Too Many Cooks

by Joanne Pence

  How in the world could he ever explain to Yosh and Chief Hollins why important evidence had disappeared? That was all he needed. He might as well quit his job right now and save the police department the trouble of firing him.

  This investigation was getting broader and stranger at every juncture. The press kept up the clamor about the dangers of being a restaurant owner in the city, making it sound as if getting gunned down was as common as getting stiffed with a bad credit card.

  The only lead Paavo and Yosh had was that the gun that killed Greuber was also used to kill Chick. Every other aspect they pursued came up empty, even including Wielund; they found no known associations with criminals, no known enemies, no police records, no family troubles, no financial troubles, and no bizarre habits, hobbies, or associations beyond his interest in pornography. But now, if the woman in the photos did turn out to be Danning, that would link her, Wielund and possibly Albert Dupries. But why was Marcuccio killed? Or Greuber?

  The press quizzed the mayor and the police chief daily on what was happening. They would question Hollins, and he, in turn, would grill Paavo and Yosh.

  Paavo had requested all the account books from both Wielund’s and Italian Seasons. Often, when all else failed, following the money trail led to a chink in an otherwise baffling case. Money had been called the root of all evil, and in Paavo’s mind that held doubly true for homicide cases.

  He pored over the books, carefully studying the income and outgo, looking for patterns, odd sums, imbalances, too much money, he wasn’t sure what—but anything that was odd.

  “Need help, Paavo?” Rebecca asked.

  He glanced up. Ever since the dinner at Yosh’s and their investigation of the gang murders, Rebecca had been friendlier than ever, and she’d always been pretty friendly. They got along well, he had to admit. Yosh, Calderon, and the others constantly reminded him of how stalwart Rebecca was. She was a woman he could understand and who understood him. She certainly wasn’t the type who’d become angry for no good reason or who’d throw away evidence without realizing what she was doing. She wasn’t the type to jump first and ask questions later, nor was she impulsive, whimsical, or zany. She was cautious, logical, and serious. In short, she was much like him.

  “I’ve studied accounting,” she said. “I could be helpful.”

  Was there anything practical this woman hadn’t dabbled in? “I didn’t know that.”

  “It was too dull, so I dropped it for this.”

  “Let’s see how much you remember. But first, I wanted to ask about Shelia—”

  His phone rang. “Smith here.”

  “A Miss Farraday to see you, Inspector.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Before he even hung up, the door to the squad room opened and Nona Farraday sauntered in. She spotted Paavo immediately. She wore a plum-colored suit with a short skirt and a V-necked cream silk blouse that showed off her tall figure to perfection. Her long blond hair glistened and swung freely as she walked. Every eye in the place turned her way.

  Rebecca picked up the set of books. “Later,” she whispered and went to her desk.

  Paavo stood. “Miss Farraday, this is a surprise.”

  She gave him her hand. “Call me Nona, Inspector Smith.”

  “Won’t you have a seat?”

  She sat by the side of the desk, flicked her mane of hair, then crossed her long legs, letting her skirt ride up well above her knee. “I have some interesting information for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tell you what.” She leaned forward, her elbow on her thigh. “It must be near your quitting time. Why don’t we go somewhere for dinner and I’ll tell you all about it?”

  From the corner of his eye, Paavo saw Rebecca staring at him. Benson gave him a thumbs’ up. Calderon rose from his desk and, on the pretense of searching for something, moved closer to Paavo. “You can tell me about it now,” Paavo said.

  “But this is a long story, and I have a restaurant to review. Arbuckle’s, on the wharf. It’ll be my treat.”

  Greg McAndrews, owner of Arbuckle’s, was one of the restaurateurs at both Wielund’s and Chick’s memorial services. Might be worth going. He glanced up to see that Calderon’s frown had grown deeper. Yes, Paavo decided, it was definitely worth going. It’d give Calderon more to fret about, and it’d help pass the time waiting for Angie to call. If she hadn’t left a message by the time dinner was over, he’d stop by her apartment and probably strangle her.

