16 Cook's Big Day

by Joanne Pence

  “I know I told you that I didn't need your company to cater my dinner tomorrow night,” Angie said, as they sat in Jessica’s office. “But something terrible has happened.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” The director’s words were brusque. She was a large woman, fair, with a drooping eye and her whitish blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked and sounded irritated.

  “Yes.” Angie gulped. “Well, you see, the company I had hired to cater the dinner seems to have folded. They aren’t available.”

  Jessica’s pale eyebrows lifted.

  “I’m going to have thirty people at the dinner.” Angie's voice rose higher. “Thirty hungry people. I was hoping your staff could help.”

  “My staff? On a Friday night?” She all but laughed. “We told everyone involved with food preparation that they wouldn't be needed. I know a number of them, if not all, have found other jobs. And to prepare a special meal, which I expect you want, requires time.”

  “I know, but I'm desperate. I need to feed them something. Anything!”

  Jessica folded her arms, and thought a long moment. “I could try, but I warn you, it would only be a skeleton crew, and probably not our best people. The only thing we could serve on such short notice is roasted chicken.”

  “Chicken?” Visions of typical big dinner rubber chicken flashed across Angie's mind. “Please, something else.”

  “And, even serving chicken, there'll have to be a twenty-percent surcharge for the extra work of trying to find people who can roast the chicken, and serve with it mashed potatoes and succotash.”

  “Succo—” Angie was hyperventilating too much to finish the word. She hated the nasty little lima beans and flavorless everything else in succotash. This was a disaster, a complete disaster. If Chef Maurice hadn’t vanished, she would murder him for what he was doing to her wedding.

  “Can we work out something—”

  “Take it or leave it. I mean, it’ll be all I can do to find people to serve and know how to do more than boil water.”

  Angie shut her eyes, and tried to think.

  “Well, if you don’t want that, you can always buy thirty Happy Meals.” At that, Jessica burst into laughter.

  Angie gaped. What was wrong with the woman? She was tempted to walk out and tell her where she could put the thirty Happy Meals. But instead she swallowed her pride and her good taste, and said, “I'll take it.”

  o0o

  Benny Simms watched the attractive, petite woman walk towards her Mercedes. Once he had her name, it was easy to use the Internet to find where she lived. She was even kind enough to post some pictures outside her apartment on Facebook. He was there, sitting in his 1988 Toyota, looking at her building and trying to think of how to get inside her apartment, when who should come zipping out of the garage in a shiny new Mercedes, but Angelina Amalfi herself.

  He followed her.

  She drove as if she were a woman possessed, and then stood alone on a pier, clearly unhappy until she and a Valkyrie went into the office.

  He got out of his car and waited behind a telephone pole for her to return to her Mercedes. This, he thought, was a good time and place to grab her, to put her out of her wedding-induced misery. He reached back to touch the hilt of the knife he had stuck in his back pocket.

  Finally, he saw her. She walked fiercely, with purpose. He loved seeing her that way—her fire, her passion. He saw her take out a remote and click it to unlock the driver’s door and even to start the engine. That was when he knew he had to hurry. He quickly realized she wasn’t one to spend time looking in her visor’s vanity mirror to check her make-up, or to carefully fasten her seatbelt so as not to wrinkle her clothes, or to do heaven only knew what else many women did, all the while leaving their driver’s side door wide open.

  In fact, as he neared, she was already in the car and grasping the handle to shut the door.

  He reached out to stop it from closing. But she was stronger than he thought. Without missing a beat, she pulled hard and the door swung shut.

  The tips of his first and second fingers got caught between the door and the frame of the car as it closed. He managed to yank them free before they became a bloody, flattened mess. They hurt like hell nonetheless as tears coursed down his unshaven cheeks.

  He stood dumbfounded, his two fingers in his mouth as, oblivious to him, to his cry of pain, to the fact that he was standing right next to her car, she took off like a shot.

  What could she possibly have been thinking about?

