by Leslie Karst
I was in luck, and found the perfect book for Dad with dazzling photos of the cheeses, gnocchi, and roasted meats of Northern Italy. I also found a new thriller for Eric, about an attorney who gets caught up in a smuggling scheme in post-Brexit Ireland. (Okay, so he’d get a present from both Gayle and me this year.)
Shopping bag in hand, I emerged from the bookstore’s other door onto the bustling Pacific Garden Mall and made my way down the street in search of inspiration regarding Nonna. My grandmother loved the idea of receiving presents, but never seemed terribly thrilled at the actual gift bestowed. Maybe this year I could surprise her with something she truly loved—perhaps something to eat.
I was musing about chocolate truffles, cheese-stuffed olives, and thinly shaved sheets of prosciutto crudo when my stomach let out a rumble worthy of one of the elephant seals up at Año Nuevo State Park. What time is it, anyway? Only eleven thirty, I saw from my phone, but I’d had no breakfast.
And then I remembered: Rachel was supposed to open her pop-up restaurant today. If she was doing lunch as well as dinner, perhaps I could get some tasty information as well as food.
Picking up my pace, I continued down the shopping mall, past carol-singing buskers in fuzzy reindeer antlers and hardy souls lunching outdoors under propane heat lamps, till I got to the building that had previously been home to The Curry Leaf. The sign above the door had a schedule listing the days of the week the different pop-ups were in residence. Today’s was THE STREETS OF DELHI.
The door was open, and as soon as I stepped inside I was hit by the aroma of cumin and fried bread. Heaven. I could see Rachel through the window behind the counter, hefting a baking tray covered with some sort of small pastries into the wall-mounted oven. She banged the oven shut, then turned to speak to Sarah, who was at the stove stirring something in a large pot.
The lunch menu was written in pink chalk on a blackboard standing in the tiny order-and-pickup area. Although the items were available only for takeout, a small table with three chairs had been set up for those who couldn’t wait and wanted to chow down immediately on-premises.
I studied today’s offerings: Singapore noodles, lamb curry, spinach dal, Tom Kha Gai soup, pani puri, dosas, samosas, and garlic naan. Peanut sauce and several kinds of chutney were available for two dollars extra. I was tempted to order the noodles to see how they compared to the ones I’d had two nights before at Tamarind, but the samosas and peanut sauce called to me. I mean, really, who can resist deep-fried food once the smell has hijacked your brain?
“Hey, Sally!” a cheery voice called out. I looked up from the blackboard to see Maya at the counter. “We only opened five minutes ago, so I think you may be our very first customer. Unless this guy gets his order in first, that is.”
A portly man whose white down jacket gave him the appearance of the Michelin man had come in behind me and looked ready to order. “No, let him go before me. I’m not sure yet what I want.”
Once he’d placed his order—lamb curry with a side of potato and onion pani puri—and paid, he stepped aside so I could come up to the window. I told Maya I wanted the samosas with peanut sauce, and she wrote down the order and took both our tickets to Sarah. Returning to the window, she let out a gasp.
“What?” I turned and saw that about eight people had come through the door all at once and were now standing in line, crowding the small room. As Maya hurried to take the next person’s order, Rachel stepped up to the window to ask the Michelin man if he wanted his curry hot, medium, or mild.
“Hot,” he replied.
Maya put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’ll remember to ask that from now on.”
The cook nodded, then started toward the stove. “Hey, Rachel,” I said, and she turned back with a frown, as if trying to place me. “I’m Sally Solari, Evelyn’s cousin.”
“Ah.” Recognition lit her eyes. And something else as well that I couldn’t identify.
“I see you’re serving a lot of the same food as Jackie did,” I said with a smile. “Did she give you the recipes?” I of course already knew that Rachel and Jackie had done most of the cooking for The Curry Leaf together. But I wanted to know how she’d answer the question.
