Murder from Scratch

by Leslie Karst

  What I’d failed to consider, though, was that I was likely to lose him anyway. There’d been no way the bright, boyishly blond Eric would remain single for long. And once he did get involved with someone else, it was a sure thing our friendship would slip into the background as his new relationship grew. Like spending Monday nights with his new gal instead of me.

  Maybe I should sign up for one of those online dating services, like Dad, I thought, helping myself to more wine.

  But the thought of that only made me more lonely.

  Chapter 23

  I waited till we were back home to tell Evelyn about Al’s phone call. With the convertible’s top down, it would have been hard to carry on any kind of real conversation, and there were a few questions I wanted to ask her about Max.

  She sucked in her breath when I told her the news, causing Coco to trot over to the kitchen table and paw at her leg. Evelyn reached out to stroke the dog’s chocolate-brown forehead. “I can’t believe Max would do that to Mom,” she said. “Make it look like she was the reason the restaurant was losing money when he was the one stealing. Why would he do that? They were friends.”

  “Who knows why people do stuff.” I found a place in the fridge for the leftover Sunday gravy Nonna had sent home with us, then joined her at the table. “But now that we know he was in fact embezzling from Al, the next question is, did that have anything to do with your mom’s murder?”

  “I don’t know how we can ever find that out,” Evelyn said, shoulders sagging.

  “Well, do you remember anything else from that night you heard your mom and Max talking? Anything to suggest she might have known he was stealing from the restaurant?”

  “Not really. Just the stuff about the recipes is all. And that … romantic talk I heard.”

  “Hang on,” I said, “You heard Max say something about her rubbing his back, but you couldn’t remember exactly what he said, right?”

  Evelyn nodded.

  “So, what if he said ‘scratch my back,’ not ‘rub’ it? Is that possible?”

  “Sure, I guess he might have.”

  “Don’t you see?” I stood up from the table, startling Coco from the near coma she’d descended into as a result of the face massage by Evelyn. “If he said ‘you scratch my back,’ then he could have been talking about an agreement between the two of them—that she’d scratch his, too.”

  “By not telling Al about his stealing from the restaurant,” Evelyn filled in.

  “Right. But if she then reneged on that agreement and threatened to tell, that would be a hell of a motive to get her out of the picture.”

  Evelyn clenched her hands. “And Al said that Max was really into jazz music, too.”

  “I wonder if Max is the one who stole your mom’s laptop,” I said, thinking out loud as I began to pace back and forth across the kitchen. “As the manager, he could’ve left Tamarind whenever he wanted that night and come to Gauguin.”

  I came to a stop by the back door and gazed out at the row of fruit trees lining the fence at the far end of the yard. Their gnarled branches glowed like burnished copper in the late-afternoon sun. “I have to find out if he’s the one who took it. Because if he did, that would prove a serious connection to your mom—and prove he was scared enough by something on the computer to risk breaking into my car. And breaking into your house, too, I bet.”

  “So how are you going to do that?” Evelyn asked.

  “Well, Al mentioned that Max is working tonight. So if I can find out where he lives, maybe I can do a little snooping to see if there’s a MacBook Air lying around his house.”

  I grabbed my computer from the kitchen counter and pulled up the white pages website, only to realize I didn’t know Max’s last name. But then I remembered the business card he’d given me that night I’d been at Tamarind with Eric. Had I kept it?

  Yes. It was stuck in the book I’d been reading the same night, a dog-eared copy of Kitchen Confidential that had belonged to my Aunt Letta. Sitting back down at my laptop, I typed MAXWELL LACROIX into the search box. An address came up near downtown Santa Cruz.

  “Got it,” I said to Evelyn, and jotted down the number. “And he doesn’t live too far from Gauguin. Looks like maybe I’ll be the one taking a little time off from work tonight.”

