A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (11 page)

“You’re the only one who knew,” screamed the Roma. “You’re the one I told, in secret, about what I saw. I told you because I trusted you. You with all your Roma bullshit. Acting so PC.”  Carmen broke down in sobs. Then she turned to the two armed guards. “Get her out of here. Please, get her out.
She
is the curse.” 

The guards opened the door to the room as Carmen finished speaking.

When one of the guards ushered Emma into the hall, at least a dozen reporters heard Carmen yell, “Traitor!” before he shut the door.

That was when a hundred tiny lights flashed in front of Emma’s eyes.

Julie rang the doorbell ten minutes after she saw her mother on the early morning news. They sat down to talk in Emma’s kitchen.

“Mom,” Julie began, “they had the killer. You were off the hook. Couldn’t you just leave well enough alone? Why did you have to visit Carmen in jail? She crucified you on that video! Did you see the ticker on the bottom of the screen? ‘Star-crossed foodie accused in jailhouse betrayal.’”

Thank goodness, Emma thought, Julie at least had the kindness to bring two lattes and warm cinnamon buns from Claud’s. After seeing herself on the late night news, Emma hadn’t slept a wink. She’d forgotten the milk for her coffee in the car, but didn’t want to brave the reporters lurking in her driveway to go get it. She pointed to the coffee with a weak smile and nodded, barely holding back her tears.

Julie’s voice softened. She gave her mother a hug. “Poor Mom. I figured you might need a little comfort food. Look, Piers and I understand that you mean well. That you were only trying to help Carmen. But we both agree. You are way, way too trusting.”  Bitterness crept back into her voice. “You and your Roma PC.”

Emma bit into the warm bun. All the butter and cinnamon melted in her mouth. Thank goodness, she thought. At least she still had her taste buds. When those went, she would
really
get depressed.

“Funny, that’s what Carmen said,” she mumbled through a mouthful of bun.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Emma sighed. She’d been trying all morning to recall the name of that movie she hated. Now it popped into her head.
No Country for Old Men
. Maybe this was
No
Country for Old Women
. Maybe this was the sign that it was time to move on. She wondered if that was what the Big D was all about. Realizing it was time to move on.

“Honey, thanks for the cinnamon bun,” she added. “Sometimes I think they’re too sweet, but this morning it really hits the spot.”  Emma took another sip of the hot coffee and tried to put things in perspective. “I mean, why am I sooo upset about this? No one’s dead.”

Julie gave her a funny look. “Mom, Natasha Vasiliev’s dead.”

Emma covered her face with her hands. “Right. You’re right. Of course. Someone’s dead. I think what I meant is, I’m not dead. You’re not dead. Piers isn’t dead and Harry’s not dead. That’s what I meant. At least,
we’re
not dead.”

Julie shook her head. “That sounds really selfish, Mom. Don’t say stuff like that. I mean, there are reporters crawling all over the place.”  She stared at her mother. “Are you OK?  I mean, do you need…”

Emma sat back in her chair, bit into the cinnamon bun, took a deep breath and laughed. “Honey, I’m fine. Just fine. But would you do me a favor?  Would you call that Jack Russo fellow and tell him…tell him that under the circumstances, I really don’t feel like going anywhere tonight. Or seeing anybody. He’ll probably be relieved.”

“You really want
me
to call?” Julie asked. “Isn’t that kind of personal?”  She noted the look on her mother’s face, and relented. “All right, give me your cell phone. What’s his number?”

Julie dialed. After a short pause she said a little gruffly, “Hello?  Is this Jack Russo?”

Emma winced. “Don’t sound so unfriendly,” she whispered as Julie waved her quiet.

“This is Julie, Emma’s daughter.”

Pause.

“Yeah, hi. Well, you know, Mom’s not feeling that well. And she asked me to call you to say that she’s not gonna to be able to make it to the Ormon thing tonight. I’m sure you understand.”

Another pause.

“Yes. No. Wait.”  Julie covered the receiver with her hand and whispered. “What do I do?  He wants to talk to you. He knows you’re here.”

