Murder After a Fashion (10 page)

When they walked away, I tugged on Jack’s sleeve and said under my breath, “They looked like mobsters or something, don’t you think?”

He didn’t say anything because at that moment a priest began chanting and altar boys came down the aisle and lighted candles. Jack walked off to the side of the church, and I hurried back to my seat. As I went, I felt many curious eyes on me, wondering who I was, how I was connected to the dead chef, or maybe some thought I was responsible for his murder. Or did they know it was murder? Maybe others like myself had other theories that were being dismissed out of hand by the police.

“What did Detective Wall say?” Dolce whispered when I returned to my seat.

I couldn’t answer because the woman in front of us turned and shushed us. I was glad I was hiding behind my sunglasses.

The funeral lasted forever and it was mostly in Italian. My eyelids were so heavy and the atmosphere so heavy with the scent of flowers and so stifling, I almost fell asleep. Finally at the end various people got up to speak. That’s when I wished I was in the front row where I could see where Jack had ended up. That way I might be able to read between the lines, so to speak. Some speakers didn’t identify themselves and I had to guess. Friend? Relative? Competitor? Partner? Lover?

One woman who spoke was wearing a huge straw hat.
She was tall and thin and wore a vintage seventies royal purple fitted jacket. So much for black, I thought, and good for her for breaking the rules. But who was she, this woman who broke down at the end and cried when she talked about Guido? His wife? His mistress? She said she would miss the food Guido cooked for her, the
c
aponata, the
panella
, the
maccu
and the
arancini
. It made my mouth water, and I wondered what would be served at the get-together afterward. I knew I was there to figure out who killed Guido, but there was no reason I couldn’t eat too.

I made a mental list of the people I wanted to meet at the cooking school reception today, and the woman was at the top of my list, along with the woman with the handkerchief. The next speaker was a man who said Guido had taught him everything he knew. Like how to make
finnochio con sardo
with fresh sardines they caught in the Mediterranean. He raved about how creative and hardworking Guido was. Wiping the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief, he shook his head and left the podium.

After he spoke, a heavyset man dressed casually in a fisherman’s sweater and baggy pants spoke with an Italian accent. He said he taught Guido everything he knew. That Guido was like a son to him. A man who loved life, food and fun. A man who didn’t deserve to die. Then he broke down and had to be helped back to his seat.

I was confused. Who was the real Guido? A top-of-the-line celebrity chef followed around by sycophants? A man hated and envied by his peers? A fun-loving bon vivant who loved life, or a man who deserved to die because he did what? How was I going to finger a suspect if they
all
cried?

Finally the speeches were over and a woman wearing a dark brown Trina Turk sweater dress that hit just above the
knees and a pair of Christian Louboutin patent leather platform pumps approached me and asked where I got my jacket. I was flattered, because her outfit was very conservative, very appropriate and very chic at the same time. Whereas mine was a little bit out there. Not the dress of course, but the jacket.

I took the opportunity to put in a word for Dolce’s and told her that many of the women in the room were wearing Dolce fashions. She accepted my business card, which I retrieved from my Kristin metallic leather hobo, and promised she’d come and see me at the shop.

When I asked how she knew Guido, she said she’d hired him a few times to do her dinner parties and they were fabulous. I was envious. I would never be rich enough to afford a chef. Even for a special occasion. The alternative was to learn to cook, which I had tried. I knew learning to cook would be a good addition to my attributes, but I didn’t have the time or energy to concentrate on it. I’d given one dinner party, which turned out well, but afterward I was exhausted. Otherwise, I was happy to have someone else cook for me, like the Italians at the pizza place. It was time to stop waiting around for the men in my life to provide food for me. But there was nothing wrong with reaching out to them to let them know I was available.

Maybe today was a turning point. Maybe facing the death of someone I knew would cause me to embrace life and look for a new direction.