  Chapter 9

  Thursday, 8 p.m. – 1 day, 19 hours before the wedding

  Eight o’clock at night Homicide was empty except for Rebecca going through her computer to compare the stories told to her by members of the Redmun-Blythe wedding party. She heard footsteps on the tile floor and looked up.

  Richie Amalfi strutted into the room. He always strutted or swaggered or sauntered. She hated that.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he said with a smile.

  This means trouble, she thought, but also noticed that he looked good. Damn good. She hated that reaction to him. The other inspectors in Homicide warned her to stay away from him. He wasn’t to be trusted, they said. He could be into something illegal, they said. Even Paavo admitted he didn’t really know what to make of Angie’s cousin.

  “Could this day get any worse?” she asked, frowning heavily. “Why, yes. It just did. What brings you here, Richie?”

  His smile broadened as he sat down by her desk. “Rebecca Rulebook. You do know how to charm.” He turned his phone towards her and showed a photo of Angie sitting in a bar. “I came to show you this.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked. She also hated when he called her Rebecca Rulebook. What did she like about him? Hmm … nothing.

  “Not Angie, the woman behind her. Yolanda Herrera. She was friends with Taylor Redmun. They worked together at the Blue Velvet Pub on Columbus. She had a lot to say to us.”

  Outraged, Rebecca stood. “You went nosing around my murder investigation?”

  He took her hand and tugged on it as if to pull her down to her chair again. Despite everything, something about his touch stirred her.

  “Sit.” His voice was smooth as warm butter. She pulled her hand free and continued to glare at him.

  “I wasn’t nosing around anything.” He leaned back in the chair. “I was talking to Angie and learned she knows a guy who knew Taylor and Yolanda. She wanted to talk to Yolanda so, being a good cousin, I went along. Who knew what she might be walking into? And I knew that if she found out anything, it wasn’t too likely she’d come visit you with the news.”

  His eyes were dark, his lids heavy, and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, they always drew her in. She sucked in her breath and sat down once again in her chair. “So, what’s this news you brought me? I take it I’m supposed to be overjoyed, right?”

  He smirked. “You just might be.”

  She would have loved to wipe that smirk right off his face.

  “Taylor liked to put on airs,” he began. “But she was going nowhere but downhill, and fast. She liked snorting coke, even lost her job at the Blue Velvet because of it. But then she met Leland Blythe—steady job, nice guy, and absolutely head over heels that a woman who looked like Taylor, and with dreams of becoming a movie star, should have any interest in him whatsoever. She wanted to move in with him, to let him support her. But to her amazement, he actually wanted to marry her.”

  “So she found a sap, big deal.” Rebecca folded her arms, still managing to frown at him.

  “Around the same time, she heard about a part in a movie being filmed in the city, and looked into it. It’s apparently some cheap-ass, half sci-fi, half soft-porn thing about horny steel-eating creatures from outer space. To her, it was the next Star Wars. She got herself a small part—about three lines with lots of screaming and showing lots of skin—but then she heard a bigger role was opening up. That was when she decided to throw a wedding tha
t would impress the people putting on the movie, the producer, director, and all the money men.

  “She got Leland to agree to put up the money for La Belle Maison. Keep in mind, he doesn’t have that much either, but he’d do anything for her. He was afraid if he said no, she’d walk. So he said yes, even though it nearly wiped out all his savings.”

  “Unbelievable,” Rebecca murmured. No wonder no one liked the woman.

  “But true. I had my cell phone on record as Angie and I talked to Yolanda. I’ll email a copy to you. There’s a lot of background noise, and lots of extra chatter like you’ve got to do to get people to open up and tell you what they really think. But I’m giving you the gist of our thirty or forty minute conversation.”

  “You got her to talk that long?”

  “Sure. It was easy. The Blue Velvet wasn’t that busy. And, she liked talking to me.”

  Rebecca’s jaw tightened. There was something about Richie that, even when he was being helpful, rubbed her the wrong way.

