by Leslie Karst
Next up was a talk on newly enacted food sanitation regulations, which thankfully lasted only ten minutes. After the man finished speaking, we moved on to the lunch portion of the meeting. Finally. I was starving. Not that I expected much in the way of fine dining from the hotel where we held our meetings.
It seemed more than a little ironic that the quarterly restaurant owners’ luncheon would be held at a banquet hall noted more for its ability to be divided into separate meeting rooms than for its creative cuisine. But it was one of the only places in town large enough to accommodate us all.
A server set a tray of composed salads on a folding stand and started distributing the plates among our table. Iceberg lettuce, shredded red cabbage and carrots for a little color, five cherry tomatoes, and a scattering of herb-flecked croutons. “Bleu cheese or oil and vinegar?” Dad said, reaching for the cruets of dressing on the table.
“Bleu cheese. Thanks.”
I crunched a crouton. Not bad, actually, given that it likely came from a forty-ounce bag delivered by some restaurant supply warehouse. As I picked at my lackluster salad, I listened to Dad talk about how he and Abby had spent the day on Sunday, when Solari’s had been closed due to the blackout. “And then after lunch we took a drive down to Carmel, where the power had already been restored, and spent the afternoon shopping,” he said, reaching for more dressing.
“Really? You went shopping? You hate shopping.”
“Yeah, I know. But it was okay. We stopped for a drink at this fancy wine-and-cheese place, and she ordered these things called fliers of wine—you know, tasting glasses of four different vintages.”
“Flights,” I corrected.
“Right.” He broke his sourdough roll in half and smeared it with butter. “Anyway, it was fun, comparing the different wines.”
“Uh-huh.” What was happening to all the men in my life? First Eric jogging, and now my dad shopping and wine tasting?
I had the sudden urge to get away. Glancing across the room, I spied a friend who ran a breakfast-and-lunch joint downtown with her husband. “Oh, look,” I said to Dad, “it’s Jean. I better go say hello.”
“That’s fine, hon.”
Halfway to Jean’s table, however, I noticed that someone else I knew was seated next to Al, in deep conversation with the Tamarind owner. The guy was an acquaintance more than a friend, really, but it provided perfect cover for striking up a conversation with Al. Changing direction, I headed their way.
“Ramón,” I said, “good to see you!”
He stood and pecked me on the cheek. “Hi, Sally. How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since the last one of these lunches.”
We made small talk about our respective restaurants, and then, as if remembering his manners, Ramón introduced me to Al. “This is Sally Solari, the new—or newish—owner of Gauguin.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Which restaurant do you own?”
“Tamarind. But I’m not just the owner, I’m also its head chef,” he added, gracing me with a self-important smile. Good. He didn’t seem to recognize me from the memorial service.
“Oh really?” I returned his smile with wide eyes, as if being Tamarind’s chef made him some sort of local celebrity. “I ate there just the other night and it was fabulous. And super busy for a Monday. You’re doing a booming business.” I punctuated this last with a friendly elbow to his side. “Maybe you can give me some advice on how to increase our customers at Gauguin.”
“Yeah, well, it may look that way from the dining room, but from the back room it’s not so terrific,” Al said with a scowl. “Between you, me, and the wall, our profits have actually been going down recently.”
“Really? That’s bizarre. How come, do you think?”
“C’mon. You’re in the biz—oh wait, you’ve only been an owner for a few months.”
“Eight months now, actually.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Well, my dear, you’ll learn soon enough just how difficult it is to keep your restaurant in the black. I run Tamarind on a very tight margin, using only the highest-quality ingredients. So when our sales go down even by only a few covers a night, it’s enough to make a difference to the bottom line.”
I did my best to soothe my hackles, which had risen in response to his patronizing attitude. What I wanted right now was information, not a squabble. “And to what do you attribute this drop in customers? You have any idea?”
“Yeah, I have an idea, all right,” he said, fists clenched. “But I’m pretty sure the reason has now gone away.” He started to smile, but it turned into more of a grimace.
