Something's Cooking

by Joanne Pence

  Paavo tucked his notebook in the breast pocket of his jacket. “You’ve given me enough information for now, Miss Amalfi. I suggest that, for a time, you refrain from too much socializing and stick close to home.”

  “That was almost an invitation to the theater, Inspector. I’ve always loved the theater…”

  “Remember Abe Lincoln, Miss Amalfi. Good day.”

  4

  The next morning, Paavo pondered the paucity of information he and Matt had turned up so far on Sammy Blade. They had located the small studio apartment where Blade had lived for the past six months, but his landlady knew nothing about him except that he paid his rent in cash and that he was very “sweet.” Sure, Paavo thought, as sweet as cyanide.

  The kind of man Blade was and the way he was killed were signs that this case would become another unsolved homicide. Blade wasn’t the kind of man anyone cared about when he was alive, and it was the same way in death. A smart cop would mark the death a suicide; a bad cop would toss it in a dead file. Paavo figured he was neither. He wanted to find Blade’s killer.

  It was time to hit the streets. Men like Sammy Blade were known in certain parts of every big city. The trick was to find someone who’d admit to having known a loser like Blade.

  Paavo would make some contacts in the rough, gang-infested area south of Market Street where Blade’s apartment was located. It was an area Paavo knew too well.

  Matt was also going out tonight. He’d take the Tenderloin, a red-light district in the heart of the city, adjacent to the theater district and just blocks from the civic center and the high-priced hotels of Union Square.

  Right now, Matt was home sleeping. The Tenderloin didn’t come alive with the people he needed to see until long past midnight.

  Paavo decided to finish writing his report on the Amalfi bombing before hitting the streets.

  “It’s Rico,” Joey called out to Angie, as he looked out the peephole before pulling the door open. “His shift now.”

  Rico stepped into the room. He looked like a slightly older version of Joey: big and muscular, with short, gray hair, brown eyes, and the same cork-shaped head sitting on an oil-drum body. He held his shopping-bag lunch with one hand and, with the other, a shoebox with a white handkerchief in it.

  “What you got in the box?” Joey asked.

  “Look.” Rico put down his lunch. “I found it in the hall.”

  Angie stepped out of the den holding her next Shopper column. She was going to ask Joey to fax it to the paper on his way home. Just four blocks down, on Polk Street, there was an office supply store with a fax machine, but she was in such a state these days she didn’t want to go herself. Even reams of paper, pens, and rolodexes seemed threatening.

  As Joey hovered nearby, Rico moved to lift the handkerchief that covered the box. It took a second for her mind to register the scene before her.

  “Don’t!” she cried, a sense of deja vu striking her.

  The two men started. Joey blanched, and Rico lowered the handkerchief. Both tried not to meet her eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing to worry about, Miss Angelina. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Let me see.”

  Rico and Joey exchanged glances, and then Rico slowly lifted the edge of the hankie. “Oh, God!” She spun away, her stomach turning over.

  The remains of a gray pigeon were in the box, its head split open and its body smashed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Inspector Smith was at Angie’s apartment. A patrolman came with him, picked up the “evidence,” and left. Paavo would quiz Joey and Rico about their finding, but most important, he had to work carefully with Angie. He knew she’d be upset, but he needed to solicit any hint of what the image of a pigeon might mean to her. This case so far was nothing but frustrating, with no clues or apparent motive for any of these threats.

  Angie sat at the dining table, her hands folded on the table top.

  He took a step toward her. She was pale, her face the sallow-alabaster shade of so many Mediterranean women, devoid of the pink ruddiness of the north. Her lips were colorless as well, and her almond-shaped eyes were puffy from crying. Their eyes met, and for the first time he felt as if he could see past her sophisticated facade and straight to her heart. His insides twisted at her look of fear, at the realization that the bold, carefree woman he had met two days ago was being systematically beaten down. He put his hands on the back of the chair across from her. He wished for a moment that he were the type who could lie to her, tell her not to be frightened, assure her that he’d take care of everything. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t find any comforting words to say, so he said nothing.

