Dying for a Taste (9 page)

The next afternoon, I called my father. We’d decided it would be best to skip Nonna’s Sunday dinner this week; after the wake, funeral, and repast, it just would have been too much for her. So I figured he’d probably be at home zoning out, watching golf or baseball on TV. I’d be seeing him that night at Solari’s but still wanted to check in beforehand.

He picked up after the fourth ring, slightly out of breath. “Hi, hon. I was out back trying to prop up that rotted part of the fence down by the tool shed. With all this rain, it’s starting to really sag.”

“Oh, sorry to make you have to rush in. I just wanted to see how you’re doing, since we didn’t talk after the repast.”

“Okay, I guess. It seems like it all went pretty smoothly yesterday, especially given the rain an’ all.” He seemed to be acting completely normal with me, as if nothing had happened between us. Well, if he was going to just let it slide, I guessed I’d do the same.

“Up till the end,” he added. “What the hell is up with those two—Tony and Javier? Fighting like that?
At Letta’s repast
?”

“Yeah, that was pretty bad. I’m not exactly sure what that was all about, but I think there may have been a jealousy thing going on between them. Over Letta. Which doesn’t excuse it, of course.”

“Sure doesn’t. And Jesus, with her killer still out there somewhere? Makes ya wonder if maybe one of them . . .”

I let this unfinished sentence hang there in space, having nothing reassuring to say in response.

After we hung up, I spent the afternoon vegged out on my couch watching the Giants beat the Padres one to zip. Nothing like a good pitching duel and a cold bottle of Heineken to take your mind off the stresses of work, family discord, and murder.

I had to be at Solari’s at five, but before heading over there, I pulled the Escarole website up on my laptop. I wanted to see if it had any information on how long the folks working there had been at the place—whether they might have known Letta, in other words. There was of course no list of employees; I hadn’t expected such a thing. But there was a link titled “Our Chefs,” which I clicked on.

Voilà: descriptions of all their work histories. Ruth Kallenbach was listed as “Chef de Cuisine,” Tom Nakamoto and Laurie Evert simply as “Chefs,” and Martine Dufour as “Pastry Chef.” Besides Ruth, the only one of the four who’d been at Escarole since Letta’s time was the pastry chef.

I checked the “Contact Us” page, but the only phone number listed was one for reservations. I dialed this number, and a man with a smooth voice answered the phone: “Escarole. May I help you?”

I asked when Ruth Kallenbach would next be working, and he consulted a schedule. “Not till this coming weekend,” he informed me. “She’ll be in both Friday and Saturday nights.”

“And Martine, the pastry chef?”

“Oh, she only works mornings—early, from about five
AM
to eleven or so. And let’s see . . . she’s scheduled for Saturday morning but is off Sunday.”

“Great,” I said. “I’d like to make a reservation for three for this Friday night at, say, seven?” Nichole, a law-school pal of Eric’s and mine, lived up in the City with her partner, Mei, and I was hoping they’d be up for joining me.

***

Solari’s closes at nine
PM
on Sundays, so after cleaning up, balancing the register, and setting up the dining room for the following day, I was able to make it home before eleven. Less than twelve hours later, however, I was back there again.

Monday lunches can be hectic at the restaurant, since lots of other establishments are closed that day, and the business crowd always needs a place to eat. But this one thankfully didn’t seem to be too bad.

As soon as I had a free moment, I phoned Javier, figuring he should be up by now. He was, and I told him I wanted to get together to talk about a plan for Gauguin. But although this was true, what I really wanted was to find out what the hell was going on between him and Tony. He agreed to meet me that evening at Dixon’s, a burger-and-beer joint across from the Boardwalk that I knew he frequented.

At three fifteen, I was getting ready to leave for the day, when Dad found me in the wait station. Giulia was at a small
table, prepping a stack of Solari’s red cloth napkins for the dinner shift in a simple pyramid fold—Nothing like the exotic fans and flowers at Gauguin.

“Can I talk to you a sec?” Dad asked and motioned toward our office. I followed him inside, and he closed the door. So maybe he did want to iron out our differences after all.

