by A. J. Carton
Julie covered the receiver with her hand again. “He says he heard you. And that you should stop acting childishly and talk to him.”
Emma grabbed the receiver out of Julie’s hand. “I think that’s ridiculous, Jack. Saying I’m being childish. I’ve had a very, very bad couple of days in case you didn’t know.”
Pause.
“OK. So you did. Well. Never mind. I just don’t want to go. Anywhere. With anyone. It’s not about you. So don’t feel sorry for yourself.”
Pause.
“OK. Right. Maybe another time.”
Pause.
“No. I’m not changing my mind, but thanks anyway. Now bye.” Emma hung up the phone.
“Wow,” Julie rolled her eyes. “He’s a persistent little so-and-so, isn’t he? Anyway, Mom. It just occurred to me. Since you’re not going out, would you mind babysitting for Harry tonight? It turns out Piers and I have to go to the Ormon thing ourselves. It was kind of last minute and we don’t have anyone lined up yet.”
“Sure, I’d love to,” Emma immediately agreed. She looked forward to being with Harry any time she could. But why, she wondered, did she suddenly feel used? “Why do you and Piers have to go to the Ormon thing?” she asked.
“Because after the concert, Clare, Madame Director, wants to talk to Piers and me about a Russian Opera Endowment that Barry Buchanon is making to City Opera in Natasha’s memory. Clare’s having a little post thingie dinner at Jardin. Barry will be there with Lexie. Under duress I heard from my hairdresser. Along with Massimo the conductor, Vera Vasiliev and Sacha Kuragin the bass. Barry’s gift is huge. Clare has hired me for all the publicity. It’s kind of a fence mending now that everybody agrees that the gypsy killed Natasha and we had nothing to do with her death. Or with the disaster at the party. Barry has assigned Lexie full responsibility for that since hiring the gypsy was her idea. If you remember, I was completely against it.”
“Roma,” Emma interrupted, then giggled.
“Mom, are you drunk?” Julie asked.
Emma shook her head. “No. It’s just…” She sat up a little straighter in her chair and looked her daughter in the eye. “Julie, I just understood something. I mean, just now, when you were talking about the Roma and the endowment, and all those Opera people coming to dinner. Something has suddenly become very clear.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Don’t you see?” Emma answered. “Julie, it finally makes sense. What I’m talking about is this. Carmen did not kill Natasha. I’m sure of it.” Emma’s troubled expression had cleared. She looked determined, like someone on a mission.
“Mom, now you’re acting crazy. Carmen was arrested because they found Natasha’s ring among her things. She tried to flee. What’s more, she just turned on you, her friend, like a viper.”
“No!” Emma answered. “That’s what I just understood. Carmen didn’t turn on me like a viper. She turned on me like someone who is innocent. Someone who thought she’d been betrayed. Like every other Roma who’s been framed. Carmen did not kill Natasha. I’d bet my life on it. Someone else did. And that someone may be sitting with you at dinner after the Ormon thing.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. She was thinking. “Get Jack Russo on the phone,” she added. “I’m going tonight.”
“What?” Julie shook her head. “You’re not babysitting?”
“No,” Emma replied. “I said, call Jack. I’m going to the concert. With him. And I’m going to that dinner with you after the show. I’m going to clear Carmen and find out, once and for all, who killed Natasha Vasiliev!”
Julie raised her hands, palms facing forward. “That’s it. I give up, Mom. It’s your life. Do what you want. But I am not calling Jack Russo again. That is a call you will have to make yourself!”
Chapter 11: Tuesday Evening - Team Sports
For the first time in years, dressing for a night with Julie was not a problem. At 4:30 Emma pulled her ancient black velvet Agnes b pants out of the closet along with her even more ancient orange, pink, purple and gold Missoni sweater. Who cared if she looked like a retro designer hippy? She loved these clothes. And forget heels. She was wearing her comfortable old black Tods. If Jack was looking for a date in stiletto heels who towered six inches above his head, he shouldn’t have invited her.
Speaking of Jack, Emma thought to herself, replaying their last conversation in her head. While he seemed a little surprised at her abrupt change of heart, his voice, at the other end of the line when she phoned, sounded pleased.
