Dying for a Taste

by Leslie Karst

  Letta had laughed as she tucked an errant strand of raven hair behind her ear. “I know,” she said, her blue eyes shining with pleasure. “They’re almost magical, eggs, aren’t they?”

  That simple dish—just eggs, butter, and salt and pepper, topped with a pinch of summer savory—was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

  Smiling at the memory, I got back to work on my own cheese-and-mushroom omelet and then cut a few slices of francese bread to go with it. At the sound of the plate being set on the table, Buster trotted over to sit at my feet.

  As I savored my meal—the eggs were soft and almost runny, just the way I like them—I considered what to do about Letta’s dog. My apartment complex doesn’t allow animals, so it wasn’t an option for me to keep him. I’d had to hustle him inside from the car that afternoon as fast as I could, praying no one was around to see and bust me.

  My dad couldn’t take him either, since he was severely allergic to dogs. I’d always wanted a puppy as a kid and had tried to convince him to let me have a poodle on the grounds that they were hypoallergenic, but this tactic was not successful. I still wanted a dog, but it was going to have to wait until I moved up from apartment living to a real house.

  That left Tony, Letta’s boyfriend. They hadn’t lived together, but I knew she’d been spending several nights a week at his place, so I figured he had to be okay with Buster.

  “I’m afraid your momma’s not coming back, honey,” I said to those big, brown eyes. “But we’ll see if your Uncle Tony can take you in.” And then I caved and gave him a piece of bread. This is why dogs have succeeded so very well as a species.

  Midway through dinner, my landline rang. After all that had happened that day, I was emotionally and physically exhausted, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend more time on the telephone. But I listened as the machine picked up to see if it was Tony or Javier returning my call.

  It was neither. “Hello, Ms. Solari, this is Detective Vargas from the Santa Cruz Police Department. I was wondering—”

  Jumping up, I grabbed the receiver. Maybe they had some news about Letta’s stabbing. But I should have known better; all he wanted was to find out if I’d be willing to talk to him and answer some “routine” questions. After agreeing to stop by the station the next day, I sat down at the kitchen table once more, only to have my cell chime. With a wistful glance at my half-eaten omelet, I retrieved the phone from my bag in the living room.

  “Javier—I tried to reach you earlier.”

  “Yeah, I got your message. I just got back from the police station. They wanted to talk to me about . . . well, you know.”

  “Oh God, Javier, it’s so horrible.”

  “I know. I can’t believe it. Poor Letta . . .” He trailed off, and there was a silence, neither of us knowing exactly what to say. I could hear him take a drink of something and a clink as he set the glass or bottle down. After a moment, he went on. “I don’t understand who could do such a thing.”

  “No, me neither.”

  “So how you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Does Mario know?”

  “Yeah. And we went over to my grandmother’s house together to tell her.” It occurred to me that Javier must have been pretty close to Letta, too. “And how are you doing?”

  “Not so good, actually. I just can’t stop thinking about it . . . her . . .” His voice got soft, and then he stopped speaking entirely. He cleared his throat and went on. “And also, well, they didn’t come out and say it or anything, but I can tell. The police think I’m the one who did it.” He took another quick sip. “It’s ’cause they found my knife—you know, the twelve-inch Wusthof—right next to her. And it had blood on it, and . . .” Javier’s English was generally free of any accent, but listening to him now, I detected traces of his native Spanish slipping out.

  “Hold on, Javier. It’s far too early for anyone to have any theories yet about who did it,” I lied. I couldn’t see any point in telling him what I’d learned from Eric. “They just need to talk to everyone who might know something. They asked me to go down there too; I’m going in tomorrow. And besides, you obviously know about the knife, and the restaurant, and tons of stuff that could be helpful.”

  “But they kept asking me about the knife cabinet and who had keys to it. They said it had been unlocked with a key, not broken open. Since me and Letta are the only ones with keys, I’m the obvious suspect, don’t you see?” His accent continued to thicken, and his voice was growing more and more agitated, rising in pitch as he spoke.