  His fists clenched as he stood there far too long, watching her, sensing her disappointment, yet feeling awkward and tongue-tied, not knowing how to ease her distress. He didn’t even know why he thought he should ease her distress. To be fearful and therefore careful was what he wanted of her, wasn’t it?

  Two days ago, when he first saw the “exploding dishwasher,” he couldn’t believe anyone meant to harm her seriously. A nasty reminder sent by a jealous boyfriend, he had suspected. The report on the bomb had changed his opinion, and now the case was taking on a sick cast.

  He couldn’t find any rationale for what was happening here. It wasn’t logical, which made it all the more dangerous. There could be some maniac behind it all. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  Angelina Amalfi was just a little thing, as easy to crush as that bird. He thought of what could happen to her, recalling what he’d seen happen to other women who’d been hunted this way, stalked, tormented, and then captured…. He forced away the images as he looked at the woman before him. Somehow, he had to protect her. He was thankful that she hadn’t had his experiences, that she didn’t really know, the way he did, what it was she should fear.

  He walked around the table toward her and tentatively placed his hand on her shoulder. He lifted it away quickly, but not before he had felt the fuzzy warmth of her sweater, noticed the fragile delicacy of her bones, and smelled the light, tantalizing scent of roses that always lingered in the air around her. His fingers tingled from the feel of her as he continued toward the windows to look out at the bay and to try to make sense out of all that was happening here.

  5

  Not again, Angie thought as she heard the light rapping on her front door the next morning. She felt like she had more callers these days than the White House. She pushed herself back groggily from her computer and walked to the living room. Rico was quizzing her visitor in the hallway outside the apartment.

  “Miss Angelina,” he said as he shut the door, “it’s some weird guy calls himself Edward G. Crane. Says he’s your biggest fan.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “You want I should get rid of him?”

  “Wait. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Says he got some recipes. Sounds fishy.”

  Crane must have found her because of the newspaper article the day after the explosion, which had given her address. Now she would have recipe peddlers and well-wishers adding to her stream of visitors. She sighed. “Have him give you the recipes and thank him.”

  Angie watched as Rico opened the door.

  “Sir, I must see Miss Amalfi,” whined a man with a high-pitched, nasal voice.

  “The recipes first. Take them out of that envelope. I don’t take no chances with Miss Angelina.”

  “Oh? Oh, certainly! But tell her I must see her.”

  Rico shut the door again and brought her three sheets of paper. On each was a recipe: Marshmallow and Bean Sprouts Blintzes, Liver Pâté Waffles, and Peanut Butter Omelet. Her stomach flip-flopped, as it did whenever she read Sam’s recipes.

  These recipes were quite similar to Sam’s, in fact. They were most unusual, sometimes interesting, and always nauseating. What was going on?

  “Stay nearby, Rico.”

  She opened the door herself. Before her s
tood a short, plump man, his shaved head covered with blue-tinged stubble. He looked at her through round, rimless spectacles, his eyes gray pinpricks and his nose red and bulbous. He was of indeterminate age, the pudginess of his face filling in any wrinkles.

  “I’m E. G. Crane,” he announced.

  “Mr. Crane. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Sammy won’t be coming to see you anymore.”

  Angie glanced at Rico. He stepped closer to her. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm, though her heart began to race.

  Crane’s tiny eyes darted from Angie to the massive figure beside her. “Don’t worry,” he said hurriedly, “Sammy is fine. He’s gone back to work in Carmel. I’ll be sending you recipes now.”

  “You’ll be sending me Sam’s recipes?”

  “No, no, no. My recipes.” His already high nasal voice screeched. “They’ve always been my recipes, my own little delicacies. Sammy just delivered them for me.”

