Murder from Scratch

by Leslie Karst

  “Ah, another classic,” I said. “Desk Set. Perfect for the Christmas season.”

  “This was one of Mom’s favorite movies,” Evelyn replied. “She thought it was funny how even way back then they were having the exact same argument about whether computers can ever replace humans. Hey, I wonder if Siri can name all the reindeer.”

  She grabbed her phone and held it up to her mouth: “Siri, what are the names of Santa’s reindeer?”

  “All right, here’s what I got,” the perky voice spoke up. “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen.”

  “Yeah, well big whoop,” I said. “She’s nowhere near as charming as Katherine Hepburn.”

  “Totally.” Evelyn set the phone on the coffee table next to her mom’s Android.

  “So any luck with that password while I was gone tonight?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Nada. Nothing I could come up with worked.”

  “Well, don’t feel bad. Hackers spend hours using all sorts of complicated algorithms to break into people’s devices. But I do have some good news about the case. Well, not really news, but I think I might have figured something out tonight at work.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I told her my theory about Max embezzling from Tamarind by voiding tickets, which would explain the loss of sales at the restaurant over the recent months.

  “Yeah, I like it,” Evelyn said. “It would prove once and for all that Mom didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “But the thing is,” I continued, “it doesn’t make a lot of sense why Max would risk his job by embezzling, given how risky it would be to do so. But if we can prove I’m right, and that your mom knew what he was doing, it would certainly provide a strong motive for her murder, especially if he was afraid she’d bust him.”

  Evelyn sat forward eagerly. “Okay, so how do we prove you’re right?”

  “Well, first off, I think I need to pay a visit to Tamarind tomorrow to talk to Al.”

  * * *

  Another storm front had been predicted to roll in on Monday, so the next morning—Sunday—Evelyn and I took advantage of the sunny weather to cruise home from grocery shopping via the beach with the top down. “So, how would you like to celebrate your big twenty-first birthday this week?” I asked her. Though I had to shout in order to be heard over the rush of wind and roar of the T-Bird’s engine. “What day is it again?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Oh, dang. That’s too bad. I’d thought it was tomorrow. I have to work Tuesday night.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Evelyn pulled back her hair, which had been whipping about in her eyes, and fastened it into a ponytail with a rubber band. “But I was thinking maybe we could do something at Gauguin. I could come in for dinner with some friends, and then once it slows down, you and Javier could maybe join me for dessert—and my first legal cocktail.”

  “Good idea. Tuesday’s usually pretty slow, so it should be no problem for us to join you by around eight or eight thirty.” Coming to a stop at Woodrow Avenue, I waited for a woman with a stroller and two gray-muzzled black Labs to make their way across the street. “You’re coming to Nonna’s this afternoon, aren’t you?” I asked once we’d turned the corner toward my house.

  “Absolutely. I can’t wait to taste her Sunday gravy.”

  “And I promise you won’t be disappointed.” I pulled into my driveway, and we carried our shopping bags from the T-Bird up to the house. Once inside, Evelyn set about wrapping rubber bands around the canned food we’d bought (one for corn, two for black beans, three for sliced beets), while I stowed the produce and dairy goods in the fridge.

  “Okay, what time is it?” I said, consulting my phone after all the food had been put away. “Eleven fifteen. Which means if Al’s working the lunch shift today, he should be there by now. Guess I’ll go down and see what I can find out.”

  “Good luck sleuthing!” Evelyn shouted after me as I grabbed my keys and headed back out to the car.

  Since Tamarind didn’t open till noon, the front door was locked when I got there. I walked around the side to the kitchen entrance and poked my head inside. I was hoping Max wouldn’t be working lunch today, but figured that even if he was, he’d be out in the front of the house prepping the dining room for the midday service.

  A busboy carrying a rack of glasses passed by and asked, “You looking for someone?”

  “I am, actually. Is Al around?”

  “He’s in his office,” he said, and nodded toward a closed door next to the walk-in refrigerator.

