A Cook in Time

by Joanne Pence

  “Poor Oliver,” Angie said. “I knew he was no killer.”

  “But I am. Enough of this! I know what you’re doing, Angie, but it won’t work.” He took hold of a rope and reached for her. “Turn around so I can tie you up. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “No!” She lunged at him with the knife.

  Paavo remembered seeing a freight elevator on the wall past the stairs. He’d crawl up the shaft if he had to, but he was going to find Angie and get out of this damned basement.

  As he tried to find the elevator, he saw the soft glow of a light in the distance. Quietly, he inched his way toward it.

  Neumann grabbed Angie’s arm, stopping her before she could jab it into him. She continued to yell, kicking and flailing, knocking over bottles and flasks, and generally trying to create as much noise and chaos as she could.

  Connie picked up a meat cleaver and moved toward Neumann. He spun around and with one hand slapped her in the face, sending her sprawling as the meat clever fell from her hands.

  A gunshot reverberated through the lab. The door sprang open and the man in black came into the room. His eyes scanned the room for Neumann. He raised his gun—

  Too late.

  Neumann fired first, and the man in black fell forward into the laboratory, his hands outstretched. In one was a gun, in the other, a flashlight.

  Angie dived for the gun.

  “You fool!” Neumann cried, running toward her.

  The door to the hallway was wide open. She knew she couldn’t pick up the gun, turn, and shoot—that would be suicide. Instead, hoping against hope that she was guessing right, she reached toward the gun and shoved it hard, causing it to skid across the concrete floor and out into the hallway.

  In one rolling movement, Paavo picked it up and, as Neumann shot at him, returned fire.

  Neumann was hit. He fell, unconscious. Angie turned to Paavo in the doorway, but it was empty. She screamed.

  Two ambulances stood outside Tardis Hall.

  The doors were open and the lights back on. Derrick Holton and his friend Phil were wheeled into one ambulance. Derrick had lost a lot of blood and was unconscious from a severe blow to the skull. Phil had a bruised neck.

  Into the other went the man in black and I. M. Neumann. The man in black had been wearing a bulletproof vest and was only stunned by the bullet that had hit him. He had refused to give his name or say anything other than to insist he was a special agent and had to go with Neumann.

  Neumann had been shot in the stomach and was expected to survive.

  The ambulance drove away, sirens screaming.

  Angie and Connie huddled against Paavo, who had one arm around each of them. Earl, Butch, Vinnie, Elvis, and Kronos stood nearby, offering whatever support they could. After stopping Neumann with a bullet, Paavo had found the controls in the lab to unlock the doors and turn the lights back on.

  It looked as if Neumann had built himself a miniature Area 51 in the basement of the building he owned. He might have stayed hidden there a lot longer, simply playing at being Malachi, except that the city had decided to demolish the building as part of the urban renewal of the area. Not even a scientific genius like Neumann could fight city hall. He finally had to move on his plan to take revenge on those who had destroyed his life and his group, and then to retake the leadership of the Prometheans, who he expected—as a result of his plan—would become bigger and stronger than ever.

  “Let’s go home,” Angie said, holding Paavo tightly. “This place reminds me of how scared I was when I looked at the doorway and you weren’t there.”

  “It was all reflexes. We’re taught to roll and keep going to get out of the way of a bullet. What was remarkable was your timing in knocking the gun to me in the hallway. How did you know I was out there?”

  “I didn’t. But I knew if you could be anywhere, that was the place—and I knew you didn’t have your gun.”

  “Oh my,” Connie murmured, still shaking. “I’m glad I fainted at the first gunshot and missed it all. I swear, if I never see or hear anything about UFOs and aliens again, I’ll be happy.”

  As they all moved out of the building onto the sidewalk, they saw Algernon running down the street toward them, waving his arms.

  “Here I am! I thought the event had been canceled,” he cried, breathless but smiling. “I was trying to find a taxi, and then I saw a couple of ambulances go by. Sorry I’m late! I didn’t miss anything much, did I?”

  28

  As Angie sat at her dining room table, Paavo brought her a dish of spumoni ice cream with a maraschino cherry on top.

  It was Christmas Eve. He had cooked the entire meal while she sat in the living room, listened to carols on her CD player, and wasn’t allowed to even peek in the kitchen. She only cringed a few times at a crash or flurry of very un-holiday-spirited oaths. He prepared steak, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and a salad with oil and vinegar dressing. He’d bought the spumoni dessert in honor of her Italian background. Simple, but to Angie’s mind, absolutely delicious.

  “How lovely,” she said. “This was the best fantasy dinner I could imagine.”

  “You’re the only fantasy I want in my life, Angie.” Paavo poured them both some coffee.

  She smiled as she waited for him to return from the kitchen. It was rare for Paavo to express his feelings openly, and when he did, it always touched her deeply. “Well, I don’t want any more fantasies in mine, either. UFOs and aliens have cured me of that.”

