Two Cooks A-Killing (5 page)

To her amazement, she was called for a further audition. After much back-and-forth, she landed the role of Leona Roxbury.

At first the job was heaven. Then it all started to go to hell.

It didn't take her long to learn there was scum on both sides of the tracks. In many ways rich scum was worse than what she'd left behind in Watts. The rich had no reason to be rotten, except for greed, selfishness, and ego. The actors she met had all of that in abundance.

She thought of Bart, Kyle, and Rhonda, and even Emery, and of all that had happened between them.

And Brittany.

She shut her eyes as she thought of Brittany. Then she took a .22 Glock from her nightstand, removed the magazine, carefully took the gun apart and placed it in its traveling case. She'd learned to use a gun when she was growing up in Watts. An occasional trip to the shooting range now and then made sure she never forgot it.

“Merry Christmas, Eagle Crest,” she whispered, then tossed the gun and the ammunition into her suitcase.

An urn of weak Folger's coffee and a platter of store-bought Danish pastry greeted Angie in the breakfast room. Not surprisingly, no one was there. The craft services area seemed more attractive than ever.

Last night as she tried to fall asleep, over two dozen questions for Tarleton popped into her head as all the details involved with a television show began to overwhelm her. She needed to ask if she was responsible for the presentation of the food on platters and bowls, or for the dinner table—plates, silverware, glasses, napkins, even salt shakers, or for anything beyond cooking. She also needed to check out the kitchen supplies and equipment.

This morning, the crew was crawling all over the house, inside and out. Tarleton was with them, red-faced and shouting orders.

She opted for the kitchen, the one main room in the house free of all but overbearing Christmas decorations.

This time she knocked before entering, not
wanting to scare the cook into a repeat of yesterday.

“You again?” he grumped. He sat at the counter with a cup of coffee and a Marlboro, reading the
Sacramento Bee
. A small TV blared ESPN sports from the corner. “Who are you? Vhy do you insist on bothering me?”

She inhaled sharply. “My name is Angelina Amalfi, and I'm considered by many to be a fine gourmet cook. I studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, I've worked in restaurants, on radio, on television cooking shows, I've done restaurant reviews, and owned my own business as a chocolatier and cake decorator. I think I'm qualified to be in this kitchen.”

With each word she spoke the chef's face grew redder. “Vell, bully for you!” He snuffed out his cigarette, then stood awkwardly, as if his legs didn't work quite right.

With his hands on his hips, she noticed that his arms seemed unnaturally short. “So, you come here vit your hoity and toity vords. Do you think to take over my kitchen? Is that vhat this is all about?”

“Not at all. In fact, I'd hoped we could get along. I didn't catch your name, by the way.”

“My name? You vant my name?”

“Yes.” She smiled sweetly.

He looked about to explode. “I am Rudolf Goetring.”

She had never heard of him. “Mr. Goetring, I'll be creating the Christmas dinner for the TV show.” She walked over to the pantry, opened the
door, and stepped inside, checking the shelves. “I thought it would be lovely if we could work together, since I need to test the recipes Mr. Tarleton will be giving me, as well as get to know the equipment.”

“So that's vhat you thought, is it? Get out of there!”

She came out, pleased with what she saw, and began opening cupboards.

“No one has said a vord to me about you or any of this! Vhat am I here? Am I some dog barf? You think you can just svoop in and take over? I have vork to do! I vant you out.”

She tried to open a door on the far wall, but it was locked. “What's this?”

“The maid's quarters. You can't go in there! You can't stay in here!”

“Making coffee—poorly—and opening packages is hardly work.” She checked cabinets under the sink and counters. “I have a real job to do.
You
get out!”

“I must vork on the lunch,” he protested.

She was becoming truly irritated, and opened a door that led to a basement. It must be the wine cellar. “Lunch is catered.”

“Not for Mr. Tarleton.” He lifted his chin.

She shut the door and gave the kitchen another quick once-over. “Fine. It still won't require you to use the entire kitchen. I need it this afternoon. I'm going to talk to Mr. Tarleton. I
will
be back.”

 

“I think he went into town,” Mariah said when asked Tarleton's whereabouts. “The equipment is
all fouled up. Some fool plugged things into the wrong slots. Em threw a temper tantrum and left.”

“Oh, dear!” Angie was glad she hadn't tried to talk to him earlier. They were standing on the front veranda. She eyed the crew filling the fake-snow machine. “You know it doesn't snow in St. Helena, except maybe once in ten years.”

