by Leslie Karst
“Evelyn’s blind,” I said. “She was living at home when her mom died.”
“Right. So the court must have determined that she required that security until she’d be able to go out on her own. The settlement also states that the parties are to share the mortgage payments equally, but that the ex-husband is to pay spousal support until, let’s see … two years from now.”
“But the obligation to pay spousal support would end with the death of the ex-wife.”
“That is correct,” he said.
Neither of us spoke. Jackie had obviously been using the spousal support to pay her share of the mortgage, as well as to get The Curry Leaf up and running. But how on earth would Evelyn be able to make her share of the mortgage without the alimony payments?
She wouldn’t.
“Okay, one more question,” I said. “Even though the divorce settlement mandates that neither party can force the other to sell until Evelyn turns twenty-five, there’s nothing to prevent a voluntary sale by both parties, right?”
He immediately clued in to where I was going with this. “Right. Now that she’s on the hook for half the mortgage payment—which I assume she has no way of making—she’ll probably want to sell her share. And as long as they both agree, the sale would not run afoul of the settlement.”
That certainly looked to be Evelyn’s only option at this point. So not only did Stan no longer have to fork out over three grand a month in alimony, but there was a good chance he’d get to cash out his half of the house two years ahead of schedule.
Jackie’s death had been quite the boon to his pocketbook.
* * *
Evelyn came into the room a few minutes later. She was still wearing her bathrobe and slippers and had a bleary look in her eyes.
“Morning,” I said. “You look like you could use some coffee. Bad night?”
She plopped down next to me on the couch. “Bad morning, more like. I woke up at around three and didn’t get back to sleep till at least seven.”
“Man, that non-twenty-four thing really sucks.”
Evelyn only nodded absently, more of a “Whatever you say” kind of response than one of agreement.
“Oh,” I went on, “it’s something else, isn’t it? Your mom?”
This time the nod was again slow, but sincere. “Uh-huh. That’s what kept me up,” she said, her eyes shining with tears. “Thinking about her.”
I put an arm around her shoulders to pull her toward me as she cried, chest jerking with sporadic shudders.
Her body grew still, and she sat back and wiped her eyes. “I just can’t stop thinking about it,” she said, voice trembling. “That someone would murder her like that—forcing her to overdose.” Evelyn straightened up and balled her fists. “We really do need to get more evidence. Figure out who was there that night. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sleep again until Mom’s killer is in jail.”
“Well,” I said, “I actually just got some news that could be relevant to that. The attorney who drafted your mom’s will called me back a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, yeah? What’d he say?”
“Some of it’s not great, I’m afraid.”
I told her about the house being held in a tenancy in common with Stan, which meant that although she would inherit her mother’s half of the property, her stepfather owned the other half.
“Wow. I wonder why Mom never told me the place was half his.”
“Maybe because she knew how much you disliked him? And also, well, it does seem like she kept pretty much everything about Stan from you. You know, like the alimony payments.”
But I had to agree it did seem odd for Jackie not to have told her daughter about the house. “And the other bad news,” I said, “is that not only does he own half the house, but you’re now on the hook for your mom’s half of the mortgage payment.”
“How much is it?” Evelyn asked.
“I imagine it’s gotta be at least a thousand or two a month, but we can find out easily enough.”
She slumped over. “It doesn’t really matter. Even if it were only a few hundred dollars, I’d have no way to pay it. I have no job, and have to pay my student fees and for books …”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, tapping my fingers on my coffee mug. Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest. “It seems like it would make more sense to sell the house so I can get my half and use it to live off of. But could we even do that?”
“The agreement just says neither owner can force the other to sell, so I see no reason you couldn’t if you both wanted to.” I leaned back and thought a moment. “But given what we now know—how much Stan has benefited financially from your mom dying—it seems to me what we really need to do right now is talk to the guy to see if we can find out anything connecting him to the death.”
“Could you do that without me?” she asked, scrunching up her face. “I’m sure he knows how much I dislike him, so he’s way more likely to talk to you.”
“Sure, I guess so. Do you know anything about his habits? Like, where he shops, or goes jogging or something?”
“Not a lot,” she said. “Except … Yes.” She sat up. “He has a dog, or at least used to, anyway. A big black Standard Poodle named Harry. And he used to walk him early every morning on West Cliff. If he still has the dog, I bet he still does it. He was always super regular about his routines.”
“How early?” I asked.
“Like seven or eight. But it would depend on his work schedule at the clinic.”
“He’s a high-paid nurse, you said, right? You know what kind, exactly?”
Evelyn nodded. “Yeah, he assists anesthesiologists in surgery. I think it’s called a nurse anesthetist.”
“So he’d certainly know a lot about drugs,” I said. “Including what would work to kill someone. I definitely need to talk to him.” I finished my coffee and stood. “Guess I’ll go shower. Oh, by the way, you should know I’m working on another angle of the case, too. I’m going to Tamarind tonight, with a friend.”
Was that what Eric was now? Just a friend?
“Oh, good.” Evelyn smiled for the first time that morning. “Do you have a plan of action?”
“God, no,” I said with a short laugh. “I’m just going to play it by ear.”
