A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (9 page)

Emma nodded, encouraging him.

“‘Course even though the police
know
that the gypsies killed her, till that toxicology report comes out, they can’t rule out your spaghetti sauce for sure,” Tom continued. “I figured, the sooner they pin it on the gypsy, the sooner a nice little lady like you can get back to business. So when my son found that trash and told the police it was in the gypsy’s can, I was glad. Figured it would speed things up. Then I recognized you here today, and thought I’d find out what you were like. Well, you know what?”

Emma shook her head. “What?”

“You made a good impression. Now, is that worth a home cooked dinner for an old softie?”  Tom winked. “Unless you know something that I don’t, and I’m taking my life in my hands.”

Emma forced a laugh. “I’ll check my calendar as soon as I get home.” She made a mental note to turn off her phone. “So, Tom,” she added, “you’re absolutely sure your son isn’t going to tell the police there is any doubt about where the Buchanons’ stuff was found?”

“You have my solemn promise about that, young lady,” Tom grinned.

Emma hesitated. “But what about the guys who actually found the stuff? The trash men. Your employees. If the police question them, won’t they tell the truth?” 

“The Mexicans?”  Tom shook his head. “Nah. They’ll say whatever Ronnie tells them to. Besides, the Mexicans hate the gypsies as much as we do.”  He winked again. “Kind of like us Irish and you Eyetalians in the old days, right?  You hate whoever’s the next rung down on the ladder.” 

By then, Carter had finished his lecture. The stroll was starting to break up. Some people headed back to their homes; some back to the plaza.

Emma noticed Jack watching her out of the corner of his eye as she waved goodbye to Tom. Then he excused himself from a gaggle of adoring female fans.

“Emma, wait up,” he called, pulling off his sweater in the midmorning Blissburg heat. “If you’re going that way, I’ll walk with you back to town.”

Emma nodded. “OK.” It was hard not to enjoy the disappointed looks on the faces of his admirers.

“See you soon, Jack,” Babs called after him. “Don’t forget to come in for that complimentary manicure.”

Jack didn’t answer. He was already sprinting towards Emma. She noticed that his sprint wasn’t half bad.

“Do you have time to grab another coffee with me at Claud’s?” He asked. “Maybe we could discuss that dinner I bought.”

Emma laughed. “Sure. But how do you manage to hit every good bakery in town and still stay so fit?”

“I like Claud’s multigrain sourdough,” Jack explained, smiling at the compliment. “They only bake it on Sundays. And, by the way, we gotta make tracks. They sell out by noon.”

Jack meant what he said. They walked so fast down Blissburg’s tree shaded lanes, past hundred year old gingerbread Victorians, the local high school, at least six churches and finally across the old plaza, that by the time they joined the multigrain sourdough line at Claud’s Emma was out of breath and sweating.

“So, was that another ex husband, boyfriend, brother you were talking to on the stroll?” Jack asked. He had purchased the sourdough and two lattes, and found a table in a corner of the café. “Forgive me for noticing,” he said, pulling her chair out for her to sit down, “but he’s a little old for a boyfriend. Frankly Emma,” he winked, “you can do better. But who am I to judge?  Just tell me, is it the cane?  Do you have a thing for canes?”

Was he flirting, Emma wondered?  Or did he kid everyone this way?  Emma was beginning to believe the latter. She liked it.

She shook her head. “He runs the dump. Actually, he told me some very interesting things about the death Saturday night. As you can imagine, I have something of a personal stake in solving this thing quickly. In proving that it was murder. Not food poisoning.”

Jack blew out his breath. “Yeah. I get it. I gather your daughter’s feeling the fallout too. I ran into Buchanon at the Chatham Club yesterday…” 

Jack stopped talking and gave Emma a dirty look. He shook his finger at her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I don’t know either why the son of a Sicilian bricklayer from Providence, Rhode Island would ever join a snooty country club called The Chatham. When I moved here, my son-in-law thought it would be a place to meet people. To hang out. It was a mistake. Anyway, to get back to my story, Barry was pretty hard on your daughter. Said he’d never hire her again. Funny thing, I remember seeing him at the club with Natasha. I didn’t recognize the singer though. She just looked like another blond. Bigger teeth than an American blond. I figured she was foreign.”

The news that Barry publicly blamed Julie for the tragedy gave Emma a jolt. “He really said that about Julie?” she asked.

