A Measure of Murder Page 4

  “Anyway,” he went on after a moment, turning back toward me, “the next thing to do is make sure you’re able to use all the parts of your ingredients.” I refocused on what he was saying. “Like, if you’re going to have seared duck breasts as an entrée, you should also have something on the menu that uses the dark meat—a confit would be good. That way you can buy the duck whole, which is a lot better value than buying individual parts.”

  “And then, of course, we’ll make a stock out of the back and bones,” I added.

  “Right. You always save your bones and poultry carcasses for stock. That’s a given.”

  Javier flipped through another book lying open in front of him, which seemed to consist solely of large glossy photos of vegetables. “And the same goes for things besides meat,” he said, tapping a page depicting a mountain of purple, green, orange, and white cruciferous veggies. “If you’re gonna have something with broccoli or cauliflower florets, you want to be able to use the stalks and the leaves in a soup or something. It’s all about maximum efficiency—food costing, which is the next thing we’ll have to do. Although, really, that’s probably the most important thing there is.”

  “And as the new owner of Gauguin, I truly appreciate your attention to that particular detail, I assure you. My dad does it all at Solari’s, and he’s constantly talking about how he’s got to keep his food cost percentage down to twenty-five.”

  “Yeah, well Letta’s was always higher—like thirty, or even sometimes thirty-five percent for the really expensive things like king crab or abalone. But then we can get away with charging a lot more than your dad does, so it works out okay spending a little more on the food.”

  “So I gather we’ll have to figure out the cost of every little thing that goes into each dish, right?”

  Javier nodded. “Right. From the cost of the twelve-ounce New York steak; to the two ounces of shiitakes, quarter cup of red wine, and one ounce of shallots used in the sauce; to the tablespoon of butter it’s cooked in. Even salt and pepper, technically, should be part of the calculation.”

  “Ugh. Sounds like a royal pain. No wonder my dad hardly ever changes his menu. What about the other costs—labor and overhead and stuff like that?”

  “That’s the good news. Unless something’s super labor-intensive to make, we’ve already got all that worked out. Letta and I did it years ago. So we can just plug in those numbers when we redo the menu this time.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least.” I was starting to have a new respect for my father—as well as Javier—and all the behind-the-scenes work they had to do to run Solari’s and Gauguin at a profit. “And then the last thing is recipe testing, I’m thinking.”

  “Uh-huh. But that’s actually pretty fun. I usually come in early and try the new dishes out on the staff, which they always love.”

  “Can I help with doing that, too? I know we’ve talked about you starting to teach me the hot line, and that seems like a good low-risk way for me to begin to learn the ropes.”

  “Sure, that’s a great idea. In fact, if you wanted, we could start this Monday night, since the restaurant’s closed. I already have a couple dishes I’ve come up with that we could make, and I could show you some other hot line basics, too. That way,” he added with a grin, “we wouldn’t have any of the other cooks around, hanging over your shoulder.” Javier was well aware of the insecurity I felt regarding my nascent cooking skills.

  “Dang,” I said. “I can’t. I have chorus rehearsal on Monday nights. How about Tuesday afternoon?”

  “I didn’t know you were in a chorus.”

  “Yeah, I just joined one.” As I said this, I flashed on the image of Kyle’s body lying in the courtyard behind the church hall. I’d been so caught up with my new waitress interview and then with this whole menu-planning thing that I hadn’t thought about the grisly death since I’d gotten to Solari’s two hours earlier. But now my brain went back once more to the position the tenor had been lying in after his fall. Something about it just didn’t seem right . . .

  “Sally,” Javier said, interrupting my reverie, “you still here?”

  “Oh, sorry. So, anyway, we have rehearsals Monday and Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings. But don’t worry, it’s only for a few weeks.”

  Javier frowned. “I don’t wanna try to boss you around or anything, but it just seems like the timing is kinda bad. I mean, with all this work we have to do this month, and then Reuben giving his notice . . .”

