Too Many Cooks

by Joanne Pence

  To have her here, now, was suddenly more important than any plans or wishes for a future that might never be.

  Before dawn, she awoke to find the back of her body pressed against the front of Paavo’s, the two of them fitted side by side like soupspoons in a drawer. The problem had to do with commitment, it seemed. But she wouldn’t let herself dwell on that, she decided, snuggling closer. He was here now.

  His hand cupped her breast. “You move against me like that one more time, and you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

  “How do you know what I bargained for, Inspector?” She wriggled again.

  “Is that a dare?”

  She rolled onto her back, her eyelids heavy with sleep, her lips still puffy from his kisses. Then she gave a long, languorous, full-body stretch, just the way a cat might while lying in the warm sun. He waited impatiently for her answer, his body heat rising with every seductive move she made.

  “What happens if I lose the dare?” she asked.

  He kissed her shoulder, her chest, her breast. “I make love to you.”

  “What happens if you lose?”

  His kisses continued to her ribs, her waist, her belly. “Same thing.”

  “I like your rules, Inspector.”

  Paavo was quiet when they finally got out of bed, but she hadn’t expected him to be otherwise. She looked at him in amazement when he called his office and said he wouldn’t be in until after lunch. She didn’t understand it, but she wasn’t about to question or complain.

  It didn’t sound as if he’d gotten any complaint from his boss, either. Angie couldn’t help but wonder if the other officers might not be glad he was staying away, if he’d been as moody and bad-tempered around them as he’d been around her.

  For breakfast she made him a Belgian waffle, topped with a scoop of whipped butter and a choice of real maple syrup or homemade boysenberry jam, bacon and scrambled egg on the side, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and strong Italian roast coffee.

  Paavo stepped up to the dining table after showering and then shaving with the Lady Shick she used on her legs. Luckily, she had a fresh blade for it. He looked at the feast, then glanced at her uncertainly. “Looks good enough to eat,” he said, and smiled awkwardly.

  Paavo rarely smiled. She knew he was uncomfortable, unsure of what last night had meant to her, to himself. “Don’t let it get cold!” She tried to make her voice light, then quickly sat down, knowing he was too much of a gentleman to sit while she still stood.

  He pulled out the chair across from her and busied himself with the meal. She watched him instead of eating. Time and again she’d imagined him there with her, the morning sun brightly filling the room. How did he feel? she wondered. He came last night to apologize, then to leave. Was he upset his plans had been altered, or happy? He looked up, and she quickly dropped her gaze.

  “Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

  “I am.” She grabbed the syrup and poured it on top of her waffle before she realized she’d already taken some. The waffle floated in the sticky mess.

  “Angie.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “You and I both know it’d be a hell of a lot easier if when I came over last night you were with Mark Dustman and showed me the door. But since that didn’t happen, at least not yet, we’ll take things slow.”

  “Last night wasn’t slow.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean…” Blue eyes held hers, and he couldn’t seem to find the words.

  “Going our separate ways?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You expect how I feel about you will slowly wither away?”

  Her heart skipped several beats. Then he said, “It might.”

  It hurt that he still wouldn’t accept the way she felt about him, but he’d spent a lifetime of having people he loved leave him, everyone but Aulis Kokkonen. She couldn’t demand that he change. That would only drive him further into his shell. She had to be content, at least for now.

  She ate some of her waffle, then pushed the soggy mass aside and sipped some coffee. “I’m glad I ran into you with Mark yesterday,” she said brightly. “Even though you hadn’t planned it that way.”

  “Planned it?” he replied. “I had no idea you’d been in contact with him. Or that you two had grown so chummy.”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve been working at LaTour’s, and I got to know him there. He’s pretty quiet, all in all. His dream is to be a master chef. When he told me you called him, we got the idea of making you a little jealous.”

  “Who, me?”

  “More surprising things can happen, though not many. Anyway, Mark was certainly a good sport.”

  “He seemed quite taken with his role, if you ask me. The only problem is, we didn’t get to ask him all our questions.”

  “He’s not going anywhere.” Her expression grew mischievous. “On the other hand, he might have been using me just to stop your interrogation.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding, Angie.” Or was he? What better way for Dustman to throw him off the track than to involve Angie? Would Dustman know that? And if so, why do it?

  “Anyway,” Angie said, “how did you know to find him at LaTour’s? I didn’t think word had gotten out yet that he was going to work there.”

  “Nona Farraday told me.”

  Her face turned white. “Nona! So you’re still seeing her!”

  “Not at all. She’s a good source, that’s all.”

  “Nona doesn’t know anything to help your case that you couldn’t find out from twenty other sources,” she announced. “And in particular from me.”

  “She did, though.”

  “Hah!”

  Paavo nearly laughed aloud as he thought of how irate Angie would be if she realized how much she sounded like her mother just then. “She was writing an article for Haute Cuisine about Wielund when he was killed. She couldn’t get it published, but she showed it to me.”

