If Cooks Could Kill

  Joanne Pence

  If Cooks Could Kill

  An Angie Amalfi Mystery

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  From the Kitchen of Angelina Amalfi

  Enter the Delicious World of Joanne Pence’­s Angie Amalfi Series

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Angie Amalfi Mysteries by Joanne Pence

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Connie Rogers glanced down at herself to make sure her brand new black lace Wonderbra was still doing its job and her boobs hadn’t sagged as low as her spirits. She’d fixed herself up pretty hot for tonight’s date in a leopard-print Lycra top with plunging V-neckline, short black polyester skirt, black diamond-patterned nylons, and sky-high patent leather heels, size 7 narrow. She normally wore a medium, but the narrow looked a lot better, and it fit. Almost. Not to mention that she’d risked razor burn by shaving her legs and underarms even though she’d last done them just three days earlier. Okay, so maybe that was overkill, but a girl could hope, couldn’t she?

  She sat alone at a window table in the Wings of an Angel restaurant. Her feet ached and her skirt seams screamed. She wriggled in the chair trying to stop the waistband from digging in quite so tight. She’d worn it to make sure her date liked what he saw. If he ever showed, that is.

  If her willpower alone could have caused him to enter the restaurant, he’d have bounded in doing handsprings. She’d already smoothed the white linen tablecloth, straightened the silverware, and twirled the single rose in the milk glass vase so many times half the petals had fallen off. The oversized gold-plated Anne Klein watch she’d splurged on at Costco showed 7:20 P.M. Not only was her date twenty minutes late, but since she’d arrived ten minutes early, if she were a thumb-twiddler, she’d have nothing left but stumps.

  It wasn’t as if she’d twisted his arm to go out with her. In fact, she’d never even talked to him, but she was a victim here. A victim of a blind date who’d stiffed her. What was with that?

  Earl White, one of the three owners of the Wings of an Angel and the one who acted as both maître d’ and all around waiter of the small restaurant, caught her eye. He was short and barrel-shaped, with hair resembling a shellacked brown helmet atop a face crisscrossed with wrinkles. He, too, glanced at his watch, then back at her with a shrug.

  Being stood up was bad enough; the last thing she needed was an audience. She bet Earl had never been stood up. He was in his sixties, and not only single, but still bringing in a paycheck instead of living off Social Security, which made him one of the most sought after men at the North Beach Senior Center. She once heard there was a knock-down-drag-out over him between Gina DiGrazia and Beatrice Pikulski. Plus, he was straight, which in San Francisco, was not to be assumed.

  Connie’s best friend, Angie Amalfi, had helped Earl and his partners, Butch Pagozzi and Vinnie Freiman, build Wings of an Angel into a pleasant, albeit small, restaurant, and they’d grown close in the process. As a result, whenever Connie showed up, she, too, was treated like family. Maybe that was why Earl had taken such an interest in her plight a couple days ago.

  She’d been talking with him about getting herself a dog. A little dog, nothing big or troublesome, but just something warm and alive to greet her when she went home after work. Something that needed her, that would love her unfailingly, through good times and bad.

  Okay, so she had a goldfish. It was alive; it needed her, but it wasn’t anything she could give a big hug to. Talking to it, watching its flat eyes and lack of reaction as it went around in circles no matter how heartfelt her story was, was an exercise in futility.

  Earl had suddenly—rather rudely, truth be told—asked how her love life was going. She asked if zip, zero, nada was a clear enough answer. Before she knew it, he’d talked to his partner, Butch, who was also the restaurant’s cook. Butch had called a nephew—apparently the only one in the family who’d made a name for himself—and arranged tonight’s turkey of a blind date.

  In truth, Earl, Butch, and Vinnie had all made names for themselves as well, only they called them “reps.” Bad reps, unfortunately. The three had met doing time in San Quentin, and when they got out, they decided to go straight, so to speak. Vinnie was the brains behind the operation. He kept the books and kept Earl and Butch in line. Sort of.

  Connie put an elbow on the table, chin in hand, and stared at the entrance to the restaurant.

  She’d been so excited and nervous she’d skipped lunch today, and was living off a snack of large fries and a diet Coke from McDonald’s. Okay, so maybe fries were a little fattening, but they were a vegetable, she’d been starving, and they had fewer calories than a Quarter Pounder…she hoped. Now, her empty stomach churned, adding injury to insult. The nephew had sounded too good to be true, and so far, it seemed he was neither. His name was Dennis Pagozzi, and he played defensive end for the San Francisco Forty-Niners. Connie might not be a sports fan, but she was quite willing to become one if it meant capturing the interest of a national conference player like Pagozzi, even if he was second string.

  The way she understood it, he played only when someone else was hurt and pulled from the game. That meant his body shouldn’t be as banged up as that of most football players. Generally, Connie preferred her men in one piece, although the way her love life was going lately, she’d settle for no-longer-on-life-support.

  And he shouldn’t be banged up at all now because it was spring, and there was no football. Not even practice.