“They want snow,” Mariah said.

Angie decided not to argue. “Do you expect him back soon?”

“I guess.” Mariah turned away.

“But…I've got to get started preparing the Christmas dinner.”

Mariah looked at her as if she were crazy. “Relax! The dinner scene won't be for a week. Maybe longer.”

“A week?” Angie was dumbfounded. “Why was I asked to come here already?”

“Beats me.”

Angie couldn't believe it! She liked being at Eagle Crest, meeting celebrities and so on, but she saw no reason to be here a week early twiddling her thumbs when she could be home with Paavo twiddling something a lot more interesting.

As Angie stepped back into the house she was greeted by the foyer Christmas tree whirling and playing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”

“Bah, humbug!” she said, and entered the dining room. Maybe if she tried to visualize how she'd like to present the food she'd be less upset.

“Angie, excuse me,” Mariah called. “Someone's here to see you.”

In the doorway stood her sister Bianca, the old
est of the five Amalfi daughters. She looked a lot like Angie, except that she was at least twenty pounds heavier, her hair was straight and chin-length, and she had a preference for polyester slacks over designer outfits.

“I heard you were here. I couldn't believe it!” Bianca shrieked. “I loved this show! I simply adored it! Look at this house! It's like being on TV. Angie, how can you stand it?”

The two laughed and hugged. Finally, Angie thought, someone to share the enthusiasm she had when she first arrived.

“I brought you a gift,” Bianca said. “A gold goblet for the dining room. I'm sure you can figure out a way to use it on the table or buffet. It'd be such fun to see it when the Christmas show airs!”

Angie took the heavy goblet. It had been in the family for years. “I can try, but don't get your hopes up.”

“Look at all the flowers!” Bianca nearly tripped over cables as she hurried into the living room and stuck her nose into a display on the coffee table. “Phew! They're fake! Too bad, they look so real. Let's see the rest of the house.”

Angie walked her through the main floor.

“Where are the actors?” Bianca asked. “Can I meet them? I adore Adrian! He's so suave. I used to say to Johnnie, why can't you be more like him?”

“The actors aren't here yet,” Angie said.

“Not here? Oh…well, in that case I guess I'd better run.” She gave Angie a peck on the cheek and headed for the front door. “One bit of advice—if you get a chance, show off what you can
do in the kitchen. I mean, everything! You're a gifted cook, Angie. You never know where that talent might lead you.”

And with that, she was gone.

Angie didn't even have a chance to say good-bye.

The victim was a Latino male, his body riddled with bullet holes. A long white, brown, and black bird's feather was tucked into the neck of his sweatshirt.

Paavo stood over the body in a garbage-strewn alley off Alemany Boulevard. It was in one of the roughest parts of the Ingleside district.

Last week, a nineteen-year-old Guatemalan had been gunned down on Scribner's Street not far from there. A red-tailed hawk feather was left on his chest, tucked into a shirt buttonhole. Luis Calderon and Bo Benson, the on-call inspectors at the time, took the case.

Three days later there'd been a second murder, also in the Ingleside. The Nicaraguan victim had a peregrine falcon feather in his jacket pocket. Calderon and Benson handled that case as well.

This morning, another call came in, similar to the last two. Calderon and Benson were swamped running down leads. With the danger of overlooking something important, Paavo had been as
signed to handle the legwork on this latest shooting.

Paavo gave the okay for the coroner's team and CSI to move in. CSI would take the feather and identify it. Judging from the length it was from a huge bird, not the type normally seen flitting around the streets of San Francisco.

Where were the shooters getting these feathers? If he and the other inspectors could figure that out, it might be a major breakthrough. They needed some kind of big lead soon. He had a bad feeling that these murders weren't going to stop without one.

He phoned Information for the number and address of the Audubon Society.

 

“Angie,” Mariah called, her voice filled with outrage. “You have company again!”

“All right, already.” Earlier, Angie had marched into the kitchen ready to do battle, only to find it empty. She was carefully going through the spices and condiments checking for freshness. “Is it my fault if people come to visit? Sheesh!”

She marched to the front door, pulled it open, looked at her visitor, and felt her knees go weak. Before her stood Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield. Rebecca held her purse over her head to protect herself from the flying snowflakes.

Angie's heart pounded. Her brain searched for possible reasons for one of Paavo's co-workers to come all this way to talk to her…in person. Her fingers tightened on the door. “Paavo?” she whispered.

“Relax, Angie,” Rebecca said. “You're white as a sheet. He's fine. I'm here to see you.”