  But, maddeningly, there were other times …

  “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her mind off the man, and concentrating on the helpful information he’d found out. “Send me the recording and I’ll look into it.”

  “Hold it,” he said. “You haven’t heard the best part.”

  He said nothing until she lifted one eyebrow. That was as much as she’d ease up to let him know she was interested. It did the trick, and he continued, “After she did that, booked the big space, invited about fifty important people from the film, only ten showed up. The other guests were all Leland’s family and friends. She didn’t even invite Yolanda, her supposed best friend, even though Taylor had confided in her all along about everything.”

  Rebecca just shook her head at the complicated lives some people lived—and died living.

  “Also, Yolanda said that the women Taylor asked to be her bridesmaids weren’t asked because they were her friends. They weren’t. They were chosen because they weren’t very good looking, and that way Taylor would look even prettier.”

  “What a bitch!” Rebecca shouldn’t have said that about her victim, but she couldn’t hold it in any longer. Professionalism be damned.

  “Exactly,” Richie said.

  “So …” Rebecca drew in her breath. “If all this is true, and I’m not saying it is or isn’t at this point, then it’s very likely not the bridesmaids or filmdom guests I should concentrate on, but maybe I need to look more closely at Leland’s family and friends—and maybe at Leland himself.” She faced her computer again. “I should get back to this.”

  Richie nodded, then stood. “Have you had your dinner yet?”

  “I’m not hungry.” She started to scroll through some information on the computer.

  “You’ve got to eat. Come on. We can get something fast—even eat in the car, if you’d like.”

  She shook her head. “No, really.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Well, I should get down to the club, make sure it’s running okay, and I should let you finish up so you can get home before the sun comes up. Will I see you Saturday?”

  She barely glanced up at him. “Saturday?”

  “Paavo’s wedding.”

  She turned back to the computer. “I don’t think so. I’m not one for weddings. I’ll probably still be working on this case. Hopefully wrapping it up.”

  “Rebecca,” he said, his voice a deep rumble.

  She did look up at him this time.

  Dark eyes met hers and held a long moment; he wasn’t smiling, but looking very serious. “The wedding is at three p.m. I’m in the wedding party and have to get there early or I’d pick you up myself. Saints Peter and Paul’s. Be there.”

  As she watched him head for the elevator, she knew she should have called out to tell him she wasn’t going. But for some reason, she didn’t.

  Chapter 10

  Friday, 8 a.m. – 1 day 7 hours before the wedding

  That morning, Angie felt as if she’d been run over by a train after the twin disasters of Chef Maurice absconding with the money for her reception and then having to serve her Friday night wedding party chicken and succotash. She hoped it wasn’t an omen for Saturday’s meal. The only thing not mucked up, so far, was that she would still have her beautiful wedding cake, assuming the bakery didn’t burn down, which at this point was a distinct possibility.

  The only bright spot in her dismal existence was that Paavo made it to her apartment last night around ten p.m. He told her that he and Yosh were 99.9% certain they knew who the murderer was in the case they were working, and were on the trail of evidence to prove it.

  When she switched the conversation to the Taylor Redmun-Blythe murder investigation, things weren’t progressing as favorably. She told him how she and Cousin Richie met with Taylor’s supposed best friend, Yolanda Herrera, and all she’d learned. Before lecturing her about the dangers of talking to anyone involved in a murder case, Paavo called Rebecca Mayfield to fill her in. But he learned Richie had already been there.

  Fortunately, after his conversation with Rebecca, Paavo didn’t bother with his usual warnings about Angie not getting involved in Homicide’s cases. She was glad. Lectures were the last thing she wanted from him.

  He left at 6 a.m. to go home, shower, and report to work.

  Angie saw him off, then went back to bed and tried, unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep. Brides needed their “beauty rest,” after all. Finally, she gave up. She got up, put on the coffee, and then wearily opened the apartment door to get the morning San Francisco Chronicle. The newspaper delivery man didn’t bring it all the way to the penthouse for her, but since her father owned the building, the doorman saw that it reached her apartment door each day.