  “Thanks.” Ignoring the questioning stares from the two twenty-something cooks setting up the mise en place for the hot line—the same tattooed guys I’d seen at Jackie’s memorial service—I strode across the kitchen and knocked on the door.

  “What is it?” came a sharp voice.

  I took this as an invitation to enter and stepped into the room. Al was seated at the desk, but swiveled around on his wheeled office chair at my entry. The scowl he wore faded and his eyes took on a look of confusion. “Who …? Oh right, you’re that girl who owns Gauguin. What the hell do you want?” He spun back around to face the desk and picked up a piece of paper. “I’m kinda busy here.”

  I was pretty darn sure Al wasn’t the one who’d murdered Jackie. The motive seemed far too weak, plus—now that I saw that paunch sagging over the waistline of his hot-chili-decorated chef’s pants—I realized he was far heavier than whoever had stolen the laptop from my car and attacked me Wednesday night.

  But that didn’t mean the guy wasn’t still a total slimeball.

  Keep your cool, Sal. Remember you’re here to get information, not engage in a spitting match. “I wanted to talk to you about those sales you said you’ve been losing over the past few months.”

  This got his attention. Setting down the paper, he turned back around. “Yeah?”

  “I think I may know why it’s been happening.”

  He flashed a patronizing smile. “I know why I was losing sales,” he said. “And the fact that they’re now back up to normal proves I was right all along.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I said. “The person cheating you may have stopped for now, but once they get the taste for it, it’s hard to give it up for good.”

  “Cheating me?” He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that.”

  I took a seat on a barstool in front of several cases of Jim Beam. “Look, I know you’re convinced it was Jackie’s pop-up that was siphoning business from you, but I think you need to consider another possibility—that one of your employees has been embezzling money from the restaurant.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Al said. “I’d be the first to know if that were happening.”

  “No, actually, you probably wouldn’t. Not if someone were voiding tickets that had been paid in cash and then pocketing the money. How often do you check the voided ticket page of your POS?”

  “I …” From his frown, I could tell it must have been something he did about as often as I, which was pretty much never. But Al was clearly not one to admit he could possibly be wrong. “No, I know I’m right,” he said. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a lunch service starting in a few minutes.” And with a wave of the hand, he dismissed me from his presence.

  * * *

  Evelyn and I arrived for Sunday dinner fifteen minutes early, but my grandmother was thrilled to see us—or Evelyn, anyway. “Ah, my dear!” Nonna exclaimed, taking her into her arms before Evelyn could even get all the way through the front door. “I am so sorry I did not make it to your poor mamma’s service, but I was feeling so poorly that day.”

  “It’s okay, Nonna,” she said. “But wait, that’s not what I should call you. You’re my, what, some kind of aunt?”

  “Huh, good question,” I said as Nonna continued to clasp Evelyn in a tight hug. “Let’s see. My dad would be your grand-uncle, so Nonna would be your great-grand-aunt. I think. Don’t hold me to it.”

  Nonna release
d Evelyn with a laugh. “I like that, being both grand and great! But you can just call me Aunt Giovanna, if you like. Here.” She took hold of Evelyn’s hand and started dragging her down the hallway. “You come into the kitchen while I finish the cooking.”

  Nonna sat Evelyn down on the tall stool next to the stove, and while she strained the meat from the gravy in her hefty enameled Dutch oven, she recounted stories about our extended family. The relationships were all very confusing, but the stories—which bordered on the risqué—soon had all three of us laughing like schoolgirls.

  “And then,” Nonna said, her lips forming a wicked smile, “Nonno Salvatore told his sister, ‘You no marry that man. I seen him in the locker room and he never gon’ give you no children, that is sure.’ And she turned red as the tomatoes in my papà’s garden and went running off to her room.”

  “And is that who she ended up marrying?” Evelyn asked with a giggle.

  “No, no. She only dated him for about four months. She met your great-grandfather later, when she and I worked together at the cannery. And dat man, he had no problem like the other one,” Nonna added with a wink in my direction.

  “What’s so funny?” my dad asked, coming into the kitchen as the three of us exploded in laughter at Nonna’s last story. His new flame, Abby, stood behind him.