Angie's pulse slowly returned to normal. “You want to see
me
?” That made no sense. Rebecca Mayfield hated her, and everyone knew it. “Come in.”

“I came bearing a gift.”

Where had Angie heard that before? She watched as Rebecca pulled an incense burner from a bag. “I have another at home just like it. It has special significance for me, and
Eagle Crest
is one of my favorite shows. I was wondering if I could just slip it onto a table or someplace where it'd be sure to be filmed?”

Angie's eyes narrowed. She and Paavo had been walking through Chinatown one day when he pointed out a miniature brass temple and told her he'd given one to Rebecca after she'd oohed and aahed over it. “I'm sure I can find an appropriate spot for it.”

“Wonderful!” Rebecca cried, fluffing her hair and strolling through the rooms, touching and studying every bit of Eagle Crest minutiae and Christmas paraphernalia as she went. “I have a confession to make. I also came to see the cast. The show was my absolute favorite. I may have even become a cop because of it. I wanted to know who killed Julia Parker and was furious that the dumb cops on the show went after Cliff Roxbury. As if! But you probably have no idea what I'm talking about…and I'm babbling…but I can't believe I'm actually here, inside the Roxbury house! It's so beautiful.”

“I always suspected Leona,” Angie said. “The
other woman
and all…”

Rebecca peeked in the dining room. “Where's the cast?”

“Not here yet.”

Disappointment clouded Rebecca's face. “Bummer!” In the family room, she placed her large purse on a tabletop filled with pictures of the Roxbury family and stood in front of it, lifting and studying each photo.

“Would you like something to drink?” Angie stepped behind the bar and switched off the glowing and bobbing Rudolph. “It's a long trip up here
and back
.”

“A Coke's good.”

“Diet?”

Rebecca put her hands on her svelte hips. “No.”

Angie handed her a can.

“I'll take it with me,” Rebecca said as she turned toward the courtyard. “I can still see Julia sneaking into the gate after her romance with the stable-boy. He had wavy dark hair and big sky blue eyes just like Paavo. I guess I've always been partial to that combination.” She sighed as if she'd been in love with the boy herself. “This is fantastic, Angie. Thank you for letting me see it.”

Angie walked her to the door. “Drive safely.”

“I'll give Paavo your best. I'm sure I'll see him tonight. By the way, I gave him a screen saver for his computer. A black Corvette. He loves it! He didn't try to give it back, either.” She smiled. “Bye!”

Angie hadn't known one could smile and wave with clenched teeth. Somehow she managed to. She'd tried to give Paavo a black Corvette as an
engagement present, but he'd refused to accept it. Too expensive he'd said, despite his obvious love for the car. Instead, he drove around in a clunker…and looked at Rebecca's present to him at work. Damn!

She glared at the stupid tree and its “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” cacophony. A horrible thought struck her. She detoured to the family room.

There, in front of the photos of the Roxbury family, where millions of TV viewers could see it if the camera panned slowly and they squinted hard, Rebecca had snuck a photo of her and Paavo standing side-by-side and smiling happily.

Angie snatched it up and dropped it in the trash.

 

The local chapter of the Audubon Society was located near Sigmund Stern Grove. Minnie Petite lived off of West Portal Avenue, right between Paavo's current location and the birdwatchers.

As he drove, he phoned Missing Persons and spoke with Inspector Pamela James for the low-down on Fred Demitasse.

James had few details. Apparently Minnie had filed a report the evening before going to see Paavo. They had scarcely begun to work on it.

He thought that was strange. Nevertheless, he decided to pay Minnie a visit.

Petite lived in a brown-shingled cottage with white shutters and a green peaked roof. Almost fairy-tale size, it seemed fitting for its occupants.

She was home and invited Paavo in. He felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. All the furniture
had been cut down, and even the interior doorknobs were level with his knees.

“It's about time you got off your fat ass and tried to help.” Petite jutted out her lower lip and glared up at him. “I'm a tax-paying citizen and have rights when my friends go
poof
and aren't heard from again!”

“Yes, ma'am,” Paavo said. “That's why I'm here. I'd like to help you find Mr. Demitasse.”

“Hmmph!”

Since that was her only retort, Paavo knew he was winning her over. “Why don't you tell me about Fred's last few days at home?”

“I've gone over them in my head, and I don't think you'll get anywhere. You can set yourself on that couch. I'll go through it all again.”

