Death al Fresco

by Leslie Karst

  I’d had an idea while talking to Eric. Thinking about the information he’d gotten me from the DA’s office had set me wondering who exactly the police might have interviewed now that they considered the case a possible homicide. Had they tracked down Marvin Blanco, the man who’d written that first letter to the editor? Because, I realized, he had to have been one of the last people to see Gino alive, besides Anastasia and the old man Sean had watched arguing with him behind Solari’s.

  In any case, there was no reason I couldn’t have a chat with Marvin, too, right? Since he was a Solari’s regular—or had been, at least, before writing that letter—his phone number was probably in the Solari’s reservation book. Maybe if I talked to him, he’d remember something that could help us.

  The T-Bird’s ragtop was down, but even though today was much cooler than yesterday, I left it as it was. The morning paper had said another storm was coming in toward the end of the week, and this could be one of the last days of the season that cruising around topless was a possibility.

  And then it hit me: the end of the week was when the sister-cities dinner was happening. Oh, boy … Although we’d ordered a big tent, it would still be a royal pain if we had to be carting food from the restaurant out to the diners during a rainstorm.

  Oh, well, I thought as I pulled out of the garage. At least that was one thing I couldn’t fret about too much, because I certainly wasn’t going to be able to change the weather. We’d deal, whatever the situation.

  I pulled up in front of Solari’s ten minutes later and, telling Buster to stay in the car (dogs aren’t allowed on the wharf, either), headed for the front door. No signs of graffiti, thank goodness. And no bleed-through from my paint job of two days earlier. I went around to the back of the restaurant and let myself in the door to the dish room.

  It was strange, being in the place all alone. No clatter of plates being stacked in the dishwasher, no raised voices coming from the kitchen. The unusual silence was disquieting. Kind of eerie, in fact.

  As I passed by the office, I heard a clunk and started at the noise, nearly falling over a case of beer somebody had left in the hall. What the hell could that be? No one should be here on a Tuesday morning. Had I imagined it? Heart thumping, I crept toward the office. And why was the door closed? My dad and I always kept it open. If you didn’t, the tiny room quickly became stifling for lack of ventilation.

  There it was again. Could there be a burglar in the office? We had an old computer in there, as well all our checkbooks and financial records, but nothing a high-class burglar would want. I hesitated outside the door a moment, trying to decide whether or not to call 911.

  But then something smacked against the inside of the door, shaking its wood frame. What the…? Without stopping to think, I threw the door open, hoping to knock whoever was inside to the floor.

  No one. The office was empty.

  But at a muffled, fluttering sound, I turned. There on the floor lay a bird. A blackbird of some sort, or a starling. As I watched, it righted itself, fluffed its feathers, then flew up to perch at the top of the metal storage shelf. Above the shelf was a small window—wide open.

  It took another fifteen minutes to corner the bird and convince it to fly back out the window, during which time I tried to calm the nerves that had overtaken me out there in the hallway. Had I overreacted? Although it turned out to be nothing but a stunned bird, I’d had no way of knowing that. There could have been an ax-wielding madman in the office for all I knew, right?

  But deep down, I had to admit that this whole Gino thing was starting to get to me.

  Walking back down the hall and through the wait station, I crossed the dining room and opened the reservation book sitting on the hostess stand. Now to find Marvin’s contact information. I’d tried to talk my dad into switching to one of those online reservation systems, but his response had been, “I hate those things, and if I hate them, then it’s a sure bet a ton of our customers do too.” So we’d stuck with the old-school leather-bound book.

  Which was good, in this case. All I had to do was turn to the Monday night Gino and Anastasia had eaten here, and there was Marvin’s reservation for two, along with his phone number.

  I pulled out my cell and punched in the number. “Hello?” a man’s voice said.

  “Is this Marvin Blanco?”

  “Yes…” I could tell he thought I was a telemarketer. But when he found out who it really was, he’d be even more annoyed.