  “Never you mind.” My grandmother swatted him lightly on the hand. “It’s just girl talk.”

  “Well, I’m a girl,” said Abby brightly. “So how about we send Mario out of the room, and then you can tell me?”

  I expected Nonna to scowl at this familiarity from someone she’d never even met before, but instead she merely clucked a couple of times, waiting for Dad to make the introductions.

  “Ma, this is Abby. She recently moved up here from Southern California.”

  “So pleased to meet you,” Abby said, leaning over to give Nonna a quick half hug.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” my grandmother said, accepting but not reciprocating the embrace. “You like the pasta?”

  “Oh, yes! I love it—all kinds. Lasagne, spaghetti, fettuccine …”

  “Good.” Nonna turned back to the stove and gave the pot of gravy a few swift stirs as my dad introduced Abby to me and to Evelyn. She then clapped her hands. “Ready to eat. Here, you take this.” Nonna thrust the bowl of green salad into Abby’s hands and directed her to the dining room table. “Where’s Eric?” she asked, turning to me with a frown. “You say he was coming, no?”

  “He is, but you know Eric. He’s never on time.”

  “Yes I am!” Eric strode into the kitchen and kissed my grandmother on the cheek, causing her to break into a broad smile. Nonna adores Eric, even though he’s not Italian, and her most fervent wish is for us to marry and bear her multitudes of grandchildren. So much for that dream, I mused. Maybe in a few years he can bring all the babies he’s made with Gayle over to visit her once in a while.

  These sour thoughts were interrupted by Nonna poking me in the shoulder. “Sally, go tell your papà to come back out here an’ open the wine. And take this with you.” She handed me the platter of antipasti—prosciutto and salami, marinated cauliflower, carrots, and peperoncini, and provolone and mozzarella cheese.

  I’d just set the food on the table when my cell rang. The number was unfamiliar, but since we still had a couple minutes before dinner, I walked down the hallway to take the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Sally, is that you?”

  “Al?” I wasn’t positive it was the Tamarind owner, but the rudeness of his tone made me think of him. “How’d you get my number?”

  “From Ramón.”

  Ah. Our mutual acquaintance who’d been sitting with Al at the restaurant owners’ luncheon.

  “Anyway, I wanted to let you know you were right,” Al said with a growl. “I checked the point-of-sale records for voided tickets, and there’s been a rash of them over the past few months. A couple most nights, all cash transactions, just like you said.” He cleared his throat. “So, well, I just wanted to thank you is all.”

  Huh. Maybe I’d been wrong about the guy. Maybe he wasn’t such a slimeball after all.

  “You know who did it?” I asked. “Can you tell if it was the same person for all the voided tickets?”

  Al didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t any of my business, of course, so why would he tell me? But then his anger got the better of him. “It was my dining room manager, Max,” he spat out. “Except for a couple isolated instances—which were probably valid cash-outs—every single voided ticket was approved by him. And boy, is he going to regret it.”

  “When exactly did the activity start?” I pushed on, since he seemed eager to vent.

  “About five months ago, it looks like, and there were a few more instances over the next couple weeks after that. But then they really started to increase four months back, as if he’d gotten confident that his little scheme was working.”

  So he started while Jackie still worked at Tamarind, but then ramped up the activity significantly once she’d left.

  “Are you gonna go to the police with the information?” I asked.

  “I think it’d be more fun to tell him when he comes into work tonight that I know, and then let him stew over it a few days, wondering if I’m going to turn him in or not. Let him suffer some of the same anxiety I did the past few months.” With a harsh laugh, Al disconnected the call.

  Wow. So I’d been right about Max—at least about his embezzling from the restaurant. I couldn’t wait to tell Evelyn.

  I headed back to the dining room, where Nonna was herding everyone to get seated at the large, oak table. Oh, well. I’d have to wait till after the meal to give her the news.

  “Pass the bread, please,” Eric said, and I handed him the basket of thickly sliced ciabatta.

