Murder from Scratch Read online

  Murder from Scratch

  A SALLY SOLARI MYSTERY

  Leslie Karst

  For my cool cat dad, Kenneth L. Karst, who first played Frank, Ella, and Mel for me on his hi-fi.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the people who took the time to share with me their experiences of being blind: Erin Byrne, Stacie Grijalva, Beverly Heninger, Patrice Maginns, and Herman Rubin. This book would not exist but for your generosity and candor.

  In addition, my heartfelt thanks go out to those who provided advice and information regarding their various areas of expertise: Craig Gillespie and Nancy Lundblad (medical and eye issues), Cathy Kriege (restaurants and POS systems), Bill Ong Hing (immigration law), Detective Wes Grant of the Santa Cruz County Coroner’s Office, Christie Tall of the Vista Center for the Blind and Visually Impaired, and Daria Siciliano (who cooked for me her Nonna Egle’s delectable pasta dish, reinvented here as “Nonna Sophia’s Pasta”).

  Thanks also to my wonderful beta readers for their comments on the manuscript: Robin McDuff, Nancy Lundblad, Patrice Maginns, and most especially Erin Byrne, whose detailed critique of my early efforts proved invaluable. E grazie mille to Shirley Tessler, for her assistance in editing the recipes, and to all my recipe tasters, Renée Almatierra, Rosanna Roa, Tom Ellison, Larry Friedman, Robin McDuff, Shirley Tessler, Avron Barr, Patrice Boyles, and Enda Brennan.

  I am also once again deeply indebted to Erin Niumata of Folio Literary Management; to Matt Martz, Jenny Chen, Sarah Poppe, Chelsey Emmelhainz, and everyone else at Crooked Lane Books; to Hiro Kimura for his gorgeous covers; and to my incomparable editor, Nike Power.

  And finally, massive thanks to my fellow mystery writers and bloggers at Chicks on the Case, who always have my back: Ellen Byron, Marla Cooper, Vickie Fee, Kellye Garrett, Cynthia Kuhn, and Lisa Q. Mathews.

  Chapter 1

  Something about Brian seemed off. I couldn’t tell precisely what—perhaps the angle of his lanky body as he hunched over the counter? Or maybe the erratic way he was chopping shallots for tonight’s béarnaise sauce, making a series of slow, methodical slices followed by a barrage of rapid-fire strokes.

  Catching my stare, the cook frowned and set down his rosewood-handled knife. Since Gauguin didn’t open for another hour, the kitchen was still cool, its ovens and stovetop not yet fired up for dinner. Nevertheless, several beads of sweat had appeared on Brian’s forehead. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his chef’s jacket, then reached once more for the knife.

  “Hey, you okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been a little under the weather the past few days. I think it must be that crud that’s going around town.”

  Uh-oh. Visions of infectious pathogens being passed to our customers flashed through my brain as he resumed chopping the mound of shallots before him. “You think you should be working if you’re sick?”

  He waved off my concern. “Don’t worry. I’ve been washing my hands like crazy. And besides, I’m actually way better today.”

  Studying Brian’s pallid complexion, I found it hard to share his confidence. But I also knew there was no way we could get anyone else to come work in his stead on such short notice. Kris was out of town until tomorrow, and even though it was only a Wednesday night, running the kitchen with just Javier and me on the hot line and grill station would be a nightmare.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I want to see some heavy-duty hand washing by you tonight. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he responded, annoyance creeping into his voice. “I know the drill.” With an impatient shake of his close-cropped head, Brian returned to his chopping.

  After checking on the glace de viande I had reducing on the stove for tonight’s filet mignon special, I headed up the stairs behind the reach-in refrigerator and around the corner into the restaurant office. I’d inherited Gauguin only the previous spring, but the warm, comfy room already felt like home.

  Javier, my head chef, was seated at the oak desk, peering at his phone.

  “Good news, Sally,” he said as I took a seat in the pale-green wing chair across from him. “I just heard from the bank. Looks like I should be able to transfer the money by the beginning of next week.”

