Too Many Cooks Page 11

  Finally, Chick decided to wade in the rest of the way, but he staggered and pitched head first into the water. Sal tried to pull him back into the boat, only to join his friend. Dripping wet and sick to their stomachs, they crawled to the beach. “Columbus” had to be held up to receive blessings from “Il Papa,” while his “Indian” companion began loudly to sleep it off. Angie was eight years old before she realized Columbus didn’t land in San Francisco when he discovered America.

  The sun was lighting the sky when she heard the key in the lock of the front door. Half asleep, she sat up, holding the blanket against her, waiting for the sound of Paavo’s footsteps. What if it wasn’t him? What if it was a burglar, or whoever had killed Chick, coming to look for her? But why would she even think of such a thing…unless Chick’s killer was someone she knew?

  “Paavo?”

  He walked into the bedroom and sat by her side on the bed, taking hold of her hands. She had put on a pair of his pajamas and had the sleeves cuffed about four times over. “I thought you’d be asleep,” he said.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “I know.” As he bent forward for a light kiss, she wrapped her arms tight around his neck, holding him with mute desperation and fear.

  “It really was Chick, then?” she asked finally. “It wasn’t a mistake?”

  “No mistake. He was standing beside his car, unlocking the door, just outside Capp’s Corner in North Beach. Nobody saw a thing.”

  She pulled back, her anger mixed with grief. “He was in the street? Gunned down for no reason? It can’t be! I mean, why? There’s got to be a reason. Some explanation.”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Why not? This is senseless, wrong!” Hot tears flowed down her cheeks. “What’s wrong with this city? why can’t peaceful citizens—”

  “Angie, don’t.” He pulled her closer, holding her head against the crook of his neck.

  “It’s not right,” she cried. “It’s not fair.”

  “I know.” He stroked her back and shoulder, trying to calm her, wishing he could wave some magic wand and make her happy once more. The heat of her body radiated through the flannel covering her. “I know the reason the papers will pick up.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was a restaurant owner too. They’ll probably speculate that there’s a restaurant-owner serial killer on the loose and cause mass panic among all your friends.”

  She glanced up at him, her eyes stricken. “You don’t think it’s true, do you?”

  He used his handkerchief to wipe the tears from her face, searching for the smile he loved. “I don’t. There’s a reason for this, a real reason. We’ll find out what it is. Believe me, Angie.”

  She lifted her head and touched his face just as she’d wanted to earlier, before this tragedy happened. “I believe in you, Paavo. I always have.”

  His arms tightened as his mouth found hers.

  Angie awoke in full daylight to a pounding on the front door. Cops, she thought. Why do they always have to make so much noise? Suddenly, she sat straight up. Paavo was beside her, sound asleep. He’d been completely exhausted last night, and then exerted himself even more before they finally got to sleep. So who was at the door?

  She glanced at the bedside alarm. It was eight-thirty. Grabbing Paavo’s robe, she put it on as she hurried to open the door before the knocking woke him up.

  She looked through the peephole and saw an enormous Japanese man with short cropped hair. Leaving the chain on, she opened the door a crack. “Inspector Yoshiwara?”

  “Hey there!” The way his voice thundered she was surprised it didn’t set off a sonic boom. “You must be Miss Amalfi, right? Angie, if I may call you that. Say, can I come in? I’d rather not talk on the sidewalk and all.”

  “Sure.” She stared at him and then shut the door to unfasten the chain. “Come in,” she said when the chain was off.

  He sauntered into the living room. “Hey, nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. I thought you couldn’t be real. Lots of education, money, real fancy car out there. Va-va-voom!”

  She felt more dead than real, standing there with no makeup and her hair a mess, wearing Paavo’s enormous bathrobe, and being greeted by Captain Kangaroo. How could anyone have so much energy so early in the morning? “What was it you wanted?” she asked.

  “Listen, Angie, I’m really sorry to bother you, and I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t an emergency, but I’ve got to get Paavo down to the station. There’s going to be a live press conference, on TV. The newsies are all over Hollins’s neck about these restaurant murders, and he needs Paavo there to bail him out.”

  “Paavo worked all night. He’s exhausted.”

  “So I heard! I learned about it this morning when I went in to the squad room. I couldn’t believe it! That Paav, he’s a great guy, letting me get my beauty sleep and all. Maybe that’s because he can’t stand to work with me otherwise. I mean, I’m ugly enough as is.”

  “I don’t think he should be disturbed.”

  “Now, Angie, we need him. The chief wants him at the Hall.” Under the Captain Kangaroo facade was the will of a mule.

  “He’s not fully recovered yet from the bullet wound, and he needs his rest. I don’t care what the chief wants. I know what’s best for him.”

  “I’ll drive him down. Believe me, I’ll get him back here just as soon as possible. Look, I’ll even tuck him in if that’ll make you happy.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Inspector Yoshiwara. I really can’t help you.”

  “You can call me Yosh.”

  She walked to the front door and held it open for him. “Good day, Inspector Yoshiwara.”

  He didn’t budge. “Look, Angie. You’ve got to understand—”

  “I understand. You don’t. I said ‘leave.’ Is that so difficult?”