Yuck. He was clearly referring to Jackie’s death. No way was I going to tell the guy about Rachel and her new pop-up using the same recipes. He’d find out sooner or later on his own.
The waitstaff were now clearing the salad plates and serving the main course—a choice between Chicken Creole and Eggplant Moussaka. I’d opted for the vegetarian dish, as they tend to be the more interesting bet at banquet-style meals.
I was about to head back to my table, but then remembered something else that had been niggling at my brain. “By the way,” I said to Al, turning back. “On a totally different subject, I wanted to ask you about the music you had on at Tamarind when I was there. It was really great jazz, and I was thinking maybe I should have something like that at Gauguin.”
He poked his fork into a chunk of green bell pepper. “I don’t know much about that,” he said. “I use one of those monthly service deals, but leave it to my dining room manager to pick which one, since he’s really into jazz. I just pay the bills.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
I headed back to join Dad at our table. So Max was into jazz. Interesting.
Chapter 15
Javier made a great show of reading through the four-page contract, frowning and wrinkling his narrow nose, then nodding sagely and taking up the ballpoint pen with a flourish. Of course, we’d hammered out the provisions of the partnership agreement together weeks before, so he was already intimately acquainted with every section, paragraph, subparagraph, and comma in the document. But it did serve to amuse those of the Gauguin staff who stood by in the office, witnessing the momentous occasion.
The chef initialed the bottom of the first three pages and signed his full name at the end, then handed the papers for me to do the same. I passed it to the notary public—a paralegal from my old law firm stomping grounds—who stamped the agreement and signed her own name to it, then duly entered the information into her journal.
“Okay, that’s it,” she said after having us sign our names in her notary book. “You are now legal partners in the ownership of Gauguin.”
Kris, Tomás, Gloria, Amy, and Evelyn all clapped their hands, while Brandon popped the cork off a bottle of Champagne and poured us each a small glass.
“To Javier,” I said, raising my flute, “the Lennon to my McCartney.”
“Ah, so you’re the pretty one, are you?” Javier grinned, and I couldn’t help thinking that with his silky, dark hair and fine features, he was more the pretty one than I.
We clinked glasses as everyone else raised theirs in salute. “Right,” I said after taking a sip. “First order of business now that you’re co-owner is I think you need to be the one who goes to the next restaurant owners’ luncheon. I thought today’s would never end.”
“Oh, please, no.” Javier threw out a hand as if to protect himself from an incoming projectile. “Anything but that. I detest small talk. And restaurant owners.”
“Great. As Bogie so elegantly didn’t say, I can tell this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership.” I shook my head and took another drink of bubbly. When I looked up, Brian was hovering at the office door.
“Uh, hi, guys,” he said. “I wondered where everyone was.”
“Well, look what the cat brought in,” Javier said, then tempered the remark by waving the cook to come into the room.
Brandon offered a glass of Champagne
to Brian, who shook his head. “So what’s the occasion?” he asked.
Kris, who’d been off work Saturday night when Brian had stormed out of the kitchen and was thus oblivious to the tension in the room, answered brightly, “Sally and Javier just signed the contract making Javier equal partner in the restaurant. Isn’t it great?”
“Yeah, great,” Brian agreed, but without his fellow line cook’s enthusiasm. He looked my way. “Could I have a word with you, Sally?” he said, nodding toward the hallway.
“Sure.” I followed Brian out of the room and to the top of the stairway.
“I want to apologize for the other night,” he said. “I was a jerk to act like that, and then leave you hangin’ one person short when you were having to deal with the power outage and all.” He stared at the floor, shuffling his feet like a high school student called before the principal.
“Yes, it was rather unprofessional,” I said. “And I have to say, Javier and I have been wondering what the heck’s been going on with you of late. Is there something you need to tell me, Brian?”
