by Joanne Pence
He gave her a sidelong glance. “He was probably just trying to excuse himself for being so happy that he doesn’t have to compete with Wielund’s anymore.”
“See? He’s guilty. Just like I said.”
He took hold of her shoulders and couldn’t help but grin. “Just one problem: this is real. It’s not TV, movies, or books. So be careful about what you say to these people and what you say about them to others. You don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, especially since they might take you seriously if they find out I work in Homicide.”
She put her hands against his waist, keeping her expression solemn. “Of course I’m serious, Paavo. Besides, Henry styles his hair in a pompadour. People with pompadours are always the guilty ones on TV. Didn’t you ever watch L.A. Law?”
He shook his head, about to draw her closer, when she suddenly spun around, out of his grasp, and took hold of the arm of the debonair gray-haired man passing by.
“Albert Dupries?” she said.
Dupries glared at the hand clutching his arm. But then his eyes raised to hers, and his scowl disappeared. Paavo watched the man’s gaze slowly slide from Angie’s big brown eyes, to her generous mouth, then lower to her shapely body. Paavo took one step forward. Dupries glanced at him and turned back to Angie.
“Bon soir, mademoiselle,” he said. “In your case, I am happy to say yes, I am Dupries. You may call me Albert.”
For Angie, the force of the man’s charm was like being struck by a steam engine. A simple thing like the way he said Ahl-baerrr made Angie’s own tongue curl up in her mouth. He had a voice smoother than cat’s fur, a way of moving his lips when he spoke that made them kissable, and a knowing glint in his eye that told her he could imagine exactly what it would be like to make love to her. To her amazement, she found she suddenly could imagine it too. Yves Montand had nothing on this guy.
“My name is Angelina Amalfi.” She couldn’t tear her gaze from his, so she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “And—uh, this is Paavo Smith.”
Paavo gave Angie a look that should have turned her to stone as he extended his hand to Dupries in a greeting.
“So nice to meet you,” Dupries said, shaking Paavo’s hand, then Angie’s. He didn’t let go of Angie’s hand but, instead, held it in both of his. “Amalfi…that sounds familiar. It sounds, in fact, like someone who thought I charge too much for my Chateaubriand.” He cocked one knowing, perfectly formed eyebrow.
Angie wanted to sink through the floor. “I must have eaten there on an off-night.”
“So much damage, ma chérie.” He stroked her wrist. “The pen, as you Americans say, is mightier than the sword. I was ready to run a sword through myself when I read your article.”
“I’m so sorry!”
He lifted her hand near his heart, then cupped it with both of his. “Please, come again to my restaurant. Your next critique will be glowing, I promise.”
“Well…but I have to be anonymous, you see, or it does no good.”
“Oh, ma chérie, ma chérie! Do you think Bernie is anonymous? Or Nona? Mais non. I wonder, in fact, if Nona will run her piece about Wielund’s now?” He shrugged. “Why bother? I imagine it will close without Karl and his recipes, unless the new owner gets them. Anyway, take advantage of your power, Miss Amalfi, just as they do. Have a fine meal. With me, in fact. I insist.”
“Well, I…”
Dupries cast his glance at Paavo, sighed, then looked again at Angie. “You may even bring a friend, if you wish. Call me personally, and let me know when I can make a reservation for you both. Our talk has warmed my heart.” He bent low and kissed her hand, then gave a curt nod to Paavo and walked away.
Paavo frowned. “His talk warmed my—”
“Stop that! He was just being French. Good God, was he sexy!”
“Don’t drool on your pretty suit, ma shay-rie.” Paavo shook his head, trying to forget the way Angie had eaten up the smooth talk and to concentrate instead on the man who was Sheila Danning’s boss. He thought he might very much enjoy having a serious talk with Mr. Dupries. One on one.
Angie glanced at Paavo and then smiled into his eyes. “That kind of man means nothing. It’s all mechanics, no heart.”
“So you prefer unsexy ones…like me.”
She placed her hand lightly against his chest. “I definitely prefer you.”
