The waiter, a tall, mature African American, who Sandy greeted as Eric, deftly arranged two large pizzas on the table.
“The red one is a Margherita, my Aunt Olivia’s special recipe, with fresh sliced tomatoes, mozzarella, basil and extra virgin olive oil. The white one is called a Bianca. My cousin Dominic told me that his grandmother made it like this in Rome with pesto, mozzarella and ricotta cheese.” Sandy grinned broadly. “I add a little more garlic.”
“What” Peter said in mockingly serious tone, “no pepperoni or sausage?”
“Pay no attention to him” Brenda said. “He is a barbarian.” Mathew nodded toward Peter who was ladling a large piece of each pizza on to his plate.
“We have all known that Brenda. We just wondered why you married him.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Alex leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. The mental attributes that made him a remarkable detective could not be switched on and off at will. Without consciously trying, he began to create mental portraits of the people at the table. Brenda’s prohibition against shop talk had been strenuously reiterated, so the conversation focused on areas most likely to produce laughter or sentimental reminiscences. Bit by bit all of these people took on a detailed form in his mind.
Mckenzie had always known that Peter Stewart was a child of wealthy privilege who could have chosen a much easier lifestyle than the one he followed. Peter had gone from law school to the San Francisco’s prosecutor’s office because he wanted to make a difference, not because it was a path to more wealth. My father would not have understood you, Mckenzie thought.
Brenda, on the other hand, had been raised modestly by her two high school teacher parents. They had encouraged their daughter’s interest in science, smiled at Brenda’s maternal desire to heal every injured creature she ever encountered, and were unsurprised when she choose a career in nursing. They grudgingly approved of Brenda’s choice of a husband, at least as far as the parents of an adored daughter ever really approved of any prospective son-in-law.
Another picture of the Stewarts’s friends also took shape. He had been right to think of an athlete when he first saw Sandy. She had played women’s basketball and run track at USC. In many ways a living refutation of every mistaken cliche about the nature of feminity, she had grown up beating the boys in the neighbourhood at their own games, while also throwing herself whole-heartedly into the culinary skills of her large Italian family.
Sandy had first met Mathew when they were children. Matt’s stern and humorless father who had never really stopped grieving the death of his young wife, had moved into the house down the street. Left on his own by a distracted and busy single parent, Matt was quickly taken under Sandy’s wing and made an honorary Italian. They had been friends and playmates long before their relationship evolved differently in their teenaged years.
Matt and Sandy both recalled the day their view of each other changed. Matt claimed that he had simply looked at Sandy in her basketball shorts and t-shirt when he suddenly realized she was a girl. Sandy insisted that they had been playing one-on-one basketball, that she had stolen the ball from him twice, and blocked his shot three times. When he stormed angrily off the court, all consumed by injured young male pride, she had followed to apologize, although she wasn’t really sure why she felt a need to do that. As they sat close together on the back steps, he had suddenly, if somewhat clumsily, kissed her.
“You did not block my shot three times” Mathew vigorously denied. “It was only twice. Besides, you were taller than me . . . and jumped higher.”
“I still do” Sandy retorted. “You know he would never play one-on-one with me again.”
“Well, not basketball anyway.” Mathew said with a quick lascivious grin, and Sandy’s neck turned red.
Mckenzie grinned despite his attempt to remain noncommital. It said something about their relationship that Matt could still make her blush that way.
At some point in the conversation, the restaurant closed. No one seemed to find that occurrence particularly significant. Eric, the waiter who had served them earlier, and Angela, an energetic young blond girl who worked in the kitchen casually joined the group of the table. Another bottle of Valpolicella materialized and the raucous conversation continued unabated.
Mckenzie, who regarded himself as ill-suited for such an amiable discourse, found himself repeatedly drawn into the discussion. Whether the topic was books, theatre, movies, San Francisco politics, or the changing temperature of the water in San Francisco bay, someone always managed to solicit his opinion. The effort to slip into the background as a sort of passive observer failed.
It was his participation in the increasingly vigorous discussions that caused him to miss, at first, the music playing in the background. The restaurant used a recording of easy listening versions of Italian music as a mood setter, — elevator music for casual dining. No one had bothered to turn it off after the restaurant closed because no one had paid any particular attention to it. Only Mckenzie reacted to the four note piano introduction to a tune he could have whistled in his sleep.
Brenda, of course, immediately saw his expression change. The Iceman’s impassive visage pushed aside the tentative grin that had been there only seconds before.
“Do you know that tune, Alex?”
“Yes, it’s the love theme from Holiday in Venice.”
Eric, the erstwhile waiter, glanced up immediately. “Holiday in Venice,” “Holiday in Venice.” He was obviously seeking to recall something on the edge of his memory. “Oh, yeah, I saw that on channel 37 old movies a couple weeks ago.” “Good film - a bit derivative of Stanley Donen’s work, but still pretty good.” Eric who claimed to be waiting tables only while he worked on his fifth screen play, the preceding four had not yet sold, was a film buff.
“I think I saw it too” Mathew chimed in. “Beautiful French babe in it.”
Sandy poked her husband in the ribs. “That’s the only way he remembers old movies.”
The table laughed at Mathew’s film criteria before Eric spoke again. “Ok, what was her name? Michelle? Michelle Martin?”
“Mireille” Alex corrected. “Mireille Hellene Marchand.”
“Right” Eric replied, oblivious to the pained softness in Mckenzie’s tone. “You really know your movies.”
“Just a few of them” Mckenzie replied.
“I don’t recall very many movies that she was in. Wonder what happened to her?”
“She died” Mckenzie answered. His voice was now a cold monotone. “She was killed in a car wreck.”
“Oh too bad.” Eric’s curiosity satisfied, he turned his attention to the newest topic being discussed. Only Brenda saw that Mckenzie had withdrawn from the conversation. He sat in cold silence for nearly five minutes before he rose to his feet.
“If you all will excuse me, I am going to step out on the deck for a couple of minutes. I think I need a quick burst of fresh air.”
Brenda turned to look at her husband as Mckenzie walked away. Peter had also noticed the abrupt change in his mood.
“Should I go speak to him? Peter whispered.
“No” Brenda replied. “Let me.”
CHAPTER 5
The deck at Trattoria de Alesandra had tables for outdoor dining but on this chilly October evening they were all covered in green canvas. In the shadows crafted by the lights from inside the restaurant, they resembled huge toadstools growing out of the unvarnished wood of the deck. Some of the lights on the Sausilito side of the bay had begun to fade