A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (17 page)

“Like what?” Emma asked.

“That Lexie bad mouthed Natasha all over the Honorage Spa. Called her a whore. Natasha was scared of Lexie. Some bouncer in the City even followed Natasha home one night from rehearsal when Natasha was an Ormon Fellow. The guy told her he’d mess up her pretty face if Natasha didn’t leave Barry Buchanon alone. Natasha was sure Lexie put him up to it.”

“Could Natasha prove it?” Emma asked.

Sergio shrugged. “She didn’t need to prove it. She was sure of it. But not sure enough to prove it to Barry. Who ended up marrying Lexie. Of course, once Natasha fell in love with,” he paused, “you know, we fell in love. Well, what did she care who Barry Buchanon married?  Until a few months ago when he started acting like he
wasn’t
married. Not that she could have stopped Barry from hitting on her when she returned to San Francisco for
Trovatore
. I warned her, Em-ma. I warned Natasha, when she returned, not to take all those gifts from Barry. They could only lead to trouble.” 

Emma nodded, but something worried her. “So you were in touch with Natasha, then?  When she came back here a few months ago?  I thought she dropped you…,” she blushed.

Sergio winced. “Yeah, she dropped me,” he said. “She was famous. Got her big break in New York. I didn’t want to move. Besides, by then I’d hooked up with Beth.  She owns a bakery in Petaluma. But Natasha and I stayed friends. I still care,” he stopped for a second, “cared for her. But once she came back here to sing
Trovatore
, all she did was use my shoulder to cry on when her new lover, Sacha Kuragin, treated her bad. Which was most of the time. As for Barry Buchanon, I think she was just using him for the money. I told her, Em-ma. I warned her. As somebody said, sooner or later, the piper has to be paid. And when Natasha died, I thought the piper was Lexie. Then the police found the ring and charged the fortune tellers with the crime. So I thought I was wrong. I thought, hey, just like in Italy. The gypsies are always to blame.”

Emma thought of something. “Did Natasha ever talk about her sister?”

“That poor dog?”  Sergio shook his head. “No,” he pronounced the word in the clipped Italian way, waving his forefinger back and forth again. “These opera singers?  They only talk about themselves. Nobody else.” 

“Look Sergio,” Emma replied. “I
still
think Lexie’s the murderer. That it wasn’t the Roma.”

“You think they were framed,” Sergio stated. “Yeah. I can see why you might think so. But what do
I
do about it?”

“Go to the police with what you know,” Emma replied.

“Are you crazy?” Sergio exclaimed. “It would be my word about what my dead ex-lover said about the wife of one of California’s most powerful men.” Sergio’s tone became defensive. “Why would I do that?  What would I have to gain, except to expose myself? And, as you know,
Signora
, my past. Well, it’s not exactly on the up and up. Including my visa.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest again. “Go to the police? No,
Signora
, that’s not happening. Never.”

Emma nodded. She couldn’t blame him.

“OK,” she agreed. “I get it. But will you do this, at least?” Emma had decided on her final request well in advance. “The toxicology report hasn’t been submitted yet, but someone,” she didn’t say her ex husband Andy, “suggested that depending on what poison killed Natasha, it may have been ingested well
before
dinner was served.”

Sergio held his hands up in the surrender position. “
Signora
, I don’t know anything about human poison. I just read a little bit about rat poison.”

Emma rushed to explain. “I’m not asking about the poison, Sergio. All I want is for you to help me remember everything that was served at the party from the time people first arrived for cocktails.”

Sergio nodded, seemingly relieved that this was all he was being asked to do. “Sure, let me go back to my office to get the menu plan and receipts. All the information should be there.”

He stood up and walked back to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a big white binder, neatly arranged with tabs that appeared to represent his catering jobs.

Emma was impressed. The man was well organized when it came to food.

“Let’s see.”  He opened the book. “Today is Thursday. It was,” he thought a moment. “It was just last Friday. Not even a week ago.”  He glanced sideways at her. “It seems like longer. So much has happened.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Or hasn’t happened, depending upon how you look at it.”

“I have the menu, right here.”  Sergio unclasped the binder rings and removed a neatly printed menu that he showed to Emma.

“Can I have a copy?”  Emma asked.

“Keep it,” Sergio answered. “I have three or four. But, Em-ma, even if we know what was served, someone, the killer, obviously slipped the poison in. Or maybe someone brought something into the party from outside. What does this prove?”

“Nothing,” Emma replied. “The menu proves nothing we don’t already know. I’m hoping,” she hesitated. What was she hoping?  “I’m hoping that remembering what was served and when, will help us remember something that might lead us to the killer.” 

