Dying for a Taste (23 page)

As he said this last bit, he squeezed even harder, pinning my left arm against my body. Painful as it was, however, it gave me an idea. With the way he was holding me, maybe I could get my right hand free.

He leaned down farther to whisper into my ear. “You understand what I mean?”

I nodded, using the opportunity for movement as cover to slip my right hand into my jacket pocket.

“Good. Because—”

My arm shot up, and a blast of pepper spray hit him square in the eyes. Doubling over, he released his grip and fell to the ground, hands over his face. A string of obscenities spewed from his mouth, all directed at me.

I grabbed my bag and dumped its contents onto the ground; snatched up my phone, wallet, and keys; and let myself into the T-Bird. He was still writhing about on the parking garage floor when I sped off.

It was only a few blocks to the police station, but I didn’t want to waste any time, so I dialed 9-1-1 as I drove there, my shaking hands making it difficult to complete the call. The woman at Dispatch assured me they’d send an officer to the parking garage ASAP and then kept me on the line until I arrived at the station.

“It’s okay,” I told her as I pulled up in front of the building. “I’m here now.” Grabbing the pile of papers sitting on the passenger seat, I jumped out of the car and ran up the steps to the double glass doors.

Dispatch had apparently already informed Detective Vargas of the situation, because he was waiting for me in the lobby. “Come on in,” he said, and I followed his beefy figure once more upstairs to the investigation area.

After offering me a cup of coffee, which I declined, he motioned for me to take a seat on the same couch as before. “So why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

Unlike the last time we’d met, the detective seemed to be doing his best to put me at ease. He leaned forward as he spoke, and his brows were creased in a show of concern.

I thought back to all that had happened over the last couple weeks and decided to start by telling him about Letta’s buying the pepper spray. “It was because of those letters she got, I’m sure, and that guy who was harassing her at the restaurant, the one in the photo Ruth Kallenbach sent you.”

“Right,” he said. “But we didn’t know about the pepper spray.”

I then recounted what Kate had said about a man in a muscle car coming up to her farm and told him how I’d seen a metallic-blue muscle car behind me twice the other day. “I’m thinking the car I saw might be the same one that guy—the one who came up to Kate’s farm—was driving,” I said, “and that he’s been following me for some reason.”

We were interrupted at this point by a call for Vargas. He listened for a minute; said, “Okay, thanks”; and then switched off the phone and returned it to his pocket.

“That was Dispatch. The officer who was sent to the parking garage saw no sign of the man who attacked you, but he did find your purse with all its contents spilled on the ground.”

I nodded and then swallowed, trying to hold it together.
So he was still out there
.

“Why don’t you go on with your story.”

I picked up the papers I’d set down next to me and extracted the threatening letter I’d received earlier in the day. As he read through it, I explained how I’d met “Noah” and what his real name was. “It turns out he used to be involved with my Aunt Letta back in the eighties, so now there’s way more of a connection between them than anyone thought before. And here, check this out.”

I handed him the two articles I’d printed out about Noah’s letters to Bay Area restaurants and the food contamination incident. “So it looks like he doesn’t just stop at writing threatening letters. And I’ve got to say, having seen the guy in action, I’m not sure just how far he’d go.”

The detective looked up from the articles he’d been skimming. “As far as murder, you mean?”

“Well, somebody stabbed my aunt in the chest multiple times, and now we’ve got several clear links between this guy, who’s proven himself to be on the far edge of fanatical, and Letta. Not only that, but now he’s turned his sights on me. Thank God he doesn’t know that I know who he is . . .”

But as I said this, it occurred to me that maybe he
did
know. The thought was chilling, and I pushed it away. “So all I’m getting at is, I was wondering if you could look into him a bit—at least do a background check on the guy now that you know his real name.”

Vargas gathered up the papers and secured them with a paper clip. “Sure, we can do that. But you wanna tell me about what just happened in that parking garage?”

“Okay . . .” I explained about going to Javier’s apartment building to feed his neighbor’s cat and was about to do my ethical duty as an “officer of the court” and tell him about the flowers. But then I realized that the only way I could possibly know of their relevance would be if I’d seen the toxicology report. Which would bust Eric big time.

“So on my way back upstairs with the water,” I went on, omitting any mention of the yellow vine, “I hear this gunning of an engine, and I turn just in time to see a blue car go into the parking garage.”

