Murder After a Fashion (11 page)

I whirled around to see Meera with a frown on her face, chewing on something. “Oh no,” I murmured. “I should have known.”

“You know her?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Did you mention this incident to the detective?”

“No, but I think I’ll do it now while she’s here.”

I didn’t know what to do. Make excuses for Meera, or let her get what was coming to her. A full-scale investigation. That was what she deserved. I excused myself and went to see Meera. As usual she was dressed in full Victorian garb: the high collar, the long sleeves, gloves and a matching hat with a veil. Why hadn’t she told me about this incident?

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Paying my respects, of course,” she said. “As I told you, I knew him rather well.”

“I hear you had a set-to with him during one of his classes here. You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I don’t tell you everything. I don’t tell anyone everything. Nor should you. Everyone has to have a few secrets,” she said. “It’s no secret I had my problems with Guido.”

“More problems than his stealing your recipes?”

“Isn’t that enough?” she asked.

I decided to change the subject. If she killed Guido, she wasn’t going to tell me.

“What do you think of the food?” I asked, glancing at her plate full of various antipasto items. Marinated artichoke
hearts, prosciutto with melon, fresh mozzarella, roasted peppers and what looked like homemade garlic bread with tomato relish and cold shrimp.

“It’s all right for an Italian funeral. But you should see a Romanian funeral if you want good food.” She shook her finger at me and added, “But don’t expect to attend mine.”

Did she mean because she was a vampire and didn’t intend to die? Or because I wouldn’t be invited? I didn’t ask. Instead, I left her and went to the table and filled my plate with some of the same delicious-looking food Meera had eaten but found lacking compared to Romanian dishes. In addition, I added some thinly sliced Genoa salami with Cacio di Roma cheese.

“Who is that woman in the long dress?” a man in a dark suit asked me as he reached for a stuffed artichoke. His eyebrows were raised at Meera and her unusual attire.

“She’s a Romanian…” I almost said “Romanian vampire,” but I caught myself in time.

“Friend of Guido’s, of course,” he said, looking over my shoulder in Meera’s direction. “He collected the most unusual people, like your friend there.”

“You mean in his classes,” I suggested. I didn’t want to explain that Meera was not Guido’s friend at all. Not only that, there might be others here who were not friends. I wanted to know exactly who they were. That was why I was here: to find someone who hated him enough to shoot him.

“Everywhere. You know, he played Briscola down at the Italian Men’s Club. That’s where I met him. Hell of a card player.”

“I suppose he was very popular there,” I said. Please tell me about his enemies. Tell me someone threatened to
kill him for cheating at cards. No, don’t tell me, tell Detective Wall.

“Very popular,” the man said. “He liked hanging out with the old-timers, and he always brought along some homemade biscotti to eat with coffee. Look around and you’ll see the club members everywhere. I’m Lorenzo, by the way.”

“Rita Jewel,” I answered, and I set my plate down to shake his hand.

“You’re not Italian, are you?” he asked me. “Jewel is
bigiu
in Italian.”

“I’m not Italian, but I admire Italian food. I took a class with Guido. Wish I’d taken more. If I’d known…”

“That’s the way, isn’t it? If we only knew when we were going to die…”

“Guido sure didn’t,” I said. Or did he? Was that why he looked so nervous that night? Had he given me a clue and I’d missed it?

“I can’t believe he was murdered.” Lorenzo shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. Maybe a little too wide, I thought. As if he knew but didn’t want me to know that he knew.

“That’s what I heard.”

“Il mio dio, quanto terrible,”
he muttered. “Let me get you a glass of wine.” He turned and joined another man at the bar they’d set up next to the kitchen. The other man said something, then he looked straight at me. Why? Because of something I’d said? I wondered if they were talking about me, wondering if I’d killed Guido or wondering if I knew that they’d killed him.

When yet another Italian, an old guy named Antonio with steel gray hair and shiny black shoes, came up to ask me to contribute to a scholarship fund in Guido’s name, I told him I’d be glad to. As if I was some kind of philanthropic type
who had gobs of money to spare. Maybe my designer outfit made him think I was part of the moneyed crowd. “I had only one class from Guido,” I said. “What about you?”

