Murder After a Fashion (3 page)

“It’s clear to me what’s wrong with you,” she said.

“Oh?” I said. Dolce is very perceptive, and I was afraid she had cottoned to how I was feeling disillusioned about my job, the customers and life in general.

“No murders, no mysteries for you to solve. No police cars outside, no yellow tape around the place. No investigations and no handsome detective hanging around either. This is what you’ve gotten hooked on. Without the excitement of a puzzle to solve, you’re bored, Rita. I knew there was something wrong. I could tell.”

“Me, bored? Not at all,” I insisted. I shook my head to indicate what an absurd idea that was. As if I wanted someone
else I knew to be murdered here at the shop or at their home. As if I enjoyed being hauled down to the police station to answer questions no matter how sexy the detective was. I always thought that Dolce was always right. But not this time. If I secretly longed for another murder on our doorstep, I’d know it, wouldn’t I?

“Those cases were ages ago,” I said, referring to the murder of one of our customers and Vienna’s homicide. “I’m relieved everything’s back to normal.” But she had me worried. Was it possible I was a thrill-seeker junkie? That I really liked being in the middle of a murder investigation? Did I like waking up in the middle of the night worried that either she or I would be accused of a horrible crime? Did I like having nightmares about being locked up on Alcatraz Island in the old crumbling prison on false charges of a white-collar crime like embezzlement or maybe even crimes I’d actually committed, like jaywalking, littering, gambling by buying lottery tickets, speeding or…

There I’d be in my cold dank cell while tourists came by to look at me through the bars. They’d be listening on their earphones to the audio recording of “Doing Time, the Alcatraz Cell-house Tour.” They’d hear, “In cell five fifty-four is Rita Jewel, arrested for interfering in official police business. She waived her right to a court-appointed attorney, preferring to handle her own defense. That was a mistake, since a jury of her peers convicted her of meddling. On the plus side, she’s writing her memoirs on the back of old envelopes and she will be eligible for parole in ten to fifteen years.”

I’d been on a tour of the Alcatraz prison, and that made my nightmares all the more realistic and frightening.

I really didn’t want to be involved in any more crimes. I didn’t want
to invite a violent crime into my life just so I could help solve it. But if someone asked me for my help? What if Detective Wall begged me? I smiled at the thought of him pleading to join him in an investigation. Of course I’d have to say yes. Anyone with a conscience would do the same. Even though I’d be risking being locked up for my trouble.

After our little conversation, Dolce and I both pretended everything was back to normal. I said good night and I’d see her tomorrow. I finally left the shop and my sandals behind. I was glad that day was over.

I stood on the sidewalk for a moment in the blazer and dress Dolce had given me that could surely go from work to cocktails, but they didn’t mean cocktails
by myself
. I had no intention of going into the bar across the street, but I thought I heard someone call my name. When I turned to look, there was just the usual crowd of swinging singles clustered around the entrance to the bar, and not one of them even looked my way. Yet, I felt a pull toward the place as if from a giant magnet. It was downright eerie.

I gave in and headed across the street. I’d just stay for a moment, look around to see if there was anyone I knew, then I’d leave. The doors were open; the crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk. I walked in and threaded my way past a group of hip young twenty-somethings dressed just as you’d expect: the women in skirts above the knee, boots and fitted jackets, the men in dark slacks and button-down shirts. Everyone on their way home from work, just like me. But no one in a dress like mine. I wanted to think I stood out in a good way. But so far no one had given me a second glance.

The noise level was high with the clinking of glasses, the laughter and the loud conversations. While I was debating
whether to stay long enough to order a pineapple martini, listed on the blackboard as tonight’s house special, or a glass of Pinot Noir, I heard someone across the room call my name.

Unfortunately it was
not
one of the so-called men in my life appearing out of nowhere to buy me a drink. It was Meera, Nick’s crazy Romanian aunt, waving to me. There was no way to miss her, since she always dressed in Victorian clothes. Tonight she was wearing a long satin ruby red dress with a full skirt and a bustle. And I thought my outfit was eye-catching.

I wasn’t the only one staring at the vision of a self-proclaimed one-hundred-twenty-plus-year-old on her feet in her high button shoes, gesturing frantically from the corner while calling my name. Heads turned to observe the woman who waved at me, the fringe of her bodice shaking and shimmering with her every movement.

“Rita,” she called, “Rita Jewel.”

Now everyone was staring at me and at her. No doubt wondering how I was connected to this caricature. If they knew she not only claimed to be older than everyone in the bar put together but also insisted she had night vision and immortality, they would roll their eyes or maybe run outside screaming. Which I was sorely tempted to do. But it was not possible for me to run anywhere. I was stuck. Wedged between two groups of twenty-somethings holding glasses in their hands. Meera knew I was there, so I reluctantly made my way to her table, where she already had a drink waiting for me. As if she’d known I would be joining her.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she said and clasped my arm in an iron grip. “I hope you like old-fashioneds. They’re made with bitters, sugar, water and spirits, a twist of lemon and a
maraschino cherry, as you see. It’s the original recipe and quite authentic.”

When she let go of my arm, we sat down and I took a sip from the glass. It wasn’t bad, I had to admit. “I’m surprised the bartender knew how to make something so passé.”

“He didn’t. I had to instruct him. He was very grateful to me for adding to his repertoire.”

“How did you know I’d be here?” I asked. “Or were you expecting someone else?”

She shrugged as if of course she knew I’d be there, since as a vampire she had extrasensory powers and could see into the future.

“I understand you work across the street. I thought you might drop in,” she said. “I haven’t seen you lately.”