  She stepped back inside, took the rubber band off the paper, and unfolded it as she stumbled towards the kitchen for her coffee.

  The headlines screamed “Never Sea-sick Cruise & Events Charter Company Busted!”

  “Nooooo!” Angie screamed even louder than the headlines.

  On shaky legs she carried the newspaper to her petit-point living room sofa and sat with a thud as she read the article.

  Narcotics officers from the DEA had conducted an undercover sting operation and found that several employees were involved in illegal smuggling of heroin. The DEA had no idea how far the smuggling went, or if the owners of the charter boats were involved or not. As a precaution, at ten p.m. last night they raided the company offices and shut down the entire operation. It would remain closed while their investigation was conducted.

  Angie had had little sleep, no morning coffee, and now this. She phoned Never Sea-Sick Cruises to find out what was going on. Would the ship she had rented still sail that evening? Would her guests still be served rubber-chicken?

  Not only did no one answer, she didn’t even get the answering machine.

  She suddenly found herself in a fetal position on her couch, whimpering softly.

  Finally, unable to stomach her own self-pity, she called her mother. Even if her sisters weren’t answering her calls, her mother was. Serefina told her to come to her house in one hour.

  Having no idea what else to do, she decided to listen to her mother.

  To her surprise, her sisters were there when she arrived.

  One look at all of them, and she burst into tears. “I can't do it,” she cried. “I give up. My wedding is a complete failure. We'll have the marriage ceremony, thank everyone for attending, and then send them all home. We'll get an early start for our honeymoon. Unless a typhoon hits Hawaii. Maybe I’ll drown in it and put an end to my misery.”

  Serefina, who was somewhat chubby and had a penchant for polka dot dresses which only emphasized her roundness, gave her youngest daughter a long hug. Serefina then brought her into the kitchen and sat her at the table with a big cup of coffee and some iced Italian cookies. But at the moment, not even her mother’s number one choice in comfort food helped. The coffee, however, did. Somewhat.

  �
�We'll figure out something,” Bianca said. Bianca, Angie’s oldest sister, was the matronly one, with little make-up and straight chin-length dark brown hair. Bianca had practically raised Angie before the family had much money, when Serefina used to work nearly as many hours as Salvatore at his shoe store, and all his profits were plowed into more stores and San Francisco real estate.

  “No.” Angie shook her head, then took a deep breath, shoulders squared and head high as she proclaimed, “I know when I'm defeated. I've tried everything. This is a disaster. That's the specialty my wedding day will be known for—the reception that wasn't. And the rehearsal dinner that also wasn’t. Neither on land nor sea can I feed people. None of it will happen. From this hour forward, I will try no more. I give up.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll work it out,” Caterina insisted. Called “Cat,” Angie’s second oldest sister was everything opposite from the plain, motherly Bianca. Cat kept her weight so low her shape was more like an ironing board than a woman, and her dark hair had been bleached within an inch of its life to an ash blonde color. She also had a husband and a son she spent little time with. “I was reading just the other day how there was a tornado in Kansas that destroyed a wedding chapel. And, in Chicago, a toy drone flew through an outdoor wedding ceremony and scared all the guests so badly they stampeded to get away from it. Then, the food served at a wedding in Florida spoiled and caused everyone to get sick to their stomachs.”

  Job’s comforters would love Caterina, Angie thought, but made no comment.

  “So don’t you dare give up,” Cat added. “It could be a lot worse.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Angie said.

  “We always have choices in life,” intoned Maria as she pressed her fingertips together like some om-chanting guru. Maria was Angie’s most exotic sister, always adorned with silver and turquoise jewelry and having long black hair that reached nearly to her waist—and also her most “spiritual.” If Maria started in with words about searching for the right path and doing whatever was “best” in life even if it wasn’t necessarily what one most wanted to do, Angie was sure she’d slug her. Angie was a God-loving, God-fearing Catholic, and she loved her sister, but Maria’s holier-than-thou attitude sometimes pushed her over the edge.