A Cook in Time Read online

  Paavo’s hunch only grew stronger as he went through John Oliver Harding’s tiny apartment. The man was definitely three cans short of a six-pack. There were boxes of unopened Roswell brochures piled in every corner. Harding also had a stack of completed forms for the hundred-dollar drawing. Among them Paavo found the names Bertram Lambert, Felix Rolfe, Leon Cole … and Angie’s neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette. Stan was lucky that he wasn’t a winner.

  The one thing that was missing was any kind of evidence to link Harding with the deaths of the three men. The strong possibility existed as well that Harding was himself another victim. Could he have fallen to his death trying to get away from the murderer? If so, that could mean the murderer was one of the four men in the hall with Angie when she called him. Each of the four—former NASA scientist Holton, grubby Kronos, love-beaded Phil, and choirboy Elvis—was, at minimum, eccentric and obsessive. Murderers came in all shapes, sizes, and disorders. Sometimes they even seemed absurdly normal. He wasn’t about to discount any of them.

  In the apartment, he and Yosh found papers with Harding’s mother’s address. “Hey, look at this!” Yosh said, holding up a key from a kitchen drawer filled with junk. The key had a chain with a label on it—and on the label was the same address.

  They locked up Harding’s apartment and drove south of the city along the peninsula. Even though they were crossing into another jurisdiction, since they were looking at the property of a man who had mysteriously died in their jurisdiction, they could do so as long as they weren’t about to take any action. The address was located on a narrow road at the top of a hill in San Mateo. The front lawn was overgrown and weed-infested, and the house looked as if it hadn’t been cared for in years. They knocked, announced themselves, then unlocked the door. The house was quite small, just four rooms, although the lot it sat on was nearly an acre. Dirty pots and dishes filled the sink. In the refrigerator, the milk had gone sour, and much of the food was moldy.

  “Looks like your fridge, pal,” Yosh said with a laugh.

  “Everyone’s a critic.”

  Nothing in the house gave any hint of Harding’s obsession with Roswell. Paavo opened the back door. “Good God, look at that!”

  Yosh joined him. In a far corner of the property stood a small octagonal building. Jutting from the top of it, clear of the trees, was the tip of a telescope.

  “I wonder if he was communicating with the mother planet,” Yosh said as the two of them trooped across the weeds and dirt of the yard to the building.

  They opened the door and walked inside. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the dark gloom within. Even after they were able to see again, it took another moment for their brains to register what they were seeing.

  “God!” Yosh cried. He couldn’t stop himself from gagging, and he spun around, ready to bolt outdoors if need be.

  In front of them, lined up on a table against the wall, were glass jars in many sizes, filled with what smelled like formaldehyde. Floating in the jars were the body parts that had been removed from the three dead men.

  “Christ, he was one sick bastard,” Paavo said.

  “I guess we’ve got the proof we needed,” Yosh said when he was able to talk again.

  “What’s that smell, Yosh?”

  “The formaldehyde?”

  “No. Something else. Something rank.” Paavo walked toward a ladder that went up to the loft on which the telescope stood.

  “Up there?” Yosh said. He was still spooked by the find in the glass jars.

  Paavo nodded. He tested the ladder to see if it was strong enough to hold his weight, although if the rather obese Harding had used it, he didn’t think there would be any problem. He went up. Yosh pulled out his gun as he waited. Something about the strange little building with its grisly contents was making him very nervous.

  From the circular opening in the ceiling, sun shone onto the telescope and the floor of the loft around it, but the walls past the telescope were obscured in shadow. Paavo couldn’t make out what was there, but the stench was much, much stronger.

  He removed his gun from the shoulder holster and with his left hand switched on his penlight. At first, all he could discern were a bunch of blankets. Then a black, nearly lifeless eye opened and looked straight at him.

  “Dr. Mosshad?” he whispered.

