Murder After a Fashion (6 page)

“The past
years
,” he said to the person on the phone. His assistant? His deputy? He hung up and turned to me.

“You said you took one class from him, but that wasn’t the only time you’d seen the chef. Why did you choose to go to see Mr. Torcelli yesterday?”

“I’d only had one lesson from him, although I enjoyed it very much. That’s why I went back last night to sign up for a refresher class. I realized cooking was probably something I needed to work on.”

“You realized it last night? What time was that?”

“What time did I go there or what time did I realize it?”

He didn’t roll his eyes, but I was sure he wanted to. He just waited, so I continued.

“It all happened after work. I went to have a drink across the street at the bar.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes. I mean, I went in by myself but I met someone there.”

He looked faintly disapproving, I thought. Did that mean he disapproved of singles’ bars or my drinking or my picking up men at singles’ bars? Or did it mean he was disappointed I wouldn’t confess I’d shot Guido so he could wrap this up and get on with the rest of his workload?

“Name of the person you met?”

“Meera. I don’t know her last name. I mean, I must have known it but I can’t remember it. It’s Romanian and it could be Petrescu because that’s her nephew’s name, but I’m not sure.”

He looked at me as if waiting for me to continue. So I did. “We had a drink and then we left,” I said.

“Together?”

“We walked out together, then I took the bus and she left on foot.”

“You took the bus directly to the cooking school?”

“Yes.” I was sorry Guido died, but I had nothing to add to the investigation besides what I’d already said. Nothing, zip, nada. Except for the part about his allegedly stealing other chef’s recipes. But Meera was not a reliable source of information, so I felt fine about leaving out what she’d told me. I wracked my brain to try to change the subject before he could come up with another question.

“Tell me,” I said, “are you policemen sponsoring that youth fishing program again this year?”

“What?” Startled, he looked up from his notes.

“The one that enables city children to enjoy the natural beauty of the ocean and the Bay outdoors. For some kids I understand it’s their first trip to go under the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Where did you hear about that?” he asked with a puzzled frown on his face.

“I don’t know. I read it somewhere. Why, is it a secret? Ever since I participated in solving that homicide—you know the one—I’ve been following the police news. Your department does lots of good work, which you should be proud of.”

“Thank you, Rita,” he said with only a touch of sarcasm dripping from his voice. “And now if you don’t mind, I have a few more questions for you.”

I crossed my legs, smoothed the lapels of my suit jacket and told him to fire away. Maybe not a good choice of words.

“Tell me again why you went to the cooking school last night without an appointment, without an invitation and without knowing if it was open. Why not call ahead?”

“Ah,” I said, stalling for time. Why had I gone there like that?
In retrospect it was a dumb idea. “I was hoping I might join a class on the spot. Frankly, I was hungry. After class is over, we all sit down and eat the food we made. Or rather, what the chef made. It’s part of the experience, to talk about the recipes, the techniques and how everything turned out.”

“Last night it didn’t turn out very well, did it?” he asked, staring at me.

“I don’t know. Oh, you mean because of Guido’s murder. I thought you meant the food. You’d have to ask the class about that. You do have a class list, I suppose?”

“Yes, we do. Thanks for the suggestion. We’ll be talking to everyone who was there last night.”

I nodded my approval.

“You said you were hungry,” Jack said. “So you thought you’d take a cooking lesson instead of buying food.”

“It may sound strange, but even though I often buy food, I don’t know what to do with it unless it’s already cooked. Then I eat it. Oh, I know, you’re thinking of the dinner you crashed at my house, aren’t you? And you wondered, as did everyone there, how did Rita pull this off when she doesn’t know how to cook?”

He managed to look slightly contrite, which is unusual for Jack. Not just unusual but unheard of.

“Someone invited me to stay to eat that night. I appreciated it, and I assumed you knew how to cook. Everything was very good.”

“It was Meera who invited you. She’s the one I was in the bar with last night. She will verify my story.”

But who would verify Meera’s whereabouts after we parted? She hadn’t gone to work, so where had she gone?

“And will you verify hers?” he asked as if he’d read my mind.

“Of course I will if you want me to.” But I couldn’t verify where she’d gone after I saw her. That’s what worried me.

“Right now I need her full name and her contact number.”

I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much: that she worked at Azerbyjohnnie’s but I didn’t know her schedule. Also that she was house-sitting at a San Francisco B and B. I didn’t say anything about her relationship with Chef Guido. Jack hadn’t asked me, and I wasn’t going to tell him how she hated the chef. He’d jump to the wrong conclusion. Or would he? Maybe he’d jump to the right conclusion, that she had something to do with this murder. “I have to warn you that she will say she’s a vampire.”

He nodded as if that was no big surprise. I guess that was why he was such a good detective, because of his calm demeanor. While others were falling apart and running around in circles, Jack never seemed rattled.

“That’s all, Rita,” he said, switching off his machine. “I hope you’ll let me know if you hear anything pertaining to the case.”

“Of course. I’m as eager to get this mystery solved as you are. Well, maybe not that eager, but you know how badly I want to put this behind us. For me, I will find another cooking class, but it won’t be the same. Nobody else had Guido’s charm and charisma.”

“Nobody? You mean he had no rivals?”

“I…I don’t know,” I stammered. “I think all great chefs have rivals. Most of them are temperamental with huge egos. But don’t ask me. He’s the only chef I know personally, and I met the man only once. I was one of many in his class.”

“Once? I thought you went there last night.”

“Yes, but that was not a meeting, that was an encounter. It’s different. We spoke for maybe two minutes. He said I
was too late, he said he was closing. He didn’t let me in. He looked nervous.”

“Why was that?” Jack asked, twisting his pen in his fingers.

“How should I know?”

