“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Holy spoilage, Batman. What in the world was Minka LaBoeuf doing in Dharma?
I turned and saw her. She stood barely two feet away from me, clutching a glass of red wine with one hand and Enrico Baldacchio’s arm with the other. She wore another one of her dominatrix ensembles, a black leather skirt and matching vest over a white lace blouse with poufy sleeves, accessorized by leopard-patterned gloves and matching pillbox hat with a black tuft of mesh that covered most of her face.
She’d already spilled wine on her white shirt. Such a waste of good wine.
“Minka,” I said, trying not to choke on the word.
“Brooklyn,” she said, stretching the mesh veil back so she could actually see me. “You remember Enrico, don’t you?”
Of course I remembered Enrico. He was an unpleasant little man with a tendency to sweat. And he’d been present at the Covington Library the night of Abraham’s murder.
Abraham had told me they’d tried to work together again but it had ended badly. Before that, they’d barely spoken in years, beginning back when they wound up on opposite sides of a lawsuit involving a counterfeit Marlowe folio sold to the Palace of the Legion of Honor years ago.
“Hello, Enrico,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”
Not long enough
, I thought, but didn’t say aloud because I’m basically a nice person.
“Che piacere è vederti, il mio caro.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Minka cut in. “He’s saying something like, ‘How are you, my dear? Such a pleasure.’ Blah, blah, blah.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, then cringed at the trail of slime Enrico left on my hand. I furtively wiped it off with my appetizer napkin.
“Che posto bello!” he cried, sweeping his arm around. “Una montagna bella! Una montagna bella! Un giorno bello-ma che tragedia!”
“Uh, right. It’s a real tragedy.” I thought that was what he said. But what was up with the Italian? With a name like Baldacchio he had to be Italian, of course, but I remembered him coming from New Jersey.
“Quite a service,” Minka said, but I could see her tongue in her cheek so I knew she was lying. She viewed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Where the hell are we?”
I detested her with all of my being, but this was my town, my home, and my mother would be appalled if I treated any visitor badly, so I sucked it up and said stiffly, “Sonoma County. Really glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
I turned to Enrico. “What are you working on now, Enrico?”
“Ah, signorina.” He shrugged dramatically and fiddled with the cuffs of his dark brown shirt.
Minka slipped her arm through his. “We’re working with an important collector whose name cannot be revealed.”
My bullshit meter must’ve been showing on my face because she continued. “It’s true. He made us sign a confidentiality agreement.”
Who was she trying to impress? And why was she speaking for Enrico? I remembered him speaking English.
“Enrico,” I persisted, “I was so glad to see you at the Covington the other night. It gave me hope that you and Abraham had become friends again. Is that true? Did you bury the hatchet, so to speak?”
“Hatchet?” His eyes widened. “No hatchet! I did not do it.”
“Enrico,” Minka said through gritted teeth as she tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s an American joke. It means, you’ve made friends with Abraham.” She glared at me. “Stop baiting him.”
“I’m not,” I protested, then said to Enrico, “I’m sorry. I meant, I’m so glad to hear you and Abraham were able to be friends again.”
Minka nodded. “And his death is even more tragic because Baldacchio and Karastovsky”-she struck a dramatic pose-“the two greatest bookbinders in all the world, had once again joined together on a very important project.”
Enrico pulled a silk scarf from his pocket and dabbed his dry eyes.
“Sì. È una tragedia.”
Minka’s head bobbed in agreement. “The book world has suffered a double blow.”
“Totally,” Enrico said, blowing the Italian for a moment. He nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead. “Sì, sì, si, signorina.”
So not only was he faking the accent, but he was lying about his renewed friendship with Abraham, who’d told me himself that Enrico was a deceitful thief.
“That must’ve been such a comfort,” I said. “To know that you became friends again before he died. Otherwise, you might’ve had to live the rest of your life feeling guilty for never repairing the friendship.”
“Guilty?” he cried. “Non sia stupido! I do nothing! Karastovsky! He try to ruin me! Guilty? Siete pazzeschi! ”
He continued sputtering in outrage. I might’ve touched a nerve. But did he just call me
stupid
? I hated that.