  As I returned my computer to the kitchen counter, I noticed Jackie’s phone charging in the wall socket. I unplugged it and brought it to the table. “You want to brainstorm more ideas for your mom’s password? I’ve got a little time before I have to be at the restaurant, and today’s the last chance before you promised we’d give it to the police tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.” Evelyn sat up and placed her palms flat on the kitchen table. “I can’t imagine her picking anything all that hard or original. It must have been something easy for her to remember. Like … maybe her favorite food or something?”

  “What was her favorite food?”

  Evelyn thought a moment. “Probably aloo gosht—it’s a kind of lamb-and-potato curry. Here, lemme try that.” I handed her the phone, and she punched in the name of the dish. “Nope, didn’t work.”

  “Good thought, though. How about other foods she liked?”

  Evelyn entered several other Indian food names: tandoori, basmati, chapati, vindaloo. “Oh, and she loved French fries, too.” But none unlocked the phone.

  “It’s no good,” she said with a sigh. “We’ll never figure it out.”

  I stared past her into the living room, and my eyes came to rest on the television. “I know something else she really liked,” I said. “Classic films. What was her favorite old movie?”

  Evelyn thought a minute. “That’s hard to say. Maybe You Can’t Take It With You? But she also really liked Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.”

  “Those are kind of long for a password. But wait, aren’t they both Capra films?” I grabbed my computer again and did a search for the director Frank Capra. “Yep, they are. Try his name. It’s spelled C-A-P-R-A.”

  “Nope.” Evelyn set the phone back down.

  “Oh, well.” I drummed my fingers on the red Formica as I stared at my computer screen. “Hey, here’s something. It says both those movies starred Jean Arthur.” Grabbing the phone, I entered her name. And, voilà, a green screen opened with the word MESSAGING.

  “I’m in!”

  “Oh, man, she was totally Mom’s favorite actress. I shoulda thought of that. So is there anything there?”

  I scrolled through the recent messages: a long string from Evelyn and then one that made me catch my breath. “Ohmygod,” I said, “there’s a text from Rachel on the date your mom died. It’s from seven forty-two that night.”

  “What’s it say?”

  I tapped the entry to open the message and read it aloud: I HAVE TO SEE YOU.”

  * * *

  Javier was in high spirits that night at Gauguin. He’d come straight to work after his trip back from San Francisco and proceeded to recount in great detail the fabulous wedding he’d attended the night before. The reception had been held at some hoity-toity private club on Nob Hill, and they’d been served designer cocktails and canapés to start, followed by a four-course meal with waiters in white jackets and black ties.

  “They had herb-and-panko-crusted rack of lamb as the main,” Javier told us as he checked on a baking sheet of balsamic-glazed butternut squash roasting in the oven. “It was served with individual watercress and cauliflower timbales and perfectly cooked Hasselback potatoes. Usually when I’ve had them, they’ve been half raw inside, but these were crispy on the outside and soft and creamy in the center. And they were drizzled with some kind of amazing cheese sauce.” He closed the oven door and tucked his side towel into the strap of his white apron. “Maybe we should try them here sometime.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  “But it wasn’t only the food that was great,” he went on. “The whole room was decorated in this classy nineteen thirties style, with an old-style jazz band to match. I
t was super cool—just like one of those old black-and-white movies.” Javier smiled as he reached for a spoon to stir the pot of sauce normande for tonight’s pan-fried Petrale sole special, then went on to describe the massive tier of pink and white cupcakes they’d served in lieu of a traditional wedding cake.

  But I was only half listening. At the mention of old black-and-white movies, my thoughts had flown back to the message we’d discovered on Jackie’s phone.

  I’d been so caught up with the idea of Max as the murderer that I’d nearly forgotten about Rachel—someone who had an actual, proven motive to want Jackie gone, and who not only loved jazz music but also had a known taste for cocktails made with cranberry juice.

  And not only that, but the Streets of Delhi cook was sure to carry the aroma of curry spices about her person if she’d just come from work. As she would have at eleven thirty last Wednesday, the first night the new pop-up was open …

  “Hey, Earth to Sally. You gonna cook something in that butter, or what?”