Jack nodded. “He blamed your tomato sauce too. Bottom line, he’s convinced there was no foul play. That Natasha’s constitution was just too delicate for your robust red sauce.” 

At that, Jack started laughing in spite of himself. Emma could tell that laughter came easily to this man. When he finally stopped, he continued.

“Emma, look, I didn’t want to bug the guy. He was hurting. And let me tell you, I know when a guy is hurting. But finally, I just had to say something. I said, Barry, be reasonable. I know you don’t want to think that anyone would murder that angel.” 

Jack stopped talking again and glanced sideways at Emma. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t know if she was an angel. The word at the Club is that she took Barry’s cash and delivered the goods elsewhere. Be that as it may, to make him feel better, I told Barry that I didn’t think an angel like Natasha Vasiliev could be mixed up in a murder. But realistically, I said, Barry, it wasn’t the sauce. You can’t blame the
salsa di pomodoro
.”

Wow, Emma thought. He even pronounced it correctly.

Jack continued, “I told him. I’m Sicilian. I eat red sauce. And that sauce they served at the fundraiser was delicious. I ate it. Barry, I said, you ate it. A couple hundred people at the party ate it. And we are all alive to tell the tale. So I said, look Barry, the sauce didn’t kill Natasha. Now maybe someone
put
something in the sauce that killed Natasha. And maybe they didn’t. But the sauce didn’t kill Natasha and we gotta stop murdering that poor woman who made the sauce!”

Emma was impressed. “Thanks. What’d he say?”

“He nodded. He even said he’d try to repair some of the damage he’d done to your reputation. But unfortunately, he also said that whatever you did, or didn’t do, didn’t get Julie off the hook. As far as he’s concerned, that fundraiser ruined his reputation, and the reputation of his vineyard. He said he’s never hiring Julie again.”

Emma’s heart sank. “Jack. I
have
to figure out who killed Natasha. Fast. I don’t think she died of natural causes.”

“Who’s on
your
list of suspects?” Jack asked. “The Furies hounding me on the stroll talked of nothing else.”

“Did they come up with anything interesting?” Emma asked, shaking her head at Jack’s name for the Walkie-Talkies.

“Most are convinced it was a gypsy who killed her,” Jack replied. “By the way, who’s the
gypsy?”

“Roma,” Emma corrected him. “They prefer to be called Roma.”

“Sorry. Who’s the Roma?”

“She was telling fortunes at the party,” Emma answered. “Like the character in the opera,
Il Trovatore
. I know the woman, Jack. I’m sure she didn’t do it.”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. According to the Furies, the evidence points to the gypsy, I mean Roma. Babs from the hair salon said the police chief’s wife came in for a blow job. That’s a funny name for a hairdo.”

“Blow dry, Jack,” Emma corrected him.

“Ooohhh!” he laughed again. “Of course. Anyway, she said the chief is hoping to make an arrest today. They found some of Buchanon’s things hidden in a trash can on the gypsy’s, I mean Roma’s property.”

Emma related to Jack what she’d heard that morning from Tom on the stroll.

Jack let out a slow whistle. “Oh boy,” he sighed. “Whatta ya do with that information?  Your word against Ronnie Fitzpatrick’s denying he ever heard such a thing?  And his employees agreeing with him. I don’t think so.”

“Right,” Emma said. “You do nothing with the information. You find the real killer.”

“OK,” Jack shrugged. “Here’s something. Annemarie was the only one on the walk who disagreed with the rest of the Greek Chorus. She said Sergio, the chef who catered the fundraiser, came into the bookstore a couple of weeks ago to ask whether she carried any books on poisons. Kitchen poisons. He said it was for rats, kitchen rats, so maybe it’s legit. He asked her to order one particular book and hold it for him on the QT. He picked the book up a few days later. Annemarie didn’t think much of it until now. Anyone owning a fancy restaurant would want to keep his rat infestation quiet. Right?”

“Right,” Emma answered. “Except Sergio swore Friday night at the fundraiser that he had
never seen
a rodent in his kitchen. It was clean
issimo
.”

Jack raised his eyebrows at that. “The stories don’t exactly jibe. Maybe there’s more there than we think. When I first got here, I visited the casino. Bear Creek up on the hill.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jack shrugged. “Hard as it may be for you to believe, I am not a gambler. My Dad was. And he got into a,” he hesitated, “a jam when I was young. It’s a bad habit I never acquired. But as you know, I
am
a finance guy and Bear Creek is the local poster child for financial disaster. It’s got a ten thousand car garage built next to a pre-fab casino that only holds 5,000 people. Max. And it’s an accident waiting to happen.” 