Chapter 12
Pacific Avenue, the main shopping street in Santa Cruz, was bustling with people that evening. It was twenty to six, and thus already dark on this chilly, early December evening, and the white fairy lights strung along the ornamental cherry trees downtown added a heightened level of gaiety to the already-festive pre-Christmas atmosphere.
I was on my way back to my car after making the Gauguin bank deposit, and had stopped to admire a window display at one of the trendy clothing stores along the outdoor mall. A mannequin Santa, sporting gold hoop earrings and a snug red suit, sat astride a fat-tired bicycle with a surfboard tucked under one arm. SANTA CRUZIN’ SANTA! the hand-lettered sign behind him read.
A woman came to stand next to me and laughed. “Did you see last year’s window?” she said. “It was good too, but the Santa was far more risqué.”
I turned, recognizing the voice. “Oh, hi …”
“Sarah,” she filled in. “We met at Jackie’s memorial the other day. I worked with her at The Curry Leaf.”
“Ah, right.”
“How’s Evelyn doing?” she asked.
“Okay, I guess, all things considered. She’s been staying at my place for a while, till she’s ready to go back home.” I nodded at the large brown bag Sarah carried. “You been doing some Christmas shopping?”
“Uh-huh, for my girlfriend.” She hoisted the bag, from which a large, colorfully wrapped package protruded.
“Looks heavy,” I observed.
“A set a knives—Henckels.”
“Nice. She must really be into cooking, to merit knives like that.”
“She is.” Sarah paused. “She used to cook at The Curry Leaf, actually, until she, uh … left.”
“Rachel? She’s your girlfriend?”
“Well, we only just got together pretty recently, but yeah. Christmas day will be our three-month anniversary. Hence the nice present,” she added. “We met when I started at The Curry Leaf, but Rachel didn’t want to tell Jackie about us, ’cause she was worried she wouldn’t like the idea of a couple working for her. And then after Rachel quit, there was no real reason to tell her, so she never knew.”
“Huh.” Hadn’t Evelyn said that Jackie and Rachel had been friends since before she’d started The Curry Leaf? So why wouldn’t Rachel have been honest with her friend about her romance with Sarah?
My interest in Jackie’s ex-cook had just jumped up a notch.
“Oh, and I should tell you also,” Sarah said, setting her bag down on the sidewalk. “It looks like I won’t be looking for a job as prep cook after all. Rachel’s opening a pop-up restaurant downtown and has asked me and Maya to come work for her. It’s gonna be at the same place as The Curry Leaf, starting this Wednesday.”
Sarah was staring at the surfer Santa in the window, so she failed to notice my interested expression and continued on excitedly, “I really like the idea of only working part-time so I can concentrate on the group I play bass with. And this pop-up Rachel’s doing is only gonna be open a few days a week, so it’s perfect for me.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, letting her chatter on.
“Yeah, and it’s gonna be basically the same as The Curry Leaf, actually. You know, using a lot of the same recipes, but with a different name, of course. So it’ll be easy for me to learn the menu.”
Make that two notches.
* * *
Although the conversation with Sarah made me ten minutes late for my dinner with Eric, I still beat him to Tamarind. No big surprise there; Eric is chronically late.
I’d asked Evelyn if she’d like to join us, but she’d declined, saying she actually preferred to stay home by herself. Which I understood. I could see how she wouldn’t want to spend an evening right now at the restaurant that had caused her mom so much grief.
After giving my name, I was shown to a table near the back, not far from the restrooms. I would have been annoyed by the location except for the fact that almost every seat in the house was filled and I’d made the reservation only this afternoon. I figured I was lucky to have gotten a table at all.
The maître d’ handed me a menu and asked if I’d like anything from the bar while I waited for my “other party.” He returned four minutes later with my Maker’s Mark, and I was savoring those luscious first few sips while my palate was still fresh, humming along to a breathy woman singing “Night and Day,” when Eric strode across the room.
“Hey, Sal,” he said, leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No, you’re not. But I appreciate the fact that you acknowledge your tardiness.” I consulted my phone. “Fifteen minutes, to be exact.” No way was I going to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d been late as well.
Our waiter—a skinny guy with a dirty-blond man-bun held in place by a pair of ebony chopsticks—appeared at the table to ask if Eric would like something to drink before ordering.
“No thanks,” he said. “I think I’ll stick with some wine or beer with dinner. I already had a Martini before I came here,” he added once the server had disappeared. “That’s why I’m late, actually.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“It’s just that I ran into Gayle at the courthouse this afternoon as her trial was getting out, so we went to Kalo’s for a quick drink. You know, that PD who—”
“Yeah, I know who she is.”
He gave me a questioning look, and I realized my comment had come out rather curtly. “The woman who chose the light over the dark side,” I added with a forced smile, “and works for the public defender instead of the evil DA’s office.”
“Very funny. Yes, that’s the one.” He picked up his menu and studied the handwritten page with today’s specials.
“I liked her,” I said. “She’s clearly smart, and it seems like she has a snarky sense of humor.” This wasn’t a lie. I had liked Gayle, even if I didn’t love the idea of her and Eric together.
