Ellen McKenzie 03-And Murder for Desser (3 page)

“I’m doing some investigating,” he said, using his most pompous voice. “And it’s about your nephew, Mark Tortelli.”

“What?” I asked, surprised again. Damn. I had to find another word. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m monitoring the inventory. Mark left his last job because he was caught trying to steal some of the wine. I’m making sure it doesn’t happen here.”

This time I couldn’t even say “what?” I simply stood there with my mouth open. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Does Mark know you’re in here doing—whatever you’re doing?”

Carlton’s eyes shifted. “He knows I’m in here.”

I’d had enough. “Mark Tortelli is not a thief,” I stated as firmly as I could, “and I would strongly suggest you don’t go around telling people you think he is.” I turned on my heel and stomped out.

“You’ll see,” I heard Carlton mutter as I left, but I ignored him and hurried down the hall toward the tasting room. Mark a thief. Not a chance. But a thought, unbidden, snuck through my indignation. Mark and Sabrina had been more than on edge since they’d arrived, and they’d avoided any mention of their life before Santa Louisa. What had happened on Mark’s last job? No time to wonder. I walked into the tasting room to find an angry Mark, a tearful Sabrina, and an irate round little man in striped pants, an immaculate white jacket, and a tall chef’s hat, yelling at both of them in the high-pitched voice I’d heard behind the kitchen door.

“You lied to me,” he screamed. “Frank Tortelli’s son, and you didn’t tell me.”

“For God’s sake, Otto, you’re here as the guest chef for tonight’s dinner,” Sabrina said between sniffs. “What does Mark’s father have to do with that?”

“Everything.” The venom in the little man’s voice would do credit to a rattler. “Ask him. He’ll tell you.” He pointed at Mark.

Sabrina looked at Mark. So did I. So did the tall, somewhat good-looking man standing directly behind the little chef. He, too, was dressed in striped pants, but his white jacket was smudged. He kept nodding his head slightly, as though he was agreeing with everything Otto said. His hat swayed with each nod.

“Otto and my father were partners,” Mark said, his eyes fastened tightly on Otto, “but that was years ago, when I was a little boy. They had a falling out; you’d never guess that, would you, and haven’t spoken since.”

“Why?” Sabrina asked.

“They fought over a recipe,” Mark answered.

“Not ‘a’ recipe,” Otto stated. “
The
recipe. The one your larcenous father stole from me, the one he based Tortelli’s on. It was mine, and I will never forgive him. I will never forgive any member of his family.”

“Come on, Otto,” Mark said. I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten and knew he was struggling to keep his temper. “I was a baby when all that happened; it has nothing to do with me, and tonight is important. Very important. Can’t we just forget the past and have a great evening? Think of all the people who are coming tonight, important people, just because you’re the chef.”

I thought Mark was laying it on a bit thick but evidently Otto didn’t think so. He turned and looked at the man standing behind him, who was now staring at me and turned back around to face Mark. “Oh, we will have a spectacular dinner tonight, but not because of you. Because of me. Because of my new bed and breakfast. These people are indeed coming to taste my food. Some will write about the fabulous dinner they had and tell the world to come to Otto’s new bed and breakfast and single seating dinner restaurant. Others will tell their friends. Either way, I will once again be famous. But I, Otto, do not forget. You lied to me, and you will pay.”

On that cheerful note, he swung around again, faced his companion, and shouted, “Why do you stand there? Do you not have a job? Must you listen in on my private conversations? Go! Go! We have work to do.”

If the poor man had a tail, he would have tucked it under himself as he turned and scurried back toward the kitchen, followed by Otto, hurling invectives at him all the way down the hall.

“Oh, Mark,” Sabrina sobbed, “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined everything. The dinner will be a disaster. Otto will do something horrible, I know he will, and…”

“Hey,” Mark said, pulling her toward him, drying her eyes with a filthy bandana he produced from his pocket. “It’s not your fault. There was no way you could have known. It’ll be fine.”

“You think so?” Sabrina looked up at him, hope flickering across her face.

“It’s going to be great,” I said, wondering if I should butt in, wondering even more if I was telling the truth. “You heard Otto. Making this dinner a success is something he wants for himself. People rarely go against their own self-interest.”

Mark grinned at me. “Only too true. So, let’s cling to that hope.”

