Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “Notes on various ways to siphon off money that isn’t yours. Bills paid to nonexistent companies, departments at the center that get money regularly and aren’t mentioned in their brochures. Consultant fees for nonexistent consultants.”

  “So she was stealing?”

  “And it looks to me like she was getting advice from someone named Jacob.”

  “If we can find Jacob and he was a coconspirator, maybe we’ll know who killed her.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Sam agreed, “but it sure would be easier if we had a few less suspects. She’s got telephone numbers written on a list here,” he said, reaching back to the drawer and flipping another notebook to me. “You take this one, and I’ll check the desk again.”

  Of course, I got the unimportant list. The only Jacob on it was annotated with the words good lettuce. She didn’t even include his last name. Still, I wrote his number in my notebook. I was going to have a difficult time transcribing these scribbles when I got home because they were of different sorts. Usually I put my food notes in the computer and write columns the very night that I’ve eaten the food. In San Francisco, I’d never had time.

  “You find anything?” asked Sam, coming back into the kitchen.

  “I think she has a green grocer named Jacob,” I replied dryly.

  “I found a Jacob Rylander with an office downtown. Rylander, Stork, & Penfold. His card was in her desk and his number in her address book.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Card doesn’t say. Maybe he’s so famous nobody has to ask.”

  “Or involved in secret criminal activities.”

  “Worth finding out.” Sam called Rylander’s office, but the answering machine suggested that he call during office hours, 9:30 to 5:00. He then looked Mr. Rylander up in the residential pages, called, and got Mrs. Rylander, who said her husband was out of town. Since Sam hadn’t identified himself as anyone she’d ever heard of, she refused to say when Mr. Rylander would be returning.

  “Now there’s a bitchy woman,” he muttered.

  “Maybe he’s skipped town with all the center’s money, thinking if the theft is discovered, Denise will take the blame. It would be a perfect crime.”

  “There are no perfect crimes,” Sam replied. “So let’s get you home. You’re going to Foreign Cinema, right?”

  I glanced at my watch. Oh my. Not only was my husband waiting for me, but we’d be lucky to get to the restaurant in time to use our reservations.

  35

  No Place for Scientists

  I ordered a beet, avocado, and endive salad at a San Francisco restaurant because I’d never eaten the combination, although Californians probably eat it all the time. I liked it, and experimented at home until I came up with this very pretty salad. Try it.

  Star Salad

  DRESSING:

  • Heat a small, heavy, dry skillet over moderate heat until hot and toast 2 tsp. coriander seeds, stirring until fragrant and a little darker, about 2 minutes.

  • Grind seeds to coarse powder with mortar and pestle.

  • In a bowl whisk together powder, 4 tbs. fresh orange juice, 4 tbs. sherry vinegar, tsp. salt, and 4 tbs. light olive oil.

  • May be made a day ahead, covered, and chilled.

  BEETS

  • Trim stems of 4 small beets to 1/2 in.

  • Simmer beets in water to cover until just tender, about 30 minutes. Drain.

  • When cool enough to handle, peel beets flat on five sides and slice crosswise into thin pentagons. While still warm, toss beets in 1 tbs. sherry vinegar and chill, covered.

  • Can be made two days ahead.

  ASSEMBLE SALAD ON FOUR PLATES:

  • Separate leaves of 4 endives and arrange on the plates in star formations with the thick ends in the center. Point tips equidistant toward the edge of each plate.

  • Arrange 4 beet pentagons in the center of each endive star.

  • Peel and thinly slice 1 or 2 avocados, and slide the slices into the curled endive leaves.

  • Drizzle with dressing.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Montgomery Post

  Jason

  It was after 7:00, and Carolyn hadn’t arrived, although we were to join my dad and Morrie Straub for dinner and a very important meeting at 7:30. Straub would not be impressed if we were late. So where the devil was she? And what kind of a place was Foreign Cinema? I’d been hoping for a quiet restaurant with good food, a place that lent itself to serious conversation. If my dad and Straub could reach an agreement, my research group would be funded on a fascinating project. I could hire more post docs. Of course, I’d have to get the university to find space for them, but the project would be a lure to graduate students and a feather in the university’s cap. Oh my God! “Carolyn, what is that you’re wearing?”

  “Leathers,” she replied, breezing in fifteen minutes before reservation time. “Your mother said I’d better get some.” She dropped her handbag on the dining room table and gave her hair, which was in disarray, a hard shake. “If you’re worried about the cost, don’t. I got these at a secondhand shop.”

  I hadn’t even thought about the cost, only my wife’s outlandish appearance and the dinner reservations. “You don’t have time for a bath, and you certainly can’t wear that outfit. Do you have any idea what time it is?” I couldn’t remember a period when Carolyn, the light of my life, had been so continuously troublesome.

  “There’s no time for clothes changing either,” she said, heading for the bedroom.

  “Carolyn, that outfit is not appropriate for—”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine with a scarf and—what?—jewelry! Call a cab.”