Emma shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“The whole structure would blow down in a fifty mile an hour wind,” Jack explained. “I visited it one day. Purely out of curiosity. And you know who I saw at the craps table, excuse my language. None other than Sergio. And he wasn’t checking out the kitchen. He was losing money. Big time. When he recognized me from the Blissburg bocce ball tournament, I swear, the guy looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.”

“Very interesting,” Emma replied. “Think you could find out more?”

“I got friends. I can try.”

“Speaking of recognizing someone.”  Emma peeked over Jack’s shoulder. “Look behind you.”

Seated a few tables over in the middle of the room, dressed in a Prada jumpsuit and Vuitton silk scarf, was Trish, the realtor. She stared at them, her lasered eyelids lowered menacingly at half mast.

Jack turned, saw the look, and waved at Trish. Then he picked up his loaf of bread and stood up.

“Thanks for coming here with me, Emma,” he said. “I’m meeting my daughter in Calistoga. I gotta run. Maybe we can discuss that dinner I won at the auction some other time.” 

He was about to leave when he stopped and started laughing again. “One thing puzzles me, Emma. Why do people around here make me feel like I’m ruining my reputation hanging out with you?” He shrugged his shoulders in that fatalistic Italian way. “It’s a new feeling for an East Coast Sicilian.” Then he added, “You’re still on, right?  The Ormon Concert. I’ll pick you up. Five o’clock, Tuesday?  Dinner in the City first. OK?”

Emma nodded hesitantly. Still unsure.

“Meanwhile, I’ll make a few inquiries. About Sergio,” he added.

“Thanks,” Emma answered wondering where all this might lead.

Emma’s doorbell rang early Monday morning. She was still in her favorite Vermont Country Store green fleece muumuu. Never a cold night in
that
she assured herself
.
And she still clutched her oversized mug of coffee. The mug Harry had decorated with monsters for Christmas. Aside from still being suspected of Poisoning the Stars with her famous
salsa di pomodoro
, life was good, she told herself.

Apparently Julie didn’t think so. When Emma called out “who’s there” and then opened the door, her daughter stared at her and shook her head.

“This is the second time you’ve answered the door in that muumuu thing, Mom,” she said. “I say this lovingly, but it’s weird. It’s the kind of thing people wear in the dead of winter in nursing homes in northern Minnesota. When the electricity fails.”

“I think it’s cute,” Emma defended herself. “Mary gave it to me and it’s comfortable.”  She shook away her annoyance. No use arguing with Julie. Besides, how many of her friends’ daughters bothered to check up on their mothers at 8:00 a.m.?  Most of her friends’ children lived thousands of miles away. 

“Obviously,” Emma continued in a more conciliatory tone, “I only opened the door dressed like this because I knew it was you. Besides,” she added, trying to be funny, “I’m half way to the nursing home already.”

Julie sucked her breath in quickly. “Mom, you’ve got to stop talking that way,” she replied. “Harry said you told him the LED bulb in his Elmo lamp will live longer than you will. It’s
not
funny. You don’t say that to a four-year old.”

Emma winced. Julie was right. She was out of control.

“Look,” Julie’s tone softened, “I care about you. You’re too young to just drop out, to use one of your generation’s phrases. All I’m trying to tell you is that you could still look good if you tried.”

“But I don’t want to try,” Emma leveled with her. “I don’t care
how
I look anymore. And frankly, it’s a blessing. At the office, I had to, you know, look professional all the time. Now who cares?”

“That’s another thing,” Julie continued. “What’s going on with you and that Russo guy?  Trish told Piers’ secretary that she saw you two at Claud’s having breakfast early Sunday morning. You aren’t…,” she stopped. “No. I can’t even say it!  This is a small town, Mom, and rumors fly. I don’t know
what
Piers was thinking encouraging you two. Russo!  I mean he’s out of central casting. And that Jersey Shore accent. Where does
that
come from?”

Emma found herself defending Jack. “He’s from Providence, Rhode Island. His father was a bricklayer. What?  That makes him a gangster?”

Julie shrugged. “Who knows?  The look, the voice, the accent. He’s just not like
us
. You see that, don’t you?  If you’re trying to find your roots, I think you’ve picked the wrong tree.”

