by Joanne Pence
Earl's eyebrows rose. “Geez, t’at’s a bad break. I’m sure sorry to hear it. But you’ll find anot’er place, I’m sure. An’ you still got your caterer, right? That Maurice guy? I shoulda known you’d get somebody big an’ popular like him to cook for your weddin’. My mouth waters jus’ t’inkin’ about it. An’ t’ank you for the invite. Me, Butch, and Vinnie ain’t never been to a fancy shindig like you’re puttin’ on. We appreciate you t’inkin’ of us.”
“Of course, I’d invite you guys. I love you!”
“We love you, too, Miss Angie.” He then blushed.
“Thank you. But the problem is, I've phoned a bunch of places, and every other venue that could hold three-hundred people at a sit-down dinner is booked up. I have no idea what to do.”
“I wish our place was bigger. You coulda used it for free. But only about”—he looked over the six tables—“t’irty or so people could fit here. But if t’ere's anyt’ing we can do ...”
She glanced over the empty dining area, a small, cozy room with wood-stained walls and big, round, white light fixtures. When Wings of an Angel first opened, she’d helped make it inviting by putting up pretty lace curtains and having the owners replace gray Formica tables and aluminum chairs with wooden ones. She also remembered the first time she came in here. She’d being drawn to the restaurant because of its lovely, ethereal name. Then she learned the ex-cons named it after an old song that was dear to them—one in which the singer said if he had the wings of an angel, he’d fly over the prison walls surrounding him.
So much for her romantic thoughts about its name.
“I know you’d like to help, Earl. Thank you.”
As Earl stood to leave Angie to her food, Richie Amalfi sauntered into the restaurant.
Angie’s father and Richie’s were brothers, but Richie’s life had been very different from Angie’s privileged one. His father was killed when he was quite young, and he was an only child, raised by his mother, Carmela, who had never remarried. Then, four years earlier, his fiancée died in an auto accident. That sent him on a downhill spiral, drinking too much, eating all the wrong foods, and generally not taking care of himself at all until friends and family somehow managed to pull him out of it.
He was now nearing forty and was, to Angie’s eye, quite handsome with black hair, soulful brown eyes, and standing fit and trim after straightening out his diet and exercising. On top of that, he was always impeccably dressed, sharing Angie’s appreciation for good clothes and Italian shoes. She could tell from the cut that his gray sports coat was an Armani. With it, he wore a light blue shirt, no tie, black slacks, and buttery-soft black leather loafers.
He treated Angie as if she were the little sister he never had, and she loved him without reservation. But to many others, he seemed a bit shady—probably because no one knew exactly how he made his money.
He was often Angie’s go-to guy when she needed something “fixed”—and she didn’t mean mechanically. Richie always seemed to “know a guy who knows a guy” to take care of problems. Normally, she would have called him for help, the way she did about getting on La Maison Belle’s calendar. But Angie feared that, this time, not even Cousin Richie’s magic could help her out. Still, she couldn’t help but smile and even feel a little relief to see him coming towards her.
“’Ey Richie,” Earl said as the two shook hands.
“Good to see you, Earl. How about a glass of chianti and a menu while I see what’s up with my glum cousin?”
“Good luck,” Earl muttered as he scurried away.
Richie and Angie exchanged quick kisses on the cheek, then he sat at her table. “I just heard. I’m so sorry, Angie.” He eyed her food. “That looks good.”
“Here.” She slid her plate towards him. “I can’t eat.”
Earl brought him silverware and sour-dough bread along with his wine, and kept the menu.
“Thanks, Earl,” Richie said, then faced Angie again. “So, tell me what’s going on.”
As he ate, Angie gave him a quick run-down of her past few days, beginning with meeting Bridezilla.
“So now,” Richie said, twirling spaghetti onto his fork, “if Homicide can figure out who the murderer is, your wedding is back on track?”
She nodded. “I understand all that’s needed is for them to declare the venue no longer a crime scene, and it’s mine.”
