Dying for a Taste (4 page)

Without warning, I felt desperately hot, claustrophobic almost. For the hundredth or maybe the thousandth time, I marveled at how fast they came on. “Hot flash,” I explained to Tony, who had turned back around at the sudden movement as I pulled off my wool blazer. “Don’t be alarmed. They’ve been happening to me a lot lately.”

“Really?” He was looking at me funny, and I figured I knew why. “I know. I’m not even forty yet. But lucky me, I seem to be starting early.”

“Should I open the window? That’s what Letta always wanted. She had them too sometimes, especially at night.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine now. They tend to pass quickly, thank God.”

Tony sat back down. “So anyway, I told the police I don’t think Javier could have done it. In fact, though I didn’t mention this to the cops, Letta said to me a couple weeks ago that she thought he was in love with her.” He shook his head. “Poor, ignorant
chalupa
.” I detected bragging in his tone, that Letta would of course choose him over Javier. “I mean,” he went on after a pause, “why would someone who was in love with her want to kill her?”

“I don’t know why
anyone
would want to kill her,” I said.

***

The next item on my agenda was stopping by my old law firm. Parking in the corner space, as far from the partners’ gleaming Porsches and Jags as possible, just like I used to do when I’d worked there, I crossed the lot to the entrance and stopped at the front desk.

“Good morning, Sally,” said the receptionist, Terri. She had that awkward look that people tend to get when they know something horrible has just happened in your life. “I’m so sorry to hear about your aunt. What brings you here?”

“Monica said she was going to leave a packet for me to pick up.”

“Oh, lemme have a look.” Terri flipped through a stack of files and envelopes sitting next to the phone. “Here it is,” she said, and handed me a manila folder, my name scrawled across the front.

“Thanks.” I returned to my car and got in. I knew what was inside: the trust documents that Monica, the firm’s probate attorney, had drafted for my aunt. I’d introduced the two of them years ago and had also agreed to be Letta’s successor trustee, which status had now been triggered by her death. But I didn’t know any of the provisions she had made.

After reading through the papers carefully, I replaced them in the envelope and set it down on the passenger seat. Staring vacantly out the front window at the redwood grove across the street, I found myself unable to move.

She’d given me the restaurant.

My prediction to Javier proved to be accurate: Gauguin was indeed packed when I showed up there at seven thirty the next evening. So much so that I had to elbow my way through the animated and boisterous crowd to get to the reception desk. Nothing like a murder to stir folks up.

Though, to be fair, there were also all the flowers and other tributes that had been left outside the restaurant over the past two days. Bouquets, cards, stuffed animals, and even a couple baskets of fruit lined Gauguin’s low bamboo fence. Not fifty deep, like at Buckingham Palace after Princess Diana died, but there must have been at least a hundred of them there at Gauguin. I’d had no idea so many people even knew Letta; she’d seemed to keep herself so apart from folks in general. But then again, maybe this was simply a show of solidarity—not so much about Letta herself as about the horrific loss of one of our community.

Gloria, the hostess that night, spotted me from afar (my height does have its advantages) and pointed to the far wall, under the large woodblock print of a taro plant. Mouthing a
silent “thank you,” I made my way to where Eric was already seated, a half-finished Martini and the
New York Times
crossword puzzle on the white tablecloth in front of him.

He’d called me at work that morning and asked to meet for dinner, saying he had more information from the police I should know about. Dad wasn’t too happy when I told him I’d be leaving Solari’s early that night, but I knew Elena would be able to handle it fine without me. Still reeling from learning the provisions of my aunt’s trust, I’d suggested Gauguin for our meal.

He rose to give me a hug and then pulled out my chair, a gesture I had told him countless times I find to be annoying. I didn’t say anything on this occasion but did pick up his glass and take a large swallow as a form of private retribution.

“So how you holding up?” he asked once I’d set his drink down and taken my seat.

“I’ll be fine once I have my own cocktail.” I swiveled in my chair to try to catch the attention of someone to get my bar order.

“No, really.” Eric tucked the crossword into the briefcase at his feet and then, leaning forward, looked me in the eyes. “I’m serious, Sal. How
are
you doing?”

I let out a sigh. I honestly didn’t know how I was doing and had been doing my best to avoid thinking about the subject. I can get pretty worked up about stuff in my life: my job, relationships, even a baseball game or a meal. And now with my hormones all out of whack, it was even worse. But I’m also a pro at the denial game. So although I can sometimes be over-the-top emotional, I’m not at all crazy about analyzing where those feelings may be coming from.

Eric, on the other hand, is tenacious and is always stubbornly trying to force me to examine my feelings—to look inside, delve into places I don’t want to go. I suppose that’s one of the reasons we split up. I find it far easier to simply ignore those pesky emotions, hoping they’ll just disappear, an attitude that never fails to drive him bonkers.

