Cooking Most Deadly

by Joanne Pence

  Hours and hours had gone by, and still he sat in the green Honda across the street from Angie’s apartment building. His bladder was full, but that was all right. He was thinking, planning. He liked to figure out puzzles, and to him, Angie was a puzzle.

  He had watched Smith leave after only a little more than an hour with the woman. Leaving so soon didn’t make sense. He should have stayed longer, like all night. He would have.

  Instead, Smith left. Alone.

  He didn’t get it. Was Smith involved with Angie? Was she really engaged to the blond fellow who took her to the Sound Works? They’d scarcely danced with each other. Maybe she’d lied to him when she told him the blond was her fiancé? Or maybe she was two-timing both men?

  Women were such liars. Who could tell what they were up to? They all lied and cheated. Except Heather.

  A vague memory tried to take shape, but he pushed it away. Heather was perfection, everything a woman should be.

  Not like this Angelina Amalfi.

  Damn! He pounded the dash. Was she the cop’s slut or not? He had to find out.

  He’d enjoy finding out, in fact. Getting to know her better. A lot better. Angelina Amalfi was a beautiful woman. Small. Delicate. Like Heather. He had liked the way she felt while they danced. The way she smelled. Her perfume had the scent of roses. Roses. How perfect.

  He remembered the way she’d smiled at him. Flirted, even teased. She laughed at his jokes, his wit. By the time he was through charming her, she was wild for him. And hot. Wet and hot.

  And when they danced, he saw her surprise at his body, his strength. She waggled her tail good then, rubbing against him, letting him know how much she wanted him. But her fiancé was there, so she had to hold back. Damn the man.

  But later that night, when she and her so-called fiancé were off somewhere screwing, maybe she’d shut her eyes and think of him. Imagine it was him that she was touching, him deep inside her.

  His breathing grew heavier. Thick and raspy. He lowered his hand there, even though it wasn’t nice to touch himself. Not nice. He pressed hard, enjoying the discomfort. The throbbing.

  This Angie was so much like Heather. His Heather. Heather had been hot for him, too.

  It would be like Heather. All over again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As Paavo and Yosh crossed the grand foyer under the dome of City Hall, their shoes made a loud clicking sound on the marble floor. The building was quiet and empty in the early morning hour, before the offices opened to the public.

  Tiffany Rogers had been a secretarial assistant to one of the most influential members of the Board of Supervisors—longtime member Maxim Wainwright. Paavo and Yosh had an appointment with him and everyone who worked closely with the murdered woman.

  “Come right in.” A white-haired, navy blue-suited woman, reeking of efficiency, held the door open for the inspectors. “Supervisor Wainwright is expecting you.”

  She showed them into a small but smartly furnished office. The oak desk looked as if it must be worth several grand.

  “I’m absolutely shocked by this!” Wainwright, a tall, gray-haired man, exclaimed as soon as the introductions were made. “So is everyone who knew her. She was a wonderful young woman. Vivacious and charming.”

  Paavo took in the wringing of the man’s hands, his strained, overly helpful, concerned manner. At the same time, he gave scant credence to the supervisor’s words. All new murder victims were wonderful people—or, at least they were the first time a homicide inspector spoke with their friends and relatives. But that facade usually faded after another visit or two.

  Paavo pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. As soon as Wainwright stopped enumerating Tiffany’s virtues, Paavo and Yosh began their routine series of questions about Miss Rogers’s job, her relationship with her boss, her coworkers, and if she’d ever complained about coworkers or anyone else stalking her, threatening her, or bothering her in any way. To each question asked, Wainwright replied that he saw no indication that there had ever been a problem. Tiffany had only worked for him for two months. She’d been a clerk in Accounting, and came highly recommended. Her current position had been as an assistant to Mrs. Brinks, the woman who had greeted them. In fact, Wainwright added, he had scarcely ever spoken with Miss Rogers. All his conversations had been with Mrs. Brinks.

  When asked who had so highly recommended Miss Rogers, his reply was “everyone.” He couldn’t think of any single individual.

