Murder After a Fashion (13 page)

My doorbell rang. I wiped my eyes and pressed the buzzer. It was Meera. No matter my mixed feelings about her, I had to say I was glad to see her. Once I explained the problem of the green soup and the beets, she whipped out an apron from her large bag and tied it around her waist. Then she chopped up the vegetables, sautéed, blended, heated and seasoned the green soup with little packets she had in her purse. Don’t ask me what they were, I have no idea. As for the beets, she roasted them in my oven and doused them with olive oil and vinegar.

“So they don’t go together?” I said, pointing to the red beets and the green vegetables.

She shook her head vehemently as if I was too stupid to live or leave alone in the kitchen. Then I called a cab and she and I walked out to the front of my house. I was carrying the large pot of soup and the jar Meera had put the beets in. I offered her a ride, but she said no thanks. She wished me well and Jonathan a speedy recovery.

I never found out why she’d come to my house. If I’d asked, I had a feeling she would have said she knew I needed her. She was right about that.

The cab let me and my pot of soup and jar of beets off at a high-rise apartment building in the SOMA neighborhood. I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the tenth floor. The man who got in with me pushed the button for fourteen. He looked vaguely familiar.

“You’re the woman from the funeral,” he said. “I recognize your jacket.”

That was the kind of remark I liked to hear. I knew it was a
stunning, unforgettable jacket. Finally someone had noticed it. I had meant to change clothes, but I hadn’t had time. Luckily I hadn’t spilled any green soup or red beets on it. Not yet.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you a friend of Guido?”

“Was a friend,” he said. “You his girlfriend?”

“No, I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. Who was she?”

“I don’t know. All I know is he was trying to get rid of her.”

“Really?” I felt like I’d seen a crack in a stone wall. Finally some decent information. “Why?”

“Oh, you know, the usual reasons.”

I wanted to say “No, I don’t know the usual reasons.” But I didn’t get a chance because we arrived at my floor, so I got out.

I found Jonathan’s apartment, rang the bell and heard him shout, “Come in.” He was lying on a couch, and even in sweatpants and a T-shirt with his spiky surfer-bum hair standing on end, he still looked to die for.

“Rita,” he said hoarsely, “thank God you’re here.”

I set my soup on a small table. “How are you?” I asked, standing at the end of the couch, looking down at his pale face.

Instead of answering, he groaned and said, “Ever have gallstones? No, of course not. Nobody our age has gallstones. Why me?” he asked.

I shrugged helplessly. If he didn’t know, how would I know? They say doctors make the worst patients, and maybe they were right, because Jonathan did not like being sick.

I tried to distract him by admiring the apartment, which was definitely upscale with ceiling-to-floor windows that
offered great views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay. He said he liked the location, near restaurants, museums and clubs. After recounting his symptoms to me—nausea, vomiting and pain—he finally asked how I was.

“Things are hectic,” I said. “The shop is crazy busy, and I had to go to a funeral today.”

He shook his head. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned death to a sick man.

“What’s that you brought?” he asked. When I told him, he made a face but agreed that was what he was supposed to eat. He pointed to the kitchen and I went in, found a small pan and heated the green soup.

I went back to the living room and asked, “Do you feel like eating?” I sure didn’t.

“No, do you?” he asked.

“Not really. After the funeral, there was a reception at my cooking school.”

“Who died?” he asked. “Maybe you told me but my mind is shot along with my gallbladder.”

“It was the famous chef I told you about. They had a fabulous spread. All kinds of Italian food, frittata, marinated peppers, mushrooms and a delicious tiramisu.”

“Stop,” he said. “You’re not helping. I’m not allowed to have anything delicious. Only green soup and beets.”

“That’s what I brought,” I said. “Try the soup; it may not be as bad as it sounds. At least it’s good for you.”

I put some in a small bowl and brought it to the couch. He sat up and ate a few bites.

“I’m not very hungry,” he said, holding the bowl at arm’s length like it contained poison.

I set the bowl on the table. “Even though you don’t feel
like it, you’re supposed to eat something, aren’t you? Something healthy.”

