by Leslie Karst
“Well, that’s good, I guess.” Evelyn blinked, then let out a slow breath. “If she was going to have to die, I mean …”
I studied the will for any other relevant provisions. It didn’t designate the property that comprised Jackie’s estate, but Evelyn was clearly the sole beneficiary of whatever that property was. “I suppose you might want to contact the attorney who drafted this will,” I said. “To help with the transfer of things like the house and the car.”
Evelyn nodded. “Would you be willing to call them?” she asked in a soft voice. “Since you know about that kind of stuff.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to.” I returned the sheets to the envelope and set it on top of the dresser next to a worn copy of The Art of Eating by M. F. K. Fisher. “Oh, cool, I love this book,” I said, picking up the volume to flip through its yellowed pages. And then I noticed what looked to be a bank check stuck into the middle of the volume. I pulled out the check and examined its bold, sweeping script. “Huh, this is interesting,” I said, coming to sit once more next to Evelyn, who had lain back on the bed.
She sat up. “What?”
“A check I just found. It’s from Stanley Kruger and made out to your mom. And it’s for a fair amount of money—thirty-two hundred dollars.”
“Really?”
“Wait, there’s something written in the memo part of the check. It’s hard to read … Spowel? No … spousal support. Right, you said your stepdad was named Stan.” I turned to face her. “Did you know he was paying your mom spousal support?”
“No. She never mentioned anything about that to me. Though it would explain how Mom was able to quit her job as secretary and start working as a cook. I always kind of wondered how she was able to do that, since I’m sure it didn’t pay nearly as much.” Evelyn chewed her lip. “But it’s weird she never told me.”
“Maybe she was worried how you’d feel. You know, living off his money, given how you felt about him.”
“Maybe,” Evelyn said. She slid off the bed and started for the hallway. “I guess we should get going, so we have time to get ready for the memorial service. But before we leave, I want to check the fridge to make sure there’s nothing that’ll go bad while I’m gone.”
“Good idea.”
I followed her downstairs and into the kitchen, where Evelyn opened the gleaming stainless-steel refrigerator. “You want something to drink? I’m gonna have a little cranberry juice.” She reached into the bottom shelf, then frowned. “That’s weird.”
“What?” I came to stand next to her and peered into the fridge. “Here it is,” I said, taking the bottle from next to the meat-and-cheese drawer on the top shelf and handing it to her.
“Where was it?” Evelyn asked, and I told her. “But that’s not where it goes,” she said, continuing to frown.
“Maybe your mom just forgot to put it back in its normal place.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No. She wouldn’t do that. We have a system, and the bottom shelf is where all my food goes, so I always know where things are. We’ve used it my entire life. She would never put my stuff on the wrong shelf.”
“Well, we do know your mom had to have been pretty out of it that night, so maybe she just spaced out and put it in the wrong place. Or one of the cops could have moved it.”
“But why would the police be moving things around in the fridge? No, it had to be someone who was here with Mom the night she died.”
Realization spread across her face, and Evelyn turned to me, eyes wide. “The same person who forged that suicide note.”
Chapter 7
Back at my house, Evelyn couldn’t sit still. It was only an hour till Jackie’s memorial service, and I assumed her keyed-up state was in anticipation of what would no doubt be a difficult afternoon. A heavy rain had begun to fall, preventing us from taking the dogs for a walk, as had been our plan, so we were hanging out in the living room, listening to the rhythmic patter on the windowpanes.
Coco was trying to engage Evelyn in a game of tug-of-war, but her human partner had little patience for the activity. Each time the dog brought her the ratty stuffed animal—which looked as if it might at one time have resembled an ostrich—Evelyn would give a halfhearted tug, then drop the toy and stand up to pace from the sofa to the front door and back again.
“Look,” I said, picking up the bird and holding it out for Coco. “I know this memorial is going to be hard for you, but it’ll also be good in a lot of ways. I didn’t even want to go to my mother’s service, but it actually ended up being really cathartic.”
Evelyn returned to the couch and plopped down next to me. “I know,” she said. “But that’s only part of what has me so on edge. I just can’t stop thinking about who might have been with my mom the night she died. You know, whoever moved the juice—and wrote that note to make her death look like a suicide.” She exhaled loudly, clenching and unclenching her fists. “And the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it must have been Stan.”
“Whoa. You think your stepdad might have killed your mom?”
“C’mon, think about it. He’s apparently been paying her tons of money for the past few years, so there’s a classic motive. And who would know better than a nurse how to kill someone with drugs like that?”
I considered what she was saying. If someone other than Jackie had indeed written that note—or forced her to write it—then the death couldn’t have been a suicide. And the presence of the note also ruled out a simple overdose.
Which left only murder as the likely cause.
“Well,” I said, “it is most often the current or ex-partner who …”
“Exactly!” Evelyn jumped off the couch once again, startling Coco, who was now methodically pulling the toy’s stuffing out of the hole where its eye had once been.
“But what would Stan have been doing at your mom’s house in the first place?” I asked. “Would she have even let him come over?”