  “So who’s to say it wasn’t Letta’s key that was used?” I countered, wondering which of the two of us I was trying to convince more. “Did they read you your rights, you know, like on TV? ‘You have the right to remain silent’ and all that?”

  “No. Nuh-uh. They just said they were conducting an investigation, and told me about the knife, and asked if I’d talk to them. I figured it would look really bad if I didn’t . . . so I did.”

  God, it did sound like a TV show. Shaking my head, I sat down and poked with a fork at my rapidly cooling omelet. Classic cop tactics: Scare ’em into talking to you before you have time to think you might want to consult with a lawyer first.

  “So,” I said, “it looks like, at least for the time being, there isn’t anything else for you to do. You’ve told them all you know, and now they just have to do their job.” The melted Irish cheddar cheese, I observed, had hardened and congealed against the plate. “Look, Javier, speaking of jobs, there’s something I need to ask you. About the restaurant. Do you think you could take care of things—you know, act as manager—until we figure out what’s going to happen with it?” After talking with my dad, I’d realized that I was going to have to be the one to deal with this. I could tell he didn’t want to have anything to do with Javier, or Gauguin.

  “Uh, I guess so. I kind of do already, at least sometimes. When Letta’s gone, which has been a lot, lately, I pretty much do everything.” I heard what sounded like a bottle being tossed into the recycling and another being opened and then the clicking of a lighter. “So yeah, I could do it.” He took a drink of what I now figured was beer and then a puff off his cigarette. “How long will the restaurant be closed, ya think?”

  “Well, when I was down there this morning, I got the impression the cops would be done with their investigation by the end of the day. But that doesn’t mean they’d allow us to reopen right away. And even if they did allow it, I’m not sure we’d want to. I mean, maybe it would be best to just close down for a while, give everyone some time to get their bearings?” I realized I had absolutely no idea how stuff like this worked or what happened when the owner of a business died.

  No, didn’t just die—was brutally murdered, and on the business premises. “I dunno,” I went on. “What do you think?”

  “I think Letta would want the place reopened right away,” Javier answered. “For everyone to—how do you say it?—mount back on the horse as soon as possible. And I know for sure she wouldn’t want it to stay closed just ’cause we thought that was the, you know, ‘correct’ thing to do. She hated stuff like that.”

  I nodded, staring absently at my cold dinner. Javier was right. Letta despised anything that had the ring of “propriety for propriety’s sake” about it.

  “So,” I said, “you think the best way to honor her memory would be to simply get Gauguin up and running again as soon as possible—do our best to continue on with her work, her dream.”

  “Uh-huh.” Javier’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “And besides, I’m not sure what I’d do with a bunch of days off, anyway. At least working will help keep my mind off it all.”

  After a bit of silence, I asked, “Were there any deliveries that were missed today?”

  “No, the restaurant’s closed Mondays, so there won’t be any till tomorrow. But unless we’re gonna reopen right away, I should call and cancel them.”

  The drumming of my fingers on the
table caused Buster to wake up and look my way. I made a decision, since clearly no one else was going to. “Okay. If the cops give the green light, let’s plan on reopening the day after tomorrow: Wednesday night.”

  “Sounds good. I can call the cooks and waitstaff and make sure everyone knows to come in. You think some people might be freaked out by the idea of working where a murder happened?”

  “That’s entirely possible. Or they may just need a little more time off for other reasons. Everyone deals with grief in different ways, so make sure they know they don’t have to come in if they don’t feel up to it.”

  “I wonder if we’ll even get any customers. They might think it’s too weird.”

  Having seen the crowd trying to get a look into the restaurant that afternoon, I knew better. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be packed.”

  Once reheated in the microwave, the omelette was again hot, but that was the best that could be said for it. I have a thing about wasting food, though, so I ate it anyway and then set the plate on the floor for Buster to lick clean.