  We were in the process of making Javier a half owner of Gauguin, but the sale wouldn’t be final until the deposit of funds and signing of the contract.

  “Great,” I said. “Because as soon as it’s official, that means you’ll share legal responsibility with me if our customers get sick from eating our food.”

  In response to his raised eyebrow, I recounted the conversation I’d had down in the kitchen with Brian.

  “I’m not so sure it’s a flu that’s going on with him,” Javier said when I’d finished, staring past me at the tall bookshelf jammed with food essays, cookbooks, and travel memoirs.

  “What do you mean?”

  Lips pursed, he turned his gaze to me. “Haven’t you noticed him lately? How he’s been acting, I dunno … kind of strange?”

  “Strange how?”

  The wooden chair creaked as Javier shifted position. “Well, like being late to work, for one. And he’s been taking more breaks than usual, too.” The chef reached for the small carved tiki atop the desk and rubbed its menacing features absently with his thumb. “And haven’t you noticed how he’s seemed kind of out of it the past few weeks? You know, staring off into space and not listening when you talk to him?”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, I have. And he’s been pretty testy, too. Like just now, when I wanted to make sure he was washing his hands, he got all snippy with me.”

  “There you go.” Javier set the tiki back down with a clunk. “I was thinking we should keep an eye on Brian, make sure there’s nothing going on. It might just be something like girlfriend problems, but if he’s getting super stressed by work, it could be bad. This job can really get to you if you’re not careful.”

  I knew this to be true. Being a line cook had never been an easy job, and with the advent of the so-called “food revolution,” the combination of long, exhausting hours and the pressure of frequently changing your menu in an attempt to constantly seem new and exciting could be too much for some restaurant workers.

  I nodded my understanding. “Right. I can ask Eric what he knows, too. He sings with Brian in the chorus. And maybe he could even do a little snooping around for us.”

  “That would be great,” Javier said, then picked up his phone at the ping of an incoming text.

  As I made my way back downstairs, however, I wondered how Eric—my ex-boyfriend/current best pal—would feel about such a request. Because even though he did work as a district attorney, I could well imagine he might not be too thrilled about being asked to spy on a friend and fellow bass singer.

  Brian wasn’t in the kitchen when I got back down there, but came in from the dry storage room a couple of minutes later. With a smirk, he made a great show of using the hand-wash station, then set to work prepping the mise en place inserts for the hot line—chopping onions and cilantro, filling plastic squirt bottles, and setting out stainless-steel containers of capers, lemon slices, and brandy-soaked apricots.

  I monitored him closely that night. But, other than washing his hands so often I feared they’d shrivel up like my nonna’s sun-dried tomatoes (the frequency of which was no doubt increased by my constant surveillance), Brian acted completely normal. The same constant banter with the kitchen crew, the same speed and deftness sautéing an order of broccoli rabe with garlic and red pepper flakes and whipping up a new batch of béarnaise sauce.

  Watching as he used a squirt bottle to execute perfectly formed swirls of sriracha-mayonnaise atop an order of our spicy fried chicken, I t
hought about what Javier had said. He must be wrong. Brian doesn’t even seem sick, much less stressed out about anything. Maybe he simply was down with the flu and is better now, just like he claims.

  Once home from work, I plopped down on the sofa to unwind with a bourbon-rocks and some late-night TV streaming. But as I watched a show about the hectic and stressful life of working at celebrity chef Nobu Matsuhisa’s restaurant in New York City, my thoughts returned to the cook. Pausing the episode, I sipped from my drink and stroked Buster, who had curled up next to me on the couch. The big brown dog briefly opened his eyes, then let out a squeaky yawn and promptly went back to sleep.

  Javier has been in the restaurant business for years, I thought as I gazed at the frozen image of Chef Matsuhisa slicing through a chunk of shiny red tuna. And in the eight months we’ve worked together, he’s proved to be a reliable judge of our kitchen staff. If anyone would know whether a fellow cook was having some kind of problem, it would be Javier.

  Maybe I should take his concerns about Brian seriously, after all.

