Our waitress welcomed us, handed us menus, and took our drink orders. The menu here began with cicchetti, which were preappetizers, little mouthfuls of amazingly delicious snacks. Digger, who was working at a small tapas restaurant in the South End, was bound to become a fan of these small dishes.
I looked up from the menu. “We have to get the Tuscan meatballs with porcini and prosciutto. And also the fried risotto balls.”
“Fried olives, too,” Josh added.
“Nice!” Digger agreed. “And then for antipasti, we’re getting the savoy cabbage salad with pomegranates, hazelnuts, and bagna càuda.” The bagna càuda was a strong anchovy and garlic dip that I could practically drink. “Do you guys mind sharing the soup?”
The lobster soup with spaghetti squash and toasted pumpkin seeds was another of my favorites. I certainly didn’t mind sharing a bowl with Josh and Digger.
Josh added his request. “And I pick the shaved sunchoke salad with pickled mushrooms and frisée.”
We spent a few more minutes deciding on main courses before placing our order and returning the menus to the waitress.
“Digger, you’ve recovered fully from Monday’s fiasco, I hope?” I asked the chef.
“Tough as an ox.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I could’ve used a few days off from work though, so maybe it’s too bad I got better so quickly.” He grinned slyly.
“Why? What’s going on there?”
“Ah, it’s a wreck. The servers suck, and they’re totally obnoxious. Every night they let the orders sit out until they’re practically bone cold, and then they get sent back. It’s crap, I tell ya! I can’t even believe I’m off tonight. I’ve worked the past two weeks straight, except for last Monday, and the goddamn owner is on my case about keeping food costs down.” Digger took more than a sip of his wine. “Did you see the Mystery Diner’s write-up about us? Frickin’ hated the place. Hated everything about it. The food, the decor, the staff. Everything. And you know what? He was half-right, too. The service is awful, and the customers get treated like shit.”
Digger’s colorful language reassured me that he’d recovered from any digitalis poisoning that he’d had.
“I didn’t see that review.” Josh furrowed his brow. “Your food is great. What could the reviewer find to pick on?”
Digger shrugged. “The usual stuff. This was too oily, that was underseasoned, this wasn’t spicy enough. And my favorite? The portions are too small. It’s tapas for Christ’s sake! Obviously the portions are small!”
“That’s not fair.” Josh shook his head. “Some of these reviewers . . .” His voice trailed off.
I had to agree. “I saw that Marlee and Alloy got a pretty nasty review from him, too. That one might have been on target, but it was still vicious.”
Digger continued. “That dude is one mean son of a bitch. Do you know how much power reviewers have? People come into a restaurant and say they read a great review, and so they wanted to try us out. Nobody comes in and says, ‘Hey, I just read a crappy review of this place, but I thought I’d give it a shot anyhow.’ The Mystery Diner may have been right about the service, but not about the food. And I’m not just saying that to be cocky. The food really is good. That Mystery Diner should be strung up, if you ask me.” Digger took another drink and then looked sheepish. “Sorry. But you know what? Bad reviews happen. And the review didn’t single me out. The reviewer just hated the whole place. It’s part of the business, and it makes the good reviews all the better. Still, I’m not gonna say it doesn’t sting like a bastard when I read the awful ones.”
“And then you get blamed for it, right?” Josh gave Digger a knowing look. “The owner rides you for a bad review and takes all the credit for a good one. What’re you going to do? That’s the life we chose.” Josh lifted his glass in a sarcastic toast.
“Actually, I’m looking for another job. That’s what I’m gonna do. When things reach a certain low, we chefs have to move on and find something better. There’s only so much punishment I can take on a daily basis, you know?”
“Wow,” I said, stunned that Digger was thinking about quitting. “Do you have any leads?”
“A couple. I got a headhunter I use. Actually I gave—”
“The food is here,” Josh cut in.
The waitress set down the cicchetti we’d ordered. I inhaled the aroma and couldn’t wait to taste the meatballs. As I knew from a previous visit, when I’d practically interrogated the server about the meatballs, they had been seared and then simmered in the oven with white wine. I popped one in my mouth. Heaven!