“Maybe. There was a long period when Mom didn’t talk to him at all, but they’d started getting along a little better over the past few months. I know they talked on the phone once in a while. But she knew how I felt about him.”
She fingered the buttons on the pale-blue blouse she’d changed into for the memorial service. “So I guess she might have had him over, but if she did, I bet she would have made sure it was when I wasn’t around.” And then she put her hand to her mouth.
“Like the night she died,” I filled in, and she nodded.
* * *
We left early for Jackie’s memorial because of the rain and got to the rent-a-chapel twenty minutes before the service. Two of Evelyn’s friends had already arrived, so we took seats next to them, near the front of the pews.
“Oh, Ev,” the taller of the two said. “I can’t believe it about your mom. I am so sorry.” They embraced, and after the second gal had given Evelyn a hug as well, she introduced me to Molly and Anne.
“We met in high school English class,” Evelyn said, “and bonded over our love of The Handmaid’s Tale.”
“And Mr. Walton,” Anne added with an exaggerated swoon, causing the three women to giggle. Anne touched Evelyn on the arm. “So how are you doing?” she asked.
While the three friends leaned in close to talk, I turned to examine the decor of the rent-a-chapel. It wasn’t bad, actually—subdued and comforting. The walls were painted a pale salmon with ornate, cream-colored molding, and although the “chapel” contained no religious symbols or icons, it still managed to convey an air of nonsectarian reverence.
“Oh, look, here’s Lucy and Sharon,” Molly said, and I turned to see another pair of young women coming toward us, using canes to make their way up the aisle. Evelyn introduced me to the two new arrivals, who took the bench behind us. Lucy, she announced, was a fellow computer science student at the college, and Sharon was studying political science.
Ah, the Lucy whose house Evelyn was staying at the night her mom died.
Spying my dad
coming through the wide wooden doors at the back of the hall with Sophia, I waved him over, and he escorted his elderly cousin to the row of seats in front of us.
Sophia swiveled around to give her granddaughter a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and the two spoke in low voices. This was the first time they’d seen each other since Jackie’s death, so the older woman was offering her sympathy to Evelyn. But from Sophia’s manner—consoling but not what I’d call mournful—I could tell it was true that she hadn’t been all that close to her daughter-in-law.
After they’d finished talking, Sophia squeezed Evelyn’s shoulder, then turned back to my dad. “This feels like a fake church,” she said, making tsking noises just like my nonna would do.
“That’s because it isn’t a church,” Dad replied. “You know Jackie wasn’t Catholic, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate to have it at the parish church.”
I glanced over to see how Evelyn was taking this little exchange and was relieved to see she wore an amused expression.
As more attendees streamed in, I tried to discern who in Jackie’s life they might have been. Two twenty-something guys, both with tattoos decorating their forearms, had to be cooks. But the woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a scrunchie, I wasn’t so sure about. A relative, perhaps?
“Are there any relations of yours coming today besides your nonna?” I asked Evelyn in a low voice.
“Not likely,” she said. “My grandparents on Mom’s side are both dead, and her brother lives in Vietnam. Or is it Thailand? They didn’t talk very often. And since she’s originally from back East, all her cousins and other relations are pretty far away. I doubt any of them would come.”
“That’s too bad. But at least you have our side of the family, now.”
She smiled and patted my knee.
Glancing at my phone, I saw there were only five minutes till the service was due to start. About twenty people were now in attendance, but folks continued to straggle in. As I watched, a sinewy man came through the doors, then stopped. He was balding, with one of those trendy goatees that every other guy seems to sport these days, and stood at the door squinting, as if looking for someone.
Recognition flashed across his face, and he started down the aisle. I turned back around to face forward, not wanting to appear nosy, and was startled when he stopped at our row and leaned over. Do I know this guy?
“Hello, Evelyn,” he said, and she started at the voice.
“Stan?”
Ah, her stepdad.
“Yeah. I thought I should come and pay my respects.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, hon,” he said, “I just want you to know how sorry I am. About everything.”
“Hon,” just like my dad calls me. So he must feel close to her. But from Evelyn’s lips—curled back as if she’d just had a sip of sour milk—it was obvious she didn’t share the feeling.
“If you need anything, a place to stay, or …”
“Thanks, but I’m staying with my cousin Sally for a while,” was all Evelyn said, not even turning her head in response.
Stan hesitated a moment. “Well, okay then,” he finally murmured, and started to leave.
“Wait,” Evelyn said, and he turned back. “I wanted to ask something: were you by any chance at our house recently?”
“Why would you ask that?” He swallowed and glanced about him, as if worried that others were listening in on the conversation.
“Uh, just wondering if you’d seen Mom recently is all.”
“No, I haven’t seen her in months,” Stan said with a frown, then made his way to a seat several rows behind us.
“How did he look while we were talking?” Evelyn asked in a whisper after he’d gone. “You notice he didn’t answer the question whether he’d actually been at the house recently.”
“He seemed nervous. Or maybe just embarrassed or confused. But don’t you think it might be a little unwise to be asking something like that? Because if he did in fact”—I lowered my voice—“hurt your mom, he may well now suspect that we’re on to him.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. “That was stupid.”
