by Joanne Pence
“I didn’t know you’d been married,” a slurred, younger-sounding voice replied.
“Can’t even remember how many experiences with wedded bliss I’ve endured, son. I’m a marrying man, I am.”
“You like it, do you?”
Angie pressed herself hard against the back of the bench to hear better what the marrying man had to say.
“I do. Hey! See what I mean? The words ‘I do’ just roll from my tongue like butter on a hot cob of corn. The little ladies I was married to, though, they were a problem. Women have these hang-ups, you know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Anxious not to miss a word, Angie knelt on the bench and leaned into the bush.
“Yeah. About stuff like having a job. Staying sober. Taking a ridiculous number of baths. They forget the ecstasy.”
“I see.”
“I had one wife, every time I’d hop into bed, she’d hop out. Now, of course, she just might not have felt worthy of the marital gift I was about to bestow. But for some reason, she used to say odd things, like I was overwhelming. I never understood what she meant, unless it was my charm. That was one of my shorter marriages.”
“I can understand that.”
“You know, son, the carnal seems to be another hang-up with women. I got a theory. Men and women are different, and I don’t just mean in the obvious way. I’m talking sex drive. I figure from the time a fellow knows it’s possible, he’s raring to go. But the little lady’s sex drive peaks later. Probably posthumously.”
Angie listened to the two guffaw over this a long time. Then the younger-sounding one said, “At least you understand them.”
“I hate to disillusion you, but despite my vast experience, they’re still a mystery to me. So much so—I’m not ashamed to admit—I’d just as soon pay for it. But you know something, even the pros feel unworthy of me. It’s amazing. I’ve got to be one hell of a guy.”
That did it. She had to see this wondrous marrying man. She grabbed hold of some branches and spread them apart, but still couldn’t see through the thick bush. Leaning farther over the back of the bench, she grabbed more branches and was trying to separate them enough to see through when she lost her balance and toppled headfirst over the bench. Holding on to the bush, she belly flopped on top of it, causing the branches to sway under her weight and carry her up to the back of the opposite bench. She looked right into the bloodshot eyes of two scruffy men. They jumped to their feet.
The older one, a seedy but still faintly debonair character in his shiny too-tight striped suit and bowler hat worn at a jaunty angle, proudly puffed out his chest as he smiled down at her.
“There, son. See what I mean? They’re always falling for me.”
Earl ran out of the kitchen and came to a screeching halt when he saw who stood near the entrance waiting for a table. “You back?”
Angie looked around to see if he could be addressing anyone else. No, she was the only one here. “Yes.”
“Which table?”
“How about the same one as last time?”
He led her to the table and even held the chair out for her. She pulled a twig she’d missed earlier off the leg of her slacks and sat. He handed her a menu—the same Columbus Avenue Café menu with the name lined out.
She gave it back. “What’s on the menu today?” she asked.
“T’ree t’ings.”
“T’ree? I mean, three?” she said with surprise. The cook must have taken her advice and expanded the menu. “How wonderful! What are they?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, counted with his fingers, then opened them and looked at her. “Spaghetti wit’ meatballs, spaghetti wit’out meatballs, an’ a meatball sangwich.”
She clasped her hands to her forehead. “I think I need to pay the cook another visit.”
“He’s busy.”
Angie looked around the empty restaurant. “Give me a break!”
Just then another customer came in. A rather plain man, he had short, spiky brown hair—not spiked like a punk, but spiky like someone whose hair had been cut a little too short and who hadn’t ever learned to control his cowlicks, and thick, black-rimmed glasses that rode too high on the left and too low on the right, making him look like his head was perpetually cocked.
He was also tall and surprisingly muscular-looking. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t remember having met him before.
He smiled shyly in her direction. She smiled back. Did he know her?
“See?” Earl looked at her smugly. “What did I tell you?” He walked over to the new customer. “You wanna eat?”
“Um, yes. I believe so.”
“Okay. Follow me.” Earl led him to a table near Angie. “Here’s da menu. I’d recommend da spaghetti an’ meatballs.”
Angie turned around to watch. The customer looked from her, to Earl, to the menu, then folded it shut and handed it back. “Sounds good to me,” he said.
Earl went back to Angie’s table. “You decided yet?”
“How about a new waiter?”
“It ain’t on da menu. How ’bout spaghetti an’ meatballs?”
She held her head. “Not today. I think I’ll pass, in fact.” She stood, picking up her purse. “Tell the cook I suggest he look into polenta. There isn’t a restaurant around that does it really well. The trick is to mix diced roasted green chilies—mild ones—in with it. If he wants to try it, I’ll help.”
She was ready to leave, but noticed that the customer had been listening to her conversation with the waiter. She didn’t want him to get the wrong impression.
“Let me assure you,” she said, “the spaghetti and meatballs are truly delicious. I’m just tired of them.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to hear it. This is the first time I’ve eaten here. I’m new to the city.”
“Well, welcome.” She couldn’t help staring.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. You look a bit familiar.”
He looked at her as if she were mad, then grinned. “I remind you of Mel Gibson, maybe?”