  22

  “You mean all this fighting is over the Great Pyramid?” Connie asked. She, Angie, Derrick, and Stan were walking through the farmer’s market helping Angie make a list of foods to serve at the fantasy dinner. Since she had come up with the Roswell theme, she thought a 1947 all-American buffet would be a nice touch. But when she tried to find out what that was, she learned it wasn’t much. During the war, food had been limited and had stayed that way for several years thereafter. At least she didn’t have to serve the wartime standard, chipped beef on toast.

  She finally settled on traditional baked ham, southern fried chicken, and potato and macaroni salads as the cornerstone of the buffet, plus Jell-O molds—very big in the forties. She’d have lots of Jell-O molds—green aliens, red planets, yellow suns, and blue spaceships.

  Now, armed with a notepad, she and her friends walked through the market to come up with interesting foods as side dishes that wouldn’t require cooking, since she couldn’t find a chef and she wasn’t masochistic enough to attempt to cook for between two hundred and three hundred people. Washing and chopping fruits and vegetables would be quite enough work.

  “The Great Pyramid is just one part of it,” Derrick said in answer to Connie’s question. “The Prometheans have some wild theory that the pyramids were built by people who came here from the star Sirius.”

  “They can’t really think extraterrestrials built the pyramids,” Connie said.

  “The proof is based on people called the Dogon in West Africa,” Derrick explained. “They have ancient rock paintings that show aliens from Sirius. The aliens told the Dogon that two stars not visible to the naked eye orbit Sirius. In the mid-nineteenth century, one such star was actually discovered!”

  “Well, doggone!” Stan cried.

  The others booed.

  “Here we go, Angie,” Connie cried, pointing to the fruit stands. “You need to serve pomegranates, mangos, and papayas.”

  “Add figs and mandarin oranges,” Stan said.

  “Over there are artichoke hearts,” Derrick said. “Though why I should be helping you choose food for a party to give my competitor more publicity is a mystery to me.”

  “It’s because you’re such a good friend,” Angie said, madly writing the suggestions into her notepad as they were called out. “Artichoke hearts are good. We’ll have a garden salad section, but only with imaginative vegetables—no celery or carrots—and with them a big selection of dressings.”

  “Ah, over there.” Connie dashed ahead, shouting to Angie, “Braised fennel, avocado, yogurt with cucumber. This is great fun!”

  Angie stopped, stared, then turned and faced Derrick and Stan, drawing them close. “Don’t look now,” she said, “but I just saw the same strange man I’ve seen a couple of other places lately. He’s standing by the flowers watching us.”

  “There are lots of people by the flowers,” Stan said. “Is he the guy near the carnations or the sunflowers? Or near the gladioli?”

  “I don’t know!” Angie cried. “And I don’t want to turn around to see what flowers he’s standing by, for Pete’s sake! He’s the creepy-looking man with the black suit and sunglasses. How many of them can there be?”

  “Look at all the nuts!” Connie cried, farther away now. “How about pistachios, cashews, and honeyed almonds?”

  “Don’t tell me.” Derrick leaned closer to Angie, his back to the flowers. “Is his face white and pasty, his mouth tiny and completely expressionless, and when he takes off his glasses his eyes are almost white?”

  Angie looked at him as if he were crazy. “I’ve never seen him with his glasses off,”
she said slowly. “But the rest is true. How do you know this?”

  “He’s one of the men in black,” Derrick said, his voice a raspy whisper. “You heard the lecture about them. They’re sent from up there, or by the government—we aren’t exactly sure which—to stop anyone who has had experience with extraterrestrials from going to the press about it.”

  “They must be from the government, then,” Stan said, hands on his skinny hips. “Because they’ve done a piss-poor job. Stuff about UFOs is all over TV and radio.”

  “But with no proof,” Derrick said. “They’re watching you, Angie, for some reason. Be careful.”

  “That’s too creepy,” Stan said. “The guy you’ve described is gone, anyway. Let’s get back to the food.”

  “Come on, you guys!” Connie returned to them. “What’s the holdup? I was already down at the breads. They’ve got warm Indian fry bread, plus black rye, baguettes, sourdough, croissants—are they bread?—brioche, and something called flan-filled pretzels, which I’ve never heard of.”

  “They’re from Spain,” Angie said.

