A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (16 page)

As she walked to Sergio’s restaurant, located on one of Blissburg’s main streets bordering the plaza, Emma rehearsed the approach she would take questioning the hunky young celebrity chef. 

First of all, Emma agreed with Julie that Sergio had nothing obvious to gain by killing Natasha, his former lover, except revenge. According to Jack, even stealing a $100,000 ring wouldn’t settle Sergio’s debts. He was too far under, financially, for that. And of course there was nothing to show that Sergio ever stole the ring. Or anything else, for that matter. Quite the opposite. The ring turned up in Carmen’s trailer.

Which left her with Sergio’s theory that the Mafia killed Natasha to scare him into paying his debts. But that theory didn’t make sense, either. As far as she knew, Sergio was plain out of dough. She smiled at her pun. Killing Natasha didn’t change that. And if the Mafia was ticked off, why hadn’t they killed
Sergio
by now?  No, if Sergio was involved, it had to be a crime of passion. The question was, how to expose it.

Emma had already decided that trying to guilt trip Sergio about the Roma scapegoats probably wouldn’t work. Most of the Italian men she knew just weren’t susceptible to guilt trips – except by their mothers. So she decided to play the small-town-gossip card first.

She approached the sleek modern redwood and chrome restaurant front whose sign proclaimed, in bold raspberry red script,
Ristorante Sergio
, and tried the front door. It was locked.

She peeked inside, then knocked. From an alcove behind the empty reception desk where the hostess usually greeted customers, two very dark brown eyes peeked through a grey velvet curtain. Seconds later, Sergio emerged. He recognized Emma, then shrugged, lifting his elegant tanned hands, palms up, as if to say, please,
Signora
, don’t make me have to come out.

Emma rapped harder on the door. “My books, I’ve come to collect my cookbooks.”  She’d planned that opening line in advance. It offered a credible excuse for her visit.

Sergio rolled his eyes. Then all muscular, trim six feet of him emerged from behind the curtain and he tiptoed – yes, Emma laughed, he actually tiptoed like some clown from a
Commedia dell’arte
pantomime show – to the front door. He opened it just wide enough to poke his head of black curls out far enough to survey the street - right and left. Then he motioned for Emma to enter quickly through the narrow opening of the door.

“
Entra Signora
.”  Like most well bred Italian young men, Sergio used the word
Signora
when addressing someone his mother’s age. “What is it you want?  The cookbooks?”

Sergio actually said, “What ees eet you want.”  He spoke with the clipped accent of an Italian who’d learned English in England. Which Emma knew was true. Sergio’s apprenticeship at the famed
Uccellino
in Bologna, was followed by a stint in London – too cold, she’d heard him complain – before he found Blissburg, California and opened his own restaurant.

Emma nodded. “I’m collecting the ones I gave to friends around the plaza. What with all that bad publicity.”

“The bad publicity,” he nodded. “Yes. It’s a shame. The book is good. Very good. The
salsa di pomodoro
,
magnifica
. But under the circumstances, I understand,” he agreed. “Wait here.”

He cast another exaggerated glance over his shoulder out to the street, and then went to look for the cookbooks which, Emma noted, had disappeared from their featured place at the bar.

“I’m on foot, Sergio,” Emma called after him, seating herself at a table just inside the dining room. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit down.”  She intended, in this way, to avoid a curt dismissal once he gave her the books. Without waiting for a reply, she added, “Would you mind bringing me a glass of water?”

Sergio glanced over his shoulder again. The expression on his face signaled he
clearly
minded. But he didn’t object and soon disappeared through the door to the kitchen. He returned minutes later with a stack of her cookbooks in a shopping bag and a full glass of water.

Emma took the glass of water from him and set it down, uncertain whether to drink it. After all, if Sergio
were
Natasha’s killer, who knows what he might do?  Then she dismissed the thought as silly, sniffed the water, and took a tiny sip, trying not to swallow.

Sergio must have observed this. He got right to the point. “
Signora
,” he said, “if you think that
I
had anything to do with Natasha’s murder, then,” he thrust his chin forward and threw up his hands, “
Boh
!  You are
pazza
, crazy.”

Emma hadn’t expected to get to the point so fast. She decided to stick to her script.

“Sergio, look,” she began, “I’ll admit. I didn’t come here just to collect the cookbooks. Though I
am
getting out of the food business.”

Sergio nodded.

“The truth is, I came to inform you - and I mean this as a friend.”  Emma cringed when she told the lie. “Blissburg’s a small town, a very small town, and I’ve heard some rumors. That’s all they are, rumors. But I thought you should know about them.”

Sergio sucked in his breath. He waved his hand in a tight circle. “Go on,
Signora
,” he said.

“First of all,” Emma began, having rehearsed this part over and over on her walk to the plaza, “there’s talk that you ordered a book on poison from Annemarie’s just a couple of weeks ago.”

“Did Annamaria tell you that?  Awwww,” Sergio pounded the table top hard enough to make the silverware jingle. “She promised me she wouldn’t say anything. Something like that is very bad for business. I’d have ordered it on line, but Amazon closed down my account when the credit card company refused to honor...”  He stopped speaking abruptly, seeming to think better of finishing that sentence. “What I mean is, how was I to know two weeks ago that buying a book on rodent poison would turn me into a murder suspect?  What was I supposed to do?  I saw a rat in the kitchen one night when I was closing up. It probably surfaced because of all the renovations at the new olive oil tasting room going in next door. Personally, I’d have rathered the dress shop stayed, but…” 

Emma interrupted him. “Let me get this straight, Sergio. You had rats in your kitchen and you blamed
me
for dropping a spoon and then using it to stir my pasta sauce?  Which, by the way, didn’t even happen. I was just knocking on wood for good luck. But you had to make a big deal out of it, claiming your kitchen was clean
issimo
. You can imagine how I felt when the soprano died and everyone thought it was my cooking. Why,” she got even angrier now, “I always wondered who fueled all those nasty jokes about my sauce. I bet it was you.”