“I don’t know.” She dried her eyes once more, then looked, really looked, at Mark’s bandana. She handed it back to him, holding it carefully between her thumb and forefinger, and used the back of her hand to brush away the last few tears. “I hope you’re both right. But so far, this day has been a disaster.”

“Ah, so far,” Mark told her, shoving his bandana back in his pocket. “But now we’ve used up all our bad luck. What more could go wrong?”

“Frank could show up,” Sabrina said in tones of direst doom.

Mark laughed. “Even we couldn’t be that unlucky.” Then he dropped a kiss on her nose and left.

Chapter Three

“For heaven’s sake, Dan, slow down.” Aunt Mary’s voice, coming from the backseat, was part irritation and part pain. “Thanks to that last turn, my seat belt is practically strangling me.”

“I thought you wanted to get there early,” Dan said. But he slowed down. Growing up, he’d always done what Aunt Mary said. Evidently, the habit had stuck.

“Early, yes,” she replied, unsnapping her seat belt, “but alive would be nice also.”

I smothered a laugh. Dan had been in an increasingly foul mood for the last couple of weeks, and when we told him he had to go to the first event Mark and Sabrina were hosting at the winery, the Harvest Festival Dinner, and he would have to wear a tux, he’d rebelled.

“Not a chance. Eighty bucks a plate and tux rental on top of that? Do you know how many steaks we could barbeque for that kind of money?”

I’d used every argument I could think of. “We have to support Mark and Sabrina. After all, they’re family.”

“Not my family,” he’d replied.

“You owe it to the community. You being an important public servant and all that.”

“I keep this community safe from crooks,” he’d said through tight lips. “And that’s all I owe it.”

It was Aunt Mary who persuaded him. How, I didn’t know and wasn’t about to ask. But here we were, on our way to the winery, dressed in rarely worn evening clothes, and looking dashing. At least, Dan looked dashing. I looked expensive in my prettiest designer dress left over from my previous life. I’d always loved this dress, if not the circumstances in which I used to wear it. Even Aunt Mary looked good. A firm believer in supporting the many charity rummage sales she runs, her clothes sometimes left viewers a little breathless. The dress she had planned to wear tonight was awful. Black, with red fringe in all the wrong places, and sort of hiked up on one hip. I’d cringed when I saw it but was afraid to say anything in the face of Aunt Mary’s supreme indifference. My friend, Pat Bennington, didn’t share my qualms. “Oh no,” she’d said when she saw it, “not to Sabrina’s shindig.” She’d somehow turned the dress into a simple, figure-flattering, elegant gown. I would be forever in her debt.

“Have you had any more of those phone calls?” Aunt Mary asked from the backseat, breaking the silence.

“What phone calls?” Dan wanted to know.

I looked out the car window, watching the sun linger a few minutes before it sank behind the hills that separate our town from the Pacific Ocean. The sky changed from blue to pink to orange to fiery red, following its descent. A lot like the pattern of Dan’s temper this past month. I hadn’t planned on telling him about the phone calls.

“What phone calls?” Dan repeated.

“Somebody from high school,” I said.

“Who? I knew everybody you ever knew. I dated most of your girl friends. Who is she?”

“Why didn’t you ever date me?” I asked, turning back toward him.

“I lived next door to you. No one dates the girl next door. Besides, you wore braces. Who is your mysterious caller?”

“Larry Whittaker.”

“Who?” Dan’s face looked as blank as his tone.

“I dated him our sophomore year. Sort of. We went to the movies once.”

“I don’t remember any Larry Whittaker.” Dan looked puzzled, as well he might. In a school the size of ours, everyone knew everyone.

“He didn’t stay long,” I said. “One day he was gone. He sent me a postcard from Paris. I thought that was pretty romantic.”

“Paris?” Dan asked, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to stare at me. “What was he doing in Paris?”

“Going to school,” Aunt Mary said from the backseat. “I remember his grandmother telling me how his father whisked him off to boarding school after his mother died.”

“Paris. So what brings him back here and what does he want with you?”

“No idea,” I said. “I haven’t talked to him, just picked up the messages he’s left on my machine. He says he’s back in town, heard I was back also and divorced, and thought maybe we could get together.”

“That’s pretty nervy.” Dan frowned.