  “Oh, right. Have you had any luck finding anyone to replace him yet?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. All the guys who’ve answered the ad so far have just worked short order. No one with any high-end restaurant experience.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as if he had a headache.

  “You okay?” I asked. “I mean, I know you’re worried about filling Reuben’s position, but is something else going on too?”

  “I’m trying to quit smoking,” he said, running both hands through his silky hair. “It’s been two days now since I had a cigarette, and I gotta say the added stress about Reuben—and now you tell me you’re gonna be gone even more than usual . . .” He sat up and looked at me. “I guess what I mean is that right now would actually be a really good time for you to get up to speed on the line. You really sure you have time for this chorus thing?”

  I contemplated all the work Javier had just described—collecting ideas for dishes, researching seasonal ingredients, food costing, recipe testing—which would be above and beyond all the work I already had at Gauguin. And then I thought about what I also had to do at Solari’s: managing the front of the house and working there several days a week, plus hiring the new gal and then training Elena to be the new manager. Could I really also spend two nights and one morning a week rehearsing with the chorus, not to mention the time I’d need to practice on my own?

  But then I remembered what we’d be performing: the Mozart Requiem. Something I’d been aching to sing ever since high school.

  It was only three weeks, dammit. I’d make the time.

  Chapter Four

  Nichole and Mei, my pals from San Francisco, showed up at my place that night at five o’clock, just in time for cocktail hour. At the sound of the doorbell, Buster—the mixed breed I’d adopted after Letta died—commenced barking and then frantically jumped up on both women as soon as they crossed the threshold. Mei shooed him away from her spotless white slacks, but Nichole set down her overnight bag and knelt to allow the enthusiastic dog to give her face a good washing.

  “Hey, Buster,” she said, stroking his dusty-brown fur and then giving him a scratch at the base of his corkscrew tail. “Glad to be back at your old stomping grounds?”

  “I’ll say he is. Nonna was a good sport to take him in until I was able to give notice on my apartment and make the move here, especially since he was constantly wanting to go pee-pee on her red rocks out front. But he was so excited when I finally brought him back to his old house.” I paused and then added, “Though it just about broke my heart the way he kept running through all the rooms, you know . . . looking for Letta.”

  “Yeah, that must have been hard.” Nichole came up for air between Buster’s sloppy tongue swipes and handed me a paper bag with an alluring shape. “Here, this is for you.”

  I extracted the bottle. “Roudon-Smith Pinot Noir—yum!”

  “Well,” said Mei, “we know what a Pinot hound you are . . .”

  “And it’s very much appreciated. We can open it tonight with dinner, if you want.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Nichole gave Buster one last pat on the butt and then stood up. “Eric’s not here yet, I take it?”

  “So what else is new?”

  Nichole laughed. “Was he ever on time for one class during law school? I wonder if now that he’s a DA, he’s constantly late for his court appearances.” She brushed some dog hair from her jeans and then glanced around the room. “I don’t think I’ve been here sinc
e you really finished moving in. Looks good. So how is it having your dad as a landlord?”

  “Well, I have yet to be late with my rent check, so we’re still on good terms. Actually, it turns out the cost of the mortgage, insurance, and taxes is almost exactly the same as the rent on my old apartment, so it’s a win-win for the both of us. But I gotta say I’m still trying to get used to it, living in what I know I’ll always think of as Letta’s house.”

  I turned to face the abstract painting hanging over the fireplace—an angular woman in a red dress with long yellow hair. “It’s so bizarre, ’cause all of a sudden it’s like I’ve completely slipped into her old life. I mean, think about it: in just a little over two months, I’ve taken over Gauguin, moved into her house, and adopted her dog. I’m even driving her old car, for chrissake.”

  “Yeah,” Nichole said, “that must be pretty freaky.”

  “Freaky’s right. Because once I’m out of Solari’s, the transition will be complete—I will have become my Aunt Letta.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Mei said. “I can see you all over this house.” She gestured toward my bike, which was leaning against the wall near the front door.

