Cook's Night Out Read online

  He eased her closer.

  “…and delicious.” She gave up trying, or wanting, to talk about candy and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He kissed her. “I’ve got it.”

  “Oh, my, but you certainly do, Inspector,” she murmured, her fingers raking his hair as she snuggled closer.

  “Call your candy the angelina.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The taxicab swung into the red no-parking zone and braked hard. Angie lurched forward in the seat, her arms tightening around the boxes of chocolates on her lap. The top box began to slide, but she managed to stop it before it hit the floor.

  “That’s the place, lady,” the driver said, pointing at a two-story building that looked as though it had been standing since before the big 1906 earthquake. It had probably once been a small hotel or, considering that this area used to be the roughest part of San Francisco’s Barbary Coast waterfront, a brothel.

  The front of the building was pale gray, with the gingerbread trim along the roof and over the doors and windows painted a deep red and navy blue. Six evenly spaced windows paraded across the second story. A bold navy and gray striped awning shaded the first story, which housed the Senseless Beauty Café and Pâtisserie, on one side, and the Random Acts of Kindness Mission, on the other. The names reminded her of a saying she’d seen on bumper stickers and coffee mugs.

  “I never imagined a rescue mission would look like that,” Angie said, juggling the boxes and her purse while trying to pull up on the door handle. The cab driver frowned, got out and opened the passenger door, then took the stack of candy boxes from her.

  “Isn’t the mission lovely?” she said, climbing out of the cab.

  “If that’s a rescue mission, my taxi’s a Rolls-Royce,” the cabbie murmured.

  Angie fished through her purse for her money. “I hope Reverend Hodge is in this afternoon,” she said as she counted out the fare plus a tip. “I do so want to meet him.”

  “Gee. This might be your lucky day.” Angie thought he sounded a little sarcastic, but then, since he didn’t know about the Random Acts of Kindness Mission, he probably didn’t know Reverend Hodge, either. She lifted a box from the top of the stack he still held.

  “For you, if you like homemade chocolates,” she said, tucking it under his arm.

  “Oh…hey, that’s real nice, lady. Thanks a lot.” She took the remaining boxes from him.

  As she walked toward the mission he called, “Hope you find your reverend, and he’s able to give you what you’re looking for.” With that, he hopped into his cab and started the engine.

  “What I’m…?” Angie was puzzled. “I’m not looking for anything.” But the cab was already pulling out into traffic.

  Angie was on the Embarcadero, the street skimming the waterfront from the northeastern edge of the city southward. On the east side were the piers that jutted out to the bay; on the west, a hodgepodge of construction that ranged from exclusive apartments and condominiums to factories and empty lots. The mission was located to the south of Market Street, in an area once filled with warehouses, canneries, factories, and cheap housing for the workers. It was undergoing a massive redevelopment, with newly built or renovated apartments, shops, and boutiques. Even the new Giants baseball stadium was expected to be built along the waterfront there, with a ferry dock just past the outfield fence.

  Angie pushed open the mission’s door, then stopped. It was like walking into a lavish bed-and-breakfast. The parlorlike entry hall had a sofa and elegant armchairs in a cozy seating arrangement. To the right were stairs to the second floor; straight ahead was an office. A short, older woman, her hair in a perfectly coiffed and lacquered French roll, wearing a pale pink Chanel suit and bone-colored Ferragamo high heels, stood up from the small cherrywood secretary in the office and walked toward her. “Hello. I’m Mrs. Sheila Chatsworth,” she said, extending her hand to Angie. “May I help you?” Her voice was cultured and reserved.

  “I’d like to meet Reverend Hodge,” Angie said, unsuccessfully trying to balance the boxes to shake hands. She gave up before dropping them all.

  Mrs. Chatsworth frowned and pulled back her hand, but then she made her eyes go soft and friendly once again. “Do you have an appointment, dear?”

  “Well, no, I…” Out of the corner of her eye, Angie noticed that beyond the French doors to the left was a dining room. She turned her head and stared in amazement. The room was quite large—the building must have once housed a restaurant. But instead of the crowded cafeterialike setting she had expected, there were only a few tables, each set with a rose-colored tablecloth and napkins, white china, silverware, and glass goblets.

