Murder from Scratch

by Leslie Karst

  “Grab a fork for me from the drawer, would ya? It’s to the right of the sink.”

  I handed her the fork and she began to beat the eggs, using her other hand to keep propping up the flour wall. “You have to be really careful at this point,” she said, “or else you’ll punch a hole in the thing and end up with egg all over the counter and floor.”

  As I watched, she slowly incorporated the flour into the eggs, touching the mixture with a forefinger every once in a while to gauge its consistency. Once the eggs and flour had turned into a thick batter, she brought the flour walls down upon it, then quickly mixed it all together with her hands until the mass became a ragged, sticky lump.

  “Kind of a messy process,” I said as flour and bits of dough flew onto the floor.

  “Uh-huh.” Gathering the dough together in a rough ball, she wrapped it in a sheet of plastic wrap, then washed the mess off her hands at the sink. Once she’d scraped the cutting board clean with a bench knife—getting even more flour and bits of dough on the counter and floor—she unwrapped the sticky ball.

  “This is the hard part,” she said. “You gotta knead it for at least ten minutes. But it does build up your upper-body strength.”

  “Well, I’m happy to lend a hand, if you want.”

  We took turns working the dough, adding a dusting of flour as needed, until Evelyn deemed it ready. “See? Feel this. Soft and silky as a baby’s butt, Nonna Sophia always says.” She wrapped the ball in a new sheet of plastic and set it on the counter. “Okay, that has to rest now for a half hour. Time to make the sauce.”

  * * *

  An hour later we sat down to one of the best dinners I’ve ever had, the dramatic candlelit table and the gorgeous Limoges china Evelyn had insisted we use adding an even more sublime tone to the meal. The flavors of the peas and porcini blended beautifully, and the sharp, tangy cheese added the perfect contrast to the earthy flavors of the vegetables. But the fettuccine was the star of the show. It had a delicate, eggy flavor and a melt-in-your-mouth texture I’d never before experienced with pasta—not even my nonna’s.

  “Ohmygod, how’d you get it so tender?” I asked, a long strand dangling from my mouth.

  “It’s all in the rolling,” Evelyn said with a smile. “You have to do it quickly without overworking the dough. That’s why most people use a machine. But I think the hand-rolled kind is way better.”

  “No kidding, it is,” I said, slurping up the errant pasta. “If we could make this at Gauguin, it’d be a best seller. You think there’s any way you could teach Javier how to do it? He already has a great touch with pastry dough, so I bet he’d be a natural for fresh pasta.”

  “Sure, I could try. I’m on break from school till early January, so I have lots of free time right now.”

  Evelyn and I ate in silence for a bit, and I watched as she speared strands of fettuccine, swirled them around her fork, and raised the pasta to her mouth. What would it be like to live your life in total darkness, I wondered, no hint of light penetrating your senses?

  “Could I ask you something?” I said. “It’s about being blind.”

  Evelyn smiled as she reached for her glass of iced tea. “You can ask me anything you want.”

  “Okay.” I took a sip of water as I pondered my question. “It’s just that I’m curious about colors. Since you’ve never actually seen the color green, or red or blue, what do you imagine when people talk about them? Does the concept of colors even mean anything to you?”

  “Sure, absolutely they do. I’ve heard people talk about colors my entire life, so even though I can’t actually see them, I have a pretty good idea in my head of what they mean. Red and orange and yellow are warm—you know, like a fire, or the sun, or the blood in our veins. And they’re also the colors of passion and excitement. And then blue and green are cool colors, like the ocean, or the lawn in our backyard which I’d lie on in the summer, smelling the freshly cut grass.”

  “Huh. Well, I guess that makes sense. And I bet your other senses are way more heightened than mine.”

  “Maybe not taste, ’cause I happen to know you’re pretty good in that department. But for sure hearing and touch. They’re how I get by in the world. And maybe even smell, too. Like, I can often tell where I am on campus by the smells around me: paint and turpentine at the art studios, musty paper in the library, gas fumes in the parking lots. And of course it’s super easy knowing when I’m anywhere near the cafeteria from the smell. But pretty much anyone would notice that.”

