Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “Aren’t they closed?” While I worried about that, she reconsidered. “I never go there anyway. I pay all my bills by computer.”

  “I do too,” I said. “Isn’t that a wonderful service? I look at my account everyday, just to see how much money’s in it.”

  “You do?”

  “Myra, I’d like you to do that. Look at your account to see how much money’s in it.” I took her arm and raised her gently from the sofa. Obediently she shuffled into the second bedroom to an elaborate computer setup, toward which two officers had been making their way. Myra sat down in front of the machine.

  “You can’t do that, ma’am,” said one of the men.

  “She wants to look at recent withdrawals from her bank account,” I said, sending him a warning glance. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Inspector Yu?” He’d followed us in. “It’s really important to keep up to the minute on one’s account,” I said, “especially a joint account.”

  “It sure is,” Cammie agreed. She’d come in, too, and Myra was looking from one to the other in confusion. “You poor lady, you’re so tired, aren’t you?” She came up right behind Myra. “Do you need any help?”

  “No.” Myra stared at the keys. “It’s in my favorites list.” She pulled up her Internet service, which took forever to come onscreen. The wait didn’t seem to bother her, but everyone else in the room was tense. Then she scrolled down her favorites list and clicked on her bank. Wells Fargo. After another interminable wait, the account came up. She stared blankly at the name and password prompts.

  “You remember the password, don’t you?” asked Cammie encouragingly. “Think a minute.”

  The minute seemed like five, but Myra did get into her account and clicked on “checking.” Then she stared blankly at the numbers. “Where’s my money?” she asked, puzzled.

  He had left her fifty dollars.

  “How much did you have in there?” Cammie asked.

  “Forty thousand dollars, with access to sixty in the savings account.” Myra seemed to have come out of her fog. “It’s not insured if you get over one hundred thousand.” She was clicking again, and Harry Yu moved forward, but Cammie waved him away. “It’s gone,” said Myra. “It’s all gone.”

  “I think he cleaned you out, honey,” said Cammie. “You got any idea where he might have gone with your money?”

  “There’s more. Much more.” Myra began to click rapidly, to fret over the slow advent of screens. By the time she’d accessed three other banks, she was in tears. “How could he?”

  We took her back to the living room. Harry called in an all-points bulletin for Charles Desmond, thirty-two, blonde, brown eyes, six-two, 190, driving a dark-blue ’98 four-door Camry. Myra gave him the license plate number. It was her car. Charles had had to sell his Miata. Every airport in the area was alerted to stop him if he tried to fly out.

  “I guess he’s never been arrested?” asked Harry.

  “Not that I know of,” she replied, trembling pitifully. The tears had stopped.

  “That explains why we didn’t get a match on the prints from the knife.”

  “What knife?” she asked.

  “The one he killed Denise Faulk with,” said Sam. “You didn’t figure that out? That he was the one who killed Denise?”

  She gulped. “If he did that, he did it for me. So no one would find out about the money I stole.”

  “But he took the money, didn’t he?” Sam persisted.

  It broke my heart to see him keep after her, but we did need to know.

  “I guess he did,” she admitted, sounding infinitely weary. “He even told me how to steal it. He was going to invest when the market got better, and then we’d put it back.”

  “Has he invested?” Sam asked. “The market’s coming back.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been too sick to worry about it,” she said.

  “Well, you’ll have to testify against him,” said Harry. “If we catch him.”

  “I couldn’t do that.” Tears rolled down her face again. “I love him.”

  “Honey,” said Cammie, “don’t be a sucker. Cut a deal with the DA. You’re going down for the theft, but it looks like he left you to take the rap for the murder, too.”

  “I didn’t do anything to Denise,” Myra cried.

  “Maybe, but your prints are on that gun he gave you, and dollars to donuts, that’s the gun he tried to kill Carolyn with last night.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear. How could he? I did everything he wanted me to. I can’t help it that I got cancer and had to stay home for a while.”