  Forcing her attention back to the woman, Angie said, “I, uh, I brought a donation.”

  “Yes, I see,” Mrs. Chatsworth replied, her smile rapidly growing more strained and forced. “You’re here to practice a random act of kindness.”

  “You could say that, I guess.” The chocolates grew heavier with each passing minute.

  “Let me see if Reverend Hodge is free. Wait right there, please.” Mrs. Chatsworth disappeared down the long hallway that ran between the front office and the dining room.

  Shifting the boxes slightly, Angie stepped closer to the dining room and peeked inside. In a corner she saw two younger women at a table, talking and laughing. Dressed in DKNY and Ann Taylor clothes, they surely weren’t here for assistance. Where were the people who needed help?

  She inched closer to the kitchen doors at the back of the room. There were no sounds and, more important, no smells of food being cooked or prepared.

  Something didn’t seem right here, but then she’d never been inside a rescue mission before. She went back out to the entry hall.

  Minutes passed. The two young women got up and left, carefully eying her new emerald Anne Klein silk suit as they walked out the door. The boxes of chocolates grew even heavier, but she didn’t want to put them down because it was so difficult to lift them all up again—they had a tendency to slide. Where was Reverend Hodge?

  Almost daily a story ran in the San Francisco press about him. The leader of the mission was the new darling of the city’s top politicians. The enormous charity auction he was planning, to be held in about two weeks at the Palace of the Legion of Honor, had turned him into an overnight sensation.

  According to the press, no one was sure where Hodge had come from, but the mystery surrounding him only added to his charisma. He often said he hadn’t chosen this city, this city had chosen him, that it was a city ripe for giving, for practicing random acts of kindness on a daily basis. “Acts of loving-giving heal the world and make the loving-giver whole,” he’d said on a local radio station just a few days ago. His guest appearance had sparked a flood of phone calls from people eager to become “loving-givers.”

  There were even rumors that Hodge had dipped into his own money—something practically unheard of—to establish his mission. His bigheartedness and pure goodness were the reasons Angie had chosen to offer his mission her donation of chocolates.

  He was her kind of guy.

  Her thoughts were cut short by the appearance of a nervous-looking little man creeping out of the kitchen. He was poorly dressed in ill-fitting gray slacks and a baggy black turtleneck, and he looked as though he were walking on eggs. His hair was brown and wispy, thin at the crown, and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that looked about three sizes too big for his small, impish face.

  He must be one of the unfortunate people who come here seeking help from the mission, Angie decided. She wondered if he’d been scrounging food in the kitchen. The man was so thin, she feared he might be near starvation.

  He shouldn’t act so frightened, she thought. Surely, no one here would do anything to harm a hungry man.

  As he started across the dining room he glanced toward the entry hall and saw Angie smiling at him. He stopped short.

  “Oh! You frightened me,” he said. His voice was high-pitched and nasal. “I thought
I was alone.”

  “I’m sorry.” She kept smiling. “I’m here to make a donation.”

  “That’s nice,” he said, looking as if he was thinking about heading back into the kitchen.

  “These are chocolates,” she added quickly. “You can take a box if you’d like.”

  “Chocolates?” His expression was a mixture of wariness and surprise—as if he might not have heard her right.

  “I wish to practice a random act of kindness,” she explained, repeating the older woman’s words. “Also, I’m working on starting my own business with chocolates.”

  “Chocolates?” he repeated.

  She wondered if he was hearing-impaired. Poor man. “That’s right.” She spoke much louder. “I like to think I’m going to become the Lady Godiva—Godiva chocolates, that is—of the twenty-first century.” She waited for a laugh, or at least a smile. He looked at her blankly. “That’s just a joke,” she said, enunciating carefully.

  “It is? And why are you shouting?” he asked, also raising his voice.