  She drummed her fingernails on the table, then, horrified, stopped, and made sure she hadn’t chipped them. She’d spent a small fortune on fake nails that were painted at a diagonal—one half gold and the other red—Forty-Niner colors.

  A manicurist had worked on the design while a beautician cut, styled, and lightened her hair. This was a special date, so she decided to splurge on a kind of Sharon Stone look—light ash blond, short, with a shaggy fringe that framed her face. Dramatic, sexy. Sure to make Dennis Pagozzi’s toes curl, and another part of his anatomy straighten. He’d be impressed…if he ever got here.

  She tugged at her skirt again. The seams were beyond screaming. They were howling now.

  A couple came into the packed restaurant and picked up a take-out order. Connie took a sip of diet Coke and made sure none of it dripped from the glass onto her top. Many women having trouble with men could at least consider breast implants as a possible solution to their problems, but she was already a full C cup. If her experience was anything to go on, the size of one’s bra wasn’t the solution to anything beyond ogling.

  Her best friend, Angie Amalfi, who was admittedly slim and petite, scarcely filled out an A, and she had a boyfriend. San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith was not only crazy about her, but had proposed marriage. Actu
ally, Angie’s engagement to said cop had been the impetus that had caused Connie this predicament. It had made her realize that time was slipping by and she needed to work harder at finding the man of her dreams.

  She thought she’d found him once, but ex-husband Kevin Trammel had turned out to be a nightmare. Some days it seemed the last time she’d had a good man to go out with, Calvin Coolidge was President. And she hadn’t even been born yet.

  All that was why she’d agreed to this blind date. If she were smart, she’d be home in her pjs, wrapped in a warm, comfortable robe and fuzzy slippers and curled up on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn and a good romance novel or a romantic movie on the VCR. Instead, she sat here uncomfortable, nervous, and hungry. What unlucky star hung over her?

  “Here’s some salad and bread, Miss Connie,” Earl said. “I don’t t’ink you need to starve just ’cause some jerk-off is late showin’ up for your date.”

  “Thanks, Earl,” she murmured. “But right now, I’m not even hungry.” Okay, it was a lie, but she was too humiliated to eat.

  “It’s on da house.” He left a green salad with Roquefort dressing, Connie’s favorite, and walked away. The aroma of the French bread wafted up to her. She touched it. Warm. Firm crust. Soft center. Perfect for spreading butter which, unfortunately, was loaded with empty, straight-to-the-hips calories…

  She checked her watch again. 7:30. Why bother with a guy who couldn’t tell time? She kicked off her shoes and took a big bite of buttered, crusty bread. Heaven!

  Just then, like magic, the restaurant’s front door opened and a man alone entered. Connie’s breath caught, causing her to nearly choke on the bread. She swallowed it in a scarcely chewed lump.

  It quickly became obvious that the man who walked in was no football player. The only thing he resembled on a football field was a goalpost—tall and slim. He held an arm across his ribs as if in some pain, and stooped slightly because of it. He looked poor, as if he’d found his clothes in a Goodwill bag. Not that Connie was a clotheshorse like her friend Angie, but she knew cheap when she saw it.

  Earl sped toward the bedraggled fellow, and unless he was another take-out-order customer, she expected Earl would throw him out. Earl confronted him just inside the door, near Connie’s table.

  “Excuse me,” the newcomer said in a crisp voice. “I was told Dennis Pagozzi would be here tonight—”

  “You got a reservation?” Earl asked.

  “No. No, I’m not eating. I need to see Mr. Pagozzi—”

  “Dat makes two a you,” Earl murmured, “And he ain’t here.”

  “Someone else is waiting for him?” The stranger’s narrow face was pale, his hair dark blond and wavy. He looked like he’d lived a hard thirty-five or so years.

  “Yeah, but we ain’t got no room for squatters,” Earl said haughtily, or as haughtily as he could manage with his diction and grammar. “Maybe you better get outta here, and when Dennis shows up, I’ll tell him somebody’s been lookin’ for him. What’s your name?”

  “Who else wants to see him?” the man asked.

  “Uh…nobody.” Earl’s eyes darted toward Connie just a second, but it was enough that the stranger turned her way and visibly started. Only after a moment of staring did his expression ease.

  To Connie’s astonishment, he headed toward her, his mouth a hard slash and his jaw firm. “You’re Dennis Pagozzi’s friend?” he asked. His eyes were dark, his gaze cold.

  “Not exactly,” she answered. Who was this filthy creep?

  “But he’s expected?”

  “Yes—”

  “Good.” He grabbed the back of an empty chair at the table and pulled it out as if to sit.

  “Hey!” Earl, his chest puffed out, also grabbed the chair and jerked it away. “I didn’t hear da lady invite you, fella.”

  The stranger looked down at Earl as if he were a human mold spore, then yanked the chair his way again. “I’ll leave as soon as I talk to Pagozzi.”

  Earl tugged it back. “Why don’t you call him at home?”

