it for the first time. "My wife," he said quietly, "would forgive me for coming without her."
Something he said, or the way he said it, touched her. She knew she was prying, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, a small man with a white starched chef's coat spread across his round middle rushed up to them. He stood beaming with arms extended wide, crooking his fingers in a proprietary signal, no dispute allowed.
Raul sighed, scraped back his chair and gave the little man a hug. In Italian, the two conversed amiably, then the chief turned to Katy and said, "This is my uncle, Blake."
Katy flashed the short round man a wide smile and held out her hand. Who wouldn't love this amiable Chef-Boyardee character named after an English poet?
Saying something in Italian, the little man grabbed her hand and gave it a feather-light kiss. Then with a wink and a waggle of his forefinger at his nephew, he said, "Forgive me, señorita , but I am so very pleased to see my nephew has honored us with your presence tonight."
When he left, Raul sat down again, put his napkin back onto his lap and smiled, his good mood now reinstated. Katy, unable to wait another minute, said, "Blake? Not too many Blakes in Italy, I'll bet."
The light was back in his deep gold eyes. "You think that's funny? My father's name is Byron and my aunt is Emily Bronte Vignaroli . She never married, poor thing, and she still blames our grandmother for that mistake. Of course it didn't help that my aunt looks like a horse."
Katy giggled. That got her funny bone, as he must've known it would.
He toyed with his spoon and continued, "My grandmother thought emulating the upper-class English would bring some sort of civilized deportment to our squabbling dinner table. Then my grandfather moved the entire family to Ensenada to start the cannery and my grandmother's dreams were dashed."
"Your family sounds good to me. All of you are educated, gainfully employed, successful. I hear a bit of southern American in your accent. Where'd you get that?"
"I went to law school in Louisiana. Fell in love with the south there and almost stayed."
She sipped a taste of her margarita, wondering if he also had stayed in the States long enough to meet and marry and move back to Ensenada. They probably had five kids. She gave up the useless mental beating and took a sip of her margarita.
"You're right about the margarita, though I think putting this fine tequila into a cocktail is a waste. What is the brand?"
"It's my Uncle Blake's. Named after his daughter, who fortunately has a very nice Spanish name… Angelita ."
"It's also very strong. Perhaps we should order some food to dilute it."
"May I make a suggestion?"
When she nodded he ordered the food: veal saltimbocca and spaghetti with meatballs.
Katy noticed a guitarist had taken up a spot on a stool, close enough for the music to drift their way.
Raul considered the musician. "Shall I ask him to leave?"
"No, please. I think it's nice," she said, reaching for a breadstick.
"I'm sorry," Raul said, watching her take the breadstick out of the basket and bring it to her lips.
"Why? I'm not bored. We'll eat then discuss the case."
He traced a forefinger over the checkered pattern of the tablecloth. "You are anxious to get back to your life in San Francisco, are you not?"
"If you're asking whether I still have a job in the SFPD, the answer is yes. I'm expected to report for duty in two weeks and I still have to have my boat trucked back to California."
"I wish I didn't have to involve you, but I have many cases on my desk with all of them crying out for my attention."
"What could be more important than the death of one of your own citizens?"
"That is exactly why I am so grateful for your help in this matter. Your record with the SFPD is exemplary."
"You mean it was until I shot my sister's stalker."
He shook his head sadly. "If it had happened in Mexico, there would have been no
Something he said, or the way he said it, touched her. She knew she was prying, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, a small man with a white starched chef's coat spread across his round middle rushed up to them. He stood beaming with arms extended wide, crooking his fingers in a proprietary signal, no dispute allowed.
Raul sighed, scraped back his chair and gave the little man a hug. In Italian, the two conversed amiably, then the chief turned to Katy and said, "This is my uncle, Blake."
Katy flashed the short round man a wide smile and held out her hand. Who wouldn't love this amiable Chef-Boyardee character named after an English poet?
Saying something in Italian, the little man grabbed her hand and gave it a feather-light kiss. Then with a wink and a waggle of his forefinger at his nephew, he said, "Forgive me, señorita , but I am so very pleased to see my nephew has honored us with your presence tonight."
When he left, Raul sat down again, put his napkin back onto his lap and smiled, his good mood now reinstated. Katy, unable to wait another minute, said, "Blake? Not too many Blakes in Italy, I'll bet."
The light was back in his deep gold eyes. "You think that's funny? My father's name is Byron and my aunt is Emily Bronte Vignaroli . She never married, poor thing, and she still blames our grandmother for that mistake. Of course it didn't help that my aunt looks like a horse."
Katy giggled. That got her funny bone, as he must've known it would.
He toyed with his spoon and continued, "My grandmother thought emulating the upper-class English would bring some sort of civilized deportment to our squabbling dinner table. Then my grandfather moved the entire family to Ensenada to start the cannery and my grandmother's dreams were dashed."
"Your family sounds good to me. All of you are educated, gainfully employed, successful. I hear a bit of southern American in your accent. Where'd you get that?"
"I went to law school in Louisiana. Fell in love with the south there and almost stayed."
She sipped a taste of her margarita, wondering if he also had stayed in the States long enough to meet and marry and move back to Ensenada. They probably had five kids. She gave up the useless mental beating and took a sip of her margarita.
"You're right about the margarita, though I think putting this fine tequila into a cocktail is a waste. What is the brand?"
"It's my Uncle Blake's. Named after his daughter, who fortunately has a very nice Spanish name… Angelita ."
"It's also very strong. Perhaps we should order some food to dilute it."
"May I make a suggestion?"
When she nodded he ordered the food: veal saltimbocca and spaghetti with meatballs.
Katy noticed a guitarist had taken up a spot on a stool, close enough for the music to drift their way.
Raul considered the musician. "Shall I ask him to leave?"
"No, please. I think it's nice," she said, reaching for a breadstick.
"I'm sorry," Raul said, watching her take the breadstick out of the basket and bring it to her lips.
"Why? I'm not bored. We'll eat then discuss the case."
He traced a forefinger over the checkered pattern of the tablecloth. "You are anxious to get back to your life in San Francisco, are you not?"
"If you're asking whether I still have a job in the SFPD, the answer is yes. I'm expected to report for duty in two weeks and I still have to have my boat trucked back to California."
"I wish I didn't have to involve you, but I have many cases on my desk with all of them crying out for my attention."
"What could be more important than the death of one of your own citizens?"
"That is exactly why I am so grateful for your help in this matter. Your record with the SFPD is exemplary."
"You mean it was until I shot my sister's stalker."
He shook his head sadly. "If it had happened in Mexico, there would have been no
Similar Books