Even his smile and attempt at humor didn’t lesson the sudden uneasiness she felt. “Hunger must be causing my eyesight to do strange things. Sorry. Enjoy your lunch.”
“It was nice talking to you.” He gave her a friendly, almost-puppy-dog smile. Placing his elbows on the table, he steepled his hands, and leaned forward, toward her. “Hurry back,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
District Attorney Lloyd Fletcher slowly leafed through the reports from the Crime Scene Investigations unit, the photographs and laboratory tests, as well as Paavo’s and Yosh’s notes on interviews with Tiffany Rogers’s coworkers, neighbors, and family. When he finished, he did the same with the folder on Velma St. Clair.
“Frankly, I expected much better from you, Smith,” he said.
Paavo wasn’t surprised to hear a remark like that from Fletcher. Still, it stung. “The guy the judge used to see hanging around each morning hasn’t shown up since the murder. We’ve got an idea of what he looks like. Also, a kid who lives across the street from Tiffany Rogers’s apartment described a man with the same build carrying a long, white box—sounded like a florist’s box—the night Rogers was killed. It’s got to be him.”
Fletcher ran his hand over his thick white hair as if to smooth it, except that every strand was already in place. “A tall, muscular white guy who wears a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses. Let’s see, that probably describes ten thousand or so men in San Francisco alone. Maybe twenty to thirty thousand if we take in the whole Bay Area. I’m not impressed.”
“We’re still working on finding Rogers’s boyfriend. She has to have left some clue, somewhere, as to who he might be.”
“You’re wasting your time. Everyone said she’d gone out with the man for two months or less. And why would her lover have killed the old woman? No, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
“But with City Hall�
��or at least, city government—involved in both murders, plus the missing boyfriend, there are too many questions whose answers all point in the same direction. The key has to be right here—someone close.”
Fletcher shot out of his chair, placed his hands on his desk, and leaned forward. “Or you might be wrong. You might be ready to ruin a man’s career because of an indiscretion with some bimbo who had the bad taste to get herself killed.”
Paavo stared, taken aback by the vehemence of Fletcher’s outburst. The man had a reputation for being pristine. If not, Paavo would wonder about his remarks. Despite his reputation, in fact, Paavo still wondered.
Fletcher straightened and tugged at his shirt cuffs as he paced in front of this window. “How much clearer can I make myself, Smith? You are not to involve City Hall, the Board of Supervisors, or anyone connected with city government in this case. These women were murdered by some psycho, and I’m not going to have you disturb any political types in this city more than you already have. Do you understand me?”
Paavo tried to tamp down his simmering anger. “City government is our one constant.”
“Keep away from the Board of Supervisors. That’s an order.”
“Hi,” Angie said as she walked into Everyone’s Fancy, a small gift shop on West Portal Avenue. “Are you Connie?”
“Yes,” the clerk, a pleasant-looking woman with shoulder-length, light brown hair, looked wary.
“I came to give my condolences. My boyfriend is the homicide inspector working on your sister’s investigation, Inspector Paavo Smith.”
Connie’s eyes teared, and she went back to rearranging some glass swans. “Do you always visit the families of your boyfriend’s cases?” The expression on her face showed how macabre a pastime she considered that to be.
“My goodness, no. But it turns out that you went to high school with one of my cousins. We were talking about this and that, and I mentioned how scary it was that two women were killed with the same MO—that’s modus operandi—and my cousin said he knew you, but that he hadn’t seen you since high school.”
“Really?” Connie’s expression told Angie she wasn’t inclined to believe her. “What’s his name?”
“Dan Amalfi. Everyone calls him Buddy.”
For the first time, Angie saw Connie’s caution lift and a pretty smile brighten her plain face. “Buddy! You’re Buddy’s cousin? He was so handsome.”
“He still is.”
“I can imagine.” A splash of color appeared on her cheeks. “What’s he doing now? Married? Kids?”
“No kids. Divorced. Not even after twelve years of parochial school could he keep his marriage together. A mistake from the start.”
“I know the feeling.” Connie put the last swan in place. “I had twenty-six months of sheer hell.”
It was on the tip of Angie’s tongue to ask why. Why would a marriage turn so sour so quickly? Didn’t she know the man she married well, or had she ignored the faults that were there, until it was too late? But she wasn’t here to learn about marriage, she was here to help Paavo. “Buddy’s marriage lasted only eight months.”
Angie knew why that marriage failed—the two kids married right out of high school—young, horny, and both dumb in the way only teenagers in love could be about the real world and the mundane problems of making a home in it.
“Buddy remembered me when he read about Tiffany?” Connie asked.
“Your poor sister,” Angie said gently. She wasn’t here to discuss Buddy.
Connie rubbed her arms as if chilled. “My God, it’s still such a shock.”
“I’m surprised her boyfriend never showed himself.” Not subtle, but to the point.
“How’d you know that?”
Angie sensed Connie’s wariness taking over again. “It was in the papers, remember?”
“Oh. Well, she did her darnedest to keep his name a secret, so I guess even after she’s dead he’ll keep his name out of it.”