  After washing up and leaving the dishes to dry in the drainer, I poured myself a hefty Jim Beam on the rocks, put on a CD of Tosca—the 1953 Callas/di Stefano recording—and plopped down on the sofa.

  My dad’s a big opera fan, as was his dad before him. In fact, my father and Letta were both named after famous opera characters: Mario from Tosca and Violetta from La Traviata. One of my earliest memories is of my dad watering the garden on Saturday mornings, listening to the Met broadcast on the radio through the open windows as he adjusted the spray with his fingers, singing along with Puccini and Verdi. I ended up getting the bug too, so I guess it runs in the family. Must be an Italian thing.

  I stared out the window and listened to Tito Gobbi’s chilling baritone: “Va’ Tosca, nel tuo cuor s’annida Scarpia!” The afternoon wind had brought with it a storm front from the north, and through the water that was now streaming down the pane, I could see silhouettes of branches bending back and forth as they got caught by gusts.

  With a shiver, I pulled the green-and-white afghan Nonna had knitted from the back of the couch and over my legs. My apartment is pretty small—just a one bedroom with a kitchen/dining area, a small living room, and a tiny bathroom—and wouldn’t have been prohibitively expensive to heat. But in an attempt to save money, I only turn on the furnace when it’s downright frigid. The hot flashes help.

  Buster jumped up and joined me on the sofa. Snuggled up with him in my blanket, I reflected on the day’s events. It was still hard to believe that Aunt Letta was gone. And who could possibly have wanted her dead—so much so that they would kill her in such a brutal and vicious fashion? I shivered again and got up to pull the curtains shut. Then, walking over to the cabinet between the fridge and kitchen table, I pulled out the bottle and poured myself another bourbon. Maybe the liquor would help me sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Of course I’d known it was coming, but I was still taken aback by the headline splashed across next morning’s newspaper: “Restaurateur Found Stabbed to Death in Gauguin Kitchen.” Folding the paper to obscure the headline, I hurried back up the stairway and scurried inside my apartment; I so did not feel like discussing the murder with anyone in the complex.

  The story said nothing I didn’t already know and thankfully did not name Javier—or anyone—as a suspect. But its publication resulted in a barrage of calls all morning to my landline as well as my cell. I’d finally turned off both ringers so that I could have some peace while I ate a banana and sipped my coffee, skimming over the rest of the paper and trying to keep at bay the image in my mind of my aunt lying dead in a pool of blood.

  Buster sat once again at my feet, his hopeful tail percussive on the vinyl floor. Clearly, Letta had not been strict about any no-begging-at-the-table rule. But I was thankful for his company.

  Draining the last of my coffee, I set the cup down on the kitchen table with a smack. “Okay,” I said and shoved back my chair. “No more putting it off; time to get a move on.”

  Solari’s is closed on Tuesdays, but I had a busy day ahead, nevertheless, starting with a nine o’clock appointment at the funeral home. Buster followed me around the apartment, still wagging his tail, while I rinsed my cup, grabbed my jacket and purse, and then, remembering it was raining, searched for an umbrella. When he saw me pick up his leash, Buster ran to the front door and sat patiently while I hooked it to his collar. I was afraid that if I left him home alone, he might bark or cry, thereby alerting the neighbors to his presence, so he’d have to come along with me.

  “You’re just gonna stay in the car for a little while,” I told him as I pulled into the funeral home parking lot. No way would he get overheated in this weather, I figured. But I did leave the windows rolled down halfway.

  Waiting in the subdued but elegant reception area, I reviewed the notes I’d jotted down the night before. The coroner had said that Letta’s remains would be released to the family within two days, so after some discussion, my dad and I had decided to set the wake—during which the body would be on view—for Thursday and Friday, with the funeral to be held on Saturday.

  Presently, a young woman in a natty, mauve suit came out and extended her hand in greeting. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said and sat down on the striped settee across from me. Though she had no doubt used this exact same line with every single client she’d ever had, I was impressed by her ability to make it sound sincere. I smiled politely and thanked her for her concern.