He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine. “I am so sorry. I know I’ve been a pain lately. It’s just that, well, me and Roxanne have been having problems. Bad ones, and it’s really affected me. I didn’t want to talk about it because I know you and she are friends, and I figured I shouldn’t be bringing personal problems to work. And then I got sick last week, and that didn’t help either.” He ran a hand through his buzz-cut brown hair, then dropped his arm with a sigh.
“We had a long talk last night, and I think we’ve figured a lot of it out. I mean, it’s not like you can fix relationship stuff like that all that quickly, but it was good just talking about it. So …”
“I take it she advised you to suck it up and come apologize?” I’d met Roxanne the previous summer when we’d sung together in the chorus, and I knew her to be a no-nonsense kind of gal.
He nodded. “Yeah, but I would have done it anyway,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I really do like working here. And appreciate how much you—and Javier—do for me.”
This was a telling admission, for it had been obvious for several months now how competitive he was with my head chef—no, partner, now.
“And I promise I’ll be better from here on out,” Brian went on. “No more drama in the kitchen. Scout’s honor.” He flashed a three-finger Boy Scout salute, with a boyish grin to match.
“Okay, look. I need you to apologize to Javier, also. But I have no doubt he’ll agree to let you stay on.” I patted Brian on the shoulder. “You’re a good cook, and we don’t want to lose you any more than you want to lose us.”
Tomás came down the hallway, followed by Kris and Amy chatting about the Spiced Persimmon Tarte Tatin Amy had planned for tonight’s dessert. After they’d passed, Brian headed downstairs and I went back to the office, where Brandon and Gloria were collecting the empty Champagne flutes on a pair of serving trays.
Javier was sitting on the corner of the desk, leaning over to listen to Evelyn in the pale-green wing chair. “It’s all in the rolling out of the dough,” she was saying. “If you work it too much, it gets tough, but you have to get it super thin or it won’t have that amazing tenderness my nonna’s pasta always had.”
“Sounds like a combination of bread and pie dough techniques,” Javier said. “The kneading part is like with a baguette, where you work it hard and long until it’s silky smooth. But then the rolling out has to be quick and dirty, like for a shortcrust pastry.”
“Exactly!” Evelyn squealed. She reached out to touch Javier’s outstretched hand, causing the chef to grin like an infatuated teenager. Uh-oh. What had I set in motion?
“Evie’s offered to teach me how to make her grandmother’s pasta from scratch,” Javier said when I came into the room.
And he’s already calling her by her nickname.
“Sally knows,” Evelyn said. “I cooked her my nonna’s fettuccine the other night, and she thought it could be a best seller for Gauguin.” She giggled, reminding me just how young she was. With all that had happened in the past week and the maturity she’d demonstrated in dealing with her mother’s death, it was easy to forget that Evelyn was only twenty years old.
And how old was Javier? Thirty? Older? It was hard to tell, since his boyish looks could easily belie his true age. Funny that I’ve never asked him. But no matter what, the chef was certainly a good deal older than Evelyn.
When Javier excused himself to go check on something in the kitchen, I followed him out of the office. “Be back in a sec,” I said to Evelyn, then ran and caught Javier by the sleeve of his chef’s whites halfway down the stairs. “Do you realize how young Evelyn is?” I hissed.
“Uh … twenty-one, twenty-two?” he said. “So what?”
“She’s only twenty. Which makes her far too young, I’d say, for you to be hitting on her.”
Javier stared at me, mouth agape. Then, taking a step back, he wagged his index finger at me. “No, no, Sally. You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not interested in her that way—not at all.” His wide eyes, along with the rising pitch of his voice, told me he was telling the truth.
“Oh, sorry. It just seemed like you two were awfully … chummy back there in the office.”
Javier shook his head with a soft chuckle. “Sure, I like her. She’s a sweet girl, and she reminds me a lot of my youngest sister back in Michoacán.”
I let out a laugh of relief. “Ah, got it. Sorry for my freak-out.”
“No worries.” Javier started back down the stairs, then turned and called back over his shoulder, “And I really do want her to show me her pasta-making technique.”