  “Don’t remind me.” He sat down. “I’m pissed off as hell about the way that man-in-black character and Neumann disappeared. FBI, NSA, DOD, CIA—no one will admit to knowing either of them, and the fingerprints we found of the two don’t match with anything on file. Even their guns were untraceable.”

  “It was a clever plan, you have to admit, Paavo,” Angie said, taking a spoon to her ice cream. “The switch to another ambulance at San Francisco General was inspired. It happens enough these days due to overcrowding that no one questioned it.”

  “I just hope Neumann pays the price for what he did.”

  “I’m sure whoever sent the man in black after him will see that he does.”

  “They’d better,” he grumbled. He attacked his ice cream.

  Angie thought it was time to change the subject. “At least Derrick is doing well—except for an ugly scar. He and Algernon might even learn to get along together.”

  “They can have each other,” Paavo said. “At least this is one old boyfriend your father won’t want to trade me in for.”

  She put down her spoon. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “How could it not bother me? I know the kind of man your father expects for you. I also know I’m not it.”

  She placed her hand lightly on his arm. “Remember when you told me it didn’t matter what I did, it was who I am that you loved?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, listen to your own words, Inspector. They were good ones. And if I ever, ever hear you belittling yourself again, I will leave you. For stupidity! You saved my friends’ lives, Paavo. No one can ask more of you than that.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  “I know I am.”

  She started to lift the ice cream bowls to take them into the kitchen. “Leave them,” he said. He blew out the candles they’d dined by, took her hand, and led her into the living room.

  They shut off all the lights except those on the tree, then sat on the floor, face-to-face, in front of it. “When I was a boy,” Paavo said, “we always opened our presents on Christmas Eve.”

  “My family did, too.” Angie reached for the present for Paavo that lay under the tree. “You first.”

  Without a word, he carefully peeled off the tape and unfolded the wrapping paper, giving her a glimpse of the serious, thrift-conscious child he must have been. He lifted the box to find an imported Bijan hand-stitched cashmere sports jacket and brown leather gloves. The material was soft and ele
gant. “They’re great, Angie. I’ve never had a jacket or gloves so nice. I’ll be afraid to wear them.”

  “You’d better not be. I expect to see them on you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a smile.

  Then he got up and walked over to his coat. From the pocket, he pulled out a small square box. “I’m not very good at this kind of thing,” he said, sitting on the floor again. “I’ll have to explain it.”

  He had obviously wrapped it himself. The paper and Scotch tape were rather creatively applied. Smiling at his worried expression, she quickly tore off the ribbon and paper. Breathing deeply, she caught his gaze, then lifted the lid.

  Inside was a small cameo brooch in a gold setting.

  “It was my mother’s,” he said. “I want you to have it.”

  She was stunned. “Your mother’s?” Paavo never spoke of his mother. Angie didn’t know he owned anything that had belonged to her. She doubted he had much that was hers, yet he was giving her this piece of jewelry. She held it in her hands a long moment. “It’s beautiful, Paavo, but I can’t accept something that belonged to your mother. This is for you to keep.”

  He tried to shrug off her words, pretending the gift was no big deal. She knew otherwise. “I’ve had it tucked away in a drawer for years. It’s something that should be worn and enjoyed.”

  “But I can’t—”

  He clasped his hands over hers, the brooch held between them. His casual manner was gone now, his face stark, all pretense set aside. “When I was a little boy,” he said, “other kids would talk about the presents they’d received and about giving gifts to their families. Aulis is a wonderful man, and I love him, but it wasn’t the same. I was old enough to remember my mother. I missed her. I couldn’t understand why she’d left me. Sometimes, I’d even pretend she was still there with me. But most of the time, I would take this brooch and hold it and look at it, and wish very hard that I wasn’t alone anymore.”

  Her heart ached at his words.

  His eyes met hers. “I finally got my wish.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around him, holding him and the brooch tight. “Merry Christmas, Paavo.”

  “Merry Christmas, Angie.”

  From the kitchen of Angelina Amalfi—

  Angie’s Favorite Tiramisu

  The literal translation of tiramisu is “pull me up.” Whether this derives from the caffeine content of the coffee and chocolate, or from the liqueur, is anybody’s guess.

  ¾ cup brewed espresso coffee (or triple-strength regular coffee), cooled

  ¼–½ cup liqueur (brandy is most often used, but Triple Sec or Chambord are excellent, and many people enjoy a berry-flavored liqueur)

  24 (or more) ladyfinger cookies—if you can find the hard kind rather than the soft ones, they’ll be easier to work with

  4 eggs, separated

  ¼ cup granulated sugar

  1 pound mascarpone cheese (it’s like cream cheese, but do not use cream cheese as a substitute)

  6 ounces (or more) semisweet chocolate, grated

  Combine the cooled coffee with the liqueur. Arrange half the ladyfingers in a slightly rectangular, flat-bottomed serving dish with high sides. The entire bottom of the dish should be covered (which is why you may need more than 24 ladyfingers). Sprinkle or soak the ladyfingers with half the liqueur/coffee mixture. You don’t want the ladyfingers to be soaked completely soft, but you want to make sure they’ve absorbed the flavor.

