Murder After a Fashion (5 page)

I kept thinking of how Guido wouldn’t let me into the
school tonight. Was that because his murderer was already on the premises? Was Guido protecting me? What if I had been able to prevent this heinous crime by forcing my way into the school and disarming the killer, but instead I’d allowed the chef in a heroic gesture to send me out of harm’s way?

Or was Guido expecting his killer, only he didn’t know it was a killer. He thought it was a friend or a relative or a student of his. If only I had access to his cooking school, I was sure I’d find something written on his calendar or his bulletin board. Right now the police were probably combing the place for clues like the menu I’d scrawled my number on. So once again I’d be on the list of suspects when they realized whose number that was.

I kept expecting the phone to ring. Either from the police or from Meera, because she along with Dolce knew where I was going tonight. But my little apartment under the sloped roof of an old house on Russian Hill was quiet except for the voice of the newsman going over the gory details of the murder. The suspicion that it was an inside job. No evidence of a break-in. Interviews with neighbors who reported seeing a woman in an off-white Juicy Couture blazer at the door earlier in the evening. Me, wearing Juicy Couture? Never. Must have been someone else.

There was an interview with the detective assigned to the case, my sometime friend Jack Wall, who looked tough and suave at the same time in his tailored off-the-rack Alfani suit and a solid black skinny tie. He said he would find the perpetrator and bring him or her to justice. What else could he say? How long would it take him to figure out I’d been there at the scene?

Turned out it didn’t take him that long. I had a half hour
to figure out what to say. Of course I’d tell the truth, but the truth isn’t always so easy to figure out.

I just had to tell him I didn’t kill Guido. Of course not. What possible motive would I have? I adored Guido. Everyone adored Guido. He was an inspiring teacher, a TV star, a man whose memory would live on through his books and his TV classes. Not the Guido I’d seen tonight; that Guido was not himself. The Guido I knew, the Guido who taught our class and countless others, was urbane, suave, gregarious and fun. By the time Jack called, I had calmed down and jotted down a few questions for him. I knew he’d have a few for me too.

“Tell me you weren’t on the scene of another murder tonight,” he said, his voice stern and official. We were off to a bad start. But he had to sound that way. It was his job. I pictured him in his office, not in his suit, but instead he’d have changed into something casual but pricy, like boot-cut jeans that fit as if they’d been made for him and a designer pin-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And on his feet, propped up on his desk, he’d be wearing Gucci black leather sneakers. He might have had them on when he was on the news.

“Are you referring to Guido Torcelli?” I asked calmly.

“I am,” he said. “May I ask where you were this evening?”

“Of course. I have nothing to hide. And a good alibi. Are we doing this over the phone?” I asked.

“At this hour I assume you don’t want to come down to the station.”

“Not in my jammies and bunny slippers, no,” I said. Though I had no intention of hustling downtown at this hour, I wanted to see how far I could push the envelope. Surely he wouldn’t
make me come down there tonight, would he? “But if you want to come here…”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient,” he said. There may have been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I wasn’t sure.

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave the country?”

“Do I have to?”

“I hope we can work together on this, Jack.”

There was a long silence during which he was probably trying to decide how to tell me politely to mind my own business. That he didn’t need my help. That he was the cop and I was a suspect.

“I’m counting on your help,” he said at last. “I feel sure you want this case solved as soon as possible so we can all get back to our jobs.”

“But this is your job, isn’t it? To solve murders. If you have any others on your desk, I’d be glad to—”

“Rita, let’s not go overboard, shall we?” he asked. I could tell I was pushing his buttons, but somehow I couldn’t help it. I wanted to remind him of the past murders in which I had helped him whether he’d wanted my help or not. Of course, he was trying hard to stay calm and not alarm me. That must be what they learn at the police academy.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to sound contrite. “I just want you to know that—”

“I know. You want to help. Good. Let’s leave it at that. Before I let you go, tell me if you’re still at the same address.”

“The same place where you came to dinner with Dolce and Nick and his aunt, yes.” It wouldn’t hurt to remind him that he owed me a dinner.

“And your work address is the same?”

Thinking of Dolce’s reminded me of bumping into
Meera. Where had she been tonight? She wasn’t at work. She didn’t want me to take classes from Guido. She wasn’t fond of him, to put it mildly. She didn’t do it, did she?

“Rita?” he said. “Are you still there?”

“Of course I’m here. And I still work at Dolce’s. I’m just thinking. This murder is very upsetting.”

“They usually are,” he said dryly.

“I mean to me personally. I knew the chef.”

“How well?”

“I took one class from him, and tonight I went there to sign up with him for another.”

“Is that the reason you were at the scene of the murder?”

“Yes, it was. If you like, I’ll make you a timeline of my whereabouts tonight. How would that be?” I asked sweetly.

“I look forward to it. Just for the record. Tell me, how did Mr. Torcelli seem tonight?”

“Distracted. Definitely not himself. I had the feeling he was trying to get rid of me.”

“And this upset you, am I right? Made you angry?”

“No, not at all,” I protested. “Well, maybe a little. But not enough to shoot him.”

“How do you know he was shot?”

“I heard it on the news.” There, Jack. I had an answer for all his questions. So far. “I was thinking that maybe he was expecting someone else or the someone else was in the shop already…Are you taking this down?”

“Not now, but I will tomorrow.”

“Are you going to make me take a lie-detector test again?” I asked.

“Do you have any objection?”

“Of course not. Only a criminal would object. By the way, how did you know I was there?” As if I didn’t know.

“Your phone number was written on a menu and lying on the table at the cooking school. Care to explain that?”

