The Recipe Cops

by Keith Weaver

  Silvio told Maria that she couldn’t stay at her place since the investigators might be working inside for some time, and Sanford suggested that they all go to his hotel. Silvio dropped the three of them there and then left, but not before asking Maria at least four times if she was all right. He said that because he had shot someone, there would be a formal review, and he would spend the day at police headquarters in central Genoa.

  The night clerk found a room for Maria, but they all went to Sanford and Julia’s suite first. They sat together on the sofa, Julia between Maria and Sanford, sleep being no possibility for any of them despite their exhaustion.

  “I think we need something”, Sanford said. He rose a bit shakily, and went to the mini-bar. There were three small bottles of good grappa, and Sanford scooped them out, poured two of them into two glasses, and a smaller amount into a third glass, which he then diluted using mineral water.

  “We should be drinking to something”, Maria said vaguely, as she cupped the glass in her hands.

  “Yes”, Sanford said. “Let’s drink to Silvio. Un brindisi a Silvio! Il nostro salvatore!“

  Maria brightened immediately. “Yes. To Silvio!”

  Even Julia managed a wan smile. “Silvio!”

  Thirty

  The next morning Sanford awoke before the sun did.

  He was a mass of conflicting feelings.

  The violence of the night before immediately forced itself into his awareness, and sent a cold wave up his back. Raising a hand to run through his hair, he was surprised at the slight tremor he saw in it. A crowd of mixed images, both welcome and ghastly, skirmished at the edges of his consciousness, and the thought occurred that all this would take time to dissipate. Ignoring this confusion as best he could, Sanford turned to thoughts of the present and the future.

  Through the bedroom window, a pinkish blue sky offered its invitation to the day. In the bed next to his, Julia lay sound asleep. Without warning, another image, one of Maria’s face, completely unknown to him just twenty-four hours ago, swam before his eyes again, and he smiled involuntarily. But then a vision of Joe appeared, followed by a black presence that reached out effortlessly and against his every wish, across thousands of kilometres from a sordid, shallow grave. Forcing all this from his mind, if only temporarily, he tried to focus on the small number of clear objectives that now had prominence in his life.

  The events of the night before kept replaying themselves in an endless loop, although he thought their impact was fading as he tried to orient himself to the day. There were some practical things to be done. He would let Conway know later that day just what had happened, asking him to keep his ear to the ground for any reaction in Canada. As far as anyone but Sanford was concerned, the man who had attempted to kill them was Charles Jeffers. Sanford would probe gently, later, to determine whether Maria had heard anything Jeffers had said about himself and his brother, and whether she remembered any of it. She was the only other adult in a position to know that anybody called David Jeffers had even existed.

  In his mind, Sanford tied up some loose ends concerning the Jeffers brothers. David Jeffers appeared to have spent his life becoming and remaining a ghost, as a means of having Charles Jeffers be in two places at the same time whenever the need for that arose, and in the end that had worked against him. Had he lived, probably he would have re-emerged at some point as his brother. But he must have known that there was a large gap between his and his brother’s mental capabilities and that somebody would have noticed that difference very soon after his reappearance as “Charles”. Once that happened, there would have been trouble of various sorts awaiting him. But the shooting of “Charles Jeffers” in Boccadasse had cut off the future right there for both Jeffers. David Jeffers had presumably travelled to Italy using Charles’s passport, and that document would be shipped back to Canada along with the body. Almost certainly, the presence of Jeffers and Sanford in Italy at the same time would be noticed by various underworld figures in Canada, and by the police, since Sanford had made no particular secret of his travel plans. The police in Canada would surely investigate, but it seemed clear to Sanford that they would get nowhere. Sanford himself could expect to be interviewed. The investigation would stall and the case would be closed.

  From what turned out to be David Jeffers’ last speech in Maria’s apartment, he had guessed what had happened to his brother. But he was stymied, he could do nothing about it. He could hardly approach the police, even indirectly, claiming that Charles Jeffers had been murdered, because as far as all the rest of the world was concerned, he was Charles Jeffers.

