A Measure of Murder Page 19

  “Totally,” Nichole agreed, pulling out her phone to take a photo. “I gotta show this to Mei. Here, lemme get one with you and Buster in it.”

  Our photo op complete, we started down the path toward Lighthouse Point. “So,” Nichole asked, “how’s it going with your girlfriend Marta?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I said, punctuating the denial with a hard shove to her shoulder. “And anyway, she’s now become one of my suspects for Kyle’s murder. So even if she were my girlfriend, I’d probably have to dump her.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  Once again, I recounted my reasons for suspecting the choral director, but as I did so, it occurred to me that maybe I was a little obsessed with her. After all, there wasn’t really that much to suggest she had anything to do with Kyle’s death. Especially now that Allison had put the kibosh on my new favorite part of the theory, about Marta forging the Lacrymosa music.

  So when Nichole commented, “Hardly enough to base a murder accusation on,” I for once had no snappy comeback.

  “Didn’t you say on the phone that you found something else in that room?” Nichole asked. “A necklace or something?”

  “Yeah, but there wasn’t any chain. Just the pendant—a St. Christopher medal. But I haven’t had any luck figuring out who it might belong to.”

  As we waited for Buster to finish smelling an enticing clump of weeds, Nichole and I stopped and leaned on the railing above the cliffs. It was another fog-free day, and the spiky towers of the power plant across the bay at Moss Landing were clearly visible. “That’s a Catholic thing, right?” Nichole said. “Having saints?”

  “Well, there are the Latter-day Saints, and I think the Anglicans have them too. But I’m pretty sure St. Christopher is a Catholic saint.” And then, staring out at the azure water and brown pelicans soaring low over the waves, I had a thought: Marta was Italian, and therefore likely Catholic. Could the medal be hers?

  I tried to recall if I’d ever seen her wearing a pendant like that. No, I didn’t remember her ever wearing a necklace of any kind. But then I pictured the director the first time I’d seen her, sitting behind that long table during the chorus auditions. She’d been turning a quarter over in her hands while that poor baritone had sung the toréador song from Carmen.

  “Ohmygod, Nichole, I just had a revelation.”

  “Very funny,” she said, not taking her gaze from the ocean. “Like a Mormon? Or a Catholic saint?”

  “No, really. I’m serious. I just thought of something that could be super important.”

  “Okay,” Nichole said, finally turning to face me. “What is this ‘revelation’ you had, Ms. Joan of Arc?”

  I told her about the coin I’d seen in Marta’s hands that night. “But what if it wasn’t a quarter?” I asked. “What if it was that St. Christopher medal I found? They’re about the same size, and I wouldn’t have been able to see the blue part of the medal from where I was.”

  Buster had long finished his investigation of the shrub and was tugging at his leash. “I wonder if I should ask her about it on our bike ride this Sunday,” I said as we walked on up the path.

  “You’re going riding with her again? Just the two of you? Do you think that’s wise, now that you know what you do?”

  “Hey, I thought you were the one who thought my theory was dumb.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  I laughed. “So you don’t think it’s so dumb after all. But have no fear: I promise if I do ask her about the medal, I’ll do it in a public place.”

  Nichole shook her head. “Sometimes I think you’re kinda crazy, girl.”

  * * *

  Gauguin was finally reopening tonight after being closed for two days following the fire, so I got to the restaurant plenty early in case there was any last-minute work that needed to be done. Reuben and Brian were in the walk-in, debating the merits of French versus domestic butters. “You know where Javier is?” I asked Reuben, avoiding Brian’s eye.

  “He was here but just left for a quick errand,” Reuben said, then returned to his impassioned argument that the Straus Creamery butter from Marin County kicked the butt of any snooty French brand he knew of.

  I left them to it and headed upstairs to the restaurant office. Standing at the window, I gazed down into the back neighbor’s yard. The grass was dry and brown, but dark, glossy plums and unripe apples weighed down the branches of several leafy trees. Hugging the side fence was a pair of roses, resplendent with their masses of flowers—a pale-pink Cécile Brünner (I’d grown up with one of these beauties in our backyard) and some deep-orange variety with enormous blooms. As I watched, a calico cat crept toward a lizard or some such creature lazing on the stone walkway below. The cat pounced and then, having missed its prey, sprawled across the sunny path to give itself a good washing.