  “Oh, hi. This is Sally Solari, from—”

  “I know who you are.”

  Yep. Definitely not happy to hear from me. “Okay, look, Mr. Blanco, I know you’re pretty upset with Solari’s right now, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about it. Just for a minute or two.”

  “I can’t say I have much to add to what I wrote in that letter. It’s obvious that the man I saw that night—the one who ended up drowned—had had way too much to drink, and that you people not only sold him the alcohol but then let him walk home. What you should have done was call him a taxi.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Blanco. And it’s true that we did serve Gino two beers. But that’s all he drank here, and he had a full dinner as well. Plus, the waitress who served him swears he wasn’t acting drunk during dinner.”

  “Well, that’s not what I saw,” Marvin said, his voice gruff. “Look, I appreciate that you’re worried about a lawsuit or something, but I really don’t want to talk about this any further.”

  “Wait. Please don’t hang up. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  This got his interest. “And what might that be?”

  “As I said, we’ve had contradictory stories about Gino’s behavior that night. The waitress says he wasn’t intoxicated, and you—and our busboy as well—say that he did seem drunk, or at least really out of it.”

  “Okay…”

  “So I’ve been trying to figure out how these various people could have seen such radically different behavior. And the only thing that makes any sense is if Gino in fact had been acting in different ways over the night—first sober, and then all of a sudden intoxicated.”

  “And your point is?”

  “I think Gino might actually have been suffering from lead poisoning.” Marvin didn’t respond, so I went on. “He was a fisherman all his life, and would have painted his boat pretty much every season. And the lead that used to be in that boat paint back in the old days, if you didn’t take the proper precautions like wearing a mask and stuff, it could be super toxic—especially if you were exposed to it year after year.”

  “Huh.” I could tell he was considering the possibility.

  “And it turns out the symptoms of lead poisoning can be similar to being drunk—dizziness, disorientation, speech and muscle impairment. Which would explain why he could seem fine one minute and completely out of it the next, because I read online that the symptoms can come and go.”

  “Well, wouldn’t the police know if that were the case?” Marvin asked.

  “They will know eventually how much liquor he had in his system, but it takes at least a month to get the toxicology report back from the lab. I’m not sure if they do a test specifically for lead, though.” I wanted to tell him about sending in Gino’s hair for my own private analysis but couldn’t risk his wondering where I got the hair. “So, anyway…”

  “Okay, look.” Marvin paused and drew a long breath. “There’s something I guess I should tell you.”

  Yes. He seemed to be softening his stance.

  “As my wife and I were driving down the wharf that night after dinner, we saw the man, Gino, again. This was just a few minutes after we’d seen him at the front of the restaurant. He was down near that boat that’s on display, along the side of Solari’s, and he wasn’t alone.”

  “He was with the woman he’d had dinner with, right? The one you mentioned in your letter?”

  “I assume it was her, but I couldn’t guarantee it. And, well, they were
… uh…”

  Now he had my full attention. “They were what?”

  “Kissing. My wife was the one who spotted them, and she said it looked like he was really coming on to her. I considered stopping to make sure she was okay, but then it became obvious that the woman wasn’t objecting. So we went on our way. My thought was, well, at least he’s got someone to help get him home.”

  “Did he still seem drunk then?” I asked.

  “I don’t see how he could have sobered up in that short a time. But it was dark, and they were leaning against the wall of the restaurant, so I couldn’t tell you for certain.”

  “Right.” I stared out the Solari’s window at a souped-up ’57 Chevy cruising down the wharf. It had been painted a metallic blue and was jacked up on its axles, but even with these nonstandard features, the car was cherry. “So, I was wondering, Mr. Blanco, if you wouldn’t mind telling me, did the police talk to you?”

  “Yes,” he said, “they contacted me after I wrote that letter to the paper. And I of course told them about this incident. But I hadn’t felt it necessary to put it in my letter, out of respect for the old man. Especially since he isn’t around anymore to defend himself.”

