Two Cooks A-Killing Page 15

  “He’s my mother’s friend…and my father’s.” Angie shivered, disturbed by the news editor’s implication.

  “All I’m saying is there was no proof for reporters to get a handle on,” Clark explained. “Word of Keegan’s death went out via press releases. All questions were handled by the studio’s publicity department. A few reporters came nosing around and learned there was more to the story, but basically it was an accidental death. Whether she fell from her horse on her estate in Malibu, which was sad and romantic, or fell out of a window in St. Helena, which was clumsy and disgusting, the bottom line wasn’t worth all the time, money, and effort to track down exactly where she fell. After a little speculation in the LA papers—even an eventual retraction of the Malibu story, I believe—the whole thing disappeared from the newsman’s radar.”

  “You know a lot about it,” Digger said.

  “I’m a newspaper man. I want to know and print the truth—no matter what my predecessors did.”

  Angie and Digger soon left. “It’s a dead end,” Angie said as they returned to her car.

  Digger pondered a moment. “Not completely. Rudolf Goetring seems to know a lot about what happened that night. I want to hear more about the two women who were fighting, and about Goetring, himself. His name is unfamiliar. I thought I’d checked out everyone connected with this case. I’ll see what I can scare up on him.”

  “He didn’t show up this morning to make coffee or anything,” Angie said. “He wasn’t in his bedroom.”

  The news interested Digger. “Now I’ve definitely got to check him out.”

  Chapter 22

  Paavo and Yosh were driving to the home of a hostile witness with some tough questions when Angie called to fill him in on the latest twist in Brittany Keegan’s death.

  “Digger Gordon?” Paavo repeated the National Star reporter’s name, feeling a headache starting behind his eyeballs.

  “His name is really Daniel,” Angie said.

  “Daniel Gordon sounds familiar. Let me check with Yosh.”

  “Does Yosh know the name?” Angie asked when he came back on the phone.

  “Daniel Gordon used to be a crime reporter for the Los Angeles Times. He was investigating a big drug dealer when his wife died. No connection was ever proven between his investigation and his wife’s death. It was ruled to have been an accident. She slipped and hit her head taking a bath. Gordon insisted his wife never took a bath in the morning, only showers.

  “No one believed him. He spent all his time trying to find out who killed her, and lost his job as a result. He’s made it his crusade to hunt down cases in which mysterious accidental deaths occur, to turn up hard evidence that it wasn’t an accident. He does it as much to show up the police and crime investigators as anything, but he’s managed to find some murderers who otherwise might have gotten away.”

  “That can’t be my Digger Gordon.”

  “You never know,” Paavo said. “I’ve heard him referred to as the John Walsh of the tabloid set.”

  “How long ago did Gordon’s wife’s die?”

  “Seven, eight years at least.”

  “That must be an awful burden, especially since it sounds like he thinks she was killed because of his activities. He’s got to feel horribly guilty.”

  “Yes.” Paavo’s voice was tight, and Angie remembered a time when she was a madman’s targeted simply because Paavo loved her. She wished she could take back her words, especially when he said, “It’s hard to imagine how he could bear it.”

  When Angie returned from grocery shopping the cook still hadn’t shown up.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Drummer Boy music box in the kitchen, have you?” Tarleton asked when he saw her walk into the house with bags of groceries. Not that he offered to help, not even when she made it clear there were still groceries in the trunk of her car.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Is that food for dinner tonight?” he asked hopefully.

  “Dinner? Isn’t it catered? This is all for the Christmas special,” she said. “I had to order the goose—two, in fact. One for a test run I’ll make of the meal day after tomorrow. The second is for the actual dinner that will be taped.”

  He followed her back out to her car and stood and watched as she lifted the rest of the bags of food. “You have to test it?”

  “After I cook it once, I’ll know exactly what I need to do to have the meal ready for television. And you’ll be able to tell me if you want anything changed.”

  “Good idea,” he said.

  Back in the kitchen, he watched forlornly as she put groceries away. “What’s the problem?”

  “We haven’t seen the cook all day,” he said. “The caterer came by for lunch, but after the breakfast you served, it tasted like hardtack. Kyle and Gwen said they hoped to see real food at dinner. If Goetring was here, I was going to ask him to help you cook for us. Without him, though…what do you say? Would you do it anyway?”

  She gaped. “They said that?”

  “We loved your cooking, Angie.”

  “Oh, my.” This was exactly what she’d hoped for! To be praised by Kyle O’Rourke and Gwen Hagen! A lot of big restaurants became famous because of celebrity word of mouth. “I can manage to scare up something for tonight. And everyone will be invited to my test Christmas feast as well.”

  “Wonderful.” As he turned to leave she realized another chance loomed before her. She was feeling lucky. Why not go for the gold?

  She burst into song, a jaunty Christmas song. “Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin’—”

  He scowled at her. “Why are you singing again? And so loudly?”

  Although his frown was disconcerting, she smiled. “I heard you’re going to be directing a musical. Can you tell that I’m interested? I’ve sung in musicals.” One…but who was counting?

  “Where did you hear that? I hate musicals.”

  She snapped her mouth shut. So much for luck.