But best to play the game his way right now. “I guess I’m okay—all things considered.” I took a sip of water and set the heavy glass back down. “It’s just that I feel like it’s only recently that I was really getting to know Letta. That—after what, has it really been nine years since she came back to town?—I’d finally cracked her shell, and we were finally becoming close. Not just the kind of relationship you have because you happen to be related by blood, but real
friends
. But it was just the beginning, and I was so looking forward to getting to know her even better.” I sighed again. “Now I’ll never have that chance. I dunno . . . I guess I just feel robbed somehow.”

I had been studying the intricate napkin-folding job before me, which looked like a sort of white linen bird of paradise, without paying attention to Eric. So I was surprised when he reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. I looked up at him, suddenly self-conscious that my eyes were welling up.

Eric was about to say something when Brandon approached the table to take my drink order. I withdrew my hand and quickly used my fingers to wipe away the tears.

“Brandon,” I said, sitting up straight and trying to regain my composure, “I must say I’m a little surprised to see you here tonight.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know if I’d freak out, coming back again so soon,” he said. “You know, after finding her like that. But I really need the money, so I didn’t want to give up my shift.” He scooted over and allowed Gloria to pass with a threesome being seated at the next table, and then continued. “But I have to admit,” Brandon said, leaning closer to us, “it is a little weird being here. After all, they don’t know who did it, do they?” He looked quickly about him. “I mean, it could be someone here . . .
tonight
, right?”

I watched Brandon as he headed to the bar with my order. When I turned back, Eric had that look he gets when he’s convinced he’s been right about something. “What?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking.

“He’s not the only one,” he said. “Nobody’s going to come out and say it, of course, but all the staff—you know, they’ve heard it was Javier’s knife. And they’re just that little bit worried it might in fact be him that did it.”

I fiddled with my table setting: shaking out my napkin and smoothing it out on my lap, readjusting the positions of my flatware and water glass, doing my best to avoid eye contact. I did not want to be having this conversation, did not want to think about the possibility that Javier could be the one. When I finally glanced up, Eric was still staring at me. “Okay,” I said, “so what’s this new information you have?”

“I got a copy of the crime scene notes and some of the witness interview notes from one of the detectives on Letta’s case. It was definitely Javier’s knife that was used for the stabbing. And Letta’s key chain, with her key to the knife cabinet, was in her purse. Since there’s no evidence of any forced entry, either on the restaurant doors or on the cabinet, and since no
one else but Javier has a key to the cabinet, it’s looking more and more like he’s the only one who could have done it.”

I didn’t say anything, and Eric adjusted his glasses and took a sip of Martini before going on. “Vargas is convinced he’s the one. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrested him pretty soon. Unless, of course, some new evidence emerges,” he added.

I had continued to fuss with my silverware while Eric was speaking but withdrew my arms as Brandon returned and set down my bourbon-rocks. “Would you like to hear the specials?” he asked.

“Oh.” Eating was the last thing on my mind right at that moment, but we were there for dinner after all. “Sure.”

Gauguin is noted for its fresh fish and changes its seafood menu weekly. Seared ahi with papaya chutney, broiled mahi-mahi with a red miso glaze, and panko-encrusted shrimp with house-made wasabi mayonnaise were what Javier had come up with for that week’s specials. He certainly had come a long way from his days as a busboy when he first started at Gauguin. Letta had taught him well.

Brandon left us to ponder our choices, and I considered the fact that Letta would never again get to taste her beloved Polynesian-French cuisine. Which immediately put me back into my funk.

“Can I look at the notes you got?” I asked.

“Yeah. I figured you’d want to see them, so I made a copy for you.” Eric rummaged through his briefcase and came up with a sheaf of papers stapled together.

“Thanks.” I took the papers and flipped through them—at least twenty pages—before shoving them into my bag.

We then set to work examining the menu. After careful thought (I always have a hard time making up my mind about what to order), I decided on the seared tuna. Eric chose the rib-eye steak, rare, with garlic mashed potatoes. Knowing what a wine snob he was, I told him to go ahead and pick one for us, and he ordered a bottle of the Beringer Merlot.

“
Sideways
be damned,” he said to Brandon, who laughed politely at this well-worn joke.

After Brandon left, I said, “Well, I have some news, too.” Eric raised his brow as I paused for dramatic effect, sipping my Maker’s Mark. “I read Letta’s trust and pour-over will today. She left her house and that land she has in Hawai‘i to my dad.” Setting down my glass, I returned Eric’s gaze. “And she gave me the restaurant.”

He almost spit out his mouthful of gin. “You?” he sputtered after managing to swallow and then wiping his chin with a napkin. “You mean to tell me
you
now own Gauguin?”

“Well, there’s the waiting period before the estate can be distributed, of course . . . But yeah. I guess I do.” I slowly scanned the walls around me. “And however bizarre you think that is, all I can say is, multiply that by five gajillion and that’s how bizarre it is for me.”

“So I gather she hadn’t told you . . . that you were her beneficiary?”

