42
News Al Fresco
Carolyn
It was a lovely day—clear, sunny, with temperatures in the high 60s. Feeling indolent, I took my book and cordless telephone to a lounger on the patio to enjoy more of the Kalahari Typing School without having to go inside should anyone care to update me on the search for and investigation of Dr. Peter Brockman. I was closing in on the end of the book and beginning to think of lunch when the telephone finally rang. My caller, Luz, said, “Hi. I’m down at headquarters. Just finished listening to the interrogation of your doctor.”
“So they caught him before he could leave town?”
“How did you know what he was planning?”
“His wife told me. And why wasn’t I invited to listen in?”
“Maybe because you don’t have cop connections, and I do,” she replied, laughing. “Actually, I did call you when Matalisse called me, but your phone was busy. I just barely made it to Five Points myself. So, do you want to hear what he said?”
“Of course I do. In fact, why don’t you come over for lunch? We’ll have snacks and sangria.”
“I don’t mind snacks, but that damned bottled sangria is enough to make you puke.”
“I make my own,” I retorted, a bit huffy. “From a recipe one of Jason’s colleagues gave us. It’s delicious.”
“I’ m on my way.”
I went to the kitchen and prepared several dips, chile con queso and guacamole, and the cream-cheese-jalapeno-fruit canapés I’d fixed for the ill-fated opera party. There was a certain symmetry in finishing with the food I’d prepared when this case started, not that I’d mention that thought to Luz, who was as likely to howl with laughter as agree. She arrived as I was mixing the sangria base with red wine and soda water and pouring it over ice.
After carrying our lunch to the patio, we settled down to eat and talk, but not before Luz sampled my sangria and actually said it was good. “Great,” she added, reluctantly. “Martino’s used to have good sangria; my dad always let me have a little glass even when I was a kid, but I haven’t ordered it there in years. After I had my first Martino’s margarita, I forgot all about sangria.”
“Was the sangria as good as mine?” I asked, jealous of their recipe.
“I don’t know. That was years ago. Anyway, let’s talk about the case. First, let me tell you about the old lady across the street. Matalisse sent someone out to interview her. Turns out she didn’t tell us the whole thing. Brockman has this personalized license plate: PBMD and some numbers, and it has a light. She saw it—can you beat that? Old as she is, she could read it two houses away. Maybe she’s got a spyglass. Anyway, she figures out the MD, but what does the PB mean? Since she doesn’t know his name, she starts thinking up stuff—“pretty bad” MD, “pediatric butcher” MD, “peeler of bunions” MD. She was still making up names when the doctor came out. So we have a witness who can place him there at the right time. No vanity plates in Texas with those first four letters.
“They also talked to Francisco and evidently got an earful from Mrs. Escobar number two. First, she thought they were accusing Francisco, and she had a fit. Then, she caught on that it was Brockman they were interested in and gave them a lecture on what an important community figure he is, blah, blah, blah. Poor Francisco; she doesn’t sound like much fun, but at least he got some kids out of the marriage. Anyway, Matalisse sent the troops to Brockman’s house this morning, but then you know that.
“They’d caught up with the nurse the night before—she said he wasn’t there—and with his wife, who said he was. Case was looking good.”
She poured herself more sangria, looked questioningly at me and poured me another glass. We both dipped some chips and filled small plates with those and canapés.
“He was gone when they went to his house, and he might have got away, but he ran into some bad luck at the airport.” Luz started to laugh and stuffed a canapé into her mouth. “Now, this is my kind of lunch. Anyway, he parks in long-term parking and heads for the terminal, gets in, and they shut it down. Security thinks there’s someone in there with a gun. Then Matalisse’s guys, with your picture of Brockman, arrive, and they get in because they’re looking for a murder suspect. Poor Brockman’s screwed. Cops, airport security, even sniffer dogs all over the place.
“He hasn’t got a prayer of going unnoticed. He can’t even chance waiting in line to get a ticket to somewhere. They find him in the men’s room in the booth next to the guy with the gun, who wants to hijack a plane to Cancún. How dumb is that? Most people who want a vacation in Cancún save up their money. Not this guy. He steals a gun from his brother-in-law and heads for the airport.”
“Does El Paso International have flights to Cancún?” I asked.
“How would I know? I’ve never been to Cancún.
“So the gunman and Brockman are hauled off. I don’t know what happened to the gunman, but they want hand and butt prints from Brockman. He thinks that’s pretty dumb and says, ‘Why not?’ But he won’t take down his pants. No way. They’ll have to get a warrant for his butt. So they take a picture of his butt and a print of his hand. Guy from the basement who looks at prints comes up to give his considered opinion. He says he’s no expert on butt prints, but it looks about right to him, and the hand is a good match. Says this in front of Brockman, who thinks they’re just scamming him. Then they ask if he was in Gubenko’s house a week ago Saturday. He say no. Where was he? they ask. Driving around thinking he’d like to get a divorce from his wife, he tells them.”
My telephone rang, and Luz leaned back in her chair while I took the call. It was Vivian. She wanted me to know that her husband had been arrested, and the police told her that he had confessed. I was amazed. Luz hadn’t mentioned a confession so far.
“I know that you’ll be anxious about support for those Russian girls, Carolyn,” said Vivian. “Now that Peter’s been arrested.”
“Goodness, you shouldn’t have to worry about that,” I protested.
“I know I don’t have to, but my husband being accused of murder does not relieve me of my social responsibilities. Especially if he’s guilty. That would make Peter responsible in part for their plight, so I wanted you to know that my lawyer assures me I’ll still own Peter’s half of the partnership, no matter what happens to him. I should be able to provide one day’s work a week for the two girls, but probably not two.”
“That’s—that’s so thoughtful of you, Vivian—to worry about others when you—you’ve had such distressing news.”
“Not at all,” said Vivian. “And now I must say goodbye. There are so many things to do. It’s very inconvenient that this happened on Sunday when the banks are closed.”
“His wife?” asked Luz when I clicked off the phone.
“Yes, she was calling to let me know that he’s been arrested, but that even if he goes to jail, she’ll still own half of his medical partnership and can provide part-time employment for the two Russian girls.”
Luz grinned. “That’s real wifely. I tell you what. I’ll never understand gringos. No wonder he was thinking about divorcing her.” She drained her glass and said, “Is there any more sangria?”
Professorial Sangria
This recipe for sangria, which was provided by a professional colleague of my husband’s, is not only delicious, but shows the result of scientific experimentation in the proportions. When my husband was a graduate student, we once attended a scientific watermelon party during which vodka was put into watermelons in different proportions by different methods: injection, pouring into a cut plug, etcetera. Then we sampled the melon. The sangria is definitely tastier than our watermelon experiments. Now if they’d used a fruit liqueur, the watermelon results might have been better—but more expensive.
• SANGRIA BASE: In 3 quarts water, mix 4 cups of sugar (2 pounds) and 3 oranges, 3 lemons and 3 limes, not peeled but sliced.
• Boil slowly uncovered for 2 to 3 hours until reduced by one half. Cool to room temperature. The base keeps in the refrigerator for weeks.
• SANGRIA: combine in proportions of I part base to 3 to 5 parts Burgundy (4 liters of inexpensive red wine such as Gallo Hearty Burgundy depending on how sweet you like your sangria).
• Before serving, add club soda, 1 part soda to 8 parts of the Burgundy and base mix.
• Mix and serve in a glass pitcher with ice or pour directly into glasses with ice.
• Add sliced fresh fruit such as peaches or strawberries (optional).
Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Ft. Lauderdale Weekly Sentinel.