The uppermost floor of Vinny’s was expansive, the lowest a sunken nook, past which a short flight of stairs took the Larsons to their preference, an intimate dining room of ten tables with traditional red-and-white tablecloths. All around were winery posters and framed pictures of old-time Italianos, the air nicely heavy with the tangy aroma of marinara.
As luck would have it, Jasmine waited on them, the pretty, slender brunette wearing the white blouse and black trousers of all the waitstaff — “all” being around three, as business wasn’t brisk on an off-season weekday.
Pop asked for Auntie Gracie’s Sausage Ragu, and Krista, Joey Z’s Shells — what they always had — with two iced teas.
Jasmine was smiling throughout, very efficient, but once the order had been made, she dropped the smile and said, “That was so terrible, Saturday night.”
It might have been a review of the reunion as entertainment, from a nonclassmate’s point of view; but she obviously meant Astrid’s murder.
“If there’s anything I can do to help,” the waitress said, “do let me know.”
Krista smiled pleasantly if not warmly. “Actually, there is. You’re one of the few attendees of the reunion who hasn’t been questioned.”
“Oh, I’m not a classmate. I was...” She obviously knew Jerry and Krista had a history, and had to work for the right words. “... you know, I was just along.”
That was suitably vague and even tactful.
Pop said, “We’ll be kind of lingering over the lunch, Ms. Peterson. When things get slow, perhaps you could join us. You might tell your manager so he won’t think you’re slacking.”
He had done that in a low-key, nonthreatening way; but she was clearly a little thrown anyway, like most people who offer to help and are then, unexpectedly, asked to actually do so.
“Of course,” she said. “Anything.”
When Jasmine had gone off to put their order in, Krista said, “When she said ‘anything,’ I thought she might mean she’d do anything not to have to talk to us.”
“She’s understandably on edge,” her father said with a shrug. “Probably never had a police chief who used to go with her boyfriend want to question her in a murder case.”
She smirked at him.
Within a minute, Jasmine was back, delivering a basket of garlic bread. Both of the Larsons dug in, as they were equally convinced the butter-soaked, Parmesan cheese — topped stuff was the best garlic bread on the planet. Then a communal bowl of salad came, full of onions and peppers and cherry tomatoes and tart Italian dressing. It got similar treatment from father and daughter.
And once Jasmine had brought their dishes of pasta, neither detective bothered interrogating the other, all of their focus on the delicious food.
Fifteen minutes or so later, Pop — after making judicious use of a napkin, and pushing away an empty dish — said, “There are things to be said for a small town with a big list of restaurants.”
“Yes,” she said, “but nobody tops the chef I have at home. I mean, really — sixty-some restaurants and not a single Danish one?”
He grinned, pleased by her compliment, and said, “It is criminal.”
They were basking in the glow of a feast that had stopped just short of unpleasantly stuffing them when Jasmine reappeared, not with more food — just the bill. And of course herself.
The cozy dining room had almost emptied out — just one other couple over by the window, with its view of South Main. They were having coffee and tiramisu.
Jasmine stood by the table. “I’m free to talk for a while,” she said.
Krista hesitated, thrown a bit herself at dealing with Jerry’s latest, uh... Jerry’s latest.
But her father filled the gap.
With that friendly low-key way of his, Pop said, “Ms. Peterson... may I call you Jasmine?”
“Jasmine is fine.”
“I should introduce myself. I’m Keith Larson, Krista’s father.”
“I know,” she said, smiling but clearly nervous. “You’ve been in a few times, and people told me who you are. I know you had a loss not too terribly long ago. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you. Are you a local girl, Jasmine?”
“No. Well, yes.”
Krista asked, “Which is it?”
“I’m from Menominee.”
That was a village on the nearby Little Menominee River here in Jo Daviess County. Population around 250.
Pop said, “Are you living here in Galena now?”
“Yes. I share an apartment with some girls over Honest John’s. I’m saving to go to college. Over in Dubuque. You used to be a police detective there, didn’t you, sir?”
“Yes. Call me Keith, or if that doesn’t feel right to you, Mr. Larson is fine. I’m sure you’re aware that my daughter here is chief of police.”
“Yeah. Uh... I see the uniform.”
If that was a smart-ass remark, nothing in the young woman’s tone said so.
“Do you mind,” Krista said, “if I record this interview on my phone?”
Pretty eyes tightened. “Is that what this is? An interview?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was called an interrogation.”
Pop said, “First of all, we don’t use that term at all. Second, you’re not a suspect. You just attended the reunion with one of Astrid Lund’s classmates.”
Krista said, “Who used to date Astrid Lund. They have a history.”
“Jerry mentioned that,” she said, nodding. She shrugged. “You can record me. Don’t you have to inform me of my rights, though?”
Pop said, “No. This is just a short, informal interview.”
“Go ahead. I said you could record me.”
Krista got out her phone and engaged the app. “Could you give me your name and your contact information — address and cell number.”
The waitress did.
Krista went on: “You were at the Class of ’09 reunion on Saturday night.” She put the date on the record. “Jerry Ward was your date. Is that right, Jasmine?”
She nodded.
Krista said, “Out loud, please. This is just audio.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I went with Jerry. It was his class reunion.”
“Did he point Astrid Lund out to you?”
“He did. Said she used to be his girlfriend.”
“Did he say anything else about Astrid?”
“Yes, he said he decided she was too stuck-up and dumped her. Back then, I mean.”
A lie. Astrid had dumped him. Jerry had always been a would-be fiction writer.
“Did Jerry talk to Astrid at the reunion?”
“I think they said hello.”
“Didn’t talk otherwise?”
“No, not that I saw.”
“Were you separated from him at some point in the evening?”
“Well... I went to the restroom.”
“When did you leave the event?”
“I think it was pretty late. Two? It was last call, and I was glad.”
“Glad?”
“Yeah. It gets really boring hearing people talk about ‘old times,’ you know, when they aren’t your old times. Especially when you’re sober.”
Krista glanced at Pop, then said, “You were the designated driver?”
“Right. It was Jerry’s parents’ car.”
“So how did that work? He dropped you off at your apartment, and then drove himself home, risking a DUI?”
“He wasn’t very drunk.” Jasmine looked at Pop, frustrated. “Could I talk to him? Alone?”
Krista’s father said, “You don’t have to talk at all, Jasmine... but you’re going to have to at some point. Might as well get it out of the way. And you said you wanted to help.”