the stresses of work, family discord, and murder.
I had to be at Solari’s at five, but before heading over there, I pulled the Escarole website up on my laptop. I wanted to see if it had any information on how long the folks working there had been at the place—whether they might have known Letta, in other words. There was of course no list of employees; I hadn’t expected such a thing. But there was a link titled “Our Chefs,” which I clicked on.
Voilà: descriptions of all their work histories. Ruth Kallenbach was listed as “Chef de Cuisine,” Tom Nakamoto and Laurie Evert simply as “Chefs,” and Martine Dufour as “Pastry Chef.” Besides Ruth, the only one of the four who’d been at Escarole since Letta’s time was the pastry chef.
I checked the “Contact Us” page, but the only phone number listed was one for reservations. I dialed this number, and a man with a smooth voice answered the phone: “Escarole. May I help you?”
I asked when Ruth Kallenbach would next be working, and he consulted a schedule. “Not till this coming weekend,” he informed me. “She’ll be in both Friday and Saturday nights.”
“And Martine, the pastry chef?”
“Oh, she only works mornings—early, from about five AM to eleven or so. And let’s see . . . she’s scheduled for Saturday morning but is off Sunday.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d like to make a reservation for three for this Friday night at, say, seven?” Nichole, a law-school pal of Eric’s and mine, lived up in the City with her partner, Mei, and I was hoping they’d be up for joining me.
***
Solari’s closes at nine PM on Sundays, so after cleaning up, balancing the register, and setting up the dining room for the following day, I was able to make it home before eleven. Less than twelve hours later, however, I was back there again.
Monday lunches can be hectic at the restaurant, since lots of other establishments are closed that day, and the business crowd always needs a place to eat. But this one thankfully didn’t seem to be too bad.
As soon as I had a free moment, I phoned Javier, figuring he should be up by now. He was, and I told him I wanted to get together to talk about a plan for Gauguin. But although this was true, what I really wanted was to find out what the hell was going on between him and Tony. He agreed to meet me that evening at Dixon’s, a burger-and-beer joint across from the Boardwalk that I knew he frequented.
At three fifteen, I was getting ready to leave for the day, when Dad found me in the wait station. Giulia was at a smalltable, prepping a stack of Solari’s red cloth napkins for the dinner shift in a simple pyramid fold—Nothing like the exotic fans and flowers at Gauguin.
“Can I talk to you a sec?” Dad asked and motioned toward our office. I followed him inside, and he closed the door. So maybe he did want to iron out our differences after all.
“Look, if this is about Gauguin,” I started, but he cut me off.
“No. It’s something else. It’s about my neighbor.”
“Wanda,” I said, and he nodded and frowned.
“It seems she’s gotten herself a lawyer. At least, so she says. I saw her this morning on my way out to my truck, and she told me she had a surveyor come out. Don’t they need my permission for that?”
“Not if they don’t go on your property, they wouldn’t.”
Dad grunted. “Well, anyway, Wanda’s now saying that it turns out the fence is on her property, which means she can cut the rose and the Brugmansia back herself if she wants. In fact, she’s threatening to take the plants out altogether. So I thought I’d ask you about it. She can’t do that, can she?”
“Well, she certainly can’t just start whacking stuff back without some kind of proof or court order. Did she give you the results of the survey?”
He shook his head.
“Then you should get that from her, first off. But even if it turns out the fence is on her property, it still doesn’t mean she
I had to be at Solari’s at five, but before heading over there, I pulled the Escarole website up on my laptop. I wanted to see if it had any information on how long the folks working there had been at the place—whether they might have known Letta, in other words. There was of course no list of employees; I hadn’t expected such a thing. But there was a link titled “Our Chefs,” which I clicked on.
Voilà: descriptions of all their work histories. Ruth Kallenbach was listed as “Chef de Cuisine,” Tom Nakamoto and Laurie Evert simply as “Chefs,” and Martine Dufour as “Pastry Chef.” Besides Ruth, the only one of the four who’d been at Escarole since Letta’s time was the pastry chef.
I checked the “Contact Us” page, but the only phone number listed was one for reservations. I dialed this number, and a man with a smooth voice answered the phone: “Escarole. May I help you?”
I asked when Ruth Kallenbach would next be working, and he consulted a schedule. “Not till this coming weekend,” he informed me. “She’ll be in both Friday and Saturday nights.”
“And Martine, the pastry chef?”
“Oh, she only works mornings—early, from about five AM to eleven or so. And let’s see . . . she’s scheduled for Saturday morning but is off Sunday.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d like to make a reservation for three for this Friday night at, say, seven?” Nichole, a law-school pal of Eric’s and mine, lived up in the City with her partner, Mei, and I was hoping they’d be up for joining me.
***
Solari’s closes at nine PM on Sundays, so after cleaning up, balancing the register, and setting up the dining room for the following day, I was able to make it home before eleven. Less than twelve hours later, however, I was back there again.
Monday lunches can be hectic at the restaurant, since lots of other establishments are closed that day, and the business crowd always needs a place to eat. But this one thankfully didn’t seem to be too bad.
As soon as I had a free moment, I phoned Javier, figuring he should be up by now. He was, and I told him I wanted to get together to talk about a plan for Gauguin. But although this was true, what I really wanted was to find out what the hell was going on between him and Tony. He agreed to meet me that evening at Dixon’s, a burger-and-beer joint across from the Boardwalk that I knew he frequented.
At three fifteen, I was getting ready to leave for the day, when Dad found me in the wait station. Giulia was at a smalltable, prepping a stack of Solari’s red cloth napkins for the dinner shift in a simple pyramid fold—Nothing like the exotic fans and flowers at Gauguin.
“Can I talk to you a sec?” Dad asked and motioned toward our office. I followed him inside, and he closed the door. So maybe he did want to iron out our differences after all.
“Look, if this is about Gauguin,” I started, but he cut me off.
“No. It’s something else. It’s about my neighbor.”
“Wanda,” I said, and he nodded and frowned.
“It seems she’s gotten herself a lawyer. At least, so she says. I saw her this morning on my way out to my truck, and she told me she had a surveyor come out. Don’t they need my permission for that?”
“Not if they don’t go on your property, they wouldn’t.”
Dad grunted. “Well, anyway, Wanda’s now saying that it turns out the fence is on her property, which means she can cut the rose and the Brugmansia back herself if she wants. In fact, she’s threatening to take the plants out altogether. So I thought I’d ask you about it. She can’t do that, can she?”
“Well, she certainly can’t just start whacking stuff back without some kind of proof or court order. Did she give you the results of the survey?”
He shook his head.
“Then you should get that from her, first off. But even if it turns out the fence is on her property, it still doesn’t mean she
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