The heat from her hand and the warmth that flowed through him at her words singed him all the way to his toes. He took her hand from his chest, letting her fingers curve lightly over his, and slowly lifted it to his lips for a kiss.
Her breath caught and her heart pounded as his gaze met hers, piercing her with his eyes. “Was that what you like?”
She could scarcely believe her tough cop would do such a romantic thing. It took a moment to find her voice. “That’s a good start, Inspector. Did you just say some nonsense about not being sexy?”
His usually stern mouth spread into an easy grin and she felt her spirits buoyed by the sight. She smiled back and couldn’t help but think what a silly pair they must seem, beaming at each other this way in the middle of a memorial.
Paavo ran his fingers through his hair as he turned away, away from the delicate look and feel of her, the perfect smile, the lingering scent of roses, and forced his attention back to the restaurateurs. This was not the time or place to let himself think more about Angie.
“So,” he said after a while, “who are this Nona and Bernie that Dupries mentioned?”
She, too, turned, standing side by side with him as she looked over the crowd. “Nona Farraday and C. Bernhardt Eickerman are two of the most widely read restaurant critics in the Bay Area. Nona writes for Haute Cuisine and Bernie for the Chronicle.”
“Haute Cuisine—the magazine Chick Marcuccio’s girlfriend edits?”
“That’s right.”
“Doesn’t this whole thing seem a little incestuous?”
“Same interests, same friends. Look at the police department. All your friends are cops.”
No, he wanted to say, that wasn’t quite right. His closest acquaintances were cops. His only real friend, Matt, was dead.
Angie saw the sudden shadowing of his expression, and a pang touched her heart as she realized what he had to be thinking. She slid her arm around his waist. “And me,” she added softly, looking up at him.
Cautious blue eyes met her brown ones, and slowly his guard eased. A friend. Yes, he had to admit it. As much as there was about her that was all naïveté and femininity, so too he was finding that he could talk to her about his thoughts, and she never brushed them aside, or his feelings, and she never dismissed them. Angie as a friend…the idea warmed him in a comforting way that was as puzzling to him as it was novel. He gazed down at her, at the trust and openness in her face, and even as he forced his expression to remain stern, a lump filled his throat. Quickly, he looked away.
Just then Eileen Powell, Karl Wielund’s assistant manager, walked to the center of the room. “I’d like to say a few words.”
Everyone grew silent. Eileen was attractive in her black suit and starched white blouse, her black hair sleek and shoulder length. She gave a polite, nondescript little speech, saying what a kind, generous, and outgoing man Karl Wielund had been—all lies.
Then Mark Dustman got up and slowly stumbled toward Eileen. He’d obviously been crying. Angie leaned toward Paavo. “He’s been Karl Wielund’s chef since shortly after the restaurant opened a year ago,” she whispered. “He studied cooking in Paris, wanting to become a master chef in time. Karl had also been a cook before buying his own business. By hiring Mark, Karl could keep his hand in the kitchen as well. Cooks with more experience than Dustman would never have tolerated such a thing.”
Paavo nodded, although he scarcely understood the world Angie was talking about. But then, temperamental chefs were the last people he wanted to know better.
Dustman was GQ-model handsome, with sandy brown hair, green eyes, and a boyish demeanor. Now t
hat young face was pale and wan, his eyes red and swollen. He looked warily around the room. “I want to tell you all about Karl,” the young chef said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “And why he died.”
6
The place began to buzz. Angie glanced at Paavo. He took her hand and they inched closer as Mark Dustman began to speak.
“I talked Karl into coming to San Francisco last year. I met him while I was in Paris at a small cooking academy where he was an instructor. He took me under his wing.” He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “I could see that his exquisite talent with food might stay buried in Paris for years, one among so many. I’d lived in San Francisco awhile before deciding that I was sure I wanted to be a chef, and before saving enough money to go to Paris.
“I told Karl that San Francisco was known for its fine hotels and restaurants, but that, despite so much competition, Karl would succeed here. I knew talent when I saw it. And succeed he did.”
Mark looked out over the group.