  With a sad smile, I turned from the window. Once again, I’d been reminded of my aunt. I could well imagine how she too must have gazed out at that same scene, marking the passing of the year by the changes in the neighbor’s garden as she pondered the seasonal menus for Gauguin. But now it was left to me to carry on in her place. Just know I’m doing the best I can, Aunt Letta.

  I sat down at the desk and, after drumming my fingernails on its percussive oak surface for a few moments, pulled out a yellow legal pad. I’d been trying to get straight in my head just who might have anything to do with Kyle’s death, so why not try to put my thoughts to paper?

  Opening the center drawer, I searched for a working pen. The first two were out of ink, and I tossed them into the garbage. As I rummaged around the back of the drawer, my hand fell on a familiar-feeling shape. I extracted the box: Marlboro reds. Javier’s brand. But it was unopened, its cellophane intact. Perhaps he kept it as a test for himself. Or as an emergency package?

  Whatever. It was his life—and lungs. I replaced the box and continued my search. Finally locating a working ballpoint pen on my third try, I drew a line down the middle of the legal pad. On the top left of the page, I wrote “Suspect,” and on the right side, “Motive.”

  “Steve/maint./ex-tenant” was the first to go on the list, since he’d been my original suspect. But next to his name, I noted, “Had gripes against K but says frame would have needed real force to come out.” After all, why would he admit to that if he was the one who killed Kyle when everyone just assumed the frame had come loose when he’d tried to open the window? Nevertheless, I’d leave Steve on the list. Best not to count out any possible people at this point.

  Next, I added “Lydia/ex-girlfriend,” and to the right wrote, “May have defrauded K’s heirs; her son benefits from his death.”

  Brian was the next obvious suspect, especially now, after the Gauguin fire. Next to his name, I made the note “Possible grudge against K, maybe b/c of Rox-Jill thing, food poisoning?” Plus, there was another clear reason for Brian to despise Kyle: if Brian thought he’d been sleeping with his girlfriend during the Europe trip. I added “K & R during chorus trip” to my motive list.

  I thought a moment and then wrote, “Rox—hates Jill, thinks she may have given her food poisoning.” But then I set down my pen and frowned. For how could this fact, even if it was true, have led to Roxanne killing Kyle? Unless maybe she really thought it was Kyle who poisoned her so that his girlfriend could get the solo. And then I had a thought: what if Roxanne had been sleeping with Kyle on the chorus trip, and then he’d jilted her? That would certainly be a reason for her to be angry with him. And a reason for her to lie about their affair. I added this motive to the right column.

  Tapping my pen on the pad, I thought about who else I should add. Well, I mused, if Brian was on the list because of Kyle’s possible affair with Roxanne, then Jill should be too. I wrote her name down along with the reason, then shook my head and chuckled. Because of course it made little sense for her to be a suspect, since she was the one who’d asked me to look into Kyle’s death in the first place after the police had deemed it an accident. I started to
cross her name off my list but then changed my mind. No, I’d decided not to count out anyone. She’d stay there with the others.

  I stared out the window, hesitant to put to paper the name of the last obvious person. Even though I’d been talking her up to Eric, Detective Vargas, Jill, and Nichole as a prime suspect, the idea that it could really be her instilled a peculiarly unsettling feeling in my gut.

  Then, with a sigh, I picked up my pen. “Marta,” I added to the bottom of the list. “Uses Elixiers; E saw her with K during trip; may be the owner of the St. C. medal. Connected to rumor or to music she discovered?”

  * * *

  Tonight was Reuben’s last shift at Gauguin, so after the final entrées had been fired and sent out the pickup window, things started to get a little silly in the kitchen. First, Javier dropped a handful of ice cubes down Reuben’s back, which resulted in a mini–ice war, with Javier and me getting the worst and wettest of it. And then, Reuben and Kris ganged up on Brian, swatting at him with twisted side towels like boys in a high school locker room.