  Delicacies? The little man not only made her nervous, he was tasteless besides. “If you wish to supply any recipes to my column, Mr. Crane, you can send them to the Bay Area Shopper. I’ll be sure to give them my personal attention.” She used her most gracious brush-off manner as she moved to swing the door shut.

  “You used to meet Sammy,” Crane cried, holding out his hand to stop the door.

  She frowned. “I like Sam!”

  “Oh.” He looked abashed. Angie didn’t care.

  “Good-day, Mr. Crane.”

  “But—”

  She shut the door.

  She returned to the computer and whipped out a short column all about persimmons.

  “Grab your jacket, Rico, we’re going to the Shopper.”

  “But the inspector said don’t go nowhere.”

  “I’m not a prisoner!” She put on her coat and picked up her purse and the recipes. “This is weird, and I want to talk to my editor about it.”

  Rico followed reluctantly. They rode the elevator down to the basement garage, where her white Ferrari Testarossa was parked. As Rico rode shotgun, Angie tore out of the garage and across town to the Shopper office.

  Paavo read the report on the pigeon found outside Angelina Amalfi’s door. The “autopsy” caused more than a few snickers from the other homicide detectives. He ignored them.

  A band-tailed pigeon, Columba fasciata, a species found throughout San Francisco. Bludgeoned to death. End of report.

  Paavo rubbed his chin. Why would anyone sneak up to the door of an apartment and leave a dead pigeon?

  Why not, when at the apartment, try to get past Joey or Rico? If this was the same person who had sent the bomb and tried to run Angie down with the car, why this grotesque stunt with the bird? Was the man, or woman, trying to kill Angie or just scare her off? Did the perpetrator change his or her mind midstream? Or was there more than one person involved?

  City Hall had a lot of pigeons around it. Chief Hollins said Angie’s parents had friends in City Hall. Maybe they weren’t all friends?

  He glanced at the report on the incident again. At least he knew she was safely inside her apartment. He’d checked out Joey and Rico. They were no intellectual giants, but as bodyguards, they were given high marks.

  The Bay Area Shopper offices were located in a two-story converted warehouse on Folsom Street, just south of downtown San Francisco. The city room, a glass-partitioned office for the editor, and a private office for the publisher were on the second floor. The ground level held the presses.

  Angie rode the elevator to the second floor, crossed the short hall, and pushed open the glass double doors to the city room. A hush fell over the room as salesmen, typists, and messengers stopped what they were doing to look at her. She strode toward the bosses’ offices.

  “You okay, Angie?” asked Mrs. Cruz, secretary to Jon Preston. “We heard about the bomb.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Angie spoke loud enough for the curious to hear. “It was just some random thing, it seems. No one was after me in particular.”

  A deep voice boomed out. “Really? What a relief that must be to you, Miss Amalfi!” Jon Preston stood at the door of his office. The owner and publisher of the Shopper, he was a man in his fifties, tall and blond, impeccably dressed in a navy blue double-breasted blazer, white slacks, and a yachting cap. He looked like an ad for Cunard Lines.

  “It was quite a relief, Mr. Preston.”

  That Jon Preston came from a wealthy family was immediately evident to anyone who looked at the man. His chief work consisted of studying tide tables for his yacht and experimenting with high-tech metal woods and irons for his golf game. His sole business, the Shopper, was a shoestring operation whose main purpose, if not its only purpose, was as a tax write-off.

  Preston was pleasant in a pompous, bumbling way, despite his trim, spit-and-polish naval image, and Angie had always assumed he was a bit slow—or more appropriately, didn’t have all his oars in the water. She imagined that Papa Preston, who was said to be a financial genius, realized this sad fact and gave his boy Jonny a business and a boat to play with as a way to keep him out of trouble.

  Preston said, “I had feared my best little columnist would have to take some time off after such a frightening experience. What a yeoman you are, Miss Amalfi.”

  Best columnist? “Thank you, Mr. Preston.”