  Angie had no sooner finished putting things away when she heard angry voices in the maid’s quarters. Junior had taken over the rooms, according to his brother. Standing near the locked connecting door in the kitchen, the words became clear.

  “Why are you pretending to be Brittany?” She recognized Junior’s voice.

  “I’m an actress.” The speaker was Mariah. Angie pressed her ear to the door. “It’s a part. I was playing Julia.”

  “No. You were Brittany. Your hair is like hers when you don’t cover it with that ugly wig. I suspect you don’t need glasses either. Why are you doing this?”

  Angie pressed her ear tight against the door. She knew Mariah wore a wig, but she was astonished to hear the woman’s own hair was blond and attractive.

  “Are you spying on me?” Mariah demanded. “Keep away from me.”

  “You’re working with Tarleton,” Junior shouted. “Tormenting everyone about Brittany. What do you know of her? She was beautiful. Not like you.”

  “It’s none of your business.” Her voice was piercing. “Why are you here? Why didn’t you stay on that mountain, where you belong?”

  “Because Brittany is my business. No one else is like her.” Angie heard a scuffle, and was ready to shout at them when it stopped. “Take this ugly wig and burn it.”

  “Damn you!” Mariah screamed.

  Angie could easily imagine Mariah as the one who’d played Julia. Why the charade?

  “You don’t even understand what you’re doing to the people here.” Junior’s tone had turned low and deadly. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “At least I’m not crazy,” Mariah shrieked. “You think you know Brittany? I didn’t, but I know one thing—she could never have loved someone like you. Never! Why don’t you go back up to that mountain where you belong? No wonder your father is ashamed of you!”

  “With pleasure!” A door slammed, and all was quiet.

  Angie’s hand was poised to knock in order to console Mariah when she changed her mind. Junior was
odd, but he was right about one thing: why was Mariah in disguise? It would have made sense if she’d put on a disguise to look like Brittany. Why, when she looked like Brittany normally, did she need to hide that fact?

  There was talk that Tarleton and Brittany had been lovers, and now Tarleton and Mariah were. Had he chosen Mariah because she resembled the woman he once loved? Is that why he wanted to keep Mariah’s true features a secret? Or was it done solely so that when she appeared, she’d shock people into saying things they might not have otherwise?

  A casserole of manicotti filled with chicken, veal, and ricotta and covered with a béchamel sauce sat on the counter ready for the oven. Garbanzo and thyme soup simmered. Cooked polenta waited to be grilled with radicchio. Washed and sliced arugula and pears for the salad stayed cool and crisp in the refrigerator.

  To complete the menu, Angie planned some bruscetta appetizers, and for dessert, chocolate rum mousse and zabaglione that would make them all sit up and take notice.

  Waterfield wine was her biggest worry. It was bitter, vinegary, and with as much body as a sheet of tissue paper; she hated the thought of serving it with her meal. But she couldn’t exactly serve someone else’s wines with Sterling at the table.

  A private reserve was stored in the basement. Maybe only the Waterfield wine sold to grocery stores or given away to friends was awful. She’d heard that with some small wineries, especially those owned by people with money, the best went to wine shows and family, the worst to unsuspecting customers.

  If even the wine in the cellar was bad, Waterfield should turn in his vintner’s license. She’d open a bottle and find out.

  A switch at the top of the stairs swathed the staircase and ground floor in a yellowish light. The temperature sank precipitously as Angie descended the stairs. She grabbed hold of the banister, being careful not to trip as the unbidden thought came that if she were to fall and get hurt or knocked out, she could lie there for hours.

  Where had that thought come from? She shouldn’t be so paranoid. It was just a wine cellar, after all. She’d been there before.

  She had almost reached the bottom step when she stopped, unable to believe her eyes.

  The grape press lay on the floor. Rising out of the wine barrel it had sat on were white pant legs and heavy black shoes.

  Angie immediately recognized the chef’s outfit.

  “Mr. Goetring?” she called, and her heart all but stopped. “Mr. Goetring?”

  It was as if someone had tipped him over and wedged him headfirst into the barrel.

  She hesitated to touch him, but the thought that he was alive, possibly unconscious, overcame her squeamishness. She hoped fervently that the wine barrel was empty.

  She grabbed his legs and pulled.

  The bottom halves of both legs, from what should have been the knees down, came off in her hands.

  With a scream, she flung herself back against the stairs, dropping the legs. In horror, she stared at the legless body of Rudolf Goetring.

  She screamed louder this time, and continued shrieking all the way up the stairs, into the kitchen, and through the rest of the house, hoping someone would hear her.

  Chapter 23

  Everyone heard her. Angie wasn’t sure if she’d fainted or not, but eventually she became aware of lying flat on the family room sofa. Silver was patting her hand, Kyle and Gwen hovered in the doorway, Tarleton was on the phone, and Bart was trying to comfort Rhonda.

  Rhonda would have none of it and was pushing him away from her. She sat at the bar, eying Angie with bristling animosity and fear.

  Tarleton hung up the phone. “The police will be here in five minutes. Everyone just stay calm and try to relax.”