“But if they can’t …” He shook his head. “My club is big enough, but it’s booked for late afternoon and early evening by a big fund-raiser for new equipment for the cancer wing at Children’s Hospital. It’s not like I can toss them.”
“No—and I wouldn’t want you to. What I want, what I’ve always wanted, is La Belle Maison. Oh—John Lodano wants to make sure you know it’s not his fault that I might not get it. What’s that all about, Richie?”
“Nothing! He’s a friend, that’s all.”
She couldn’t help but wonder.
He asked, “I understand Rebec—, uh, Inspector Mayfield, is in charge of the case?”
Angie’s eyes narrowed. Something about the way he said Rebecca’s name was different. “That’s right.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Did you know that your mother told my mother that you and Rebecca Mayfield were getting a bit chummy?”
He smiled, then gave a “who cares?” shrug. His smile, however, never reached his eyes. It vanished completely as he said, “Yeah, well, that was a while ago. We’re completely opposite in everything. I mean, everything. She’s a cop, for one thing.”
Angie wasn’t buying it. “You can charm the pants off anyone, and you know it.”
He looked stunned. “Uh, not the Inspector.”
Angie reddened. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way! It was just a figure of speech.”
Richie leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “It’s okay, little cousin. Don’t worry about Mayfield and me. We’re just friends. But friends is good. I’ll see what I can find out. Do you know the bride’s name?”
“Yes. Taylor Redmun.”
From the open kitchen door came owner Vinnie Freiman’s voice. “Taylor?”
Angie and Richie glanced at each other, realizing Vinnie—and probably Earl and Butch, the third owner—had been listening to their conversation.
“That’s what she said,” Richie called. “Why?”
Vinnie shuffled towards them. He was no taller than Earl, and equally stocky. He wore no toupee, but was bald. The bags under his eyes had bags, making him look perpetually exhausted. “I wasn’t listenin’. Swear. I was passin’ by when I heard the name.”
“And?” Richie asked.
Vinnie gulped. “She useta come here all the time. She baked the chocolate torte we useta sell for dessert. But mosta the money she made sellin’ them to us went to food and wine. After a while, she stopped bakin’ tortes, but still came by to eat and drink. She was always sayin’ the cakes would be comin’ soon. But they never did, and when she owed us over two-Cs in chocolate cake, we cut her off.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not much. The dame could turn on the charm when she wanted to, but mostly she was a cold fish. Yolanda at the Blue Velvet Pub down on Columbus could tell you better’n me. She’s a cocktail waitress, and she and Taylor were tight. Taylor worked there, too, for a while. Heard she got booted for snortin’ too much nose candy. Maybe true, maybe not. Anyhow, we thought she’d pay us for the dinners we gave her. But she never did, the mooch.”
“Thanks, Vinnie.” Richie said, then faced Angie. “How’d you like a Brandy Alexander?”
She raised her eyebrows, then smiled. “I know just the place to get one.”
With that, the two cousins left.
o0o
Benny Simms stood on the street in front of the apartment building he was supposed to manage. If he’d known what it was like to live there, he’d have demanded that the city not only give him rent, but pay him besides. As it was now, he pretended to manage the place, and the city pretended to value him for his jo
b.
He watched as the police van drove away with the bride. His bride. Then he hurried into the building to his studio apartment.
In it, he had three prized possessions: a TV, a computer, and a printer—a laser so he didn’t have to keep ripping off Staples to buy ink cartridges. Those toners lasted forever.
Other than that, the apartment was filled with papers, magazines, used wrappings from fast-food joints, and he wasn’t even sure what else. Probably the rats knew better than he did. He had to fight them for space on his sofa and bed. Every so often, he’d get sick of the mess and throw everything into a black garbage bag, but right now, he was glad that feeling hadn’t come over him for at least two or three months. Maybe longer.