“Maybe later. Did you make this yourself?”

“No, Meera did. She knows her way around a kitchen. In fact, I’m taking lessons from her soon.”

He flopped back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “Who’s Meera?”

“You met her at my dinner. She’s an older woman who wears long dresses. She calls herself a vampire.”

“You’re taking lessons from a vampire?”

“She’s a good cook,” I said a little defensively. Me, defending Meera? What was the world coming to?

“There was a man in your elevator,” I said, perching on a foot stool next to the couch, “who recognized me from the funeral. I wish I knew who he was because he said something about Guido, the man who was murdered. He lives on the fourteenth floor of your building. Do you know who that might be?”

“Can’t help you,” Jonathan said. “I just moved in here last month and I don’t know anybody. I can’t believe you’re helping the police again.”

“I wish I could, but as usual they don’t want my help.”

“Their loss,” Jonathan said.

“Yes, well…What I found after circulating around the funeral and talking to people, the crowd seemed to be either pro-Guido or anti. In the anti group are the potential suspects like his ex-wife; his brother, who was his rival; and other chefs, whom he supposedly stole recipes from. There were way too many people who didn’t like him. I suppose that’s not unusual for a celebrity chef. Even one who’s so successful. They say chefs tend to be emotional
and difficult and edgy. So who knows?” I said, gazing out the window at the sailboats on the Bay. Jonathan’s eyes were closed, and I was afraid I’d put him to sleep with my long speech. Maybe my voice had a soothing effect on him. I hoped so. Though I was hoping for a more stimulating conversation.

“How about a beet?” I asked after a brief silence.

“I hate beets,” he muttered.

“I didn’t know that. It’s just that they’re good for you. I’ll leave them here. If you get hungry enough, you might want to at least taste them.”

He shook his head.

I couldn’t believe this was the same suave, charming doctor with the five-star bedside manner who’d treated me not too long ago.

I stood by the window, wondering how long I had to stay. Would I want someone hanging around if I felt terrible? Maybe he wanted me to leave but didn’t want to hurt my feelings. “Who’s filling in for you at work?” I asked to make conversation.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Could you hand me those pills on the table over there?”

I brought the bottle and a glass of water to him.

“Thanks,” he said. He popped two pills and swallowed them with the water. Then he closed his eyes again.

“Will you be okay if I leave?” I asked.

He nodded but he didn’t say anything.

“Don’t forget to eat some soup and beets,” I said as I went to the door.

“Wait, Rita.” He propped himself up and managed a weak smile. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it. I really do, and after this is over, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have a
night on the town like last time, only better.” He paused, then he braced himself on one arm. “You’re the best. And you look terrific in that jacket. If I wasn’t sick, I’d tell you to take it off. Everything.”

“Jonathan…”

“Don’t worry, I’m delirious.”

“Just get well. And if you need anything…”

He raised his arm and waved at me, then he sank back down on the couch with a groan.

I felt terrible leaving him alone like that, but what good was I doing standing around talking when he didn’t want me around? But wait. He begged me to come here. He wanted company. Meera outdid herself with the veggie diet and now he didn’t want it. I reminded myself that when I had my concussion and Nick kept coming by with Romanian food I just wanted him to go away. Maybe that’s how Jonathan felt about me. It was nothing personal. I tiptoed out and closed the door softly.

I stood at the elevator and pressed fourteen, hoping I might be able to locate the man from the funeral. I felt that he had something to tell me and would have if we’d had more time in the elevator. Too bad I didn’t know his name or where he lived. Too bad I hadn’t followed him upstairs. But I wasn’t thinking fast enough during that first elevator trip.

There weren’t that many apartments on each floor of this high-rise, so if I just knocked on some doors, maybe I’d find him. It was worth a try. And if I found out something, I’d be one up on Jack Wall. The thought gave me a jolt of satisfaction.

When I got off the elevator on his floor, I knocked on the first door I saw. A woman came to the door wearing a floor-length
gown and bright red lipstick and holding a cigarette holder in her hand. I thought for a moment I’d stumbled into an old movie.

“Yes?” she said.