“No it’s not,” I told him, a little amused.

“Have you tried to call him back?”

“No. He hasn’t left a number.”

Dan looked stormy again. Great. Our relationship this past month had been difficult enough. I didn’t need some man I barely remembered ruining an already shaky evening.

“I hope he doesn’t call again,” I said, as dismissively as I could. “If it weren’t for the postcard, I probably wouldn’t remember him at all.”

“Humph.” Dan swung the car a little too hard into the parking spot in front of the winery, letting the wheels slip on the gravel, and stopped abruptly.

“Good grief,” exclaimed Aunt Mary. “Was that really necessary?”

“Sorry.” He got out and opened Aunt Mary’s door. I didn’t say anything. I was too busy checking my neck for whiplash.

“Will you look at all this?” exclaimed Aunt Mary, looking around her.

“All this” was worth looking at. I had been to the winery several times in the four weeks Sabrina and Mark had stayed with me while they house hunted, but I was still impressed. The hillsides that sloped away from us were covered by neat rows of vines. The deep green of the glossy leaves and the lush purple of the heavy bunches of grapes glowed in the fading early evening light. The building we faced, low, sprawling, made of stucco and brick, was reminiscent of a California mission. It seemed to command the hilltop, quietly reigning over the grape vines and the view beyond them. I half expected to see a friar come through those heavy wooden doors, sandals on his feet, cowl covering his head. Instead we got Sabrina.

“Thank goodness,” she sputtered. “I don’t know what to do. You have to help.”

“Oh, dear. Is it that awful chef you’ve been so upset about?” Aunt Mary took a step toward Sabrina, alarm widening her eyes.

Sabrina threw her arms in the air, causing her crimson skirt to swirl and her comb to loosen its grip on her hair. She reminded me of a firecracker about to explode. “No. Yes. Partly. Mostly it’s Frank.”

“Frank,” repeated Dan, looking from her to me.

“Frank? Mark’s father Frank?” I asked.

“The very one. The great Frank Tortelli. Tortelli’s Restaurante. San Francisco.” Sabrina tossed this bit of information over her shoulder and started back through the heavy door. “Come on. You’ve got to stop him.”

“How?” I asked, following her.

“Stop who from doing what?” asked Aunt Mary.

“No kidding,” Dan said in a reverent tone. “Wow. He’s Mark’s father?” He pushed the door open and stepped aside, waiting for us to enter. “Some detective I am. Of course. Tortelli’s. Best place to eat in San Francisco, and that’s saying something.”

I had heard of Tortelli’s, of course, but had never been there. It was obvious Dan had. But then, he had lived and worked in San Francisco for years.

“Was the food really that good?” I heard myself ask as I passed Dan. I couldn’t help it. I was hungry.

“Yes.” That one word said it all.

We followed Sabrina into the entryway of the winery. The walls were covered with medals won by previous winemakers for Silver Springs. Interspersed were pictures of them standing beside famous people, all holding glasses filled with Silver Springs wine. Bottles of award-winning vintages were displayed on shelves, and in the air hung an aroma that made my stomach growl. The yeasty smell of fermenting wine twirled seductively around me, overlaid with garlic and roasting lamb.

To our right I caught a glimpse of what was by day the tasting room. It had been transformed into a formal dining room, thanks in part to several hours of my help. I had been anxious to show it off to Dan and Aunt Mary, but that wasn’t going to happen immediately. Sabrina was hurrying us down the hallway to the left, past closed office doors, closer to the cooking smells and the sound of raised voices. Actually, one raised voice. A familiar one.

“Help! I, Otto Messinger, do not need help. Especially from one who makes pasta!” There was Otto, now wrapped in a white apron, his chef’s hat madly bobbing, stabbing the air with his clenched fist. His face had turned a unique shade of red. You would have thought, from his tone, pasta was a four-letter word.

“Mark is my only son,” said a tall, handsome man in an elegant tux. He didn’t raise his voice, but the chill in it would have made a polar bear shiver. “This dinner is his debut as a winemaker. It’s my duty, and my privilege as a father, to be here for him. To make sure this important dinner is a success.” He paused, looked down at the still quivering chef, then, with the smallest hint of a condescending smile, went on. “And pasta is a gift from the gods. To do it right requires talent. You cannot cover up your mistakes with sauces made from canned soup.”