  Letty Devon, an elderly woman, had been Tiffany’s supervisor in Accounting. “She was precious. A lovely girl. She would have gone far as a civil servant.” Letty wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes.

  “How long did she work for you?” Paavo asked.

  “Five months. She’d been in the typing pool before that for three months, I believe.”

  “You know, Mrs. Devon,” Yosh said, “or Letty? May I call you Letty? It’s a pretty name. Old-fashioned.”

  Mrs. Devon smiled and nodded. A red half-dollar-sized spot appeared on each withered cheek.

  “I was thinking, Letty,” Yosh continued, “didn’t Tiffany move up awfully fast? I mean, only three months in the typing pool, then only five here before she was promoted to working for a supervisor seems pretty remarkable.”

  “Yes. It was fast.” She pursed her lips.

  “I bet a lot of people spend their entire career in Accounting. A very good career, too.”

  “You’re quite right.” Her shoulders stiffened, and she held her head a little higher.

  “Would you have moved her that fast?” Yosh asked. “Did you recommend her to Wainwright?”

  “Well,” she squirmed.

  “You can tell me,” Yosh nodded encouragingly.

  “Actually”—she lowered her voice as if afraid someone was eavesdropping—“I recommended against it.”

  “Oh?”

  “She wasn’t ready. Not at all.”

  “Then how’d she get the job?”

  “I don’t know the specifics, but I know in general.”

  “Yes?” Yosh leaned closer.

  Letty Devon cupped her hand over her mouth as she said one word. “Connections.”

  Wainwright had mentioned that Tiffany’s closest friend at work had been an accounting clerk named Manuela Rodriguez. Paavo told Mrs. Devon he’d like to speak to Rodriguez. Devon offered her office to the inspectors for their interview. “Whatever I can do to help,” she announced.

  Manuela Rodriguez was in her mid-twenties with raven black hair and enormous, soulful eyes. Her plum suit was tasteful, yet tight enough and short enough to be alluring instead of businesslike. As she entered the office, she tightly gripped a large man-sized white handkerchief.

  Her gaze was blank as she studied Yosh, but grew lively when she noticed Paavo. She met his clear blue eyes with frank interest before giving him a slow, suggestive smile.

  Usually Yosh was Mr. Congeniality with potential witnesses, and Paavo was the one who sat back, noted reactions, and then asked the most biting questions—the bad cop to Yosh’s good. But seeing Manuela’s reaction to Paavo, the two inspectors switched roles without saying a word to each other.

  At Paavo’s first question—how long she’d known Tiffany—Manuela’s already-red-rimmed eyes began to tear. “We met about a year ago. Tiffany was still in the typing pool. We used to like to go to parties and all kinds of stuff, you know, when neither one of us was dating anybody special. You know what I’m saying?” Paavo nodded, and Manuela crossed her legs, her already-short shirt riding even higher. “For the last couple months, though, she didn’t go no place with me. She was, like, seeing somebody. But I don’t know who. And she wouldn’t say.”

  “Why not?” Paavo asked.

  “Top secret, that’s all. I figured, like, the guy was somebody here at work.”

  “Had she dated men from work before?”

  “Yeah, sure. Didn’t work out, though.”

  “Miss Rodriguez,” Paavo said, “did Miss R
ogers tell you about those other affairs?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Why didn’t she this time?”

  “He was, like, you know, some big shot. Or married. Probably both. She’d never dated a married man before. I didn’t think she would now, but she—” She stopped there and folded her hands over one knee.

  “Go on,” Paavo urged.

  “I shouldn’t say.” Manuela shook her head. “I’m just, like, guessing.”

  “That’s all right, you were her friend,” Paavo replied. “Anything you guess interests us.”

  “Well, she was, like, you know, ambitious. If some big shot took an interest in her, even if he was married, I think she’d go out with him.”

  “What do you mean by ambitious?” Yosh asked.

  Manuela gave him a long look, then shrugged.