  But what if Marvin’s first impressions were correct? I wondered as I ended the call and slid the phone back into my bag. What if Gino had been assaulting the woman, the mysterious Anastasia, and she’d been the one who needed defending—from a man deranged by lead poisoning? Defending to the point, perhaps, of knocking him out and pushing him over the side of the wharf …

  Chapter 16

  Once back home, I sat down again at the kitchen table and studied my list. Better check on all the equipment we’re renting first. I dialed the number for June’s Party Rentals and a young woman picked up after two rings.

  “Hi, I’m calling about a bunch of stuff I have ordered for this Saturday, and just want to confirm that you have it all down and that we’ll get delivery first thing Saturday morning.”

  “Sure,” she said in a breathy, perky voice. “Who’s it for?”

  I gave her my name and, after she’d pulled the order up on her computer, read the items from my list: plates, serving dishes, flatware, wine and water glasses, tablecloths, napkins, tent—

  But when I got to that last item, she cut me off. “Tent? I don’t see any tent here on the order.”

  “No tent? What do you mean? It’s the most important thing. I’m sure I ordered it.”

  “I’m really sorry,” she said, “but there’s no tent listed here.”

  “Okay, well, let’s just add that to the order then. I need one of those big ones, with sides. Thirty by fifty I think is what I ordered.”

  “Let me see…” I heard clacking in the background as the woman typed something into her computer. “Oh, dear,” she said after a bit. “It looks like the only thing we have available for this coming Saturday is one of those small pop-up tents, ten by ten. Everything else is already rented.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry.”

  “Okay, look” I said, “I’ll call you back later about the other stuff. I gotta deal with this ASAP.”

  No way could we do without a tent for the dinner—not with the rainstorm that was predicted to hit the Monterey Bay area at the end of the week. Opening my laptop, I Googled tent rentals for the Santa Cruz area. Six different vendors came up and I called each one of them in turn. No dice. Either they had only small tents or their big ones were already rented. Next I tried places in Monterey and Salinas, and even a few in San Jose, but still no luck.

  Oh, nooo … I let out a long moan, prompting Buster to jump up from his doggy bed in the corner and come sit at my feet. Stroking his silky ears, I fought the panic that was starting to overtake me. Was it really possible that I’d forgotten to order the tent? This could be a disaster of monumental proportions. And how would I tell my dad?

  I couldn’t, was the answer. I simply had to find one.

  Maybe someone I knew had a tent, or knew someone who did. Turning back to my computer, I logging onto Facebook and composed a plea to all my friends (since Dad had no interest in social media, he’d never be the wiser): “Help! I’m in desperate need of a 30 × 50 foot party tent with sides for this coming Sat. Let me know if you have such a thing or know someone who does, and please DO repost. I’ll be boiled alive with my dad’s spaghetti if I don’t find one!”

  That done, I took Buster for a walk and tried to calm myself down. But it wasn’t easy. Not with so many different things to worry about. The tent had now jumped to obsession number one, but there were plenty of others: the possibility of my dad becoming a suspect in Gino’s murder, Javier leaving Gauguin, the threat of a boycott against Solari’s because of Gino and for celebrating Columbus Day …

  Not even the sight of three humpback whales spouting and cavorting less than fifty yards offshore in Mitchell’s Cove was sufficient to vanquish the dark mood that had settled in my bones.

  * * *

  That night at Gauguin, Javier was in high spirits, which only served to further dampen mine. Although he was not happy about my being absent this Thursday, Friday, and Saturday so I could help my dad prep for and then host the sister-cities dinner, his displeasure was tempered by the prospect of opening his new restaurant with his new love, Natalie.

  “We’re thinking of calling the place ‘le Bar Zinc,’” Javier said to Brian and me as we tended our sauté pans at the hot line. “After those shiny metal bar tops that used to be so popular back in the 1930s in France. What do you think?”