Inevitably, we talked about the murder. Digger hadn’t known about the digitalis found in Francie’s system. “It’s a heart medicine,” I said. “It comes from a flower. Foxglove. Don’t some people garnish dishes with flowers?” I bit into a risotto ball.
“Ugh, yeah. Nasturtiums and shit. Ick.” Digger blew a raspberry. “I’ve never done that, have you, Josh?”
Josh shook his head. “Nah. That was sort of trendy for a while. Some flowers are edible, but I never got into that. Seriously, nobody wants to eat a flower.”
I’d had nasturtiums in salad that had been pretty good, but I felt unqualified to argue flavor with two chefs, so I kept quiet.
Digger pointed his fork at me and spoke with his mouth full. “Flowers belong in a garden or in a vase, if you ask me. Just don’t make me grow ’em for you. I’ve never touched a garden in my life.”
By the time I finished my entrée, lasagna con coniglio brasato (braised rabbit and crispy polenta lasagna with shaved raw mushrooms, thyme, and gremoulata), I was so stuffed that I didn’t know whether I’d be able to eat dessert. As usual, though, my appetite returned quickly, and I managed to squeeze in a ricotta cheese tart with Marsala sauce.
When Digger went to the bathroom, Josh reached across the table and took my hand in his. “I’m sorry I was so snappy earlier. Really.”
Since Josh looked so genuinely apologetic, I squeezed his hand back. “How early are you working tomorrow?”
“Not that early.” Josh winked at me.
SEVENTEEN
“IT’S not possible that I got bigger since Friday!” Adrianna’s yell shot through my phone’s receiver. “What in heck made me think it was a good idea to alter my own wedding dress?”
“I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “I wish I could do your alterations, but I’m not particularly adept with a needle and thread. Do you want me to come over anyway and see what I can do?”
Adrianna had bought a discount wedding dress for herself in a much larger size than she normally wore. The supposed point was to alter it to fit her pregnant shape.
“Yes, I want you to come over and help! Can’t you hear the anxiety in my voice? Get over here!”
I told Bridezilla I’d be over in a few minutes.
Even though Josh and I had more than made up the previous night, things between us still felt strained. That stress, combined with the experience of having Francie die in front of me and my so-far-unsuccessful investigation of the murder, left my spirits low. I worried that my mood might rub off on Adrianna. She was already nervous enough about the wedding, the baby, and her future in general, and it was supposed to be my job to calm her down. I’d need to muster every ounce of cheer I could.
As I was about to head out the door, Robin called. “I’m so glad I caught you. I really need to get my phone back. Can I stop by and get it this afternoon? Around three?”
“Absolutely.” I gave Robin my address and directions, and promised to be home.
When I arrived at Adrianna’s, she had her wedding gown half on. It was inside out, and most of the material was gathered around her middle, where her waist had once been.
With despair on her face and in her voice, she said, “I can’t deal with this right now, Chloe. I can’t.”
“Calm down. Let me help you.”
I pulled the front of the dress up over her chest, which had practically doubled in size, and tied t
he halter top around her neck.
“No one told me I was going to get Pam Anderson boobs,” she seethed. “I look trampy. I can’t wait to hear what my idiot mother has to say about it.”
“Here,” I said handing her a box of pins. “Start pinning and stop whining. You can do this. Just pin and sew, okay?”
“Okay.” Ade started pinning the sides of her dress. I helped in the spots she couldn’t reach. “This is not exactly the image I had of how I was going to look on my wedding day,” she said with a sniff.
“What? You didn’t picture yourself beautiful? Stunning? Radiant?”
“No,” she barked at me. “Stressed out, bloated, huge, and busty like a porn star.”
“Ade, stop,” I said firmly as I pinned the hem. “Everything is going to work out perfectly.”
“Your mom has her dress all set, right? And your dress is ready?” I nodded, petrified about how she might have reacted if I’d said no! Ade continued. “I have to call today to confirm the arrangements for renting the tables, chairs, and linens. Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “And I have to finalize the flowers.” She exhaled deeply.
