Authors: A. J. Carton
“Wow!” Emma exclaimed.
While Concetta was finishing her story, she and Emma had left the restaurant, gotten into the car and driven back to Puebloduro. When they pulled up beside the Gomez trailer, Emma noticed Steve’s Subaru parked nearby. Steve stood a few feet away talking to Yolanda. Now he motioned to Emma to get out of the car.
“What happened to her?” Emma asked, ignoring him.
“To Maria?” Concetta answered. “I don’t know. Like I said, I never saw her again. But I’ve heard that Maria always blamed herself for Cory’s death. Like it was her fault. That maybe, if she’d acted differently, he’d still be alive.”
“What did Maria do? Did she become a doctor?”
“I didn’t care to know,” Concetta grimaced. “Maybe, I blamed her a little, too, for Cory’s death. We never got in touch. I heard she got married.”
“To whom?” Emma asked.
“Sounded like a
gringo
name. Miller, I think, like the beer. And I heard she had a son.”
Emma thought for a second. “When? How old is
he
?”
Concetta shrugged again. “It was a long time ago. He must be in his forties. I even sometimes wondered….” Concetta let the sentence hang unfinished.
Steve was still gesturing to Emma to get out of the car. But she had one last question. “So you have no idea where she is now?”
“Maria?” Concetta asked. “Last I heard, she was working at some school. Near Riverside I think. But that was a
long
time ago.”
“Doing what?” Emma replied.
Concetta shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t even remember where I heard it. Like I said, I haven’t spoken with Maria Hidalgo in…,” she laughed, “in over forty years.”
Steve had waved goodbye to Mrs. Gomez and started to walk towards the truck. As Emma opened the door and stepped down out of the cab, he took her arm.
“Where have you been?” he whispered directing her towards his car. “You were supposed to be interviewing the widow, not touring the Coachella Valley with her mother. We’re late for the next meeting.”
“I’ve got some really important information,” Emma whispered back.
“From whom?” Steve opened the Subaru door and all but shoved her into the car. “Yolanda or the mother?”
“The mother,” Emma answered. “It’s about…”
“Save it for later,” Steve interrupted as he ducked into the driver’s seat. “First, I want to know what you heard from Yolanda Gomez and her brother.”
Emma quickly repeated everything she’d heard from Yolanda Gomez: that nobody liked her husband. That there were times when even she wished he were dead. That her brother hated him as well. Nonetheless, Emma assured Steve that everyone she’d talked to had an alibi for the night Gomez died.
“They could all be lying,” Steve shrugged. “Lying to protect themselves.”
“As for why Gomez went north,” Emma nodded. “According to Yolanda, he wanted to find out why his friend, Cardenas, dropped out of the suit.”
“Did he ever find out?”
Emma shrugged. “Yolanda thinks someone paid Cardenas off.”
“Who?” Steve asked.
“She doesn’t know,” Emma answered. “But think about it, Steve. Any number of people had reason to sabotage the lawsuit…”
“Like who?” Steve asked.
“Randall’s nephew, Rob Peters,” Emma answered, thinking fast. “If the lawsuit sucked money out of the estate, he had a reason to pay Cardenas to sabotage it. And what about the Chinese?” she added. “Maybe they wanted to stop the lawsuit.”
“Why?” Steve asked. “I thought the lawsuit made Randall desperate to sell?”
Emma threw up her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe Silas Bugbee paid him off to block the lawsuit. So the old man wouldn’t be so desperate to sell to the Chinese.”
Steve shook his head. “Nah. Everything still points to Randall.”
That’s when Emma told Steve about Cory.
“I want to find her,” Emma concluded. “I want to find this Maria Miller, or whatever her name is. I want to know what happened to her.”
“Why?” Steve asked. The star-crossed lovers story had not impressed him. “I say, let sleeping dogs lie.”
Emma didn’t agree. “Maria had a son. He’s in his forties. Don’t you see? It could be Curt Randall’s grandson. Don’t you want to know?”
Steve rolled his eyes. “First of all, that grandson thing only happens in movies. Old movies. Forget about it. And even if Curt Randall has a grandson, the kid’s half Mexican. Given what we know, Randall won’t be happy about that. More likely, he’ll go ballistic.”
But Emma believed Steve was wrong. He didn’t have children. He didn’t know.