“Yes, I care very much. I gave it to him so he could notify me when the next class came up. Is that a crime?”

“Let it go for now. We’ll talk further tomorrow when you can fill me in on your activities before and after your visit to the cooking school. Is nine o’clock in my office convenient for you?”

“I’ll have to check with Dolce, but I’ll plan on it.”

He hung up, then I called Dolce to fill her in and tell her I was going to be late the next day.

“All you have to do is tell the truth,” she said.

Oh, if only it was that simple.

After I talked to her, I tried calling Meera but got a recorded message advertising her walking tours of San Francisco. She was probably asleep, so I left her a message to give me a call. When she did tomorrow, I’d wait to see if she’d tell me anything, and if she didn’t, I’d tell her I wanted to take her up on the cooking class offer. Now that Guido was dead, it was time to find a new class. But I wouldn’t say a word to her about Guido. Let her bring him up if she wanted to. I sure didn’t. Then I called her nephew Nick Petrescu and left him a message that went like this:

“Hi, Nick. Rita here. Long time no see, as we say in America. How are you? If you are in town, give me a call. I understand we’ll be taking cooking classes together from Meera. I hope your Olympic hopefuls are doing well.”

The next day I dressed carefully as I always do for an investigation. I had what they call an “office-ready” gray pin-striped suit with a slim pencil skirt that hit just above the
knee and a no-nonsense jacket that hugged my curves; I’d bought it on sale at Ann Taylor. Most of my clothes come straight from Dolce’s, but not all of them. She understands that sometimes I shop at the mall. With the suit I wore a pair of black Sam Edelman medium stacked heels I’d picked up at Neiman Marcus. I’d have to change when I got to work so the customers wouldn’t think I was in mourning, which I wasn’t; even though I was an admirer of the chef, we really hadn’t been close enough for me to mourn his demise.

Although I would certainly go to his funeral. I have found that a funeral brings out the best and the worst in people. People cry or they laugh or they say something inappropriate that they shouldn’t, which is helpful when you’re looking for a murderer. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be looking for a murderer, but how could I help it?

I could only hope that no one at Dolce’s would have any reason to bring up the subject of Chef Guido’s murder. At least when I got to work I could escape from the cloud of suspicion that Jack would try to hang over my head. After a grilling by the police, it would be a relief to concentrate on clothes and accessories. Just yesterday I’d been sick of them. Not today.

But first I had to get through my meeting at the police station. I’d made notes and I was as prepared as I could be. Jack would be civil, but I didn’t expect him to talk about anything other than Guido’s murder. Would I have to take an oath? Would I have to tell him what Meera said? Did he really think I’d kill anyone no matter what they did to me, like turning me away from the cooking school? Or had Jack called me down there to get me to finger someone else? He should know better after what we’d been through together when he’d wanted me to turn in my boss Dolce.

Satisfied with my clothing choice, which I thought made me look serious and sincere and most of all honest, I pulled my hair back into a chignon to complete the businesswoman look and took a taxi to the Central Police Station. I couldn’t face another bus, not today in my totally tailored designer suit.

When I told the clerk who I was, she made a call and in a few minutes Jack came out to meet me. He looked me up and down, and I couldn’t tell if he was pleased, shocked, amused or puzzled by my appearance. I knew I looked and felt different from the style-setting fashionista he knew who wore cutting-edge clothes everywhere, including at home. Except when being questioned by a homicide detective.

I knew I didn’t look like most of the suspects who came down to the station. Just a glance around the waiting room and I saw poorly dressed vagrants, slick drug dealers in shiny suits and a woman in a tight metallic skirt who looked like she might be a prostitute. On the other hand, if she had a tweed or leather jacket to pair it with, she could even go to lunch at the Garden Court. Jack escorted me through the bulletproof glass doors leading to his office.

Today he was wearing a three-button charcoal Burberry blazer with a striped button-down Moschino shirt open at the collar and a pocket square that matched perfectly. He always managed to look like he was comfortable in his clothes, which were top of the line and more expensive than anyone in public service had a right to wear. The story was he’d made a fortune before he became a cop. How else could he afford to live the way he did, with a sailboat and a pied-à-terre with a bay view and a closet full of designer rags?

And why had he decided to devote himself to catching criminals instead of lying on the beach in Barbados sipping piña
coladas surrounded by lonely bikini-clad women on the prowl? I’d heard stories, but who knew what was true? Maybe even Jack had forgotten how he’d gotten where he was. Where he was today was in a windowless office with a wall full of pictures of himself receiving various awards. I didn’t doubt for a minute that he deserved them. He was a hard worker. But even hard workers need help. I like to think that was why I was there.

“Sit down,” he said, waving toward a straight-back chair that faced his desk.

I looked around. “No lie-detector test?”

A faint smile played across his face. His iron jaw was as firm as ever, his gaze steady. “Not today.” He took out a small voice recorder from his desk drawer. “Do you mind?”

I shrugged as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Tape me, film me, depose me, I have nothing to hide. That was the vibe I hoped I was transmitting.

“Let’s start with your relationship with the chef.”

“I didn’t have one,” I protested. “I took a class from him. One class. I thought he was charming. A fine teacher. So did everyone else in the world, obviously, or he wouldn’t have risen in the ranks of celebrity chefs.”

“Everyone else in the world,” he repeated. “Who do you mean exactly?”

“Specifically I mean the other people in the class and in general, everywhere. Don’t ask me to name names, I have no idea. My class was months ago.”

Jack picked up his phone and told someone to get him a list of all the cooking school students from the past year.

“Just last year?” I asked.