Murder After a Fashion

by Grace Carroll

  Dolce and I proceeded inside where we sat in the back so we could watch everyone come in. “Tell me if you see anyone who looks suspicious,” I whispered to Dolce.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, craning her neck to watch the mourners arriving.

  “Someone who looks overly upset, like they’re putting on an act,” I whispered. “Or someone who looks too happy, like they’re really not sad at all. Or someone who looks nervous, like they’re worried they’ll be accused of murder.”

  Dolce nodded as if she understood. “Some people are going up to look at his body,” she said to me.

  My heart started to flutter. I thought I’d have no problem surveying the corpse, but now that I was within walking distance of the coffin, I wondered if I could handle it.

  “What’s wrong?” Dolce asked. “You look pale.”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just…”

  “Nervous?”

  “A little. I mean, it’s not like it’s my first funeral, my first open casket. But…”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not really. But I will. I mean, I should. But I’ll go up by myself and have a look first. You stay here. I’ll just see how he looks and be right back.”

  I nodded. Sometimes I didn’t understand Dolce at all. But a dead body can have a weird effect on the most normal people. Which was why I stood watching while Dolce strode purposefully up to the open casket. She stood there for a long moment, then turned and walked back. Her face was pale and her eyes wide.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m shocked,” she said.

  “I can see that. I should have gone with you.”

  “No, I had to do it by myself. To see for myself…”

  “To see what?”

  “If it was him. The man who came into the shop last week. And it was. It was him. It was while you were out to lunch.”

  My mouth fell open. “You didn’t say anything.”

  “I had nothing to say. He came in and asked for advice. What to give the woman who has everything. I asked how well he knew her. He said very well. I suggested a set of gold and diamond bangle bracelets, a Josie Natori charmeuse silk robe or a pair of Pineider leather gloves, but he said nothing was quite right or good enough, he said it had to be perfect or else…”

  “Or else what? The woman would be angry,” I said, my mind spinning with this information. “So angry she might kill him. But who was she? Someone who’s here today?” I looked around the room as if someone would stand out as the murderer.

  “He didn’t say who she was. He finally left without buying anything except an imported handkerchief with lilies of the valley hand embroidered on the edges.” She shivered as if a cold breeze had blown in.

  I didn’t blame Dolce for falling apart. It was creepy to look at a dead body whether you knew him as a customer or not. But I had to do it. “Sit down and rest,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.” I stood and walked slowly up the aisle to the front of the church where Guido was lying. There were two women standing there.

  “Solid poplar, if I’m not mistaken,” said the woman in a hat with a veil.

  “That’s fitting.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Grow fast but they don’t last long. They usually use the wood to make cardboard boxes.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “White crepe lining, very tasteful,” her friend said.

  “It makes me sad to think of what happened,” said the woman with the veil. She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from her purse. I almost lurched forward and demanded to know, what happened? Or I could have snatched the hankie out of her hand. How many women use handkerchiefs? Was this the one with the hand-embroidered flowers? I couldn’t tell. Before I could do anything, they left. I watched them walk back to find their seats, thinking they were so cool they might have killed Guido. But why? Because the handkerchief wasn’t good enough? Because she expected a diamond bracelet from the famous chef?

  Now alone, I swallowed hard and forced myself to look down at Guido. He was dressed formally in a Calvin Klein tuxedo with a black tie and vest.

  From behind me the voice of Jack Wall said, “What do you think of the tux?”

  He joined me at the coffin, and I took a deep breath before I answered. “I don’t know. If I was a chef, I’d want to be buried in my toque and apron. That’s what he was wearing when I last saw him.”

  “What about you?” Jack asked.

  “What was I wearing?”

  “What would you want to be buried in?” he asked.

  “I feel like we’ve had this conversation at another funeral.”

  “It’s possible,” he admitted. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Clothes, of course. I would choose something simple,” I said. “But not black. Maybe a wool dress by Missoni in dark green. I’ve been told that green brings out the flecks in my hazel eyes.”

  He stared into my eyes, and I felt my knees weaken. It could have been the overwhelming cloying scent of the flowers banked at the altar, or it could have been the look in his eyes, so dark, so intense. Even in ordinary, off-the-shelf clothes Jack would be more attractive than any officer of the law had a right to be. But today he looked especially disturbingly sexy.

  “On the other hand,” I said trying to stay on subject, “my eyes would be closed, so…”

  “I assume you’d want people to say, ‘What an unusual choice. Is it Marc Jacobs or Alexander Wang? No, wait a minute, it’s Missoni.’”

  Amazing how well the man knew me and my taste in clothes when I didn’t really know him at all. “Is that wrong to want to be noticed at your own funeral? If not then, when?”

  “Not wrong at all,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

  I had a vision of myself lying in my coffin in a Georgette water-washed maxi dress from Nicole Miller, simple but elegant. Note to self: be sure to leave instructions to next of kin. So many people don’t think ahead, as I did.

  “I seem to remember your saying you wanted to have a brass band marching, playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ Have you changed your mind?” I asked Jack.

