Two Cooks A-Killing

by Joanne Pence

  “I’ve never thought about acting.” Much. “At least not until I came here.” And started thinking about it full time.

  “Looks like the acting bug may be nibbling at you already.” He chuckled. “Have you ever acted, Angie?”

  Completely flustered, she could only murmur, “I’ve been in a couple of plays.” High school plays, but he hadn’t asked for specifics. “I had a lead role in Damn Yankees.”

  She took a deep breath and belted out, “Whatever Lola Wants,” complete with well-practiced hand gestures.

  When she got to the part where she sang, “Little man, little Lola wants you!” and pointed at Waterfield, he stopped her.

  “That’s enough!” he cried, rubbing his ear. “You have a very strong voice. Rumor has it Tarleton will be directing a musical next. They’re making something of a comeback, you know.”

  “Really?” Was this fate? Kismet? Is this why she’d never found a job that satisfied her creativity and paid a decent wage? Because she was cut out for stardom?

  “Thank you,” she beamed.

  “Won’t Salvatore be proud to see his very own daughter in the movies! You’ll have riches and a glamorous way of life beyond your wildest dreams! And many rich, handsome men after you…”

  Her heart hammered. “I’m sure, but…”

  “But?”

  “I’m engaged. I’m going to be married.”

  His face fell. “Oh, Angelina, I’m so very sorry.” With that, he took his Scotch and left the room.

  Chapter 4

  Paavo hung up the phone. Angie had used a landline in the house since she couldn’t get her cell phone to work. The location was too remote, the hills too high. They’d barely begun to talk when someone else picked up and began dialing. They cut the conversation short.

  She’d sounded overjoyed to be at Eagle Crest and babbled on about all kinds of things and people that made no sense.

  Plastic chocolates? Lava lamps? And who in the world was Lola?

  Then she hung up, and his world seemed even emptier than before they’d talked.

  Yosh came in to the bureau. He immediately searched all the table and desktops, and practically stood on his head looking under them when he found nothing on top.

  “What’s up?” Paavo asked.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking how, when you and Angie were first engaged, she kept sending food down here. Remember the cream puffs, and how they had so much powdered sugar, it sprinkled out of the bottom of the box and the whole hazardous materials team, in their suits, followed it up the elevator, down the hall, then came in here and quarantined us?”

  “Yeah…I remember,” Paavo said glumly.

  “Or,” Yosh chuckled—“when she sent the angel food cake covered with little balloons, and how we were all having such a good time popping them? Who knew someone would report gunfire?”

  “I remember.” Paavo grew impatient.

  “Or the ten-foot-long mortadella, and how we said it must remind her—”

  “Stop! I remember, all right?”

  “It was kinda cute, you know.” Yosh sounded wistful. “Not that I’m missing it, or anything. Hey, it couldn’t go on forever. She’s got a life, after all.”

  “Yeah, she’s got a life,” Paavo said, feeling more morose than he had in a long time. Yosh wasn’t the only one who missed Angie’s attention.

  Angie downed her sherry and squared her shoulders. Time to get to work. As she headed for the kitchen, a sense of peace and purpose settled over her for the first time today. She had a job to do on a popular TV show. With a skip of joy, she sang to herself—quietly this time—“This Could Be the Start of Something Big.”

  To Angie, kitchens were oases of comfort, of warm aromas and friendly memories. Of childhood and family, dinner parties and holidays. Of times when you’re feeling sick and need something soothing like hot soup. Or joyful, and want to splurge with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. Or troubled, and you sit at the counter or table with a cup of latte and a biscotti or two. Or simply feeling good about cooking a meal that is nourishing and tasty for those you love.

  Eagle Crest’s kitchen was situated in the center of the house between the breakfast room on one side and a butler’s pantry leading to the dining room on the other. The door was propped halfway open. One step inside, and she stopped, amazed.

  It was a gourmet cook’s delight—roomy, with lots of counter space, a massive center island, and filled with professional-quality Viking appliances. As she compared it to the small, well-packed kitchen in her apartment, she gave a little “Ah” and walked further into the room.