  After I called, I returned to the dining room where I could see her dumping her travel jewelry bag out on the bed and flipping through her suitcase until she came up with a long scarf. Pale green with flower tracings in black. Where had she got that? It was at least six feet long.

  She brushed her hair quickly, twisted it into a roll on the back of her head, pinning it with a green and gold comb, and wrapped the scarf around her neck with the long ends trailing front and back. Then she zipped the leather jacket halfway up after unbuttoning her blouse halfway down and clipped dangling gold rings to her ears. She looked—unlike my wife. Dumping the contents of the handbag she’d been carrying into a black purse with a long gold chain, she said, “Let’s go.”

  We had ten minutes to get to Foreign Cinema, the address of which Carolyn gave the driver. She advised me to keep my eyes open in case we passed the Mission Do lores, which had been founded in 1782 by Father Juniper Sierra—we didn’t see it—and the famous Hispanic wall murals. We didn’t see any of those either, and the driver didn’t see the restaurant, which was in hiding. Carolyn identified it by its metal door and portholes. There was no sign. By then we were five minutes late and feeling our way down a long hall lit only by votive candles on ledges.

  “Are you sure this is the place?” I muttered.

  Evidently it was. At the end of the hall was one large room inside with a window wall looking out on a table-filled patio, on the back wall of which a film was projected.

  “Blue,” said Carolyn. “Party of four. We’d like to sit on the patio.”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” I said. “There’s a movie playing out there. We can’t talk business in the middle of—”

  “Annie Hall,” Carolyn supplied. “I do love that movie.” But after glancing at me, she said, reluctantly, “Oh, very well. We’ll sit inside, Jason, but you’re ruining the fun.”

  “Morrie Straub isn’t the fun type.”

  “Then why did you invite him? Oh, there’s your dad.”

  “Do you wish to wait at the bar, madam, while we prepare your table?” asked the man behind the reservation desk. He was eyeing my wife with so much interest that I felt like kicking him. Instead I chased Carolyn past the fireplace on the middle of th
e windowless wall to the bar, where my father and Morrie Straub were standing, sipping drinks, and looking around like two missionaries in the midst of a throng of cannibals. Carolyn kissed my dad on the cheek, shook Morrie’s hand, hopped up on the only stool left, and ordered a Mojito from the bartender, after which she took down the recipe: muddle mint and lime, add sugar, soda water, and silver rum.

  “Wonderful,” Carolyn said to the bartender, a tall, blonde woman. “I think I had something like this in New York at Patria. I’ll have to look at my notes. I’m a food columnist.”

  “Awesome,” said the bartender. “Love your outfit. Where’d you ever get that jacket?”

  Carolyn laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it. A secondhand place on Union—Recycled—”

  “Chic,” said the bartender. “I’ve shopped there!”

  “Maybe I should try it,” said my father dryly. Then he turned to me. “This place is awfully noisy.”

  “I know,” I replied glumly. “Sorry about that, Morrie.”

  “Well, it’s different,” said Straub.

  Indeed it was. Cement walls, wooden floor, rust-red wood framing the windows, that raised fireplace, smoke-stained above, with enough logs to last a winter stored underneath, and dark, except where the bar and open kitchen were.

  “It’s very trendy,” said my wife, who had turned around on her stool to take a picture of the restaurant.

  “Oh, me next,” squealed a pretty Japanese girl in a tight orchid dress that had a round hole in the middle exposing her navel and most of her midriff, and a very long slit on the side. She hugged my wife and said, “Very, very cool outfit, Carolyn. I’m so impressed. This is my date, Jaime. He’s a flamenco dancer at clubs around town.”

  This Jaime kissed Carolyn on the cheek while my dad watched, astonished. Surely Carolyn hadn’t invited these people along. She hadn’t, but when the waiter, a tall, shaven-headed fellow in an apron, arrived to show us to our table, she did. Two more chairs were dragged over to our table by the window, and we sat down.

  “Look at those chandeliers, Jason. The light bulbs on long cords are like an upside down bouquet. They’re just like the ones in the Guggenheim lunchroom.”

  “Which Guggenheim?” asked Bebe, the Japanese girl, who evidently dressed windows for a living. “I love them—well, Venice and New York—and I know I’ll love Bilbao. Jaime, you should take me to Bilbao. It’s in your homeland. Wouldn’t that be awesome!”

  “Basque country,” said Jaime, who wasn’t very talkative. “Terrorists.”

  Very little chemistry or business got talked that night. Morrie, for a wonder, was an admirer of the Spanish artist Murillo and the only person in the party to get Jaime into an extended conversation. Carolyn and my father talked about news of the investigation and the food. They’d both ordered duck, which was evidently good. She asked the waiter if their ducks came from the duck farm in Petaluma that had been founded in 1901 to supply ducks to Chinese restaurants and other buyers. He didn’t know. Dad also admired Carolyn’s choice of a beet and avocado salad, which sounded like a strange combination to me.