“Was it the same one you saw before?”

“I’m not sure. All I saw was a glimpse of the blue color. And when I got back down to the garage, there were only a few cars there, and none of them looked at all like the one that had been following me. The only blue one was an old Corolla, definitely not the muscle car. Anyway, so I was looking for my keys when it happened, when he grabbed me from behind.”

I recounted what the man had said and then described how I’d managed to get free, at which point I kind of lost it and started shaking like crazy.

The detective started out of his chair, but I waved him off, so he just sat back down and waited till I composed myself. After a minute, he asked, “Can you describe your assailant? Or this muscle car that’s been following you?”

“I didn’t get a look at his face, unfortunately, but he was a big guy, well over six feet, and he had short, dark hair. He was wearing blue jeans, and a dark sweatshirt, and white running shoes. As for the car I saw before . . . I dunno. One of those big ones from the seventies. A Camaro? Or Duster? Like I said, it was metallic blue. Oh, and I do remember it had those old blue-colored license plates.”

“Well, that’s helpful, at least. You didn’t get any of the license, did you? Even a partial would be helpful.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. So anyway, I’m thinking it must have been that same guy—the one who drove up to Kate’s farm—because of how she described it as a muscle car, just like the one that’s been following me.”

“But you said you didn’t see that car in the garage.”

“No, but I did see a blue car go in, and, I dunno . . . He could have hidden it out of sight somewhere. Maybe there’s another exit I didn’t notice.”

Vargas drummed his fingers on his right thigh and chewed his lip. Then, leaning forward, he said in a soft voice, “Has it occurred to you that—given where this incident occurred—it’s equally likely that it was an associate of Javier’s who jumped you?” He leaned back in the chair and fixed me with a hard stare. “Especially if there was something you saw there that the associate knew could incriminate Javier?”

My face was burning, but with my olive complexion, I doubted the detective could tell. Of course the cops would already know about the yellow jasmine at Javier’s building. That had to be one of the main reasons for his arrest. But how could Vargas possibly know that I’d seen the tox report? Or was this just a bluff?

I didn’t answer and instead pulled the can of pepper spray from my pocket. “You want to keep this as evidence?” I asked.

“No, I think it’s better if you hold onto it for the time being.”

***

Javier’s arraignment was set for nine o’clock the next morning, Friday. I got to court a few minutes early but needn’t have rushed over, as it was almost an hour before his case was finally called. During this time, I tried to work on the scheduling snafu that Giulia had pointed out to me the previous day. But it was hard to keep my mind on it, as my thoughts kept returning to the guy who’d grabbed me in the parking garage and who was still out there somewhere. Plus, there
was the threatening letter I’d gotten from Noah as well as the depressing discovery I’d made online that the vine at Javier’s apartment did in fact appear to be yellow jasmine.

They finally brought Javier out in his orange jumpsuit, and the judge read him his rights, advised him of the charges against him—he visibly slumped upon hearing the words “murder in the first degree”—and told him that he was being appointed counsel. At this point, a man in a dark suit stood up and agreed to accept the case. He spoke quietly with Javier for a moment and then turned back to the judge. “Request to put the matter over, your honor, until I’ve had time to confer with my client.”

“Granted. The matter will be heard”—the judge consulted her calendar—“a week from today, at which time Mr. Ruiz can enter his plea. Next case.”

A sheriff escorted Javier out the side door through which he’d entered the courtroom. I waved, but I’m not sure he saw me. I would have liked to talk to Javier’s attorney, but he remained sitting at the defense table after Javier was led away.

As soon as I got to Solari’s, I went in search of my dad. He was at the six-burner range, sampling the sauce for the day’s lunch special: chicken with tarragon-cream sauce.

“Tastes fine, Emilio,” he said, smacking his lips, and dropped the used spoon into the sink behind the hot line. “Don’t forget to sprinkle some chopped tarragon on top when you plate them up.”

I was about to tell Dad that I thought he did need to hire a lawyer to deal with his property-line dispute and that there was a gal at my old firm who would be good for the job. But
when he saw me come into the kitchen, he touched me on the shoulder.

“Hey, hon,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. C’mere.”

We sat in the office, he in the folding chair and me on the corner of the desk—there wasn’t room for a second chair—and he exhaled slowly.