  But when Brian tried to retaliate by locking Reuben inside the walk-in refrigerator, Javier asserted his authority as head chef and put a stop to the shenanigans. “I think it’s time for a truce,” he said. “And a toast to send Reuben off to his illustrious new career as head pasta-slinger in Capitola. No offense, Sally,” he added with a grin, shooing Reuben out of doorway so he could get into the walk-in.

  I was still processing the fact that “illustrious” and “slinger” were words in the Michoacán native’s vocabulary, so I barely registered the dig at my family heritage.

  “Wow,” Reuben said when Javier emerged brandishing two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. “I guess I had to leave to merit you buying the good stuff.”

  “It’s okay, the restaurant’s footing the bill. But I did refrain from getting the Grande Dame.” Javier shot a wink my direction as he tore the foil from the first bottle and removed its cage. He twisted off the cork with a tiny poof of air as the pressure inside was released.

  Kris called through the pickup window for Brandon to bring in some glasses, and the waiter pushed through the swinging door a minute later bearing a tray of Champagne flutes. “Here, I’ll pour some for you to take out to the servers,” Javier said, pouring bubbly into several of the flutes. Next, he filled glasses for the kitchen staff, instructing Brian to fetch Amy and Dave from the garde manger and Miguel from the dish room so they, too, could partake of the farewell toast.

  “To our dearly departed,” Javier said, raising his glass.

  “So now you’re killing me off, are you?” Reuben grinned and clinked glasses with the head chef and then the rest of the crew.

  “When do you start your new gig?” I asked him.

  “Tomorrow night, actually. I’d originally planned for Wednesday to be my last night at Gauguin so I could have a few days off. But because of the fire, this joker here,” Reuben said, nodding toward Javier, “talked me into coming in tonight so we could have one last night together.”

  “Well, I do appreciate it,” Javier said. “As do we all appreciate everything you’ve done here over the past six years. And to show our thanks, we all pitched in and got you a little something as a going-away gift. Brian, you wanna run up to the office and get it? It’s the box sitting on top of the desk.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Brian turned and bounded upstairs, Champagne flute in hand, taking the steps two at a time.

  I was about to ask Reuben about the menu at his new restaurant when I remembered that I had a bonus check I wanted to give as a parting thank-you, in addition to the Cromova steel cleaver we’d bought him as a group. “Be right back,” I said to the cook, and took off after Brian up the stairway.

  As I rounded the corner into the office, I saw that Brian was sitting at the desk, holding his glass in one hand and squinting at something in his lap. Hearing me enter the room, he flinched, then shoved whatever it was he’d been looking at into the desk drawer and slammed it shut.

  “Just looking for a pen to sign Reuben’s card,” he said, displaying the writing instrument as proof of his statement. Grabbing the gift-wrapped box and its accompanying card, Brian hurried past me and out the door.

  He’d seemed awful edgy for someone merely looking for a pen, I thought, taking his place at the desk. I opened the drawer he’d just slammed shut, and there, sitting on top of the other papers inside, was the legal pad I’d been working on earlier that day—the one with my list of suspects and motives.

  Smearing the entry describing Brian’s possible motive for murdering Kyle was a wet splotch. Spilled Champagne.

  Chapter Twenty

  Buster woke me at a quarter to seven Saturday morning by climbing onto my chest and administering the most thorough face cleaning I’d experienced since the mud masks Allison and I got at a Napa Valley spa a few years back. As soon as I came fully into a conscious state, however, I realized it was not grease residue from the Gauguin hot line that the dog was after. He simply wanted to be let out to do his morning business.

  I considered returning to bed after he’d come back indoors and inhaled his breakfast but decided I’d never get back to sleep. Not with the solo auditions happening two hours from now. No, it would be better to down some serious caffeine and run through the Recordare another half-dozen times, not so much for the practice as to get my voice warmed up for the ungodly nine AM start time.