  “Myra, you couldn’t have kept up the stealing much longer,” I pointed out. “The center doesn’t have enough for the programs anymore, and if he hasn’t made any investments, that means he never planned to pay the money back. He may well have planned to take it and leave you behind.”

  I think she believed me. Goodness knows why. If she’d thought about it, she’d have known that my visit yesterday had spelled the end for them. Desmond had certainly figured it out and tried to stave off being caught by trying to kill me. Myra was handcuffed and taken away. They copied everything on her computer and carried off the disks and the computers, along with anything they thought Desmond might have left a fingerprint on.

  Jason called me twice while we were there, checking on my safety. The second time Sam got on the line and told him to meet us at Delfina. Jason did not like that at all, but he agreed. That’s how I happened to visit a wonderful restaurant wearing the same clothes I’d worn the day before. At least my husband would be happy to see that I wasn’t wearing leather.

  47

  Delfina

  Jason

  I was the first to arrive, anxious to see for myself that Carolyn was safe. I sat at a brushed aluminum table for four. People were eating at a sort of bar above me, looking down, possibly resenting the fact that I had a table all to myself.

  I glanced across the room so that I wouldn’t have to look at the watching diners. Mirrors, yellow walls, modern paintings. I ordered a glass of merlot, smoky and oak flavored, and studied the menu. Paul Labadie showed up next, a nice enough fellow, but I didn’t have much in common with a gay venture capitalist. I wondered if he got as much pleasure moving money around as I did investigating toxins. He carried the conversation by telling me about my wife’s attempts to pretend she liked turnips.

  “If you see any new lines on Carolyn’s face,” he said, “just chalk it up to the muscle tension she exerted to keep from wincing each time she put a turnip in her mouth, not that she didn’t fool my mother. If I weren’t gay, Mother would be hinting that Carolyn is wonderful matrimonial material. She was quite taken with your wife.”

  Carolyn arrived just then, accompanied by Flamboise, to whom I’d taken a hearty dislike without much evidence to support that opinion. Not very scientific. Carolyn was bubbling with news about their investigation.

  “I just know your mother will be freed any minute,” she said, leaning over to give me a kiss. That was certainly welcome. It seemed like months since she’d kissed me. “We do know who did it,” she continued. Flamboise pulled her chair out before I could get up to do it. Damn crowded restaurants.

  “We think we know,” Flamboise temporized, sitting down himself. Given his size and the relative delicacy of the light wood chairs, I was anticipating that his would collapse under him. It didn’t. He accepted a menu and reminded Carolyn that the fingerprint matches hadn’t yet come in.

  While we looked at the selections, Labadie offered advice, lamented certain items that were not available that evening, and generally played host to a meal I’d probably have to pay for. At least Carolyn could take hers off the taxes, unless it was dreadful. I almost hoped it would be.

  Carolyn ignored advice, listened to the waitress, and ordered something called Pappa al Pomodoro. It seemed to translate “Pope with tomatoes,” but it turned out to be a yellow soup with bread in it, and she loved it. She and Labadie tasted her soup in turns, discuss
ing what ingredients the chef had used besides tomatoes and bread. Olive oil, vinegar, onion? I had prosciutto with figs, which was, I’ll have to admit, quite delicious. It put me in a better mood, that and a mild, fruity savignon blanc I chose myself. Carolyn, alight with good humor, said it was perfect with her soup and kissed me again. As he was finishing up some calamari on a white bean salad, Flamboise’s cell phone rang. I really dislike cell phones in restaurants.

  “It’s Harry,” he said. “Desmond’s prints are on the knife, and the markings on the bullets in Valetti’s door and Paul’s upholstery match those the crime lab fired from Desmond’s gun.”

  Carolyn beamed. “We solved the crime! Give me the phone.” Flamboise handed it to her. “Inspector Yu, I hope you plan to release my mother-in-law tonight. We’ll come down to get her as soon as . . . you have to catch him first? I don’t see why. Her fingerprints weren’t on the knife. . . . Oh, all right, but could you hurry? She’s been in that jail for over a week now. . . . Well, if she’s causing so much trouble, you have all the more reason to let her go.” She hung up and said to me, “Can you believe that? They won’t free your mother.”

