Dying for a Taste (20 page)

I swiveled in my chair to look at Ted, who was helping himself from one of the coffee urns. “Speaking of personal,” I said, jabbing my thumb in Ted’s direction, “how weird is it, too, that he’s the one who sent those letters? Someone Letta used to be involved with?”

“Maybe not so weird.” Eric gave his wine glass a swirl and then drained its contents. “I mean, when you think about it, he must feel that her lack of food ethics, or whatever, is just as much a betrayal as Kate thinks his seducing away Letta . . . is . . . was. Is that even a proper sentence?”

“I better drive home, toots.” I laughed and reached over to help myself to the lava cake still on Eric’s plate. “But seriously, what a soap opera this all is. With Letta as the central character and everyone else revolving around her. Who knew my aunt had such a dramatic life?”

Eric stood up. “I’m gonna get some coffee. You want me to bring you a cup?”

“No, I’ll be there in a sec.” As I finished off Eric’s cake, I pondered just how much Letta had kept from me. Would she have ever confided in me, told me about her secret past, had we gotten the chance to know each other better—had she lived to do so? With an impatient shake of the head, I pushed back my chair. Such morose thoughts did no one any good.

Eric and I drank our coffee and then found Kate to say good-bye. There was still no sign that she had noticed me sitting next to Ted or if she had, that she thought anything of it. Another bullet dodged.

As we made our way to the door to leave, we passed Ted, who had corralled the
charcuterie
woman into a corner. “I just found out about you selling foie gras,” he was shouting at her. “So you think it’s okay to make money off the torture of ducks and geese? How would you like it if I force-fed
you
?” Spittle was coming out of his mouth, and his eyes had a hard, scary look to them.

It was a reminder not to take smarmy Ted too lightly. For Noah was always there waiting in the wings.

The following Tuesday, Dad invited me over for dinner and, even though I was feeling completely beat, I accepted out of guilt. I wasn’t much looking forward to the evening. It seemed like whenever we spent more than about ten minutes together, of late, we’d end up in some sort of squabble. And ever since I’d told him about inheriting Gauguin, it had gotten even worse. Pretty much the only things we talked about now were work-related issues and the weather. Even squabbling would be better than that.

But I figured he must be feeling pretty lonely these days, so it was my daughterly duty to hang with my dad. After all, other than Nonna, I was the only family in town he had left.

Plus, he’d promised to make his famous linguine with clam sauce.

Smiling at the sight of the pale-yellow T-Bird convertible sitting in my space, I walked briskly across the apartment’s parking lot and climbed inside. It was probably too chilly to put the top down, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. I zipped
up my jacket, cranked the heater up to high, and jammed the stick into reverse.

As I slowed down to pull into my local liquor store for a bottle of wine to bring Dad—I figured a Pinot Grigio would go well with the dinner—I noticed a big ol’ car right on my tail.
Jerk
, I thought as it just missed winging me and sped on past.

And then I did a double-take. It was metallic blue, all engine and tricked-out wheels. Your classic muscle car.

What color car had Kate said that mystery man drove?

I watched it disappear down the street and then shook my head and headed into the store. Allowing myself to slip into a state of paranoia was not going to help anything.

Dad was watching the news when I arrived. Grunting, he lifted himself out of his easy chair, shut off the TV, and then gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Hi hon, how are ya?”

I handed him the bottle. “Not bad. I’m looking forward to your linguine.”

“It’ll be a few minutes; I just put the pasta water on. You want me to open this?”

“That’s why I brought it.”

I followed Dad into the kitchen and watched as he uncorked the wine and poured us each a glass. He took a sip, nodded, and then handed me some papers that had been sitting on the counter. “Here’s that surveyor’s report you asked me to get. And a letter from her lawyer. Wanda stuck them in my mailbox today.”

The attorney’s language was full of bombast and threats—your typical demand letter. Rolling my eyes, I turned to the
surveyor’s report and flipped through its pages to the “conclusions” section. Yep, the fence was indeed on Wanda’s property.

“Damn,” I said.

My dad lifted the lid off the large stockpot steaming on the stove. “Yeah, I saw it too.” He grabbed the package of linguine sitting on the counter and tore it open. “But maybe I can use that easement argument you were talking about. Prewhassit?”

“Prescriptive.”

“Yeah, that one.” He dropped a large fistful of the pasta strands into the pot and stirred them with a wooden spoon. “Now for the sauce.” A large skillet was sitting next to the stockpot, and on the counter were all the ingredients, lined up and ready to go. Once you’ve cooked in a restaurant, this prep work and organization becomes second nature.

“I’ll read through all this later and let you know if I think you should hire your own attorney.” Walking back into the living room, I set the papers down next to my bag and then returned to the kitchen.