Sergio didn’t look convinced.

“The dinner menu lists all the ingredients of everything we served for the sit down dinner, except your pasta sauce,” he explained. “But you know the ingredients for that. Besides,” he laughed, “I’ve watched you make it. It’s so elegant, simple: butter, chopped onion, chopped garlic, salt, chopped parsley, whole tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato paste. You cook it for two hours until it tastes like velvet.
Buonissimo
!  The
tagliatelle
are easy: flour, eggs, and sometimes I put in a little nutmeg.”

Emma smiled, “My grandmother did too.”

“Next was the
saltimbocca
,” Sergio continued, reading from the printed menu. “Not much there: veal from Wagner Farm, prosciutto, sage, olive oil, butter, wine. Served with green beans, fresh from the farmer’s market this morning. Tasso’s. The best. Then the dessert: raspberries from Simon’s, meringues from Claud’s and whipped cream.”

Emma looked up from her copy of the menu. “Hardly anybody tasted the dessert. Sacha started that food fight. Most people left.”

Sergio nodded, “And nobody else got sick. That’s it for the dinner.”

“Don’t forget the breadsticks and the olive Sacha rolled down the front of Natasha’s dress,” Emma reminded him.

Sergio shrugged. “I didn’t see that. I was in the kitchen. Good thing too. I’d have punched that
basso
in his face.”

“Barry tried to,” Emma added.

“So I heard.” Sergio looked back down at the menu. “The olives were from Leaping Lizards. I make the breadsticks myself from leftover pizza dough: flour, olive oil, water and sesame seeds.”

“Scrumptious,” Emma said. “Who wants bread anymore?”

Sergio studied the ceiling. “What else was there? Barry provided all of the wine from his vineyard.”

“The vodka?” Emma suggested. “Sacha Kuragin was circulating at the auction, pouring vodka from a bottle in each fist.”

“Right,” Sergio agreed. “Wine, and vodka from Nesson. That was the only alcohol served.”  He thought of something. “Wait, Lexie opened that special bottle of wine for Barry and took him a glass with hors d’oeuvres. She pulled something out of the refrigerator for him to eat. But I didn’t see it. Too busy with the veal.”  He stopped to think. “Cheese. Was it cheese?  Or maybe the walnut spread with peppers that Barry wants me to serve at the restaurant. I ask him. Why?  It’s Turkish.”

Emma sighed. “I’d sure love to know what Lexie put on that plate. What about the other hors d’oeuvres?  The ones
you
served.”

Sergio thought for a moment. “They were simple. Barry balked at spending more dough. We settled on,” he leafed through the binder. “Here it is, water chestnuts wrapped in bacon. I prepared it myself. Water chestnuts from Little Pete’s wholesaler. Bacon from Pig Heaven. I tasted it. It was all fine. Then I made mushroom caps stuffed with dry bread crumbs, chopped almonds and spinach, basil, a little sherry and cream. I got the mushrooms and spinach from Tasso, and all the rest straight from Little Pete’s wholesaler. And finally, I made miniature blinis: yeast, milk, flour, butter and eggs.”

“Stuffed with Beluga caviar for the Russians,” Emma added.

Sergio looked at her puzzled and shook his head.

“Beluga caviar?” he asked. “Are you crazy? Barry wouldn’t even spring for domestic caviar, much less Beluga!  And he keeps a tin of Beluga in his refrigerator for himself at all times. Barry and Lexie love the stuff. For that matter, Natasha did too. And I told him he’d better serve caviar at the party or the Russians might trash the place. Happened to me when I ran out of caviar one New Years Eve.” 

Sergio shrugged apologetically. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Russians. But they like their caviar even more.”  He shook his head. “No, I stuffed the blinis with creamed chicken: chopped onion, tarragon, minced chicken breast, cream, salt, pepper and a hint of mustard. Simple. Cheap. It’s what Barry wanted.”

Emma was shaking her head. “Sergio, I know there were blinis with caviar. Lexie was holding one. I remember. First she said she loved it. Then she put the plate down.”

“A chicken blini, not caviar,” Sergio repeated.

Emma shook her head again. “I’m sure it was caviar. Somebody said Beluga.”

Sergio thought for a moment. Then his face lit up. “I know. Maybe
that
was what Lexie brought out as the special treat for Barry. A Beluga blini. I’d made the blinis. They were sitting on the counter when Lexie came into the kitchen before dinner. I’ll bet she got the Beluga out of the refrigerator, took one of the blinis off the counter, and made a Beluga blini for Barry, herself.”