  Without much doubt, Harold would be among the first to know back in Canada about what had happened, given that he seemed to be well connected. That Charles Jeffers was killed in a shoot-out in Genoa while apparently attempting to kill Sanford probably would be a surprise to Harold, but a welcome surprise. From Harold’s point of view, the last significant finger that could point to him now had been cut off. Harold would be free of any future threat from Jeffers.

  There were uncertainties ahead for Sanford, but he hoped that his assessment of them as “second order” would turn out to be correct. Further probing by Conway, having Conway listen to the underworld chatter, a closed police investigation, and, in time, the decline of the whole matter into obscurity was what Sanford hoped for. He hoped that he, Julia, and Maria would see an unobstructed future. The three of them had a great deal to do, and the considerable literary estate and financial resource Joe had left behind would figure prominently in all that.

  And then there was Joe.

  Dear, wonderful, Joe. Oh, Joe! Why did it all have to work out just this way? Joe had killed Charles Jeffers, and Sanford was now convinced that he had done that to protect Sanford and Julia. Joe had seen what one version of the future might have been, and he took steps to pinch off that future. Oh, Joe! A lot of that must remain our secret, yours and mine, but if you are out there anywhere Joe, if you can see and hear us, you have one eternally grateful friend, and one humbly admiring son.

  Sanford rose, showered, and shaved. Before climbing into the shower, he had pulled off the dressing on his shoulder wound. The wound looked purple and angry, but there were signs it was already beginning to heal. He then showered as carefully as possible, replaced the dressing using the package he had been given at the hospital, and then selected shorts and a loose-fitting golf shirt for the day. Blue shorts. Of course.

  Sanford had succumbed this trip, and brought an iPad as well as his cellphone, and he set to work on both of those.

  First, he sent an email to Conway, attaching two photos, and asked Conway to dig up as much information as possible on the younger man in the second of the two attached photos. He requested that Conway get back to him as soon as possible when he had anything that looked important, reminding Conway that he was in Europe so not to bother trying to phone.

  Second, he sent an email to Silvio, in the best Italian he could manage, but leaning heavily on his dictionary, and repeating the message in English in case he had turned the Italian completely into cabbage. He offered a simple and heartfelt thanks to Silvio, and then asked Silvio for any details that could be provided on the intruder to Maria’s flat – particularly when and where he had arrived in Italy and whether he was working alone – and also asked Silvio when and where he should turn up with Maria to finish any paperwork connected to the events of the previous evening.

  Third, he sent an email to Inspector Meloni, telling him that he and Julia were out of the country, asking if there was any further information the police could share on the man in whose apartment Sanford’s ex-wife had been, asking if he would mind checking on Helen’s parents, whose address and names he also provided to Meloni, and thanking him and Sergeant Howell for the care and attention they had given the case.

  Sanford then called to Maria’s room to check that she was okay, to tell her about his communication to Silvio and the probable need later that morning to finish off some pa
perwork with the police, but most importantly to arrange a time for the three of them to have breakfast. Maria was fine but groggy, probably had not had a good sleep, and said that she would come to Sanford’s suite in about forty-five minutes.

  “Daddy?” Sanford was aware immediately of the concern conveyed by the sleepy voice from the bedroom.

  “Yes. I’m here”, and he went immediately into the bedroom.

  Julia was examining, in some alarm, a large bloodstain on the sheets.

  “It’s okay. My bandage just wept a bit in the night. I’m fine. Did you sleep okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “No nightmares?”

  “No. That man won’t come back, will he?”

  “No Julia, he won’t be coming back.”

  “Good. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

  Sanford smiled and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Would you like a shower?” he managed to croak.

  “Yes.”

  “And then some breakfast with Maria?”

  “Oh! Yes, please.”

  Seeing Sanford move around without effort or pain caused Julia’s concern to fade, and she climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Sanford returned to his iPad.