First I had to get this murder solved or I’d be spending all my time defending myself instead of finding the new me. Meera was still on my suspect list. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and not tell Jack about her. One, he probably wouldn’t take my theory seriously, and
two, I wanted to get credit for solving this crime myself. If there was a crime. I still liked the possibility of a suicide. No one had spoken of Guido’s state of mind, but his buying that handkerchief didn’t sound like a man ready to kill himself. I intended to sound out his confidantes after this funeral.

Dolce and I hopped in a taxi for the ride to Tante Marie’s Cooking School on Potrero Hill. We were greeted at the door by a young woman wearing an apron over a dark dress. She didn’t look one bit sad; in fact, she smiled brightly and welcomed us. Maybe she was the hired help for the day and had no connection to Guido.

“Have you been here before?” she asked when I commented on the tables set up around the room and a large banner that said “Farewell Guido—Buon Viaggio!” That was a nice touch. When I was last there, the chairs were set up facing the stove and the oven.

“I took a class from Guido,” I said.

“Just one?” she asked.

“I wanted to take more,” I said. I didn’t explain how I had trouble following through on plans. The fewer people who knew that about me, the better. Although I was planning on changing. “But something came up.”

She looked at me as if she knew my type. One cooking class, one knitting lesson, one swimming class at the Y, one workout at the health club and then I lost interest and moved on.

“But enough about me,” I said. “Are you…”

“I’m Guido’s niece,” she said. “Maria Natali. My father Eduardo is also a chef. He’ll be taking over the school.”

“He teaches cooking as well?”

“He used to. They ran a school in Tuscany together, then they
split up and my father opened a restaurant here in San Francisco. Eduardo’s.”

“Is he here?” I asked.

“No, he has a banquet at the restaurant today,” she said.

Dolce and I exchanged a look. He didn’t come to his brother’s funeral because of a banquet? Wasn’t that strange?

I knew Eduardo’s had been written up as a tiny gem of a restaurant serving expensive and out-of-this-world food, impossible to get a reservation unless you knew someone. So they said. I wondered if that was just a PR gambit. Maybe I’d give it a try just to see. Just as soon as I won the lottery.

“How amazing that they both ended up here in San Francisco in the food business,” I said.

“Not so amazing. Their mother was a fantastic cook. At least that’s what they say, and they use her recipes even today.”

Two brothers, both in the same profession. I pictured them fighting over rights to the recipes. I smelled jealousy, envy, hatred and competition, even though I had no evidence. I had so many questions for Maria, but a crush of mourners were behind us at the door, waiting to get in. Dolce nudged me with her elbow, and we went into the large room where aromas of simmering sauces and roasting meats made my mouth water. My kind of funeral.

Dolce was looking at a display of menus and recipes on the wall and I was heading for the buffet table when I noticed a tall graceful woman in a black pillbox hat with a silver metallic trim from the Shenor collection. She was dressed impeccably in a classic black Juicy Couture tropical wool jacket with a Roxy high-waisted pencil skirt and pair of T-strap Chanel booties. All of which looked familiar, which meant she was a Dolce’s shopper. I told her who I was, and she smiled brightly.

“Rita,” she said. “I can’t believe we’ve never met at Dolce’s. I’m Diana Van Sloat.”

I couldn’t believe we’d never met either. Dolce adored Diana and vice versa. According to my boss, Diana was super rich, super high society and super nice. Diana had been Dolce’s numero uno client for ages. When times were
tough, Diana had kept buying and bringing her friends into Dolce’s to buy their clothes. She was still a regular customer but lately had been ordering outfits she saw in
Vogue
from Dolce over the phone. Which might explain why I hadn’t ever met her in person before.

“Can you believe who’s here today? Almost the whole town,” Diana gushed. She proceeded to point out the city’s various movers and shakers. Though in reality Diana Van Sloat was the biggest name there, at least in terms of the top level of San Francisco society. The Van Sloat family had arrived in California around the horn by boat from Holland after the gold rush. They’d given away tons of the money they’d made on everything from gold to real estate. They’d funded the major museums and contributed to the opera and the symphony. And not surprisingly, they’d hired the best chef they could find—Guido.