“He wanted us to take his classes, but never had the time,” Antonio said. “I’m in the undertaker business. Never a dull moment.”

“Really? Then you prepared his body?”

He nodded. “What did you think? Did I do a good job or not for my friend?”

“He looked good, but I was wondering, what about the bullet in his heart?” I didn’t know if there was a bullet in his heart, but how else was I going to find out unless I put it out there?

“How’d your hear about that?” he asked.

“I, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Word gets out. Such a shame. He was too young to die. Too talented.”

“Well, the bullet’s still there for all I know.”

“But don’t the police want it?”

“They do, but the family is protesting. They don’t want him cut into.”

“Even though he’s already dead?”

“People are funny about death,” he said with a sigh. “The stories I could tell you. But it made things easier for me. You interested in the undertaking business? More women should go into it. You know, when a woman dies they want another woman to prepare the remains. My family’s been in the business for years. But my wife wouldn’t touch a body. So there you have it.”

I nodded as if I understood. I did understand. I wouldn’t touch a dead body. I didn’t even like looking at Guido in his coffin, and I was afraid I would have nightmares tonight.

“I don’t blame her,” I said. “I was wondering who’s going to take over Guido’s cooking schools in Italy and all of his TV gigs. He had a certain flair that made him stand out from all those other celebrity chefs.”

“If you ask me, it’s one of those two.” The man pointed to a man and a woman in the far corner gesturing wildly to each other in true Italian style.

“I never know if Italians are arguing or just talking,” I said. If they were arguing, maybe it had something to do with Guido’s legacy or who was getting the blame for his death. If only I was a little closer, I might be able to hear them, although, except from their gestures, they looked like they were speaking Italian.

“Then you’re not Italian,” he said.

“But I love Italian food,” I said. “And my last name translated into Italian is
bigiu
.” Actually I loved all food, which was lucky for me. Then I took a deep breath. I was tired of making small talk; as pleasant as it was to chat and eat, I had to make some progress. I knew from experience and reading that the murderer is often a friend or someone who knew the victim very well, so didn’t it stand to reason that the man or woman was here in this room? I couldn’t leave without at least trying to find out who it was. Someone in this room knew. Someone at least had a suspicion. And I didn’t mean Jack. Jack thought I’d done it. How preposterous was that?

“Tell me,” I said, “who do you think killed Guido?”

He stepped back for a second as if I’d spoken the unspeakable. But why? Why wasn’t everyone else talking about it? Was it wrong?

“You mean…” he said.

“I mean everyone knows he was murdered,” I said. Why beat around the bush when it was common knowledge. Or was it?

“Do they?” he said. “But why? That’s what I keep asking myself. He was such a good guy. Not your usual full-of-himself star. Everyone liked him. Who would want to kill Guido?”

“He must have had some enemies,” I said. “Maybe someone who was competing with him? Someone with another cooking school, one of the other iron chefs or Food Network stars?”

“Non possibile,”
he said, giving me a dark look as if he didn’t know what I was talking about, and then he walked away looking at least slightly offended. But that didn’t stop me. I was determined to talk to as many people here as I could whether they were in denial or not. I was glad when Dolce found me. I needed a break from crime solving. She said she’d had some wonderful tiramisu, that traditional Italian cake. “Here, have a bite,” she said.

“I don’t think I’m ready for dessert yet,” I said. But I couldn’t resist tasting the traditional cake made of sweetened mascarpone cheese, ladyfingers, chocolate and coffee.

“It’s wonderful,” I said, “like heaven in your mouth.”

“I told you,” Dolce said, licking her lips. “Have you found out anything?” She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

“I found out that everyone loved Guido—at least his students and his friends did. And I heard that everyone, including your best customer Diana Van Sloat, has been questioned.”

“What?” Dolce said. “I didn’t know that. Why Diana? She loved Guido. What possible motive…”

“I guess Guido being a high-profile personality, they are going beyond the pale. But I don’t know about how far they’ve gone
with his family. And then there’s Meera. Surely she’ll be hauled down to the station, if she keeps blabbing about how much she disliked Guido.”

