“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.”
But they weren’t about to let me escape. They both followed me to the Mexican station, where I gratefully exchanged my full cookie sheet for the empty one on the table.
“Okay, so much for my break from reality,” I said, smiling back and forth from one ridiculously good-looking man to the other. “What do you guys want?”
“I’ll need a word with you, Ms. Wainwright.”
“Hey, plenty of me to go around,” I said, laughing as I turned and stared into the grim brown eyes of Inspector Jaglow.