“Look, if this is about Gauguin,” I started, but he cut me off.

“No. It’s something else. It’s about my neighbor.”

“Wanda,” I said, and he nodded and frowned.

“It seems she’s gotten herself a lawyer. At least, so she says. I saw her this morning on my way out to my truck, and she told me she had a surveyor come out. Don’t they need my permission for that?”

“Not if they don’t go on your property, they wouldn’t.”

Dad grunted. “Well, anyway, Wanda’s now saying that it turns out the fence is on
her
property, which means she can cut the rose and the
Brugmansia
back herself if she wants. In fact, she’s threatening to take the plants out altogether. So I thought I’d ask you about it. She can’t do that, can she?”

“Well, she certainly can’t just start whacking stuff back without some kind of proof or court order. Did she give you the results of the survey?”

He shook his head.

“Then you should get that from her, first off. But even if it turns out the fence is on her property, it still doesn’t mean she necessarily has the right to cut down the plants. I’m not real up to date on property law anymore. It’s been two years since I quit the firm, after all, and that kind of stuff doesn’t tend to stay in your brain. Not in mine, anyway. But I did do a fair
number of property dispute cases when I worked there, and it seems to me you might have a good prescriptive easement argument . . .”

I stared at the dog-eared poster tacked to the wall—it depicted all the various kinds of pasta, from
anelli
to
ziti
—and mentally transported myself back to my previous life. “In order to create a prescriptive easement,” I murmured, as if reciting some religious incantation, “a party must show a use that was open and notorious and hostile to the true owner for a period of at least five years.” And then I smiled, remembering how all of us first-year students got a real kick out of that “open and notorious” language and how Eric had once shouted the phrase at Nichole when he saw her smoking a joint at a party. You gotta take your humor wherever you can find it when you’re in law school.

“Uh, okay,” Dad responded, but when I turned to look at him, I could see his eyes had completely glazed over.

“Sorry,” I said. “All that means is that if you use someone else’s land for a long enough time, you get ‘grandfathered in’ and can continue to use that property for the same purpose. Are you the one who planted the trumpet vine and the climbing rose?” He nodded. “How long ago?”

“I dunno . . . ten, fifteen years back?”

“And I take it you’re the one who’s maintained them all this time?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. Get me a copy of that survey if there really is one. I can’t officially act as your lawyer, since I’ve gone inactive with the State Bar, but I can probably at least figure out if you need to hire one.”

He smiled. “Thanks, hon. I really appreciate it.”

I wanted to come back with something like “So aren’t you glad, after all, that I went to law school?” But I managed to restrain myself.

***

When I walked into Dixon’s at six o’clock, Javier was already at the bar laughing at something the bartender had just said, a newly pulled pint of amber ale in front of him.

“Hey, Sally. This is Eli,” he said as I took the stool to his left.

“Howdy.” I nodded a greeting to the barkeep and ordered a Stella Artois.

“Any news about Letta?” Javier asked as soon as my bottle had been set down and Eli had left to ring up another patron’s tab.

“No, not yet. But I’m gonna go up to the City this weekend to talk to some folks at Escarole, where she used to work. Maybe they’ll know something.”

“About those animal rights crazies?”

“Right. I’m hoping they’ll have some idea who wrote Letta those creepy letters.”

Javier nodded and took a slug of beer. I followed suit and neither of us spoke for a minute, both watching the Giants game on the bar TV. The score was tied, but the Padres had runners on the corners with only one out. As a run scored on a base hit up the middle, Javier shook his head and took another swallow of beer.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said after the inning finally ended with a double play. “What
was
that with you and Tony at the repast on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” Javier mumbled. “Tell your dad I’m really sorry, okay?”

But he didn’t answer the question. I pressed on. “I mean, c’mon, Javier. First there was that weird thing at the wake. And then that scuffle at Dad’s restaurant? What the hell’s going on between you two?”

