Died with a Bow (21 page)

I promptly dialed Lex Fairchild’s number. When Bobbi answered, I asked if I could borrow Vienna’s high school yearbooks.

“Why?” she asked.

“I just want to see what kind of school it was.”

“I can tell you what kind of school it was. It was expensive. Cost more than most colleges. And it’s snobby. You’ve got to be rich to go there. Here’s the kicker: it’s not the tuition; it’s what you have to have to keep up with whoever. So Vienna had to have a little sports car, which isn’t good enough now. Oh, no, she has to have something faster and more expensive. And the clothes and the school trips. Hawaii in the spring. Mexico at semester break. But does Lex say anything? No, he just hands over the money.”

“Well, could I speak to Mr. Fairchild then?” I asked.

“He’s not here,” she said a little too quickly.

I didn’t believe her, but what could I say except, “Could you have him call me?” I didn’t wait for her answer; I just gave her my number, hung up and went back to join Jonathan at our table.

I supposed I could have told Bobbi the truth, that I was looking for a clue in those books that would help us identify her stepdaughter’s killer. So much for my taking the night off from thinking about murder. Jonathan and I left a little later, after he gave the waiter his winning bid certificate and left a hefty tip.

We drove home through the city. I felt more like I belonged here than I ever had. Jonathan said he’d had a great time, and I did too. Neither one of us mentioned Vienna, but we both knew we had her to thank for this evening. Before he left, Jonathan said he’d see me the next night. He was sure he could find someone to fill in for him at the hospital and he wouldn’t miss my first dinner party for anything.

“I’m a little nervous. I’ve never baked a fish in a bag before.”

“What kind of fish?” he asked.

“It’s supposed to be halibut with clams and prosciutto, but…”

Under the streetlamp Jonathan looked a little pale.

“What’s wrong?” I said as if I were the doctor and he, the patient.

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” he said. “Not that it matters. I can eat whatever else you’re having.”

“I’m glad I found out now,” I said. But was I? Now what was I going to do? “I haven’t bought anything yet. We’ll have something else.” As if I had a whole book full of recipes. I’d go online and find something.

“Please,” Jonathan said, “don’t worry about me. Make whatever you planned. I’ll be fine.”

I smiled and nodded, but inside I was in turmoil. I had no idea what to do. This was all Chef Guido’s fault for teaching me how to make only one thing. And now I couldn’t do it.

The next day I hit the supermarket early. To say I was nervous was putting it mildly. I had never had a dinner party before, not even a dinner party with one guest. Tonight I had too many male guests but not enough women. I wracked my brain to come up with someone else, but I had enough on my mind with the lack of a menu.

Hoping the shelves full of fresh produce and the meat department with its slabs of pork, beef and chicken would inspire me, I strolled the aisle of the Marina Safeway pushing a cart and looking, looking, looking for inspiration. That particular Safeway is a known hook-up spot for young singles like myself, but today I didn’t even glance at the single male shoppers. I had more important things demanding my attention. I told myself it was no big deal if the store didn’t have exactly what I needed. If I knew what I needed. As our chef said, it was all about improvising.

I was standing at the meat counter when Lex Fairchild called me back. I was surprised that Bobbi had actually told him I’d called. He was very brusque. For all I knew he blamed me for Vienna’s murder. He said he’d drop the yearbooks off at Dolce’s that morning. I told him we were closed but he could leave them at the front door. He agreed, but he didn’t see what good it would do.

“Vienna was very popular at Prep. She was Spring Fling princess and the vice president of her class. Everyone liked her,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” I said, trying to be mindful of his loss. “She was popular at work too. She had a real eye for fashion and helping customers look their best. I only wish I could be as good as she was,” I said. And that was partly true. If I could be half the saleswoman she was, I’d be happy.

That seemed to mollify him. At least he must have realized I was on his side. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” he said gruffly.

I thanked him and went back to staring at the vast selection of meat. Too vast. How could I choose? Fortunately a kind butcher in a white apron asked if he could help me. I practically leaped over the counter to give him a grateful hug.