“No!” Emma whispered. “Tell him I’m not.”

Julie uncovered the receiver. “No she’s not here, Mr. Russo.”

Pause.

“Right,
Jack
. She’s not here,
Jack
.”

Another short pause.

Julie covered the receiver with her hand again. “He says he heard you. And that you should stop acting childishly and talk to him.”

Emma grabbed the receiver out of Julie’s hand. “I think that’s ridiculous, Jack. Saying I’m being childish. I’ve had a very, very bad couple of days in case you didn’t know.”

Pause.

“OK. So you did. Well. Never mind. I just don’t want to go. Anywhere. With anyone. It’s not about you. So don’t feel sorry for yourself.”

Pause.

“OK. Right. Maybe another time.”

Pause.

“No. I’m not changing my mind, but thanks anyway. Now bye.”  Emma hung up the phone.

“Wow,” Julie rolled her eyes. “He’s a persistent little so-and-so, isn’t he?  Anyway, Mom. It just occurred to me. Since you’re not going out, would you mind babysitting for Harry tonight?  It turns out Piers and I have to go to the Ormon thing ourselves. It was kind of last minute and we don’t have anyone lined up yet.”

“Sure, I’d love to,” Emma immediately agreed. She looked forward to being with Harry any time she could. But why, she wondered, did she suddenly feel used?  “Why do you and Piers have to go to the Ormon thing?” she asked.

“Because after the concert, Clare, Madame Director, wants to talk to Piers and me about a Russian Opera Endowment that Barry Buchanon is making to City Opera in Natasha’s memory. Clare’s having a little post thingie dinner at Jardin. Barry will be there with Lexie. Under duress I heard from my hairdresser. Along with Massimo the conductor, Vera Vasiliev and Sacha Kuragin the bass. Barry’s gift is huge. Clare has hired
me
for all the publicity. It’s kind of a fence mending now that everybody agrees that the gypsy killed Natasha and we had nothing to do with her death. Or with the disaster at the party. Barry has assigned Lexie full responsibility for
that
since hiring the gypsy was
her
idea. If you remember, I was completely against it.”

“Roma,” Emma interrupted, then giggled.

“Mom, are you drunk?” Julie asked.

Emma shook her head. “No. It’s just…”  She sat up a little straighter in her chair and looked her daughter in the eye. “Julie, I just understood something. I mean, just now, when you were talking about the Roma and the endowment, and all those Opera people coming to dinner. Something has suddenly become very clear.”

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Don’t you see?” Emma answered. “Julie, it finally makes sense. What I’m talking about is this. Carmen did
not
kill Natasha. I’m sure of it.”  Emma’s troubled expression had cleared. She looked determined, like someone on a mission.

“Mom, now you’re acting crazy. Carmen was arrested because they found Natasha’s ring among her things. She tried to flee. What’s more, she just turned on you, her friend, like a viper.”

“No!” Emma answered. “That’s what I just understood. Carmen didn’t turn on me like a viper. She turned on me like someone who is
innocent
. Someone who thought she’d been betrayed. Like every other Roma who’s been framed. Carmen did
not
kill Natasha. I’d bet my life on it. Someone else did. And that someone may be sitting with you at dinner after the Ormon thing.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. She was thinking. “Get Jack Russo on the phone,” she added. “I’m going tonight.”

“What?” Julie shook her head. “You’re not babysitting?” 

“No,” Emma replied. “I said, call Jack. I’m going to the concert. With
him
. And I’m going to that dinner with
you
after the show. I’m going to clear Carmen and find out, once and for all, who killed Natasha Vasiliev!”

Julie raised her hands, palms facing forward. “That’s it. I give up, Mom. It’s your life. Do what you want. But
I
am
not
calling Jack Russo again. That is a call you will have to make yourself!”