He sat. His knees nearly touched his chin while Minnie told him how Fred was working on getting a television role he seemed to think he had coming to him. He hadn't told her much about it, probably because he was afraid she'd tell their roommates of the possible job opening, or maybe that she'd want it herself. Fred was a sneaky bastard, she admitted.

He asked if Minnie knew who Fred had been talking to about the television job. Had she picked up any phone calls or heard him refer to anyone by name on the phone?

“I have no idea. I only know what he told me,” Minnie answered. “He mostly used e-mail.”

“Have you checked his computer to see if it gives you any information on his whereabouts?”

“I don't like computers.” Her eyes narrowed at the mere thought of the loathsome machines.
“The few times I tried to use one, it jammed up and nothing would move. I think computers like me even less than I like them.”

“Why don't we take a look at his computer together?” Paavo suggested. “It just might have the answer you need.”

She led him through the house. He felt as if he should simply step over the furniture rather than walk around it.

He turned on the computer and waited for it to boot up.

Paavo suggested Minnie take the desk chair. He instructed her to double-click on the AOL icon. If this were a murder investigation, for him to go through Fred's computer without any kind of warrant would be illegal as hell. For one roommate concerned about another's disappearance to look through it, however, was reasonable.

After a minute of loading Minnie hit the sign-on screen. It opened up with the ubiquitous, “You've Got Mail.”

“Hot damn! Will you look at that?” she cried.

“He's got his computer set up so that no passwords are needed,” Paavo said. He had Minnie open the “Read Mail” window. Five messages were listed, all spam. Typical AOL. “Let's see if he kept old e-mails in his filing cabinet.”

Minnie looked around the room. “His what?”

He showed her how to move the mouse to find the cabinet, but it was empty. Familiar with AOL, Paavo had Minnie open the “Old Messages” and “Sent Messages” folders.

The last three messages Fred sent were to someone listed as “Etstar.”

“Was he into astrology?” Paavo asked.

“For cryin' out loud!” Minnie snarled. “He was a movie star. Get it now, dummy?”

Paavo bit his tongue. “Hit open, let's see what he said to this Etstar.”

Together, they read the most recent message:

The Christmas goose was not kosher.

“What the hell?” was Minnie's reaction.

The second message said:

Aren't you curious about the gander who plucked your goose?

Paavo hoped the earliest message would make sense out of those two. It didn't. It read:
Christmas comes but once a year. Or does it?

“Fred's gone bonkers!” Minnie cried. “He doesn't even like goose. What does he care about kosher? He's not Jewish. You should see the junk he jams into his fat mouth.”

Paavo reread it. “It might be some sort of code.”

“A game?” Minnie reread the messages thoughtfully. “Fred didn't like games unless he was making up the rules.”

They read through the old incoming messages. All were industry news, Viagra come-ons, how to get out of debt fast, or porn sites.

“Do you have any ideas, or even guesses, who he was writing to?” Paavo asked.

“I have no idea.” She glared at the computer as if it might give her an answer. “Maybe you should ask your fiancée if she's heard anything?”

Paavo's head snapped from the computer to Minnie. “My fiancée? Why?”

“Connie told me she was working with some big Hollywood director and that she knew all
about what was going on there these days. That's why I went to see you. What did you think? It was because of your big baby blues?”

Paavo mentally rolled his “baby blues.” Angie loved to exaggerate, and Connie loved to even more. Before long, he'd probably hear she was up for an Emmy. “You were given the wrong impression, Ms. Petite. I'm sure you have a lot more knowledge of television and movies than Angie.”

“Hell! I should have known better than to listen to that gossipy Connie! My so-called knowledge is a damn thirty y—I mean, thirty
months
old. Things move fast there. I need to know what's happening
now.
”

Paavo stood. “I'm sorry.”

“Get off your high horse and sit back down. Fred's still missing, and you're better than nobody trying to find him.” She pointed at the computer. “So, what do you think, Mr. Expert?”

He considered telling her exactly what he thought: no wonder Fred took off. Something might have happened to him, though. He should try to help…within reason. He gazed at the e-mails again.

“Etstar. Et. Star. Ets. Tar,” he murmured. “E. T. Star—extra-terrestrial! Was Fred involved with the movie
E. T.
, or know any of the stars from it?”

Minnie shook her head. “His only involvement was complaining to ASCAP that they used some animated dummy to play E. T. instead of one of the little people. Namely, him. Cripes, if he'd had his way,
E. T.
would have been a flop.”

Paavo grimaced. Maybe Steven Spielberg was behind Fred's disappearance.