I shook my head. “I never had a clue.”

“But really,” Eric said, “when you think about it, it’s not all
that
weird that she’d give it to you. I mean, who else would make any sense?”

I’d been obsessing about her bequest for the past twenty-four hours and had eventually come to the same conclusion.
“True. Other than my dad, I am her closest relation. And no matter how much she tried to act like she’d left it all behind her, she was still Italian at her core. You know,
famiglia
,” I said with an exaggerated intonation and a wave of the hands, “so I don’t imagine she even considered leaving it to anyone outside the family. But I bet she really didn’t want Dad taking over Gauguin, given how she felt about Solari’s—you know, that it’s way too old school, with its veal parmesan and chicken
piccata
. She probably was afraid he’d turn it into something like that if he got hold of it.”

Brandon arrived with the wine and poured some for each of us. Since we were still working on our cocktails, there were now six glasses crowding the small table. Eric swirled his Merlot and examined its ruby color.

“Yes,” he said, returning to my last comment, “God knows what Mario would have done to Gauguin’s wine list.”

“Don’t even go there,” I said with a short laugh. “Besides, Dad already owns a restaurant, so it makes sense that she gave him the house instead of Gauguin. I imagine he’ll be pretty relieved about it, actually.”

“You haven’t told Mario yet?” Eric grinned. “I get it: you’re chicken—afraid of how he’ll react when he learns you’ve inherited the place. ’Cause it means now you’ll be leaving Solari’s. Again.”

“It does
not
necessarily mean that,” I said with more sharpness than I’d intended. “I have no idea what it means or what I’m going to do. I’m still just trying to get used to the fact that Letta is gone.”

I stared at the woodblock print above Eric’s head, noting the fluid lines the artist had used to outline the taro leaves.
“But getting back to why she gave it to me, I dunno . . . At least I worked here a few times and got to know some of what the whole ‘foodie’ thing is all about. And who knows, maybe over the last few years, the closer we got . . . Well, maybe she just started to, you know, trust me in some fundamental way.” I finished the bourbon and set the glass down with a shake of the head. “But, man, it sure is weird. All of sudden, I own Gauguin?”

Weird, too, I was thinking, because she’d made the provisions of her will back when I was still working as an attorney, long before I’d returned to the restaurant business. It was as if she’d known, before me, that the law and I were not such a great fit after all.

I was about to mention this to Eric but then noticed that, though listening and nodding, his eyes were tracking a woman in a tight sweater crossing the room. Something in my chest tightened. Jealousy? I shook off the thought. We’d broken up years ago, after all. And a good thing, too: here I was pouring my guts out to the guy, and he couldn’t even keep his eyes from bugging out over a pair of breasts?

Once the woman disappeared out the front door, his focus returned to me. “Did Letta ever work at Solari’s?” he asked.

“Yeah, when she was a kid, I’m sure, just like I did. Hell, I bussed tables there from the time I was big enough to carry a dish tray, and then my folks had me doing odd jobs at the place all through high school. I bet Nonno Salvatore and Nonna Giovanna did the same thing with Letta and Dad.”

“Letta didn’t take to it, I gather.”

“Not much. As soon as she finished high school she skedaddled up to Berkeley. Mind you, this was the early
seventies—you know, those halcyon days of peace, love, and whole wheat bread. So I bet lots of her friends were doing the same thing.”

Eric chuckled. “Yeah, right. I’ll take my Bombay Sapphire any day over what they were ingesting back then.” He drained his Martini and exhaled in satisfaction. “Hey, speaking of whole wheat bread, didn’t you tell me she worked for Chez Panisse for a while?”

“Oh God, that’s a great story. You should hear Dad talk about how furious their
papà
was when he learned that Letta had started working at ‘that hippie place,’ as Nonno referred to it.” I did my best to imitate Salvatore’s lilting Italian cadence, like my father always did: “If she had-a wanted to be a cook, why couldn’t she have come back home, where I could-a taught her how to make
real
food:
lasagne col pesto
or
burida
stewed with anchovies that I catch with my own hands. Not that rabbit food they eat up there in Berkeley.”

Eric and I laughed—more at my terrible, fake accent than anything else—but when he excused himself to go to the restroom, I found myself feeling a bit down again. Why hadn’t I taken the opportunity to spend more time with my aunt when I’d had the chance?

As so often seems be the case, our plates arrived while Eric was still gone. After he returned, we ate without doing much talking. This was unusual for us, but Eric seemed to sense my changed mood.

I couldn’t help thinking about Letta. Everywhere I looked, there was something to remind me of her: the frosted-glass banana-leaf sconces she had special ordered from Thailand, the bamboo-motif flatware she had brought back in her
luggage from Indonesia, the framed woodblock prints on the walls from the Big Island of Hawai‘i. It was so strange being in Gauguin and not having her there like she always was, bouncing from table to table and chatting up the customers.