Two Cooks A-Killing

by Joanne Pence

  “I am,” Angie confessed. “What am I going to do about Paavo and Papà? Why won’t Papà accept him? Making up a story to get me to come to Eagle Crest—”

  “Your father only wants what’s best for you,” Serefina said. “His problem is he thinks he knows what that is, and it’s not easy to convince him he doesn’t.”

  “Even if I convince him,” Angie said, “I want them to like each other. How can I make that happen? Paavo has an open mind, but it won’t stay that way if Papà keeps putting him down.”

  “Sometimes, in families especially, there’s nothing you can do,” Serefina admitted. “Madonna, but my father was unhappy with my choice for a husband. Salvatore and I can laugh now, but at the time…” She shook her head.

  “Nonno didn’t like Papà?” Angie was shocked. She’d never heard that before, and she was quite sure she’d heard everything involving the family.

  “I don’t like to talk about it, and your father definitely doesn’t. It was all because of our first Christmas together.”

  Now Angie was even more confused. “Christmas?”

  “Your father had no money and many bills. As my present, he bought me a necklace from Weinstein’s. You probably don’t even remember that store, a little five-and-ten. When I wore the necklace, it turned my neck green. Nonno saw it and was furious! He said Salvatore had no prospects, no money, and even worse taste. He never did get over that suspicion completely.”

  Angie chuckled at the story, but knowing history repeated itself wasn’t exactly a comfort. “Papà didn’t treat Bianca or Caterina’s husbands this way. And Maria married a jazz musician and Frannie’s husband is a jerk. Why pick on Paavo?”

  “Because you’re your father’s baby.” Serefina tried to explain. “He didn’t like seeing Bianca marry. The first child to leave home is hard, but Johnnie had a business—and he’s Italian. Your father could accept it. Caterina had to one-up her sister by marrying a lawyer, also Italian. What’s not to like?”

  “Well…” Actually, Angie couldn’t stand Caterina’s husband, but this wasn’t the time to bring it up.

  “Your father was sure Maria would become a nun. When she got married, he was so shocked he forgot to complain. And Frannie, poor Frannie—I think he was more relieved than anything that she found anyone who’d marry her. She isn’t the easiest person to get along with.”

  About as easy as a great white shark, Angie thought.

  “But you…when you’re married, Angelina, another phase of our jobs as parents will be over. Salvatore doesn’t want to give it up, yet.” She brushed Angie’s hair back from her face. “For most of your life, he was the man you ran to when things went wrong or you needed advice. Even as the older girls left, little Angelina was always there for us. You still needed us.

  “Now, you’ve found someone else to go to. The man you love and want to share your life with. Let me tell you, Angelina, this isn’t about Paavo as much as it’s about Salvatore. I think if Paavo was president of General Motors, your father would find something to complain about. Now, do you understand?”

  “Thank you, Mamma,” Angie said, as Serefina gave her a hug, and then added a little more pepper to the sweet potatoes.

  A spring developed in Ellsberg’s step as he led Paavo through the county office building. “It isn’t often I get to talk to someone who isn’t squeamish about these things. I suspect you’ve watched more autopsies in a month than most cops in this county see in their careers.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Paavo said. Ellsberg’s glee was a bit ghoulish.

  “I would.” Ellsberg chuckled.

  In the morgue, he rolled open the drawer with Demitasse’s sheet-covered body.

  “There was a blow on the back of his head.” Ellsberg turned the head and pointed to a spot with his pen. “You can see the early stages of a bruise, even a slight tearing of the skin here. But look, no swelling. That tells me the blow was either surprisingly light—which is inconsistent with the bruise and tears—or occurred very shortly before death.”

  “What was the actual cause of death?”

  “Drowning. The barrel had been half-filled with water.”

  Paavo had seen drowning victims before. Usually a residue of dried white foam—mucus mixed with water—was found around their mouths. Demitasse had none. “What confirms drowning?”

  “The way he was found. What else?”

