Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Mr. Valetti sighed. “You mother-in-law, the beautiful professora, she no want to see either. My wife Anna, God cherish her soul, she’s-a like the tiles. Her grandfather on the mama’s side make-a tiles in Ravenna, for fix up the basilica there. Very old. Her father, he’s a longshoreman, beat up scabs on Bloody Thursday in 1934 with Harry Bridges, the communista. He no wanna my Anna marry me. He don’t like guys like me jus’ over from Napoli. I’m-a say, ‘I can cook, I gotta job, I’m-a no communista, ’ ” so Anna an’ me elope an’ finda priest in the Mission to marry us. Her papa hire a witch to put a curse on us. No babies. We never forgive him. But that’s many years ago. Anna an’ me make many mosaics together.”

  I was sorry then that I’d refused to see the ones in his bedroom. Probably his late wife made them.

  “I’m-a got a new project. Emperors’ heads around the sink. When I’m-a chop tomatoes, alla bad emperors, they get splashed behind my sink.” He laughed heartily.

  “Tell me, Mr. Valetti, did my mother-in-law ever talk to you about the women’s center?”

  “Oh sure. She’s-a say they got too many social-worker types, an’ no one who’s-a know nothing about theory. That’s-a some theory about women an’ how they should forget cookin’ the pasta, an’ go out an’ make more money than their husbands. So I say, “Cara mia, I’m-a no make money no more. I’m-a retired, an’ I’m-a make pasta like you never eat in you whole life. You an’ me, we be perfect famiglia.” He sighed. “She no say yes, but she’s gonna do it. You see.”

  “Did she ever say anything about people not getting along at the center?” I asked.

  “Oh sure. Alla women talkin’ bad about alla other women. Jus’ like in the old country. My sister, rest in peace, she insult a neighbor, an’ they—”

  “Did anyone have a grudge against my mother-in-law?” I interrupted. Perhaps Vera had been “set up to take the fall” as they say on TV.

  “Naw. Why someone have a grudge against you mama? She’s-a smart woman. She’s-a famous professora.”

  And an irritating one, I thought. “Well, what about the woman who got killed? Did my mother-in-law ever mention her?”

  “Oh sure. She say Denise, she’s-a got such a stone head; she’s-a need a hammer behind the ear to tell her anything.”

  Oh dear, I thought. I’ll have to keep him away from the police.

  “So what you gonna do today, Bellissima?” He refilled my espresso cup and passed the plate of sautéed tomato slices, a dish I had always associated with the English—and pleasantly so. I like their fried tomatoes much better than their raw bacon or their gray sausage. Not that England isn’t rapidly overcoming its reputation for inedible food.

  “You go to Fisherman’s Wharf? Everyone wanna go to—”

  “No, Mr. Valetti, I intend to visit the center and find out who killed Denise Faulk.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I go too. We—how you say?—spring la Professora from the jail. How you gonna find out who kill the poor dead lady?”

  “Well, I thought I’d talk to the security man. He guards the front door and makes everyone sign in. After I find out who was in the building that night, I’ll know whom to investigate.”

  “You’re a smart girl, jus’ like you mama.”

  “In-law,” I added. “And as kind as it is of you to offer to go with me, you really shouldn’t feel that I need either help or protection.” As I said this, I was thinking of my husband, who didn’t want me to get involved.

  “Oh sure, you need-a my help,” protested Mr. Valetti as he rose and carried his plate to the sink. “Only in books is-a detectives women. I’m-a go with you because you a woman, an’ my daughter when my professora marry me. How can-a she no marry me if I get her outa the jail?”

  “Mr. Valetti, Vera’s been divorced for a long time, speaking of which, doesn’t your church forbid you to marry a divorced person?”

  “How they gonna know if I don’ tell ’em? No, I go with you. What if the guard he don’ wanna tell you who sign his paper? I’m-a tell him I’m a mafioso.”

  “Are you?” I asked, alarmed.