“You’re on,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up. Five-thirty sharp. It’ll take an hour to drive to the City. That still leaves plenty of time for dinner.”
“Appetizers,” Emma corrected him. “We’re only having appetizers and some good wine. I have a plan for dinner after the show.”
“You have a plan,” Jack repeated, suddenly sounding wary. “Emma, I gotta warn you. I’m a man who doesn’t like surprises. I like to be in control.”
Emma smiled to herself. Yes! She’d finally found his weak spot. “Don’t be so uptight, Jack. You’re gonna love this. See you at 5:30.” She hung up the phone.
At 5:30 sharp she was seated by the front door in her classic, fitted, double-breasted black cashmere overcoat from Costco. She peeked out the window. The morning’s news hounds had left her front door, lured by juicier scandals. She had just finished buttoning her coat when she saw headlights turn into her driveway.
The porch light was on. In its glow, a glittering dark blue car seemed to glide down the path like a kinetic sculpture before stopping at the end of her driveway. Emma had expected Jack to pull up in one of those stuffy Mercedes, or a BMW; but she didn’t recognize this car. She opened the door and walked onto the porch. Aside from the crunch of the vehicle’s wheels on the gravel, she didn’t hear a sound. A high end Prius? Was there such a thing, she wondered?
“Love your car,” Emma called over her shoulder while she closed her front door.
Jack had gotten out of the driver’s seat and walked to the passenger side to open her door.
She walked towards him, squinting her eyes in the glare of the headlamps. As she passed the hood, she leaned forward to stare at the insignia.
“A Tesla!” She couldn’t mask her surprise. “You gotta be kidding, Jack.” Lately, Piers talked of nothing but how long the wait list was for the car. “Isn’t this is a little over the top?”
The pride on the short square man’s face as he opened her door was unmistakable.
Without answering her question, he shut the door and returned to the driver’s seat, settling himself comfortably into the incredibly luxurious leather interior.
“You know, Emma” he finally said, not looking at her as he turned on the car, “I’ve had some good fortune; and I’ve also had some rough times. When my wife died, I decided to treat myself to something special. This is the only car I have ever truly desired.”
He said “desire” like a man who knew what that word meant.
They drove in silence for a while. It was Jack who broke it.
“So Emma,” he began, “I got a dinner reservation at Jardin. I hope that’s OK. I know the maitre d’. He fit me in on short notice. And what’s this about appetizers? I was looking forward to a good meal.”
Emma didn’t bother to mask her enthusiasm. “Jardin? Perfect! You couldn’t have made a better choice, Jack. And you know the maitre d’? That will come in handy.”
“Handy for what?” Jack took his eyes off the road to stare at Emma. They had just hit the two lane construction stretch of highway around Petaluma. “I told you I don’t like surprises.”
“Watch your driving,” Emma ordered before continuing. “OK. Listen carefully. Here’s what we’re doing. I said appetizers because you and I are having dinner after the performance at Jardin as guests of Clare Blumberg, the Director of City Opera.”
Jack looked at her again.
She pointed her finger back at the road.
“Why?” he asked. “Is she hitting me up for another donation? Are you two in cahoots? I mean, sure I like opera. But it isn’t exactly a cure for cancer, if you know what I mean.”
Emma nodded. After Mary’s sudden death, she knew exactly what he meant. She shook her head. “No. Don’t worry. No donations.” She paused. “But there is one problem. Clare Blumberg hasn’t exactly invited us to her little dinner party. I know about it because my daughter and son-in-law will be there.”
Then she explained about Carmen’s arrest, that she believed Carmen was innocent, and that she intended to be at the party to help her figure out who really committed the murder.
“So,” she concluded, “what I’m asking you to do is to accompany me somewhere we don’t exactly belong.”
Jack’s answer wasn’t what Emma expected. He shrugged. “OK. I’m used to being places I don’t belong. I been doin’ that all my life!”
They were past the Sir Francis Drake exit nearing the Golden Gate Bridge, when Jack turned to her again. He was driving 80. Once again Emma waved his eyes back to the road. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”
Jack turned back to the road and laughed. “You sounded just like my wife when you said that.”