  “But it’s about cooking. It’s not as if Karl was killed in an eggbeater duel. What could it tell you?”

  “I’d hoped it would give some clues to his personality. But you’re right. It was about cooking, and how fanatical he was about new recipes.”

  “Hmm, that actually sounds more interesting than most things Nona writes.” She stood and began to stack their dishes. He helped carry them into the kitchen.

  “Not to me, I’m afraid. I’ve got it out in my car if you’d like to read it.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll go get it.”

  “You don’t have to make a special trip.” She picked up the jam and syrup and was carrying them into the kitchen, her head high, when he touched her arm, stopping her.

  “You don’t even realize how little there is that I can give you,” he said softly. “When I come across something like this, let me enjoy it.”

  His words made her heart twist. It wasn’t in her to think in such materialistic terms about the two of them, and probably never would be. The fact that he did still surprised and dismayed her. “All right,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”

  “And don’t touch those dishes! I’ll be right back.” He headed toward the door.

  “But Paavo,” she called, “all I was going to do was load them into my new Maytag.” She went back into the living room to sit down.

  Shortly, he returned and handed her Nona’s typed, double-spaced article. While Paavo straightened the kitchen, Angie leaned back, a fresh cup of coffee on the table in front of her, and read.

  When he came back into the living room, he saw her with the article on her lap, one finger lightly resting against her cheek, staring intently at the far wall. Silently, he sat down beside her and waited.

  “Something’s very strange here,” she said eventually.

  “Strange?”

  “From what you know about Henry LaTour and Karl Wielund, do you think the two of them could come up with the same recipe for anything s
hort of how to boil water?”

  “No.”

  She rubbed her head. “It seems they did, though.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s here, in the article. It tells how Karl was working on a recipe for filet of lamb in puff pastry before he died. It talks about what a perfectionist he was, and how secretive. How he wouldn’t let anyone see his recipes until he was completely satisfied with them. Karl never finished that particular recipe. Recently, though, Henry gave a lamb filet recipe on his radio show, and the ingredients were exactly the same as Karl’s.”

  “Can’t it be coincidence?”

  “Not when two of the ingredients are Greek olives and pine nuts. Oh, my God!” Angie gasped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll bet Chick knew!”

  A strange uneasiness was on the periphery of his subconscious, as if something she had said struck a wrong note or memory, but he said calmly, “Knew what?”

  She grabbed his hand. “That Henry stole Karl’s recipe! Janet Knight told me Chick had read Nona’s article. He’d have noticed the strange ingredients. Plus Chick always listened to Henry’s show. Said it was the best comedy on radio. He heard Henry spouting Karl’s recipe.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Angie.” But they were both remembering that, on the day he died, Chick went to see LaTour at his restaurant.

  She covered her mouth and echoed his thought. “Chick might have confronted Henry with the theft. Oh, my God! It can’t be my boss!”

  “You do know how to pick ’em,” he said wryly, his mind again sending up a faint alarm.

  “I’ll keep an eye on Henry. Observe every strange move and report to you.”

  Paavo nearly choked on his coffee. He remembered the last time she promised to “observe and report.” She could have been killed and he nearly had been; he carried the scars to prove it. “I suggest you stay away from his restaurant, just in case.”

  “I’ll consider keeping away from the restaurant, but I can’t give up the radio show.”

  “I don’t know, Angie. If Henry’s involved—”

  “But I love radio!” Then she clasped her hands, her gaze intense and her voice soft yet almost pleading. “I’m really hoping to make something of this job, you know?”

  He knew. She had brains, education, money, energy, but for whatever reason had never really clicked with a job, career, or profession that she could make a go of and devote her talents to. And until that happened for her, it was yet another reason for him to be wary of involving her in a lasting relationship. When she was uncertain about everything else in her life, could he really believe her when she said she was certain about him?

  His fingers tightened on his coffee cup. “I guess it’ll be all right. Just make sure there are always lots of others around.” At least he’d never heard of anyone being done in by a microphone.

  18

  Angie knew the janitor would let her in, even though she had no business being in LaTour’s kitchen early in the morning before anyone else was there, and sure enough he did. She’d learned her skill with janitors after a few times of forgetting a book for a homework assignment while in high school. The janitors at St. Cecilia’s were pushovers.

  Henry’s office was in a converted storeroom just off the kitchen. While she might not know what she was looking for, she had confidence she’d know it when she found it. The windowless room was dark. Without turning on the lights, she hurried across it.

  “Good morning, Angie,” Mark said, holding a large carving knife as he walked toward her from around a large cold-storage locker.

  She jumped. “You’re here early.”

  “I could say the same about you.” He reached over and flicked on the lights. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have a class to teach this afternoon. I thought I’d come by early and see if there were any notes about today’s menu, so I’d know what I could do to help prepare the food.”

  “Your dedication is most commendable, Angie.” His voice was coated with sarcasm. “Where’s your friend the cop?”

  “He’s working. I don’t think he’ll be back for some time.”