Javier still didn’t respond and instead just stared at the oversize truck splashing through a river of mud on the TV screen. Finally, he sighed and turned to face me. “I dunno, Sal. He’s acted strange with me ever since I met him. I think he must just be jealous of how close me and Letta were—you know, pretty much running the restaurant together and all. And also . . . well . . .” He paused and lifted his glass.

“And what?” I prompted.

“Oh, nothing.” He finished his beer and motioned Eli to bring another. “I was just gonna say that ever since Letta died, he’s started making these nasty comments whenever he sees me.”

I didn’t buy that that was really what he had been about to say, but I let it slide. “Like what?” I asked.

“Like, for instance, Tony said, ‘Letta told me she thought you were a real pussy.’” Javier’s voice lowered to a macho
basso profundo
as he imitated Tony. “An’ he said—and this is what got me so mad at Solari’s the other day—he said Letta told him she didn’t think I was all that great a cook and that she only kept me on at Gauguin ’cause she felt sorry for me.” Javier took a long drink from his fresh glass of beer and set it down with a
smack
on the polished wood bar top. “She woulda never said that. I know she wouldn’t.” But the pain in
his eyes told me he was hurt by the possibility that it could in fact be true.

“You know she didn’t think that, Javier. She thought the world of you.” I reached over and touched his wrist. “I remember one night when I was filling in for one of the cooks at Gauguin, and I was nervous as hell about screwing up—”

“I remember that night,” Javier said with a chuckle. “I told you I was going to put you in charge of the hollandaise, and you panicked, not realizing I was just joking.”

“Oh God, that’s right.” I took my hand off his wrist and then slapped it. “There. Now you’re finally punished for being so mean. Anyway, Letta told me that night that all I needed to do was watch you and listen to what you told me—that you were a natural in the kitchen. And I remember she said she trusted you like she would family. That’s saying a lot, you know, coming from an Italian.”

Javier nodded, but his mouth was still tight.

“And she was right,” I went on. “You’re a fabulous chef. That meal I had the other night when I was there, the seared ahi with papaya chutney? It was amazing! And so was Eric’s steak. The food’s
always
great when I eat at Gauguin. You know Tony’s just trying to yank your chain. Try not to let it get to you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Javier nodded again and drank some more beer.

I then led the discussion away from Tony’s comments and toward the coming week at the restaurant. “Do you have the specials planned yet?” I asked, and we chatted about mackerel, skate, asparagus, and snap peas.

“I’m meeting with the bookkeeper tomorrow,” I said after we’d finished discussing the menu. “I’ve really got to start figuring out what running a restaurant’s all about.”

Javier turned to face me. “So you’ve decided you’re gonna do it? Take over Gauguin?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t decided anything yet. I’ve barely had time to even think since Letta’s death. But if I’m going to make any kind of intelligent decision one way or another, I better learn what it would entail if I did take it over. Like, for instance, I don’t even know if Gauguin’s making a profit or not.”

“I’d say so, though Letta didn’t talk a whole lot to me about that kind of stuff. But Shanti, the bookkeeper, will be able to tell you all about that. You’ll like her, by the way. She’s really organized and efficient. Good thing, too, since Letta was, well . . .”

“Not those things,” I filled in for Javier. “She excelled at the creative side of the business. I know.”

He flashed a quick smile, and we lapsed into silence. The Giants were now down by two runs. “I’m going to order a burger,” he said after a minute. “You want anything?”

“No thanks. I really should be going. I’m pretty beat. And I have some leftover enchiladas that need eating.” I drained my beer and pulled a five out of my wallet. “This enough, you think?”

“Yeah. It’s happy hour, so that should be plenty.”

I slid off my stool and pecked him on both cheeks. “Okay, then.
Ciao, bello
.”

“See you.” He waved good-bye and then turned back around to watch the game.

The name Shanti is not an unusual one in Northern California. But this being Santa Cruz, a “new-age crystal town,” as my dad is fond of saying, I must admit I was expecting someone called Shanti Das to be clad in orange-colored clothing with sandalwood beads draped about her neck and wrists. So I was a bit surprised, not to mention relieved, when the woman who answered the door on Tuesday evening had on tight, black jeans, topped by a teal turtle-neck jersey. Turns out her parents are Bengali, so she came by the name honestly.