  “Yep,” I said with a laugh. “I’m pretty much always attuned to the smell of food.”

  * * *

  After dinner, we retired to the living room to digest our meal. I hadn’t been able to resist having seconds, which I’d then proceeded to mop up with several slices of crusty baguette, so I was feeling more than a little stuffed.

  “I saw a bottle of Cognac in the cupboard,” I said as I plopped down on the couch next to Evelyn. “Would it be okay if I had a glass—you know, as a digestif to help process that mass of delicious pasta I just consumed?”

  “Sure, help yourself,” she said.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Some herbal tea would be nice. There’s a box of peppermint next to the Cognac.”

  I was poking around the cupboard, using the flashlight on my phone to search for the tea, when a blinding light filled the room. “Whoa!” I shouted, covering my eyes with my hand.

  “What happened?” Evelyn jumped up from the couch, ready to dash into the kitchen to my aid. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, blinking and rubbing my eyes. “The power just came back on is all, and boy are those kitchen lights bright. I don’t know why they were even on.” Looking around for the light switch, I located it against the wall next to the fridge. “Aha, mystery solved. The switch is on the wall where I was leaning while I watched you roll out the pasta. I must have turned it on by accident.”

  At the sound of the whistling kettle, I poured hot water into a mug for Evelyn’s tea, then helped myself to two fingers of Cognac. “Hey, wait,” I said as I brought the drinks into the living room. “That reading lamp was on a timer, so why’d it turn back on now?”

  When we’d come to pick up Evelyn’s pillow and clothes, I’d seen a timer on the floor by the lamp and had suggested we plug it in so the house wouldn’t look unoccupied while Evelyn was staying with me. But because the power had been out since last night, the timing on the mechanism should have been thrown off.

  “Oh right,” I realized. “It’s been almost exactly twenty-four hours, so it’s on the same schedule I set it at.” I sat back down on the couch with my drink. “It’s a gorgeous lamp. The colors coming through the cut glass make for lovely mood lighting.”

  “Hey, speaking of mood,” Evelyn said, “why don’t I play you some of my granddad’s records, now that we have power again.” She stood and walked to the corner where the stereo was, flipped through several albums at the far right of the shelf, and selected one. “Okay, get ready to listen to the smoothest male voice in jazz.”

  It was too dim in the room for me to see who the artist was, so I waited with interest to see what she’d chosen to play. After a moment I heard the scratch of the needle on vinyl and then the opening strains of the song.

  “Oh,” I said. “I know that one! It’s Frank Sinatra, singing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ Side B, track one of Songs for Swingin’ Lovers,” I added. “My mom used to play that album all the time.”

  I swiveled around to see if I’d impressed her with my knowledge of 1950s jazz vocals, but instead of smiling as I would have expected, Evelyn wore a frown. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She was clutching the record jacket tightly, and if I hadn’t known better I would have said she was staring at the clean-cut couple locked in a youthful embrace on its cover. “This isn’t the one I meant to put on,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t understand …”

  “Well, you can’t
always bat a thousand. And it’s a great album, so I don’t mind.”

  “Someone’s been messing with my records,” she said quietly, and set the jacket down. “I played it the night before Mom died, the one I was just looking for—Mel Tormé and Artie Shaw.”

  I joined her by the shelf and knelt to examine the spines of the record jackets. “Here it is,” I said, pulling out an LP. “Mel Tormé With the Meltones and Artie Shaw.”

  “That’s the one. Where was it?”

  I squinted in the dim light at the row of albums. “Right between George Shearing and Sarah Vaughan. Which is where it should be, right? T comes between S and V.”

  “No.” She took the Mel Tormé record from me and hugged it to her breast, her breath coming quickly now, as if she’d been running. “Because the Sinatra record was the second one from the end just now. Where this one should have been.” She shook the record in her hands.

