Murder After a Fashion (16 page)

What, a compliment from Jack? I almost dropped my coffee cup. Sometimes he surprises me that way.

“Was that intentional?” he asked.

“My setting myself on fire? No, but I would have done it for the cause of solving Guido’s murder. That’s the kind of girl I am,” I said. “What did you think?”

“Later,” he said.

He was right not to discuss the place and especially not the chef here on the premises. But I was dying to know. I was also dying to know what that slip of paper was I’d found on the floor. The original note from the bartender to Jack? I could only hope.

Jack left a hefty tip for the waiter, and after our coffee we went out to find our chauffeur.

Charlie was leaning against the car talking to another chauffeur. He held the door open for us and thanked Jack for the dinner, which he said was first class. “The risotto was fine,” he said.

“Charlie’s a vegetarian,” Jack explained.

“I see.” I was bursting to talk about the chef, but Jack shook his head and said to wait. It turned out that later meant at my house. He told Charlie he’d give him a call when he was ready to leave, and Charlie drove away in the Mercedes.

I offered Jack more coffee from my kitchen, but he turned it
down, probably figuring it wouldn’t compare with the espresso we’d just had, which was correct. Or maybe he didn’t need another stimulant tonight.

He sat in the one comfortable chair in the living room with his legs stretched out in front of him, and I sat on the couch with my feet curled up underneath me.

“At least we got a free dinner out of it,” I said.

“Thanks to you,” he said. “Sure you didn’t do that on purpose?”

“I could have if I’d thought of it. You don’t think Eduardo had anything to do with the murder, do you?”

“Sounds like he had a good alibi,” Jack said.

“Unless he could have slipped away between courses and went across town to kill his brother. But why? A food fight? A dispute over a recipe? Family matters? And why didn’t the brother go to the funeral? I didn’t buy his excuse. There was something going on between them, and it wasn’t good.”

“What about the others?” Jack asked.

“Others as in the bartender?” I asked. “Who I assume is his cousin.”

“Forget the bartender,” he said. “There’s nothing there.”

“If you say so,” I said. But if there was nothing there, why didn’t he share that nothing with me? “It has to be family. It’s always family. If it wasn’t his cousin or a brother, then how about his ex-wife?”

“Who, I understand, was in Italy when Guido was murdered.”

“That’s what she said, but we have no proof, do we?”

Jack didn’t answer. I took that as a no.

“Who was the woman you were talking to at the reception?”

“The one with the hat? It was Diana Van Sloat. Wait a
minute, she told me you’d interviewed her and now you’re asking me who she is?”

“Couldn’t recognize her with that hat.”

“It was a pillbox,” I reminded him. “No brim.”

He shrugged, but I thought he wasn’t being straight with me. The question was, why?

“She say anything interesting?” he asked casually. A little too casually.

“Many things interesting. She invited me to join her jewelry workshop and her tour of the zoo. She’s one of Dolce’s best customers. I assume you’ll be interviewing all the customers as well as her relatives.” I paused. He didn’t confirm or deny it. “Am I right?”

“We don’t publish the list of persons of interest,” he said with a half smile. “To protect those like yourself.”

“I’m still a person of interest?” I demanded. “When you know perfectly well I couldn’t kill a fly. And neither would Diana.” I took a breath before I continued, though sometimes I wonder why I bother. “What about any disgruntled students? You have a list, don’t you?” I asked. “Guido was a wonderful teacher, but he demanded the best from us. Maybe there are some people who take cooking classes as a lark. Guido wouldn’t approve of that. He could be critical. Some people can’t take criticism. They have thin skin. As a teacher, he gave his all to fine cuisine and he expected the students to take it seriously.”

“Are you saying someone didn’t and they got into an argument with him?”

“Isn’t it possible? Is it a coincidence the murder took place right after his class? You have the class list; who’s on it?”

Jack didn’t answer. Of course not. He didn’t want me to
go knocking on doors asking the members of that class if they’d shot Guido with their antique pistol because he’d insulted them. Instead, he’d do it himself because that was the logical thing to do.

He gave me a long thoughtful look. I admit even in the midst of this murder investigation those looks had the power to curl my toes. I tried to think. Was it something I’d said that resonated with him? If so, why didn’t he say so and give me credit? Because he didn’t want any compliments to go to my head, that was why. No danger there.

Then he stood and said he had to leave. I walked him to the door, and he thanked me for my part in the investigation. It was about as romantic as saying good-bye to your buddy after doing the graveyard shift. That’s how eager he looked to be leaving.

“And thanks again for setting yourself on fire,” he said.

“Anything to help the investigation,” I said.

“I’ll get you a new shawl.”

I was about to say forget it, but then I remembered that Jack was not poor and I was. So I said, “Come by the shop. We have some.”

For a long moment we stood at the door looking at each other, and I felt the tension rise. Would he or wouldn’t he? Was he using me or wasn’t he? He finally took me by the shoulders and kissed me. Not once, not twice, but many times. I kissed him back. My knees shook, my head spun. After an eternity, he said, “Be careful,” and left. I could swear I heard him whistling as he walked down the stairs. The kisses were as hard to figure out as Jack himself. Did they mean thank you? I like you? I wish you would stay away from murders so we could get something going? Or
all of the above. And why did he tell me to be careful? Of what? Of whom?