For the first time in years, dressing for a night with Julie was not a problem. At 4:30 Emma pulled her ancient black velvet Agnes b pants out of the closet along with her even more ancient orange, pink, purple and gold Missoni sweater. Who cared if she looked like a retro designer hippy?  She loved these clothes. And forget heels. She was wearing her comfortable old black Tods. If Jack was looking for a date in stiletto heels who towered six inches above his head, he shouldn’t have invited her.

Speaking of Jack, Emma thought to herself, replaying their last conversation in her head. While he seemed a little surprised at her abrupt change of heart, his voice, at the other end of the line when she phoned, sounded pleased.

“You’re on,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up. Five-thirty sharp. It’ll take an hour to drive to the City. That still leaves plenty of time for dinner.”

“Appetizers,” Emma corrected him. “We’re only having appetizers and some good wine. I have a plan for dinner after the show.”

“
You
have a plan,” Jack repeated, suddenly sounding wary. “Emma, I gotta warn you. I’m a man who doesn’t like surprises. I like to be in control.”

Emma smiled to herself. Yes!  She’d finally found his weak spot. “Don’t be so uptight, Jack. You’re gonna love this. See you at 5:30.”  She hung up the phone.

At 5:30 sharp she was seated by the front door in her classic, fitted, double-breasted black cashmere overcoat from Costco. She peeked out the window. The morning’s news hounds had left her front door, lured by juicier scandals. She had just finished buttoning her coat when she saw headlights turn into her driveway.

The porch light was on. In its glow, a glittering dark blue car seemed to glide down the path like a kinetic sculpture before stopping at the end of her driveway. Emma had expected Jack to pull up in one of those stuffy Mercedes, or a BMW; but she didn’t recognize
this
car. She opened the door and walked onto the porch. Aside from the crunch of the vehicle’s wheels on the gravel, she didn’t hear a sound. A high end Prius? 
Was
there such a thing, she wondered? 

“Love your car,” Emma called over her shoulder while she closed her front door.

Jack had gotten out of the driver’s seat and walked to the passenger side to open her door.

She walked towards him, squinting her eyes in the glare of the headlamps. As she passed the hood, she leaned forward to stare at the insignia.

“A Tesla!”  She couldn’t mask her surprise. “You gotta be kidding, Jack.”  Lately, Piers talked of nothing but how long the wait list was for the car. “Isn’t this is a little over the top?” 

The pride on the short square man’s face as he opened her door was unmistakable.

Without answering her question, he shut the door and returned to the driver’s seat, settling himself comfortably into the incredibly luxurious leather interior.

“You know, Emma” he finally said, not looking at her as he turned on the car, “I’ve had some good fortune; and I’ve also had some rough times. When my wife died, I decided to treat myself to something special. This is the only car I have ever truly
desired
.”

He said “desire” like a man who knew what that word meant.

They drove in silence for a while. It was Jack who broke it.

“So Emma,” he began, “I got a dinner reservation at Jardin. I hope that’s OK. I know the maitre d’. He fit me in on short notice. And what’s this about appetizers?  I was looking forward to a good meal.”

Emma didn’t bother to mask her enthusiasm. “Jardin?  Perfect!  You couldn’t have made a better choice, Jack. And you know the maitre d’?  That will come in handy.”

“Handy for what?”  Jack took his eyes off the road to stare at Emma. They had just hit the two lane construction stretch of highway around Petaluma. “I told you I don’t like surprises.”

“Watch your driving,” Emma ordered before continuing. “OK. Listen carefully. Here’s what we’re doing. I said appetizers because you and I are having dinner
after
the performance at Jardin as guests of Clare Blumberg, the Director of City Opera.”

Jack looked at her again.

She pointed her finger back at the road.

“Why?” he asked. “Is she hitting me up for another donation?  Are you two in cahoots?  I mean, sure I like opera. But it isn’t exactly a cure for cancer, if you know what I mean.”

Emma nodded. After Mary’s sudden death, she knew exactly what he meant. She shook her head. “No. Don’t worry. No donations.”  She paused. “But there
is
one problem. Clare Blumberg hasn’t exactly invited us to her little dinner party. I know about it because my daughter and son-in-law will be there.” 