Eventually he found the papers he was looking for—a stack of wedding announcements printed off the San Francisco Chronicle's “Union Squared” online site—a name most likely only appreciated, with a pun only understood, by residents in or around the city. It was cute.
Cute things were stupid.
Weddings were stupid. And brides were the dumbest of all.
Ever since he’d heard that the homicide detective in charge of figuring out who or what had killed Shawnita was getting married this weekend, he’d been pissed. The damned cop took away Shawnita, and now he expected to go running off with his own bride to spend a happy honeymoon. Where was the justice in that?
Simms had come to love Shawnita over the months they’d been together in their special place in the basement. He could talk to her, and although he knew she was dead—he wasn’t crazy—he could also feel her spirit near him, understanding him like no one ever had. He knew she had come to love him the way he did her.
And now, that piece of crap detective was sending her to a morgue where she’d be sliced up like a dead animal.
He looked at the card the man had given him: Paavo Smith. Then he turned to the wedding announcements.
Wedding announcements had interested him long before he met Shawnita. Plastic smiles on faces looking into the camera. Most of them somehow managed to show expressions filled with hope for a bright future—a future that everyone knew was a farce. And bright? Hah. He liked to look at the announcements and laugh at all the stupid people in them.
Stupid people made him sick. The world would be better off without them.
Shawnita had been lucky. She’d never made it to the altar, so she didn’t have to go through with the whole wedding charade, a charade that ended in more misery than anyone should have to bear. Joy was fleeting, only sorrow stayed, crushing a person under its weight.
He had never married. He was too smart for that.
One by one, he went through the announcements until he found the one he sought: Amalfi-Smith.
He studied the photo and the write-up, especially the image of the bride. Angelina Amalfi. Then, he smiled.
She would have been a gorgeous bride, he thought. He looked for the date of the marriage to confirm it was this coming Saturday. It was, which meant he had time. Not a lot, but enough. First, he needed to find out where she lived.
He thought about the storage room that was now empty. Soon, it would be filled once again with love. Come to think of it, this new bride was a lot prettier than the old one.
The cop should thank him for what he was about to do, and would. In time.
Chapter 8
Thursday, 5 p.m. – 1 day 22 hours before the wedding
Angie felt really good after she and Cousin Richie found Taylor’s former friend and had a long talk with her. She went straight to Homicide to tell Paavo everything she’d learned about Taylor Redmun, but he wasn’t there. Instead, Inspector Calderon told her Paavo was busy working on a murder case for—of all people—Rebecca Mayfield. God, but that woman was a thorn in her side.
And it wasn’t even Taylor Redmun’s murder he was working on.
She phoned him. He sounded really busy, so they planned to meet later. Her information about Bridezilla could wait until they were face-to-face. She knew he’d be irritated that she and Richie had gone off to talk to anyone about it, and it might be better to break that news to him other than over the phone.
She told herself to relax. This was the life she’d chosen. To be the wife of a homicide inspector meant that her husband’s hours would be crazy, that they’d make plans but if someone was murdered, Paavo might well need to cancel those plans. His work, his cases, and the need to catch the killer so that the victim would have justice, would always be a priority for him.
That’s what made him who he was, and what made him the man she loved.
At times, she could hardly believe that after so much time being in love with Paavo and knowing he was worried about marrying her—worrying that he wasn't right for her, that she had led a life that had made her too spoiled and too pampered to ever put up with his hours, his cases, and his bad moods when the cases were going nowhere and he felt unequal to the task of solving them—that their wedding day was almost here.
To his surprise, and frankly to hers, a number of things happened that showed him just how tough she could be, including her saving his life more than once. He had finally come to believe the two of them were meant for each other, were meant to be together, and that he needed her in his life—maybe even as much as she needed him in hers.
She was feeling a little better about the chance of having her wedding reception at La Belle Maison, but decided to continue to attempt to find a back-up location. She knew her sisters were working on finding one as well, but so far they were having no luck.
She was about to try a third location, this one all the way out in Fairfax in Marin County—she was truly desperate—when her phone rang.