  “Is it possible that he was hit on the head, knocked unconscious, and then shoved into the barrel?”

  “Certainly. The police theorize he was in the cellar looking for wine and removed the barrel cover. At some point he hit his head, causing the contusion. Dazed, he stumbled about, fell into the barrel, couldn’t get back out and drowned. If he’d had the height of most adult males, and if he weren’t wearing that strange body suit, he never would have gotten stuck the way he did. It was a strange confluence of events.”

  “The unlucky, clumsy contortionist theory of death,” Paavo said, frowning.

  Ellsberg covered the body and shut the drawer. “You’ve heard of that, have you?”

  The two men walked toward the exit. “Every so often. Defense attorneys are especially fond of explaining ingenious ways people do themselves in. Police, in my experience, aren’t usually so creative. We tend to take a much more straightforward approach.”

  “Medical examiners, too. We go along with Occam’s Razor—that the simplest explanation is most often the true one,” Ellsberg said, “except when a death takes place on the Waterfield estate and the police chief himself shows up for the investigation. That’s reason enough for investigating offices to become very creative, indeed.”

  “I understand.” Paavo had had more than a few of those cases, himself. He’d always managed not to buckle under, however.

  Ellsberg stopped before entering his office. “You still want Brittany Keegan’s autopsy?”

  “More than ever.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be back with it in five minutes.”

  Chapter 33

  Connie burst into the kitchen flush from having Cliff Roxbury himself greet her at the door. She felt as if she were living in a television series, and she loved every minute of it.

  The kitchen looked completely chaotic—food, bowls, and knives everywhere. Angie was up to her elbows in flour, bread stuffing, and chopped vegetables, fruit, onions, and garlic. Stuffing, pies, hors d’oeuvres, and vegetable dishes were spread around her as she prepared for the feast.

  “What’s going on around here today?” Connie asked. “It’s a madhouse outside, and even worse in here.”

  “The cast and crew will start filming tomorrow. I don’t know what else they’re up to, but I can tell you that no one confessed. Our little farce with Minnie apparently didn’t phase the killer in the least. Where is Minnie, by the way?”

  “She didn’t want to come this afternoon. I think she’s a lot more upset about Fred’s death than she let on, and added to it, all these Christmas decorations…she said she’ll show up later if you need her.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Angie admitted.

  “What do we do now?” Connie asked.

  Angie told her about finding Brittany’s OB/GYN papers, and about Junior and their strange conversation.

  “Why did he ask about a music box?” Connie asked.

  “He said I should know who had it. I wonder…Sterling said it belonged to the Waterfield family, but Tarleton thought it was Brittany’s. He said she didn’t like it. Could one of the Waterfields have given it to her, and then she gave it away to be used as a prop? Would that be a motive for murder?”

  Connie’s eyes widened. “I certainly should hope not! I’ve given away a few gifts I didn’t like myself.”

  Angie tried connecting some dots—those visible to her, at any rate. Junior was young, like Brittany, and thought he loved her. Everyone knew he’d watched and followed her.

  Yet, she spurned him, gave away his present. Perhaps he broke into her r
oom to confront her and ended up pushing her, causing her to fall. Breaking into her room wouldn’t have been a problem for a strong man like Junior. Angie had looked at the doorframe in the bedroom—it was weak, inexpensive wood. The whole attic had been converted into bedrooms cheaply and quickly.

  Junior being responsible for Brittany’s death was quite possible, she thought.

  Then, when he saw Brittany’s music box, he took it—and Fred Demitasse saw him. He might have confronted Junior about taking the music box now, as well as over what he might have seen in the past. And so, Junior killed him.

  Connie was confused. “I thought you said Fred accused Rhonda?”

  “It seemed that way. Maybe that was a red herring—he’d throw everyone off the track, so they’d never suspect Junior. That way, as long as Junior paid the blackmail money, Fred was safe.”

  “I don’t know, Angie.” Connie shook her head.

  “It all hinges on the Little Drummer Boy,” Angie insisted. “If it’s in Junior’s room, we know he’s the killer.”