  “That’s what I want when we march through the streets of the city. But later at the cemetery…” He paused and looked thoughtful. But I didn’t see him looking at Guido. Too disturbing? Maybe he wasn’t as tough as he pretended.

  “How about ‘Nearer My God to Thee’?” I suggested.

  “Why not?” he said.

  I looked over my shoulder. “I wonder why no one else is coming up to view the body. Is it because you’re here?”

  “Could be. I have that effect on people.”

  “Even out of uniform and in plain clothes you are shunned? Not that your clothes are ever plain. Is your suit Fendi, D and G, or Bocci?”

  “You’re close,” he said, but he didn’t divulge the designer. I thought I was more than close, I had hit the nail on the head. But Jack wouldn’t acknowledge it.

  “Any luck finding the, uh, murderer?”

  “I have some suspects.”

  I assumed he included me in his list.

  I glanced at Guido, this time studying his face for a clue to his untimely demise. He looked so calm and peaceful I couldn’t believe he’d died a violent death at someone else’s hand.

  “Hard to believe there’s a bullet in his heart,” I said. “Or is there? Did you find it?”

  “How do you know about the bullet?” he asked.

  “Just a lucky guess,” I said breezily. “So where is it? If it’s still in his heart, you’re not going to let them bury him, are you?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Rita,” he said curtly.

  Okay, I would take another approach. “Have you given any more thought to my suicide theory?”

  “More thought? How could I give it any thought at all when it’s patently ridiculous.”

&n
bsp; I flushed angrily at the way he put down my ideas. “Fine,” I said. “I will keep my suspicions and findings to myself.”

  “Forget about your suspicions and your findings,” he said sternly. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  I was about to remind him of my demanding sales job at Dolce’s plus any upcoming self-improvement classes I might take, when two men in Bianco Brioni suits and sunglasses came up and kissed Guido on the forehead. Brothers? Father and son? I stepped back and watched. So did Jack. The two men muttered something in Italian either to each other or to Guido, I wasn’t sure. I wished I could speak Italian because if ever there were suspects, these guys were it.

  When they walked away, I tugged on Jack’s sleeve and said under my breath, “They looked like mobsters or something, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t say anything because at that moment a priest began chanting and altar boys came down the aisle and lighted candles. Jack walked off to the side of the church, and I hurried back to my seat. As I went, I felt many curious eyes on me, wondering who I was, how I was connected to the dead chef, or maybe some thought I was responsible for his murder. Or did they know it was murder? Maybe others like myself had other theories that were being dismissed out of hand by the police.

  “What did Detective Wall say?” Dolce whispered when I returned to my seat.

  I couldn’t answer because the woman in front of us turned and shushed us. I was glad I was hiding behind my sunglasses.

  The funeral lasted forever and it was mostly in Italian. My eyelids were so heavy and the atmosphere so heavy with the scent of flowers and so stifling, I almost fell asleep. Finally at the end various people got up to speak. That’s when I wished I was in the front row where I could see where Jack had ended up. That way I might be able to read between the lines, so to speak. Some speakers didn’t identify themselves and I had to guess. Friend? Relative? Competitor? Partner? Lover?

  One woman who spoke was wearing a huge straw hat. She was tall and thin and wore a vintage seventies royal purple fitted jacket. So much for black, I thought, and good for her for breaking the rules. But who was she, this woman who broke down at the end and cried when she talked about Guido? His wife? His mistress? She said she would miss the food Guido cooked for her, the caponata, the panella, the maccu and the arancini. It made my mouth water, and I wondered what would be served at the get-together afterward. I knew I was there to figure out who killed Guido, but there was no reason I couldn’t eat too.

  I made a mental list of the people I wanted to meet at the cooking school reception today, and the woman was at the top of my list, along with the woman with the handkerchief. The next speaker was a man who said Guido had taught him everything he knew. Like how to make finnochio con sardo with fresh sardines they caught in the Mediterranean. He raved about how creative and hardworking Guido was. Wiping the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief, he shook his head and left the podium.

  After he spoke, a heavyset man dressed casually in a fisherman’s sweater and baggy pants spoke with an Italian accent. He said he taught Guido everything he knew. That Guido was like a son to him. A man who loved life, food and fun. A man who didn’t deserve to die. Then he broke down and had to be helped back to his seat.

  I was confused. Who was the real Guido? A top-of-the-line celebrity chef followed around by sycophants? A man hated and envied by his peers? A fun-loving bon vivant who loved life, or a man who deserved to die because he did what? How was I going to finger a suspect if they all cried?

  Finally the speeches were over and a woman wearing a dark brown Trina Turk sweater dress that hit just above the knees and a pair of Christian Louboutin patent leather platform pumps approached me and asked where I got my jacket. I was flattered, because her outfit was very conservative, very appropriate and very chic at the same time. Whereas mine was a little bit out there. Not the dress of course, but the jacket.

  I took the opportunity to put in a word for Dolce’s and told her that many of the women in the room were wearing Dolce fashions. She accepted my business card, which I retrieved from my Kristin metallic leather hobo, and promised she’d come and see me at the shop.