  “But, Angie—”

  “Say, you two.” They both turned to see a sleepy-looking Paavo standing in the doorway of the bedroom, wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. “This stand-off is real interesting, and I’d love to see how it ends, but I don’t think I want to see any more bloodshed. Let me just take a shower, Yosh, and I’ll be with you.”

  “Sure, Paav.” Yosh smiled and walked over to the easy chair.

  “Please excuse me,” Angie said, her nose in the air as she swept Paavo’s bathrobe in an elegant turn toward the kitchen that would have done Princess Diana proud. “I’m going to make some coffee.”

  10

  They say the first forty-eight hours after a murder is committed are critical to finding the killer. Maybe that was why Paavo worked every one of them.

  Angie spent the weekend moping, drinking coffee, reading newspapers and waiting for Paavo to call. He didn’t. By the time Monday morning arrived, she had to break the speed limit to get to KYME radio in time for Henry’s show.

  She opened up a cabinet and pulled out her recipe books and pamphlets. She had just picked them up to carry them to the call-screening desk outside the studio booth when Henry walked around the side of the cabinet and right into her.

  “Angie!”

  She jumped, and the books flew out of her hands. Henry bent over to help her pick them up, his sprayed-stiff pompadour jabbing her nose as they both bent at the same time. Angie straightened. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll take care of them.”

  “No, no. My fault.” He handed her the books. She stared at him, not moving. He frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. Well, you know….”

  He nodded. “Yes. It’s terrible, isn’t it? Some crazed killer. I feel like locking my door and not going out until the police catch him.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be safe.”

  “I don’t know. After all, I’m more than a mere restaurant owner, I’m a well-known radio personality as well. If this is someone wanting to make a name for himself, who better to bump off than me?” He shuddered visibly.

  Carrying all her books herself
, she followed him to the studio.

  “Remember, you’re supposed to screen the calls, not answer them,” Henry reminded her, as he had every day since their new system began.

  “I know, I know.”

  He was shushing her as his theme music ended. She couldn’t help but hope the sound went over the airwaves. His audience should know what a bag of wind he really was.

  “Welcome to Lunch with Henri. It’s so nice of you to join me today at our cozy little table for two. Our waiter is lighting the candles now that sit on our starched white linen tablecloth. He’s turning over our crystal glasses to pour a Beaujolais—a bright red color, fresh, with the unexpected scent of black currants: a young wine, yet with nothing thin about it….”

  Angie stopped listening. She tiptoed out of the studio, shutting the door behind her, and went to her desk. Henri would continue talking for a while, setting the scene for his listeners. This was something new he’d decided to try, thinking it would make his female callers feel more “intimately attached” to him, though Angie had told him he was just wasting time. After that, he would give a monologue about cooking, then read a couple of commercials before going to the phones. It was time for Angie to start screening the calls.

  She looked at the telephone monitor. A call was waiting. She pushed the connect button. “Lunch with Henri radio show. May I help you?”

  A loud whistle suddenly blasted over the phone line and wouldn’t stop. Angie broke the connection before it broke her eardrum.

  A minute later, the phone light indicated that another caller was waiting. “Lunch with Henri radio show. This is Angie. May I help you?”

  Again, a loud whistle made the connection unbearable. What was going on here? Angie took off her headphones and tapped them, hoping that whatever was out of whack could be jiggled back into place. She played with the receiver’s buttons for a while, waiting for another call to come in. Theirs wasn’t a popular talk show by a long shot. More than one caller at a time rarely had to hold.

  Eventually, another call came in, but once again, Angie couldn’t hear anything but a whistle.

  The music jingle playing over the air told her it was time for Henry to begin to take calls from listeners. She poked her head into the studio. “My phone isn’t working,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  She pointed at the earphones. “They’re not working!”

  “Shhhh!” His face turned red. “All right, send the calls straight to me.”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “That’s all I need. A talk show with no callers!” Henry just then became aware that the music had stopped. He cleared his throat. Angie could picture the wheels turning in his head, as he wondered how much of his last comment might have gone over the air.

  “And now,” Henry said, “it’s time to go to our phones, so that you, our callers, can ask me anything about cooking your hearts desire.” He glanced at the blank phone monitor, then at Angie, with an ever-deepening frown. “We seem to be having a bit of trouble with our phone lines, so I know it makes it difficult for you to call in. My, my, whatever shall we do, since you know I live for our afternoons together, when I can share my knowledge about cooking with you, my dear listeners.” Angie cringed as his voice droned on. She’d never been around so much BS outside a cow pasture. “Let me give you the numbers to call once more,” Henry said. “Then we’ll take a little station break, and when we get back…”

  The incoming call light began to flash. Angie waved frantically at Henry, then pointed to the monitor. He nodded.

  “Good news, ladies and gentlemen. Our phone system is ready to be tested again. Let’s see if it works.” He hit the on-air button. “Welcome to Lunch with Henri.”

  “Hello, Chef Henri.”

  Angie glanced up from the monitor. She’d been debating whether or not to try to take the next call, if and when one came in, when her attention was caught by the caller’s strange voice. It was oddly muffled. Angie couldn’t tell if the caller was a man or a woman.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Henry said.