  * * *

  I slept in the next morning until eight thirty, and would have snoozed even longer had Buster not jumped onto the bed to slather my face with “You need to get up right this instant” kisses. Delivering an affectionate slap to his dusty brown flank, I shoved the insistent dog away, then threw off the covers and sat up.

  “Fine,” I said. “But as punishment for interrupting my beauty sleep, you’re gonna have to wait till I make coffee before we go outside.”

  Once the pot was brewing, I opened the front door, and the dog trotted out to sniff along the edge of the sidewalk and add his messages to those that had been delivered overnight. Shivering from the cold, I collected the morning paper from its usual spot under the Mexican sage bush and scanned the sky. Blue as my father’s azure eyes, not a wisp of a cloud in sight. And if today was like yesterday, it would warm up to the high sixties by midday.

  This wasn’t unusual for early December in Northern California, but the rainy season was just around the corner.

  Best take the opportunity to go for a bike ride while I still can without getting drenched.

  After downing my coffee and taking Buster for a brisk walk down to Lighthouse Field, I changed into my cycling shorts and Tour of California leader’s jersey, then wheeled my red-and-white Specialized Roubaix out the front door. A trip to Davenport, the old whaling community ten miles north of Santa Cruz, seemed like the perfect ride for this glorious morning.

  The wind was thankfully minimal and traffic light on Highway 1, so I was able to relax as I pedaled up the coast and enjoy the scenery—rows of spiky artichokes, their dull-green leaves glistening from the day’s watering; skeletons of old wooden barns, barely able to stand; and the occasional glimpse of the Pacific Ocean flecked with fishing boats on their way back to port with the morning’s catch.

  Rather than stopping at the bakery in Davenport as was my usual routine, I turned around and headed immediately back to Santa Cruz. My stomach had started to rumble as I’d pumped up the hill out of Liddell Creek, and a vision had come to me of all that panettone sitting in the Solari’s freezer, left over from the big sister-cities dinner my dad had hosted back in October. He was offering the eggy cake, studded with pine nuts and dried fruit, as a dessert special on the weekends until it was gone, but I knew he wouldn’t begrudge his darling daughter a free slice.

  Back in town, I cruised down West Cliff Drive, then bounced along the asphalt-covered planks to the end of the Municipal Wharf, freewheeling up to the back door of my father’s Italian seafood restaurant. He and my mother had run the place together until she’d passed away from cancer several years ago. I’d been working as a lawyer at the time but had already become disillusioned with the life of an associate attorney and its constant scramble for billable hours. As a result, it hadn’t taken much for Dad to convince me to return to the family fold after Mom’s death to run the front of the house at Solari’s.

  I’d pretty much grown up in the restaurant, so the work wasn’t that difficult. But neither was it fulfilling. Then my Aunt Letta had been murdered last spring, and I’d been astounded to learn I’d inherited her French-Polynesian restaurant. It had taken some doing, but a few months ago I’d finally managed to maneuver my way out of Solari’s so I could put all my energy into Gauguin. Though my father did still use “the dad card” to guilt me into working at his place on occasion when he was in a jam.

  Luckily, today was not one of those days. After stowing my bike in the tiny Solari’s office, I headed for the walk-in freezer, snagged a slice of panettone, then slid it into the microwave in the corner of the kitchen. My dad was at the stove, stirring an enormous pot of red sauce with a long-handled spoon.

  “Hi, hon,” he said, setting the spoon aside and covering the pot. “What brings you in? I was about to call you, actually.”

  “Just a post-ride treat,” I said. “Couldn’t resist a slice of your panettone.”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “It’s been so popular, I’m thinking of adding it as a regular dessert.”

  “Great idea.” At the ding of the microwave, I removed the plate and bit into the soft, hot cake. “So what were you going to call me about?” I asked, mouth full.

  My father moved forward to allow Emilio to step behind him to the range top, where the line cook set about heating a large sauté pan over a high flame. “You get the paper, right?” Dad asked, and I nodded. “Well, did you happen to see this morning’s story about that woman they found yesterday dead at her house?”

  I frowned, wondering where this could be going. “Uh-huh. But they didn’t say who it was, pending notification to the family.”