  “No, cara mia.” Bruno laughed. “I’m-a pizza man. But the guard, he don’ know. He’s gonna tell us anything we wanna know, cause he’s-a think I’m a mafioso.” He took my plate, from which I managed to fork up the last tomato before he could remove it. “An’ how you gonna get there? I’m-a got a truck. I drive you. I see no one gives you no trouble. I take care of you like you my own daughter. It’s-a my duty, because I’m-a love la Professora.”

  And that’s how I ended up beginning my investigation with Mr. Valetti at my side. He refused to be left behind no matter what arguments I used. We went downstairs and out into the backyard, behind which was a garage that housed his vehicle, a brown truck of some ancient vintage, but well maintained and preserved, as he was himself. Within minutes we were chugging off to the Union Street Women’s Center, a delightful Victorian building, two stories high and narrow in front, but rising behind to three stories as it descended a hill for almost a full block. It was adorned with bay windows, rounded turret corners, intricate gingerbread trim, stained glass, and a stunning light-blue exterior with maroon and white accents. My mother-in-law must have hated the décor. Fussy Victori ana was not her style!

  Italian Omelet

  • Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.

  • Sauté 1/2 cup sliced mushrooms and 1/2 chopped medium onion in 1 tbs. butter, and set aside.

  • Mix 6 beaten eggs, 3 tbs. heavy cream, salt and ground black pepper to taste, 1/4 tsp. basil, 2 sprigs chopped parsley, and 1 tbs. grated Parmesan cheese.

  • Heat 1 tbs. olive oil and 1 tbs. butter in a large cast-iron skillet or other heavy ovenproof frying pan until butter turns white. Pour in egg mixture and cook over a very low heat until mixture is soft on top. Remove from heat.

  • Sprinkle the top with the sautéed mushrooms and onion, 1/2 cup diced cooked ham, 1 tbs. grated Parmesan cheese, several drops of lemon juice, 4 oz. cubed mozzarella cheese, and 1 tbs. butter melted.

  • Place skillet in oven and bake until the cheese has melted (about 4 minutes). Remove to a hot platter and serve with parsley garnish, toasted garlic bread, and a side of sautéed tomato slices sprinkled with fine bread crumbs, olive oil, and herbs of choice.

  • Serves 4.

  11

  Sleuths: Day One

  Carolyn

  Once parked, Mr. Valetti and I had to climb a very steep stair to reach the front door of the center. For no sensible reason, the city fathers, several centuries earlier, had laid the streets straight up and down the hills, perhaps as an exercise in sheer perversity. San Francisco is known as a contrarian society for more reasons than its city planning.

  I was panting by the time we arrived but not too incapacitated to admire the double doors with their stained glass insets and fan window above. At the same time it occurred to me the glass would make the center easy to break into. Perhaps the person who killed Denise Faulk had done just that. I’d have to investigate.

  We entered a wide hall with an uncarpeted, scuffed, wooden floor. Immediately to our left was a table with a sign that invited us to state our business to “center security” and sign in. The chair behind the table was empty. Another indication that an outsider could have entered, unremarked, and killed Denise.

  On the wall behind hung a large directory board giving floor and room numbers for the services offered by the center. I skimmed over such ordinary items as Director and Business Office, which I could see down the hall on the right cordoned off by crime scene tape. Battered Women’s Advocacy, Child-Care Referrals, and Nutrition Central didn’t cause me much speculation, but what had my mother-in-law made of Lesbian and Transsexual Support? Or the Crone Cohort, which brought bizarre pictures of witches to mind?

  To my immediate right was a door that announced in elaborate gold letters: Office of the Director and below that, Marina Chavez-Timberlite. I decided to call on her first, but my knock went unanswered. Howe
ver, a head popped out from the second door on the left, and the woman called, “Kelani’s on maternity leave. She’s probably giving birth as we speak.”

  “We’re looking for Ms. Chavez-Timberlite,” I called back.

  “Knock on the inside door.” The woman then ducked back into her office.

  With Mr. Valetti in tow, muttering about “that bastard Eric Timberlite,” I entered the first door and found a tiny anteroom—presumably the domain of the absent Kelani. The room had been carved out of the corner tower of the building.