  “Ouch! What the hell!” A red-faced chef dropped his knife onto the onion he’d been slicing. He stuck a finger in his mouth as he glared over his shoulder at her.

  Angie froze. He was scarcely taller than she was, with what seemed to be a muscular physique under a long-sleeved white chef’s smock and an apron that reached past his knees. His hair was the yellow-white color that comes only from bleach, and atop it was a tall chef’s cap. His eyebrows were similarly bleached. She hadn’t noticed him because the half-opened door had blocked her view of his part of the kitchen. She was horrified that she’d caused him to cut himself. “I’m sorry!”

  He remained flushed with anger. “Who are you coming in here and scaring the vits out of a person?”

  “I didn’t mean to…vits?”

  “Vits! Vits!” He stabbed at his forehead with his cut finger. It left no blood. The cut was obviously miniscule. No doubt, he was being a baby. Typical chef. He seemed to have acquired an accent much like Sergeant Schultz in Hogan’s Heroes. She didn’t remember any accent when he cut himself.

  “Who the hell are you?” he ranted. “Who let you into my kitchen? Nobody is supposed to come in here. Vhat’s wrong vit you people? Get out!”

  And she did. She supposed a man who’d just cut himself was allowed to be in a bad mood. This was not the time to introduce herself as the person who’d be giving him recipes and expecting him to help her cook—if the director agreed to give her the job.

  She needed to find Tarleton. Once she had the job, she didn’t care how much the cook yelled. He wasn’t keeping her out of her kitchen.

  As Angie passed by the dining room in her search, she stopped and entered. In this room, TV cameras would film the food she’d prepare, her creations, her delectable joys—she ran her fingers over the solid mahogany table—here, for millions and millions of people to see.

  Her gaze stopped at the ornate mirror over the buffet, and an earlier, troublesome conversation rushed back at her. She looked over her shoulders, even stuck her head into the entry hall. No one was around. This was as good a time as any.

  She darted to the mirror and studied her image. Up close, back further. What did Dr. Waterfield think was so wrong with it?

  She remembered reading that a lot of movie stars were putting collagen in their lips to make them thicker. Maybe that was the problem. Her lips, though, weren’t thin. In fact, her mouth was usually described as “full,” although possibly not full enough. Not Warner Brothers full.

  She stuck her tongue under her top lip to see if that might give her an idea of what she’d look like with a puffier mouth.

  It told her what a fat lip looked like in a boxing ring.

  She protruded her lips and tried folding back the upper one. All it did was hit her nose and make her gums show.

  “Miss Amalfi? Is something wrong?”

  In the mirror, she saw another tall, tanned, thin Hollywood-type heading her way. Did everyone have a tan who lived in that part of the state? Hadn’t they ever heard of sun block?

  This man was L.A. personified with a short-sleeved tangerine shirt that had the first three buttons open. His gray chest hair was a lot fuller than the few similarly colored strands that stretched across the top of his head. A gold-chain necklace winked at her. It seemed so dated, the costume of an over-the-hill, only-in-his-own-mind s
winger.

  She frowned. “Who are you?”

  Voice icy, words clipped, he replied, “Emery Tarleton.”

  The director! She spun around, blushing furiously. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I…I just wanted to make sure there was no food stuck between my teeth. I hate it when that happens.” If the floor had opened up, she would have gladly sunk into it.

  Tarleton adjusted his thick black-framed glasses, studying her as she did him. “I wish to talk to you about your role,” he said. “The Eagle Crest Christmas Reunion will be aired during the December sweeps. Already, the buzz is that it will be the most watched show of the year—if not the decade. Inspiration got the cast together again.” An eyebrow arched. “Inspiration and genius.”

  His genius was clearly what he was thinking. His good luck, she thought, that the two members of the cast who’d gone on to become popular movie stars—Kyle O’Rourke and Gwen Hagen, aka Adrian and Leona Roxbury—were available and still affordable.