  “Good. He plays a bit rough, wouldn’t you say?”

  She patted her hair. “Not always.”

  “Ah, I see.” He opened the cooler and began to take out vegetables. “You can assist me today. I’m preparing breast of roast duck on a bed of julienne carrots, green peppers, and mushrooms.”

  “It sounds magnificent.”

  “Good. You can julienne the carrots.”

  “Cut carrots? That’s all?”

  Ignoring her, he opened a black leather two-inch-thick binder and began to write in it.

  “Oh, is that your chef’s log?” Angie asked, peering over with professional interest, but Mark gave her a suspicious glance and moved it out of her view. It seemed he was as secretive as Karl had been.

  “That’s right. I’m writing about today’s meal, saying that you helped and what you did, so that if the meal is especially successful or causes criticism, I’ll know what was different about it.”

  “How far back does that go?”

  He made a note and closed it with finality. “About a year.”

  “Before you began working for Karl?”

  “True. But there wasn’t a lot of creativity involved at the Purple Sandpiper. It was good basic fare, and I needed a job. I was new in San Francisco.”

  “Like Karl.”

  “Exactly. We came here from Paris together.”

  “So you must have known all his friends very well.”

  Dustman chuckled. “There weren’t many to know.”

  “Did you know Sheila Danning?”

  “Danning? Never heard of her.”

  Paavo was in a foul mood. Benson snickered, Calderon glared, and Rebecca looked hurt as word spread about his dragging a bellowing Angie out of Mark Dustman’s clutches two days earlier. Yosh had no business writing it in his report, and Hollins had no business talking about the report loud enough for Benson to overhear it.

  Everyone figured Angie had set it up so he’d catch her and Dustman together. The maddening part was, they were right.

  Angie finally found a chance to assuage a bit of her curiosity—in the name of culinary professionalism—and look at Dustman’s log. He went off in a huff over the poor quality of the fresh vegetables delivered to LaTour’s, saying it was no wonder Henry had used canned ones, since the so-called fresh ones Henry bought were farmers’ market discards. Henry insisted he’d spent good money for them, but Dustman refused to use them and refused to cook. Henry finally gave him the okay to buy whatever he wanted.

  “Don’t touch a thing in this kitchen!” Dustman shouted, then left.

  His log sat open on his worktable. Everyone else, including Henry, had found other things to do, far from the spot where the temperamental Dustman had been, so Angie sat down to go through the log page by page, wanting to learn all she could about how a practicing cook adjusts recipes and temperatures.

  She turned to the front, and suddenly the handwriting was Germanic script. She stared: Karl’s! These were Karl’s notes! She’d wondered what had become of them when Wielund’s was closed, although she suspected Dustman or Eileen Powell must have gotten them. It would have been a shame for a bunch of lawyers to take them. They’d either overrate the log’s value and lock it up, or underrate it and throw it away. Either way, the notes would be lost.

  She tried to read them, but they were mostly in German, French, or a combination of both. Angie knew French but only a smattering of German. Turning the pages, she was stopped by a recipe all in English. She read it over, and her mouth was watering by the time she’d finished.

  Fresh Cream Truffles

  4 oz. whipping cream

  1 vanilla pod

  1 egg yolk

  4 Tbsp. coarse granulated sugar

  5 oz. Valrona chocolate, broken into bits, plus 4 oz. for coating

 
; 1 oz. unsalted butter

  1 Tbsp. Grand Marnier

  pure cocoa powder

  1 tsp. polyunsaturated oil

  Boil cream with split vanilla pod. Remove from heat and remove pod. Beat egg yolk with sugar until thick. Add to cream. Heat through, whisking continuously, and being careful not to boil. Remove from heat. To hot mixture, add 5 oz. chocolate and blend well. Refrigerate for ½-hour, until set but not hard, then beat in softened butter and liqueur. Put into a piping bag and pipe little balls onto plate or foil. Refrigerate until hard (about 2 hours). Melt remaining chocolate. Using two toothpicks, dip each truffle into the melted chocolate, coat on all sides, then roll in cocoa powder. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

  911,394.

  What? She read over the end of the recipe once more. It sounded delicious and complete, but what in the world did the number at the bottom of the page mean? Nine-one-one…

  Emergency! She remembered—the films Paavo had in his briefcase. Of course. Was it the same as one of those numbers?

  She copied down the number. Could it be another Sheila Danning film? Why would Karl write it down on this recipe? Should someone take a look at it?

  She could tell Paavo about it, and he could tell the Berkeley PD.

  On the other hand, she probably could get back inside the studio without much trouble. She’d done it once and no one bothered her. It wasn’t as if the place was dangerous or anything.

  But then, Sheila Danning was dead. And the people at the film studio admitted knowing her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Angie jumped a mile as Mark Dustman’s voice boomed out at her. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t even heard him come back in. “Nothing.” She shut the log and stood.

  Dustman’s jaw twitched. “So you found my little secret.”

  Karl’s recipes. “I don’t suppose you told his family about them,” she said.