I went into the bathroom and looked at my face. My lips looked bruised, and I felt like I’d been stung. The man could kiss. The question was how many other women was he kissing? And where was he going from here? To the Fior d’Italia to interview Raymundo, the other brother? Wherever it was, I wasn’t invited. I didn’t like being left out. Jack knew that. Was that why he kissed me, to distract me? It almost worked.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and fished out the paper I’d found at the restaurant. It said, “I have to talk to you.” I turned it over and over. No signature. If it had come from the bartender, how had Jack known that? And what had he said when they got together? Damn Jack for not confiding in me after all I’d done for him, including setting myself on fire. Kissing was fine, more than fine. But as usual, I wanted more.

Now what?

Naturally Dolce wanted to know how it went with Jack. I told her we’d accomplished what we set out to do.

“You got to know each other better?” she asked anxiously as she stopped pushing a wheeled rack of coats from the hall to the great room.

“I’m not sure about that,” I said. “But we did get to meet Eduardo, the chef who is Guido’s brother, thanks to my setting my shawl on fire. Otherwise I don’t think he would have come out of the kitchen.”

That information caused Dolce to sit down on a velvet chaise and fan her face. “I hope Detective Wall appreciated your gesture.”

“Hard to tell with him,” I said, feeling my face heat up with the memory of his kisses. “But Eduardo said he was at work the night of the murder and at work the day of the funeral. So there we are. Nowhere. Unless…”

“It’s true that chefs work long hours,” Dolce said.

“Isn’t it true that they take breaks also?” I asked. “Step outside for a cigarette or a quick trip across town to knock off a rival? And who would notice?”

“You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” Dolce said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “The strangest thing was that Jack kept asking me about Diana Van Sloat. When I’d only just met her at the funeral.”

Dolce frowned. “Funny you should say that. She just called me and said the police want to talk to her again. I assured her all of our customers were being questioned so she wouldn’t worry, but of course they aren’t.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s the reason they’re focusing on her all of a sudden?”

“I told her you might be able to find out.”

“I wish I could. Sometimes I think Jack tells me less than he would if we, if I…”

“If you two weren’t romantically linked?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I just don’t want any other customers to hear she’s a…whatever she is,” Dolce said.

She didn’t want to say “suspect,” or “person of interest,” but what else could we think? Of all the suspicious people at the funeral with their various motives to kill Guido, Diana was the last person I’d ever question. What was wrong with Jack?

“This may be off the subject,” Dolce said after a long silence, “but I have to ask. Which of the three men—the detective, the Romanian or the doctor—do you prefer?”

I was relieved she’d focused on me for a change, and not on the murder. “As if I had a choice,” I said. “I don’t. Besides
that, the trouble is there’s something wrong with each one of them. Dating a doctor is hard because even if they’re off duty, they are responsible for the life and death of their patients. Plus they’re often on call and a date could be interrupted at any time. Not that I’d mind. After all, who wouldn’t want to see Jonathan when they’re sick? I do have an excuse to get in touch with him now, so I will. Then there’s Nick. He’s different and athletic, but he’s hard to figure out. Maybe because he’s foreign and his aunt is a zombie. I should call and invite him over for dinner or something. As for Jack Wall, I see him often enough, but he may just be using me to solve this murder for him.” I sighed.

“Rita, you should definitely not sit back and wait for them to call. Besides, there’s something wrong with each one of all of us,” she said. “If you’re looking for perfection, you’re looking in the wrong place. There’s no such thing in the human race.”

“I know,” I said. Was that my problem, I was expecting too much from people? I wished that was all it was. But what really worried me was that none of the three had indicated that I was number one on their list. Dolce was right. It was up to me to call them and get something going. This wasn’t the seventies; this was a new century, and I should take advantage of being a woman and in charge of my own destiny.

I waited on customers all morning, showing more and more long dresses.

“There’s long and there’s longer,” I explained to Patti French, one of our best customers. “Celebrities have been wearing long skirts for years. Now we’re finally catching up.” It’s a real break for the shop when a new item comes along. Everyone has to have one.

As usual Patti was one of the first to jump on the bandwagon. She could wear anything and look good, but these long dresses were made for her.

“These long skirts were made for me,” she said, looking at herself in the full-length mirror, pleased with the pleated Catherine Malandrino maxi skirt she’d tried on. “Don’t you think?”

I agreed. “It’s a timeless silhouette,” I said, “that elongates the body. Not that yours needs elongating,” I assured her. “You can wear flats or flat boots with that. I would also suggest bangles and big earrings.”

Patti looked at her pal Sadie, whom she’d brought along today to give her opinion. “Rita is just the best,” she told Sadie, and I smiled modestly. “She knows everything about clothes and accessories, and she even found out who killed my poor sister-in-law.”

“Well,” I said, “that was just a lucky break.”

“For you, yes, but what about that poor chef who was murdered last week? Know anything about that? If I were the police, I’d be pounding on your door asking for your help.”

“I have been called in on that case,” I admitted. I didn’t mention that I’d been called in and warned to stay out of it. No one else needed to know that. After all, I had my reputation to think of.

“Any idea who did it?” Patti asked, slipping on a pair of Bloch luxury ballet flats I’d brought out. “You can count on me to be discreet.”