  This wasn’t working out. “I have some rejects in these boxes.” She dropped her tone back to normal. “I mean, it’s good candy, but it’s not quite what I had in mind for my business. I’m in for a long, tedious search, I’m afraid.”

  “Is that why you’re donating it?”

  “My friends and relatives have received more than enough, so I’ve decided to give them to a good cause. I know the mission might have some concern about accepting homemade food—the Board of Health’s regulations and all that,” she added. “But I believe I could set Reverend Hodge’s mind at ease.”

  “You could?” His dark eyebrows rose.

  “Yes, when he shows up. I can’t wait to meet him.” She smiled and gave a small sigh. “I understand he’s simply wonderful.”

  “Oh…well…” The little man seemed at a loss for words.

  “I’ve heard so much about him,” Angie gushed. “The thought of meeting him gives me goose bumps.”

  “I’m afraid, Miss—?”

  “Amalfi.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Miss Amalfi. Angelina Amalfi.”

  “Oh. That’s a nice name.”

  “Thanks.” She searched the back hall, where Sheila Chatsworth had gone. Where was the reverend?

  “But as I was saying, Miss Amalfi, I’m afraid…I’m T. Simon Hodge,” he said.

  Her head swiveled back to him and she looked at him with suspicion. She’d heard that at times people who don’t have much pretend they’re someone great. Look at how many go around swearing they’re Abe Lincoln. And these days, twentieth-century reincarnations of Julius Caesar were a dime a dozen. “You’re the Reverend Mr. Hodge?” she asked.

  “Um—”

  Ah! He’s ready to admit his lie. “The Reverend T. Simon Hodge?” Sometimes a swift kick toward reality was the best medicine.

  He looked down at himself. “Well…yes. I’d say so.”

  “I’m sorry,” Angie said. “I heard Reverend Hodge on the radio, and you are simply not—”

  “Ah, Reverend Hodge!” Sheila Chatsworth hustled across the room. “You naughty boy! You weren’t in your office. I’ve been searching all over for you. This young lady wants to give you a donation. Shall I handle it for you?”

  “No need, Mrs. Chatsworth, I’ll take care of it.”

  Angie’s eyes widened as she looked from the arrogant Sheila Chatsworth, now simpering and sweet, to the wimpy, nasal-voiced man before her claiming to be the charismatic Reverend Hodge.

  “But surely, Reverend Hodge”—Mrs. Chatsworth’s voice rose and swooped like a contralto’s—“you don’t have time—”

  “No, Mrs. C.—you’re the one who doesn’t have time.” He patted her arm and turned her toward the front office. “I need you right here keeping an eye on the entryway, making sure that only people who are supposed to come in here are admitted. It’s a very important job, Mrs. C. I need you doing it.”

  “Oh.” She giggled. “Thank you, Reverend.” She headed toward the office, blushing and twittering like a teenager with hormone overload.

  “Now.” He turned back to Angie. “All those boxes couldn’t possibly be filled with candy, could they?” He lifted the boxes from her arms.

  “They could be, and are,” she said, eying him incredulously. “You know, I heard Reverend Hodge on the radio. He didn’t sound anything like you.”

  “I studied radio broadcasting years ago. Nothing came of it, though. They teach everybody to talk the same way. ‘AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR.’ See what I mean?”

  “You’re right,” she said. It was creepy, seeing such a big voice booming out of such a little man. “That was the voice I heard.”

  “I couldn’t go around talking like that all the time. All that deep breathing from the diaphragm, I’d probably faint.”

  Faint? Right voice or not, this could not be the famous reverend.

  “These chocolates are heavy,” he said. “You must have spent days making them.”

  Since he now held the chocolates, her mood about him improved immensely. “I might have gone a bit overboard testing recipes. Sometimes I get a little carried away, I suppose.”

  “Why don’t we step into my office, where I can put this down before I get a hernia?” Hodge said. “You can tell me all about candy making.”

  They went past the front office down a long hall. The first door had a big sign over it that said Auction Central. Inside a large room filled with papers and boxes were three people, all on telephones. The hall turned, and they passed several more offices until they reached Hodge’s, the last one in the long hallway.