“Oh, great,” Minka said. “Now I’ll have to listen to this crap all the way home. Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” I said flimsily.
“I need more alcohol.” She stomped off, leaving me with one angry Italian. I needed alcohol, too.
“Enrico, I apologize.” I grabbed his oily hand. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to accuse you of anything.”
I was starting to talk with an Italian accent.
“That’s right. You donna know what you-a talking about, missy.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” I took a deep breath and wrapped my arm through his. “Enrico, we’ve both lost a good friend, and today is no time to talk about business.”
He seemed mollified for the moment. “You right.”
I squeezed his arm. “Would you like more wine?”
“No, no.” He seemed to enjoy my cozying up because he stroked my hand. “You take over Karastovsky’s work at the Covington?”
“Yes, I did.”
He looked left and right, then whispered, “I could-a tell you a thing or two about Karastovsky and those Winslows.”
I looked around, too. “Really?”
“
Sì.
They think Baldacchio’s a fool but I show them. They promise me a business deal, and I make sure they donna screw me. Baldacchio, he has the last-a laugh.”
“How in the world did you do that?”
“A little insurance.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I show you sometime.”
“That would be lovely,” I said softly. “Maybe we could meet next week and catch up on old times. Are you busy Monday?”
He was taken aback for a moment, then slowly grinned. “
Quello è molto buono.
You’re a smart-a cookie.”
His Italian came and went like the tide. I patted his arm. “I’m glad you think so. Shall I come to your studio? Say, around two o’clock Monday?”
“
Perfetto.
I show you my latest treasure.” He moved even closer and I could see the comb marks in his overly gelled hair. “And maybe I show you a little something extra you will find extremely
interessante.”
“Interesting?”
“And provocative. Tell no one. We do some business together, eh?”
“I can’t wait.”
“You’re a good girl,” he said, unexpectedly avuncular; then he frowned and shook his finger at me. “But do yourself the favor and stay away from the
Faust.”
“The
Faust?”
“The curse. I could-a lost my eye. Quel libro maledetto.”
“Your eye? What?”
The memory seemed to cause him pain because his eye began to twitch. He rubbed his forehead, then threw up his hands dramatically. “Eh! We talk Monday. You come see me and we talk.” He handed me his business card and strolled away. I saw Minka corral him by the dessert table and force him out the door.
Holy crap. What had I gone and done now? Ah well, I’d find out Monday.
“Hello, Brooklyn.”
I whipped around. “Mrs. Winslow.”
She looked lovely in a black Chanel suit and carried a clutch purse. She patted my arm consolingly. “I thought we should pay our respects.”
“Thank you,” I said, and breathed in relief. Her sincere kindness was a refreshing change from Enrico’s and Minka’s lies and calculations. “How are you?”
“Oh, my dear, I’m fine.” She smiled sadly. “But I know what it feels like to lose a good friend, so I wanted to wish you well.”
“That’s very kind.”
“If you’re willing to hear some advice from an old gal like me, I’d recommend that you take extra good care of yourself at a time like this.”
I smiled. “You’re hardly an old gal and I appreciate the advice.”
“I’m going to have to buy a case of that pinot,” Conrad Winslow said as he joined us. “Damn fine wine.”
We shared some small talk, and then they left. I was struck again by how genuinely nice the Winslows were, and how inexplicable it was that they’d managed to produce such a self-centered creature like Meredith.
I’d worked up a real appetite, so I grabbed two more tiny sandwiches, egg salad this time, then headed for the wine bar, praying the hangover gods would be gentle.
Robin sidled up to me. “You look pretty good for someone I had to pour into the cab last night.”
“I’m young,” I said. “I bounce back.”
“Obviously.” Robin turned to the bartender, a local boy who worked part-time in the Dharma vineyards. “Hi, Billy. I’ll have what she’s having.”
We waited until she had her drink in her hand, then began to stroll the periphery of the room.
“Who was that old guy you were talking to?”
“Enrico Baldacchio,” I said. “We just had a very interesting conversation.” I took a sip of wine, swirled it around my mouth and swallowed. I held the glass up to the light. “This is exceptional, isn’t it? Great color.”