Dad was pouring a generous pool of olive oil into the hot pan. When the oil was shimmering, he dumped in some sliced garlic, cooked it for a minute, and then added a pinch of red pepper flakes.

“That’s new,” I said. “You didn’t used to use hot pepper in your linguine.”

“That’s because your mother didn’t like it. She said it overwhelmed the flavor of the clams.”

“Right.” Mom’s family hailed from the Midwest, and the spices her mother had used when cooking had been pretty much limited to salt, black pepper, and the occasional oregano
or parsley sprig. Marrying an Italian must have been quite the challenge for her taste buds.

Next went in about a cup of white wine and a bottle of clam juice.

“Gotta let this reduce a few minutes,” Dad said, picking up his wine glass. “So what’s new? How you been?”

“Busy—what with working and also dealing with Gau—” I stopped myself from completing the sentence, but it was too late: Dad was already frowning. “Also,” I added quickly, hoping to distract him from the whole Gauguin issue, “I went to a Slow Food dinner up in Berkeley Sunday night.”

But this just prompted a larger frown. “I heard about those food snobs.”

“They aren’t snobby. They just believe in real food. You know, back to the basics: using fresh ingredients rather than processed ones.” I was on dangerous ground here, I realized, and had to be careful about what I said. Dad was touchy about anything suggesting Solari’s wasn’t about real, traditional Italian cuisine. “It’s the same thing you believe in—food like this.” I gestured to the sauce simmering on the stove. “A homemade dish rather than buying a spaghetti sauce in a jar. The Slow Food movement did start in Italy, after all.”

“Huh.” I could tell he wasn’t convinced, but he at least seemed mollified. He reached for the bowl of clams on the counter next to the stove, dumped them into the pan, and covered it.

“By the way, I met this guy at the Slow Food dinner who used to be involved with Letta. You ever meet someone named Ted she used to date back in the 1980s?”

“Nope. We didn’t hang out a whole lot back then.”

I wasn’t sure just how much to tell him about what I’d learned. Certainly not about her relationship with Kate. Letta wouldn’t have wanted that. But the Ted thing seemed safe. “Well, it turns out this guy Ted had been sending Letta nasty letters—anonymously, that is—about her serving factory-farmed meat at her restaurant.”

“I knew those Slow Food people were kooks. You should steer clear of them.” He lifted the lid to poke at the clams, which were just starting to open.

“You’re missing the point, Dad. I think it’s possible that this guy might have been the one who killed Letta.”

“Dammit, Sally!” He slammed the lid back down on the pan. “What do you think you’re doing, poking your nose around into everyone else’s business?”

“But I—”

“Sean told me yesterday he saw you a while back when he was down at the police station reporting his stolen bike. He said he overheard you talking to them about Letta.”

Dang. He must have seen me when I dropped off those threatening letters.

“It’s embarrassing. You have no business playing at being some kind of goddamn Columbo.” Taking the lid off again, he started removing the clams with a slotted spoon and placing them in a bowl. “Why can’t you just let the police do their jobs? They’re the experts, after all.” He cut a chunk of butter and dropped it into the sauce and then turned the flame up under the pot. We both stared at it in silence, Dad trying to maintain his glower and me pondering whether I preferred the comparison to Peter Falk’s disheveled TV detective or to the prissy spinster, Jane Marple. Neither, I decided.

Proving the adage wrong, the saucepot came quickly to a boil. “We can eat as soon as it reduces by half,” Dad said, breaking the silence. He turned and walked over to the fridge and brought out a bowl of baby spinach topped with red onion, orange slices, and pine nuts. “You wanna toss the salad?” He handed me the dish of creamy dressing sitting on the counter. I dipped my finger in it to have a taste.

“Mayo, balsamic vinegar, and Italian herbs?”

“Uh-huh. With black pepper and a dash of sugar.”

While I tossed the salad, Dad set a plate of bread on the table and then caught a strand of linguine with a fork and lifted it out of the water to test. “Done,” he declared and tipped the contents of the steaming pot into a colander sitting in the sink. Dumping the drained pasta into the now-reduced sauce, he stirred it all up and then added back the clams. After shaking in some salt and pepper, he served two large bowls and garnished them liberally with chopped Italian parsley.

“
Il tempo per mangiare
!” he announced with a broad smile, and we sat down to eat. Nothing beats food for, at least momentarily, setting aside one’s differences.

Two hours later, I was back in the T-Bird, the ragtop now up, heading home. After dinner, Dad and I had watched the Giants clobber the dastardly Snakes, and I had now settled into a mellow mood, no doubt assisted by that glass of my dad’s homemade limoncello during the ninth inning.