  I’d spent over an hour the day before going over the movement and had gotten to the point where I actually felt pretty darn good about it. At least about my ability to sing the part in the privacy of my home with only Buster for an audience. But in front of Marta and all the other folks who’d be trying out this morning? Well, we’d just have to see how my nerves held up. Hopefully better than they had at the audition to get into the chorus.

  I arrived at the church hall ten minutes early and then, after adding my name to the sheet Marta had set out on the folding table, spent the entire time pacing up and down the breezeway outside, from the front door to the bathrooms and back again. The chilly marine layer had returned after several days respite, but even though the bike ride from my house to the church is almost all downhill, I was sweating like I’d just run a half marathon. The prospect of my audition had triggered a mammoth hot flash. So much for my nerves.

  At nine o’clock, we all took our seats and fiddled anxiously with our scores, awaiting the call to the four black stands that had been set up next to the piano.

  Marta finished talking with one of the basses and then strode to the front of the hall, the audition list in her hand. “Okay, we’re going to do this in the order they come in the Requiem, so we’ll start with the short soprano solo in the first movement. How many of you are auditioning for this?”

  Five hands shot up, including both Roxanne’s and Jill’s.

  “Splendido! Up here, all of you,” Marta said. “We’ll just go through it quickly one by one, since it’s only five measures long. Jill, let’s start with you.”

  As Jill sang, I watched Roxanne, who in turn was watching Jill. I was surprised, given what she’d told me that night at Kalo’s, that Roxanne had decided, after all, to audition. But the solo seemed relatively easy and, coming as it did at the very beginning of the Requiem and being so exposed, was a terrific (if short) showcase for a soprano. A lot of bang for your singing buck.

  Jill did a fine job, making no mistake that I could discern, and I was thinking that Roxanne had a hard act to follow. Until she started to sing. Whereas Jill had sounded merely nice—sweet and perfectly on pitch—Roxanne’s voice made my skin tingle, and I found I was holding my breath, waiting for her phrases to come to an end. It was like the difference between a hothouse tomato and an heirloom picked at the height of ripeness on a warm August afternoon. No wonder Marta had chosen Roxanne for the last concert’s solo.

  “Okay, now for the Tuba mirum,” Marta said after all five sopranos had done their bit. “Any volunteers to go first?” Four people�
��including Jill, again—raised their hands, one for each part, and Marta motioned for them to come on up.

  Everyone got through their solo without a problem, though the vibrato of the bass, who looked close to eighty years old, was so strong that it was difficult to tell what the actual notes were that he was singing. After their group finished, Marta asked for a second set of singers, and three more auditionees shuffled forward, clearing their throats and shaking out their arms.

  Only one tenor was auditioning for the Tuba mirum, so he offered, with a laugh, to continue doing it for all the groups. Easy for him to be calm, not having any competition. As the different quartets sang through the movement again and again, I closed my eyes and tried to take deep breaths and calm my racing heartbeat. My turn was next.

  When no more hands were raised for the Tuba mirum, Marta asked for people to come up for the Recordare, turning to me with eyebrows raised. I nodded back and then stood and took my place with the soprano, tenor, and bass.

  Nadia played the introduction, and I counted out the measures until my entrance, a single note held for one bar before anyone else came in. My primary fear was that in the stress of the moment, I wouldn’t be able to find my starting pitch. But having learned from my debacle during the octets, I’d practiced the entrance over and over until I felt I had it down. And the note was, after all, an F—the tonic for the key of F major that we were in—so it wasn’t really that big a deal. But I was still nervous.

  A measure before I came in, the Russian pianist looked up with an encouraging smile. Did she play the F in her right hand just that little bit louder than necessary, as a cue? Watching for Marta’s downbeat, I sang my F with all the gusto I could summon and was quickly joined by the bass. At the end of our phrase, the soprano and then the tenor took over, in a duet mimicking what the bass and I had just sung.

  Yes. Did it.

  That initial hurdle now over, I was able to calm down some. It still took intense concentration, trying to listen to and blend with the other three parts as well as counting my rests and navigating those tricky sixteen-note figures. But toward the middle of the movement, I found that I was starting to focus more on the beauty of the music than on its structure and individual notes. And by the end, I was actually sorry it was over.