Emma didn’t think that sounded like Lexie. She closed her eyes, trying to remember. Then it came to her.

“It was Vera, Natasha’s sister!” she said. “Vera had the blini and she gave it to Lexie. Vera’s the one who said it was a Beluga blini.”

Sergio scratched his head. “Vera would know chicken from caviar. But where did she get it?  Not from me.”

“We need to find out,” Emma answered. “If Lexie prepared it, she had motive, opportunity, means. But how did the blini end up in Vera’s hands?  And who ate it?”

Sergio shook his head slowly from side to side. “I’m confused. If Lexie prepared it for Barry, then Barry probably ate it. And Barry’s not dead. So what does it prove?”

Emma didn’t know. But she couldn’t help feeling that she had stumbled on to something important.

“Sergio,” she said, “I’m going to pay the Buchanons a call and try to find out. If I can, I’ll even check their refrigerator to see if the caviar’s still there.”  She stood up to go. She’d have to call Julie to set something up. Quick. “This has really been helpful,” she added. “Thanks.”  She stuck out her hand.

Instead, Sergio gave her a hug. “Thanks for taking me into your confidence,
Signora
.” 

He showed her to the door looking way more relaxed than when Emma first arrived. Which reminded her of something.

“Sergio?” Emma stopped. “Can you explain one thing?  Why are you so paranoid about the Mafia?  Isn’t that a little far-fetched?  I know about the gambling debts but…”

Sergio lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’ve been honest with me,
Signora
. So, I’ll tell you a little secret. My mother’s from Bologna, but my father?  That’s another story. His family is from a little town just outside of Palermo, in Sicily. When he was young, he crossed swords with the Mafia there. That’s why he fled Sicily as a young man and moved north. I’m half Sicilian. The family’s been afraid of the Mafia ever since.”  He folded his hands together in supplication. “But,
Signora
, no one else here knows I’m Sicilian. That’s just between you and me.”

Well, what do you know, Emma thought to herself. The Bolognese chef was really half Sicilian!  She put her index finger to her lips, nodded, and backed out the door.

On her way home, Emma pulled out her cell phone and dialed Julie.

“Hi,” she said. Without waiting for her daughter to reply, she continued. “I want you to set up a meeting with the Buchanons tonight. Tell them you really need to discuss the publicity for City Opera’s announcement about their big donation tomorrow night.”

She paused.

“I don’t care, Julie,” Emma cut in. “Piers can handle it. He’s not a baby. Just tell me you’ll set up the meeting tonight. It’s important. Leave me a message about the time and when you’ll pick me up.”  Emma hung up the phone and power walked home.

Once back home, Emma checked her watch. It was well past 2:00 p.m. She grabbed a tub of yogurt out of the fridge and toasted a slice of whole wheat bread. She took the lunch out on the deck. The sun which had flooded the yard a few hours before, had moved west. In the midday heat, the deck sat in comfortable shadows. No need for a hat. She’d only be exposed to the killer rays for a few more minutes. Didn’t the sun used to be good for you, she mused?  Along with air, water, fish, cheese.

She ran through the rest of her day. Soon, she hoped Julie would call her with the time for their Buchanon meeting. And she still had to check in with Steve at the free legal services clinic to report on her meeting with Sergio.

Of course, there was also that pedicure she needed to fit in. Emma remembered the catty remarks by a local San Francisco columnist when a well-known movie star showed up Opening Night in a Valentino, sandals and unpainted toes. Based on the outrage
that
caused, you’d have thought the woman mooned the audience from the stage. Not that anyone would even notice Emma’s feet tomorrow night. She slapped her hand at the thought. Whether anyone else noticed was irrelevant, she reminded herself. All that mattered was,
she
noticed!

Furthermore, Emma wanted the pedicure
that day
. It was Thursday. Friday, every mani-pedi operator in Blissburg would be booked. And she’d made up her mind to spring for an appointment with someone at the Honorage Spa. Why not mix business with pleasure? Who knew what additional gossip she might pick up visiting Lexie’s old employer? Oleg, Julie’s regular masseur, wasn’t Lexie’s
only
co-worker there. Emma made a mental note to call the spa for an appointment just as soon as she heard from Julie about the Buchanon meeting.

Meanwhile, it was time to head for the legal clinic. Emma brought her empty yogurt tub back into the kitchen and locked the back door. Then she stared at the three trash receptacles lined up in the hall. And studied the plastic tub. Trash or recycle?  Why couldn’t she ever remember? 