“Actually I’m on my way someplace,” I said nervously. God only knew what she’d do next. Follow me home? Throw me to her nephew once again? Force him to get in touch with me even though he didn’t want to? I certainly didn’t want anyone to see me hanging out with this woman in her Victorian costume. Getting stuck with Meera was not what I needed after a tiring day of helping rich women find the perfect outfit for parties, balls, concerts or just hanging out in their mansions. Usually I loved doing just that, but Dolce was right, something was wrong with me today. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe I was tired of life in general. Sitting in this crowded bar hadn’t changed my mind about my job being even more trivial and unimportant than ever.

“I’m going to sign up for a cooking class,” I blurted.

“I’ll go with you,” she said, holding her drink in her jeweled fingers.

“You wouldn’t want to go with me. You don’t need cooking classes.” It was true. I knew that she made interesting
and authentic traditional Romanian dishes. I had sampled them. “Didn’t you tell me your grandmother had taught you everything she knew about cooking back in the Dark Ages?” She’d claimed she was from a long line of excellent cooks.

“Where is the class?” she demanded, ignoring my question and looking up into my face with her big dark eyes.

“A small culinary school on Potrero Hill.” I had no idea if they were still there, but I intended to find out by going there and knocking on the door. I could have called, but I needed a reason to get out and do something.

“And who is the chef, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

If
she could be so bold? Bold was Meera’s middle name.

“I’m hoping to get into a class taught by a certain Italian chef named Guido.”

“Guido Torcelli?” she said so loudly the people at the next table turned to stare at us. I wanted to hide under the table, but as usual Meera was undeterred. “You would pay money to take classes from that famous imposter?”

I blinked rapidly. Now what? She was going to tell me he too was an ageless vampire but a terrible cook? Had he upstaged her at the Cordon Bleu in Paris in another life?

“I know him. And I know he knows nothing,” she said, curling her lower lip and shaking her head. “Worse than nothing. He steals recipes and says they are his. He wrote a cookbook, you know. More than one. All full of stolen recipes. Including my
toba
and
pittie
.”

I must have looked puzzled because she translated. “Dishes using pigs’ feet in aspic.”

I took a drink of my old-fashioned to calm the queasy feeling in my stomach. “I don’t think it’s the same person. He’s Italian. He doesn’t teach Romanian cooking or write about it. No pigs’ feet,” I assured her. But I could tell by her
expression she was not assured. “He does write cookbooks, but they’re completely Italian. Why would he use Romanian recipes if he’s Italian?”

“I don’t know. How should I know? Perhaps because Romanian cuisine is different he wants to set himself apart from all those other boring Italian cooks. But our cooking requires more effort, more native intelligence. Anyone can make pasta fagioli and chicken tetrazzini.” The sneer on her face was unmistakable. “But try making
ciorba de burta
. Which only I can teach you. You don’t want to even go near that charlatan. You are much better taking classes from someone like me,” she said. “Of course, there is no one
like
me.”

I choked on my drink. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Then I said, “I didn’t know you taught cooking.” I could have said, “I would not take any classes from you if you were the last cook standing. Not in this lifetime,” but I was trying to be polite, and with Meera it wasn’t easy. She was very strong willed. But so was I. She didn’t take no for an answer. I’d tried in the past and failed. Most of all, I didn’t want her bad-mouthing me to her nephew, the very attractive Nick Petrescu, whom I was looking forward to seeing again. “I’ve already had a class from him and I found him to be an excellent teacher,” I said resolutely.

“Compared to what?” she asked. “How many professional chefs do you know?”

“Well,” I said, “only that one, but he’s the real deal. I mean, he’s Italian and maybe part French, and he has a TV cooking show. He even gives classes in his chateau in the summer.”

“Does he?” she said, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe anyone could learn to cook on the television. As for the summer, I could give classes in my country too. At the family home near Sibiu in Transylvania. It’s not a measly chateau; it’s a castle
in the beautiful unspoiled countryside with horse-drawn carts for transportation. Very charming. Very authentic. Which is more than I can say for Guido, that phony. Yes, that’s a good idea you’ve given me. If you come to the castle, I will lower my usual fee.”

“You’re too kind,” I said, “but I couldn’t accept.”

“Very well,” she said. “Pay whatever you like. I will tell my poor nephew to join too, then there will be two young people in the class. Nick needs a distraction.”

“Oh?” I said, not wanting to appear too interested. Because the minute I did, Meera would have us betrothed with a wedding planned at the family castle. Though I was neither rich nor titled, she might want Nick to find an American wife so he could get a green card. I wondered why he hadn’t contacted me for several months. I didn’t have to ask. Meera was happy to give me an update.

“He has just returned from a trip to our country where he almost was engaged to a fortune-hunting woman, but luckily her family didn’t approve of him,” she explained, shaking her head. “Not rich enough, I suppose.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “Some people don’t appreciate family history and titles.”

So I was right. Titles were important to some people; others followed the money.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I don’t believe he was heartbroken, since this was an arranged affair. You will be good for him. Cheer him up.”

Like I was in a position to cheer anyone up.

As we left the bar, Meera asked, “This is where you work, no?” pointing to Dolce’s shop across the street.

I nodded.

“I must come by to refresh my wardrobe.”

I was almost speechless picturing Meera leafing through the racks looking for vintage clothes at Dolce’s. She’d be disappointed to find we stick to the basics—Proenza Schouler, Miu Miu, Narciso Rodriguez, Armani, Marc Jacobs…No one she’d ever heard of.

“I’m not sure we have anything you’d like,” I said when I found my voice. As if she’d come across anything at Dolce’s even remotely to her taste or from her era.

“New clothes or not, I would like to see the place from the inside again,” she said.

“So you’ve been there before?” I asked. Why hadn’t I seen her?