  My father shook his head. “Yeah, well, the family actually does know. It was her daughter who found her.”

  “You know who the dead woman is?”

  “I do. And she’s a relative of ours. By marriage, anyway. Jackie Olivieri.” At my questioning look, he went on. “She was married to Richard, my cousin Sophia’s son.”

  “Oh, right.” I remembered now. But Richard had died soon after they married, when I was living down south during college. “I know I went to their wedding, but I never really got to know either of them.”

  “That’s ’cause after Richard died, Jackie didn’t have a whole lot of contact with our family. I think the last time I saw her was at Alfred’s wake.” This was Cousin Sophia’s husband, Jackie’s father-in-law. “But that was almost ten years ago.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Didn’t Richard and Jackie have a daughter who was blind?” And then I put my hand to my mouth. “Oh, no. Is that who found her?”

  Dad bit his lip. “Uh-huh. Evelyn is her name. I gather she came home after a night away and Jackie was lying there on the living room floor …”

  “Dead,” I finished for him. “How horrible for her.” The image of a young, blind girl stumbling over the body of her dead mother caused a wave of nausea to pass over me, and I leaned against the counter behind me for support. “How old is Evelyn?”

  “Nineteen or twenty, I think. She’s a student at the community college, and I guess she was living with her mom to save money.”

  “Right,” I said, before looking up at my dad. “How come you know so much about it, anyway?”

  “Because when the cops came to her house, Evelyn was, as you can imagine, pretty upset, so they asked her who was her closest relation. And I was it,” he said, pointing at his chest with his thumb. “Other than her grandmother, Cousin Sophia, who’s gotta be at least eighty and is living in assisted care these days. So, long story short, she came to stay with me last night, and that’s how I know everything that happened.”

  “Wow.” I watched as Emilio stirred the mound of chopped onions he now had browning in olive oil and garlic in the large pan, then turned back to Dad. “Do they have any idea what happened to Jackie?”

  “The cops haven’t said anything to Evelyn, but she told me she found some pill containers as well as a l
iquor bottle by her mom’s body. So I’m guessing overdose.”

  “Accidental or on purpose?” I asked, and Dad shrugged.

  “Who knows,” he said. “Anyway, here’s the thing. Jackie’s house has been cordoned off by the police, and Evelyn’s way too freaked out to go back home yet, in any case. So, well, she wants to stay with me for a while.”

  “Uh-huh …”

  “But the problem is, she has a dog, and you know how allergic I am.”

  I was indeed well aware of how sensitive my father was to dogs. Soon after my Aunt Letta had rescued Buster from that shelter in Ensenada, she’d brought the puppy over to my dad’s house, and within minutes his eyes had been so red and swollen he looked like he’d contracted a severe case of pink eye and simultaneously been stung by a dozen bees. And now that I’d inherited the dog, Dad would sometimes make me leave my sweater or jacket out on his front porch if it had too much Buster hair on it.

  Dad cleared his throat as he stared down at his grease-encrusted leather shoes. “Anyway, that’s the reason I was going to call you this morning,” he said after a moment, still avoiding my gaze. “I was hoping maybe you could take her in.”

  Chapter 2

  “What? No way,” I said. “You can’t really expect me to babysit some kid I’ve never even met. And, besides, I’m way too busy right now at Gauguin to—”

  “First of all, she’s not a kid,” Dad interrupted, his eyes now hard and focused on mine. “She’s a fully mature adult who needs no babysitting, I can assure you. She just needs a place to stay for a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks?”

  “And I hardly think your work at Gauguin is any more time-consuming than mine here at Solari’s, especially since you now have Javier to run the place with you.”

  He had me there. Although Emilio was a great line cook and a tremendous help to Dad, he was no Javier. No one was.

  I tried to imagine what Evelyn must be going through right now, having been suddenly orphaned by the unexpected death of her mother. I could relate to some of it, as my own mom had died several years ago. But I’d known it was coming and I’d been thirty-six at the time, not twenty. Evelyn must feel completely shattered.