  “Don’t forget to serve bruschetta,” Stan said.

  “Come over here,” Derrick called. “There are more cheeses than you can shake a stick at.” He pointed at the Brie, Gorgonzola, Gouda, Pont L’Evêque, chèvre, Serpa, feta, Morbier, and on and on.

  Angie stared at the cheeses. Her list was already longer than she could handle. She could use three or four at most.

  “I think it’s time to sample the desserts,” Connie said. “I’ll grab that table in the corner, and you guys can get one of everything. We don’t want Angie to make the wrong choices, now do we?”

  “I like the way that woman thinks,” Stan said. “Are you sure you don’t want to marry me, Connie?”

  “Get lost, Stanfield.”

  Angie was already checking over the glass display cabinets filled with all kinds of pastries and other desserts—charlotte russe, pine nut and honey cakes, a variety of fruit tarts, hazelnut torte, lemon squares, chocolate blancmange, savarin chantilly, puff pastry cakes with almond cream, rum babas, marzipan-chocolate torte, and Russian wedding cookies.

  “I’ll get us all some coffee,” Derrick said.

  “Lattès for me and Connie,” Angie said. “Stan likes regular.”

  Angie ordered a selection of the desserts—so much for Connie’s plans to diet—and took them to the table where the others sat. Derrick was talking. “I wish it were that easy. I’ve got to learn to deal with it.”

  “Deal with what?” Angie asked as she placed the tray of pastries on the table.

  No one paid attention. “What is it you’re afraid of?” Connie gave Derrick a soulful look.

  He rested his arms on the tabletop and hung his head. “It’s so hard to talk about.”

  “What is?” Angie asked as she carefully cut each pastry into four equal pieces.

  “You can trust me,” Connie said, lightly touching his wrist.

  Derrick placed his hand on hers and smiled. Angie and Stan glanced at each other. Stan waggled his eyebrows. “It’s because of them,” Derrick said, gazing soulfully into Connie’s eyes.

  “Them?” she asked.

  “Them,” he answered, glancing upward.

  Uh-oh, Angie thought. She handed out forks and napkins.

  “I think they’re here, Connie.” Derrick gripped both her hands in his. “I think they walk among us, trying to learn about us. Trying to take us over, make us part of their lives—part of them.”

  Just then a waitress came over with two lattès, a regular coffee, and one espresso.

  Connie never took her eyes from Derrick. “If you’re talking about aliens, I don’t believe in all that, and you shouldn’t either, Derrick.”

  “Believe it. I know it’s true. I know.”

  Angie doled out some pastries, careful not to miss a word Derrick said.

  “How do you know?” Connie asked, then put a piece of savarin into her mouth.

  He waited a long while, gazing into her eyes as she chewed and swallowed, and when she didn’t pull back, didn’t look away, he lowered his voice and said, “Eighteen months ago I was abducted.”

  Stan, already on his third sampling of pastry, dropped his fork. “Wow.”

  Angie froze. To think she’d been worried that he was going to say something simple, like the end of the world was at hand.

  “Impossible,” Connie said.

  “I wouldn’t lie about such a thing, Connie. Not to you or Angie.” His gaze met Angie’s, then he turned back to Connie. In that moment Angie knew he was telling the truth—his truth, perhaps, but he believed it. “It was the most devastating experience of my life,” he continued. “I had no way to protect myself. I was completely at their mercy.”

  Connie’s eyes, when they met Angie’s, were troubled. “Where did this happen to you?” Connie asked.

  “I was home in bed, asleep, when they came. They came into my room. Little men. Six of them. They were small, like eight-year-old boys, and they surrounded my bed, looking at me with those big black eyes of theirs—frightening, cold black eyes.” He shut his own eyes and drew in a deep, quivering breath. His face had gone pale and beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “They were all dressed alike, in a filmy gray skinlike suit. Their faces were flat, with pointed chins. Some have said they have the face of a praying mantis, and those people are right. It’s what they’re like. Like … like insects.”