Stopping at a red light at Broadway and Ocean, I turned up the CD player to better hear Elvis Costello’s hoarse, nasal voice. The red shoes in that song always reminded me of the Converse high-tops Nichole had worn her entire first year of law school.

When the signal changed, I fumbled getting the stick into first, prompting the person waiting behind me to lay on the horn. Resisting the urge to flip the bird—I try to do my part to prevent road rage—I studiously kept my gaze forward as the car changed lanes and came up next to me.

But when it stayed even with the T-Bird, not pulling ahead as I would have expected, I finally caved and glanced over. My gut tightened, and I was afraid my clam dinner might come back up to haunt me.

It was the metallic-blue muscle car.

Letting my foot off the gas, I slowed. The muscle car slowed with me.
Okay . . . Keep it together, Sal.
What to do? Maybe I could at least get a look at the guy.

I turned again.
Damn
. Wouldn’t you know he’d have tinted windows. All I could make out was a lone figure in the driver’s seat. But then we passed under a streetlight, and as the car finally raced ahead, wheels squealing, a silhouette was revealed. He was staring back at me.

***

I’d been dreading the advent of this phone call. But nevertheless, when it finally came the following morning, I was taken completely by surprise. I was at Solari’s, counting out the starting cash for the register.

“Sally. It’s me, Javier. The cops arrested me early this morning. I’m in jail.”

“Oh my God, Javier!” I shut the drawer and headed for the office.

“They said I could make a phone call, and since you’re a lawyer . . .”

“
Used
to be. I’m inactive now. But you did the right thing to call me. Are you all right? They treating you okay?”

“Yeah, they’ve been treating me fine. Not super friendly, but I guess they wouldn’t be, since they think I’m a murderer.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “But Sally, you gotta come down and get me out.
Soon
.” I could hear the urgency in his voice. “It’s really awful being here. You can’t imagine.”

“Look, I’ll get down there as soon as I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be for a couple hours.”
And no one’s gonna be springing you today
, I added to myself, though it was probably better to wait and tell him this in person. “I’m really sorry. It’s just that I can’t leave work right this instant. In the meantime, don’t talk to them about Letta or the murder or anything, okay?”

“I know. They read me my rights and all that.”

“Good. Just hang in there. I’ll see you really soon.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.”

As soon as he hung up, I called Eric.

“Hey, Sal,” he said. “I just heard the news.”

“So why now? What gives?”

“Look, I gotta tell you”—Eric lowered his voice almost to a whisper—“I’m obviously not going to be assigned the case, but Javier’s arrest does make my position even more awkward than before. Here, wait a sec.” In the background, I heard footsteps and then a door slam shut, and his voice came back on the line. “Okay, I’m in my office now. So anyway, I’m just gonna have to be super careful from now on. You know, making sure there’s no appearance of conflict of interest and all that.”

“Got it.”

“But to answer your question, two things happened. First, the results of the fingerprint analysis on Letta’s key to the
knife cabinet apparently came back a few days ago. I only just found out today.”

“And?”

“And it’s not good,” Eric said. “The only prints on the key are Letta’s.”

“Damn.” This was bad news indeed. “And what’s the second thing?”

“The tox report came in this morning, which I gather they think also implicates Javier.”

“What? They did a toxicology test on Letta?”

“Sure. It’s a normal part of the autopsy in a case like this.”

I’d completely forgotten about the autopsy. It was so obvious how she’d died that I hadn’t given it a second thought. “Did they find anything?”

“They did. I’ve got it here; the coroner’s office sent a copy to our office. It turns out she was drugged before she was stabbed.”

“Drugged? What kind of drug?”

“Here, lemme grab the report. Um . . . yeah, here it is: ‘indole alkaloids,’ whatever they are.”

“Huh. Can you send me a copy?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Sal. If anyone gets wind of the fact that you’ve got it, I’ll be the obvious culprit.”

“C’mon, Eric, you can trust me. I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. But someone could see it or something. Or if you go snooping around based on what it says, then . . . I probably shouldn’t even have told you about it.”

“Look, I’ll keep the report under lock and key if you want. And I promise I won’t let on to anyone that I know what’s in
it.” I was slipping into my whiney voice, which I knew would only serve to annoy him further.

“Jesus, Sally. You know Javier probably did it. Once the police get around to arresting someone for murder, statistically speaking, they’re usually right. So really, what’s the point? Maybe you should just let this whole thing go.”

I took a few deep breaths. Losing my temper right now would not be a good idea. But it was taking all my control not to completely go off on the guy.

“Okay, Eric. I get what you’re saying. And you may well be right. But I’m not going to give up on him yet. All I’m asking is that you do me this one favor, and I swear I won’t ask for any more.” I lowered my voice, hoping it sounded more like a request than a whine. “C’mon, Eric.
Please?
”