  “How are we going to find out?” Connie wondered why she bothered to ask. She already knew the answer.

  “Now, Connie, is that question really necessary?”

  The two knocked on the door between Junior’s apartment and the kitchen. No answer. Angie tried to find a way to spring the lock, but she couldn’t fit a credit card between the door and the frame, and there was no keyhole to unlock with a bobby pin, like in the movies—not that she or Connie wore bobby pins or even owned any, or she’d know how to tumble a lock mechanism if she had one.

  “We have to go outside,” Angie said. “There’s an outside entrance.”

  “Outside? But you said Junior’s always up on that hill. He might see us! I don’t want some homicidal stalker finding me in his room. No way. Good-bye!”

  “Don’t worry. His room faces north. The hill is east. We’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Angie lowered the cooktop flame to simmer, grabbed Connie’s arm, and hustled her friend around the house. Near Junior’s entrance, a window was opened about an inch, just enough to bring in a little fresh air. The house, though, was on a slope, and the window was fairly high.

  “I’m still sore from boosting myself up into that tree last night,” Angie said. “Your turn. I’ll watch and if someone comes, I’ll divert their attention.”

  “Why don’t I divert while you go into his room?” Connie suggested. “What if he’s in there?”

  “He didn’t answer the door,” Angie pointed out.

  “Gee, a homicidal maniac who isn’t friendly? Doesn’t want to greet people at his door? How amazing is that!”

  “If he’s inside,” Angie said, “simply excuse yourself and jump back out again.”

  Connie looked ready to tear her hair. “Sure—if I’m not hog-tied and duct-taped.”

  “Look, once you’re inside, open the door to the kitchen for me. If you don’t, I’ll get help and we’ll burst in like the cavalry. You’re wasting time. Now, go! No—wait!”

  A member of the crew walked by, smiling and waving at the two women. They smiled back.

  As soon as he was gone, Connie turned, slid the window open wide and scrambled up onto it. Her feet kept slipping against the outer wall, so Angie positioned her shoulder under Connie’s butt and lifted.

  Connie toppled in head-first.

  “You okay?” Angie called, trying to look nonchalant—as if she was nonchalantly talking to herself—in case anyone else passed by.

  “Uh…I think so,” came a muffled reply.

  As Connie pushed the window back to where it was, Angie ran through the house. Connie had just unlocked the kitchen door when she reached it.

  The simplicity of what had once been the maid’s quarters was a marked contrast to everything else in the house—a pine bed, bureau, and desk, a colorful comforter on the bed, and travel posters for decoration.

  Angie pointed toward herself and the closet, then at Connie and the bureau. Connie nodded.

  In no time, Angie found the Little Drummer Boy in the back of the closet under some old blankets.

  “Got it!” she cried.

  “It’s lovely,” Connie said. “Look at the workmanship, the delicacy of the paint, how lifelike the eyes are, the pensive but loving expression on his face. I have nothing this fine in my shop.” Connie ran Everyone’s Fancy, a small gift shop in the West Portal district of San Francisco. “How could Brittany not have loved it?”

  At that moment, the sound of a key entering the outside lock was like a sonic boom. They stared at each other, then broke for the kitchen.

  But as Angie swung the connecting door shut, she remembered that she’d left the closet door open.

  Digger was sitting outside the St. Helena police station trying to come up with a reason to question the chief about Fred Demitasse’s demise that wouldn’t get him tossed out, when he saw someone familiar getting out of an old Ford.

  He remembered—Angie’s cop. She had his picture on the bureau in her bedroom. What was he doing here?

  Digger waited. Over an hour passed before the cop came back out. Obviously, he got more than the runaround from the authorities.

  Digger introduced himself. “I know cops don’t like to share evidence with the press, but I know a lot about this case. I’ve been studying it for years and came up here for the reunion show. I thought the show might yield some new evidence. I never imagined things would get this out of hand.”

  Paavo headed steadfastly toward his car.