* * *
The next morning, Evelyn emerged from her bedroom dressed in tight black pants, black low-heeled boots, and the hot-pink top she’d retrieved from her bedroom closet the previous Friday. She’d braided her hair, applied lipstick, and had on a black-and-white shell necklace.
“My, don’t you look spiffy,” I said. “Why so dressed up?”
She helped herself to coffee, then joined me at the breakfast table. “I forgot to tell you, but I have to go out to the Vista Center today.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s this center for the blind and visually impaired, out near the hospital. I’m coteaching a technology workshop there with my friend Lucy, and we’re having lunch together downtown beforehand.”
“Oh, cool. Would you like a ride?”
“That’s okay. I can take the bus. You’ve been doing so much for me that I’m starting to get really spoiled. And I know my way around the neighborhood pretty well now. There’s a bus stop just a block down the street from here, so it’ll be easy.”
We both sipped from our mugs in silence. Buster trotted into the kitchen, nails clicking on the linoleum floor, and went to stand by the back door—his sign that he needed to go out. I got up to open the door and watched through the window as he did his business, then slowly made his way around the perimeter of the yard, sniffing out places the raccoons, skunks, and opossums had visited the night before.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” I said, letting Buster back in. “I talked to Al, the Tamarind owner yesterday. He was at that restaurant owners’ luncheon, and I got the distinct impression he does in fact blame your mom for their recent loss in sales.”
Evelyn set down her mug. “So you think it might have been him after all?”
“Not really. It still doesn’t seem like enough of a motive. And besides, the killer had to have been someone your mom would have invited into the house, right? But …” I paused dramatically to punctuate this next point. “Al did mention that Max was the one who deals with the music at Tamarind, and Al said he was really into jazz. You mentioned before that Max used to come over to the house sometimes. What about him as a suspect?”
“But why would he want to kill Mom? They were friends.”
“Who knows. Jealousy, anger, shame, money … any of the usual motives for murder could appl
y. How well do you know the guy?”
“Hardly at all.”
“So I don’t think we should rule him out just yet.”
Evelyn nodded, then pushed back her chair and stood. “Well, I have about an hour before I need to leave, but I better do some studying up before then,” she said, and retreated to her bedroom.
And what was on my agenda for the day? Grocery shopping, for one. Grabbing a pad of paper an enterprising realtor had left on my doorstep, I jotted down a list of what I needed to buy: coffee, half-and-half, bread, eggs, lettuce, bananas, bourbon.
Oh, and I should really do some Christmas shopping. There weren’t too many people on my list, but my father and Nonna, at least, would be shocked and hurt if I didn’t give them a present. And I had to figure out a gift for all the staff at Gauguin—something thoughtful, but not too expensive.
I traditionally bought a present for Eric as well, though right about now I was feeling less than enthusiastic about finding “that perfect something” for the guy. No doubt Gayle will fill that role this year, I thought with some chagrin. Because it sure seemed like the two of them were quickly progressing past the “just friends” stage of their relationship, no matter what Eric had said.
And if I saw anything that absolutely screamed Nichole or Mei or Allison or Javier, they’d get a gift too, but I wasn’t going to add them to my must-buy list.
After taking the dogs down to Its Beach, where Buster chased a pair of Huskies through the frigid surf and Coco stole the tennis ball from a Great Dane twice her size, I collected my phone, bag, and keys, then knocked on Evelyn’s door.
“I’m off to do shopping and errands downtown. Will I see you before I leave for work this afternoon?”
“Probably not,” she called out. “The workshop is supposed to only go till three, but they usually run late.”
“Okay, then. See you later. And good luck today!”
Once downtown, I drove around the jam-packed parking garage three times until I found a space, then headed across the street and into Bookshop Santa Cruz. I wanted to look for something for my dad, who was a sucker for big, glossy Italian cookbooks. He didn’t tend to make the recipes, but loved to read about the history of the dishes and stare at the photos of cannelloni and tiramisu, painstakingly arranged by food stylists with their tweezers, toothpicks, and glue.