  “Pat.”

  Angie’s eyebrows rose. A neuter-sounding Pat? What was this, a Saturday Night Live routine?

  “Well, Pat, what can I do for you?”

  “I was concerned about the restaurant killer in your city.”

  Henry’s eye caught Angie’s. “Thank you. I’m sure the police will capture the person responsible in no time.”

  “I’m glad you think so, because—you’re next.”

  Henry jumped up and slapped the disconnect button. “And now,” he said, his voice quivering, “a word from our sponsor.”

  Paavo was in the KYME studio by 1:30 that afternoon. Henry was much more of a trooper than Angie would ever have thought. The commercial break gave him time to compose himself and he came back on the air all laughs, saying it was a friend pulling a fast one on him. Then he went on to say he regretted the tastelessness of the joke and sent his apologies to the families and friends of those who’d been lost. He did it all in less than thirty seconds and then continued his show as usual.

  Angie was less fortunate. She was a basket case. With her ailing headphones mysteriously working again, it was all she could do to understand the callers, let alone try to screen their questions.

  She and Henry told Paavo and Yoshiwara what had happened, but there was really nothing they could do. The station didn’t bother to tape Henry’s show, and unless a listener had recorded it, the exact words of the caller were lost. Still, Angie had the strangest notion that there was something familiar about the voice.

  Paavo was right, Angie thought, as she sat in her living room and read over the afternoon newspapers: the reporters were still having a field day with the story. The headlines blared. MENU FOR MURDER or DINNERS OF DEATH or the less lurid, more chilling CITY’S RESTAURANT OWNERS FEAR FOR LIVES IN WAKE OF LATEST MURDER. A portrait was painted of a crazed killer going around terrorizing restaurateurs.

  She saw Paavo on the local news on TV that evening saying he was sure the murders were not random, there was a definite reason the two restaurant owners were killed, the men had known each other, and there was no reason whatsoever for other restaurant owners to be frightened. He appeared reassuring and calm and even smiled pleasantly at the reporters. But she also saw he could scarcely contain his anger when a reporter stuck a microphone in his face and asked if the public should stay away from all restaurants until the killer was caught. The answer he gave was smooth and skillful. Probably only people who knew him really well could see he thought the reporter’s intelligence was somewhere near that of a slug.

  Earlier that weekend she had called her parents, then her sisters, and finally, the hardest, she put in a call to her old friend, Terry, to express her sympathy.

  She finally tracked Terry down at Flo’s house. Joey was with their mother too. They were lucky to have each other at a time like this, Angie thought.

  Now, though, she remembered someone else Chick had loved, someone who probably didn’t have anyone to grieve with. So she called the manager at Italian Seasons and explained who she was and what she needed to know.

  Janet Knight lived in a gated condominium apartment south of the city on Highway 1, facing the Pacific Ocean. Angie couldn’t help but reflect on the irony of how secure Janet’s house was, and yet Chick was gunned down on the street just trying to get into his car. No matter how much you planned, life was full of surprises—mostly bad ones.

  God, I’ve been around Paavo too long, she thought. Because that really wasn’t how she felt. As she walked toward the condo, her eye caught the Pacific in the moonlight. She stopped and looked out at the water a moment, and despite the death and dreariness around her she felt a slight easing of her low spirits. She breathed deeply, knowing she was going to need strength to face Janet.

  Mercifully, it wasn’t as bad as she feared. Janet seemed to be a beacon of strength in a world gone topsy-turvy. Or maybe she was still in shock, but
she took Angie’s condolences with grace and invited her to have some coffee.

  “Thank you for coming by, Angie. No one else has.”

  Angie nodded. Being so close to Chick’s ex-wife, she’d felt a little guilty herself for coming here.

  “The thing that hurts the most,” Janet said, “is that the last time we were together we fought over something so silly.”

  “If it was silly, I’m sure Chick didn’t take it too seriously.”

  “He always took his restaurant seriously. Strangely, our fight was about Karl Wielund and an article we were doing on him in Haute Cuisine magazine. I’d sent Nona Farraday to interview Karl over several days. It was going to be a big spread. Then, when he was killed, Nona put together an article on Albert Dupries instead.” Janet sighed.

  “What was wrong with that?” Angie asked.

  Janet gave a half smile. “Nothing, except Chick thought the article should have been about him.”

  “Ah.” Angie understood the professional ethics that would have influenced Janet. “I see.”

  “He wanted to know why I’d publish such trash in my magazine.”

  “Did he mean the article was trash or Dupries?”

  “He might have meant both. He despised Dupries. But he also said the article Nona wrote on Wielund was far superior. It went into what a fanatic the man was about his recipes, as well as how his customers were treated. He thought it was realistic and should have been used as a tribute to a great restaurateur, even if Wielund wasn’t especially popular. But if I didn’t do that, Chick thought I should at least have written about Italian Seasons.”

  Angie put her hand on Janet’s arm. “Chick would have realized soon enough why you couldn’t do an article on him, I’m sure. It’s not worth upsetting yourself over. Chick was devoted to you.”