  “But that’s weird too,” I said. “Having all my stuff mixed in with hers.” I ran a hand over the antique sideboard that had stood in the same spot ever since my aunt had brought it back from one of her many trips to the South Pacific. “And my additions definitely lower the class of the place,” I added, picking up a plastic replica of the Millennium Falcon.

  “No way, sister.” Nichole took the model from me and executed a few soaring motions, complete with sound effects. “This has gotta be the raddest space cruiser ever. I think it goes perfectly next to that wood carving of the boat.”

  “Ha!” Mei said, coming over to join us. “I love it—the futuristic space ship next to the ancient Hawaiian outrigger canoe. Now that is classy.”

  Nichole set the Falcon back down on the sideboard. “So whad’ya say we start without Eric? It was hot at the beach, and I’m thirsty as hell.”

  “No complaints from this gal.” I led the two of them down the hall and into the kitchen. Nichole sat at the red Formica breakfast table, and Mei leaned her tall, athletic frame against the green-and-yellow tile counter. The ingredients for our meal—bacon, grated Parmesan cheese, eggs, butter, olive oil, flat-leaf parsley, and a box of spaghetti—sat ready in bowls and on the butcher-block cutting board.

  “That looks enticing,” said Mei. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti carbonara. You can’t ever go wrong with bacon and butter, right?” I opened the liquor cabinet. “So, what’s your pleasure?”

  “What are you having?” Nichole asked.

  “Bourbon-rocks, I guess.”

  “You always have that. Boring. Got any good gin?”

  I pulled a bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the cupboard. “This good enough? I keep it on hand for Eric.”

  “That works for me,” Mei answered. “Just straight up, no vermouth. With an olive if you have any.” At my look, Nichole nodded for one of the same.

  We were just heading outside to the back patio when Eric finally showed up. Since he came bearing a bottle of expensive Chianti and a jar of dry-roasted cashew nuts, I forgave him his tardiness, though I told him he’d have to make his own drink.

  The marine layer was now starting to move back in again, so we all fetched sweaters and jackets before going outside. Eric—still in shorts and hoodie—kicked off his flip-flops and warmed his feet on the brick patio, which continued to radiate heat from the day’s earlier sun. Buster stretched out next to him.

  “So how was your rehearsal this morning?” Mei asked after we’d all clinked glasses in the traditional cocktail-hour toast.

  “Fun but really hard.” I took a handful of Eric’s cashews and popped several into my mouth. “I haven’t sung anything that complicated since high school—over twenty years ago.”

  “Did Eric tell you I know the director, Marta?”

  “Really? No, he didn’t.”

  Mei sipped from her Martini. “Yeah. We were at SF State together, back in the late nineties. I was studying dance, and she was doing music, so our paths overlapped from time to time. We weren’t super close or anything, but we did know each other fairly well.”

  I swallowed my mouthful of nuts. “What was she like? Had she just arrived from Italy back then?”

  “Uh-huh. Her English wasn’t that good yet, and I remember her being really competitive. You know how you have to challenge someone to move up in an orchestra? Say, if you want to try to go from fourth chair to third, or whatever?”

  “Yeah, I’ve read about that.”

  “Well, Marta was constantly doing it. And if she’d lose, she’d practice like crazy and then challenge again a month later.”

  “What was her instrument?” I asked.

  “Viola, and I gather she was pretty good, though not of the caliber that would allow her to play in one of the major orchestras. But she also studied voice.”

  “Hence her ending up as director of a small-town chorus,” Eric said with a grin. “Our gain, however, because she’s really terrific. I think the competitive spirit can be a good thing for a musician, as long as it’s driven by passion for the music and not just ego.”

  “Though I imagine her ego was boosted some by that Mozart find,” I observed.

  “Not technically Mozart—Süssmayr,” Eric said. “But yeah, no doubt.”

  Mei sat up. “What find?”