Rachel stared at me a moment, lips taut, then took the next ticket from Maya. “I don’t really have time to chitchat right now,” she said. “As you can see, we’re kind of busy.” She crossed to the stove, placed the ticket on the wheel, and set to work pouring out batter for an order of dosas.
I stood aside to make room for the line of customers, and as I waited for my meal, I caught Rachel glancing my way.
Sure they were busy. But I knew a blowoff when I saw one.
Chapter 16
I had several hours before I needed to be at Gauguin and knew how I wanted to spend at least part of the time. After chowing down my samosas—which were excellent, I have to say—I drove back to the medical center where Stan worked.
Most people tend to park in the same general spot at their place of employment, so when I didn’t see his SUV anywhere near where he’d left it yesterday, I figured he likely wasn’t there. Which was okay by me. I’d come up with an idea, and it would work far better if Stan wasn’t around.
The same receptionist who’d been working the day before was at the front desk and greeted me cheerily when I came in. “Good afternoon,” she said with a smile. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no. I’m actually looking for someone. Stan Kruger, a nurse who works here.”
“Oh, I’m afraid he’s gone for the day. Is there something I could help you with?”
“Maybe. It has to do with that conference he was at last week, the one up in Oakland.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was wondering, do you know anyone else from here who also attended it?”
The smile was replaced by a frown. “I’m not sure I can give out that kind of information. And why would you want to know, in any case?”
“It’s just that I was at the conference too—I’m a nurse from up in Alameda—and I met Stan there, and …” I did my best to look slightly embarrassed. “Well, he introduced me to this friend of his who was also there, a guy Stan said he worked with. And since I was coming down to Santa Cruz, I’d thought I’d stop by and see if Stan—or his friend,” I added with a raised eyebrow, “happened to be here today.”
The receptionist leaned over the counter. “Do you know the man’s name?” she asked, now very much interested.
“No, I never found out. We didn’t talk all that long, actually. But he has a long, blond ponytail. And he’s really cute.”
She chuckled. “That’s gotta be Richard. And he is here today. You want me to see if he’s available?”
“Would you?” I said, not having to fake the blush that was spreading across my face. What on earth was I going to say to the guy if he did come out to meet me?
The woman got on the phone and spoke to someone, then hung up, flashing a thumbs-up my way. “He’ll be right out.”
Oh, boy.
I paced nervously while the receptionist conferred with a patient who’d just walked in about his upcoming shoulder surgery. Two minutes later, the guy with the ponytail—Richard—came through the double doors and, glancing around the lobby, walked my way. “Did you want to talk to me?” he asked, confusion on his face. He’d clearly been expecting to see someone he knew, or at least recognized.
“Yeah, thanks for coming out.” I led him to the far corner of the lobby so that the woman at the front desk wouldn’t know that I’d completely fabricated my story. “So here’s the thing,” I said. “I met your friend Stan last week at that continuing ed conference up in Oakland, and he was supposed to meet me here today to give back something I left in his car. But he doesn’t seem to be here, like he said.”
The confused look in Richard’s eyes grew even stronger. “Wait, you left something in his car?”
“Yeah, it was … a cashmere sweater,” I said, pleased to come up with an
item that was valuable yet not too intimate. “I left it there when we went to dinner together after the day’s classes were over.”
“Hold on.” Richard made a T with his hands, like a football referee would do to signal a time out. “That’s impossible, because Stan didn’t have a car with him at the conference. He drove up with me, since his was in the shop. And besides, I had dinner with him that night at the hotel, and you were most certainly not with us.”
Placing his hands on his hips (another football signal, I believe), he shot me a hard stare. “So what exactly is going on here. Who are you?”
“I … uh … I guess I must have confused him with someone else,” I said, backing away. “So sorry to bother you.” With a quick smile, I turned and darted out the door and across the parking lot to my car.
Stan was not going to be pleased when he heard about this. But at least he’d be happy to know I no longer suspected him of Jackie’s murder. His alibi had proved to be airtight.