  “Don’t get on Yu’s case,” Flamboise advised. “He can’t speed the system up, but he can sure slow it down if he wants to.”

  “But we closed his case, and we saw to it that he and Cammie get all the credit. It seems to me that he could do me this one little favor.” She turned to me. “Jason, maybe we should call a lawyer. Has your father gone home?”

  “At noon.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed, and I felt rather guilty. My wife had put herself in harm’s way and run around all week trying to help my mother, who had never been particularly nice to her in the twenty-plus years of our marriage. And I couldn’t think of anything to accomplish the release. I knew very well that my mother would be in jail until they got good and ready to let her go.

  A busboy cleared our first courses, and the waitress served the entrees. Flamboise chose plank steak, Labadie had ordered halibut on a fig leaf, I got roasted Tuscan spareribs, and Carolyn immediately dug into her grilled salmon.

  “Oh, this is wonderful,” she cried. “The salsa verde is so yummy. Here, try some everybody.” Labadie did and pronounced it superb; I had to admit that it was excellent; and Flamboise said, “Forget it,” when Carolyn tried to give him some. Then she tried the things around the fish and said, “What is this? It’s delicious. I didn’t even write down what it said on the menu.” Labadie got her a copy of the menu. Evidently she was eating charred gypsy peppers. My wife was a very happy woman—taking pictures of the restaurant, making food notes, wondering if she could deduct her expenses when she hadn’t written a column all week. “Will it count if I write them when I get back to New York?” she wondered.

  The company proved to be quite pleasant. Labadie and my wife discussed the Henry Moore exhibit at a museum she’d visited. Flamboise and I struck up a conversation about football. He had a number of very funny stories to tell about his years in pro football, most of which reflected badly on him, and I have to say I found the man quite likable, even intelligent.

  During dessert, a piece of Bittersweet Scharffen Berger chocolate cake jumped right off Carolyn’s plate as she was lifting a forkful to her mouth.

  “Oh my God, it’s an earthquake.” Carolyn dropped her fork and hurled herself toward me.

  I must admit that I was taken aback. It was the third tremor this week. I held her tightly and noted the mixed desserts on the table and the large frosted bulbs swinging on black cords above us. What I didn’t notice was the queasy sensation an earthquake usually engenders. I’d been through one in LA.

  “I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm,” said Flamboise calmly. “You’ll notice the natives aren’t fleeing into the streets.”

  “Oh, you’re just like that minister in 1865 who told his congregation not to worry; it was all over,” snapped Carolyn. “He got out faster than they did by going through the vestry.”

  “Do you see me heading for the vestry?” Flamboise asked cheerfully. “It’s just a bit of movement along the fault.”

  “Heywood or San Andreas?” Labadie asked.

  Flamboise looked thoughtful, then said, “Beats me. You want me to call a friend at Stanford?”

  “I’m such a wimp,” my wife said in a trembling voice as she edged off my lap. I let her go with some reluctance. Although I’m not a man for public displays of sexuality, I’d missed my wife this week.

  “Nonsense, Carolyn,” said Labadie. “Enrico Caruso lost his voice during the 1906 earthquake and never came back here.”

  “It was an earthquake?” She turned to Sam. “But you said—”

  “And John Barrymore went on a monumental drunk,” said Sam. “You want a drink? How about some grappa?”

  “Wonderful idea,” said Carolyn sarcastically, but now she was smiling. “Then when the big fire starts, I’ll combust spontaneously.”

  I assured her, not for the first time, that grappa is not akin to diesel fuel.

  “Since they haven’t got Desmond in custody,” said Flamboise casually, “I think you two better spend the night at our house. Paul’s mom’s gone so the other twin bed is empty, and Desmond might have a gun, other than the one he tried to palm off on his girlfriend.”

  “Oh, no,” said Carolyn, “I am not going to wear the same clothes for another day. This is worse than the time they lost our luggage in Paris. We’ll have to go back to Vera’s.”