“He succeeded too well, you might say. He was clobbering you—all of you. Wielund’s was filled up while you went begging for customers. We never had to offer two-for-one or, God forbid, a ‘ladies’ night’ to get customers. We just provided food good enough to cause jealousy in even the kindest soul—and to make his life a living hell. He was a good, kind, and sensitive man, and knowing how so many of you felt hurt and pained him. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why he died.”
Amid outraged cries, Eileen grabbed Mark’s arm to make him sit, but he shook her off. “I’ll keep Wielund’s open,” he shouted at them. “I’ll keep Karl’s memory alive. And keep the same high quality of food on these tables!”
“Sit down, Dustman!” Chick Marcuccio thundered. “We didn’t come to hear this.”
“Why did you come, then?” Mark leaned toward him, his palms on the table.
Everyone was quiet, waiting for Marcuccio’s reply. “To pay respects to a dead colleague, of course.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Night after night I’ve wondered what made Karl go to that lonely mountain area in the dead of winter. I can’t help but believe it was simply that he wanted to go back to a spot that reminded him of his home in southern Germany. He wanted to get away from this nest of vipers—from you—to find a little peace and quiet. Why on that day? I’ll never know. But I’ll spend a lifetime wondering about it.” Unable to check his tears any longer, he covered his eyes as Eileen led him to the nearest chair.
The room broke into a flurry of reproach.
Paavo had never seen such a well-dressed group get so ugly. He’d carefully watched the various mourners all evening as they came by to speak with Angie and talked among themselves. Dustman was right about one thing—not one of them seemed truly sorry that Wielund was dead. Yet Dustman’s description of Wielund as a caring, sensitive man was completely contrary to what everyone else said about him.
The Wielund of the other restaurateurs wouldn’t have cared what any of them thought. But if he hadn’t gone to the mountains seeking peace and quiet, why was he there?
The restaurant owners were furious that Dustman had called their bluff and openly pointed out their hypocrisy in pretending to mourn. Paavo silently took them in, one by one, committing their words, their expressions to memory. Something strange was going on. The detective side of him knew it was good he’d come here tonight, very good.
“You’re looking pleased with yourself,” Angie said, tucking her arm in Paavo’s as they watched the angry people file out the door.
He nodded. “Very. Next time I go to a restaurant, I’ll make sure the knife’s beside my dinner plate, not in my back.”
Paavo carried a full-to-the-brim cup of Maxwell House Choice Blend to his desk. He needed it. Last night after the memorial service, he and Angie had stopped at the Buena Vista Café for Irish coffee to wash away the bitter taste of Mark Dustman’s eulogy and the group’s reaction to it, before going back to Angie’s place. It was quite late before he made it to his own house. Difficult as it was to leave her, it seemed like less of a commitment than to spend the entire night with her…in her bed. He ran his hand through his short wavy hair and rubbed his eyes with a weary sigh.
He cared about commitment, on both their parts. It would have been a lot easier if he didn’t. Angie glibly told him she loved him. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and if anyone were too blind to notice it there, all they had to do was look at her big, expressive eyes. But if words of love came easily to her, did the feelings as well? And if so, how could they endure? The last thing he needed in his life was a failed love affair. He’d spent years avoiding them. At thirty-four, he was too old to get caught in one now.
He turned his attention to the stacks of papers and folders on his desk. He had all the cases he could handle, yet what he’d heard and seen at Wielund’s last night preyed on his mind. He couldn’t simply drop it. Something was wrong. All those people were supposedly friends, yet there was an undercurrent of dislike and distrust. Wielund had lived in a snowy mountain area in Europe, yet he drove off the side of a major U.S. highway because of what, ice? Did that make sense? What it did was make Paavo uneasy. He’d worked in Homicide long enough to have developed a sixth sense about death. And his sixth sense had gone into overdrive on this one.
One way to put this whole no-brain idea to rest was to go to the source. He called the Placer County Sheriff’s Department and eventually was connected with a Sergeant Osbourne. “I’m calling about a DOA you had last week: Karl Wielund. Looked like an auto accident—guy went off a cliff. I’d like to know the results of the autopsy.”