  With that nicety out of the way, she inquired as to the type of arrangements desired. “The family wants a wake with a full open casket,” I told her, “a mass at the parish church, and then entombment in a mausoleum.” Even though Letta had not been the least bit devout, Nonna, who is, had been adamant about all these things.

  Next, the funeral director led me into a large room whose walls were lined with ornate caskets and explained the merits of each. I was aghast at the prices and stared stupidly at the gleaming paint and shiny handles. Reluctantly, I told her what Nonna had specified—bronze with a cream-colored, velvet lining—which I knew was going to be ridiculously expensive.

  The details of the viewing and funeral settled, I headed over to the police station, a modern, neo-Spanish-style building at the dodgy end of the downtown area. I announced myself to the woman behind the window, and after a few minutes, Detective Vargas emerged. He was in plain clothes: khaki pants, a dress shirt, and an SCPD badge hanging from his neck. We shook hands, and then he ushered me upstairs into a small interview room furnished with a couch, a comfy chair, and two small tables. I don’t know why, but I felt a little like a school kid being escorted into the principal’s office.

  Motioning me to the sofa, he hiked up his slacks and then settled his burly frame down on the chair opposite me. “I appreciate your coming down here today. I know this must be a difficult time for you and your family. But I’m sure you understand that, as part of our investigation into her homicide, we need to talk to those who were close to Violetta Solari.”

  It was jarring to hear my aunt referred to that way. No one had ever called her anything but Letta as far as I knew. I told this to Detective Vargas, who nodded and made a note on a pad of lined, white paper. Once finished, he looked up. “So the obvious first question is, do you know of any person who might have had any reason to attack or kill your aunt?”

  “No,” I said, pulling off my jacket and laying it on the coffee table next to the couch. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her.” In addition to the stack of magazines and box of tissues sitting on the table, I noticed, was a basket of kids’ toys.

  “What about the chef? Javier Ruiz?”

  I turned to give him what I hoped came off as a hard look. “Okay, I know you found his knife next to her, but there’s no way he could have—”

  “How do you know that, about the knife?” The detective’s voice was sharp.

  “Uh . . .”

&n
bsp; “Never mind. I think I already know. Officer Owens saw you at the scene with one of the DAs.” He consulted a previous page of his pad. “Eric Byrne, she said.”

  When I didn’t respond, he just sat back in his chair, his thin lips forming the hint of a smile.

  “So go ahead.” Detective Vargas leaned even farther back and clasped his hands together behind his shaved head. “Tell me about the chef. Why couldn’t he have killed her?”

  I explained how Letta had taken Javier under her wing soon after he’d arrived in this country from Mexico, how close they’d become working together, and how she’d promoted him over the years from a lowly busboy to a prep and then line cook and eventually to sous-chef of the restaurant. “Besides,” I concluded, “Javier is one of the gentlest souls I know. And he adored Letta. He would never kill her—or anyone. I swear.”

  “Uh-huh.” The detective tapped his pen on his pad several times and then flipped to a new page. “Let’s move on.”

  After confirming that I had not been at Gauguin during the week prior to the murder and asking me briefly about “the boyfriend” (no, I had no reason to believe Tony and Letta were on anything but good terms), Detective Vargas let me go. With the polite request, of course, that I come in again if asked and that I promptly report anything of relevance to the case that I might subsequently learn.

  He escorted me back downstairs and into the lobby. Shaking out the cramp in my hands, which I only then realized I’d been holding tightly clenched, I watched the door into the main part of the building close behind the detective with a soft click. The condescending tone in his voice when he’d asked my opinion about Javier had ticked me off. He might as well have just come out and said, “Sure, little lady; whatever you say.”

  Vargas hadn’t blatantly accused anyone of the crime—rather, it seemed to me they were pretty much flailing about at this point—but the interview had left me uneasy. Could the murderer in fact be someone I knew?