  Slowly, Angie sat up. “What happened? Was it Goetring? He…he…he had four feet!” She shuddered as the memory of the pair of legs and feet coming off from Goetring, her dropping them and then looking at what she first thought was a legless corpse…except that the corpse had another set of legs, albeit short ones.

  That was when she’d completely lost it.

  “It was a body suit,” Tarleton explained. “Actors wear them to make themselves taller, fatter, shorter—whatever. He put it on to look taller and heavier.”

  Angie’s head spun. “Why did Goetring want to look tall and heavy? Who cares how big or tall a cook is?”

  Tarleton glanced at the others. “I don’t know.”

  “And Goetring wasn’t tall to begin with,” Angie added. “Just a little taller than me, and I’m only about five-four…”

  Her gaze jumped from one to the other. “Okay, five-two.”

  “Don’t think about it, Angie,” Silver consoled. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Ten minutes later the police burst into the house. Right behind them was Digger Gordon.

  “Who are you?” Silver demanded of the scruffy journalist.

  “I’m Angie’s friend.” Digger made his way to the couch. “She looks like she’s seen a ghost. What’s wrong, Angie?”

  “Is he your fiancé?” Silver’s gaze raked Digger’s ever more rumpled clothes. Angie nearly fainted again.

  Digger didn’t wait for her to reply as he noticed Tarleton leading the police to the cellar. He wheeled around and hurried after them, flashing his press badge.

  “The press is already here?” Bart remarked in bewilderment. “They must listen in on police radio bands, just like in the movies. Isn’t that special?”

  “Shut up, Bart.” Rhonda clutched her forehead.

  “Rhonda darling, this is too much stress for you. I’ll help you to lie down.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Now, I know you don’t mean that, darling. Come on, let’s go to your room.”

  “I suggest you wait until after the police talk to you,” Silver said. “You remember what it was like the last time.”

  Rhonda began sobbing. Bart wrapped his arms around her and gave Silver a withering look.

  “You remember the last time?” Angie asked, making room for Silver to sit beside her.

  “It isn’t every day a woman gets killed in your house. Even a self-centered teenager remembers the details of something like that.”

  “I’m sorry. What a horrible thing for you.”

  “It was.” He took out a pack of Benson and Hedges and removed one, tapping the end against the box as he spoke. “Not nearly as sad as, say, my mom’s death, or as freaky as my bro…or other stuff.”

  “Your brother? What did he do?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. Don’t know why I said that. My mind was wandering, I guess.”

  She looked at him skeptically.

  He put the cigarette in his mouth and walked with it, unlit, to the courtyard.

  At the bar, Kyle poured himself a straight shot of bourbon. “Shit! We don’t need this! I want out of here.”

  “Goetring, in particular, didn’t need it,” Angie cried, unable to stomach the egos of these people.

  “Poor fellow probably had a heart attack or something. It’s very sad,” Kyle said, his nice-guy Adrian persona suddenly in overdrive to undo any damage his last statement might have done. “If so, he was a walking time bomb. It’s a shame it went off here and now. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Sure, sweet thing,” Gwen drawled. “We understand.”

  The police soon began questioning, one by one, Angie, the cast, Silver, Tarleton and Mariah.

  Serefina and Sterling soon returned. The two were horrified to hear what had happened, and Serefina babied Angie mercilessly.

  The St. Helena chief of police, Donald McIntosh, arrived. Because of the prominence of the crime scene and the witnesses, this would be a high profile case. It wasn’t as if there was other pressing business in town.

  Waterfield worked to convince him that Goetring’s death had to have been an accident—a horrible accident.

  Perhaps it had been brought about by a heart condition? Or stroke? Or he might simply have hit his head on a shelf and, sta
ggering from the blow, knocked the grape press off the barrel and tumbled into it?

  Once inside, he didn’t have the arm strength to lift himself out or to tip the heavy barrel over or do anything else to save himself. Poor fellow!

  “Mr. Waterfield,” Chief McIntosh said to Sterling, “Why is winemaking equipment in your basement? You own an entire large-scale winery elsewhere on your property. This seems very strange.”

  “That’s the original equipment when the winery was first built. The vat is aged oak, over a hundred twenty years old. We use it for display purposes now and then, that’s all. That’s why it had water in it, so it wouldn’t dry out and shrink. Now, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to use it again.”

  “Sure you will, caro,” Serefina patted his knee. The two sat side by side on a loveseat. “It’s not a problem. In the old country, my father used to make wine. Sometimes things happen. You empty the vat, wash it out well, let it dry and start again. All this adds character to the wine.”

  Angie cringed. She couldn’t imagine what kind of character a dead man would lend to anything.

  The police chief frowned. “We’ll remove the body. I’ll be back with more questions soon.”

  A door led directly outside from the basement, so the police were able to bring a gurney down and load the body for the trip to the morgue without going through the house.

  “I take it everyone who is living at the house is here now?” Chief McIntosh asked the assembled group. Fortunately the bar was well stocked. The sudden death had them all gravitating toward it.

  “There’s one more person,” Sterling said after an imperceptible pause. “My son Junior. He’s probably on the mountain, camping out. We haven’t seen him in days.”