“Your best guess,” he prompted.

“Maybe he wasn’t alone. Or maybe he was expecting someone and he wanted to get rid of me. Maybe he was just tired. Or he had something in the oven and he heard the timer go off. Maybe sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” I sighed loudly, indicating my nearing the end of my patience.

Jack looked at me as if I’d lost a few brain cells. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Why hadn’t I just walked out when he turned off his machine? Because I’m a big blabbermouth, that’s why. I love to talk, almost as much as I love wearing the season’s hottest fashions.

“Wait a minute. You like to solve mysteries. Who in your opinion had reason to kill the chef?”

I couldn’t say Meera. I didn’t want to finger her any more than she would point at me. “No one, that’s why I wonder, have you considered suicide?” I asked.

Jack’s eyes opened wide. At my perception? Or at my audacity?

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “He seemed depressed last night when I saw him. Maybe something went wrong. His soufflé fell or his students cancelled or his chateau was foreclosed on or he got news that his Barbaresco sheep escaped from their pasture. So he took out his gun and shot himself.”

“Then where is it?” Jack asked. “Did you see it?”

“The gun or the chateau?”

“The gun,” he snapped.

“No, I didn’t. Here’s my theory. Maybe he didn’t die right
away. Maybe he threw the gun in the garbage or out the window or he hid it in the Cuisinart before he expired.”

“Why would he do that?” Jack asked.

I had the feeling he was humoring me, trying to get me to make a fool of myself, which wasn’t that hard. “He was ashamed of committing suicide, or he wanted to blame someone else for his death.”

“Who would that be?” Jack asked, coming out from behind his desk.

I shook my head and stood up to leave. “I have no idea,” I said. I really didn’t believe Meera was his rival even though she wanted to think so. She was a good cook, but she was not a professional as far as I knew. “Maybe some of the other students will know. I didn’t do my homework. I just went to his class because someone recommended it, and I have to say it was wonderful. That’s all I have to say. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that he was well liked. Not just by me but by most or all of his students and all of his televiewers. At least that was my impression.” I looked at my watch. “I’m late for work.”

“If you think of anything else you’ve neglected to tell me…”

“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “I’ll give you a call.”

“Do you need a ride to work?” he asked.

“That would help,” I said frostily. Was I guilty of withholding evidence by not telling him what Meera had said? Maybe he thought he could bribe me to tell him something incriminating if he offered transportation. Not me. He called someone on the phone, then he told me Officer O’Doul would meet me in front of the station in an official car.

It was the least he could do, I thought, after all I’d done for him. But I had no intention of calling him with additional
helpful hints about this case. I’d done enough. When I’d helped him out the last time, what had it gotten me? Just a few warnings, no medals, no rewards, no key to the city.

Dolce was waiting for me at the door of the boutique. She stepped outside when she saw the cop car let me off, and she looked around before she spoke. “How did it go?” she said softly so the customers inside wouldn’t hear her.

I shrugged.

“He doesn’t think you killed the chef, does he?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Who knows what Jack thinks. He holds his cards close to his vest, although he wasn’t wearing a vest today. I just wish he’d solve the case soon so I can forget all about the chef and his murder.”

Dolce took me by the arm and we went inside, straight to her office. We got a few curious looks from our usual customers, but apparently Dolce hadn’t heard enough from me. Not yet.

“Sit down,” she said, closing the office door. “Tell me everything. What he said. What you said.”

“I said I didn’t do it. Who knows if he believes me. He knows I was there at the school last night.”

“He wouldn’t call you down to the station unless he suspected you, would he? But why? Why would you kill a chef?”

“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t kill anyone, especially not a chef.”

I was so tired of questions without answers, I was relieved when someone knocked on the office door.

“Dolce, are you there? I have a question. Is it true when the days get short the hems get long?”

Dolce gave me a look and went to the door. Life goes on. No matter who gets shot at a cooking school, women still
need clothes. I needed clothes for a funeral. Guido’s funeral. Why did I want to go to the funeral? No, I didn’t really know the man, but I’d been to funerals before and as depressing as they are, I’d always learned something important. Was it too much to hope for that Guido’s interment would be just as enlightening? Like, for example, the murderer just might be there and give himself away. Not to everyone, of course, but a sensitive person like myself might have an “aha” moment. Fortunately I’d have no trouble finding something appropriate and chic to wear. Those were words we lived by at Dolce’s.

The story of Guido’s murder was in the newspaper.

Hopefully lots of people would attend Guido’s funeral, either rivals to celebrate his demise or admirers to mourn him. I prided myself on being a student of character, so I was looking forward to meeting Guido’s friends and relatives, hoping to find who would stand to gain by his death. Of course, if they all flew in from Italy the day of the funeral, I’d have to cross them off the list and then where would I be? I’d be back to being suspect number one.

Since his death was public knowledge, I could no longer pretend I didn’t know anything about it. I could still pretend I had nothing to do with it. But that wasn’t pretending. I’d had nothing to do with it. Nothing. No matter if the police didn’t believe me.

I tried to act normal by waiting on some of our regular customers, like Patti French, whose sister-in-law MarySue
had been murdered last year. I showed her a classic crisp white shirt by Theory, a wide snakeskin belt by Lauren and a flirtatious above-the-knee fringed leather skirt by Ralph Lauren. She told me she’d heard hems were going down, but I assured her with her legs she needed to show them off.

She knew she looked terrific in the outfit and told me I was a genius. The kind of words I needed to hear after what I’d been through. After I rang up her purchases for a tidy sum, I went to the office and tried to call Meera again. I got her number from the restaurant and called her cell phone. Yes, even faux vampires have cell phones these days. I didn’t expect her to answer, so when she did, I was struck almost speechless.