  “Angie’s in the middle of it,” Digger said. “Don’t you want her out of there? Don’t you want to get whoever is behind these murders?”

  Paavo stopped and eyed him harshly. “It’s not your concern.”

  “Look,” he was almost pleading. “Tell me what you know. I’ll put it together with my information—which I’ll give you—and together we might have something.”

  “Forget it,” Paavo reached his car.

  “What about Demitasse being involved in blackmail?” Digger asked. “Did Angie talk to you about that?” He gave a quick rundown of Fred-as-blackmailer.

  Paavo stopped and listened. “It could be.” Paavo studied Digger closely, and then decided to give him a new piece of information. He told Digger about an e-mail in which Fred said Brittany’s death wasn’t kosher, most likely meaning she died from a broken neck.

  Digger frowned. “Everybody knows her neck was broken in the fall. That’s what killed her. Why would he put it in an e-mail? It was hardly news. Why bother?”

  Paavo stared at Digger, chagrined. He’d been so wrapped up in the Birds of Prey case, he hadn’t thought about this case clearly enough to ask himself those very questions. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Everyone would know it…if that was the case. And Fred’s own death…” He stopped.

  “What are you thinking?” Digger asked.

  “Can you get some movie-business information right away?”

  Digger stepped back from the intensity of the cop’s gaze. “I can sure try.”

  As Angie cooked, the spicy aromas of the food drove away uneasy thoughts of killers and music box thieves and filled her mind with memories of past Christmases, of the days when she was a child and the whole family would gather at her parents’ home.

  Her mother would cook a turkey or lamb or a ham, but the most loved part of the meal was a huge platter of homemade ravioli. Angie and her sisters helped Serefina make it Christmas morning. When she was very young, Angie resented the time spent away from her new toys. As she grew older though, she came to appreciate those hours in which the six women worked in the kitchen together.

  She tested the parsnips in the soup. Finally, they were soft.

  The first one to stop participating was Bianca. As her children grew older, and her husband’s parents wanted their “share” of time, she began to develop her own Christmas morning rituals for her children to remember.

  Caterina and Maria soon
followed suit. Last year, Frannie gave birth to her first child. Although she was there to help Serefina, she spent most of her time caring for Seth, Jr., who was a colicky, fussy child.

  Angie plugged in the hand blender—the appliance Chef Emeril called a “boat motor” on his TV show—put it in the soup pot and turned it on to cream the parsnips and mushrooms.

  By next Christmas or the one after, the ravioli would be made only by Angie and her mother. Once she and Paavo were married, she wondered how long she’d continue to help, and what traditions the two of them would develop. Paavo’s stepfather, Aulis Kokkonen, couldn’t be left alone on the holidays.

  Angie saw it as a cycle. The gathering around the Christmas table would grow larger each year until the time came when her parents grew too old and frail to handle the get-together any longer. Then it would be time for her sisters to take over, perhaps Bianca as the oldest, or herself, as the gourmet cook.

  Whoever did it, she knew that, for her, it would never have the magic of her childhood years when her aunts and uncles and friends of the family would all come together. Her father would take an old accordion out of the closet, one that once belonged to his father in the old country. He knew how to play exactly one Calabrian tune on it, a tarantella that his father had taught him when he was a boy. No one ever tired of hearing it. The older women would sing, and the young ones would dance to Salvatore’s music.

  Angie prayed that in the future, her own children—hers and Paavo’s—in these much more serious times would come to know Christmas as a time of joy and laughter, and that she and Paavo could provide them with strong, happy memories just as her parents had given her.

  The parsnips were creamier than she’d ever seen them; the mushrooms all but disintegrated. Enough daydreaming. She needed to concentrate. If the meal was a disaster, she didn’t want the fault to be hers.

  The coroner’s office was closed when Paavo returned. It took him a while to track Ellsberg down and explain what he needed and why. As much as Ellsberg enjoyed Paavo’s earlier visit, he didn’t sound happy about returning to the office again that day.