“I’ll do all that for you. Just give me the numbers. You don’t need to do anything except finish the dress and then rest. My mom is taking care of the tent, and the company is going to set it up on Thursday afternoon. You’ll be able to see it Friday at the rehearsal dinner.”
The rehearsal itself was going to be a quick run-through rather than an elaborate, formal affair. My dad, with the best of intentions, had promised to grill dinner. It was remotely possible that he’d fulfill his promise without charring everything.
I spoke with pins clamped between my lips. “And I want you to try to keep Kitty from driving you insane. Where is she, by the way?”
“I’m trying to keep my distance from her, so I sent her off to Faneuil Hall to do the tourist thing. And there’s enough shopping down there to keep her occupied. Who knows? Maybe she’ll find another smoked sausage basket for me.”
“I’m so sorry about that, Ade.” I moved to the front of her dress and continued pinning, doing my best to keep the hemline straight.
“I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should be used to my mother by now. But it does hurt. I’m pregnant and getting married, and I need my mother. Or, rather, I need a less insane mother. Kitty is never going to be who I want her to be, so there’s no use trying to change her. I don’t have the energy for it anyhow. Bless your parents for taking such good care of me. And you, too, of course.” Ade looked down at me and smiled.
“I’d do anything for you. You know that.” I smiled back.
When I left, Ade was running her dress through the sewing machine. Although she seemed to have relaxed a little bit, I was reluctant to go. But I had to get home to meet Robin and return her cell phone. I still hadn’t thought of a way to ask her whether she’d known Leo before the filming without accusing her of rigging the show and also, of course, without revealing that I’d explored her cell phone. Once I got home, I hurriedly scanned through her phone again in search of recently dialed or received calls. Everything had been erased; there were no call records. The absence meant nothing. I routinely erased all of my own calls.
Following the directions I’d given her, Robin knocked at my back door, which opened to a wooden fire escape that doubled as a miniature patio. “Hello?” She cupped her hand over her forehead and peered through the window.
I opened the door. “Hey, Robin. I bet you’ll be glad to get your phone back. Come on in.”
“Sorry about this. I can’t believe I left my phone at your parents’ place. It’s been driving me crazy not to have it.”
“Here, grab a seat. Pardon the clothes everywhere. My mom gave me a ton of stuff to donate to a home for women in transition. It’s a temporary place for homeless women to stay while they’re trying to find jobs and housing. My mom gave me some great stuff that could be worn on interviews.” I’d spread everything out on the couch. Feeling embarrassed about the mess, I started folding the outfits and putting them neatly in bags.
Robin’s eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea. You know, Leo could probably use some help in clearing out Francie’s belongings. I’m sure that the last thing he feels like doing is going through all of her clothes. Maybe he’d want to donate them to this women’s place.”
“You’ve been in touch with Leo?” I asked casually.
“Obviously I called him to offer my condolences. I guess there isn’t going to be a funeral. He said maybe a memorial service later. I’ll give you his number.” Robin took a scrap of paper from her purse and jotted down Leo’s home number. “I’m sure he’d appreciate some help. Sort of a grisly process, I’d think, going through your dead wife’s clothing.” Robin grimaced.
“I’ll definitely give him a call. Thank you.”
It distressed me to realize that poor Francie was going to disappear. No funeral? And nothing more than the possibility of a memorial service? In no time, I thought, it will be as if Francie had never existed. But the possibility of going through Francie’s clothing did offer the hope of learning something—anything!—about her murder.
As soon as Robin left, I called Leo, who picked up after a few rings. His voice sounded raspy and weak.
As I explained why I was calling, I felt grateful for my social work training. “I’m sorry if this is premature on my part, but I’ve done some volunteering at a shelter that helps homeless women to find jobs. Do you think that Francie would have liked the idea of donating her clothing? I just thought I could be of some help to you. Maybe you’re not ready, though. ”
“You know what? I do like that idea. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do around the house. Do I throw out anything that reminds me of her? Do I keep the house set up as though she were still here? No one gives you an instruction manual that tells you what to do when your wife dies. But this feels right.”