It was Wholly Matrimony, her caterer’s business. She had put in a call to Chef Maurice to let him know they might have a change in venue, and had expected him to call her earlier that day. But, better late than never, as they say.
“Hello!” she said in her most cheery voice.
“Miss Amalfi?” It wasn’t Chef Maurice, but a woman.
“Yes.”
“This is Linda Withers. I’m Chef Maurice’s assistant and business manager.” Something about the tone of the woman’s voice gave Angie a bad feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. “I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”
No, no, no! Angie thought, but only spoke a very soft, “Yes?”
After a moment, Ms. Withers continued. “I’m sorry to say, Chef Maurice isn’t here. I don’t think he’ll return by tomorrow night for your dinner on the cruise.”
When she stopped speaking, Angie croaked out, “But he’ll be back for Saturday’s reception dinner.”
“Well …”
“What are you trying to tell me? Of course, he’ll be back! I have three-hundred people expecting to eat a fancy French meal! Where the hell is he?”
“Miss Amalfi, I’m sorry. The truth is, we don’t know where he is.”
“You don’t know? You mean he’s missing? Have you contacted Missing Persons? The press? Put out an Amber Alert or whatever it is they do when an adult is missing? What have you done to find him? I’ll call my fiancé. He’ll get the right people to help you. This is terrible! He might be in awful danger.”
“Wait, please, it’s not what you’re thinking.” Angie heard her sniffle and then draw in her breath. “You see, our business hasn’t been doing very well. We have creditors. Lots of them. We don’t have the customer base we once did as more and more young people are going for all kinds of strange foods these days—raw, vegan, tofu-laced—not good, rich, calorie-filled, sauce-enhanced French cuisine. As a result, I think, I mean, it’s just a guess mind you, but it’s a good guess …”
A sinking feeling struck; Angie feared she knew where this was going. “Out with it.”
“He’s absconded with what little money we had left. He disappeared. I think the check your father gave him to pay for the reception dinner—I mean, a fancy French meal plus wines for three hundred people, not to mention the Frida
y night meal—was simply too much temptation. He took the money and ran.”
“No!”
“So it appears.”
Angie suddenly felt so dizzy she feared she’d topple off the sofa. “But you’ve worked with him,” she croaked. “You know how to cook his meals. And your kitchen staff is still there to help. You can put on the dinner. It might not be as perfect as Chef Maurice would have made it, but it’ll be delicious, I’m sure.”
“You haven’t quite understood everything I’ve said.” Withers sounded on the verge of tears. “We have no money left. No money to pay me or the staff for the work we’ve already done last week for a different wedding reception. No money to buy the food or the wine, let alone to pay for the time of the sous chefs, dishwashers, waiters or anything else.”
“You’ve got my father’s money!” Angie wailed. “You can’t do this to me.”
“I’m so sorry.” Withers sounded as if her heart was broken. “But as of today, there’s no longer any such thing as Wholly Matrimony.”
o0o
Angie tried phoning the Never Sea-Sick Cruise and Events Charter, but kept getting an answering machine. Finally, desperate, she went down to the pier where the cruise boats were kept. She found the office, a small, one story, flat-roofed building. The door to it was locked.
She looked around, and then watched as a boat sailed away with a group of happy people on it.
Tomorrow night, her and her wedding party would sail off that way—thank God! At least charter boats were stable in this crazy world. Ironically, they made some people sea-sick.
And then, as she suspected might be the case, once the boat left the pier, a man and woman walked towards the office.
Angie ran up to them, explained who she was and that they needed to talk. One of them was Jessica Lenz, the cruise director she had spoken to on the phone a number of times. Jessica invited her inside.
The interior of the small building was decorated to look like the interior of a cabin cruiser, with wood paneling on the walls and ceiling, wooden planks on the floor, and a stuffed and mounted swordfish, ropes, tackle, and ocean scene artwork filling the walls.
