The Spia Family Presses On (30 page)

Add an olive oil blend (the kind you can buy in a grocery store) to a large frying pan over a medium heat. When the oil is hot, carefully add the rolls and quickly brown them on all sides. At this point, if you’re secure in your resolve not to drink, you can add
1/2
cup of dry white wine to the pan and cook down. If you can’t have wine in the house, then skip this step and remove the rolls from the pan and drain on a paper towel.

Sauce:

5 or 6 chopped ripe tomatoes that have been peeled (drop the tomatoes in boiling water for no more than a half-minute. Remove with a slotted spoon and tear the skin away from the flesh).

1/4
cup chopped Italian parsley

3 chopped basil leaves

2 tbs. chopped onion

1 to 2 small garlic cloves, chopped

3 tbs. tomato paste

Cook the onion and garlic in any EVOO until tender, but not brown. Add the tomato paste and let fry for about a minute. Add the chopped tomatoes and stir adding one half cup water if sauce looks too thick. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add rolls and let simmer on a back burner, turning every so often for about 1 1/2 hours. Serve over pasta or by itself with crusty Italian bread and a glass of sparkling water. Makes 4 hearty servings, so add a salad and invite some non-drinking friends over. Enjoy!

“I like to have a martini, two at the very most. After three I’m under the table,

after four I’m under the host.”—
Dorothy Parker

Nine o’clock that same night, after all the pickers and guests had gone home, my two aunts and I pulled into the parking lot of Cougar’s Bar and Restaurant on Arnold Road where the third annual Martini Madness Ball, not to be confused with the Martini Madness competition that was held sometime in January, was in full swing. This event was a sort of prelim to the competition and a more formal affair, though the drinks were still poured in those baby plasticware martini glasses somebody designed to keep everyone fairly sober, and still able to taste an assortment of concoctions.

Personally, I never found that “fairly sober” concept even remotely possible.

Leo had phoned me earlier to let me know that he and Nick would be late. Like at this point I even wanted to see Nick ever again. The man was a problem, and if I didn’t figure out who the killer was soon, Spia’s Olive Press would be a fond memory. For each day we were closed down, we collectively lost approximately thirty thousand dollars between the income of the shops, our olive oil store, electricity, upkeep and countless other things. We just couldn’t sustain that loss for very long. I had to figure this thing out, and fast. Too many lives depended on it.

Lisa, true to her code, was glammed up in two shades of gold, ready for a night of some serious partying. No doubt she’d found the designer dress she wore at My Roommate’s Closet on Filmore Street in San Francisco, her favorite boutique, and one that I no longer could afford. Even Lisa’s hospital-issued sling was adorned with gold bling, courtesy of her mom who collected jewelry like coastal kids collect sea shells. I guessed her brother, Henry, had driven her in, and was probably already inside sampling martinis, when I arrived with my mom, Aunt Hetty and Aunt Babe.

We took my mom’s car, a sporty new white Mercedes C350, which she barely drove, but had to own because she thought it made her look taller when she stood next to it. Something about its “squat little body” . . . the car’s body, not my mom’s.

The combination of three competing perfumes was enough to force me to keep the sunroof popped open even though Babe complained that the breeze was mussing up her hair. I knew my mom liked to pour it on heavy when she went out, but I had no idea my aunts had the same bad habit. Between the three of them the car reeked, but none of them seemed to notice.

Hetty was all atwitter in the back seat, hardly able to sit still. She never missed a martini event, even though she technically didn’t drink—which made sense to me now that I’d heard her declaration at the MA meeting. She went for the olives
—
the vodka or gin soaked olives, and by the end of the evening, after she’d pilfered olives from anyone who would give them to her, Hetty would be completely shitfaced.

The last time I attended one of these, at a location I had no memory of, I made an absolute ass out of myself with Leo, yelling at him for something I never could later remember, and ended up passed out in the ladies room while sitting on the toilet after I’d vomited up my guts. Not my best moment. My mom retrieved me after Leo called her, took me home to her house, and I’ve never left.

I was so hoping this wouldn’t be a repeat performance.

My mom, Hetty and Babe were in a hurry to get inside and couldn’t wait for me to park. “Just let us out by the front door, darling,” my mom ordered, her hand resting on the back of my seat. I glanced back in the rearview mirror and caught that she was wearing the Elvis charm bracelet. But hadn’t she said the clasp was broken? I never checked.

Another lie?

Mom continued, “I hate to have to walk through parking lots. They’re way too dark. I might fall and break a hip or something.”

I knew she was exaggerating her frailty, her last bone scan ranked her up in the bones of steel category, but I did as I was told and looked for a spot to pull over.

Mom hated to miss even a minute of the ball and we were already a half-hour late. She liked to be the first to taste some of the more exotic martinis, then chat them up with whoever would listen as if she was the expert. Afterward, as soon as she arrived home she’d write commentary about them on her blog, if she wasn’t too wasted. Of course, it was the olive factor that dominated all observations. Mom believed that without the venerable olive, there would be no martini.

I pulled up in front, and stopped. The three women were out of the car before I could slide the gear into park.

“See you inside,” Mom said, as she exited the car. Of course, before she took off for the party, she had to linger up next to her car, especially since bank-teller Liz Harrington, a woman my mom disliked ever since she confessed she didn’t care for the taste of olive oil and only used Canola oil, was pacing the front of the restaurant.

Aunt Babe, however, clearly didn’t care about anything or anyone and made a beeline for the open front door, tossing her vintage gray fox stole around her bare shoulders as she swung her hips in total siren fashion. She and Hetty hadn’t exchanged two words since I picked them up. I could tell they’d been fighting, but had decided to be civil to each other for the sake of the martini.