  Silvio had replied to Sanford’s email. Sanford was not surprised to learn that there were no details on the intruder. He jotted down the address of the police station in central Genoa, where he and Maria could turn up any time during the morning to finish off the last paperwork details on the previous night’s events.

  Sanford was very surprised, however, to see a reply from Conway, since it was the wee hours of the morning in Toronto. Conway’s message was just an acknowledgement of Sanford’s email and a statement that Conway would be working on his request starting almost immediately. Insomniac? Sanford shrugged and emailed back his thanks to Conway.

  Sanford could hear that Julia had just finished in the shower, and he sat, pondering things idly. Julia soon appeared, proudly wearing another pair of her blue shorts. She walked across the room and leaned against Sanford.

  Maria arrived in their suite, dressed, out of necessity, in the same clothes she had worn the day before, a bit puffy-eyed, but smiling and ready for the day. Julia went immediately to Maria and gave her a long spontaneous hug. This prompted a smiling three-party “good morning”, and then they all set off.

  The brilliant Italian sunshine slammed into their faces, nudging them into generous squinty smiles and a shared feeling of well-being. Bare arms and legs were tickled by the morning breeze, which also tugged capriciously at wisps of hair. Maria knew a good spot for breakfast, and soon they were settled around an assortment of bread, fruit, cheese, orange juice, and coffee.

  “What would you like to do today, Giulia?” Maria asked past a mouthful of bread.

  “See more little streets.”

  Maria nodded.

  “Have some spaghetti.”

  More nodding.

  “Do some shopping.”

  At this Maria brightened, plucked at her dress, and said that she wanted to shop as well, buy something a little cooler, because she hadn’t been thinking straight enough last night to ask the police if she could get a change of clothes from her flat.

  Sanford had the clear impression that a primary activity for the day had just been decided, and that any opinion he might have had on the matter didn’t need expressing, since it would have been superfluous no matter what it was. The three of them munched slowly through breakfast, and their periodic exchanges of smiles conveyed more meaning and more quiet delight than ever could have been delivered by words.

  Sanford paid for breakfast. “Allora. Andiamo!” he pronounced, rising, and leaving it to Maria to deal with Julia’s look of interested puzzlement at what Sanford had just said.

  Sanford showed Maria the address Silvio had given him, Maria knew immediately where it was, and they walked the short distance there. The formalities were brief, and they were finished in twenty minutes. Maria and Silvio had a short rapid exchange, which Sanford later discovered was about Maria’s cellphone and handbag, and he remembered her having dropped the cellphone in the hallway of her building. Silvio pulled a plastic bag from a shelf behind him and handed it to Maria, explaining that the investigators had found and bagged the cellphone, and he had asked them to retrieve her handbag as well, both of which were in the bag. There was another rapid exchange between Maria and Silvio. Maria explained later that the formal police review of the shooting would be completed by mid-afternoon, and that Silvio would see them in Boccadasse. Maria and Sanford said their thank-yous and ciaos to Silvio, and then the three of them were outside again.

  They wandered once more, through the lovely main streets of Genoa, and Maria pointed out all the grand buildings constructed from the rivers of wealth that had flowed into Genoa during its long and storied past. She spoke about Nino Bixio, a tough-minded lieutenant among Garibaldi’s famous thousand, and how that thousand had set out for Sicily from Quarto, a place not far from where Maria lived. Maria spoke about Albaro, also not far from where she lived, and that Charles Dickens (or Carlo Dickens, as the historical plaque reads at Villa di Bella Vista) had lived there briefly. She spoke about some familiar figures, Andrea Doria, Cristoforo Colombo, Giovanni Caboto, and about others Sanford had not heard of. This was all beyond Julia, but she paid rapt attention nonetheless, and both Maria and Sanford said that they would explain everything to her.