  “I know I didn’t misfile the album,” she said. “And Mom never touches my records. She doesn’t even like jazz all that much, and if she had played it, she would have put it back where it belongs. She knows how organized I am about …” Evelyn stopped and bit her lip, which I could see had started to tremble.

  Neither of us spoke. Frank was now on to the second track, “I Thought About You,” and I was tempted to pick up the needle lest the lyrics upset Evelyn further. But she made no sign that she even noticed that the song was playing.

  After a few moments, she exhaled and turned to face me. “This absolutely proves it,” she said, jaw set. “Someone was definitely here with Mom the night she died. And whoever played my records that night had to be the same person who killed Mom and wrote that note to make it look like a suicide.”

  I nodded, staring blankly at the floor. And then my eyes were drawn to the purple-red stain on the carpet. “And they were drinking that cranberry juice out here,” I said, “because there’s a new-looking stain that someone clearly tried to clean up but did a bad job of it. Given what we know about the juice in the fridge being moved that same night, it had to be the same person.”

  I returned to the couch and took a sip of my drink, a Rémy Martin VSOP. It was smooth and balanced, with hints of fig and leather. Jackie had not skimped on her choice of Cognac.

  “Does Stan like jazz?” I asked after a bit. “Or cranberry juice?”

  Evelyn set the record she’d been clutching onto the shelf next to the turntable and came to sit next to me. “I have no idea what he likes to drink. And as for jazz, I can’t remember for sure. He used to play lots of kinds of music around the house.”

  “Well, was he into vinyl records? Did he ever ask to play yours?”

  She shook her head. “He’d already moved out by the time Nonna gave me Grandpa’s records, so no. But that doesn’t rule him out.”

  “No,” I agreed, “he’s definitely a prime suspect. But let’s assume for the moment it wasn’t Stan who was here that night. Who else could it have been?”

  “Lots of people. Mom was always having friends over to hang out and eat and drink, watch movies. She was pretty social.”

  “Like who in particular?”

  Evelyn leaned back on the couch, and her eyes darted about as she thought. “Mostly restaurant people, ’cause that was pretty much her whole life of late. People she knew from the places she used to work at, the women from the pop-up and the owners of the place that hosts it, and a few old friends, too.”

  “So really,” I said, “there are lots of possible suspects.”

  She chewed her lip a moment, then turned to me. “You think we should give those records to Detective Vargas to test for fingerprints? And the juice bottle too?”

  “I don’t know.” I finished off my Cognac and set the glass back down on the coffee table.

  “But you’re the one who said he seemed interested in what I said about my mom never calling me Evelyn. And he did show up at the memorial service.”

  “True. But it might be better to wait. I already told him about the juice being moved, and he didn’t seem to think it was all that important. But maybe if we had a little more evidence, then he’d take us seriously.”

  Evelyn sat bolt upright, shoulders back and chin high. “Okay, then. Let’s get that evidence.”

  Chapter 11

  I woke up the next morning to a text from Eric: U FREE TONIGHT?

  SURE, I wrote back. DINNER?

  SOUNDS GOOD. U PICK PLACE AND TIME.

  I thought a moment, then looked up a website on my phone before replying: TAMARIND AT 6.

  I’d been wanting to try their Southeast Asian menu for some time now, and, their website had confirmed, they were open on Mondays—a night many restaurants (including Gauguin) are closed. But more importantly, if Evelyn and I were going to gather more evidence regarding Jackie’s death, it seemed like as good a place to start as any.

  Evelyn hadn’t yet emerged from her bedroom by the time I wandered into the kitchen wearing my cycling gear. I let Buster out the back door. It was a gray day and the thermometer out on the patio read a frigid thirty-nine degrees, but at least it wasn’t raining. This time of year you had to take your cycling opportunities when you could, cold or not.

  Nevertheless, I’d keep the ride short—out to Wilder Ranch, down to the Boardwalk, then back home. Bundled up in leggings, a long-sleeved jacket, and fleece-lined gloves, I clipped into my pedals and headed down to West Cliff Drive.