  “You didn’t see it in the papers last year?” Eric leaned over to scratch Buster behind his enormous prick ears. “Marta discovered some previously unknown music that Süssmayr composed when he was finishing Mozart’s Requiem.”

  “Really?” Even Nichole—not generally much interested in the classical music world—got that this was a big deal. “Where’d she find it?”

  “It was during our trip to Eastern Europe last summer. The chorus had been invited there to sing at a bunch of churches and cathedrals. Anyway, she found the Requiem music on one of our days off while pawing through a stack of old manuscripts at some used bookstore in Prague. I guess the guy didn’t know what he had and sold it to her for next to nothing.”

  “Wow,” Mei said. “I kind of remember that Mozart was her area of specialized study. So I can’t even imagine how exciting that must have been for her. Was it a lot of music?”

  Eric shook his head. “Nah. Just one sheet. I actually got to see it—though she wouldn’t let me touch the paper—before she sold it off. It’s a new ending for one of the movements.”

  “We’re singing the new version this summer, if you want to come down for the concert in a few weeks.” I reached for more nuts. “Oh God, and I can’t believe I haven’t told you this yet. There’s even more drama afoot in the chorus, if you can believe it. One of the tenors fell through a broken window at the church where we rehearse this morning and died.”

  “No way,” Nichole said.

  “Way,” I rejoined. “Not only that, but we all saw the body.”

  “Dude, that’s freaky.” Nichole took a slug of her Martini.

  “There was this one woman in the chorus who seemed really upset by his death.” I turned to Eric. “Was she his wife or something?”

  “Girlfriend. Her name’s Jill.” He shook his head. “I can’t even imagine how awful that would be, to see someone you care about just lying there, dead like that.” Eric was staring at me as he said this, and I found I had to look away from his gaze.

  “Did you know him?” Mei asked.

  “I didn’t, but Eric did. I can tell you, though, that he seemed a bit of a, shall we say—”

  “Ass?” Eric filled in, and then, at Nichole and Mei’s shocked looks, added, “Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t be dissing the dead, but I ended up rooming with the guy on our Europe trip last summer, so I got to know him pretty well.”

  I sat up. “So he was the one you were always talking about?” Eric had come
back from the chorus trip full of stories of his obnoxious and stuck-up—but extremely talented—roommate. “That’s interesting.”

  “How so?” Eric asked.

  I leaned forward, arms on my thighs. “Okay, what if he didn’t fall? What if instead, he was pushed out of that window?”

  “Well, I can certainly think of more than one person who might have liked to do so,” Eric said with a snort. But then he noticed I wasn’t smiling along with him. “No way, Sal. Don’t tell me you’re serious.”

  When I just shrugged and took a sip of bourbon, he let out a bark of a laugh. “You should know the cops have ruled it an accidental death. I heard from a buddy of mine this afternoon. And I have to say, it looks pretty cut and dried to me, too.”

  The warmth of the patio was now starting to dissipate, and Nichole zipped up her jacket and leaned back in her chair. “Why do you think he might have been pushed?” she asked.

  I explained my theory and got a response not unlike the one I’d received from Detective Vargas—except his had not included the slapping of knees and hoots of laughter.

  “Fine,” I said, holding out my hands to quiet their continued chuckling, “but just don’t you say it, too.”

  “Say what?” Mei asked.

  “That”—and here I made my voice low and gruff—“‘just because you helped solve one murder doesn’t make you an expert investigator.’ That’s pretty much what Vargas, the detective I talked to this morning, told me. Or implied, anyway.”

  “You told him your theory?” Eric whooped once again and slapped Nichole on the shoulder. “Oh boy, I woulda loved to have been there for that.”

  Mei, bless her heart, had the good grace to change the subject at this point. “So, Eric, what part do you sing in the chorus?”

  “Bass two, though I can swing up to the baritone range if I’m really warmed up.”

  “He’s the bass section leader,” I chimed in. “So you know he’s good.”