  When I asked how she knew Guido, she said she’d hired him a few times to do her dinner parties and they were fabulous. I was envious. I would never be rich enough to afford a chef. Even for a special occasion. The alternative was to learn to cook, which I had tried. I knew learning to cook would be a good addition to my attributes, but I didn’t have the time or energy to concentrate on it. I’d given one dinner party, which turned out well, but afterward I was exhausted. Otherwise, I was happy to have someone else cook for me, like the Italians at the pizza place. It was time to stop waiting around for the men in my life to provide food for me. But there was nothing wrong with reaching out to them to let them know I was available.

  Maybe today was a turning point. Maybe facing the death of someone I knew would cause me to embrace life and look for a new direction.

  First I had to get this murder solved or I’d be spending all my time defending myself instead of finding the new me. Meera was still on my suspect list. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and not tell Jack about her. One, he probably wouldn’t take my theory seriously, and two, I wanted to get credit for solving this crime myself. If there was a crime. I still liked the possibility of a suicide. No one had spoken of Guido’s state of mind, but his buying that handkerchief didn’t sound like a man ready to kill himself. I intended to sound out his confidantes after this funeral.

  Dolce and I hopped in a taxi for the ride to Tante Marie’s Cooking School on Potrero Hill. We were greeted at the door by a young woman wearing an apron over a dark dress. She didn’t look one bit sad; in fact, she smiled brightly and welcomed us. Maybe she was the hired help for the day and had no connection to Guido.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked when I commented on the tables set up around the room and a large banner that said “Farewell Guido—Buon Viaggio!” That was a nice touch. When I was last there, the chairs were set up facing the stove and the oven.

  “I took a class from Guido,” I said.

  “Just one?” she asked.

  “I wanted to take more,” I said. I didn’t explain how I had trouble following through on plans. The fewer people who knew that about me, the better. Although I was planning on changing. “But something came up.”

  She looked at me as if she knew my type. One cooking class, one knitting lesson, one swimming class at the Y, one workout at the health club and then I lost interest and moved on.

  “But enough about me,” I said. “Are you…”

  “I’m Guido’s niece,” she said. “Maria Natali. My father Eduardo is also a chef. He’ll be taking over the school.”

  “He teaches cooking as well?”

  “He used to. They ran a school in Tuscany together, then they split up and my father opened a restaurant here in San Francisco. Eduardo’s.”

  “Is he here?” I asked.

  “No, he has a banquet at the restaurant today,” she said.

  Dolce and I exchanged a look. He didn’t come to his brother’s funeral because of a banquet? Wasn’t that strange?

  I knew Eduardo’s had been written up as a tiny gem of a restaurant serving expensive and out-of-this-world food, impossible to get a reservation unless you knew someone. So they said. I wondered if that was just a PR gambit. Maybe I’d give it a try just to see. Just as soon as I won the lottery.

  “How amazing that they both ended up here in San Francisco in the food business,” I said.

  “Not so amazing. Their mother was a fantastic cook. At least that’s what they say, and they use her recipes even today.”

  Two brothers, both in the same profession. I pictured them fighting over rights to the recipes. I smelled jealousy, envy, hatred and competition, even though I had no evidence. I had so many questions for Maria, but a crush of mourners were behind us at the
door, waiting to get in. Dolce nudged me with her elbow, and we went into the large room where aromas of simmering sauces and roasting meats made my mouth water. My kind of funeral.

  Dolce was looking at a display of menus and recipes on the wall and I was heading for the buffet table when I noticed a tall graceful woman in a black pillbox hat with a silver metallic trim from the Shenor collection. She was dressed impeccably in a classic black Juicy Couture tropical wool jacket with a Roxy high-waisted pencil skirt and pair of T-strap Chanel booties. All of which looked familiar, which meant she was a Dolce’s shopper. I told her who I was, and she smiled brightly.

  “Rita,” she said. “I can’t believe we’ve never met at Dolce’s. I’m Diana Van Sloat.”

  I couldn’t believe we’d never met either. Dolce adored Diana and vice versa. According to my boss, Diana was super rich, super high society and super nice. Diana had been Dolce’s numero uno client for ages. When times were tough, Diana had kept buying and bringing her friends into Dolce’s to buy their clothes. She was still a regular customer but lately had been ordering outfits she saw in Vogue from Dolce over the phone. Which might explain why I hadn’t ever met her in person before.

  “Can you believe who’s here today? Almost the whole town,” Diana gushed. She proceeded to point out the city’s various movers and shakers. Though in reality Diana Van Sloat was the biggest name there, at least in terms of the top level of San Francisco society. The Van Sloat family had arrived in California around the horn by boat from Holland after the gold rush. They’d given away tons of the money they’d made on everything from gold to real estate. They’d funded the major museums and contributed to the opera and the symphony. And not surprisingly, they’d hired the best chef they could find—Guido.

  “Guido was the real deal, wasn’t he?” I said. “Without the big ego that some other top chefs have, or so I hear.”

  She nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. I learned so much from just watching him. I don’t know what we’ll do without him, which is what I told the detective. I hear he’s interviewing all Guido’s contacts. Does that mean you too?”