  “Sounds good.” He picked up his jacket and led her past gaping looks as they walked out of the squad room.

  Arbuckle’s Seafood Restaurant was small and intimate. After Greg McAndrews greeted Nona lavishly, they were given a secluded table, with a view of the bay, and two waiters who hovered nearby to fill their every whim. Paavo saw what it meant to be a well-known restaurant critic in this town.

  Nona perused the menu. “I’ve been told the food here is elegant. I’ll order, if you don’t mind.”

  Paavo shut his menu and leaned back in the chair. “Fine.”

  “For soup,” Nona began, causing the waiter to spring to attention, “we’ll have the seafood bisque.”

  “Ah, excellent choice, Miss Farraday,” the waiter declared.

  “What do you recommend as a salad?”

  “The smoked mussels. Definitely. Served on a bed of arugula with warm goat cheese and roasted red peppers. It is…uncompromising.”

  She smiled. “Fine. For our shellfish, how are the grilled scallops today?”

  “Perfection. Wrapped in cucumber, with caviar and saffron sauce.”

  “And for the main entrée you suggest…?”

  “Striped bass filet, sautéed and served with citrus sauce and braised fennel.”

  She shut her menu. “I leave it up to the discretion of the house to bring wine to best complement each course.”

  “Naturellement. May I recommend our desserts, Miss Farraday? The perfect ending to a perfect meal.”

  “Dessert! How could I forget?” She opened the menu again and glanced at Paavo, a sly smile toying at her lips. “I think the passion fruit bavarois sounds promising. Don’t you agree, Paavo?”

  He wasn’t used to feeling like something on a menu. “Right,” he replied.

  In no time, the waiter had served wine and brought their seafood bisque, which Paavo discovered was minced squid and tiny brown shrimp swimming in a thin, milky soup. It was going to be a long meal. Where was Angie when he needed her?

  He took a few bites and put down his spoon. “What was it you came to the office to tell me?”

  She patted her lips with the napkin, then leaned close to him. “Have you heard what Mark Dustman is up to?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t get to keep Wielund’s open. The lawyers for Karl’s brothers back in Germany shut it down immediately, even though anyone should know an operating restaurant with a large clientele is worth far more than an empty building with a large kitchen. And Wielund’s was on the verge of being the best, the number-one restaurant in the city…for the moment. Nothing’s permanent in this town. All it needed for its fifteen minutes of fame was a truly world-class chef. But the lawyers want to sell it with the least possible trouble. Eileen Powell tried to explain to them what was best, but she’s given up.”

  From his interviews with Mrs. Powell, he thought she’d care more about her life with her husband and young son than how much money Wielund’s estate made.

  “And Dustman?”

  “He’s taking a job with LaTour’s.”

  Paavo couldn’t hide his surprise, especially imagining Angie’s reaction to a respected cook like Dustman going to work for Henry LaTour.

  Nona laughed. “Bravo, Inspector! I see you’ve learned enough about our little restaurant world to be shocked, yet amused, by Mark’s behavior. Isn’t it ludicrous?”

  “It is ludicrous. Why is he doing it?”

  “He needs the money. These days, even in San Francisco, there are
n’t many openings for a creative chef. For his career, LaTour’s is a step backward, even if he can turn the place around.”

  Paavo shook his head. “You seem to know Dustman pretty well.”

  “Not really. But I knew Karl Wielund very well.”

  “You did?”

  “I spent several days with him practically ’round the clock, a week before he died. I was doing a special article for Haute Cuisine. After he died, though, they didn’t want to publish it.”

  “You still have the article, then?”

  “It’s at my apartment. I can give it to you tonight. After our passion fruit.”

  Lunch with Henri had been mercifully uneventful that day, and as soon as it ended, Angie telephoned Mrs. Calamatti.

  “This is Angie. Did you talk to your sister?”

  “Not only that. Her son knew a little about it. He thinks the place you want is in Berkeley. The upper floor of a brick building on Dwight Way near Telegraph.”