  His voice was growing loud and shrill. Connie murmured words of comfort as she patted his arm, then lightly touched his face, brushed his hair back. “You don’t have to talk about it. It’s over. You’re all right.”

  He clutched her wrist. “They reached out for me. I tried to run, but I couldn’t. Their hands were like little suction cups, taking hold of me, then lifting. I screamed as I was lifted off the bed, upward toward the ceiling. I don’t know if I fainted or what, because the next thing I knew, I was no longer in my apartment, but outdoors, being lifted into a spaceship.”

  “You were drunk, man.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I went to a party once and was given some bad drugs and—”

  “Be quiet, Stan!” Connie slid her chair closer to Derrick’s and placed her hand on his shoulder. “You poor darling.”

  “So, did you see the inside of the spaceship?” Stan asked.

  “Oh, I saw it. One part of it, anyway. They took me inside a big room with lights shining on me. They tied me down and poked needles and tubes into my brain, eyes, and scrotum, draining fluids from me. I was terrified that they might do something that would be fatal or cause blindness or sterility. I couldn’t stop them. I was afraid to try, afraid to move, no matter how painful or how invasive it was.”

  “Jesus,” Stan said with a shudder. “What a story.”

  “It’s not a story. They’re here. They tried to take me again, three more times. The most recent was just last week. I’ve managed to escape so far. I’ve hidden from them, but I don’t know how long I can keep it up. That’s why I’m afraid to be alone.”

  He looked down at his clasped hands. Connie touched them. “My God, Derrick, your hands are like ice.”

  “I don’t feel well. It’s the memories. I can’t get rid of them. Then, when they came after me again, it scared me so much.” His teeth began to chatter.

  “Let’s get him home,” Angie said, standing.

  “What will I do with him?” Stan cried.

  As Derrick stood, Connie put her arm around his waist and drew his arm over her shoulders. “I’ve got my car. I’ll take him to my house, give him some hot soup, and let him relax. When he’s himself again, I’ll bring him to your place, Stan.”

  Derrick’s hand tightened on her shoulder. His face seemed to soften, to lose its strained, rigid expression. “You’re a very kind woman,” he said.

  She blushed and her eyes sparkled. “You’re very brave.”

  Without a word to the others, they left the marketplace.

  Stan and
Angie sat down again, side by side, and watched them go.

  “Sheesh,” Stan said, reaching for some marzipan-chocolate torte. “I thought being concerned about laser beams and radio waves was far out. That guy takes the cake.”

  “Cake I can deal with,” Angie said, looking at the uneaten cakes and pastries in front of them. “It’s Connie that I’m worried about.”

  “Congratulations!” Angie cried when Paavo opened the front door to his home that night.

  She watched a smile cross his mouth, then brighten his eyes, even though they were dark-ringed and heavy with weariness. “Angie,” he said, her name sounding like a sigh of welcome. “What’s this?” He took the large square Tupperware container she held and stepped back as she entered the living room.

  “It’s your reward for solving the mutilation murder case and saving Dr. Mosshad. It’s all over the news. You and Yosh are heroes. I guessed that you might be a hungry hero, so here’s some home cooking.” She took off her coat and tossed it over a large easy chair. One sleeve flopped onto the seat and hit Hercules on the head. As the cat woke up and scolded her, Angie petted him, begged forgiveness, and then marched into the kitchen.

  Paavo’s kitchen was large and old-fashioned, with all-white appliances that were freestanding instead of built-in. It reminded her of the kitchen her grandmother used to have.

  “I haven’t turned on the TV or radio,” Paavo said, setting the casserole on the kitchen table. “What are they saying?”

  “That Oliver Hardy, or Harding, was crazy. That after killing three men, he killed himself out of remorse.”

  She had brought a beef enchilada casserole—enough for three meals. She spooned a third of it onto a plate and covered it with plastic wrap. While she put it in the microwave, Paavo refrigerated what was left.

  “Did the press tell where he killed the men, or how, or explain the numbers on their chests?” he asked.

  She faced him. “Did you give them answers to all that?”

  “No. I’m still trying to figure it out. Not having facts hasn’t always stopped the media in the past, though.”