“I’m having a dinner party tonight,” I said. “And I don’t know what to have. I was going to do a fish dish with halibut and clams, but one of the guests just told me he’s allergic to shellfish.”

“How about a pork roast?” he asked. “On sale today. Nobody’s allergic to pork that I know of.” He held up the roast so I could see it. “A lot cheaper than your halibut and shellfish too.”

“But what do I do with it?”

“Put it in your Crock-Pot with some wine and onions, sugar, vinegar, soy sauce, ketchup and a few other things.”

“A few other things? What other things?” So far he’d named everything I didn’t have.

“Here’s a recipe,” he said, taking a three-by-five card from a stack on the counter and handing it to me. “It’s easy. It’s foolproof.”

I studied the recipe. It did sound easy. Brown the pork roast in a pan, then put it in the slow cooker with the other stuff and cook it all day.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, feeling the weight of responsibility fall from my shoulders until I realized there was a catch. “Only I don’t have a slow cooker.” Why hadn’t I bought one at the cooking school? Was it because a professional chef would scoff at a lowly Crock-Pot?

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just cook it on top of the stove or in the oven for a few hours in a big heavy pot.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heavens I’d bought one of those. But what did “a few” mean, three or four?

“What should I have with it?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pushing my luck. I looked around. I was his only customer. He didn’t seem to mind helping me. Maybe I wasn’t the only clueless single woman he’d ever seen about to give her first dinner party. “Something simple.”

“Hmm.” He leaned over the counter, his forehead furrowed. “How about some seasoned rice or buttered noodles and a green vegetable? And you can’t go wrong with a loaf of crusty bread. Just put it in the oven for ten minutes before you serve it.”

I just hoped I could remember everything he’d said. I wanted to ask him which green vegetable, but even I was embarrassed to utter such a simple question. And maybe there’d be someone in the produce department who could help me.

I put the roast he’d wrapped up for me into my cart, then I went up and down the aisles, filling the cart with the ingredients printed on the pork roast recipe card, like onions and vinegar, things that the experienced cook would already have in her pantry.

I moved on with determination and speed. The bread was easy, the noodles obvious. But the selection of green vegetables was enormous. I finally decided all on my own to buy
some broccoli. I liked the look of it, and I’d heard it was good for you. I’d figure out how to cook it later.

“Oh, miss.”

I turned around. The butcher was waving to me. “Applesauce,” he said. “Don’t forget some applesauce with your pork. That’s what you need. And about those noodles.”

I stopped and waited, holding my breath.

“Even easier, you could put some small potatoes around the roast, during the last half hour. Save you a lot of trouble.”

I thanked him profusely, waved to him and followed his suggestion by buying a jar of organic applesauce and a bag of small red potatoes. I hoped that was what he meant.

I was sure I’d forgotten something. On the bus ride home with my bags of groceries, I thought—wine. And I thought—dessert. And I thought—another woman guest. I said to myself, “Forget it. That’s it. I can’t cope with another single thing.”

When I got home, I followed the pork roast recipe by browning the meat in a large pot and adding the rest of the ingredients, and then I put the whole thing into the oven. Exhausted, I lay down on my bed. If I’d had a couch in the living room, I would have lain on it, but I’d had to leave my sofa behind when I moved upstairs because it wouldn’t fit. It was old anyway. I’d inherited it from a friend who was leaving town.

I drifted off and slept until my phone rang. It was Nick.

“Rita, how is your dinner coming?” he asked.

“Just fine,” I said sniffing the air. The roast smelled divine, tangy and homey. I couldn’t believe it. It was like a miracle. And I’d done it myself. “How are you?”

“Very well,” he said. “I have a question. My aunt would like to come along. It’s all right, yes?”

I sighed. Maybe it was a Romanian custom to extend hospitality to whoever wanted to join the party. What could I say after Nick had just entertained me with a picnic lunch? “Of course,” I said. “I would be happy to see her. I only hope the food will be up to her standards.” By that I meant it wouldn’t be the Romanian food or pizza with carp that she seemed to favor.

“Never mind about that. She would like to see how you live and so forth,” he said. “And of course she will bring some wine from our country, which is the custom.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, knowing the reputation of Romanian wine, but it would be a conversation piece anyway. And got me off the hook as well.