  “Yes, sir,” she murmured.

  “You will present the Christmas dinner—mouthwatering, somewhat-traditional-but-not-overly, entrées and desserts,” he declared. “The Roxburys put on airs to show off their money. They might serve frogs’ legs, but none of them would actually eat one. Same for escargots. You get the picture. That’s the kind of food I want.”

  “No problem.” A few tweaks here and there in the dinner she’d planned, perhaps by adding sea urchins, sweetbreads, eel, or other equally gourmet-but-squeamish foods, and she’d have it.

  “You will serve a different wine with each course. Waterfield wine.”

  “Waterfield?” The word fell from her lips. Did the man have no taste? Could she tell the director, on their first meeting, that Waterfield wine was only useful for clearing clogged drains? She tried for diplomacy. “Are you sure we don’t want to showcase other great Napa Valley wines?”

  He frowned. “This is the Waterfield winery. Dr. Waterfield allows us to use his home, and as a favor, we use his wine on the show. The man’s rich, but he’s got to get some compensation. Don’t you agree?”

  It wasn’t a question that required anything more than an “Of course,” which she immediately gave him.

  “Keep in mind,” Tarleton said, “the menu must be exact.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, as if she knew what he meant. Exact what?

  “If you aren’t able to do something so simple, speak up now.” He turned sharp eyes on her. “Don’t waste my time later saying you can’t do this or that. I’ll refuse to hear it. Refuse! Absolutely. No backing out. Got it?”

  “I’ve got it.” He was making her more nervous by the second. She hated being spoken to like a backward child.

  “You’ll have a budget; I expect you to stay within it, give or take a few grand. All I want is to see the results, not to hear about them. Is that clear?”

  “It’s not that difficult,” she protested when he stopped barking orders.

  He scowled derisively. “Have you ever worked in television before?”

  “No.”

  With pursed lips, he smirked. “It figures.”

  “I can do it,” she said. “I’m already thinking of a meal—”

  “Quiet!” His eyes narrowed as he put his fingers to his lips and began to stroll around the dining room table. “The more I think about it…yes!” He waved his arms. “Forget everything I just said! We’re going to use the same menu as on an earlier Christmas show.”

  She prayed she’d misunderstood. “I can come up with a wonderful holiday menu. Something elegant, true haute cuisine. How much is my budget, by the way?”

  “Forget it. My idea is much better. Perfection. I even surprise myself sometimes!”

  “What are you saying?” She felt tears threatening. She wanted to create a fabulous meal and show the world—or the Eagle Crest-watching part of it—what she could do. Launch a television career, make a name for herself…

  With his hands flat on the tabletop, he leaned toward her, dropping his voice. “We’re going to re-create the meal that was served on the night Julia Parker was murdered. I don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Of course I do,” Angie said, puzzled. “She was Natalie’s sister’s daughter, the result of the sister going to a sperm bank and getting sperm that, in fact, might have been Cliff and Adrian’s fathers, making her their half-sister. And, if so, part owner of the winery. Then, she was mysteriously killed. After that, there were hints that Julia was haunting the family. In fact, everything inexplicable that happened after she died was blamed on Julia’s ghost. Frankly, I always suspected it was just a cop-out when the writers couldn’t come up with a halfway decent rationale…”

  She snapped her mouth shut. As director, Tarleton had to have approved the scripts. “If so,” she said with a broad smile, “it was clever. Extremely clever.”

  Tarleton stared at her. “You really do know your Eagle Crest history.”

  “Of course,” Angie said proudly. “But what does that have to do with the dinner?”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered who killed her?”

  “I know Cliff was accused. Of course, he was innocent.” She remembered her disappointment with the storyline. “Big surprise! As if the public would continue watching if the show’s sexiest star was cooped up in jail instead of out flirting and making mischief. As I understand it, the whole problem came about because the actress who played Julia died. I remember the press trying to hint that drugs or something more was involved, but the police said no, that it was just a terrible accident. Am I right?”

