Dying for a Taste Read Online Free PDF Page B

to his collar. I was afraid that if I left him home alone, he might bark or cry, thereby alerting the neighbors to his presence, so he’d have to come along with me.
    “You’re just gonna stay in the car for a little while,” I told him as I pulled into the funeral home parking lot. No way would he get overheated in this weather, I figured. But I did leave the windows rolled down halfway.
    Waiting in the subdued but elegant reception area, I reviewed the notes I’d jotted down the night before. The coroner had said that Letta’s remains would be released to the family within two days, so after some discussion, my dad and I had decided to set the wake—during which the body would be on view—for Thursday and Friday, with the funeral to be held on Saturday.
    Presently, a young woman in a natty, mauve suit came out and extended her hand in greeting. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said and sat down on the striped settee across from me. Though she had no doubt used this exact same line with every single client she’d ever had, I was impressed by herability to make it sound sincere. I smiled politely and thanked her for her concern.
    With that nicety out of the way, she inquired as to the type of arrangements desired. “The family wants a wake with a full open casket,” I told her, “a mass at the parish church, and then entombment in a mausoleum.” Even though Letta had not been the least bit devout, Nonna, who is, had been adamant about all these things.
    Next, the funeral director led me into a large room whose walls were lined with ornate caskets and explained the merits of each. I was aghast at the prices and stared stupidly at the gleaming paint and shiny handles. Reluctantly, I told her what Nonna had specified—bronze with a cream-colored, velvet lining—which I knew was going to be ridiculously expensive.
    The details of the viewing and funeral settled, I headed over to the police station, a modern, neo-Spanish-style building at the dodgy end of the downtown area. I announced myself to the woman behind the window, and after a few minutes, Detective Vargas emerged. He was in plain clothes: khaki pants, a dress shirt, and an SCPD badge hanging from his neck. We shook hands, and then he ushered me upstairs into a small interview room furnished with a couch, a comfy chair, and two small tables. I don’t know why, but I felt a little like a school kid being escorted into the principal’s office.
    Motioning me to the sofa, he hiked up his slacks and then settled his burly frame down on the chair opposite me. “I appreciate your coming down here today. I know this must be a difficult time for you and your family. But I’m sure you understand that, as part of our investigation intoher homicide, we need to talk to those who were close to Violetta Solari.”
    It was jarring to hear my aunt referred to that way. No one had ever called her anything but Letta as far as I knew. I told this to Detective Vargas, who nodded and made a note on a pad of lined, white paper. Once finished, he looked up. “So the obvious first question is, do you know of any person who might have had any reason to attack or kill your aunt?”
    “No,” I said, pulling off my jacket and laying it on the coffee table next to the couch. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her.” In addition to the stack of magazines and box of tissues sitting on the table, I noticed, was a basket of kids’ toys.
    “What about the chef? Javier Ruiz?”
    I turned to give him what I hoped came off as a hard look. “Okay, I know you found his knife next to her, but there’s no way he could have—”
    “How do you know that, about the knife?” The detective’s voice was sharp.
    “Uh . . .”
    “Never mind. I think I already know. Officer Owens saw you at the scene with one of the DAs.” He consulted a previous page of his pad. “Eric Byrne, she said.”
    When I didn’t respond, he just sat back in his chair, his thin lips