  “No eating till we make our toast,” Nonna said, raising her glass of Barbera d’Alba. “Salut, cent’anni!” she said, and Dad, Eric, and I all joined in. My great-grandfather, Ciro, who had arrived here from Liguria as a teenager in the 1890s, and his young bride, Lucrezia, stared down at us with somber expressions from a hand-painted photograph mounted in an oval frame.

  “What’s it mean?” asked Abby. “Chen-tanni?”

  “Health for a hundred years,” Dad said, clinking glasses with his date and holding her eyes as he sipped his wine.

  I glanced at my grandmother to see how she was taking this show of affection by her son for a new woman. But although Nonna eyed Abby with a hint of distaste, she said nothing. It was sad, actually, how much vinegar the old gal seemed to have lost over the past few years.

  Evelyn lifted her glass of water. “I know this isn’t wine, but I can still offer a toast as well. It’s one Javier taught me the other day. Too bad I don’t remember how to say it in Spanish: May you truly live for all the days of your life.”

  “Well, since we’re sharing toasts,” Eric said, “I have one: May misfortune follow you the rest of your life …” He paused, allowing everyone at the table time to take this in and then frown. “And never catch up!” he finished with a flourish.

  Nonna patted him on the shoulder with a wide smile. “Ha-ha, I get it. Very nice.”

  “Let me guess,” I said before I could catch myself. “Gayle taught you that.”

  “No.” Eric shot me a why-the-hell-would-you-think-that look. “It’s an old Irish toast that my granddad used to say.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s only because … Oh, never mind.” Shaking my head and hoping Eric didn’t notice the blush I felt spreading across my cheeks, I took a long drink of wine.

  “Who’s Gayle?” Nonna asked, her mouth now tight. I chuckled to myself. She was more concerned with Eric’s love life than that of her own son.

  “Just this woman I’ve been working with on a case,” Eric said. “Or rather, we’ve been working against each other, since she’s on the opposite side.”

  This seemed to appease my grandmother, who turned her attention to E
velyn, touching her on the arm and asking if she’d like more antipasto. I reached for the wine and refilled Eric’s glass as a sort of olive-branch gesture, then topped my own off as well.

  “Thanks,” he said with a quick smile, popping a rolled-up slice of salami into his mouth and washing it down with some of the wine.

  Good. I was afraid my previous remark had annoyed him, but he appeared to have already forgotten it. “So, what do you say about hanging out tomorrow night?” I asked. “There’s this French movie at the Del Mar that’s getting great reviews, and we could have an early dinner beforehand.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, Sal, no can do. I’m already busy.” He kept his eyes on his plate as he spoke, and I detected a slight tightening of the muscles around his mouth.

  “Oh.” I glanced at the others at the table, but Nonna and Evelyn were still talking, and my dad was leaning over speaking into Abby’s ear. “You’re doing something with Gayle.” It was a statement, not a question. Because of course that’s what it had to be.

  Eric shrugged, then gave a slight nod. Turning to face me, he smiled faintly. “Yeah. We’re actually going to see that movie you mentioned. But hey, you could join us if you wanted.”

  I waved him off. No way was I interested in being the third wheel on their “not date.” “That’s okay. I could use a night off, anyway.”

  Which was probably true. But it still stung. Back when I’d worked at Solari’s, Tuesday had been our traditional night to hang out together, since that was the day the restaurant was closed. It had never been an “every Tuesday” thing, but Eric and I had both thought of that as “our night,” even after we broke up. Then, once I’d inherited Gauguin, which has the more traditional Monday closing, we’d switched to that night.

  Biting into a slice of creamy buffalo mozzarella, I glanced from Dad to Eric—both pairing up right before my eyes. I should be happy for them, right? But it was hard to be supportive of the speeding love lives of others when my own was stalled in neutral, if not reverse. And whose fault was that? Mine, of course, all mine.

  Just two months ago, Eric had made clear he wanted to rekindle our relationship as a couple, but I’d been so afraid of it blowing up again—and this time maybe destroying our friendship entirely along with the romance—that I’d put a damper on his smoldering emotions before they’d even had time to reignite.