbage rolls was to make a red sauce. Once stuffed, the rolls would be arranged in roasting pans on a bed of the sauce to be chilled overnight. We’d bake them tomorrow afternoon, then finish off the dish by topping the cabbage rolls with grated Pecorino cheese and bread crumbs, broiled to a crispy, golden brown.
It was a slow process because of having to share the range top with my father and Emilio, but by a little after seven the dinner orders had slackened and Dad was able to come back to the prep room and help me out. In a sort of mini assembly line, I spooned filling onto the leaves and then he’d fold each one into a burrito-shaped packet and place it on the tomato sauce–lined baking pan. With two of us now working, we made quick progress and had a hundred and forty rolls ready for baking in under a half hour.
After wrapping the filled pans with plastic and stowing them in the walk-in fridge, I poked my head around the corner to check out the dining room once more. Angelo and Anastasia had finished their dessert and the fisherman was examining the check. He pulled several bills from his wallet and laid them on the tip tray, and the two of them stood to go.
As I watched the couple leave the restaurant, laughing and chattering, I made a snap decision. Crossing the dining room, I opened the front door and followed them.
Chapter 23
Once outside, I peered up and down the sidewalk that runs along the shops and restaurants on the wharf, trying to spot which way Angelo and Anastasia had headed. No sign of the pair.
Shoot. How could they have disappeared so quickly?
But then my eye was caught by a flash of red on the other side of the street—Anastasia’s crimson jacket. It looked as if they were headed for Bobby’s giant pickup, which sat across from his dad’s gift shop. But no, they’d stopped at the blue sedan next to it.
Realizing how conspicuous I must be, standing there gawking at them (the food-spattered apron I’d forgotten to remove didn’t help), I ducked behind an SUV parked in front of the restaurant and continued to monitor the couple through its windshield.
Anastasia dug around in her bag and extracted a set of keys, then leaned back against the driver’s side door of the car. They continued to chat, Anastasia nodding and smiling at whatever he was saying, but after a few minutes she pushed off from the car—clear “okay, I’ve gotta go now” body language. Angelo took a step closer, then leaned in to give her a kiss. It looked as if he was aiming for her mouth, but at the last second Anastasia turned her head so that his lips landed on her cheek instead.
Opening the car door and sliding into the seat, she started the engine and pulled out of the parking space with a quick smile and wave good-bye. Angelo watched as the blue car sped down the wharf, then turned and directed a kick at a seagull pecking at a pile of French fries at his feet. The gull hopped out of the way, then immediately returned to its dinner.
The fisherman glanced my way but didn’t appear to notice me crouching behind the black SUV. With one last look in the direction of Anastasia’s car, he crossed the street back toward Solari’s, then turned the corner of the restaurant toward the rear of the building.
Keeping a safe distance, I followed Angelo. He made his way across to the bocce court, where a group of players were gathering up all the balls scattered about the crushed granite surface and packing them into their canvas cases. I hid myself behind the Marcella and watched as he approached a tall, lanky guy with his back to me. Frank, the bocce player with the temper, I realized when I caught sight of his profile.
The two spoke for a few minutes, then Frank leaned toward Angelo, said something into his ear, and let out a bark of a laugh. Angelo stared briefly at the other man, then gave him the Italian version of the finger (raised clenched fist, hand on bicep) and strode off.
I was torn. Should I continue to follow Angelo or stay and see what Frank was up to? But then I noticed that from my vantage point, I could keep an eye on both men, at least till Angelo rounded the corner. So I stayed put, hidden behind the red-and-green Monterey clipper.
Frank was now laughing in earnest. Pulling on a dark brown jacket to match his slacks, he gestured toward the retreating Angelo as he held court with three other guys who’d come over to see what all the fun was about. I could well imagine what was being said about poor old Angelo, who must have made the mistake of confiding in the other about being rebuffed by his young lady friend.
I left them to their gossip and hightailed it after the fisherman, who’d turned the corner out of my line of sight. As I emerged onto the sidewalk in front of Solari’s, I spied him crossing the street once more. Angelo threaded through the cars to the far side of the parking area, then took a seat at one of the wood benches sprinkled along the edge of the wharf. Stretching his long legs out before him, he leaned back, arms crossed, and gazed out across the water.
He didn’t look as if he was leaving anytime soon. The bay between the Boardwalk and Cocoanut Grove was now awash in orange and pink from the setting sun, a vista that even the dejected fisherman had to appreciate.
Better go back inside to see if Dad has anything else for me to do.
I felt a little sorry for Angelo. At the same time, however, he’d started to give me the hee
bie-jeebies. Not just that hard look in his eyes earlier tonight, but also what my dad had told me about him losing it with the fish buyer. Anyone who could clock a grocer with a lead weight could just as easily have walloped old Gino on the head, right?
But what about Frank? I’d witnessed him heave a rock-hard bocce ball at a group of old men for no reason other than their laughter at his errant throw. Could he have been equally angry at something Gino had said or done and retaliated in a similar manner? He could have used a bocce ball, but it could also have been some other blunt object lying close at hand. Something like an oar from my father’s Boston Whaler. And that would explain why Gino’s cap had fallen into the boat.
Well, I thought as I made my way through the Solari’s dining room toward the back of the house, if that’s the case, hopefully they’ll find some prints—other than Dad’s—on the oars.
It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but just five tables remained and they’d all been served their entrées. A slow night. Good. That meant Dad would be able to get to bed early as well. We both needed a full night’s sleep in preparation for our big day tomorrow.
I found him in the office, studying a handwritten sheet of paper. “Oh, hi, hon,” he said, looking up when I came through the door. “I thought you’d gone. I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow.”
“Sorry. I just went outside for a bit to get some air.”
“Yeah,” he said with a laugh, “it is a bit funky in here from all that cabbage you boiled. Here.” He handed the paper to me. “You wanna sit down for a sec and decide who’s going to do what so we don’t have to figure it all out tomorrow morning?”
“Sure, no problem.”
I pulled a folding chair up next to Dad, and the two of us conferred about setup, beverages, food prep, and logistics for the pre-dinner appetizers in the restaurant and the sit-down meal in the tent. After we’d finished, he headed back to the kitchen and I went in search of Giulia to make sure our head waitress was in on the game plan.