She threw the tub in the recycle. As she grabbed her purse, she remembered she hadn’t rinsed it. No time. She raced out the door.

By the time she reached the free legal clinic it was 3:00 p.m. For the first time ever, she found the parking lot full. There were even two news trucks with satellite dishes. She had to drive all the way to the other side of the quasi-abandoned mall to find a lone free spot in front of the vacant Borders. Then she sprinted back to the clinic, sweating in the intense Indian Summer heat. When she opened the door, the lobby for the clinic was jammed.

Somebody actually recognized her.

“Hey,” a young woman waved, “aren’t you that lady...?”

Emma shook her head, sped through the lobby past Barbara who, unlike her, clearly enjoyed the attention, and burst into Steve’s office. To her surprise, it, too, was jammed with people. Though in the case of Steve’s small office, jammed meant a total of five sweating souls conferring around his desk. Emma had forgotten just how hot Sonoma County could get in September.

Steve looked up when she stormed in. “Emma,” he said. “Glad you’re here. Gimme just a minute.”

That was an improvement on Steve’s usual greeting, Emma thought. She noted that his attire had improved, too. He wore a rumpled suit and tie, instead of his usual hot day Dudewear: baggy shorts, T-shirt and sandals.

The other men in the room were dressed in suits, too. And the one, cute young woman among them wore what Emma would have worn to a cocktail party. A short, fitted gray silk Chanel-style dress, along with four inch, black patent, stiletto-heeled pumps. The girl’s strawberry blond hair fell straight to her shoulders, perfectly coiffed. Emma glanced down at her own blue jeans, Nikes, faded GAP, blue-striped T-shirt and green dinosaur socks from Harry, and wondered, who looked like the Dudette now? 

Nobody else in the room seemed to notice her. But a few seconds later, Steve broke away from the conference and motioned her out into the hall. It was full of people. So he pulled her into the vacant Men’s Room, and locked the door.

“Did you talk to Sergio?” he asked.

Emma nodded. Somehow the small room made her feel disoriented. Must be the urinals, she thought. Training her eyes back on Steve, she asked, “Who are all those people?”

“Reporters,” he shrugged. “They’ve been camped out all day.”

Emma shook her head. “I mean all the people in your office.”

“Oh.”  He glanced at her sideways. “Haven’t you heard?  It was on the morning news. Roma Rights International. They’ve gotten involved in the Havleks’ defense, along with Mitchell, Young + Roberts in San Francisco who are handling their defense
pro bono
.”

“For free?  Great!”  Emma raised her eyebrows at that.

It’s high profile because of Natasha Vasiliev, the victim. Turns out she had fans all over the world. Look,” Steve continued, “I need your help.” 

He stopped as though remembering something. “Before I get to
that
,” he said, “did you talk to Sergio Santagrata?  I gotta tell you, that guy is beginning to smell. Turns out he was the victim’s former lover. There’s Mafia connections in Sicily, too. OK, they’re from a while ago. The family’s Sicilian going way back. But the connections are still
there
. Along with the gambling debts. Building code violations. And, of course, the visa problems. So what did he have to say?”

Emma winced. “First of all, I gotta say that I really don’t think Sergio did it.”

She told Steve her hunch about Lexie Buchanon and the poisoned caviar blinis.

“Sergio agrees, Steve,” she explained. “She had the opportunity to poison the blinis when she made up a dish of special hors d’oeuvres for her husband, Barry, an hour and a half before dinner was served.”

Steve interrupted. He didn’t seem interested in her poisoned blini theory. “’Sergio?’ he said. “You two are on a first name basis?  Suddenly he’s a friend of yours?  Emma, I need objective information. Instead, you’re reporting on your hunches?”

Fair enough, Emma admitted to herself. With Roma Rights and Mitchell, Young involved, she’d better stick to the facts. So she related everything she and Sergio had discussed. Mentally noting that someone, from the look of things
she,
had better find the killer fast. Or else Steve might bury Sergio eyeball deep in very hot red sauce.

When she was done, Steve raised his eyebrows. “Very interesting. Can you write all that down?  Quick and dirty. Don’t bother cleaning it up. It’s privileged and confidential. Part of our defense strategy. I want to share it with co-counsel.”

Emma nodded, wondering whether she had just traded one scapegoat for another. Was there a Sicilian Anti-Defamation Defense League to fund
Sergio’s
legal bills?  And why did that sound like an oxymoron?  From what she could see, America had declared open season on Sicilians a long time ago. To heck with her North Italian grandmother, she thought. She was starting to like Sicilians.