  Bingo! That was easy. Why couldn’t the police do as well? “You’re a doll! See you later.”

  Angie could have simply given Paavo this news along with the photos, but considering the trouble she’d caused him, she wanted to be sure the information was correct. How long could it take to find out?

  Her Ferrari would have broken the speed limit, crossing the Bay Bridge and then heading north on 1-80 to Berkeley, except that there was too much traffic. Berkeley was a place where anything goes, as long as it was politically correct. Compared to Berkeley, San Francisco was John Birch Society country. Angie felt like a fish out of water here; her Italian-Catholic upbringing didn’t prepare her for this kind of place.

  She rode down Telegraph Avenue until she spotted a parking garage on a side street. It was worth the big tip to the attendant to be sure he’d keep a watchful eye on her Ferrari.

  Telegraph Avenue was a 1960s nostalgia lover’s dream. Angie had been told by older friends that little had changed there in thirty years. It was a place where the Grateful Dead were still young, Janis Joplin still hung around with Bobby McGee, and the Free Speech Movement was considered the height of daring. Although college bookstores, coffee shops, and very nineties students existed side by side with small colorful shops that sold used records, books, sandals, tie-dyed T-shirts, and all kinds of psychedelic funk, it was the latter that drew her attention. Angie thought the street looked like something one should find in Disneyland. Between Frontierland and Tomorrow-land there should be an old-fashioned Hippieland. It could look just like this.

  She wove her way through the mass of students and street people and the cacophony of sounds that filled Telegraph day and night.

  “Spare change, lady?” Lady? Did she look that old already? But then, the girl who spoke to her looked about fourteen. The girl’s chubby-faced healthy looks told Angie she was in no imminent danger of starvation. She was the sort who gave beggars a bad name.

  “Hari krishna, hari krishna.”

  Angie glanced at the group of chanting middle-aged men in their saffron robes and Birkenstock sandals. She wondered if these same people had danced in circles on this street years ago. Their shaved heads would hide any gray or bald patches. Maybe that was the secret of their popularity?

  “Free abortions, now!”

  “Got any change?”

  “Save the Berkeley Five! Give donations!”

  “Falafel! The taco from Morocco. Get your falafel!”

  “Love one another, brothers and sisters. We must learn to love, to dedicate ourselves, our bodies…”

  “Hari rama, rama, rama…”

  “Sexism sucks!”

  “Gimme some change, lady!”

  She scurried even faster toward the building on Dwight Way. It was a square two-storied building with a brick facade. The downstairs had storefronts, and a glass side door showed a steep flight of steps.

  She pushed open the door and went up the staircase. At the top, in what should have been the hallway, a thin man sat behind a high counter. He looked up and stared at her through black-framed eyeglasses thick as cola bottles. He had a mustache and beard, and his black hair was practically gone on top but long and bushy on the sides. He had it tucked behind his ears, making it look as if he had a whiskbroom stuck to the back of his head.

  What in the world is this? Angie wondered. She was expecting some kind of a photography studio, but this looked like a factory office. Past Whiskbroom Head, a long doorless hallway disappeared in a bend at the far end.

  “Hi!” she said.

  The man remained expressionless.

  “Do you take pictures here?” she asked, stepping closer.

  He frowned. “Could say that.” The ends of his scraggly mustache reached below his top lip and into his mouth when he spoke, but since his teeth were kind of green, she decided that, all in all, covering them was for the best.

  “I was thinking of having some photos taken of me for my boyfriend,” she said.

  Thin eyebrows popped up over the tops of his glasses. “Oh?”

  “Some special photos, if you know what I mean.” She held her breath.

  He smirked. “Sure. I know.”

  She could have jumped for joy. This must be the place.

  “They cost, though,” he added.

  “A lot?”

  He tugged at his beard. “Sure. Takes a special talent to take photos like that.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s all right. My boyfriend’s worth it. And he’ll be so happy to get those photos.”

  “I’ll bet he will.” Small brown eyes behind his glasses leered as his smirk grew broader.

