16 Cook's Big Day

by Joanne Pence

  Here’s a Taste of Some of the Praise for

  Joanne Pence’s Angie Amalfi Mysteries

  "...the humor, the wit and the satisfying twists of this romantic tale... just the right measures of intrigue, danger, jealousy and warmth."

  —The Time Machine

  "A tasty treat for all mystery and suspense lovers who like food for thought, murder and a stab at romance."

  —The Armchair Detective

  "Joanne Pence is a master chef."

  —Mystery Scene

  "Singularly unusual characters...fervently funny."

  —The Mystery Reader

  "Pence can satisfy the taste buds of the most skeptical mystery reader."

  —Literary Times

  "Angie Amalfi is the queen of the culinary sleuths."

  —RT Book Club

  "A winner...Angie is a character unlike any other in the genre."

  —Santa Rosa Press Democrat

  "A wicked flair for light humor...a delightful reading concoction."

  —Gothic Journal

  "Another terrific book...a bit of Lucille Ball and the Streets of San Francisco"

  —Tales From a Red Herring

  "Murder couldn't be served up in a more delicious manner."

  —The Paperback Forum

  Cook’s Big Day

  An Angie Amalfi Mystery

  JOANNE PENCE

  QUAIL HILL PUBLISHING

  Chapter 1

  Monday, 1 p.m. - 5 days, 2 hours before the wedding

  Angelina Amalfi felt as if she were walking on air as she entered the ballroom of La Belle Maison, the premier wedding reception location in San Francisco. Once a mansion located partway up the northeast slope of Telegraph Hill, the home had been renovated some years earlier into an events venue. While the main floor held an elegant reception area with sofas and arms chairs, a commercial kitchen, and staff offices, the entire upper floor had been converted into a large, opulent ballroom with crystal chandeliers and gold sconces.

  Picture windows faced north and east, commanding a view of San Francisco Bay from Alcatraz Island to the Bay Bridge. White-cloth covered tables circled the dance floor.

  It was Monday afternoon, and that coming Saturday Angie’s long-awaited wedding would take place—the date that she and everyone who knew her had come to think of as her Big Day.

  With Angie was Sally Lankowitz, La Belle Maison’s events coordinator. She had the privilege—her word—to see to it that the wedding reception went exactly the way Angie hoped it would, from the meal to the placement of the wedding cake, to the band, the music, the dancing, the photographers, and the timing of each important step along the way. She was a pleasant woman with over-sized red-framed glasses that perched on a stubby nose and covered a round, ruddy-cheeked face. Her brown hair was short and curly, and she wore a simple cotton print dress with sensibly short, squat heels. And no wedding ring.

  Angie had toured the facility and met with Sally a few months earlier when she first contracted with La Belle Maison to hold her wedding reception. But now everything felt more real, as if it were actually going to happen. Her Big Day was unimaginably close.

  “This room is going to look simply beautiful,” Sally gushed, holding her arms out, hands raised as she walked to the center of the large space and turned all the way around. Angie’s eyes followed where Sally’s hands led. “I do love the soft rose color you chose. It's so feminine, it will make you stand out even more with your dark hair and snow white dress. You’ll be like a china doll.”

  “Thank you.” Angie guessed that was a compliment. She was short, only five-two, and being likened to any kind of “doll” didn’t sit well.

  “Now,” Sally said, with a momentary clasping of her hands, “let’s talk about your wedding cake. I’m sure it will be gorgeous, so I suggest that you—”

  “There you are!” A woman's harsh, shrill voice called.

  Angie turned to see a young woman storming towards them. She was tall, with long, wavy blond hair, and wore a tight black suit with a short skirt. The heels on her black shoes were at least four-inches high.

  Angie stood a little straighter.

  “Oh, Ms. Redmun,” Sally said. She didn’t sound happy. “I don’t believe we have an appointment.”