“It sounds mighty suspicious if you ask me,” Angie said. “When Buddy and I were talking about it, we couldn’t imagine a woman being happy about some guy and not ever saying anything about him.”
“It’s true, though,” Connie insisted. “Tell Buddy she was really close-mouthed about the guy.”
“It has to be she was ashamed of him, then. Don’t you think? I mean, I talk about Paavo all the time. I talk about what he says, what he does, even what he thinks—at least, when he tells me. And this is despite my family being completely opposed to me going out with a cop—at least, everyone is except my mother, who likes Paavo—but the rest of them, well, you know how families can be.”
“Do I ever. Mine is the same way. You should have heard everyone when me and Keith got divorced. You’d think it was all my fault. What about Buddy?” Connie asked suddenly. “Was the family angry when he got his divorce?”
“More disappointed than angry. But, you know Buddy. He could charm the scales off a toad. Everyone got over it fast enough.”
“That’s Buddy. Say hello to him for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“In fact, bring him by. We’ve got great gift ideas here. Tell him, he doesn’t even have to buy anything. I’d like to say hello.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“He sure was handsome. We dated a couple of times—once to the movies, and another time to Charlie Markowitz’s party,” Connie mused, leaning on the counter.
“Buddy mentioned it,” Angie said.
“He remembered?”
“Yes. Anyway, I was just thinking about Tiffany—”
“Poor Tiffany.” Connie straightened. “Every time someone mentions her, it’s like an electric shock all over again.”
“Did she ever talk about what it was that attracted her to the man she was dating, or what they did together—I mean, where he took her on their dates?”
“It was clear he had money. That kind of thing was important to Tiffany. She never named the places he took her to. Instead, she’d say something like ‘He took me to a big fancy restaurant in Marin where he wouldn’t be recognized.’”
“Interesting. His picture must have been in the newspapers or on TV for him to have worried about being recognized.”
Connie shrugged. “You never know. San Francisco is small in many ways. Look how you found me.”
“That’s true. I’d suspect, since he felt okay about going to Marin, he worried that old San Francisco, not tourists and commuters, might recognize him. That means he’s just a local big fish.”
“That’s how it sounded.”
“How did she refer to him?”
“As her friend. That’s all.”
“Hmm, I wonder…” Angie was going to have to ponder this awhile. She looked around the gift shop. “Oh, my! Look at these.” She went to a case with a display of Russian eggs.
“Aren’t they beautiful? They’re made by modern Fabergé artisans. The Easter gift for the person who has everything.”
“I guess so. They aren’t cheap, are they?”
“No, but there’s so much significance in eggs and Easter, we actually do sell a few of them each year.”
“They’re wonderful. I’ve seen a couple of them on display in a little jewelry shop next door to an interesting little restaurant, The Wings Of An Angel on Columbus Avenue. Do you know the place?”
Connie shook her head.
“Their spaghetti and meatballs are great.”
Connie nodded absently, still staring at the eggs. “Tiffany loved those eggs.” Her eyes welled up, and suddenly she was in tears. She reached into her pocket for a wadded-up tissue and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just remembered that one of the last things she said to me was that she’d ask El to buy her one, and now—”
“El?”
“El, yes. El amigo. That’s what she and her pal Manuela called him—her friend, the friend. Sometimes just El for short.”
“You don’t think El is the letter of his name?”
&nbs
p; “I guess I never thought about it. Tiffany said she called him El because of Manuela.”
“Did you mention this to Paavo?”
“I doubt it. I hadn’t even thought about it.”
“El,” Angie murmured, still eyeing the eggs. “These are so special. I wonder if anyone would be interested in an article on them?”
“An article?” Connie paled. “Are you a journalist?”
“Don’t worry. Not the way you mean it. I write reviews of restaurants, and sometimes I do other articles about food or cooking. I’m trying to get a television show started. I should be called to an audition any day now.”
“Television! Wow, that is so exciting! God, I’d die if I had to go on TV. I’d stand there with my mouth open and make a complete fool of myself. You’re very poised, though. You’d be great.”
Angie gave a brave smile. “Thank you. I hope so.”
“What will the show be called?”
Her smile vanished. “They’re thinking of calling it…Angelina in the Cucina.”
Connie’s eyes widened, and then she started to laugh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Coventry Hotel was in an old, unprepossessing building with a brass nameplate so small it could have been a mail slot. As such, one was unprepared for the elegance behind the wood and glass front door, the lush sofa in red-and-gold brocade, and matching striped chairs set on Persian carpets under a massive crystal chandelier. Mahogany and faux marble antiques finished the Old World ambience of the lobby. The rooms promised to be every bit as elegant.
Paavo faced the manager, a slight, balding man, every bit as haughty and sophisticated as the furnishings. “We found your matchbook in the victim’s apartment. We’re wondering if she was ever a guest.”
James Sneed studied the photo Paavo handed him, then gestured for the desk clerk to join them. “Tiffany Rogers, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“She doesn’t look familiar to me at all. If I may be so bold, she doesn’t strike me as the sort who would be one of our regular clientele. We run a highly respected hotel.”
