Murder After a Fashion (14 page)

“Is he a chef at Eduardo’s?”

“He’s at Fior d’Italia. Didn’t you meet him? He was at the funeral.”

I thought I’d gotten around, but I’d missed one of the brothers. So they were all in the food business. Perhaps rivals. This brother was at another high-end Italian restaurant. All I could think was that I’d have to go and eat there too. I was starting to feel dizzy from the overload of information. Or maybe it was the altitude. This detective work was hard, but somebody had to do it.

“Which one was Raymundo?”

“He was wearing a dark suit.”

Now that was helpful. What man wasn’t wearing a dark suit at the funeral?

“So who works at Eduardo’s?” I asked.

“Guido’s cousin Biagio. But Eduardo is the owner.”

Who was it I was looking for? Had I misheard? Were there still others I should look into?

“The other brothers are still in Italy,” Gioccomo said.

That’s when I said to myself that I’d gotten all I could digest for today. I thanked him for his time, and he saw me to the door. Probably relieved to get rid of me and my incessant questions. A lot of people feel that way about me. All I’ve ever
tried to do was get to the bottom of a murder and save my own hide at the same time. Either I’m stopped by the long arm of the law or by people who have something to hide or just want to be left alone.

It was not easy being an amateur detective. Now, if I were a professional like Jack, I could go anywhere, pull out my badge and ask any questions I felt like. Maybe in my next life. In the meantime I was happy to have a new nugget of information to share with Jack. Although I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he already knew everything I knew.

The next day I realized how much I liked my own day job. I was no longer bored with it. I looked forward to it as a place I could relax and be myself and not worry about who killed who and why. I didn’t even mind doing mindless jobs like hanging a shipment of metallic jackets on hangers, as long as I didn’t have to wear one. All that glitter at nine o’clock in the morning was as much as I could handle. In total contrast I was wearing a pair of sleek, buttery, black leather Helmut Lang leggings I’d tucked into a pair of black, low-heeled Steve Madden boots, a black J.Crew tank and a long black Alexander Wang vest. Just the opposite of what was all around me at the moment. Maybe it was the funeral that had inspired me to wear so much black. Who knows?

When Dolce asked me how Jonathan was, I hesitated. I didn’t want to sound heartless. “He was so sick,” I said, “that he couldn’t eat much of the beets or the green soup. I think he was glad to see me, but he seemed preoccupied.” Maybe I was spoiled and I wasn’t happy unless all attention was on me. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe it was true.

“Now, Rita,” she said, “you know what I told you about men when they’re sick.”

“But he’s a doctor,” I protested. “And I’d gone to a lot of work for him. Or rather Meera had. She’s the one who made the soup and the beets.”

Dolce opened her mouth to tell me that he was a doctor second and a man first, but her words were interrupted when my cell phone rang. Normally I turn it off when I’m at work, but since there were no customers around yet, and it was Detective Wall, I took the call.

“Just wanted to remind you of dinner tonight at Eduardo’s,” Jack said. “Eight o’clock.”

“Okay,” I said. How like him to announce it instead of asking if that was all right with me. “Any instructions, warnings or tips?”

“We’re going to see what we can learn.”

“And eat,” I reminded him. “Can I ask questions?”

“Can I stop you?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

“Dr. Jonathan?” Dolce asked when I’d hung up.

I shook my head. “Detective Wall,” I said. “We’re going to a restaurant tonight that is owned by Guido’s brother Eduardo and where his cousin Biagio works. Neither one was at the funeral, which I think is strange.”

Her eyes lit up. “Sounds like fun,” she said.

“It’s not a date really,” I explained. “It’s a hunting expedition. Hunting for clues to Guido’s murder. That’s all.”

“Expedition or not, it’s exciting to go out with such a good-looking man,” she said. “And one who knows how to dress for the occasion.” Then she got down to the nitty-gritty. “What will
you
wear?”

“We’ll find something smart and low-key,” Dolce suggested. “And make it look effortless.”

The first thing she found was a short black Nicole Miller dress that hit me midthigh and was embellished with a bold design. I tried it on with black tights and I liked it a lot.

“It says glamour but it’s not over-the-top,” Dolce said, stepping back to get some perspective.

I agreed but when I looked at the price tag, I gasped.

“Don’t worry about the price,” Dolce said. “You can return it and we’ll have it dry-cleaned. Unless you want to keep it.”

Of course I wanted to keep it, but I already had a closet bursting with designer clothes she’d either given me or sold me.

“You’ll be the best dressed in the whole place,” Dolce promised.

“Except for Jack. He usually takes the prize with his
Armani suits, his Ferragamo shoes or his Marc Jacobs pants.”

“You’ll look great together,” Dolce said. “I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for that detective. I’m glad to hear he needs you as much as you need him. Or is he just looking for an excuse to see you?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “He uses me to get information, and I use him for the same purpose.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Dolce said. “Unless you decide a doctor is the one for you. So you think Guido’s brother or his cousin who works there are going to tell you something over drinks at the bar?” She sounded dubious. “If either knows who killed Guido, why haven’t they told the police?”

“Maybe one of them did it or they’re protecting someone else, like each other. I don’t know. I do know Eduardo wasn’t at the funeral, something about a banquet. If Biagio was there, I didn’t meet him. Don’t you think it’s strange when close relatives don’t show up to the funeral?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But not if they’ve got work to do. If he’s the owner, he’s probably out chatting up the customers at his restaurant.”