“Do you suppose that I could come by tomorrow morning?” I tried to suppress my excitement at the prospect of getting to peek around his house.
“Sure. How about nine o’clock?” Then he asked the last question you’d expect to hear from a grieving widower: “Uh, by the way, not that it matters, but do you know if these donations are tax deductible?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, they are.”
EIGHTEEN
I drove to Leo’s house on Tuesday morning, my energy fueled by two large cups of coffee and a zest for snooping. This time, I parked in his driveway and checked out the yard: an overgrown privet hedge thick with maple saplings, a few rhododendrons and azaleas, a couple of peonies clinging to life, and—damn!—nothing even remotely like foxglove. If there’d been foxglove here, the police would have found it by now, wouldn’t they? Yes, almost certainly.
I opened the trunk of the car and grabbed a cardboard box and the garbage bags I’d brought for Francie’s clothing. Feeling superstitious, I avoided the front door, the one through which Francie’s body had been carried, and went to the back door. I rang the bell and waited several minutes for Leo to answer.
“Chloe. Hi. Excuse my shirt. It never occurred to me to learn how to do laundry. Isn’t that stupid?” Leo looked dreadful. His eyes were puffy, his hair unruly. His shirt was not only dirty but buttoned wrong. Had he relied on his wife to align buttons and buttonholes? Once I’d entered the kitchen, it was clear that laundry was far from the only kind of housework left undone. Every surface of the kitchen was piled with dirty dishes, empty and half-empty take-out containers, newspapers, junk mail, and tons of other debris, including four grocery bags that hadn’t been unpacked and, scattered all over the floor, what must have been at least two pounds of coffee beans. Leo waved his arm around. “Sorry about this. I had no idea how much Francie did around the house.”
“Really, it’s no problem. I don’t know what to say after what you’ve been through. I’m glad I can do something,” I said in my best social worker voice. “Why don’t you show me where Francie’s clo
set is, okay?”
“Sure. It’s up here,” he said as he started for the stairs. “But I’ve got to warn you. Avoid the bathroom where, uh, where Francie, you know . . .” Leo stammered. “The police spent hours up there, but they didn’t . . . It hasn’t been cleaned. Can you believe that? It’s their job to find out what happened to my wife, and they leave that filth in there for me?”
As if it were a police job to scrub the bathroom for him! Leo might reasonably want to avoid sanitizing the area himself, but couldn’t he have hired a cleaning service? Or some sort of company that specialized in hazardous waste? It was obscene that the mess had been sitting there for over a week now. Was Leo just going to seal off the bathroom forever? I tried to remember the exact words I’d used in offering Leo my help. I prayed that I hadn’t been foolish enough to tell him that I’d do absolutely anything. As we passed through the dining room and the front hall, I noticed yet more litter as well as the need for dusting and vaccuming. The mess seriously detracted from what was otherwise a beautiful house. The multitude of large and brightly colored art pieces on the walls were so cheery that I momentarily forgot this was the scene of the crime.
“Leo,” I said speedily, “there are companies that can be hired to clean anything. I can help you find one, if you like.”
“Really? That would be wonderful. I just haven’t known what to . . . Here you go.” We entered the master bedroom. “Thank God there’s another bathroom off the master suite. That’s Francie’s closet.” Leo pointed to an oversized walk-in closet with sliding doors that were partly open. “Please, take anything you think these women could use. Francie has enough clothes to outfit a hundred homeless women. I’ll be back in a minute.” Leo left the room.
Because of the condition of the rest of the house, I was surprised to find the bedroom tidy. Amazingly, the bed had been made, and Leo had taken care to arrange the bright blue bedding and pillows to resemble a guest room at a Vermont inn. Expensive off-white Berber carpeting was stain-free, and the four windows that let bright light into the room gave it a fresh, unsullied appearance.
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