Of course, Aunt Babe had insisted on sitting in the front seat, and this time Hetty didn’t argue about taking the back, even though she usually got car sick, which didn’t seem to bother her on the drive over tonight. I wondered if that was simply another of her tall tales so she would always get the passenger seat.

Funny how a good murder could clear the air in this family.

“That woman gives me a rash,” Mom said, referring to Liz, and not Babe. “Why is she here, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” I said.

“Now why would I want to do that? The woman eats Canola oil. Who eats oil that isn’t even a food? There’s no such thing as a canola. It’s just something those tricky Canadians mixed up out of rape seed ‘cause they had too many plants. Did you know that pure rape seed oil will kill you? Even insects won’t eat the rape weed because it’s so poisonous, but them tricky Canadians found a way to make it pass poison standards and now they tout it as a wonder oil. Yeah, it’s a wonder all right . . . a wonder why people eat that crap when they could be eating something good for them, like olive oil. Its name should be a clue: rape. That’s what those Canadians are doing, raping everybody out of their health.”

“Mom, I thought you discussed this with your shrink. Canola oil is an entire industry. You’re one person. You can’t do anything about it. Just try to have a good time tonight and stop obsessing over the Canadians.”

“How can I when I have to stare at that damn Liz Harrington?” She leaned in and whispered. “I bet she’s Canadian.”

“Even if she is, that doesn’t make her evil.”

“No, but it makes her stupid for believing in their oil.”

“Mom. Surrender. You can’t save everyone.”

She sighed. “Such a burden I have to carry.” She slammed the door shut.

But she wasn’t quite finished with me. “Be careful where you park my car. I don’t want any dings in my doors, or any rocks flying up and nicking the paint. And don’t, under any circumstances, park in that dirt lot next to the paved one. Benny parked there last week and ended up with a nail in his tire. He was lucky it didn’t go flat before he left. The place is full of all kinds of pokey things. Try to park on the end of a row or, better still take up two spaces. That’s the best.”

“Will do,” I said.

I found that in these types of situations it was best to simply agree with her then do whatever worked. It saved a lot of time.

Satisfied that I would heed her warnings, she finally smiled and walked off toward the open door.

Aunt Hetty hung around my window waiting to give me a last minute fashion critique, no doubt. I knew this because periodically Hetty noticed what I wore or how I looked. I didn’t know why, exactly, I just knew when the onslaught was about to begin and tried to brace myself as best I could.

I sat up straight and smiled out at her completely prepared for the commentary.

“Is that hairdo some kinda new style?” she asked completely serious. I had tucked my wet hair in an oversized clip on the top of my head. Admittedly, it wasn’t my best look, but who was she to criticize?

“No. I just didn’t get the time to
—
”

“What?” She leaned in closer, trying to hear over the roar of passing cars.

“I’ll fix it inside,” I shouted. “My hair. I’ll comb it inside.”

“You don’t have to get nasty about it.” She unfolded herself and stood up.

“I’m not. I mean
—
”

“You’re darn tootin’ you’re mean. Huh!” And she flounced off to join my mom and Aunt Babe, no doubt telling them what a nasty person I was.

Granted, Hetty was right about my hair, I’d been too distraught to think about hair after my shower, and I hadn’t been able to face the mirror, so no makeup. However, the dress was fairly new, and the red heels were still somewhat trendy. That should have counted for something.

The woman clearly had a bad attitude.

I drove off thinking how I had reached an all time low in fashion and tried to figure out what that meant to my future as a diva while I circled the paved lot searching for a parking spot. After ten frustrating minutes, I entered the dreaded dirt parking lot, which also seemed full. The lighting was almost nonexistent, but despite the lack of illumination I spotted a tight open space between an old blue Chevy pickup and a suspiciously familiar-looking black Tundra, sans plates, parked at an angle.

“What are the odds?” I said aloud, as I pulled my mom’s car into the space mere inches away from the blue Chevy.

I could only hope the Chevy didn’t have a passenger who would ding my mom’s door or there would be hell to pay in the morning.

I slithered out, and immediately streaked tan dirt on my dress from the mud encrusted Chevy. When I threw my black shawl around my shoulders thinking it would cover the stain, it snagged something on the truck’s side mirror, and as I gently pulled the shawl toward me the sharp something naturally ripped a huge hole in the black mesh.

Okay, it didn’t matter. It was dark in the bar. No one would notice. I wrapped the now badly torn shawl around my shoulders so the rip was hidden, kind of, and I told myself the mud smear was hardly visible.

I was doing fine as I made my way around my mom’s car to check out the Tundra until I realized that my open-toed heels were sinking into the dirt and with each step I could now feel the grit between my bare toes.

Telling myself this was a naive move, that if the local Sheriffs couldn’t find the Tundra after Jade gave them a detailed description, the odds of me running into it out in a parking lot were a million-to-one. The driver probably had it stashed away in some secret garage or was busy getting a new paint job down in Mexico.

I couldn’t see inside without pulling myself up on the running board, which was no easy task in heels when the door was still closed, but I somehow managed, using the side mirror for support.

And there on the front seat, in the glow of possibly the worst imitation of a street light in all of Sonoma, sat the million-to-one cowboy hat and Chanel shades.

Our road warrior was hiding in plain sight, and now all I had to do was pick him out of a couple hundred people at the ball. Which shouldn’t be too difficult, considering not many of my family members attended this shindig.

Headlights from another car hit the side mirror I was holding on to and startled me. I let go of the mirror, lost my footing, bounced off my mom’s car right behind me, slid down into the black dust, and some poky thing bit me right in the ass.