The Diva Says Cheesecake!

You are always exquisitely dressed on your show and in pictures. Alas, I must attend a memorial service. I have a suitable black dress, but now that little black dresses are worn everywhere, it looks very cocktail party instead of somber.

Sad, Not Jolly in Deadwood, South Dakota

Dear Sad, Not Jolly,

The trick lies in your accessories. Wear light or medium brown shoes and belt, and carry a matching brown purse. No large stones in your jewelry or festive scarves. And, of course, the most important thing is a black hat with a veil.

Natasha

“Who was he with?” I asked.

Auguste eyed us. “I don’t know her name, but she was remarkably beautiful in the way an artist would paint a goddess. Just flawed enough to show her real beauty. She was tall, with a dark complexion, large intelligent eyes, a somewhat flat nose, and luscious lips. The kind made for kissing,” he said dreamily.

My eyes met Nina’s. This was not great news for Bobbie Sue.

“You have no idea who she is?” I asked.

“None. Tate paid the check, so I do not have her name, and of course, we do not ask such questions. This is our policy. Many important people, ones with the power to change our world, come here for privacy. We respect that.” He sucked in air and sighed. “But had I known then that Tate would be dead the next morning, I might have made an inquiry. There is nothing I can do to change that now. Hindsight often begets regrets.”

“She doesn’t sound familiar to me. How about you, Nina?” I asked.

Our server arrived with our dinners, beautifully arranged on pristine white plates with a gold Egyptian lion figure at the top of each plate.

“This is the same lion that’s on your door knocker,” I observed.

He smiled. “The lion is a protector, a guard. It has been a personal favorite since I was a child. I bid you bon appétit, ladies.”

“Just a moment, Auguste.” I pulled a business card out of my purse and wrote Wolf’s name and number on the back of it. I handed it to Auguste. “Wolf Fleishman is a police detective and a friend. You can trust him to be discreet. He needs to know about the woman Tate was with that night. And I was wondering, what time did they leave the restaurant?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure. I don’t keep a record of such things.”

A thought came to me. “You said Tate paid for their dinner. Did he use a credit card? Wouldn’t the time be on the transaction?”

“Indeed, it would. I shall check on that now.” Auguste clutched my card and bowed to us before leaving.

Nina took a bite of her truffle mashed potatoes and moaned. “This is amazing. No wonder he only has a few dishes on his menu.”

My duck confit was outstanding. The meat practically melted in my mouth.

“I can’t imagine who that woman was,” said Nina. “I don’t think we would forget anyone that striking.”

I had to agree.

Auguste joined us when we had finished our Pear Helene, a heavenly poached pear on top of ice cream with a drizzle of chocolate sauce. It was the perfect light ending to our delicious dinner.

He took a seat and said in a soft voice, “We processed Tate’s credit card at seven minutes past nine that night. I presume they departed shortly thereafter.”

“I don’t suppose they gave any indication of where they might have planned to go?” I asked.

Auguste’s eyes became small slits as he thought. “I said goodnight to them and thanked them for coming.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where they went or what they had planned.”

That night I phoned Wolf and got his voicemail. Hi Wolf. It’s Sophie. I have some information you need to know in regard to Tate. Give me a call when you have a minute.

* * *

As we expected, the turnout for Tate’s memorial service was enormous. The historic church in which it was held was packed. Even the balconies that ran the length of the nave on each side were full. It probably wasn’t much comfort to Bobbie Sue, but Tate had clearly been a beloved man.

Nina, Mars, and I had taken seats in a rear pew where we could get a good look at everyone who came in. Wolf slid into the pew next to Mars.

I leaned over Mars’s thighs and whispered, “Checking to see who comes?”

Wolf sighed. “Where’s Bernie?”

“Under the circumstances,” said Mars, “he thought it best to stay away. Bobbie Sue and the family deserve a proper service without the mayhem his presence might cause.”

Wolf nodded.

I leaned over Mars again. “If you’re so sure Bernie murdered Tate, then why are you here?”

The one thing that had always frustrated me about Wolf was his poker face. I guessed it to be enormously helpful in his line of work, but I hated that I couldn’t read his emotions.

“Just doing my job,” he said.

I sat back and tried to hide my grin. After all, it was a memorial service. I didn’t want to appear happy or smug. But I took great comfort in the fact that Wolf had doubts about Bernie being the killer.

Francie waved at me as she pushed Estelle Fogelbaum’s wheelchair. They stopped at the outside edge of a pew, where the wheelchair wouldn’t be in the way. Each of them wore a small-brimmed hat, making me wonder what it was about funerals that brought out hats.

Bobbie Sue and her children processed in, followed by her ex-husband, the Coach, and two men whom I didn’t know but who bore a striking resemblance to Tate. Perhaps the brothers Bobbie Sue had mentioned.

And then, just seconds before the service began, a woman entered the church like she owned the place. I would have known her anywhere. She wore a tailored black dress with a belt and three-quarter-length sleeves with the cuffs turned back. Two silver or white gold bracelets hung on one wrist. She had pulled her hair back into a chignon and wore a small black hat. The veil couldn’t hide her large eyes and full lips. She was tall, too, over six feet I guessed.

Nina elbowed me.

Natasha, who was seated in front of us, turned to me and mouthed, “Who is that?”

I shrugged. I wanted to know, too, because she was undoubtedly the woman Tate had dinner with hours before his death.

I watched the woman take a seat and kept an eye on her throughout the service in case she planned to slip out early to avoid the family. But she stayed for the whole thing.

The family processed to the vestibule, where Bobbie Sue and the two men who looked like Tate stood in a receiving line. The double doors were open, and outside, I could see Bobbie Sue’s ex-husband, Pierce, holding Jo’s hand and leading her to a car. Spencer walked behind them, his head bowed.

I lingered in what I hoped was an unobtrusive way, waiting for the stunning woman to exit. Maybe Bobbie Sue knew her and would call her by name.

She walked up to Bobbie Sue, shook her hand, and said, “Your husband was a very fine man.”

Bobbie Sue’s eyes narrowed, giving away her concern. “How did you know Tate?”

The woman didn’t appear put out. She responded calmly, “From the restaurant. I am so terribly sorry for your loss.” And then she walked away.

That didn’t tell me a thing, but Bobbie Sue’s expression sure did. She did not know that woman. Bobbie Sue watched her leave, a perplexed look on her face.

Bobbie Sue couldn’t dash after her, but I could. And Nina was right behind me. We caught up to her just as she approached a silver Honda and the automatic fob, probably located in the black Ralph Lauren satchel she carried, unlocked the door with a soft thwack.

“Hi!” I said breathlessly, holding out my hand. “I’m Sophie Winston and this is Nina Reid Norwood. It’s so tragic about Tate.”

She eyed me warily. “Yes, it is.” She opened her car door.

Trying to be chatty, and at a loss for something more clever to get her talking, I burbled, “The restaurant won’t be the same without him.”

Her large eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It certainly won’t.”

She was stepping into her car when Nina blurted, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“I didn’t tell you my name,” she said coolly.

“We’re looking into the circumstances of Tate’s death,” I said. “We know you were with him a few hours before he died.”