Our conversation was cut short by the quieting of the crowd as a woman in the front row stood and turned to face us. Swiveling in my seat, I looked to see how big a crowd had turned up and was surprised to spot Detective Vargas in one of the back rows. Huh. Had he decided that Jackie’s death was suspicious after all?
The service was short and impersonal. I got the impression the woman officiating had never even met Jackie and was merely recounting stories someone else—perhaps my father—had told her. She’d probably come with the rent-a-chapel, along with the flowers and the tea and cookies to follow.
I was getting increasingly morose as the officiant started winding up her spiel, and nervous for Evelyn’s sake that when the time came to ask attendees to stand up and say something nice about the deceased, she’d be met with dead silence. So I was relieved when two women near the front immediately jumped up and took the microphone to speak.
“We worked with Jackie back when she still flipped eggs at the IHOP,” the first one said. “Before she moved on to become a local celebrity chef,” she added with a chuckle.
Celebrity chef? I’d have to rib Javier about that, because if Jackie constituted a celebrity chef, then he’d be up there with Bobby Flay and Gordon Ramsay.
The second woman grabbed the mic and told a story about the three of them taking a trip to Las Vegas several years back. They’d eaten at fancy restaurants each day, and on the last night Jackie had wangled a tour of the kitchen at Picasso, the French-Spanish fusion place at Bellagio with original canvases by the famous artist hanging on its dining room walls.
Relinquishing the microphone, the two women—who appeared to have fortified themselves with a few pre–memorial service drinks—sat back down.
Next to speak was a man named Max, who said he’d worked with Jackie at Tamarind. This got my attention. Was he one of the jerks whose male posturing had driven Jackie from the restaurant?
But no, probably not, I realized as he went on. He and Jackie had known each other before her time at Tamarind, and, he told us, he’d gotten her the gig cooking there.
“I loved having Jackie at the restaurant,” he said. “She was a great cook and a pleasure to work with, and I sure missed her when she left.” He glanced in the direction of the two young guys with tattoos. Aha. I must have been right about them being the Tamarind cooks.
He paused to take a handkerchief from the pocket of his black slacks and wipe his aquiline nose, and when he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “She was a special woman,” he said. “I can’t believe she’s gone.” For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something else, but then, with a quick shake of his curly, black hair, he handed the microphone back to the officiant and returned to his seat.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked Evelyn as a young woman made her way to the front to speak.
“Yeah,” she said. “Mom used to hang out with Max sometimes. And he was really nice to her after she quit Tamarind.”
Evelyn hushed as the next person started to speak.
“Hi, my name is Maya, and I worked with Jackie at The Curry Leaf,” she said, raising pitch at the end of the sentence as if it were a question. “I only knew Jackie for a while, but I had to come up and say something because she was such an awesome boss.” Maya toyed nervously with the Indian prayer beads she wore on her left wrist, then cleared her throat. “Like, when I asked to take off for a whole week to go to the Rainbow Gathering, she was totally cool about it. And even though I wasn’t a cook, she paid me the same as them, and we shared all the tips totally equally.”
She went on more about why Jackie had been “such an amazing lady,” and as she spoke I thought about the woman Evelyn had told me about who’d quit working at the pop-up. Why, I wondered, if Jackie was such a great boss, had that other employee quit like she had? What could their argument have
been about?
After the hippie gal finished talking, two more people stood up to speak—a friend of Jackie’s from college who’d recently moved to Santa Cruz and a bartender from the place where she’d cooked before Tamarind. Neither seemed to have been particularly close to her, but perhaps they were simply conscious of how few people were standing up to talk about the deceased and decided to add a few kind words.
Stan did not speak. Of course, even if he’d planned on doing so, Evelyn’s cold reception of her ex-stepfather could easily have put the kibosh on any such idea.
After a brief closing by the officiator and the compulsory rendition of “Amazing Grace” (by a pianist in an ill-fitting suit who, I suspected, also came with the rental), we were directed to a reception hall next door. A large table running down the middle of the room had been set with stainless-steel urns of coffee and tea, pitchers of lemonade, and platters of store-bought cookies and “freshly cut” ham and turkey sandwiches. Not the sort of repast to best honor a chef, but having had no breakfast, I dug right in.
My dad joined us at the table and piled a sandwich and three chocolate-chunk cookies onto his plate. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but I can’t stay for the reception. Sophia’s tired and wants to go home. She’s waiting for me back in the chapel, but she did tell me to say goodbye and to give you a pair of baci.”
“That’s okay, Mario,” Evelyn said, accepting the proffered kisses to her cheeks. “I understand. Tell Nonna I really appreciate her coming. And you, too.”
Evelyn and I took our plates to the chairs that had been placed along the wall, finding two spots next to Molly and Anne. As I ate, I studied the crowd, and my attention was drawn to three women standing apart from all the others, glancing our way. The gal who’d talked during the service about Jackie being an “awesome boss” was nodding at something the tallest of the group was saying. The tall woman then shook her head with a frown and made her way to the food table. After conferring for a moment, the other two women came over to where Evelyn and I were camped out along the wall.