“Guido was the real deal, wasn’t he?” I said. “Without the big ego that some other top chefs have, or so I hear.”

She nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. I learned so much from just watching him. I don’t know what we’ll do without him, which is what I told the detective. I hear he’s interviewing all Guido’s contacts. Does that mean you too?”

“I’ve spoken with Detective Wall,” I said. Was Jack really interviewing everyone who ever took a class or hired Guido to cook for them?

“So you took one class with him and that’s all?” Diana asked.

“That’s right.” I tried to think of a good excuse. “I got busy at work. And I’m really sorry I had to drop out. I hope I didn’t hurt Guido’s feelings.” Yeah, I was sure Guido had his plate full of San Francisco’s richest patrons and had no
reason to even know I was missing. “No time to cook or to take classes.”

“That’s too bad. Dolce’s told me so much about you. How imaginative you are. What a great salesperson. I wonder if you’d be interested in my jewelry design workshop. Just a few good friends getting together to do something creative. But if you don’t have time…”

Jewelry design? Diana was now a jewelry designer? I glanced at the pearl and amber choker she was wearing. “The necklace you’re wearing is beautiful.”

“You like it? I made it from some old pieces I had and never wore. I bet you have a drawer full just like I do, gathering dust.” She laughed lightly. “Not that I’m gathering dust. Not yet. But my jewelry is.”

A drawer full of jewelry just like hers? I didn’t think so. “I’m all thumbs and I’m afraid I’d be terrible at it. Besides, what with working full-time…”

I wished I could say I was a brain surgeon and had no time for luxuries like jewelry making, but she knew perfectly well what I was. Even if she didn’t know, I didn’t look like a brain surgeon in my faux-fur jacket. But then again, even doctors don’t wear scrubs all the time.

“We’re all busy at something,” she said. “I do volunteer work when I can. This fall I’m a docent at the zoo. I take groups to see the primates.”

“How interesting,” I said. First the jewelry, now I hear she is a docent at the zoo too. I felt like a slug by comparison.

“Onward and upward,” she said with a cheerful smile. “If you can’t make the jewelry workshop, why not join me at the zoo? Do you like animals? I’ll give you the VIP tour. The baboons are such fun.”

“I’d love to,” I said.
It was better for me to join her tour instead of signing up to make diamond and pearl necklaces. But enough of this interesting digression into Diana’s life consisting of jewelry and primates, I was there for only one purpose, besides eating, of course. “Were you surprised when you heard about Guido being murdered?” I asked. “Or did he give you some kind of clue someone was after him? Did he seem nervous or anxious the last time you saw him?”

“Not at all,” she said. “That’s what the police asked me. They’ve been asking everyone. All of us, like those women over there. They’re each holding Guido’s cookbooks in their hands as a sign of respect. Of course I’m surprised. We’re all surprised. Everyone adored Guido. Not just here but out there.” She waved her hand toward the outdoors. By which I assumed she meant out there in the big wide world.

I looked at the group of four women all dressed appropriately in black. I thought I recognized them even though they all looked alike, each one holding a cookbook. Maybe the books were autographed.

“You say you’ve already spoken to the detective,” she said. “The one standing over there by the door.”

“Yes, just briefly.”

“I don’t know if this is de rigeur, but he wanted to know if I had any information, any sense of whether Guido had any enemies, anyone in the class who acted suspicious.”

“And did you?” I asked.

“Not really. Except…”

I leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Well, one night a woman was in our class who definitely had an ax to grind. Everything he said, she challenged. If he said use unsalted butter in the sauce, she said what was
the point if you salt the sauce anyway? She disagreed with everything he said. Finally he asked her to leave. She muttered something and stalked out. With people like that, you never know what’s on their mind. Oh, there she is now.”