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m looking for a man I met in the elevator,” I said at last.

“We’re all looking for a man, honey,” she said. “No man here, unfortunately.”

I had a sinking feeling that unless I found Mr. Right in the next year or two, it was likely I’d end up just like her. “I met him at a funeral,” I said.

“Really. So that’s how you meet men these days. I’ve got to get out more.”

I didn’t want to get into a discussion about the unavailability of suitable men and where to meet them in San Francisco, so I continued with my line of questioning.

“He was wearing a dark suit, and he may be Italian. I think he lives on this floor.”

“Maybe it’s Alfredo at number 1409. But I don’t think he’s your type.”

“Thank you.”

I went to 1409 and knocked, but no one answered. Maybe it wasn’t Alfredo. Maybe it was someone who was visiting like me, who didn’t live there at all. I sighed, and then I went from door-to-door on that floor, but had no luck. Until I got to 1418 and he answered, the man from the elevator. He was wearing a pair of dark Zanella slacks and a black Kenzo polo shirt.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m the woman from the elevator. Rita Jewel.”

“Gioccomo Parcisi,” he said, shaking my hand. “You’re the friend of Guido’s from the funeral.”

“Not really a friend. I was in one of his classes, and I was at the funeral. I wanted to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

“Come in,” he said with a sweeping gesture that, along with his name, made me think he had to be Italian. I know it’s not good to stereotype people, but in this case, I couldn’t help it.

Unlike Jonathan’s, this apartment was done completely in stark ultramodern Italian furnishings. A huge white couch and large armchairs were facing the windows. The view was more spectacular than Jonathan’s, and I gasped in admiration.

“Nice, isn’t it?” he said. “Guido said it reminded him of Florence.”

“The view?” I was puzzled. I’d never been to Florence, but I didn’t think it was on the ocean or very hilly.

“No, the apartment. Probably because I had the same Piero Lissoni furniture in my place there.”

“Guido was a good friend of yours?”

“Very good. I’m going to miss him,” he said sadly.

I nodded. “Even though I didn’t know him well, I knew he was an excellent chef and a fine teacher. Do you have any idea who killed him? You said something about a girlfriend.”

“But why would she kill him?” he asked with a frown.

“Maybe she was mad because he tried to dump her. Didn’t you say he was trying to get rid of her? That can be painful.”

“You’re not trying to excuse her, are you?” he asked.

“No, of course not. I don’t even know her. I’m just trying to establish a motive.”

“You sound like a detective.”

I wished Jack Wall could have heard that. “I saw Guido
the night he was murdered. The police think I had something to do with it.”

“Did you?” he asked.

“Of course not. I thought he was great. Of course, he’s the only professional chef I’ve ever known, but still. I had no reason to kill him. I went to the school on Potrero to sign up for more classes. He acted nervous and didn’t let me in. Then later that night I heard about it. I was just wondering…”

“Wondering if his killer was on his way?”

“I was wondering if you knew who his girlfriend was.”

“I never met her,” Gioccomo said. But he didn’t really answer my question. Why not? “Maybe it was one of his students, like you,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of the window. “It’s too terrible. I can’t believe anyone would kill Guido. He has had many girlfriends since his marriage ended, but I don’t believe any one of them ever threatened him.”

“What about his ex-wife?” I asked.

“Gianna? She might have wanted him dead after what he did to her, but she’s not a killer, and she just got here. At least that’s what she told me. I agree with you it might have been a woman, knowing Guido. He was irresistible to women—until it all fell apart, that is.”

I waited, hoping he might elaborate. Or give me the name of his girlfriend. Had she been at the funeral today? Did he mean Guido had had tons of wives and girlfriends and cheated on all of them? He didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.

“So it’s a case of
cherchez la femme
, as they say in France,” I said.

“Cerca la donna.”

He stood at the window watching the street below. I
didn’t want to leave without extracting every ounce of information from the man, and I still had another question.

“Do you know Guido’s brother?” I asked.

“Which one?”

“There’s more than one?”

“It’s a big family,” he explained.

“The one who’s also in the food business.”

“You mean Raymundo.”