Emma noted, however, that the joking comparison was tinged with longing. There was no bitterness in his voice or anger or even regret.
A few seconds later, this time not taking his eyes off the road, Jack addressed her again. He began as if he were making an announcement. “You know, Emma. There’s something about you that’s different tonight.” He hurriedly added. “Not about your looks. Of course, you look great. You always look great. That’s not it. But there is something different. I heard it in your voice this morning when you called me back. Did something happen?”
Emma thought about what he’d said. The truth is, he was right. Something had happened. She did feel different.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Am I really different?” She paused. “Maybe. Maybe I do feel a little more sure of myself.” That was it. “In control.”
Jack agreed. “Yeah. That’s right. You got more confidence all of a sudden. Before, I don’t know. It was like you were apologizing for yourself all the time. Walking on eggshells. I notice a lot of women your age have that problem.” He squinted at her. “I got a theory about it. Ever play team sports?”
Emma snorted. “No. Team sports. What would I play?” She thought a moment. “OK. Dodge ball. I played dodge ball in the fifth grade.”
“That’s all?” he laughed.
“Yeah. So what about you?” she replied.
“Me? I played ice hockey. Forward.”
“Ice hockey?” Emma couldn’t imagine where this was going. “Oh, right. You grew up on the East Coast. Like in high school?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “High school. College.”
“Ice hockey’s not much of a college sport out here,” Emma replied. “Where’d you go? UMass? Boston College? They’re big hockey schools, aren’t they?”
“Actually, I played for Harvard.” Jack replied. There was a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “We had a pretty good team. A few of us went to the Olympics.”
Ouch! Why, Emma wondered, had she automatically assumed UMass? Suddenly she felt like Henry Higgins in drag.
“Blue collar profiling aside,” Jack continued, “my theory is that team sports teach confidence. You learn to take a shot. And to take the consequences. Sometimes your shot scores a goal. Most of the time, it doesn’t. But you gotta take the shot. If you don’t play team sports, you don’t learn that. And a lot of women your age never played team sports. So you lack confidence. That’s my theory. OK, not exactly my theory. I read it in the Wall Street Journal.”
Emma nodded. “It’s a good theory.” Then she tried to back pedal. “About the U.Mass comment, Jack. I don’t know. I guess I just don’t automatically think everyone from the East Coast went to Harvard.”
“Especially people who talk like me,” he added. Then he took his eyes off the road again to look at Emma. “Let me tell you something. When I left my friends in Providence, Rhode Island and went to Harvard on a scholarship, and then to the Harvard Business School on financial aid, I vowed never to lose my accent. It’s who I am.” He took his right hand off the wheel and shook a thick hairy finger at her. “Never forget where you came from, Emma.”
This time she didn’t complain about his driving. Instead, after a moment of silence she said, “But isn’t that the point, Jack?”
“Of what?” he asked.
“Of moving to California,” she replied.
As they sped through the Fast Trac lane into San Francisco, he turned to her again. “You know what I like about you Emma?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “You’re a smart lady. But what’s more, you’re nice. Me, I’m a VC. I can’t afford to be nice. But the older I get, the more I think there’s a lot to be said for nice.”
Emma still didn’t know what a VC was; but, that night, she decided not to ask.
Chapter 12: Tuesday Night - Improv
Ten minutes later they stepped through the front door of Jardin where the maitre d’ greeted Jack with a friendly clap on the back.
“Great game the other night, Jack. You still pass like an Olympian. You haven’t lost your touch.”
“An assist, Vince. You scored the goal.” Jack winked at Emma. “Not too shabby for the Old Guys’ Hockey League. Emma, you know Vince Gagliardo? He’s a part owner here.”
Jack quickly added in a lowered voice, “Hey Vince, Clare Blumberg asked me to tell you I’m joining her party after the Ormon Concert. Is that OK? Can you squeeze the two of us in? It’s some kind of a fundraiser, I guess. I told her I’d help her out.”
“No problem, Jack. No problem at all.”
