Part 5 (2/2)
As a cover story, I had decided to shoot for vague with a possibility of money. So I introduced myself and told Abel LeMeur that I was calling about the estate of Arlen Mather. I had discovered a Viceroy Vinyls business card among Mr. Mather's possessions and thought I'd inquire about his appraisal services.
”Mather, you say?” LeMeur sounded a little more alert.
”Right. Arlen Mather.”
He told me it must have been a couple of years since Mather came to his shop in Greenwich Village. Bought a rare 1928 recording of Rosa Ponselle singing ”Pace, pace mio Dio,” and that was it. Only time he ever saw him. Then LeMeur explained his appraisal fees and asked how big Mr. Mather's collection was. This question I sidestepped, shoveling something about how the man had just died and we hadn't gone into many details yet, at which the record seller offered condolences.
”I got the feeling from some things Mather said that he did most of his business with Calladine,” said LeMeur.
”Calladine?”
”Geoffrey Calladine in Vancouver. Big, big seller. Calladine's Cla.s.sics, that's him. Guy's so big he doesn't even have to advertise.”
My eyes strayed to the two vehicles that I a.s.sumed were unmarked police cars, out in front of Miracolo, but my ears belonged to LeMeur. ”Have you got a number for him?” When the guy on the other end sounded cagey, I rea.s.sured him that Viceroy Vinyls would handle all our appraisal needs. Mollified, he set down the phone and looked for Calladine's contact info. When he came back on, he rattled off a number with a Vancouver area code. I thanked him and let him go.
Since there was a three-hour time difference, I knew my call to Calladine's Cla.s.sics would have to wait, so I locked up the Volvo and headed for the restaurant. Crime scene tape still festooned the front door, so I flipped the latch to the stockade fence that rimmed the property and strolled along the flagstone walk that led to the courtyard and outdoor dining area. I picked up an empty sandwich wrapper that had blown over from Sprouts. The last few days had been dry, so any chance at footprints, or whatever else I thought I might find at the scene that the trained professionals had missed, was nil.
I pinched a couple of withered white honeysuckle blooms hanging from the trellis along the long brick wall, then peeked through one of the windows. A couple of CSI guys in paper booties were doing a sweep of the dining room, and a third was dusting for prints on the double doors to the kitchen. I tried to think it through. Was Arlen Mather's killer already inside Miracolo, that morning, waiting for him? Or did he follow him in?
Or-and here, I have to admit, my chest felt rickety-did his killer let him in with her very own key? What could the well-groomed, well-dressed Arlen Mather possibly have said (”You call this opera memorabilia?”) or done to my pistol-packing nonna to have made her snap? It's not as if he stole her carefully guarded recipe for os...o...b..co (braised veal shanks). It's not as if he's Belladonna Russo, Nonna's culinary archrival, who should stay east of the Delaware River.
As I rounded the building I glanced in the small window to the office, then quickly flattened myself against the wall, hidden by the tumble of honeysuckle spilling over the window frame. Inside the office, standing stock-still between the bookshelves and the closed door leading into the kitchen, was Joe Beck. Clearly hiding.
Why was I always finding this man on my property? Was there some weird trespa.s.sing karma going on between us? One day he's violating my compost bin, another he's glommed against my office wall offering up prayers to the G.o.ds of likely stories that the CSI guys won't take it into their heads to check out the office.
Which led me to believe that Joe had arrived on the scene before they did.
Now, I may not have a well-thumbed copy of the Pennsylvania Penal Code on one of those bookshelves next to Joe's very nice shoulder, but I was reasonably surprised his morning was including breaking and entering. Was he not what he seemed?
Angry, I stepped in front of the window and waved my arms like I was a castaway and he was a low-flying plane. Finally, he noticed, and then the conversation got interesting.
He pressed his lips together and gave me a wry look.
I thrust my arms at him in a gesture meant to convey something along the lines of ya-ha?
He jerked his head toward the closed door. Twice.
I smiled wickedly and folded my hands in plain sight.
He sagged dramatically.
I widened my eyes at him.