  The office was plain, with a wooden desk, three chairs, and a small bookcase. The only ornamentation was a small old wooden statue of an angel on the top of the bookcase. Hodge put the chocolates on his desk, took one box, and opened it. His pixieish face lit up. “Beautiful! I can’t believe you made these. They’re better-looking than store-bought.”

  Her cheeks warmed from his praise. “I must admit, I was a little hesitant about bringing them to you.”

  “Hesitant?” His eyes, magnified by the glasses, showed bewilderment. “Why?” Even here in his office, he fairly pulsated with nervous energy.

  “Chocolates are…well, a bit frivolous,” she admitted.

  He was counting the boxes now. “If these are as delicious as I imagine them to be, we’ll give them—most of them—to the Senseless Beauty Café, right next door.”

  The café’s name was jarring—very mellow California. She wondered if Visualize Whirled Peas was on the menu.

  “Many top chefs and bakers in the city donate food to the café,” Hodge continued, shaking one of the boxes as if to see how tightly packed it was. “It’s sold at high prices, which gives us money to support the needy.”

  “Oh, really? That’s a wonderful idea,” Angie said.

  “It makes everyone happy. We even put a sign up over the sweets—CHARITY HAS NO CALORIES. We make a lot more sales that way.”

  She laughed. “I like it. Is that where you feed the poor?”

  “Ah, Miss Amalfi. You’re very practical.” As she watched his face, it reshaped as if made out of Silly Putty. Suddenly, he was sad and downcast. “We don’t have the money yet to feed anyone. You have to fertilize the soil before you can plant a garden, you know.”

  “You have to what?”

  “We need money before we can begin to feed the poor,” he said. “That’s why we’re holding the auction. It’s a lot of work. We need many, many volunteers. I’d be honored to have you join us. We need someone like you.”

  His words caught her completely by surprise. “Me? I really don’t think—”

  “Say you’ll give us a try. Just a day or two?” he urged. “If you don’t like this type of volunteer work, you don’t have to come back.”

  Although she was sure his brown eyes were quite common and uninspiring, and in fact were rather shrewd, suddenly they seemed to spar
kle. His flyaway wispy hair, the dark eyebrows pointing upward in the center, the thick glasses, and the sorrowful little-boy demeanor all added up to someone she couldn’t say no to.

  “You’ve convinced me, Reverend Hodge,” Angie said, completely baffled by her reaction to the man, “I’ll be here.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Paavo sat at his desk in Homicide, staring out the soot-dappled window to the freeway that rose like a twoheaded snake from the seedy center of the city to carry cars south to the peninsula or east across the Bay Bridge. Right now, a part of him would have liked nothing more than to be on that freeway heading far, far away. But another part knew he’d have no peace until he figured out what had happened yesterday morning in court.

  His partner, Toshiro Yoshiwara, had been horrified when he learned that their carefully documented investigation had been thrown out of court. Yoshiwara, whom everyone called Yosh, had been Paavo’s partner for a few months now, since transferring down to San Francisco from the Seattle area. Talkative, outgoing, and amazingly jovial for someone who dealt with homicide day in and day out, he was a tall man, solidly built, with a broad chest and shoulders. His hair was clipped in a short buzz, making his head look almost too small for his bulky body. Yosh had been with Paavo at the crime scene and later assisted with the arrest. He hadn’t bothered going to the preliminary hearing because they believed he wouldn’t be needed. They were right, but not for the reasons they’d imagined.

  That morning, Paavo had left Angie’s place about four A.M. after lying awake most of the night. He’d arrived at work so early he was able to talk to the night security force and the janitorial staff.

  The bulk of the morning had been spent learning all he could about the care and maintenance of courtroom evidence. He’d visited the Property Control Section and reviewed the property request forms and the court logbook for every piece of evidence connected with the murder of Peewee Clayton’s girlfriend, Sarah Ann Cribbs. Each piece of property in the section was numbered, identified, and controlled on the computer system. Each time any piece moved, someone had to sign it out with their name, star number, and destination.