  “I don't need an appointment for this. I only have a couple of quick issues.” Ms. Redmun flicked a lock of highlighted dirty blonde hair off her brow as she glanced at Angie. She was attractive and appeared to be in her mid-to-late twenties. “Do you work here as well?”

  “No,” Angie said. “My wedding reception will be held here Saturday.”

  “Oh. Nice.” Her tone was dismissive. “My entire wedding will be held here Wednesday evening. An evening soiree will allow us to use the deck as long as Ms. Officious here”—she waggled her thumb at Sally—“can understand my simple request.”

  Sally looked taken aback. “Excuse me—”

  “Wednesday?” Angie asked. “Your wedding is on a Wednesday?”

  “Yes, because—”

  Sally interrupted. “Let me introduce the two of you. Angie Amalfi, Taylor Redmun. Now, Taylor, I'll be done with Angie in just a little while. She does, after all, have an appointment. If you'd like to wait in the waiting room, Laurie will get you some coffee.” Angie’s antennae rose even higher. Sally had always been all but cloyingly courteous to her.

  “No need. I'll just wait here.” Taylor folded her arms and glared at them both.

  Sally again faced Angie. “As I was saying, you probably want to have your cake on the north side of the room. From the windows, there's a beautiful view of the bay, which makes a lovely backdrop for photos of the cake cutting ceremony.”

  “I see,” Angie murmured. She wanted to pinch herself that soon she would actually be the bride cutting a wedding cake. “That sounds lovely.”

  “I'm having mine put on the south wall,” Taylor loudly announced. “How good can any photos be with glare from the windows ruining everything? I’ve learned from my camera people in Hollywood that that’s a no-no. I mean, really.”

  Her words caught Sally’s attention. “I don’t believe we have the furniture set-up for your wedding marked that way.”

  “I know.” Taylor strolled closer to Sally, hands on hips. She abruptly turned her back on the events coordinator and perused the room but continued to speak. “It's one of the few little things I wanted to tell you. In fact, I have no idea why any bride would want to have her cake on the north wall. The more I thought about it, the more I knew you were wrong to suggest it.”

  Sally's cheeks turned red. “I see, well, we’ll discuss it later.” As she glanced at Angie, her brown eyes seemed smaller than ever behind her large eyeglass frames. “Now, Angie, where were we? The cake, there, by the windows?”

  “Well,” Angie murmured. “Maybe by that south wall is a better idea.”

  “The glare is slight, and has never been a problem, I assure you. The south side of the room has the staircase. The cake makes a much better presentation as the guests come up the stairs if it’s at the opposite end of the space,” Sally said, her voice getting higher with each word.

  “What’s more important?” Taylor asked. “A moment’s presentation or a lifetime of great photographs? Also, I want my DJ to be on the west wall. No sense him being on the east and blocking the view from the windows.”

  “But the plumbing for the ice machine and refrigeration for the wet bar are on the west wall,” Sally said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Taylor all but sneered at Sally. “I’d like the wet bar on the east wall, and my DJ, who will be playing my personal playlist, over there on the west.”

  Sally looked increasingly distraught. “The wires for the speakers are on the east
wall.”

  “I wonder if I want my band in front of the windows,” Angie murmured.

  Sally twirled her way. “But as I was saying, the wires—”

  Taylor glared at her, lips pursed. “For crying out loud. Bar on east, DJ on the west, cake on the south. Sheesh.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Her hair was thick, long and stylishly wavy, falling well below her shoulders. “It's hardly brain surgery!”

  “I wonder if that would work out better,” Angie said, fingers to chin.

  Sally, her face pinched and tight, turned to Angie. “Only if you want your wet bar to have no ice or refrigeration, the wires for the speakers going across the middle of the dance floor, and your cake shoved in a space where people entering the reception are milling around and it will hardly be seen.”

  “I don't have a band!” Taylor harrumphed. “You know that!”

  “I was talking to Miss Amalfi.” Sally sounded more desperate with each word.