  I refocused on Javier, who was pointing at the clarified butter simmering away in the sauté pan I held. “Oh, sorry,” I said. With a chuckle, he pulled the now-browned butternut squash from the oven and set the hot baking sheet on the far side of the range top.

  Tipping my pan away from me, I laid a thick pork chop into the hot butter. Oh, well, I mused. Even if Rachel has now jumped back up as a prime suspect, there’s nothing I can do about that right now.

  But there was something I could do tonight. “Hey, Javier,” I said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I took off for a half hour or so once the rush dies down. I have an errand I need to run.”

  * * *

  At nine fifteen, I parked my car around the corner from Max’s house and walked as nonchalantly as I could down the sidewalk. A single light shone from the front room, but there was no sign that anyone was home: no car in the driveway or out front, no sound coming from inside.

  Smiling at a woman with a rotund pug pulling at its leash, I waited for her to turn the corner, then crept down the driveway. I’d worn dark clothing for my clandestine adventure but was still worried about a nosy neighbor spotting me, so I kept to the edge of the large hedge that bordered the property.

  A low gate with a simple latch provided entry to a concrete patio. I pulled on the vinyl gloves I’d grabbed from the box in the garde manger at Gauguin, opened the gate, and stepped into the backyard. Okay, Sal, you’ve now crossed both the literal and figurative thresholds of criminal trespassing.

  With a deep breath, I made my way to the nearest window and peered in. Dark. Should I risk using my flashlight app? Glancing around, I saw that a tall fence prevented any neighboring property from having a view of Max’s backyard, so I decided to take the chance.

  I shined the light through the window and found myself looking into a bathroom with 1960s-style tile and white ceramic fixtures. A stack of magazines sat on the floor between the toilet and sink, and several towels were draped over the side of the tub.

  I moved on to the other window facing the backyard. It was the kitchen, which boasted tile from the same era as the bathroom. Shining my phone around the room, I saw a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and several pots with drips of food running down their sides atop an old gas stove. Not much of a housekeeper, was Max. Which struck me as slightly odd, given his job as dining room manager at Tamarind.

  A small table was on the far side of the kitchen, with only one chair. So he probably lived alone. Several more dishes sat on the table, as well as something flat that reflected back the light from my phone. A laptop? Yes, it was definitely the right size and shape. But from my angle, I had no way of knowing whether it was a MacBook Air or not.

  Heart now thumping, I switched off my light. What to do?

  Tons of people owned silver laptops, so what were the chances it was Jackie’s? Certainly not worth the risk I faced if I tried to break into the house.

  And yet …

  I crept up the steps to the back door. What if he had a key hidden somewhere? Then it wouldn’t really be “breaking” in, right? But the ex-lawyer in me knew damn well this was a distinction without a difference. Whether I gained access by way of a key, an unlocked door, or a battering ram, it would constitute an illegal entry into a private property.

  Nevertheless, I lifted up one of the flowerpots to the right of the door. Nothing. Emboldened, I looked under the others. No key.

  Ah, well, probably for the best, I thought as I turned to go. But then I spotted the ceramic elephant on the far side of the patio. I walked over and turned on my light once again. The sculpture was about a foot tall, cobalt blue with white stars sprinkled about its fat body, and had its trunk and right front leg raised as if trumpeting a call.

  Switching off the phone, I stashed it in my pocket and used both hands to lift the elephant off the ground. And there it was, the glint of metal. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the key, dashed to the back door, and inserted it into the lock.

  It worked; I was inside the kitchen.

  Before I got halfway across the room, I saw the Apple logo and white sticker on the laptop, causing a prickling sensation to spread across my shoulders and down my arms. So he was the one who took it. Although I’d suspected as much, having the actual proof right here in front of me was chilling.