He widened his eyes at me.
I gave him a carefully crafted look of disgust and indulgence. Then, with a stony glare, I jabbed a thumb at myself, made a yakking-it-up gesture with my hand, pointed to the CSI team, rippled an eyebrow at the hapless Joe Beck, then shoved a finger at him and showed him two fingers running away. He seemed keen and grateful.
I walked to the back door, limboed under the yellow tape, and let myself into the kitchen, leaving the back door slightly ajar. With a quick glance at the closed door to the office, I noisily stamped my feet and exhaled like I had just made it to Everest base camp. When a couple of unfamiliar heads appeared in the round windows of the double doors, I gave them the full personality.
”Hey! Hi! I'm Eve! This is my place!”
”Listen, this is-”
Skirting the taped body outline on the tiles near my prep table, I motored over to them. ”I found something!” I declared, brandis.h.i.+ng the crumpled wrapper from Sprouts.
”You can't be in here-”
”Do you think it's important?” I pushed my way into the dining room. ”Is it a clue?” Perturbed but curious-like dogs in training wondering when the h.e.l.l the treats were going to make an appearance-they followed me away from the double doors over to the bar, where they had set their crime scene kits. I gave the team my most riveting expression-which I hoped wasn't coming across as psychopathic-and launched into a tale of my walk around the side of the building, as told by Edgar Allan Poe.
To hear me tell it, the crumpled wrapper was capable of spells, boils, the evil eye, and choking you with a tasteless vegan sandwich. I dropped the offending clue into the gloved palm of one of the team, who thanked me through gritted teeth and reminded me to please not cross the police tape again.
At that moment, I saw Joe stroll past the front windows, giving the wandering Akahana a pat on the back. I suddenly lost interest in the CSI team, mumbled a thanks, and slipped out the back. In the short time it took me to hit the street, he was gone. I stormed two doors up to the florist shop, where the red-and-white Open sign hung lopsidedly on the inside of the door. You bet you're open. I was so mad, I felt like I had lockjaw.
Joe was half collapsed against the counter, his head in his hands.
”What were you doing inside my restaurant?” I demanded.
He looked up. ”Thanks for getting me out of there.”
”You're welcome,” I said like I had just granted him an audience with the queen. ”But you didn't answer my question.” I crossed my arms, taking in his nicely creased charcoal pants and pale pink s.h.i.+rt. A burgundy-and-gray tie was neatly coiled near the register. Looking good, Beck. To stay focused, I was going to have to force myself to recall the floral swim trunks.
”Visions of disbarment danced in my head. Since when do CSI teams show up this early?”
This appeared to be rhetorical, so I pressed on. ”Did you have a key?” Like half the population of Albania. ”Or did a set of lockpicks come with your law degree?”
”The door was open.”
”Oh, right.” I snorted attractively.
”It was,” he said with some energy. ”I thought my wedding ring might be in the couch.”
Then he fished around in his pants pocket and pulled out a gold band, looking triumphant.
I don't know why it all chose that moment to come cras.h.i.+ng down, but it did.
Nonna would be suspected of murder.
I had fallen off the stage of the New Amsterdam Theatre. Only once, but it would feel like every night for the rest of my life.
And I would die manless, hunched like a strega over an onion-anchovy sauce.
”Look,” I said, my chin quivering, ”I want you to stay off my property. Thank you for yesterday with the keyboard and all.” I started to back away. ”But I don't want to find you climbing out of my compost or hiding in my office or-or-dancing the tarantella in my dining room, okay? You want to come in for a great thank-you meal sometime, once we're back open and my nonna's safe and the only thing my crazy cousin Kayla does”-I glared at him, dialing up the volume-”is . . . her job, then fine, you come, and I'll make you and your poor wife a saltimbocca so good, it'll fool you into thinking you're still in love-”
”You're a little late,” he said, his mouth twisting. ”We've been divorced a few years.”
”Well, then,” I said grandly, ”dinner for one.” He was still getting the risotto. ”But until that time, stay away from my property. And stay away from me.”
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