“Please don’t get sidetracked on this soap opera,” Steve warned as they drove through downtown Coachella. “We’ve got more important things to do.”
An hour later, Emma and Steve left Santiago Gomez’s brother’s house no wiser than before. Their interview had turned up nothing.
“Lets go to the airport,” Steve said. “If we’re early, we’ll grab a bite to eat before you get on the plane. I’m guessing the food at the Palm Springs Airport will be OK. I hope so. I’m famished.”
“No lunch?” Emma asked.
“No money,” Steve replied.
“Is this investigation all coming out of your pocket?” Emma asked.
Steve nodded. “Another reason my wife’s so mad.”
“Then dinner tonight’s on me,” Emma announced looking at her watch. “Assuming there’s time.”
They were headed out Grapefruit Boulevard towards Highway 10. Traffic was light. Within twenty minutes they’d turned off the highway on to Date Palm Drive. From there it was just a few more minutes to North Gene Autry Trail and the Palm Springs International Airport.
“You probably don’t even know who Gene Autry was,” Emma noted as Steve followed the signs towards the short-term parking lot near the main terminal.
“He was a cowboy, wasn’t he?” Steve answered. “Way back in the fifties. He had that horse, Trigger.”
Emma shook her head. “Wrong. That was Roy Rogers. Gene Autry’s horse was Champion. There was a TV show when I was little -
The Adventures of Champion
. Gene Autry was the star. He made up something called the Cowboy Code that I still live by: never shoot first, never lie, be kind to old people and children, and never go back on your word…”
Steve just rolled his eyes.
They’d gotten out of the car and entered the terminal. Steve shouldered Emma’s overnight bag and searched for a restaurant while Emma checked her cell phone. Jack had called twice.
They were on their way towards Chili’s, when the Departures screen caught Emma’s eye. She hadn’t thought to check her flight status. The weather in Palm Springs was crystal clear.
She quickly ran down the list of departures looking for “San Francisco.” That’s when she realized that a light on the screen was flashing next to her flight. For a second or two her eyes refused to believe what she saw.
Steve must have noticed the look on her face. His eyes followed hers to the screen. Next to “San Francisco/7:00 p.m.” the word “cancelled” was pulsing.
“Whoops,” she heard Steve say. “Looks like we may have a leisurely dinner after all.”
That wasn’t the reaction Emma wanted.
She covered her face with her hands. Then uncovered it quickly and glanced at the sign again, hoping it had changed.
“That’s impossible. They
can’t
cancel this flight. I
have
to get home,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
Never go back on your word. Never go back on your word.
Suddenly, all she could think of was the Cowboy Code. She’d given her word to Jack. She’d promised she be home in plenty of time. She covered her face with her hands again; and wondered what on earth she was going to do.
Seconds later she stood at the check-in counter arguing with the airline attendant.
“You don’t understand,” she answered after the woman told her San Francisco was completely fogged in. “I have to get up north tonight. What about Oakland?”
“Oakland’s fogged in, too,” the woman replied.
“San Jose?”
“The last San Jose flight tonight has already departed,” the woman patiently explained. “The best I can do is put you on the 10:00 a.m. San Francisco flight tomorrow morning, assuming the fog clears.”
“Well,” Emma sputtered, her voice becoming a little too loud. “That’s just not good enough! I promised someone! I promised I’d be there tonight…”
Later Steve told her she shouted something about the Cowboy Code. That’s when he grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around, and slashed his forefinger across his throat. Then
he
took over the questioning.
“You’re out of luck,” he finally turned to address her. “There are no flights leaving for the Bay Area tonight. The first available flight tomorrow gets you home around noon.”
Emma started to protest, but Steve cut her off. “Look, Emma, there’s nothing anyone can do. It’s nobody’s fault. There are no more flights. So here’s a plan. It’s 6:15. We’ll have dinner, be back at the motel by 8:00. Then we’ll get up at 4:00 and I’ll try to have you home by noon. That’s as good an offer as you’re gonna get. So be quiet and take it. Now let’s go eat.”
Emma bit her tongue and followed Steve into Chili’s.
They both ordered steaks. They weren’t half bad. While she chewed the red meat, Emma thought about her next move. It almost made her choke, but she knew she had no choice.
Steve and Emma finished dinner, checked her into the motel again, and were in their rooms by 7:45. Staring around at the grimy walls –
what was that oozing, through the wallpaper
she wondered – Emma doubted the room had even been cleaned. Then her cell phone lit up. The ringer was still off.