  “Tell us,” Yosh insisted. “Did she want to get ahead here at work? Was she looking for someone to set her up? What?”

  “You name it,” Manuela said.

  “No, Miss Rodriguez,” Yosh said. “You name it.”

  “It would be a big help to us,” Paavo added.

  Manuela studied her fingernails. “Tiffany liked nice things, you know. She always went out with men who’d give her presents. Expensive presents. But mainly, she wanted to get a job that made enough money that she could tell all men to go stuff it if she wanted to.”

  Paavo leaned back in his chair. Manuela’s gaze slowly traveled from his shoes along his long, lean body up to his eyes. She gave him a sultry smile. “Before she got the job in Wainwright’s office, had she been seeing anyone?” he asked.

  “No. We was going to a lot of parties. Having a real good time. You know what I mean?”

  “What about after?”

  “After?”

  “After she got her job with Wainwright.”

  “We didn’t go no place together after. She was already seeing her mystery guy.”

  “Do you remember the last party the two of you went to together?”

  “Sure. We were, like, invited to a party with a crowd from the Hall of Justice, mostly. A few from City Hall.”

  “Cops?” Yosh asked.

  “No. No cops. I don’t hang around with cops. Too much trouble, you know. These guys were big shots. Real big.”

  “Names?”

  “I don’t remember. But it was at Bimbo’s 365 Club. Other people might remember. Not me.”

  Paavo nodded. “Okay, Miss Rodriguez. If you do remember anything, give me a call.” He handed her his card.

  She studied the card a minute, then faced him again. “You got really nice blue eyes, you know,” she said, then smiled. “Maybe I got to, like, rethink my thing about cops.”

  Angie woke up late, groggy with a horrible headache.

  Paavo hadn’t returned for dessert last night. She berated herself for waiting up for him until almost three, when she had given up and gone to bed.

  No use going back to sleep, she decided and stumbled into the kitchen. Grinding Graffeo coffee beans for some strong Italian roast, she had to admit that attempting to discuss marriage with Paavo was definitely one of her dumber moves. She wasn’t ready yet.

  As she sipped her coffee, the cloudy grogginess began to clear from her brain, and the world came into focus once more. After last night’s meal, she didn’t feel like eating breakfast. She probably shouldn’t eat for a week if she didn’t want all those calories to go straight to her hips. Her battle against becoming pear-shaped was constant and vigilant. She eyed some little round biscotti her mother had given her—hard, made with very little sugar if one discounted the smidgen of white icing on each. They were made for dunking into hot coffee.

  No, she’d given up dessert for Lent. Maybe she should give up thinking about marriage as well? The more she thought about it and asked about it, the more confused she was becoming.

  She couldn’t sit here all day thinking about Paavo and marriage and cookies. There were more important things to think about, like how long she’d have to wait before auditioning for the television job, or a more immediate concern, what she’d write about for Haute Cuisine magazine.

  She wanted the magazine article to be something special, if for no other reason than that her archrival, Nona Farraday, had recently written her way from freelancing for the magazine to a position as a staff writer. To Angie, Nona was Lex Luthor to her Superman, Siskel to her Ebert, Beavis to her Butt-head. No, scratch that.

  Professor Moriarity to her Sherlock Holmes. Much better.

  And just as Holmes and Superman rose above their rivals and defeated them, so must she come up with an article that would turn heads and gain her the attention and respect of the press, the public, and the culinary world.

  She had to find something so unique, an experience so exceptional, that people would take note.

  The Wings Of An Angel. Visions—angelic visions—of the strange little restaurant came floating back to her. Hosanna in the highest.

  The flavor of the meatballs and sauce returned as sharply as if she had a plate of food before her. It was unique, wonderful. If the chef would use the sauce in a few other dishes, the restaurant would succeed easily.

  But the men running it clearly needed help.

  Her help.

  She knew a fair amount about running a restaurant. She’d reviewed them for over a year, worked at LaTour’s for a short while before it closed down—due to no fault of hers—and even spent a week setting up a menu for a New Age inn. She knew a number of restaurateurs in the Bay Area as well as in France.