Sergio looked embarrassed. He bit his lower lip and shrugged. As if to say, could you blame me? 

“
Signora
,” he replied. “I had to deflect any suspicion from me. I already had the rat problem. If the health department got wind of it I’d be sunk. The city was on my back.”  He abruptly stopped talking again and switched course. “I mean, my restaurant, my livelihood was at stake. Not my hobby. Like you,
Signora
.”

“Emma,” Emma shot back. “Call me Emma. And it wasn’t my hobby. It was my future. What little is left of it,” she added.

Sergio appeared to be taken aback by what she’d said. “
Scusa
,
Signora
. I mean, Em-ma.”  He distinctly pronounced each “m” Italian style. Then he looked at his watch. Emma knew he wanted her to leave.

She continued quickly. “There’s more, Sergio.”

He leaned back in his chair and pouted like a sullen teenager.

“There are rumors,” she said, “that your restaurant is in deep financial trouble. That you’ve taken some unwise risks, up at the casino, and that certain unsavory individuals are after you to collect a big debt. There is even a rumor that you’re worried the Mafia killed Natasha Vasiliev to get back at you. Though personally,” she added, “I think that’s far-fetched.”

Sergio leaned forward as she spoke.

“Who told you that,” he shouted. “Was it Piers?”  He nodded. “Sure. It was Piers, wasn’t it?  And I thought he was such a nice guy. But of course, he’s a lawyer. He hears that kind of thing.”  Sergio pounded the table again in frustration. “Still, I didn’t see
that
coming.”

Suddenly, Emma felt she had to clear Piers’ name. Jack had told her the rumor. Piers wasn’t to blame. But if Sergio suspected him, who knew what Sergio might do?  She shook her head. “It wasn’t Piers. I promise you, Sergio. He’s not the one to blame.”

“Then who is?” Sergio shot back.

Emma didn’t like the direction their chat had taken. Her heart started pounding. “I…I can’t tell you,” she stammered.

Sergio leaned way back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. A cagey smile replaced his frown. Then he waved a forefinger at Emma, mimicking her in a sing song voice.

“Em-ma,” he began. “I think I should inform you – as a friend, of course. Blissburg is a small town, small
issimo
. And there are rumors I thought you should know.”

Emma felt her body tense up. She sucked in her breath.

“People here…I won’t name names,” he added. “Some people say you are sleeping with…”  His voice got loud and angry. “That fat, arrogant Sicilian
cafone
Jack Russo!  I know that’s whom you heard that
cazzo
of a rumor from.”

Emma jumped.
Cafone
meant boor. Her grandmother had used the word a lot. But Emma didn’t exactly know what
cazzo
meant. They hadn’t covered it in the Spoken Italian class she took before her trip to Italy to research her book. The word was used a lot in that epic Italian movie,
Best of Youth
, that she saw with her class. All she knew was that, whatever
cazzo
meant, it was bad.

Then suddenly something occurred to her. Emma’s shoulders relaxed. She exhaled, one long cleansing breath. And thought to herself -
I’m sixty-five years old. What do
I care if everyone thinks I’m sleeping with that arrogant, multi-millionaire, cafone VC?

“Maybe I
should
sleep with him,” she muttered out loud.
Except that he’s obviously still in love with his dead wife
, she thought but did not say. “Maybe, it would be fun!” she added out loud.

Suddenly, Emma started to laugh. She sat back in her chair and laughed so hard tears sprang to her eyes.

At first, Sergio just stared at her as though she were crazy. Then the volatile Italian’s expression swiftly changed to a smile. Followed by a few silent guffaws. Finally he erupted in explosions of laughter that left him gasping holding on to his sides. When he caught his breath, he stood up, reached across the table and hugged Emma.

“
Signora
,” he cried. “You’re so cute.  You make me laugh. You remind me of my grandmother. How can I be upset with you?” 

Emma made a conscious decision to take that as a compliment.

Sergio sat back down, kissed his fingertips and saluted. Either his grandmother or herself, Emma couldn’t tell which.

Then, just as quickly as his expression had turned from anger to mirth, his face got serious again. He stared across the table at her and said, “Look,
Signora
. Why are we arguing like this and making all these veiled threats?  We’ve both got problems, right?  We’ve both got bills to pay, reputations to rebuild. But as soon as the police convict those two
zingari
, the fortune tellers, we can relax, right?  I’ll figure out some way to repay my debts. I’m looking for more backers right now to refinance me. You can get back in the food business.”

Emma marveled at how quickly the sun chased away the storms in the man’s brain. She shook her head. “It’s not quite
that
simple, Sergio,” she said.

“Why not?” he replied.

That’s when Emma told him. Way more than she expected to. About all the holes in the police case against the Roma.

“Holes?” he asked. “You mean problems?  Like that case in Perugia against the American girl?”  He shrugged. “So this could go on forever.”

Emma nodded. “Based on what I know, I don’t think the Roma killed her.” 

Emma went on to relate all she’d heard about Lexie. And why Emma believed Lexie was the one person with all the qualifications to be the murderer: motive, opportunity, lots of malice, and the means to kill.

Sergio considered everything she said for a few moments.

He nodded slowly. “You know, Em-ma, in the back of my mind, I always thought it might be Lexie. Natasha had told me things about Lexie that, at first, made me suspect her. Natasha went out with Barry, before I,” he stopped. “Well, you know. Anyway, Lexie hated Natasha. Natasha told me things.”