  “Why would you be talking to her?” Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “I'm telling you what I want for my reception, and she's just standing there looking like a potted plant.”

  “A potted plant?” Angie gasped. “I'm the one with the appointment! Who do you think you are, taking over my reception planning?”

  “Well, for one thing, you've got a whole week. I only have two days, and this so-called wedding ‘assistant’ has been anything but helpful. I have to do all the thinking myself.”

  “I'm sorry, Taylor.” Sally looked on the verge of tears. “I'm trying to help you, but you keep making changes.”

  “I do not make changes on a whim. I come up with enhancements—to do the job, in other words, that you aren't capable of doing!”

  Sally gaped, speechless, tears welling in her eyes.

  Angie spun towards Taylor. “Will you please butt out? You’re doing nothing but upsetting Sally, confusing me, and mucking up this entire process.”

  Taylor loomed over her. “Why are you so pushy? I've only got a couple of changes and then I'm out of here!”

  Angie put her hands on her hips. “I’m pushy? I don’t think so. If you’d kept your bossy-pants mouth shut, I would have been finished by now.”

  “Bossy-pants? What kind of infantile word is that?”

  “If you prefer a more adult word that starts with a ‘b,’ I’ll certainly use it,” Angie said.

  “Sally, I demand you do something about this creature,” Taylor said. “I'm an important person. I don't have time for this.”

  Angie was not a violent person, but it was all she could do not to slap the woman. “Important in your own mind, maybe. But sure as hell not in anyone else's.”

  Taylor raised her chin. “I'll have you know, I'm going to be in a movie.”

  “What movie? Bridezilla?”

  “Why you little slut!”

  “Stop!” Sally screamed. “I can't take it anymore! I can't take the orders, the bickering, the mind changing, the disappointment. The fact that not one of you ever thinks about me.” She burst into tears. “I'm here trying to help, and all I get is criticism. You make me sick. Every last one of you.”

  With that, she turned and ran from the room, leaving Angie and Taylor both slack-jawed in the large empty space.

  o0o

  He looked at the bride and smiled. His bride.

  She was beautiful, and everything a bride should be. She wore a white dress with seed pearls and lace, a white veil over her face. White satin shoes, white elbow-length gloves.

  Perfect.

  She lay on her back on the bed, and he lifted the veil off her face just as he would have done on their wedding day. He leaned near and pressed his lips to hers, then lightly ran his hand over her neck, her shoulders, and along the front of her dress to her small waist. He loved her; he wanted her.

  He took hold of the hem of her dress and slid his hand under it along her calf, moving upward. But then he stopped and stood up straight.

  He didn't care for the bright red lipstick she was wearing. He found a tissue and wiped it off, then looked over the lipstick shades in the knapsack he carried and found a soft pink. Carefully, he covered her full lips with color. Much better. Kissable.

  At the thought, he bent forward and kissed her again, much longer this time. He only wished her mouth under his was soft instead of hard and dry; warm instead of cold. But none of that mattered. He crawled onto the bed beside her, circled her with his arms, and slid his fingers under the neckline of the dress, just below her collarbone, then inched lower.

  He heard a noise and stopped.

  He was in a storeroom in the basement of an old, run-down apartment building. The room had been filled with ugly furniture abandoned years before. He moved it all out when he moved his bride in. He also brought in their matrimonial bed, a chair and a lamp. The only window, high on the wall, was at street level when viewed from the outside. It was small, awning-style, and opened by turning the latch and pulling it inward. He had painted it black and nailed it shut. But now, someone was pushing it open.

  He froze.

  Two teenage boys peered through the window and met his eyes. Their mouths dropped open in shock, but their shock turned to horror as they took in the scene before them. With shrieks and cries, they backed away and ran.

  He jumped off the bed. “Wait!” he yelled as he climbed onto the chair to look out the window. “Come back here!”

  But the boys were gone.