  “I’m sure,” Angie continued, “he’ll save lots of money not having to buy Playboy anymore.”

  Whiskbroom Head nearly choked. When he stood up from the stool he’d been perched on, she saw he was tall and lanky. “Why don’t you come back here, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

  “Well—uh, I was wondering if I could see some samples of your work first.”

  “Samples?”

  “Sure. I don’t know exactly what kind of—uh, pose…”

  “The photographer will know how to pose you.”

  “But shouldn’t I have some say? I want to do a scene on a rug. Maybe a white flokati type. Do you have anything like that?”

  He gave her a strange look. “Could be. Where’d you hear about us?”

  “From a guy I work with.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “John—uh, Stein…beck…stein. John Beck-stein.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He sometimes calls himself Jack. Now do you know him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Brown hair, brown eyes, skinny.”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s got a brother. Maybe you know his brother? His name is…Lenny. You know Lenny, don’t you?”

  He folded his arms. “I don’t know any Lenny Beck-stein either.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I came to the wrong place. They said you’d probably take the pictures. That it’d probably cost around five or six hundred dollars for the sitting, but I was willing to pay it. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  His eyes brightened at the mention of money. He quickly stepped around the counter. “Let’s take off your coat and see what we have to work with.”

  He began unbuttoning her light-gray, double-breasted wool coat. She was too shocked to stop him.

  “Very nice,” he said as he peeled the coat back from her shoulders, revealing her simple yellow DKNY dress.

  She didn’t like the way he looked at her one little bit, but before she was able to say anything, he gripped her arm and led her down the hall. When they turned the corner, a large warehouse-like space, alive with activity, opened in front of them.

  As they walked through, Angie saw it was a movie studio, a series of cubicles with low walls, making multiple sets. Beds and precious little else were in the cubicles, all arranged for the cameramen to do their work as quickly and efficiently as circumst
ances allowed. The cubicles were set up so that once a scene had climaxed, so to speak, the camera could swivel around to another cubicle’s rising drama.

  A woman wearing a short yellow robe stood with a thin pockmarked man, a sheaf of papers in her hand. “Oh, oh, ooooh,” she cried. Her voice was flat and nasal. “Do you think that expressed enough emotion? I don’t know how I’m ever going to remember all these lines.”

  Angie nearly backed into a partition.

  Off to the right, a group of people were standing around a brightly lit cubicle.

  “They’re filming,” Whiskbroom Head said.

  “Filming?”

  “Want to see?”

  “All right.” He led her through the group to a set illuminating a bed with sheets yellowed with dirt and age. On the bed, two naked women knelt. Seated between them was a man, fully dressed in a tuxedo and top hat, with a dopey look on his face. The scene, as best as Angie could tell, was that the women were trying to seduce the man, and one woman had to take off his clothes, while the other was supposed to slip ropes on his hands and feet without his knowing it. The ropes got caught up in the man’s shirt, so they had to go through the scene again.

  “Action!” the director shouted.

  As the women writhed, Angie’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. The man’s shirt came off and the ropes went around his hands. He lay flat on the bed, then had to scoot closer to the head of it for the ropes on his wrists to reach the bedposts, but Angie figured verisimilitude was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

  One woman unzipped his trousers.

  Angie held her breath as the trousers were spread open. She quickly learned that underwear was not a part of the porn movie world. “Cut!” the director yelled.

  Angie jumped, her attention now caught by a chubby, greasy-haired man. “Dammit, when they open your pants, man, we’re supposed to see the Statue of Liberty, not the Blob, for cryin’ out loud!”

  The man on the bed yanked the ropes loose and lifted himself up onto his elbows. “Hell, all these hours, being poked and prodded and shoved around by these broads. I’m tired!” He jutted out his lower lip. “I’d like to see you do better.”

  The greasy-haired man turned purple. “I’m the director. You’re the actor. So act!” He spun around, looking over the crowd. “I need someone who can do something with Don Juan, here. Right now!”