  The weather had not frightened off the sea life. Brown pelicans soared above me in ragged Vs as I pedaled up the coast, and I spotted several sea lions close to shore, diving for fish in the steel-gray water. A few hardy humans besides me were also out this morning, walking dogs or jogging along the twisty path that hugs the cliffs.

  It hadn’t seemed windy on the ride down to the ocean, but as soon as I turned north, I was hit with what felt like an arctic blast. Yes, definitely a short ride this morning. Some cyclists claim the wind is their friend, helping with training. But the idea of voluntarily subjecting myself to a gale such as this on any regular basis seemed crazy to me.

  Once I reached the old dairy at Wilder Ranch State Park and turned back south, however, the ride was far more pleasant, with the wind at my back instead of buffeting me head on. (Okay, so maybe the wind is sometimes my friend.) And as I cruised along the eucalyptus-lined bike path, past stables and fields of brussels sprouts and artichokes, my thoughts turned to the day ahead.

  Hot coffee and a hot shower were first on the agenda. Then a walk for Buster and Coco, after which I wanted to work on the front-of-the-house scheduling for Gauguin over the next few weeks. Our head waiter, Brandon, as well as the hostess, Gloria, and several other servers, had all asked for time off around the holidays, and the gymnastics required to make the schedule work was going to be a nightmare. At least I didn’t have to deal with the kitchen staff, too; that was Javier’s unhappy task.

  Once home, coffee mug in hand, I sat on the living room couch with my phone to check my email and do a quick scan of Facebook. As I was watching a video on how to make a batch of cardiac arrest–inducing sliders stuffed with cheese sauce and French fries, the device buzzed.

  The screen displayed a number I didn’t recognize, but since it was our local 831 area code, I went ahead and answered it. “Sally here.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Solari. This is Adam Scurich. You called me yesterday about a will?”

  “Oh, right. Hi. Thanks so much for calling back.”

  “Sure, no problem,” he said. “You may not remember me, but we were opposing counsel years ago on a land condemnation case. I worked for the city attorney’s office back then.”

  “Aha! I thought your name sounded familiar.”

  “So you said you were representing Jackie Olivieri’s estate? I’ve been out of town for a week and only got back in last night, so I didn’t hear about her death till then. I’m so sorry.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I mumbled, trying to decide how unethical it would be not to correct his assum
ption that I was acting as an attorney with regard to the matter. “Well, Jackie’s daughter Evelyn and I found her will that had your name on it, and I wondered if I could ask a couple questions.”

  “Sure, go ahead. I pulled the file, so I have it right here in front of me. What do you want to know?”

  “First off, is any of the estate in a trust?”

  “None was at the time she executed the will,” he said. “I advised her to do a trust, but she said she didn’t want to bother. Of course, she might have had a change of heart since then and created one, but if so, she didn’t use me.”

  “I know she owns a house here in town,” I said, reaching for a pen and a piece of junk mail on the side table to take notes on. “Can you tell me if she had any other properties or assets of value?”

  I could hear the rustling of papers as he looked through the file. “I asked her about that in regards to a possible trust, and it looks like the house—which still has a mortgage—and a car, as well as a savings account with Wells Fargo, are the only things besides personal items. And you should know,” he added, “that she owned the house as a tenant in common with …” He paused as he searched for the name. “Stanley Kruger, her ex-husband. It had been a joint tenancy while they were married, but they changed it to a tenancy in common once the divorce proceedings were initiated.”

  Huh. This was news. I’d assumed Jackie was the sole owner. I wondered if Evelyn knew that her stepdad owned half the house. Probably not, or she would surely have mentioned it to me.

  “So that means Evelyn will inherit Jackie’s share,” I said, “but that Stan—the ex—could force a sale if he wanted to cash out his half.”

  “Yes to the inheritance part, but no as for the other. It says here in the copy of the divorce settlement I have that there can be no forced sale of the property until Ms. Olivieri’s daughter turns twenty-five. I seem to remember the reason being that she has some sort of disability.”