  “Great idea,” Brian answered. “Santa Cruz could so use a traditional French bistro. They do great up in San Francisco.”

  “It was Natalie’s idea,” Javier continued. “She lived in Paris for a year when she was a student. The plan is she’ll make traditional French pastries and I can be in charge of the classic French dishes like steak au poivre and pot-au-feu and coq au vin.”

  “Just don’t go stealing the Gauguin recipe for the chicken,” I said. It was meant as a joke but came out harsher than I’d intended, and Javier looked up from his two orders of duck breast to give me a questioning look.

  “You found a place yet?” Brian asked, oblivious to the friction between Javier and me.

  “No. We’re just at the early planning stages at this point,” Javier said, turning back to flip his duck breasts and then stir the pan of lilikoi glaze that would be drizzled over their thinly sliced, medium-rare meat. “And besides, I need to give Sally time to find my replacement.”

  Ouch. Now that was harsh.

  “Hey,” he went on, with a grin directed at Brian, “maybe you could be the next head chef at Gauguin. What d’ya think, Sally? I bet, with a little work, he could do the job.”

  Brian laughed and swatted at Javier with his side towel, but I could tell from the flicker of hope that crossed his face that he liked the idea.

  Javier changed the subject at this point, perhaps sensing that he might have gone a little too far with his teasing. “So how are the preparations going for the big dinner at Solari’s this weekend?”

  “Oh, God,” I said, shaking my head. “It looks like we might not have a tent for the event. Either because I forgot to order it, which I strongly doubt, or because the rental company blew it and didn’t get my order entered in their system. Either way, we’re screwed.”

  “Dude,” Brian said. “Isn’t there supposed to be a storm coming in this weekend?”

  “Yes, there is,” I answered, wiping clean the pan I’d just used and slamming it down onto the Wolf range. “And I called every single company within a fifty-mile radius, and all their tents are already rented for this Saturday. I don’t suppose any of you happens to own an enormous party tent?” I asked the kitchen at large.

  No one replied, but then again, who besides a rental company—or a circus—would possess a thirty-by-fifty-foot tent?

  The kitchen was unusually quiet after my outburst, but it took
only a couple of minutes for conversation to start up again. Kris had come in from the garde manger to fetch more green onions from the walk-in, then stopped to talk with Brian about a party they were going to after work.

  Javier plated up his duck breasts and set them on the pick-up window. “Order up!” he called out, and Brandon scurried over to retrieve the entrées. “By the way,” the chef asked, reaching for the next ticket on the rail, “did you ever get those porcini mushrooms from that Fungus Federation guy I connected you with?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “he dropped several enormous bags off at Solari’s yesterday. And there’s even enough that we can use them for the chicken cacciatore as well as the tagliarini with brown butter and sage. So thanks for that.”

  “What else are you having?” Javier asked, and I described the menu in detail. We might be having our differences right now, but the subject of food never failed to get the two of us going.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, once I’d told Javier and Brian about the dishes we were serving, “Dad’s going to bake all the panettones and the fugassa and freeze them till the morning of the dinner. Then Thursday we’ll cook the Sunday gravy, and Friday we’ll prep the chicken cacciatore, the stuffed cabbage, the zucchini, and the salad.”

  “You hiring extra staff for the event?” Kris asked. “’Cause I have a friend who’s looking for some part-time work until she finds a permanent gig.”

  “Not for any of the prep, but the day of the dinner we’re using some servers Dad knows who have banquet experience. He didn’t want to hire any extra cooks, but I think that’s a mistake. Who’s this person you know?”

  Kris described her friend—a woman who’d just moved to Santa Cruz from New York City. “I went to cooking school with her back East,” she said, “and she’s the real deal.”

  “I doubt she’d be thrilled with working at Solari’s, then. But hey, if she’s looking for a one-day gig, I’ll talk to my dad about using her.”