“I guess so,” I said. “If they have the personality for it. If Eduardo is the chef and/or the owner, we’ll go back to the kitchen on the pretext of complimenting him.”

“And then?” Dolce said.

“I don’t know. Jack will ask some questions. This is really Jack’s job. He’ll know what to do.”

“Rita, you’re too modest,” she said. “You have a way of finding things out. You know you do.”

I blushed at the compliment, but I had to agree I sometimes
did get to the bottom of things because of my persistence.

I changed back into my all-black work outfit and hung the dress on a hanger. “I’ll be very careful not to spill anything on it,” I promised.

“It’s too bad about your doctor,” Dolce said.

“He was downright cranky,” I said. “There’s no other word for it. He’s not a good patient.”

“Doctors never are,” she said. “Just don’t give up on him. He’ll get well and he’ll be himself again. I’m glad to hear he’s not the only man in your life. There’s Nick the Romanian also. That makes three men in your life,” she said.

I was about to protest that one was sick and grouchy, one was using me to uncover a murderer and the other was recovering from a broken engagement in Romania, but several customers came into the shop and we both sprang into action like the professional saleswomen we were.

That afternoon, Dolce insisted I leave early to get ready for my date. But I didn’t want to sit around in my tiny apartment getting nervous about my so-called date. It wasn’t really a date anyway; it was more of an assignment. The job was to find out something. If I didn’t help Jack find out something, subtly of course, he’d be sorry he ever took me there.

I could see why he wouldn’t want to go to a fabulous restaurant by himself on a Friday night. How would that look? It would look suspicious, I was sure of that. I couldn’t go by myself either; not only would it look suspicious, but it would break my bank. Jack could either write it off as a business expense, or he’d pay out of pocket, and I knew his pockets were deep.

So I left work at the usual time and took the bus home. I
got dressed and studied myself in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. Then I tried on a cropped velvet jacket over the dress because San Francisco evenings are cool no matter what the season. But the jacket hid the appliqué on the dress, so I grabbed a black hand-crotched shawl with a long fringe that I hardly ever wore. Finally an occasion that called for a fringed wrap. It was lined with black satin and felt wonderfully smooth around my shoulders.

When Jack came, he looked around the apartment as if he hadn’t been there before, although he had.

“You were here one night when I was having a little dinner party. As I recall, you stayed for dinner.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he said.

“I didn’t. You crashed the party.”

“Wait a minute. The older woman invited me.”

“Older? You can say that again. Do you know how old she says she is? Almost two hundred.”

“She looks good for her age,” he said.

“She was at the funeral yesterday.”

“I saw her.”

“Did you ask her any questions?”

“A few,” he said.

Would it kill him to tell me what the questions were? And more important, what were the answers? Like where were you on the night Guido was murdered? Did you have any motives for killing the chef? Do you know how to use a gun? Are you really a vampire?

“Since you and I are going to investigate a close relative of the deceased chef, I assume you have dispensed with the idea of blaming Meera for the murder.”

“You know better than to assume anything,” he said. Then he tilted his head to one side and changed the subject.
Could it be that I’d hit on the truth and that’s why he said, “Nice dress.”

“Thanks. You look very cool yourself.” It was true. Jack was wearing a vintage Armani suit with double-pleated baggy pants in the fifties’ style. Something only he could get away with. It was nice to go out with someone who not only wore stylish clothes but also appreciated what I wore too. If only this wasn’t a setup to catch a murderer. Maybe someday Jack and I would have a real date.

Instead of driving his ultra-expensive sports car, Jack had a vintage Mercedes and driver waiting in front of my house. “This is Charlie,” he said, pointing to the driver. “One of my parolees. I like to give him the business when I can. Keeps him out of trouble.”

I said hello to Charlie, a hulking bald giant of a man with a jagged scar on one cheek. He’d gotten that either in prison or on the mean streets was my guess.

“Could double as a bodyguard, if you needed one,” I mused. I hoped we wouldn’t need one tonight. I wondered if Jack was afraid we’d discover the killer, who would pull out his gun and threaten us right in the middle of our crème brûlée, and that’s why he was using Charlie.

Whatever Charlie’s role was tonight he was a fine driver, taking the hills and the one-way streets with skill and nerve. Both of which were necessary for a career in crime or as a detective’s driver. He pulled up in front of the restaurant, which was tucked away behind a storefront with no name on the door, and said he’d be waiting for us in the parking lot while he listened to the ball game. Jack said he’d have some food sent out to him, and Charlie did not fall all over Jack with gratitude. Instead, he just nodded as if this was the usual procedure.

“Does this happen often?” I asked Jack as we stood in front of the solid wood door.

“My going out to dinner? I like to combine business with pleasure. Eating with you—”

“It’s all business. Don’t tell me, I know.” I knew he was using me, but deep down I thought he enjoyed my company too.

He held the door open for me and then put one hand on the small of my back. I felt a frisson go up my spine. There was no denying that Jack had an effect on me. He was tall, good-looking, smart and up front with his comments. With Jack you never got anything sugarcoated. The question was, did I have any effect on him? He was so cool I couldn’t tell.