* * *
“We’re running low on spot prawns!” I shouted over the banging of sauté pans and roar of ventilation fans in the Gauguin kitchen. It was nine fifteen that night, and the kitchen was finally slowing down after a busy Wednesday dinner.
“On it,” Brian called back, then trotted to the prep room to hustle up another quarter-size pan of the delectable crustaceans. Returning to the hot line, he removed the nearly empty pan, dropped the full one into its place, and dumped the few remaining shrimp on top.
“Thanks.”
“No worries.” Brian tipped an imaginary hat for me. “It’s Tomás you should thank. He’s the one cleaning the suckers.”
I tossed the garlic and sliced onions that I had browning in olive oil, adding several squirts of orange and lemon juice and then a dollop each of butter and spicy harissa. Once these had melded, imparting the onions with a bright, chestnut hue, I dropped in a handful of spot prawns and tossed the pan’s contents once again. It didn’t take long for the shrimp to cook through, after which I finished the dish with a dozen chunks of fresh orange, keeping the pan over the flame only long enough to heat the orange pieces through.
“Order up!” I called through the pass, spooning the sautéed prawns onto a warm plate next to a mound of rice and garnishing it all with a sprinkling of chopped cilantro.
I wiped my hands on my side towel, then glanced over at Brian at the charbroiler. He’d been true to his word, showing up early tonight and acting the model employee. A real Boy Scout, indeed.
Brian had talked with Javier as I’d requested, and the chef had been satisfied enough to allow Brian to return to work. But I knew Javier was keeping a close eye on him. One more misstep and he’d be out on the seat of his checked chef’s pants—a fact Brian no doubt knew, hence his perfect behavior tonight.
I took advantage of a lull between tickets to get myself a glass of ice water from the pitcher in the wait station. Leaning against the sideboard we used for storing flatware, napkins, and tablecloths, I gazed out at the remaining patrons as they finished their main courses and ordered from the dessert menu.
Brandon swept out of the swinging door from the kitchen bearing a slice of Spiced Persimmon Tarte Tatin. It had been such a big hit yesterday that Amy had baked two more for tonight. The pie did look mighty tempting, drizzled as it was with crème fraîche and brandy sauce.
“Yum,” I commented as the waiter passed me by. “I think I might have to have a slice of that after work tonight.”
“No can do,” he replied. “That girl who was here with you yesterday is at table seven and ordered the last slice.”
Did he mean Evelyn? I poked my head around the door to get a look at the table, and sure enough, there she was, sipping daintily from a demitasse of espresso. She smiled at Brandon as he set the dessert down before her, then felt for her fork, cut the corner off the slice, and took a bite.
“Ev,” I said, crossing the room to her table. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Oh, hi Sally.” She set down the fork and dabbed her mouth, leaving bright red kisses on the white napkin. She hadn’t changed out of the black leggings and fuchsia top of this morning, but had added a cream-colored cardigan on top.
“Had a hankering for some dessert, did ya?”
Evelyn smiled. “Yeah, I guess you could say so. I was texting Javier this afternoon about coming in to give him that pasta-making lesson. We’re on for this Friday, by the way. Anyway, he remembered me talking with Amy yesterday about the persimmon tart she was planning, and so he invited me to come in tonight to try it out.”
“You didn’t take the bus here this late at night, did you?” Oh, man, I was starting to sound like my father.
But I guess she was still young enough not to mind my parental attitude. Or at least she managed to ignore it. “No worries, I used a Lyft. And I’m hoping I can catch a ride back with you. I don’t mind hanging out till you’re finished working.”
* * *
We got out of the restaurant at eleven twenty. The last of the gray clouds had finally passed, and it was clear and icy cold outside, the stars gleaming like sequins on a starlet’s gown.