“That’s very nice of her. I’ll see you both at six.”

I jumped up and peeked at the pot in the oven. The sauce looked rich and savory. I was a genius. I turned the oven down to low and hopped on the bus to go get the yearbooks from Dolce’s.

Fortunately the bus came on time and fortunately the yearbooks were stacked on the front porch of the boutique, so I didn’t even have to get out my key or bother Dolce, though I did want to know if her friend William would be coming to my dinner or not. It didn’t matter. I’d be ready at six. I was anxious to go through the yearbooks, but I promised myself a day and a night off from thinking about Vienna. Besides, I still had work to do. Clean the apartment, wash the windows and set the table.

If I’d been murdered, I doubted Vienna would have spared more than five minutes to think about my death, let alone try to solve the murder. She’d probably just expand her empire to the entire boutique. She and Dolce would go to New York for Fall Fashion Week to see the runway shows
as I’d always wanted to do. They’d study the new trends. They’d stay at the Waldorf Astoria and eat at Sardi’s or Keens Steakhouse. But I was alive and I could still do all those things. Just as soon as I figured out who killed Vienna, I had a feeling my karma would change. I’d be rewarded, preferably in this life, for catching her murderer.

As the hours passed, I grew more and more nervous. I’d put the table with folding chairs in the living room and set places for six, which was tight. But the fact that the walls were bare and there wasn’t much furniture made the partial view of the bridge from the clean windows more prominent and more beautiful.

I was so busy polishing the wineglasses, filling a pitcher with ice water and inserting the potatoes around the roast, I didn’t have time to worry about Meera startling everyone by claiming to be a vampire or about putting the two men in my life together under one roof. I refused to consider whether someone would ask about Vienna, which would cause an awkward silence or Dolce to burst into tears.

At five I decided to change my hair from straight to volumes of waves by washing and blow-drying it, spraying it and then curling it with a curling iron. More spray and I then I got dressed in a pair of baggy trousers with a ruffle at the waist that gave the pants, though tailored, a feminine flair. With them I wore a fitted black tee. I wanted a completely different look than the one I had at Dolce’s. I wanted to send a message that even though I was a savvy businesswoman, I knew how to relax at home and have fun.

At six I was ready, but I was still startled when the front doorbell rang. There was no going back now. My stomach churned with anxiety. I glanced at myself in the hall mirror. I leaned over, shook my head of wavy hair so it didn’t look
like I was trying too hard. Then I checked out my apartment once more, trying to see it with fresh eyes as they would. Would they feel sorry I had to live in such a tiny space? Or would they envy my view and the location in trendy Telegraph Hill, walking distance to Coit Tower and the picturesque Fillmore Steps? Would they like the roast in the oven, or would they just say something polite, then stop for takeout on the way home? Would there be too many awkward silences, or would everyone talk at once?

I pushed the buzzer and called, “Come in,” not knowing which guest it was. It didn’t matter.

Of course Meera would be the first to arrive along with Nick. She was wearing a princess-style Victorian outfit. Her long dress was made of gray silk with a modest white collar, a full skirt and banana-shaped sleeves. If you asked me, I’d say she resembled a governess out of
Jane Eyre
. I didn’t say that, because she was a guest and I was sure she didn’t think of herself as the governess type, but rather as the lady of the house. She carried a large plate covered with a towel, and Nick had two bottles of Romanian wine under his arm.

“I hope you like this red Feteasca Neagra, and a white wine from my country, Tamaioasa Romaneasca. Both very high quality,” he explained as he set them on the kitchen counter.

Since I wasn’t up on my Romanian wines, I was glad to know he’d brought the best. I thanked him and handed him a corkscrew.

“What a fine home you have here,” Meera said. She set her plate down on the table and looked around. “Small but right for you. I bring some
mamaliga
balls,” she said, lifting the cloth off her dish to reveal a dozen crusty yellow balls of something that smelled wonderful. I was beginning
to relax a little. Here was the wine and the appetizers that were missing. “I hope you like them.”