Osbourne’s voice suddenly hardened. “The guy was a traffic victim.”
“That’s what’s being said.”
“His neck was broken in a fall down five hundred of feet of rock. That was enough for a death certificate.”
Paavo’s grip tightened on the phone. “No autopsy?”
Osbourne’s long, weary sigh came across the phone wire before he spoke. “Look, we’ve got more tourists than anything else up here, and they’re forever killing themselves on the roads or on the ski slopes. Even if we wanted to autopsy every victim, there’s no money. Got the picture?”
“I got it. But I’ve also got reason to suspect this was more than an accident.”
There was, again, a long silence on the other end. “I see. Let me find out if we still have the body.” He put Paavo on hold for a few moments. “This guy must have been really loved. His body’s still in the morgue; no one wants it. His attorney’s contacting relatives back in Germany. You need an autopsy, Inspector, just give the word.”
“Thanks. I’ll get back to you.” He’d have to talk this over with Hollins.
As Paavo hung up the phone, Yosh walked into the squad room. Bellowing hellos to people in the farthest corners of the floor, he headed toward Paavo’s desk.
“Hey there, partner,” Yosh said, pulling a breakfast burrito out of a white bag. “You need this more than I do.”
“No, thanks,” Paavo said.
“I got four more in here.” Yosh laughed as he emptied the bag. “I even have dessert.” He held up some small, dry, cellophane-wrapped chocolate chip cookies.
Paavo groaned.
“Hard night, huh?” Yosh asked.
“A late one.” Paavo picked up a stack of memos from his IN tray and tried to looked interested in them.
“It’s tough, hanging around with a woman like that.” Yosh took a mouthful of burrito and washed it down with Diet Coke. “I mean, you know the guys here gossip worse than old women. Heck, what else do we have to talk about? They tell me she used to show up on the society page regularly, and always with a new guy. I guess she must have a lot of charm.”
The last thing Paavo needed was to hear this. “I guess,” he muttered.
“She probably knows how to make you feel real important, like you’re the only guy in the world for her, wouldn’t you say?”
She sure did yesterday…and last
night. His mouth felt a little dry. “Could be.”
“Yeah. One time in my life I went out with a gal like that. Money, looks, good sex—class all the way.” Yosh gave a long sigh. “Then, after a couple months, she stopped returning my calls. I learned she was engaged to a brain surgeon. The least she could have done was pick a guy with an interesting job. Jeez, he probably comes home and talks about stuff that looks like albino earthworms. Who could eat dinner after that? Oh, well, serves her right, that’s what I say. My Nancy is worth a dozen of her. Hell, she’s worth a million of her. Nancy’s good, down-to-earth.”
“Is she?” Paavo didn’t want to hear any more. Yosh’s words expressed thoughts Paavo wouldn’t let himself dwell on, yet they were always there, dark and malignant, waiting for the opportunity to force their way into the light.
“Damn right,” Yosh said. “These other women, they start interfering in your work. Make you see skeletons in every closet, see danger where none is. They even make you run around like some blue knight, trying to protect them instead of the people who really need you—the ones you’re paid to protect.”
A sick feeling hit Paavo’s stomach. Had Angie’s dark hints about Wielund’s death caused him to see trouble where none existed? All he could do in answer to Yosh was nod.
“You’re a good guy, Paavo,” Yosh said unexpectedly. “I like you.”
Paavo glanced at Yosh. Now what? he wondered.
“I mean, I can see now why all these guys around here try to tell you what to do. They like you too, and they worry about you.”
“Sure they do.”
“It’s a fact. They don’t want to see your head turned by someone who might not be in it for the long term. You know what I mean?” Not missing a beat, Yosh continued. “You’re a big tough guy. The jerks we arrest, they shake in their boots around you. But I got to tell you, you’re like a babe in the woods around women.”
Paavo folded his arms, his body stiff and withdrawn. If this pop psychoanalysis continued much longer, the guy was going to get a fat lip.