Eric looked up from the menu and grinned. “Yeah, she is pretty great. She told me today that she has a degree from Vassar in French literature. But she decided she didn’t want to teach, so she went to law school instead. Stanford.”
“Rich parents?” I asked. No way would a public defender’s salary be high enough to pay off the student loans from both those institutions.
“I gather. She grew up in Atherton, so …”
“Say no more.” That residential community at the northern end of Silicon Valley is so expensive that even wealthy techies have a hard time affording its real estate.
“But she’s not snobby at all,” Eric went on. “She’s really down to earth and wants to give back to society—help people that didn’t have the opportunities she did. She can’t help it that she grew up rich.” He stopped, perhaps aware how defensive he was beginning to sound on her behalf.
I said nothing, instead sipping from my drink as I perused the menu.
Eric waved his hand. “Anyway, who cares if she’s a trust fund baby or not. I don’t even know why we’re spending so much time talking about her. I mean, it’s not like we’re dating or anything. We’re just friends.”
Not dating? Right. So it’s some hard-core pre-dating, then.
“Speaking of dating. Okay, not dating, in your case,” I amended, provoking an eye roll from Eric. “It looks like my dad might be doing just that—dating.”
“No way.”
“Well, he seems pretty besotted with the woman.”
I recounted what I knew about Abby. “Of course, that’s only what Dad’s told me. She could be a complete lunatic, for all I know.”
“You jealous?” Eric asked. “Or at least, you know, upset that your dad’s dating someone who’s not your mom?”
“No, I don’t think so. I doubt Mom would have wanted him to be alone forever after she died. But it’ll depend on what I think of this Abby woman when we meet. If I feel like she’s not good enough for Dad, or taking advantage of him, I sure won’t be happy.”
“I can’t see anyone taking advantage of Mario,” Eric said with a chuckle. “He’s pretty capable of fending for himself.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know him as well as I do. I’d say he’s plenty capable of succumbing to the wiles of a seductive woman.” As are most men I know, I thought to myself, including you, my unwary friend.
Our waiter arrived to take our orders, with apologies for not returning sooner. “That’s okay,” I said. “It looks like you’re really slammed tonight, especially for a Monday.”
“Yeah.” He reached up to adjust one of the sticks protruding from his bun. “We’ve been super busy the last few months, even recently, when it’s usually slow after the tourists have disappeared. So have you decided what you’d like?”
Eric ordered the Penang Beef, a hanger steak simmered in coconut curry sauce, and I went for the Singapore Noodles with Roast Pork and Broccolini.
“Oh, and throw in an order of spring rolls, too,” Eric said. “And I’ll have a Tiger beer.”
“Make that two beers.” I waited for the server to finish scribbling down our order, then handed him my menu. “It’s weird the place is so crowded,” I said to Eric once he’d headed off to place our order.
“Yeah, for a Monday night.”
“No, it’s not just that. It’s something Evelyn told me.”
“Evelyn? Oh, right, your cousin.”
“Right. This is where her mom, Jackie, worked as a cook before quitting to start her pop-up restaurant. And apparently, the owner of Tamarind was accusing Jackie of stealing recipes from here to use at her new place, and saying he’d been losing money because of her stealing away his customers.”
“This doesn’t look at all like a place that’s losing money,
” Eric said, swiveling in his chair to take in the bustling dining room. “Or customers.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed.
Eric turned back around and reached for his water glass. Before taking a sip, however, he put it back down. “Oh, no,” he said.
“What?”
“Your expression. I can tell.”
“What?” I repeated.
“That you’re at it again. This is about Jackie’s mom, isn’t it? Her death.” Eric sat back in his chair with a knowing smile. “The great master sleuth of Santa Cruz has uncovered yet another suspicious death. Could it be murder?” Chuckling to himself, he finally took his drink of water.
I was trying to come up with a witty reply when the waiter set an order of golden-brown spring rolls between us. Next to the platter, he placed a small bowl of creamy dipping sauce, topped with a scattering of chopped green onions.
That did the trick. Food is the one sure way to distract Eric when you need to. “Ah,” he said, eyes bright. “The famous Tamarind peanut sauce.”
“Indeed.” The server placed his hands together as if in prayer. “Our best seller. And since you are clearly a fan, you’re in luck. We’re going to be selling bottles of our peanut sauce starting in a week or so.”
“Nice!” Eric picked up one of the rolls, dunked it in the sauce, and bit into its crispy wrapper. “Mmmm,” he intoned, bobbing his head in approval.
The waiter smiled. “I’ll be right back with your beers.”
“Okay, let’s taste this famous sauce,” I said, blowing on the hot spring roll before taking a tentative bite. “Not bad.”
“C’mon, it’s way better than not bad.” Eric popped the rest of his roll into his mouth, then nodded an enthusiastic thank-you to the waiter, who had returned to set down our bottles of beer.
“You’ve never met a peanut sauce you didn’t love,” I said. “But I’ve had better.”
“Where?” he asked, selecting another crispy roll from the plate.
“At The Curry Leaf, for one. Jackie’s pop-up.”
He arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Most likely only because his mouth was full of spring roll slathered in peanut sauce.