  “Exactly.” Tarleton said. “She was a beautiful young woman named Brittany Keegan.” His jaw clenched. “But everyone has forgotten her. Everyone! She died right here at Eagle Crest.”

  Angie’s eyes widened. “In this house? I didn’t know that. How could I have missed hearing such a thing?”

  “After the initial reports,” Tarleton said, lifting his chin, “the follow-up stories were worded so that the fans would assume her death took place in Los Angeles, not on location. We did it for the sake of the Waterfield family, of course.”

  “Of course,” Angie replied. Not to mention for the sake of the show, although it continued only one more season after that.

  When Bart Farrell and Rhonda Manning refused to renew their contracts, the show was as dead as Brittany Keegan.

  “I’m telling you this simply because you’ll be working here, and everyone else knows it.” His gaze was severe. “I trust you’ll keep it quiet.”

  “Yes,” Angie promised. Not only was it unbelievable that she had this job, now she was privy to insider-only Hollywood gossip. Wait until she told Paavo!

  “Miss Keegan was only twenty-three years old.” Tarleton walked over to the poinsettias on the buffet and stroked the red leaves. He brushed off his fingertips against his slacks, grimacing with disgust at forgetting they were fake. He spun toward Angie.

  “Everyone kept a stiff upper lip and continued on as if nothing had happened, except, of course, coming up with the new plot about Julia’s murder.” His voice softened. “It was almost as if Brittany had never lived and hadn’t died right under their noses. The show grew ever more popular—even after it was cancelled. The younger stars—O’Rourke and Hagen—went on to bigger things. Their salaries soared. Brittany should have been one of them.”

  His gaze turned inward and hollow.

  “She died from a fall, right?” Angie asked. “Horseback riding. Or was that also a lie?”

  “Not a lie, exactly. A rumor given to the tabloids.” His toothy smile was close to a grimace. “It was more…glamorous…than to say she was found dead in the courtyard.”

  “The courtyard?” Angie shuddered. “What do you mean? How did she die there?”

  He didn’t answer for a long while. “She was found in the courtyard. Her bedroom was on the third floor. She fell from her window.”

  “Oh, no!” Angie was horrified to think of a young woman dying that wa
y. “Suicide was ruled out, I take it?”

  “Yes, definitely. She was happy, a fine actress, her whole life ahead of her.”

  Another possibility filled Angie’s mind. “My fiancé is a homicide detective, so maybe that’s why I’m asking, but did anyone suspect she might have been helped out that window?”

  He nodded. “It was suspected, of course. However, the door to her room was locked with a metal slide bolt. There was no way anyone could have gotten in or out. We had to break it away from the door jamb to get into the room.”

  “Her room was on the third floor”—Angie’s voice became very tiny—“facing the courtyard?”

  “That’s right.”

  She didn’t know what made her ask, she only knew the answer she was expecting. “Which room up there was hers?”

  “I’ll never forget. It was the last one on the left.”

  Why, why, why did Angie know he was going to say that?

  It was the room she’d been given. The room that, frankly, gave her the creeps.

  Chapter 5

  Paavo sat at his desk in Homicide, looking out at the dreary, foggy day, and listened while Angie excitedly rambled on and on about her new job. She’d finally met the director and the only problem was that he wanted to use an old show’s menu rather than hers. Disappointed but undeterred, she planned to make it the best version of the meal he’d ever had, to use exquisite recipes that would make him and the other actors take notice.

  Suddenly, she gave him a quick “I love you” and said she had to hang up. Someone was nearby that she wanted to talk to.

  “I love you, too,” he said as the dial tone sounded in his ear.

  He was glad she was enjoying herself. Glad she wasn’t up there miserable and missing him…he supposed.

  Finally, he put down the receiver.

  As Angie had been talking to Paavo on the extension phone in her room, she’d heard a door close. She stuck her head out into the hall and saw Mariah heading for the stairs.