Uh oh. What now?

He cleared his throat. “Look, I just want to apologize again for how I’ve been about this whole thing, you know, with Letta’s restaurant.” Dad ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, scratching his scalp. “It’s just that after you came back to Solari’s, after your mother passed on, I was so . . . I don’t know. So relieved, I guess. ’Cause I didn’t have to worry about the restaurant anymore—about who’d take it over after I was gone.”

“Dad, I—”

“No, let me finish.” He wiped both hands on the bar towel hanging from his chef’s pants and then went on. “But I realize now that it’s not fair to you. No matter what I may want, you gotta do what
you
want. I mean, really, that’s pretty much what being a parent is all about: making sure your kids are gonna be able to make their own decisions, not forcing your own on them.” He exhaled again and stood up. “So I just want you to know, if you want to take over Gauguin and run the place—if that’s what
you
want, not what you think Letta or someone else would want—then I’m okay with that decision.”

And before I could say anything in answer, he’d turned and walked out the door.

It was nearly impossible to stay focused on work during lunch, given all that had happened over the past few days. Plus, how unexpected was that about my dad? Not only what he’d said but also the very fact
that
he’d managed to say it at all. It was amazing but also daunting—because now I’d been given permission to do something that half of me desperately wanted but which filled the other half with unmitigated terror.

As I rushed about the dining room seating people, serving their bar orders, replenishing their bread, I couldn’t stop thinking about how morose Dad had seemed as he’d essentially told me to leave the nest and go create my own new life. But I also kept seeing Javier’s miserable face, standing there so alone in the courtroom that morning.

And then, while taking a phone reservation for Saturday night, my mind flashed on Ted’s crazed expression at the end of that Slow Food dinner. After making an entry in the book (party of six for seven o’clock), I scrawled a note to remind myself to warn Reuben that he needed to be extra vigilant about checking the food deliveries at Gauguin.

At three fifteen, I’d had enough and sneaked out the side door without telling anyone but Elena that I was leaving. It had been ages since I’d gone for a bike ride, and I knew that rain was forecast for the next day, so I rushed home and changed into my cycling clothes. A trip up Highway 1 to Davenport and back before the busy Friday-night dinner shift seemed like a good way to clear my head.

I followed the bike path from the north end of town up to Wilder Ranch and then jumped onto the highway for the rest of the ten-mile trip north. It was tough going, as I was riding smack into a vicious headwind. To make matters worse,
although there’s a wide shoulder, cars were whizzing by at sixty and seventy miles per hour, which was rather intimidating.

But you can’t beat the scenery: sandy beaches and rocky cliffs interspersed with cropland, old wooden barns, and stands of tall eucalyptus. And it was good to work up a sweat and feel my legs burn—the perfect thing to get my mind off Noah and Javier. And the guy in the muscle car.

When I finally made it to Davenport, I stopped at the bakery to refuel with a chocolate chip cookie, which I munched on the bluff overlooking the sea. Davenport is an old whaling town, and I squinted into the sun to see if I could spot any gray whales making their annual migration south. Must be too late in the season, I decided, brushing the crumbs off my jersey and standing up. Nary a whale in sight.

Mounting my bike and clipping in once more, I headed back down the coast. With the strong tail wind now pushing me along, the ride was an entirely different experience. I barely had to pedal, and it seemed like I was back in Santa Cruz in record time.

As I cruised down Delaware Avenue, I noticed several shrubs with yellow flowers. And then on the next corner, another tall bush dotted with yellow against a garage wall. Yellow plants were everywhere, it seemed.

That was it. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I took a hard left. Tony’s house was just a few blocks over. I remembered lots of blooms in his front yard and had to see if any of them were yellow.

Negotiating my way through the labyrinth of the Circles, a Westside neighborhood confusing even to locals as it is laid
out in almost—but not quite—concentric rings, I turned down Tony’s street.

Damn
. Not one yellow flower; the only vine in his front yard was the purple wisteria. Nor could I see any yellow plants along the side of the house.

Tony was out in front, sweeping the walkway. I stopped pedaling, and the clicking of the freewheel caused him to look up. He leaned on his broom. “Sally.”

“Hi, Tony.” I coasted up onto the sidewalk and clipped out of my pedals. “How you doing?”