“At least he’s not wearing an ankle thingie,” Emma shot back.

She immediately knew she had gone too far. Julie’s face started to crumple, but she quickly gained control.

“Mom, what you just said stinks. First of all, he’s my father. Second, my whole career is going down the tubes and you’re jumping into bed with some bozo.”

“Julie, I’m not jumping into bed with him. I ran into him on the Blissburg Historical Society’s Sunday Stroll. Trish was the one throwing herself at him. He asked me to grab a coffee with him while he picked up some of Claud’s multigrain sourdough. By the way, they only make it on Sunday. I hear it’s delicious.”

“I know.”

“Anyway,” Emma continued, “Trish was all over Jack on the stroll. And then she saw us at Claud’s. We were discussing the murder, for goodness sake. Jack had some very helpful information for me. I think Trish was jealous. So she started a nasty rumor. But honestly, honey, at my age who cares?  And by the way, he invited me to the Ormon Fellow concert on Tuesday night. And I accepted.”

“You’re kidding.”  Julie sighed. She waved her hand dismissively at her mother. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste. I just didn’t realize you were so desperate, Mom. I thought you were happy here with
us.
Anyway, what was the interesting information?”

Emma stretched the truth a little. “Well, for one thing, he knows Barry and tried to talk him out of blackballing us. He also told me that Sergio bought a book from Annemarie on common poisons two weeks ago,
and
that he may have a gambling problem.”

Julie raised her eyebrows at this.

“Finally, he confirmed that Chief Tompkins is hoping to make an arrest this morning in the murder. Tonio.”  Emma then proceeded to explain everything Tom Fitzpatrick from the garbage company had told her about the stolen items in the trash can.

“That’s terrible, Mom!” Julie exclaimed. “We can’t allow Ronnie Fitzpatrick to get away with lying like that. I’m calling Piers right now to see what he thinks we can do.”

Julie started down the front stairs of the old yellow farmhouse. Half way, she turned back. “Mom, get dressed in something nice and see what you can find out in town today. Go to the Honorage. Get a massage. Put it on my account. But whatever you do,
don’t
hole up at home all day in that muumuu.”

Emma finished her coffee, climbed the staircase to her bedroom, showered, and dressed in her black J.Crew jeans and the Liberty print blouse Julie gave her for her birthday. The blouse was a concession on Julie’s part. Julie wouldn’t be caught dead in a Liberty print herself. But she knew her mother loved them.

Emma sat down on her bed and slipped on her black and purple Nikes, something comfortable for a long walk; followed by her fuchsia UNIQLO ultra lite parka to beat the early morning chill. At least she wouldn’t embarrass anyone dressed like that. And a walk into town sounded like just what the doctor ordered. In fact, she mused, it
was
just what the doctor had ordered. At least forty minutes of heart thumping exercise every day, along with numerous blood pressure pills, cholesterol pills and vitamins to keep the Big D at bay.

Emma began to insert the ear buds for her iPhone into her ears. Then she decided against it. How was she going to hear any gossip with music piped into her head?

Emma started down her driveway at a brisk pace, making sure to peek into the window of her daughter’s office across the driveway from her front porch. She caught Julie’s eye and waved so Julie would get off her case. Then she turned right on Blissburg Avenue past the fire station, and headed down Third Street towards the footpath that ran along the creek. It was a popular route for the Walkie-Talkies and other ladies’ walking groups in Blissburg.

At first, the part of the path between the creek and the old train tracks was deserted; and, except for the gurgling stream and twittering birds, completely quiet. Emma realized that plugged into Spotify, she’d almost forgotten how relaxing those sounds were. She walked along, past the overgrown blackberry shrubs, savoring the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the tall poplar trees, the chirping of crickets and the birdcalls, till she came upon the Walkie-Talkies:   Trish, Annemarie and Lilah, walking with Maureen Tompkins, the police chief’s wife. In the morning stillness, their voices carried around a bend in the path. So Emma knew exactly what they were talking about even before she saw them. She stopped to listen.

“So they got them. Thank goodness!” she heard Lilah’s voice exclaim.

“I’m sooooo relieved!” That was Trish. “Please thank the Chief for all of us, Maureen. He acted so quickly.”

“Yes. I’m very proud,” Maureen replied. “They were on the bus. Headed for Vancouver, Canada!  Thank goodness Ronnie came up with all that evidence when he did. About the stolen statues and the silver. A few hours delay, and the Chief says they might have made it across the border.”