  “I doubt that Ms. Chavez-Timberlite is related to the man you dislike,” I murmured to Mr. Valetti, “but either way, please exercise discretion.” Then I knocked on the director’s door and was invited in.

  A tiny woman in very high heels, an expensive dark-red suit, and a head of shining black hair pulled back into a chignon turned from her many paned, five-sided window alcove and looked at us without pleasure. I judged her to be a good six inches shorter than I, probably five to ten years older. Even in middle age she was a beautiful woman. Or was she the poster patient of some expensive cosmetic surgeon? That light tan skin stretched rather too tightly over good bones.

  “Ms. Chavez-Timberlite?”

  “Mrs.,” she corrected. “My husband is Eric Timberlite. The city’s foremost developer.” She sounded very pleased with herself and him.

  “See,” hissed Mr. Valetti.

  “Sh-sh,” I murmured and introduced myself. Possibly Mr. Timberlite was, as Mr. Valetti had suggested, Satan in an Armani suit, guilty of evicting widows and orphans from their apartments and supporting rent laws that would benefit him and destroy small landlords like Mr. Valetti. Still, I couldn’t afford to offend Mrs. Timberlite when my investigation would have to be conducted on the lady’s turf.

  “Blue?” said Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite. “Are you related to Vera Blue?”

  “She’s my mother-in-law.”

  “Well, let me tell you, I wish I’d never let Lila Epersen talk me into inviting that woman to come here as a consultant. She’s been nothing but trouble since she arrived. She talked the Women of Color into harassing my husband. They’re picketing his office building.”

  “Good for them,” said Mr. Valetti. “Maybe I’m-a go help.” He turned to me. “We take some pizza. That picketing, it’s-a hungry work.”

  Mrs. Chavez-Timberlite turned on Mr. Valetti, whom I hadn’t had the chance to introduce. “My husband is doing nothing wrong. He just wants to beautify the city by tearing down old tenements.”

  “Sure. He’s-a throw poor people inna the street.”

  “There’s housing in Daly City for such people,” snapped the director.

  She didn’t sound to me like a sympathetic do-gooder type. “Be that as it may,” I interrupted, “my mother-in-law—”

  “Is a murderer,” the director finished for me, “and I’m not at all surprised. She’s been a thorn in everyone’s side since the day she arrived. A rude and troublesome woman. ”

  True, I thought, feeling discouraged. “But she’s not a murderer,” I said stoutly.

  “She’s-a mio amore,” said Mr. Valetti, not a sentiment likely to endear him to the director.

  “Why am I not surprised?” she retorted. “Only a disgusting little immigrant would find Vera Blue attractive.”

  “Sure. I’m-a come over from Italy, an’ I’m-a make a lotta money. Honest money. Not like you husband. So where you come from? Mexico? Puerto Rico?”

  She looked down her nose at Mr. Valetti and claimed that she was descended from the Californios, the ranchers who preceded the Yankees who stole the land from Spain.

  “Actually,” I said, unable to resist an historical tidbit, “California was owned by Mexico before it became part of the United States.” She did not look pleased. “At any rate, I can assure you that my mother-in-law did not kill your business manager. Since I hope to find out who did commit the murder, I thought the best place to start would be here at the center where people knew the victim. I wonder if you would be so kind as to help me with information.”

  “I certainly would not, and you do not have permission to disturb our staff. We provide an important community service, and I do not want the relative of a criminal with no expertise in investigating—” She stopped and smirked at me. “What are you, Mrs. Blue? A housewife?”

  “I’m a writer and expert on gourmet food.”

  “Really. Can you cook?”

  “Certainly,” I replied, not mentioning that I did it as seldom as possible.

  “Desserts?”

  “I’m famous for my chocolate-walnut cake.”

  “Excellent. We’re celebrating our tenth anniversary on Saturday, and Nutrition Central is providing refreshments, which will be made by our three cooking classes, Easy Ethnic, Working Mom Cookery, and Food Stamp Gourmet. Perhaps you could teach the Thursday group to make that chocolate-walnut cake. We’ll need about ten. Talk to Alicia Rovere. Nutrition Central. The kitchen is in the third building, first floor.”