“So Emma and I will just be having appetizers and a bottle of wine for now, OK?”
“Of course. Anything you like, Jack. Anything at all. I’ll tell your waiter.”
Emma couldn’t have been more impressed. When they were seated at their table she exclaimed, “Wow! That was easy. But what if Clare objects?”
Jack laughed. “She won’t. It would be too embarrassing. What’s she gonna do, say who invited you, Mr. Platinum Circle Director’s Chair Club?” He shook his head. “Ain’t gonna happen. She’s hoping I’ll leave City Opera something in my will. Sure, she’ll look a little bit surprised to see me. Then she’ll figure her secretary screwed up and say so glad you could make it, Jack. Trust me. I know. That’s how it goes.”
The waiter had handed Jack the wine list.
“Emma, red OK with you?” he asked. “I feel like red tonight, even though I’m ordering oysters.” He turned to the waiter. “We’ll have the Nuits Saint Georges.”
The waiter beamed. “Excellent Mr. Russo. I’ll be back to take your order momentarily.”
They were enjoying an appetizer of Golden Mantle oysters when Jack turned the conversation back to the murder.
“By the way,” he began. “For what it’s worth, I did some more checking on Sergio. Contrary to what he told you at the party, the city’s been on his back for almost a year. Maybe not about rats. There are no health department complaints.”
“That shoots the obvious excuse for why he ordered that book on poison from Annemarie’s store,” Emma added.
“In some ways his problem’s more serious,” Jack explained. “The city’s demanding major renovations to bring his old building up to code. He owns the place. The location’s great. Right on the plaza. But according to my banker friends, he hasn’t been able to get loans.”
Emma shook her head. “Why? He runs one of the most successful restaurants in Sonoma Country.”
Jack winced. “He’s a good cook. That doesn’t make him a good businessman. The restaurant’s in debt up to its ears. And if Sergio doesn’t make the improvements, the city has already threatened to shut him down. That’s totally confidential, of course.”
Emma nodded. “Of course. But none of
that implicates him in Natasha’s death.”
“Here’s what could,” Jack continued. “Sergio, it seems, owes a truckload of money to at least one of his purveyors, Nesson Wholesale Liquors. I know Nesson. He’s a billionaire who also owns an estate near Bodega Bay. He and Sergio got to be friends. They socialize. You know. Both of them bachelors. Well, guess who Natasha was singing for, all those years while Buchanon came up cold?”
“Sergio?” Emma asked.
Jack nodded.
She considered this for a moment. Sergio was definitely a handsome young devil. Way better looking than Buchanon. Who could blame her? “So maybe Sergio killed Natasha in a jealous rage.”
Jack nodded. “According to Nesson, it was passion at first sight. They met at a party and rendezvoused in his guest house on the Bodega Bay estate. But,” Jack continued, “Natasha insisted on hushing it up because she never wanted to let the wealthy Buchanon completely off the hook.”
“Enough to drive any hot blooded Italian wild,” Emma mused. “But murder? Now? That all must have happened years ago.”
Jack shrugged. “Here’s another hook,” he added. “A few months ago, the city started breathing hard down Sergio’s back. According to Nesson, that’s when Sergio started gambling at the place up on the hill, hoping his luck would turn. Instead, of course, things only got worse. Soon, he owed the casino so much money, the Sicilian Mafia, my relatives…”
Emma gasped.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Emma, I’m joking. My father was a poor bricklayer, not a Mafia Don. Anyway the Mafia, who own a chunk of that debt ridden sorry excuse for Las Vegas, told him to pay or else someone else would.”
“Like who?” Emma asked, her voice still husky from the Mafia scare.
“That’s the point,” Jack replied. “What could they do to him? Sergio has no family. No wife. No kids. His business is deep underwater. No assets. They could either kill him…”
“Or someone he loved.” Emma ended Jack’s sentence for him.
Jack nodded. “So, according to my friend Nesson, when Natasha was murdered Sergio convinced himself that his Mafia brethren administered the poison to Natasha in order to punish him. Nesson says Sergio’s been holed up in his office at the restaurant ever since. He’s sure the Mafia will come after him next.”