Then she explained about Carmen’s arrest, that she believed Carmen was innocent, and that she intended to be at the party to help her figure out who really committed the murder.

“So,” she concluded, “what I’m asking you to do is to accompany me somewhere we don’t exactly belong.”

Jack’s answer wasn’t what Emma expected. He shrugged. “OK. I’m used to being places I don’t belong. I been doin’
that
all my life!”

They were past the Sir Francis Drake exit nearing the Golden Gate Bridge, when Jack turned to her again. He was driving 80. Once again Emma waved his eyes back to the road. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

Jack turned back to the road and laughed. “You sounded just like my wife when you said that.” 

Emma noted, however, that the joking comparison was tinged with longing. There was no bitterness in his voice or anger or even regret.

A few seconds later, this time
not
taking his eyes off the road, Jack addressed her again. He began as if he were making an announcement. “You know, Emma. There’s something about you that’s different tonight.”  He hurriedly added. “Not about your looks. Of course, you look great. You always look great. That’s not it. But there
is
something different. I heard it in your voice this morning when you called me back. Did something happen?”

Emma thought about what he’d said. The truth is, he was right. Something
had
happened. She
did
feel different.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Am I really different?”  She paused. “Maybe. Maybe I
do
feel a little more sure of myself.” That was it. “In control.”

Jack agreed. “Yeah. That’s right. You got more confidence all of a sudden. Before, I don’t know. It was like you were apologizing for yourself all the time. Walking on eggshells. I notice a lot of women your age have that problem.”  He squinted at her. “I got a theory about it. Ever play team sports?”

Emma snorted. “No.
Team
sports. What would I play?”  She thought a moment. “OK. Dodge ball.  I played dodge ball in the fifth grade.”

“That’s all?” he laughed.

“Yeah. So what about you?” she replied.

“Me?  I played ice hockey. Forward.”

“Ice hockey?”  Emma couldn’t imagine where this was going. “Oh, right. You grew up on the East Coast. Like in high school?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “High school. College.”

“Ice hockey’s not much of a college sport out here,” Emma replied. “Where’d you go?  UMass?  Boston College?  They’re big hockey schools, aren’t they?”

“Actually, I played for Harvard.” Jack replied. There was a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “We had a pretty good team. A few of us went to the Olympics.”

Ouch! Why, Emma wondered, had she automatically assumed UMass?  Suddenly she felt like Henry Higgins in drag.

“Blue collar profiling aside,” Jack continued, “my theory is that team sports teach confidence. You learn to take a shot. And to take the consequences. Sometimes your shot scores a goal. Most of the time, it doesn’t. But you gotta take the shot. If you don’t play team sports, you don’t learn that. And a lot of women your age never played team sports. So you lack confidence. That’s my theory. OK, not exactly
my
theory. I read it in the Wall Street Journal.”

Emma nodded. “It’s a good theory.”  Then she tried to back pedal. “About the U.Mass comment, Jack. I don’t know. I guess I just don’t automatically think everyone from the East Coast went to Harvard.”

“Especially people who talk like me,” he added. Then he took his eyes off the road again to look at Emma. “Let me tell you something. When I left my friends in Providence, Rhode Island and went to Harvard on a scholarship, and then to the Harvard Business School on financial aid, I vowed never to lose my accent. It’s who I am.”  He took his right hand off the wheel and shook a thick hairy finger at her. “Never forget where you came from, Emma.”

This time she didn’t complain about his driving. Instead, after a moment of silence she said, “But isn’t that the point, Jack?”

“Of what?” he asked.

“Of moving to California,” she replied.

As they sped through the Fast Trac lane into San Francisco, he turned to her again. “You know what I like about you Emma?”  He didn’t wait for a reply. “You’re a smart lady. But what’s more, you’re nice. Me, I’m a VC. I can’t afford to be nice. But the older I get, the more I think there’s a lot to be said for nice.”

Emma still didn’t know what a VC was; but, that night, she decided not to ask.