  Although amazed at her presumption, I said, “I could do that, but in return you’ll have to agree to my investigation.”

  “Done,” said the director with a sly look. “Of course, you’ll need permission from the chairman of our board.”

  Mean Marina was looking shifty, and it occurred to me that she didn’t expect the chairman to agree.

  “Let me give you her name and number.”

  She wrote busily on a pad, one of those from-the-desk-of models. You’d think a charitable institution could save some money by dispensing with such perks.

  “Go right down to Alicia’s office and sign up for that cake class. She’ll be so pleased. Oh, and when you get through, maybe you can use her phone to contact our chairwoman. I’d let you use mine, but I have important calls to make. And if you don’t get Nora the first time, don’t give up.” She then waved us out of the office.

  “Is a scam,” Mr. Valetti said to me. “She get you to teach-a the cake, an’ the lady she say you call probably never home or say no when you ask. Rovere now, that’s a good Italian name. Maybe she help.”

  I glanced at the note: Nora Farraday Hollis. There were two numbers. “Oh, there’s the security man. He’s the first person we need to talk to.” I suppose I should have tried to get permission from Ms. Hollis before commencing my investigation, but I didn’t want to miss this opportunity now that the guard was finally at his station.

  12

  The Happy Russian

  Carolyn

  The man at the security desk was thin and middle-aged with pale, ropy arms that projected from the short sleeves of a badly ironed shirt. Pouched dark circles under his eyes, sunken cheeks, and graying blond hair, very badly cut, completed the picture. His nametag read Alexi Timatovich. I was reminded of Richard Henry Dana’s description of a Christmas celebration on a Russian brig in the bay. They drank a barrel of gin, ate a sack of tallow, and made soup from the skin. The guard looked as if he might have been subsisting on that diet. His face bore lines of pessimism and disaffection. He must be very badly paid, I thought, not to mention unreliable about manning his post.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerily. “I’m Carolyn Blue, and I’m here to investigate the death of Denise Faulk. Were you here the night of her murder?”

  “Da,” he replied, squinting at me suspiciously. “Vassily an’ me. My son.” He showed his first sign of animation. “Vassily is math genius. Is being computer millionaire while still young like Microsoft,” he predicted.

  “That’s wonderful,” I replied. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Alexi Timatovich.”

  “So, Mr. Timatovich, while you were on duty that night did you see any suspicious people in the center, someone who might have killed Denise Faulk?”

  “Lady professor after she is killing Mrs. Faulk. Got blood all over when police taking her away to prison.”

  “Professor Blue didn’t kill Mrs. Faulk.”

  “No?” He looked puzzl
ed. “Maybe police killing her and blaming old lady. In Russia such things happening, but not so much in Siberia where my family living. Everyone busy keeping warm, even police. Got no time for killing ladies and blaming other ladies.”

  “Siberia? You a criminal?” asked Mr. Valetti, who had been listening closely.

  “No criminal. Engineer,” said Mr. Timatovich. “Build things. Is hard in cold.”

  “Sure, engineer,” said Mr. Valetti sarcastically. “An’ now a guard.”

  “Guard is good job,” said Mr. Timatovich. “Guard in United States making more money and living better than engineer in Russia. And here no cold, no snow. Is good job. Only bad that having to pay for son’s university.”

  “Maybe he’ll get a scholarship,” I suggested. “Did you see anyone entering Mrs. Faulk’s office before Professor Blue went in?”

  “Seeing no one.”

  “You see la Professora go in?” asked Mr. Valetti suspiciously.

  “No see professor until coming out all over blood with police. I watching door into building, not more doors. I signing in peoples coming in and peoples going out, not looking at peoples inside.”

  I was discouraged to hear that he’d paid no attention to events down the hall, but if he checked visitors both in and out—well, that information would be helpful.

  “Were any of the people you signed in given to violence? Or particular enemies of Mrs. Faulk?”

  “Not letting in bad peoples. Bad husband coming to look for wife, I sending away.”