“The Romanian.”

“Yes, she said he stole her recipes.”

“So you’re thinking maybe she’s the killer.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s so obvious. That’s not the way it works. It’s always the person you least suspect.”

“Well?” Dolce said.

“I have no idea who that might be, but I heard there are two people in this room who are taking over his classes in Italy. The thing is, they were probably in Italy when Guido was murdered.” I looked around, scanning the room for suspects. “I’m not leaving this event until I do have a better idea. Somebody here knows something. I just know it. I’d give anything to know what Detective Wall is thinking at this moment. Look at him standing at the bar with a glass of dark red wine. He looks pensive, don’t you think?”

“Maybe he’s already solved the case,” Dolce suggested.

“Maybe, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ask him,” I said.

“What can I do?” Dolce asked. “Besides eating too much of this delicious food.”

“Keep your ears open,” I said quietly. “Who stands to benefit from Guido’s death? Who inherits this place, for example?” I looked around. It was a nice place, but it was hardly the Cordon Bleu. Was it worth murdering for? Or was it something else that Guido had?

“But is money always the motive for murder?” Dolce asked as if I were some kind of expert. I guess after helping solve two murders in my recent past, maybe I was.

“Usually,” I said. “Although there’s also power, love, possessions.”

“Possessions, like a cooking school or a famous recipe,” Dolce said, “that someone wanted to get their hands on.”

“Would you kill for this place?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “Not for a cooking school or the recipe for veal scallopini. But a boutique would be different.”

“Your aunt died of natural causes, didn’t she?” I asked. Not that I thought Dolce would have offed her aunt to get control of the shop.

“I was halfway across the country when she died, but I believe that pneumonia was the cause.”

“What about revenge, anger and self-defense?” I suggested.

“Don’t forget cheating or insanity,” she added. “All popular motives.”

“Sometimes I wonder if Meera is insane,” I said. “You know she claims to be a vampire.”

“She’s definitely odd,” Dolce said. “I notice your detective friend seems to be getting around.” We both looked across the room to see he was now talking to Guido’s Italian relatives.

“The Italians,” I murmured. “Is that who he thinks did it? I need to spend more time with them. Maybe they had some unfinished business from the old country. All kinds of family disputes last for generations.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve seen a few movies about that. They carry grudges from generation to generation and on. It could be some motive we would never understand. Why don’t you forget this murder and let Detective Wall handle it?” she asked. “It’s probably more complicated than we think. Imagine Diana being called to testify. What could he be thinking?” She shook her head. “Come on, have something
to eat and let the detective do his work. You’re a fashion consultant, Rita, and a darned good one. You don’t need to help the police. Especially if they don’t appreciate your help.”

“Did Jack Wall tell you to say that?” I asked. For all I knew, she and Jack had been talking about me behind my back today. I knew Dolce only meant to stop me from acting foolish and overstepping my boundaries, but I don’t like to be told what to do outside of work, even by my beloved boss.

“Not exactly,” she said. “Well, he may have said something along those lines.”

“You can tell the detective for me that I’m not doing anything illegal or immoral. Instead of telling me to butt out of this business, he ought to be grateful to me. Never mind, I’ll tell him myself,” I said. I turned around and scanned the room, but he was nowhere in sight.

All day I’d seen him out of the corner of my eye either silently surveying the place or working the room, moving from group to group like just another casual mourner, no doubt picking up valuable pieces of information. Maybe he was getting ready to make an arrest, while I was moving in slow motion, learning practically nothing important. Why should I care if he was about to arrest someone as long as it wasn’t me? Then I could go back to my real life, getting some modest exercise and selling clothes to the upper classes. But deep down I wanted to show him I could figure out a difficult problem like who killed Guido, and win his respect.

After a second glass of Prosecco, I gathered my courage and went up to the woman in the big hat who was holding a glass in her hand just as I was. “My name is Rita Jewel—that’s
bigiu
in Italian,” I said.