  She was so upset that the other two men looked taken aback. I knew how much my wife objected to being unable to change her clothes at least once a day, but I did think the nervous outburst had more to do with the tremor we’d experienced than the clothing problem. When the busboy finally arrived to clean up our table and the waitress to offer fresh desserts, my wife said, “Absolutely not. This is the second time I’ve had a dessert jump off my plate. I’m not going to risk a third.”

  “Fine,” said Flamboise. “I’ll take you two and Paul back to our place. Then you can give me the keys to the Sacramento Street apartment, and I’ll bring back whatever you want.”

  “Then you’ll get shot,” Carolyn objected.

  “Is there a backdoor?” he asked.

  “Well, yes. It’s off the little side street and through the gate.”

  “You got a key to it?”

  She admitted that she did. And so it was arranged. Carolyn and I stayed the night in a rather fussy Victorian place that didn’t seem like Flamboise’s style at all, although I’ll admit the leather chairs and cognac in the den were to my liking and obviously to his. I wasn’t pleased to discover that the outfit he brought for her to wear the next day was that outrageous leather thing, but since the man was willing to creep around at night so we wouldn’t get shot by the murderer, I couldn’t very well complain, and Carolyn obviously loved it. Could that be some menopausal anomaly? Like men with their midlife crises, buying sports cars and chasing young women?

  Once in the bedroom assigned to us, Carolyn donned a peculiar nightgown, evidently the property of Labadie’s Korean mother, and asked if she could sleep with me. I looked at the twin beds, calculated how much space there would be for each of us in one of them, and agreed with alacrity. Obviously, my wife had forgiven me for whatever sins I’d committed this week.

  While ordering dinner in a San Francisco restaurant, I chose Pappa al Pomodoro. “Pope with tomatoes?” my husband asked, perplexed. Pappa means mush, actually, and the soup was thick and delicious. I decided immediately to try it at home. Bad decision. Using standard recipes, I came up with something that tasted good, but was lumpy and unpleasant in texture, unlike the restaurant’s version. Also, it persisted in sticking to the bottom of the pan during the hours of simmering. After several tries, I devised my own version, nv*Pappa al Pomodoro for those of us with little time and less patience.

  *new variant

  Easy Pappa al Pomodoro

  • In a heavy-bottomed soup pan,
sauté 1 peeled, thinly sliced onion, 8 cloves thickly sliced garlic, and a scant 1/4 tsp. red pepper flakes in 1/4 cup olive oil until onion is golden and garlic slightly browned.

  • Add two 14.5 oz. cans of yellow roma tomatoes.

  • Season with salt and add 1/2 bunch fresh basil torn into tiny pieces.

  • Crush tomatoes, stir, and cook, stirring frequently, until the tomatoes fall apart.

  • Stir in thoroughly 1 cup fine unseasoned breadcrumbs.

  • Add 4 cups water and stir thoroughly.

  • Add rest of basil, torn into tiny pieces, and simmer, stirring occasionally for about 1/2 hour until soup is thick but not lumpy. Add salt to taste.

  • Refrigerate and heat later until warm but not hot.

  • Serve with a splash of olive oil and 1 to 2 tbs. grated Parmigiano cheese on top of each serving.

  • 4 to 6 servings.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Yuma Sun-Times

  48

  Chocolate Quake

  Carolyn

  What a beautiful morning it was when we awakened in Sam’s house. Jason and I showered—together—feeling very good-humored and pleased with each other, and dressed, I in my leathers, which I still loved, and Jason in a pair of slacks and a sport shirt Sam had chosen. Then we went down and had breakfast overlooking the soaring, terraced rock garden: scrambled eggs with hot sauce, flour tortillas, and Mexican sausage, made by Sam in our honor. Coupled with a piece of good news, it was an auspicious beginning. Sam had heard from Harry Yu. Charles Desmond had been picked up at an airport trying to use tickets that would have taken him ultimately to Rio de Janeiro. Instead he was being processed into the county jail. Maybe he’d meet Vera on the way out. “What about Jason’s mother?” I asked Sam.