  “And you’ve still got those marvelous ‘spoof’ recipes, I trust.” Angie had first printed one of Sam’s recipes as a put-on and showed his name as “Waffles.” She was shocked when readers wrote in and said they liked it. “The spoof is in the pudding,” Preston had announced and had referred to Angie’s popular “spoof” recipes ever since. Sam liked the name “Waffles,” and it stuck.

  “I’ve got some odd recipes,” Angie replied, “but my regular source didn’t make it. These are probably a fair substitute.”

  “No need. If not the real thing, the Bay Area Shopper offers no cheap imitations. Well, ship ahoy, mates.” At that, he walked toward the elevator, waving bon voyage to the staff. Before he stepped into it, he turned back to Angie.

  “You know, you don’t look well, Miss Amalfi. If you’d like a vacation, take it. We’ll get along fine for a few weeks. Take a cruise. I’d recommend it, in fact.”

  “I’ll give it some thought, Mr. Preston.”

  He got on the elevator and gave her a snappy salute as the doors slid shut.

  Angie rolled her eyes. It was a wonder the man didn’t demand to be addressed as “Captain Preston.” She hurried towards George Meyers’s office. She could see him through the glass partitions, hunched over his desk. George Meyers was always hunched, even when he stood upright. He was a thin, nervous man, about forty-five, with bushy salt and pepper hair that looked like crinkled wire and black-framed eyeglasses.

  She’d known George for fourteen months, ever since the day she’d walked into the Shopper office, asked to meet the editor, and proceeded to tell him why he needed a food column in his paper and why she was just the person to write it. She was willing to work for peanuts, or less, because the experience and name recognition were far more important to her than a salary.

  Less than peanuts was what he had offered, but he had been willing to give her a chance. As she had predicted, the lure of good recipes and a snappy column caused women shoppers to thumb through the paper more faithfully than they might have otherwise. As George saw the stack of recipes from contributors grow, he realized Angie’s column was a hit and hired her.

  Angie had quickly come to like George Meyers. She learned from Mrs. Cruz, the Shopper’s own Louella Parsons, otherwise known as Preston’s secretary, that George had once been a “real” newspaper man in Seattle, a crime reporter whose beat included the central station at night. One night, following a lead about a drug raid, he walked right into a set-up. The three policemen with him, all friends, were killed. For seven hours, until the dealers were all killed or wounded, George had crouched in a corner of a back alley, afraid that if he
moved he’d be caught in the cross fire between the drug dealers and the police. After that, his nerves wouldn’t let him return to his old job. He didn’t have the skill or wit to write a column, and he had too much pride to take anything less prestigious than reporting. After about five years of living on disability compensation and odd jobs, he left Seattle to become the editor of the Shopper, a newspaper job in name only.

  “Hello, there.” Angie stuck her head into George’s office and he jumped up.

  “Angelina!” He tugged off his glasses. “You startled me.”

  She explained that she was safe from mad bombers and that she had brought her food column. She gave him the persimmon write-up and Crane’s recipes.

  George read them over. “More recipes from your friend, I see.” Sam never used the mail but always dropped his recipes off at the Shopper office or met Angie at a park or coffee shop to deliver them in person. He had lots of time on his hands, he had said. She’d quickly been charmed by the man. He was one of the sweetest people she’d ever met.

  “They aren’t from Sam,” Angie replied. “It’s the oddest thing. These are from a man named Edward G. Crane. He said all Sam’s recipes had really been his. He was a creepy little man. I didn’t know what to think. It strikes me as very strange, so I came to see you. What do you think?”

  “Think? Does it matter who gives you the spoof recipes, Angie?”

  “I guess not, but Preston doesn’t think we should run these.”

  “Not run them? But Preston always insisted…” George took them from her. “We’re getting attention because of your offbeat column. Other editors look down their noses and sneer, but advertising is up.”

  George ran a handkerchief over his brow as he leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

  “Are you all right, George?” She thought George was pale, but then, everything seemed to make George ill.