  Next to the computer lay a sheet of paper with a list of words written down and then crossed out. By the dim light coming from the living room, I saw they were the same sort of password ideas that Evelyn and I had originally brainstormed, to no avail: Evelyn, Coco, Curry Leaf, Jackie’s birth date, her street address. But Max had obviously not gotten in, based on the lines drawn through all the words—not to mention the fact that he hadn’t yet ditched the computer.

  Now that I knew he was the one who’d stolen the laptop from my car, I should have skedaddled out of there. I’d already checked Jackie’s email remotely, via her phone, so what would be the point of logging on to her computer?

  Still, I couldn’t resist.

  Okay, I thought, sitting down at the chair. Let’s hope she used the same password for both her devices. I opened the lid and was greeted with the familiar login screen that had stymied me over a week ago. I typed J-E-A-N-A-R-T-H-U-R into the password box (though I fumbled the keys some, what with wearing gloves) and was rewarded by the screen immediately switching to Jackie’s desktop graphics—a photo of Evelyn standing in a field of wild mustard, the yellow flowers set off by a vibrant blue sky behind.

  Several dozen icons crowded the screen, and I scanned their titles to see if anything struck me as relevant to the case. Most looked to be related to the pop-up, with names such as “CL Invoices” and “Scheduling.” But then my eyes landed on an icon entitled “ML.”

  Max Lacroix’s initials.

  Holding my breath, I clicked on the file. Four jpg files bearing dates from the previous July were inside. I opened the earliest of the photos and found myself looking at a screenshot of a point-of-sale terminal. It showed a partial list of the night’s tickets, one of which was a voided cash payment of eighty-six dollars and thirty cents that had been approved by manager number two.

  Which had to be Max. I was about to click open the second photo when a noise made me flinch.

  What was that? I closed the laptop to extinguish its light and ducked down. Had a car door slammed out front? Heart thumping, I grabbed the computer off the table and squatted on the floor.

  A man’s voice could now be heard outside the house. From the volume, I guessed he was talking on his cell phone.

  A key turned in the front door lock. Uh-oh. My hands now trembling, I closed the files, logged off the computer and slid it back on the table, then dashed across the kitchen and out into the backyard, closing the door silently behind me. I’d just replaced the key under the elephant’s foot when the light went on in the kitchen. Through the window, I could see Max pull off his jacket and throw it onto the chair.

  Why was he home no
w? Had Al confronted him about the voided tickets and he’d left Tamarind in a huff? Or perhaps it had simply been a slow Sunday and the place had cleared out early.

  Crouching down, I watched Max take a beer from the fridge and lean on the counter as he drank deeply from the bottle. He would no doubt discover soon enough that his back door was unlocked, but hopefully he’d simply assume he’d left it that way by accident.

  As I crept back down the driveway and out to the street, I took a series of deep breaths, trying to calm the shaking that had spread to the rest of my body. But nothing was going to calm the agitation that had overtaken me when I’d seen the screenshot of that voided ticket.

  Not only had Jackie been aware of Max’s embezzlement, but she’d kept proof of it on her computer.

  Chapter 24

  At eight the next morning the buzzing of my cell phone jarred me from a deep slumber. I’d stayed up only a half hour after getting home from work the night before, hoping to catch up on some of the shut-eye I’d lost of late. But it was not to be. Once in bed, visions of Max and Rachel, crouched over Jackie’s dead body, had kept me tossing and turning for hours before I finally was able to nod off.

  And then—after way too little sleep—my stupid phone woke me. I’d purposely switched off the ringer the night before, but the walnut dresser upon which it sat unfortunately acted as an amplifier for the vibrate mode I’d switched it to. As a result, the percussive throbbing that jarred me awake was at least as loud as my normal ringtone.

  “What do you want?” I said groggily into the device, not even bothering to see who was calling.

  “Mado, do you sound cranky this morning,” a perky voice sang out.

  “Marta. I should have known it was you. No one else ever calls this early. What, you looking for a riding partner this morning? Isn’t it supposed to rain today?”