  The stranger’s hand stilled on the chair. “I don’t have his phone number with me—and it’s kept private to protect him from football fans.”

  Connie could feel the other customers laughing at her. It was bad enough being alone at a table without having some bum play tug-of-war with a chair and announce to one and all he didn’t want to be there. How mortifying was that?

  “How do I know you ain’t some poivoit fan yourself?” Earl demanded. “It’s time for you to go, mister!”

  “Poivoit?” the man asked.

  “Pervert!” Connie said sharply, implying more than an explanation with the word.

  He faced her. “It’s cold outside. The fog is in.” Now this jerk had the nerve to plead his case to her directly. “I’ve been trying to catch up to Pagozzi all evening.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t—”

  “A couple of minutes is all I need!” His voice was loud.

  Connie’s cheeks burned. He was a monomaniacal madman, but she didn’t want more of a scene. “All right, already. Take a load off your feet. As if I should care.”

  “Miss Connie, you don’t hafta do dis.” Earl scowled pugnaciously.

  “It’s all right, Earl.” Connie’s teeth gritted. “I’m sure Dennis will be here soon.”

  A look of great relief flashed across the man’s slender face as he settled into the chair. He didn’t say a word, but she noticed the ravenous glance he gave the bread.

  With a shake of the head, Earl turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she said, then to the stranger, “Since you’re here, you may as well eat.” Okay, she was being soft, and she knew it. What could she do? She was a nice person, even to a rude S.O.B.

  His nostrils flared. “I’m fine.”

  Connie knew a hungry man when she saw one, pig-headed and vile or not. He looked exhausted, and judging from his stained and ragged clothes, probably hadn’t eaten a decent meal for some time. Besides, much as she found him disagreeable, she could relate to anyone else stiffed by Dennis Pagozzi, the rat. “Why don’t you bring him a salad, Earl? And more bread. What would you like to drink? Coffee, maybe? A Coke?”

  Her thanks was a fierce glare. “I said I’m fine.”

  Like hell you are, Connie thought. “It’s no problem.” She gave a firm nod to Earl. The waiter frowned, but went off to do as told.

  “I’m Connie Rogers, by the way.”

  He glanced at her, bored, and then swiveled toward the door.

  He was even ruder than she’d first thought. “And you are?” Didn’t she at least deserve to know the name of this seething mass of insensitivity sharing her table?

  “Max Squire,” he mumbled.

  Connie wondered if she should just go home. “Did Dennis tell you he’d be here tonight for sure?” Could she help it if a part of her still hoped the evening wouldn’t be a complete failure?

  He nodded, giving a heavy sigh as he sank against the chair, eyes half shut. “A guy at the ’Niners’ gym told me,” he said finally.

  She noticed a tightening of his mouth, fine lines forming at the corners as if he might be in pain. “Are you feeling all right?”

  He smirked, his voice weary. “Sure. I’m just great.” She’d rarely heard such heavy sarcasm.

  Earl brought him a glass of Perrier with a twist of lime. Squire drained it.

  When he put the glass down, his gaze caught Connie’s. “It’s warm in here,” he muttered.

  Her discomfort with the uncommunicative man increased with each passing second. “You can take off your overcoat…if you’d like.”

  It was a gray, dusty, moth-eaten old thing. He removed it, trying to hold back a wince of pain, and let it drape over the back of his chair. Under the coat he wore jeans and a black turtleneck, faded and misshapen. His shoulders and chest were broader and more muscular than she’d expected. He simply needed some flesh on his bones.

  Just then, Earl showed up with salad, another ba
sket of French bread, and more Perrier. The stranger practically salivated. “Eat. It’s for you,” she urged.

  He swallowed hard and shook his head.

  “I insist.”

  He placed his hands flat on the table. “I can’t pay for it. It’s the reason I’m here to meet Dennis. I need money.”

  Despite his harsh tone and blunt words, the blow to his pride was evident. “Uh-oh. That means he won’t be happy to see you,” Connie said wryly, trying to lighten the mood. “So much for my great blind date.”

  He looked askance. “You have a blind date with Dennis? A woman like you?”

  She couldn’t tell if she’d been complimented or insulted. Maybe it was the new hairdo? Maybe it wasn’t dramatic, and instead was butch? She surreptitiously patted it, then attempted to twist a fringe into a feminine curl near her ear. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Squire?”

  Her question seemed to puzzle him. Instead of answering he faced the door again and simply said, “Nothing.”

  His irritating responses aggravated her. “Your words mean nothing, and you’re flat broke. Big deal.” She waited until she had his attention again. “Now that that’s settled, will you please eat the damn salad?”

  Surprise flashed across his solemn face, then, glowering, he considered the food. “What the hell,” he murmured, and soon began to wolf down everything on his plate, plus the new basket of bread. As he ate, she ordered spaghetti and meatballs for both of them, asking Earl to bring it as quickly as possible.

  “Want some wine wit’ dat?” Earl asked.

  She knew nothing about wine. House red? Did she want to spend the money? “I don’t know…”