  In the conversation department, I was the most overwhelmed because Bebe took a fancy to me and talked my ear off about the rug she and Carolyn had picked out, about how old-fashioned her mother was when it came to unmarried daughters living in their own apartments and dating non-Japanese men, about a delicious window she’d designed for a touristy pottery shop with coat-hanger figures dancing around, hanging off, and climbing into the pots. In between each new eruption of enthusiasm, she turned to my wife to tell her how cute I was, which I found extremely embarrassing. If my sardines hadn’t been so good, I’d have given up on the evening entirely.

  36

  The Missing Knife

  Carolyn

  “Oh my God, Carolyn, I forgot to tell you,” squealed Bebe over dessert. “My sashimi knife is gone! I was subbing for Kebra tonight in an ethnic cuisine class, and there it was!” She paused dramatically, waving a spoonful of Pot au Crème Chocolat. The chocolat landed on the table, but she didn’t notice. “The slot for it was empty. The Japanese Consulate donated that set of knives. They’re expensive! And if my father or the Consul find out, they’ll be furious. They’ll think I’ve been careless with an expensive gift, and I haven’t. I always clean and put those knives away myself. I ask you? Who would want to steal a sashimi knife?”

  “When did you last see it?” I asked. This missing Japanese cooking utensil might be of grave importance.

  Bebe went into thought, putting her hands together and bowing her head as if in prayer. “It was there last Thursday when I put the sushi knives away.”

  “Was that before or after Denise?”

  “Carolyn,” Jason said into my ear. “I wish you’d drop that subject.”

  “Oh my sacred ancestors! Do you think the killer stole my knife? And . . . and . . .”

  I nodded.

  “What are they talking about?” asked Morrie, who was by then discussing the architecture of Gaudi with Jaime, both of them drinking cognac.

  “A murder for which my ex-wife was arrested,” said my father-in-law. “She’s in jail.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Morrie looked astonished.

  “He’s not,” said Bebe. “It was awful. Blood all over both poor Denise and Professor Blue. She tried to save Denise’s life and got blamed for the murder. Carolyn is trying to find out who the real murderer is.”

  Jason glared at both of us, but Calvin said, “Oh, stop worrying, Jason. She should be safe enough as long as she’s with Sam. Let her have some fun. I made the mistake of trying to keep your mother in line and look how that turned out.”

  Let me have some fun? Now, that was almost as irritating as Jason trying to keep me from investigating at all. “That’s important news, Bebe,” I told her. “I’ll pass this on to the detective as soon as we get home.”

  “That can’t be soon enough for me,” Jason muttered under his breath.

  “I love this restaurant,” I said defensively.

  “I know,” said my husband. “It’s trendy.”

  “Noisy would be the adjective I’d pick,” said Calvin. “I wonder if the cement walls, wooden floors, and the huge windows contribute to the din.”

  Mr. Straub glanced around at the other diners. “I think it’s just that young people make more noise than people my age, and we are surrounded with young people.”

  Calvin laughed. “Maybe that’s what Carolyn means by trendy—popular with raucous youths.”

  “I’m afraid this wasn’t the serious business and scientific meeting we planned,” said Jason apologetically.

  Bebe giggled. “But you’re having fun, right?”

  I called Sam as soon as I got home. “Hi, this is Carolyn. There’s an expensive sashimi knife missing from the center kitchen. Do you think it could be the murder weapon?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “I’ll ask tomorrow. What’s going on there? It sounds like a string quartet.”

  “It is. Paul’s group comes here to play the last Wednesday of the month, and I have to provide the damn refreshments when they get through.”

  “Really. What are you serving?”

  “Coquilles Saint-Jacques. Paul’s idea, damn him. I’ll give you the recipe.”

  “I do love that dish, but I must say I’d rather eat it than make it.”

  “You and me, too. That’s why I’m giving you the only copy of the recipe. It’s a real pain in the ass.”

  “Do you think you could moderate your language when you’re talking to me, Sam?”

  “Do you think you could provide more than half a clue, Carolyn? The knife being missing is interesting, but it would be a whole lot more helpful if we had it. Covered with blood and fingerprints.”

  If a private detective can make this recipe, so can you and I.

  Coquilles Saint-Jacques

  • Combine in a saucepan 1/2 lb. scallops, 1 small, finely chopped onion, 5 sprigs pa
rsley, 1/4 bay leaf, 2/3 cup white wine, 1/2 tsp. salt, and a dash of pepper, cover, and simmer 10 minutes.

  • Cook 1/4 lb. mushrooms in 1/4 cup water and 1 tsp. butter for 12 minutes.

  • Drain broth from mushrooms and scallops and reserve. Finely chop mushrooms and scallops.

  • Melt 2 tbs. butter and blend in 2 tbs. flour. Add broths and 1/4 cup milk. Season with salt and pepper.

  • Cook 5 minutes. Stir in most of 1/2 cup grated Swiss cheese. Add finely chopped mushrooms and scallops.

  • Pour into 6 scallop shells or a 3-cup shallow baking dish. Sprinkle remaining cheese and fine bread crumbs on top.

  • Heat in a 400 degree oven until bubbly (about 10 minutes).

  • Serves 4 to 6.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Boston Globe

  37

  Police Liaison

  Carolyn