  Beat the egg whites in a bowl until stiff. Set them aside.

  In another bowl, beat the egg yolks together with the sugar until the mixture thickens and lightens in color. Add the marscarpone to the egg yolk mixture and stir to combine thoroughly. Fold the egg whites into this mixture.

  Spread half the mascarpone mixture over the ladyfingers in the serving dish. Sprinkle half the grated chocolate on top of the mascarpone mixture (be generous here—you might need more than the 6 ounces of chocolate called for, depending on the size of your serving dish; you can still see the mascarpone below, but make sure the mixture is definitely covered).

  On a separate plate, soak the remaining ladyfingers with the remaining coffee/liqueur mixture, then make another layer of ladyfingers on top of the chopped chocolate. Layer it with the rest of the mascarpone, and then the rest of the grated chocolate.

  Cover the tiramisu with plastic wrap and chill overnight, or for at least 5 hours. Serves 6–8.

  From the kitchen of Angelina Amalfi—

  Angie’s Chocolate-Dipped Coconut Macaroons

  4 large egg whites

  1 1/3 cups sugar

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1¼ teaspoons vanilla extract

  ¼ teaspoon almond extract (optional)

  2 ½ cups sweetened flaked coconut

  ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons flour

  8 ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate

  Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

  In a heavy saucepan stir together the egg whites, sugar, salt, vanilla extract, almond extract (if using), and coconut. Sift in the flour, and stir the mixture until it is combined well.

  Cook the mixture over moderate heat, stirring constantly, for 5 minutes. Increase the heat to moderately high, and cook the mixture, stirring constantly, for 3 to 5 minutes more, or until it is thickened and begins to pull away from the bottom and side of the pan.

  Transfer the mixture to a bowl, let it cool slightly, and then cover with plastic wrap until it is just cold. Drop heaping teaspoons of the dough 2 inches apart onto buttered baking sheets and bake the macaroons in batches in the middle of oven for 20 to 25 minutes, or until they are pale golden. Transfer the macaroons to a rack and let them cool for an hour or so.

  In a double boiler (or a small metal bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water) melt the chocolate, stirring until it is smooth. Remove the bowl from the heat and dip the macaroons, one at a time, into the chocolate, coating them halfway and letting any excess drip off. Transfer the macaroons as they are dipped to a foil-lined tray and chill them for 30 minutes to 1 hour, or until the chocolate is set.

  NOTE: The macaroons keep, chilled and separated by layers of waxed paper, in an airtight container for 3 days. (Let them stand at room temperature for at least 20 minutes before serving.)

  Makes about 30 macaroons.

  Acknowledgments

  The UFO and Roswell themes of this book have their roots in the talks and writings of Col. Philip J. Corso. I would never have heard of Col. Corso and others in this field but for hours of entertainment and fascination with tales from Art Bell’s Kingdom of Nye.

  About the Author

  JOANNE PENCE was born and raised in San Francisco. A graduate of U.C. Berkeley with a master’s degree in journalism, Joanne has taught school in Japan, written for magazines, and worked for the federal government. She now lives in Idaho with her family, which includes a multitude of pets.

  For information about Joanne, her books, and some great recipes, visit Joanne’s website at www.joannepence.com. She would love to hear from you via e-mail at joanne@joannepence.com, or by writing to PO Box 64, Eagle, ID 83616-0064.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Praise for JOANNE PENCE’S

  ANGIE AMALFI MYSTERIES

  “If you love books by Diane Mott Davidson

  or Denise Dietz, you will love this series.

  It’s as refreshing as lemon sherbet

  and just as delicious.”

  Under the Covers

  “A winner …

  Angie is a character unlike any

  other found in the genre.”

  Santa Rosa Press Democrat

  “Joanne Pence is a master chef.”

  Mystery Scene

  “Pence’s tongue-in-cheek humor

  keeps us grinning.”

  San Francisco Chronicle

  “A rollicking good time …

  murder,
mayhem, food, and fashion …

  Joanne Pence serves it all up.”

  Butler County Post

  “First-rate mystery …

  Angie Amalfi is the queen

  of culinary sleuths.”

  Romantic Times

  Other Angie Amalfi Mysteries by Joanne Pence

  Red Hot Murder

  Courting Disaster

  Two Cooks A-Killing

  If Cooks Could Kill

  Bell, Cook, and Candle

  To Catch a Cook

  A Cook in Time

  Cooks Overboard

  Cook’s Night Out

  Cooking Most Deadly

  Cooking Up Trouble

  Too Many Cooks

  Something’s Cooking

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A COOK IN TIME. Copyright © 1999 by Joanne Pence. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Library of Congress data available upon request.

  EPub Edition JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780062191106