There were four new messages from Jack.
“Are you back yet? Do you need help?
“Call me.”
“Are you OK? Why don’t you answer?”
“I’m starting to worry.”
She messaged him back. “No worries. I’m up to my elbows in wet spinach and ricotta cheese. Almost done. Call you in the morning.”
So much for the Cowboy Code. She’d now violated three of its rules. She’d gone back on her word, lied, and just been unkind to a senior.
But that was the easy message. It was the next communication that she dreaded. She pressed a new number into her cell phone.
The recipient answered on the first ring.
“Hi, it’s me.” Emma caught herself. “It’s Emma.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then a jaunty voice replied.
“Emma. Can you hold on a minute?”
Emma waited. She could hear a conversation in the background. A female voice. Then a rushed goodbye.
The jaunty voice spoke to her again. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise? Julie tells me you’re down south. Working on a case…”
Emma took a deep breath, then finally replied, “Yes, Andy, I’m down south. In Coachella, to be exact. In fact, that is the reason for the call. I need your help.”
There was a short pause at the other end of the line. “Really?” her ex husband replied in a voice that sounded more intrigued than surprised.
That’s when Emma explained about Curt Randall, about the lawsuit, and about Jack Russo’s dinner.
“The poor guy’s obviously been framed,” Andy’s replied regarding the lawsuit.
Since his fraud conviction, Emma noticed that Andy was an expert on being framed.
Emma let the comment slide. “About the dinner…” she reminded him.
Andy hesitated so long that Emma thought her ex-husband was going to refuse. Then he sighed laboriously. “You should have told me sooner. I offered to help. What exactly do you need me to do?”
Emma had fought with herself over what to say next.
“Andy, I’m in a jam,” she said. “You’re the only other person who knows Nonnie’s
malfatti
recipe. Remember? You and I made it together a few times. In the old days. Do you think you could make a batch for me tonight? I’ll email the recipe…”
“Don’t bother,” Andy replied. “I copied it years ago. Before I moved out. I can make Nonnie’s sauce, too,” he added.
“You stole the
malfatti
recipe?” Emma shouted. For some reason she thought she was going to cry. “You wrecked my life
and
you stole the
malfatti
recipe?”
“Community property. What did you expect me to do?” Andy was completely calm.
“Nothing,” Emma replied. Then she clenched her jaw and counted to ten. “Anyway, I’m not using Nonnie’s sauce this time. Just sautéed fresh cherry tomatoes.” She took a deep breath. “Are you sure you have the
malfatti
recipe? Two tablespoons of chopped yellow onion sautéed in butter. Add two pounds of fresh cooked spinach, chopped and squeezed dry. Sauté for five minutes with a little salt and pepper. Add a cup and a half of ricotta cheese, four egg yolks and a cup and a half of Parmesan cheese, nutmeg and a little bit of flour to keep it all together.
“No problem,” Andy answered. “I’ve made it dozens of times.”
“OK,” Emma replied. She was squeezing the phone so hard her hand hurt. “But you know the little trick, right? You add as little flour as possible so the
malfatti
don’t get tough. Just a few tablespoons. Then shape the mixture into little balls the size of small walnuts, roll them in flour and boil them till they float to the top.”
“Got it,” Andy replied. “I usually try not to use
any
flour except to coat them.”
Suddenly Emma got worried.
“No!” she exclaimed. “Forget that. Use
some
flour, otherwise the
malfatti
will completely fall apart. If that happens, we’re screwed. Play it safe. Use flour. When they’re cooked, coat them with melted butter. Then refrigerate them till I pick them up tomorrow around noon. Will you do that for me? Will you do me that one favor?”
Before Andy answered, Emma thought of something else. “Wait. Aren’t you still under house arrest? How are you going to shop?”
“No worries,” Andy assured her. “They let me out to shop. There’s an all night Safeway near my house. Send me a list. I’ll pick up everything you need and deliver it to Jack’s tomorrow morning.”
This time Emma screamed. “No! You’re not going to Jack’s house.”
“I can’t believe you said that.” Andy sounded hurt. “Of course I’m going. I want to. Why can’t I?”
Emma thought long and hard before she answered. She needed Andy’s help, but there was no way she could let him show up at that dinner.