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday, 9 p.m. – 2 days, 18 hours before the wedding

  Wednesday nights were usually quiet in Homicide, so even though San Francisco Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield and her partner, Inspector Bill Sutter, were the on-call detectives that week, she had gone home early.

  Now, she sat in her two-room apartment in her pajamas, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, and her ten-pound Chinese Crested Hairless/Chihuahua mix at her side. She was shedding tears over a weepy old romance from Netflix when her cell phone began to buzz.

  Homicide’s dispatcher gave her an address.

  She dried her eyes and went into the bedroom to get dressed. The last thing she wanted to do was to look at a dead body, but it was her job. Thirty minutes later she wended her way up the narrow, twisting roads of Telegraph Hill. Police cars told her she had reached the crime scene, but she was surprised by the location, nonetheless.

  The two-story building looked as if it had once been a large, luxurious home, but now a discrete chiseled stone plaque near the door read “La Belle Maison.”

  As Rebecca showed her credentials to the uniformed SFPD officer guarding the front door, another officer approached. “Inspector Mayfield?” he asked.

  At her nod, he gave his name, Carl Beamer, and explained that he and his partner were first on the scene after 9-1-1 reported a number of calls from a party at the location.

  Rebecca entered the ornate establishment with Officer Beamer. “The victim’s up there,” Beamer said, pointing to the wide-curving staircase to the left of the foyer. “We stopped everyone from leaving and moved them into the living room, or whatever it is, to clear the crime scene. They want to go home and are getting pretty upset.”

  She nodded and glanced in the direction Beamer indicated, to a room with a marble fireplace, sofas and chairs, and a several pockets of nicely dressed people huddled together.

  The way they glared at her, upset wasn't the word she'd have used. Ready to riot was more likely.

  Near her was a coat and hat check area, and beyond it, a hallway.

  “Down the hall,” Beamer said, “are some offices. We put the victim’s family in there for privacy.”

  She nodded, and decided to take a quick walk through the ground floor before going up to see the body. Rebecca had learned that was a good operating practice. She had seen a few situations where a homicide cop made a bonehead assumption about a crime, and even destroyed some potential evidence, simply because he hadn't taken a moment to look over the location beyond the exact spot where the bo
dy was found.

  Where a dining room most likely once stood, large, well-appointed men’s and women's restrooms had been built, and beyond them was a small service elevator.

  Last of all, she entered the kitchen, a stainless steel wonderland of appliances, from enormous Sub-zero refrigerators, to commercial grade stoves. It had large, deep sinks, stainless steel countertops, pots, pans, bowls, and enough cutting implements to make a knife thrower in a circus happy. A door led from the kitchen to an enclosed porch, and then out to a back alley lined with garbage cans and a dumpster.

  “Time to head upstairs,” she said to Beamer.

  Reaching the ballroom, she saw a cluster of police to one side near the back, and assumed that was the location of the victim. In the center, looking rather lonely in the large space, Rebecca counted four round tables with six place settings at each, and a dance floor. The decorations were white, with white flowers and white bells. They gave her a bad feeling about just what kind of a “party” this might have been.

  On one wall, a portable bar had been set up, and on the opposite wall, a station for a DJ.

  As she approached the cluster of police officers, they stepped aside so she could see the victim.

  She gasped.

  Not only had no one told her the party was a wedding reception, no one had said that the victim was the bride.

  The bride lay sprawled atop the table, face down in the wedding cake. The table was oblong, the cake in the middle. She looked as if she had stood at one end of the table and toppled forward onto the cake. Her feet dangled in the air.

  Blood, lots of blood, oozed from a chef’s knife protruding from her back. Blood saturated her dress, the table cloth, and dripped onto the floor.

  “Oh, my,” Rebecca gasped. She had seen plenty of dead bodies, but something about the bride got to her. “Her name?”

  “Taylor Redmun,” Beamer replied. “Or, I guess, Taylor Redmun-Blythe since the wedding ceremony had taken place before this happened.”