Ronnie, Emma thought. That liar. She rounded the bend at a fast clip. The Walkie-Talkies burst into view. Emma confronted them, barely able to control her anger.

“They arrested both of them?” she demanded. “Tonio and Carmen?”  Then, realizing that the Walkie-Talkies were staring at her, she tried to plaster a smile on her face.

“Hi,” she began again. “I couldn’t help overhearing the great news.”  She took a deep breath. “By the way, how did they implicate Carmen?  I mean, she didn’t necessarily know what her husband had done. The theft of a couple of netsuke by one’s partner doesn’t exactly a murderess make. Or does it?  I mean, how do they tie Carmen to the murder?”

Apparently, Emma wasn’t so good at disguising her true sentiments. The Walkie-Talkies’ raised eyebrows said, whose side is she on?

Emma tried to recover, “Forgive me. I’ve worked for years in a law office. I just
pray
the case is tight. You know, Maureen. No holes. We don’t want them to beat the rap.”

Maureen looked around at her friends and nodded. “Emma’s got a good point. She hasn’t hung around those tricky lawyers for nothing. She’s right. Just on the basis of the stolen goods, they
couldn’t
have tied both the gypsies to the murder.”  She paused. “But there was more.” She lowered her voice. “A lot more.”

Everyone sucked in their breath at once.

Maureen hesitated a moment.

They waited.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this until the Chief,” Maureen always referred to her husband as the Chief, “makes the official announcement.”  She paused again. This time for dramatic effect. Then she shook her head. “No. I better not.”

Trish broke first. “Please Maureen. Please tell us. Please, please, please. Pretty please? We won’t breathe a word until the Chief announces it. We promise. Don’t we?”  She glanced from Lilah to Annemarie.

Everybody nodded, except Emma who waited skeptically to hear the next lie. She braced herself, her hands folded belligerently across her chest.

“Girls, you really have to promise,” Maureen cautioned. “My reputation is at stake. If the Chief knew I told you, he’d never tell me anything again.”

“We promise,” the women all assured her. Even Emma this time.

Maureen took a deep breath. “Here goes. I swear, it gives me chills just to think of it.”  She placed her finger tips to her temples and exhaled slowly, as though to calm herself. “Last night the chief got a search warrant for Tonio’s trailer. The judge issued it after they found the stuff in the trash can.”

Everyone nodded.

“Well…” She paused to drag the suspense out a little longer. “They searched Tonio and Carmen’s trailer early this morning. Of course the suspects weren’t there. They were already on the bus to Canada when the state police arrested them. But guess what they found in the trailer?  Buried in the bottom of Carmen’s tarot card basket. You know, the one she uses when she reads the cards, or reads your palm. The one with those red and green silk ribbons?”

Everyone nodded again. Emma clearly remembered the basket from the Opera fundraiser. But why, she wondered, did the Walkie-Talkies recognize it?  Had they all had their fortunes read?  By Carmen?

Maureen dragged the suspense out with a few more seconds of silence. Then she dropped the bomb.

“They found the ring!” she whispered. “Natasha Vasiliev’s four carat emerald and diamond ring!  The one missing from the body the night Natasha died. Susie at The Jewel Box says its gotta be worth at least fifty grand. The ring was buried at the bottom of the gypsy’s basket. I guess
that
ties Carmen to the dead woman. And gives her a motive, opportunity and means.”  She stared at Emma, waiting for her legal authority to agree.

Emma had been trying all morning to remember the third requirement for a murder suspect. Motive. Opportunity. That was it. The means.

She looked at Maureen and nodded. “Right. Yeah. I see motive and opportunity. But what about means?  Did Carmen carry a vial of poison around her neck all the time looking for victims with four carat emerald rings?”

“Well yeah. Duh,” Trish shot back. “At a fundraiser like that?  She knew darned well someone would wear something worth stealing. She probably cased the party while telling people’s fortunes. Then, once Natasha was dead. Just thinking about it makes me shiver. She stole the ring from her dead finger.”

Lilah agreed. “After all, Emma, she stole the other stuff too. For all we know, she’d seen Natasha wear the ring before.”

Everyone else nodded agreement.

Even Emma had trouble scraping her chin off the floor. The evidence that Carmen was involved in Natasha’s death seemed almost insurmountable now. With Natasha’s ring buried in Carmen’s basket, it was getting hard for Emma to believe she wasn’t involved.