Evelyn took my arm as we crossed the parking lot to the T-Bird, and we climbed into the car and fumbled with the old-fashioned seat belts. “So I was wondering, if you didn’t mind,” Evelyn said, finally managing to click the two pieces together over her lap, “whether we could swing by my house to pick up one of my braille books. I was telling Javier about them tonight, and he’s never seen a book in braille before, so I thought I’d bring one for him to look at on Friday.”
“Sure, no problem. It’s not that far out of the way.”
On the way over to her house, I told Evelyn about going to the medical clinic that afternoon and about my conversation with Stan’s friend Richard. “So at least that’s one person we can cross off our list of suspects,” I said.
She nodded. “Good. Even though I never liked the guy, I’m glad he isn’t Mom’s killer.” I pulled up to the curb in front of the house, but as we walked up the path to the front door, something seemed wrong. I couldn’t place what it was until we stepped inside the living room.
“The light’s not on,” I said to Evelyn. “The one on the timer. I know it was on when we left Sunday night.” I knelt to examine the devise that was plugged into the wall with the floor lamp cord attached to it. “It’s still plugged in,” I said. “I wonder if someone could have been here since we left and switched off the lamp.”
The sound of a board creaking above us made Evelyn drop to the floor next to me. “I think that someone may be here now,” she whispered. “What do we do?”
Before I could answer, however, she stood and started toward the stairway.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I hissed. “We should just call the cops and wait outside.” She either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the advice. I pulled out my phone and hit 911. “There’s somebody in my house,” I said, trying to keep my voice as low as possible. “Upstairs.”
The gal asked for the address, told me a unit would be there shortly, then gave the same advice I’d given Evelyn: “Get outside right now and wait for the police to arrive.”
But Evelyn had already started to creep up the stairs.
Damn. I couldn’t leave her inside alone with whoever was up there. Reluctantly, my pulse quickening in trepidation, I followed after her.
She’d stopped about a quarter of the way up. “Keep to the outside, right next to the railing,” she whispered when I came up behind. “The stairs squeak, but not on the very edge.”
I briefly pondered why she knew this fact. Had she, like me, discovered the secrets of how to be the most quiet when returning home after your parents’ curfew? But any curiosity regarding her rebelliousness as a teenager flew immediately from my head at the sound of yet another creaking board above us.
“Sounds like he’s in Mom’s bedroom,” Evelyn murmured, then continued up the stairs. That room, I knew, lo
oked out into the backyard. So there was a good chance the intruder didn’t realize we were in the house.
I took hold of Evelyn’s arm. “Really, I think we should wait outside. I called the cops.”
But she shook me off. “No. They might get away out the back door once they realize someone’s here. I want to know who it is.”
She reached the landing and started down the hallway, me a few paces behind. “Wait. Stop,” I whispered. “There’s a light on in the room. A flashlight, I think.”
The light went out.
“Uh-oh. I think they might have heard us.”
“In here,” Evelyn hissed back, then turned the corner into her own bedroom. We crouched there silently, listening for any movement in the room across the hall. Nothing. Whoever was in there was likely doing the same thing we were.
“Let’s go back down,” I whispered, “and wait for the cops.”
No longer protesting, Evelyn led the way along the dark hallway, me holding on to her arm this time. I reached the landing and started down the stairs, keeping once more to the edge. Halfway down, a sound came from behind. Oh, no.
They were so close I could hear their muffled breathing, yet I was blocked from escape by Evelyn ahead of me. Having no other option, I turned to face the intruder.
But before I could take in more than a vague, dark form, a pair of gloved hands grabbed me around the neck.
I reached up to try to wrest them away, or at least use the advantage of gravity to yank the person down the stairs, but the hands only grew tighter about my throat.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of this,” the person hissed into my ear.
Even if I’d wanted to respond, the firm grip about my neck would have made it impossible. Strong fingers were pressing into my windpipe, and I gasped for air. As I grabbed futilely at the arms that held me, my head started to swim. This is it, I thought, and let myself go limp. Maybe they’d think I’d already passed out and let go.