  Besides that, helping the owners would give her something to do while she waited for her TV audition. Magically, her headache vanished, her grogginess and ill temper lifted, and the perfect plan popped into her head.

  She dressed with care, wanting to look chic but casual, and settled on a Hanae Mori white-and-black pants outfit. She’d get Wings’s chef’s attention yet.

  She rode the elevator to the basement garage, got in the Ferrari, and drove down Union Street to Columbus Avenue. She stopped off at a grocery store, bought some food, and then continued on to the restaurant.

  When she arrived, she was pleased to see a young couple sitting in the window eating heaping platters of spaghetti and meatballs. “Hi,” she said cheerfully to the same waiter she’d had the last time she was here—a cross between Joe Pesci and Fred Flintstone.

  She had slipped the shopping bag with her few groceries onto her arm, holding it like a purse. She didn’t want the waiter to pay it any special attention.

  The waiter stopped in his tracks and stared as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “It’s you.”

  “I couldn’t stay away. The food’s delicious and the service truly memorable.”

  “Yeah?”

  “May I sit?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Since he wasn’t about to seat her, Angie found herself a table. “I’m glad to see you’re getting more customers.”

  “Yeah, well we tol’ Vinnie we didn’t have no choice.”

  “No choice? You make it sound as if he didn’t want anyone here.”

  The waiter frowned. “It’s a long story.”

  “I see,” Angie said, although she didn’t. She took the menu from him. “What’s your name, by the way?” she asked.

  He pronounced it carefully. “Oil.”

  “Oil? That’s an odd name.”

  “Yeah. My ma was real fond of royalty, I t’ink.”

  “Royalty?” What royalty was associated with oil? “You mean like a sheik?”

  “Yeah. Chic. Dat’s me.”

  “My name’s Angie.”

  “Oh. Yeah, well, I gotta help dem udder people.” The waiter went off to take care of the couple. Angie had the distinct feeling she’d missed something. She opened the menu. It still said “Columbus Avenue Café.”

  “Oh, Oil!” Angie called, as the waiter headed toward the kitchen. He stopped and faced her. “Excuse me, but is there any reason for me to look at
this menu? I mean, is the cook serving anything besides spaghetti and meatballs today?”

  “No.”

  She handed back the menu. “I’ll have spaghetti and meatballs.”

  “What do you wanna drink? And we don’t have no caffe latte no more.”

  “I see. How about Perrier?”

  “Perry…?”

  “You know, water.”

  “Water. No problem.”

  A short while later, the waiter brought her a plate of spaghetti—just as delicious as she remembered—and a glass of water, no ice, straight from the tap. This restaurant needed even more help than she thought it did.

  “Oil,” Angie called once more when she saw him stick his head through the swinging doors to see how his three customers were doing.

  He walked over to her table. “Whatsa matter now?”

  “Would you tell your cook that I think he’s marvelous. Also, I’d like to help him put more choices on the menu.”

  “Why? He got da spaghetti right.”

  She braced herself. Now, she’d see if her plan would work or not. “I work for the government,” she said, trying to sound bureaucratic. “I give cooking assistance to new restaurants.”

  The waiter stepped back. “You’re from da government?” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like you work for da Man.”

  “It’s a new program to help the small businessman,” she said hurriedly. “There’s been so much criticism that government doesn’t help small businesses, that this administration came up with our little way to change all that.”

  He frowned. “What parta da government you from? You gotta badge?”

  “You never heard of us, I’m sure. A small bureau—and no badges.”

  “So what’s it called?

  Good question. “Alcohol, Tobacco, and Cookware.”

  “Oh. Dat sounds kinda familiar. Jus’ a minute.” He ran into the kitchen.

  Earl skidded to a halt in front of the stove. “’Ey, Butch! We got a retoin customer.”

  “Somebody came back for more?” Butch stopped stirring the spaghetti sauce and wiped his palms against his formerly white apron.