The great Otto sputtered, his face turned from tomato to beet red. He clenched and unclenched his fists and flung himself forward over the long table that bisected the room.

“Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot.” I hadn’t seen Mark as we entered the room, but I took a good look at him now. Shorter than his elegant father, stockier, more earthy looking, Mark’s hair trigger temper was about to explode. “He’s leaving, Otto. Right now. So you can keep your promise and get this dinner together. If you two,” he glared at both of them, “want to continue this feud, do it after the dessert course. Now, let these guys get on with it.”

“These guys” evidently meant the tall thin one I’d seen earlier, as well as the four young men in black pants, white shirts, and tuxedo ties who were huddled around another table at the far end of the room, filling trays with appetizers and trying vainly to look as though they weren’t listening.

“No. I must…” Frank started but was stopped by the tone in his son’s voice.

“Leave. That’s what you must do,” Mark said. “Now, Dad.”

Otto flashed him a triumphant smile, which was immediately replaced by a deep scowl at the sight of our little group.

“Who are these people? Am I a sideshow, that you parade strange people through my kitchen? You are perhaps selling tickets? Or are they, too, going to pass judgment on my food?”

The hostility in that room was thick enough to slice and serve on plates. The look Sabrina gave Otto did nothing to thin it out.

Frank couldn’t leave it alone. “Your kitchen? Hardly. And no one came to see you. You’re a has-been. A never-was. The only success you ever had you got by hanging on to my coattails. Try to get tonight’s dinner right, if you know how.”

Mark gasped and started to say something, but Otto got his shot off first.

“Not my kitchen? When Otto is invited to create, then that space is his. Know how? Coattails? Phuff. You can cook. Maybe. Create? Never. Tortelli’s has had only one success, only one dish. And that dish was stolen. From me!”

Now Frank, black eyes burning, lunged toward the table, and it looked like war was in full swing. The thin man backed up, the waiters stopped filling their trays; Mark let out a groan that was almost a growl and grabbed his father by the coat.

“God damn it, will you stop?” he said.

Otto snickered; Aunt Mary and I openly gaped. Dan seized Frank’s arm, and Sabrina stepped into the fray.

“Mark, there are guests arriving. Could you please…?”

He started to say something, stopped, glared at both of them again and stomped out.

“Chef Otto Messinger, I believe you met my aunt, Ellen McKenzie, earlier today,” Sabrina said, trying hard to pretend nothing outlandish had happened. I took a little bow, but it didn’t help much. Otto continued to scowl. “And this is my Great Aunt Mary McGill, and Dan Dunham, Santa Louisa’s Chief of Police. Everyone, this is our guest chef for the evening, and we’re all so glad he could be here,” she finished a little desperately.

“I’m not,” said Frank.

“Either he goes, or I do.” Otto pulled himself up and puffed out his chest. The puffing part looked as if he practiced a lot.

“Wonderful idea,” said Frank, starting to slide out of his coat. “Is there a spare apron around here?”

Sabrina stepped in front of him, pulled his coat back up on his shoulders, and turned to face Otto. “Frank is leaving right now,” she said, with menace in her voice, for which one I wasn’t sure. Probably both. “And, Otto, the hors d’oeuvres trays need to go out. Now.” She turned to include the waiters, who milled around uncertainly.

Aunt Mary, eyebrows raised, nodded approvingly at this firm Sabrina before she looked up at Frank. “You two are acting like a couple of school boys.”

Frank smiled down at her, the smile extending to his eyes. Why, he’s loving this, I thought. The old rascal. I almost laughed but looked at Sabrina’s face and hid it. Unfortunately, not from Frank. The look he gave me was downright conspiratorial before he started again.

“Your manners are as bad as your food. Worse, if that’s possible,” he told the fuming Otto. He paused to smooth down his silver-streaked dark hair while staring pointedly at the wispy gray tufts sticking out from each side of Otto’s hat. “Steal your recipes?” he went on, disdain dripping from each word. “I would not demean myself, or those who come to dine at my restaurant.”

He smoothed the lapels of his immaculate tuxedo, buttoned his jacket, then bowed slightly over Aunt Mary’s hand. “You must be the gracious aunt who is putting up my son and my beautiful daughter-in-law.”