“I’ll go write it up now,” she replied, turning to open the Men’s Room door.

“Wait a minute,” Steve grabbed her arm. “Don’t go yet. I have another assignment. Co-counsel and I put our heads together early this morning and made a list of all the people the police haven’t questioned in their, so-called, rush to justice. That’s the way we’re portraying the sloppy investigation in our press releases. You’d have heard it if you watched any news.”

“I been busy, Steve,” Emma interrupted. A little voice in her head whispered,
at the
outlets
.

Steve ignored her. “Here’s what we need from
you
. The police interviewed Vera Vasiliev, Natasha Vasiliev’s, the victim’s, twin sister.”

Emma nodded. “I know who Vera Vasiliev is, Steve. I’ve met her.”

“Met her?”  Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “Great. That’s perfect. I need you to follow up with her.”  He took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing, the police interviewed her right after the murder. She had an alibi. She says she was with that Alexis Kuragin character all night. By the way, he’s someone else we need to investigate. Don’t suppose you know
him
, do you?”

Emma shook her head. He’d been on her original list of suspects, but she’d never gotten around to him. How could she, she thought. It was only Thursday, for goodness sake!

Steve shrugged. “That’s OK. Someone from Roma Rights is already looking into him. He had a run in with a Roma back in the Ukraine. He claimed she framed him on an assault charge.”

Boy, Emma thought. The souls of some people’s shoes really were mired in mud.

“Anyway,” Steve continued. “When the police questioned Vera Vasiliev, Natasha Vasiliev’s sister,
we
didn’t know, and therefore hadn’t told the police, that
Vera
Vasiliev.”  Steve stopped and scratched his head. “This is worse than
War and Peace
with all these frickin’ Russian names. Anyway, the police didn’t know because
we
didn’t know until Carmen Havlek told us a few days ago, that Vera Vasiliev, the victim’s twin sister…”

Emma nodded and waved her hand in quick circles. “I know, Steve. I know. Get to the point.”

“The victim’s twin sister,” Steve repeated, “visited the suspect, Carmen Havlek, early the morning after the murder allegedly to have her fortune told. Cards read. Whatever. According to Carmen Havlek, she, Vera Vasiliev was so freaked out by the murder she didn’t actually stay to have her fortune told. She started crying, and told Carmen Havlek that whoever killed her sister probably wanted to kill her too. Then she raced out the door before Carmen Havlek had time to read the cards.”

Emma finally interrupted him. “Steve, I know all this. Remember? 
I’m
the one who told you. After Carmen came to my office and related it to me before she was arrested. What’s your point?”

Steve got defensive. “Carmen told
us
the same thing after we interviewed her. I forgot about her talking to you first. Anyway, the point is we need someone to pay Vera Vasiliev a visit and get her story. Corroborate what Ms. Havlek told us, and see if this Vera Vasiliev remembers anything that might help us prove the suspect is innocent.”

“And don’t forget,” Emma reminded him. “As I just told you. Vera was the one with the Beluga blini. I could also find out who gave it to her. That would be interesting.”

“Sure, Emma. If you think the blini is important, why not?”  Steve was clearly not impressed with the blini angle. “I mean, of course. Find out anything you can. Do you think you can handle that?  I mean find some excuse to pay Vera Vasiliev a visit? She lives right here in Blissburg.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do it. I can make an appointment to have her give me a massage. She works at the Honorage Spa. She’s one of the masseuses.”

Steve frowned, obviously annoyed with her plan. “Yeah, why not get a mani-pedi at the same time?”

Where did he get mani-pedi, Emma wondered?  Oh, right. He was married.

“Emma,” he continued. “This is serious. It’s work. Not just an excuse to get a massage. Are you up for it or not?”

“Yes, of course I am, Steve,” Emma shot back. Now
she
was annoyed. Then she thought of something. “I’ll call my daughter. She’s handling all the publicity for City Opera’s big announcement on Opening Night.  Barry Buchanon is making a huge donation in memory of Natasha Vasiliev. The victim,” she added. “In case you’re mixed up.” 

She realized how bitchy that sounded and softened her tone. “We’ll tell Vera that we need to talk to her about the presentation in memory of her sister. I’m sure she’ll want to cooperate. To make sure she approves of everything that’s said.”

“Sounds like a plan.”  Steve turned. Clearly his mind had already moved on to other things. He swung open the bathroom door and ran into the hall.

Leaving Emma to face the surprised newsman who had entered the Men’s Room right after Steve left.