She greeted me with a firm handshake and a polite how-do-you-do and showed me into her dining room. A laptop was sitting on the table next to a glass of white wine. “Would you care for some Chardonnay?” she asked in a smooth voice carrying hints of her Indian roots. “I have red, too, if you prefer.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine. Thanks.”

As Shanti went to the kitchen to fetch the bottle from the fridge, I glanced around me, observing that she appeared to be a fan of Scandinavian-style decor. The condo was neat
and sparsely furnished, with lots of blond-wood furniture and a few tasteful prints on the walls. But the whole effect, bright and clean-looking though it was, seemed a bit too cold and sterile for my taste. I prefer a little clutter in my life—books and magazines strewn about and the odd knick-knack here and there. Not to mention comfy, overstuffed chairs and sofas.

Shanti returned with my glass of wine and motioned for me to sit down at the table. “I was so shocked to hear about Letta’s death,” she said as she took the seat by the laptop. “Do they have any idea who did it?”

“I know. The whole thing is really horrible. And no, I don’t think the cops have a clue who’s responsible.”

I tried the wine. It was good—one of those dry, flinty, French-style Chardonnays—and not cheap, I imagined. “Actually, I should rephrase that,” I said, setting my glass down. “They found Javier’s knife by her body, and since they don’t have anything else to go by at this point, I guess he’s what you’d call the prime suspect as of right now.” Seeing Shanti’s eyes widen, I hurried to add, “But there’s no way he did it. They just need someone to focus on.”

“No, I can’t imagine him doing such a terrible thing.” Shanti frowned with distaste. “He’s always seemed to me to be such a sweet man.”

“I’m actually doing a little snooping around for him, since it doesn’t look like the cops are going to be much help. You know, to try to see if I can uncover anything that might shed some light on who the real murderer is.”

“Oh?”

“But I’ve come up empty-handed so far.” I shrugged. “The problem is I don’t really know much about conducting a criminal investigation. It’s not something they teach you in law school. So I’ve been kind of flailing about.”

Shanti nodded sympathetically. “I’d be awful at that,” she said. “I’m not very good at getting people to open up, since I’m fairly shy myself.”

“And also,” I went on after another quick sip of wine, “I’ve been so busy, it’s been hard to find the time to do much investigating, what with my job at Solari’s and all the organization and planning for the wake and funeral and then dealing with this whole Gauguin thing. Speaking of which, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so maybe we should get started?”

By way of response, Shanti opened her laptop and brought a page up on the screen. I pulled my chair closer to get a better view. “So how much do you know about bookkeeping?” she asked.

“Not much. I learned a little bit when I took a basic business law class in law school, but that was ages ago. And I’ve picked up some working at Solari’s, but my dad has his own bookkeeper there who does it all. I’m just in charge of the cash register and dealing with credit card charges and stuff like that.”

“Okay,” Shanti said. “Well, all software programs use what’s called the double-entry system of bookkeeping. In essence, what that means is that every financial transaction is recorded twice: as a credit and also as a debit. It’s a way of keeping errors to a minimum, because the debit and credit
columns have to match up. If they don’t, you know you’ve made a mistake somewhere.”

I nodded as she paused to take a drink. “Got it.”

The first thing she showed me was the current balance sheet for Gauguin, which, she explained, was a snapshot of the assets and liabilities of the restaurant. “Here at the top, you can see the current assets.” Shanti tapped a red-painted fingernail on the screen. “In other words, what’s presently in the checking and savings accounts as well as the current inventory and accounts receivable. Right below are the fixed assets—you know, furniture, office equipment, appliances, and the like. Next are the liabilities. That’s what’s owed by the business: accounts payable, outstanding loans, credit cards, salaries and rent owed, taxes.”

She moved her finger down the screen. “Finally, here at the bottom, you can see the net worth of Gauguin is listed: $21,875.”

“Net worth,” I repeated. “That’s the value of the business, right?”