  Maria met several of her friends in the street, stopped to talk to them, introduced Sanford and his daughter, and it was clear to Sanford that Maria was dying to say that “Giulia” was her granddaughter. One of the ladies they met flashed Julia a smile and asked her very slowly “Come stai?” When Julia replied “Sto bene, grazie” almost immediately, the smile became a little cry of delight and won Julia a hug.

  Maria turned to Sanford. “Oh Gianni! She’s learning Italian just like Joe did, so easily, so quickly!”

  “She’s young”, Sanford replied. “Her mind is a sponge.”

  “Just like you. Joe always said that you learned quickly too.”

  “Yes”, Sanford remarked sardonically. “My mind is also a sponge, but while her mind soaks up things, mine lets them leak out.”

  Maria squeezed Sanford’s hand secretly, tightly, and the look on her face caused a warm feeling, long unfamiliar, to flood through him. One of his objectives would soon be within reach.

  They walked on until suddenly Julia said loudly “Maria!”, and pointed to women’s shorts on display in a shop window. Maria and Julia vanished abruptly into the shop, reminding Sanford of comments he had heard about things being sucked into black holes. Standing abandoned in the street, Sanford reminded himself pedantically that black holes don’t suck.

  Twenty minutes later, Maria reappeared through the event horizon wearing a dashing pair of new shorts (blue, of course) and a loose and comfortable-looking pink top. Julia was right behind her, wearing a new pair of shorts in the Italian national colours and a pink top that matched Maria’s. They looked at each other and giggled enthusiastically.

  “Daddy, you should buy something”, Julia said when the giggling had died down.

  “Nonsense! I’d look really silly in a pink top.”

  “Noo-oo! I didn’t mean that!”, and then the giggling began anew.

  They walked some more. They talked much more. Eventually, at almost one o’clock, Sanford said they should find someplace to have some lunch.

  “I already have a place”, Maria said. “Follow me.”

  She led them to another of the funicular railways, and they rode it to the top. Five minutes later, they were seated at a small hilltop bistro that had a stunning view out over Genoa harbour. The aquamarine Ligurian Sea stretched languidly off to the south. The city’s buildings, a fascinating jumble of forms and colours, set wherever there was space on the folded hills, were visual poetry. Looking across at Julia, Sanford saw a young girl placed suddenly in a new and overwhelming context, and concentrating fiercel
y to memorize everything.

  “Do you remember The Recipe Cops, Gianni?”

  Those words, coming from Maria, caught him very much by surprise.

  “Yes, of course. That was our little hideaway in the pines, Joe’s and mine. Why did you remember that? How did you remember that?”

  Maria smiled.

  “Do you remember how you named it that?” she asked.

  “Yes”, Sanford said, somewhat puzzled. “But it was just a name that Joe picked. It doesn’t mean anything.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Sanford sensed, without really knowing why, that he had just uttered a strange statement. As a young boy, way back then, he had heard and understood the word “Cops”, since it meant something to him and he was then unaware of the term “copse”. Not until many years later, he realized that Joe actually had said “copse”, but by then the place really had become The Recipe Cops, even though the term had no literal meaning.

  Maria was shaking her head. “It wasn’t just any name. When Joe was here, or I mean when we were in Rome, his favourite piece of music was The Pines of Rome. He played it all the time. I got tired of it, but he never did. Much later, when he visited me in Genoa, he told me that he played it for you many times in Canada as well. And he said to me, too many times to count, that the pines near his house always reminded him of Rome, even though those pines and the pines in Rome are very different.”

  She halted there briefly, reminiscing.

  “He told me that the two of you were listening to his record of The Pines of Rome one day before lunch, and when the piece finished, you said ‘I’m hungry, Joe’, so he said you took some lunch out to what Joe called your special place. That was the day you picked a name for the place, Joe had already started to think about it as Respighi’s Copse, he suggested some names for your little secret place, and that was one of them. Right away, you called it The Recipe Cops, not knowing who or what ‘Respighi’ was, and that’s what it was from then on. Joe was so pleased about that. He told me the story every time he was here.”