“Don’t you dare change the subject. What’d he say?”
I gave her the short version as we walked.
“Do you honestly believe he’s got something to show you besides his etchings?”
“Ew.” But I’d had the same thought. “I guess I’ll find out Monday. I made a date to meet him.”
“A date?” She groaned. “What did we discuss last night?”
I frowned. “Fashion?”
“No, smartass.” She stopped walking and whispered hotly, “We talked about how you shouldn’t be investigating Abraham’s death by yourself because you could piss off a killer. Remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“We discussed how that was not a good idea. And this guy Enrico could be a killer.” She took a sip of wine. “And then I called your clothes atrocious and you got miffed. Any of this ring a bell?”
I took a sip of wine. “I recall the atrocious part.”
She rolled her eyes. “Good, because that was really the key point of the discussion.”
“Thanks a lot.” I pulled her along with me to keep strolling. “Look, I’m not investigating anything. I’m just meeting with a colleague who could someday throw some business my way.”
“That is so much crap.”
“I’m serious. That’s all I’m going to do. Could you please relax?”
“I’ll relax when Abraham’s killer is behind bars.”
“Me, too.” I took another sip of wine and motioned toward the door. “Austin just walked in.”
She whipped around so she wouldn’t be caught gazing longingly at my tall, handsome older brother, the one she’d been in love with since third grade. “So what?”
I laughed. “As long as you don’t deal with those deep dark feelings inside, you’ve got no business criticizing anything I do.”
She pointed her finger at me and gave it a shake. “I have every right in the world to try and talk you out of getting yourself killed.”
I put the wineglass down on a nearby table and pulled Robin into a hug. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
When I stepped back, I saw her eyes filled with tears.
I sighed. “I absolutely promise I’ll be careful-”
“You’d better be.”
“-if you’ll do me a favor.”
She sniffled. “What?”
“Go talk to Austin. He’s staring right at you.”
“Shut up.”
“He is,” I said.
“Shit.”
“There’s a good attitude.” I grinned as I walked away, hoping at least someone would have some fun today.
I spent the next hour helping my mother supervise the kitchen staff to keep the tables filled with food to feed the hundreds of people who’d stopped by to console and commiserate. I didn’t mind putting in kitchen time since I figured it would keep me out of trouble for a while. And the sprawling commune kitchen was a warm and familiar environment for me.
All through my childhood, Mom and Dad were in charge of managing food and wine for the commune. Dad still ran the winery, but Mom was semiretired from the kitchen except on special occasions like this one. With six kids, she was a natural organizer and, more important, a first-class manipulator.
My parents’ experience in food management dated back to the days when they used to travel to Grateful Dead shows in a big old UPS truck that Dad had outfitted and sectioned off into three rooms: bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette.
At the time, Dad was still out of favor with Grandfather, so he and Mom needed a way to support themselves on the road. They decided to call upon their God-given talents and created a business called Vino y Green-oh. We kids thought it was the dumbest name ever, but Deadheads and fellow campers loved it. They painted the name on the side of the truck in rainbow colors. Dad offered wine tastings at one dollar a glass and Mom made fresh green salads she sold for two dollars each, including a roll and butter.
They hooked up with several other entrepreneurs in the food trade and created a “restaurant row” in the Dead show campgrounds and parking lots. Their friends Barbara and Dexter ran a popular eatery out of their RV called Spuds ’n’ Suds. Their operation was a little more complicated, requiring a deep fryer and ice for the keg.
“We need more taquitos at the Mexican station,” Mom called from the doorway.
“I’ve got a bunch ready,” Carmen, one of the cooks, answered.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, and lifted the large cookie sheet stacked with corn tortillas rolled tightly around shredded beef, cheese and salsa.
“Don’t forget the avocado sauce,” Carmen yelled.
“Got it,” I said as I balanced the bowl of creamy green sauce on top of the pile of taquitos and headed for the dining room-and nearly collided with two men.
“There you are,” Derek said. “When are you-”
“Brooklyn,” Ian interrupted. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve got-”
“Guys, let me put this down,” I said, straining from the weight of several hundred beef taquitos. “I’ll be right back.”