“Not exactly. The rule—it’s actually one of the primary principles of bookkeeping—is that assets plus liabilities equals the net worth.”

“So net worth is kind of like the net assets, and what’s listed here as ‘total assets’ is equivalent to gross assets?” I was trying to wrap my mind around these new concepts. Too bad I hadn’t taken that accounting class that had been offered as an elective during law school.

“Well, I
guess
you could look at it that way,” Shanti answered slowly, “but they’re not called that in accounting.”

“But the bottom line is that we’re in the black, right?” And then I laughed. “Ohmygod—I just realized where that metaphor must have originated. Since that amount is, in fact,
the bottom line
of the balance sheet. Ha!”

Shanti chuckled. “Right,” she said, “on both counts. You can see here, on the bottom line, that your net worth right now is at almost twenty-two thousand dollars. That’s a lot for a restaurant when you don’t own the building it’s in.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” I reached over to pet a large ginger cat that had just jumped up onto the table.

“Shoo, Bhaji! You know you’re not supposed to be up here.” Shanti swatted her hand in the air, and the cat jumped back onto the floor and proceeded to give itself a good cleaning, making a show of ignoring its two human observers.

“Bhaji?” I repeated.

Shanti smiled. “It’s a kind of
pakora
—you know, Indian-style fritter. My mom makes them all the time. They’re usually an orange-brown color and quite high in fat content, so I thought it would be a good name for this big guy.”

“Cute. I like it.” We both lifted our wine glasses while I studied the balance sheet. “So how does stuff get entered into the system?” I asked. “I mean, for example, when I get a bill from a vendor and pay it, should I give you the invoice?”

“That would be great.” Shanti set her wine down again and clicked a button to bring up a new page. “Letta always saved the invoices and deposit slips and things like that, and I’d come by and pick them up once a week to record them. Here.” She pointed to the spreadsheet that had appeared on the screen. “What I just did was run an accounts payable report for the week of March nineteenth. You can see all the
invoices that I entered, along with the names of the vendors, the check numbers, and the amounts.”

She indicated one of the rows. “See here, for example, is one for $272.33 from Quality Meats, which was paid on March twenty-fourth.” Scrolling down the list, she showed me how all the invoices from that week had been recorded. “And what’s great about this software is that once you’ve entered an invoice or a deposit or tax payment or anything, it’s in the system. You don’t have to enter it again in order to generate a general ledger or profit and loss statement.” She leaned forward. “Here, let me show you—”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting her. My eye had been caught by one of the entries on the screen. “What’s that?”

Shanti looked where I was pointing. “Bolinas Farms? Why, I imagine it’s an invoice for produce. Why?”

“Scroll back up, would you? Look, there’s another one from the beginning of the same week. I thought I’d seen it.”

“So?” Shanti was looking at me like I was a crazy woman. “What’s so odd about produce invoices for a restaurant?”

“Well, don’t you think it’s a little weird that Letta would order produce from Bolinas, all the way up in Marin County? It’s over a hundred miles from here. And when there are so many great farms right here in Santa Cruz and Watsonville?”

“Maybe they grow something special that you can’t get around here.” Shanti peered at the screen. “Let’s see, $84.23 for this one . . .” She scrolled back down to the second entry six days later. “And $115.77 for the other. That seems like a fair amount of produce.”

“Do you recognize the name?” I asked. “I mean, have you been entering invoices from Bolinas Farms on a regular basis?”

“Well, the name is familiar to me, so I may have. But that’s easy enough to check.” She clicked a couple more buttons and then typed in the name “Bolinas Farms,” bringing up a new page showing all the entries for the calendar year for that vendor. There seemed to be about one invoice per week, and they all ran between about $70 and $130.

“Can you show me the list for Bolinas Farms for last year?”

“Sure.” Shanti brought up a new screen, and we both leaned forward to examine it. “It looks like Letta first started buying from them last August,” Shanti observed. “There don’t appear to be any entries before that date.”

“Huh. Well, I think it’s odd.” I settled back in my chair. “I guess I’ll just have to ask Javier about it.”