Too Many Cooks Read online

  As the days passed, though, the memory of those last hours with Paavo came back to her, filling her more and more with the sense that she’d been safe. Yet her father told her Paavo didn’t want her there, and Sal wouldn’t lie to her. Still, he might have misinterpreted.

  But if Paavo cared about her, wouldn’t he have at least phoned to ask how she was? How could he not? She missed him so much she could hardly bear it.

  Even though Paavo didn’t call, didn’t try to see her, she knew there was a reason, a very good Paavo-like reason. No matter what her father told her, Paavo wouldn’t toss her aside. The warming realization came to her that she trusted him. She trusted that when he was ready he’d see her again.

  She drove through Chinatown, around Union Square, and over to the burgeoning theater district on Mason. On Bush, she turned and made a stop at an alley called Burritt Street. A plaque there never failed to tickle her.

  On approximately this spot

  Miles Archer,

  Partner of Sam Spade,

  Was done in by

  Brigid O’Shaughnessy.

  The Maltese Falcon lives. She smiled, but then frowned and read it once more.

  It wasn’t until she was almost at the top of Russian Hill that she realized what it was about the plaque that had bothered her. All this time she’d been thinking about a man as the murderer of Chick and Karl. But maybe she needed to find out more about the women involved, especially Lacy LaTour, now that she knew about the porn connection. Lacy just might be the key to the murderer, or even be the murderer herself.

  When she returned to her apartment, she found that her jaunt around the city had lifted her mood considerably.

  She was going to wait patiently for Paavo and, in the meantime, figure out who killed Chick and Karl. And somehow, some way, some day, she’d get even with Axel Klaw besides.

  Just as she had forced herself to return to her own apartment, so she forced herself to go back to Henry’s radio show. It was mercifully routine.

  Afterward, it was time to check in on LaTour’s. Henry had thought she’d been sick with the flu, on the verge of pneumonia, and insisted she stay away until she was one hundred percent better.

  She was greeted warmly at LaTour’s, and Mark Dustman immediately put her to work helping make a large pot of bouillabaisse.

  Angie waited until Dustman and his assistants were busy and then went into the office. She picked up the telephone receiver, dialed the time, and held it to her ear by tucking it against the crook of her neck. This way, although she looked as if she was making a telephone call, she could go through the books.

  To her surprise, the restaurant was doing worse than she ever imagined. Each month ended with a negative balance. She ran her finger up and down the columns, looking at headings and amounts to see if anything looked out of line. Not that she could see. It was just a very expensive place to run.

  She flipped back some pages to scan individual accounts of income and outgo. It was the beluga caviar that stopped her first. Three hundred pounds of it? Being sold at LaTour’s? She didn’t think so. Why on earth would Henry have bought so much of the stuff? Eighty-five pounds of saffron? Did Henry plan to season all the rice in Spain? Saffron was so costly it was sold by the quarter ounce! Lobsters. Henry didn’t have lobsters on his menu. Périgord truffles. What was going on here?

  When Henry came in, he peered into the pots and harrumphed that it all looked passable, while Lacy took a look at the amount of clams and mussels in the bouillabaisse and let Dustman have a barrage of her human calculator talk about the expense involved. The bottom line was, he needed to use one and a half cups of water to every cup he now used when making the soup, in order to nearly double their profit margin. He declared it would taste like watery swill. Lacy didn’t care. She worked on the accounts, paying bills, posting income and outgo, and trying to squeeze a profit out of the business.

  Angie stayed at the restaurant until the kitchen closed at 11 P.M., then helped the staff clean up. Throughout this time, as she watched Henry and Lacy, she racked her brain to come up with any rational explanation for the large quantities of expensive foods she’d seen on their books.

  There was something fishy here, besides the caviar. She really ought to let Paavo know what she’d found out. Although earlier today she’d decided to wait patiently for him to contact her, sometimes patience, like virtue, was not its own reward. She went into the office and reached for the telephone, then drew back her hand. The hurt she felt whenever she recalled her father’s words, about Paavo not wanting her to “bother” him, hit her once more, despite her resolve that there was more to the story. She pulled out a chair and sat.

  She thought about Paavo holding her and making her feel safe and secure, peaceful. Suddenly she remembered Paavo and her father arguing; someone else was there. Who? God, why couldn’t she remember! Her father and Paavo; then her father growing more upset; then her realization she had to get him away from there and calm him.

  She stood. Of course. She should have known! Well could she imagine Paavo thinking she’d chosen her father over him, that she left for no good reason except that Sal asked her to. No wonder he hadn’t phoned or tried to contact her in any way.

  She ran from the restaurant to her car.

  “I can’t believe this,” Paavo said when he opened his front door and found her standing at the entry.

  “Hi, there!” She hoped she sounded a lot more carefree and at ease than she felt.

  “Hi, indeed.” He stuck his head out the door and looked up the street, then down. “Is your father nearby? Or maybe the mayor is lurking in the bushes this time. Thank God your father’s not friends with the president or I’d have Air Force One flying overhead.”

  She brushed past him and went into the house. “Forget the president. If I wanted to be really safe, I’d call Frank Sinatra.”

  She reached into a paper sack she carried. “Look. Coffee filters and a fresh pound of Italian roast from Graffeo’s.” Without another word she went into the kitchen and put on the Melitta.

  He followed her. “What’s this about?”

  She gave him an innocent look. “I wanted to see you. What else? Now go sit down. I’ll be right out.”

  His gaze held caution, but beyond that she saw, or hoped she saw, a flicker of pleasure that she was there.

  While the coffee was dripping, she put chocolate-dipped biscotti on a plate on the coffee table. In a short while, she poured them each a mug of rich coffee, took it into the living room, and sat on one end of the sofa while Paavo sat on the other. She curled her legs under her and turned to face him, her elbow on the backrest.

  Paavo studied her. “Is everything all right.”

  “I’m back at my apartment. I’m doing fine.”

  His sharp look told her he wasn’t fooled.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I did want to tell you about something that might affect your case. I saw something most peculiar today at LaTour’s restaurant. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but you mentioned looking at Wielund’s and Italian Seasons accounts, and I know you had no reason to go over Henry’s, so I thought I’d check them out for you.”

  Blue eyes showed his interest in her words, even as his lips thinned until she was sure he wanted to scold her like a wayward child for taking another risk. Instead, he said, “You found something peculiar, you said?”

  “That’s right.” She leaned conspiratorially closer and told him all about the strange food and spices she saw listed as purchases for LaTour’s, and then she told him was so strange about them.

  Before she was through, Paavo was on his feet and pacing.

  “If the money wasn’t going to buy those foods, and from what you say, it wasn’t, where was it going?” Paavo asked. “And since we’ve found that each month Karl Wielund made a big deposit into his bank account, we also have the question of where that money came from. The obvious answer is it went from LaTour’s to Wielund’s. But if so, why?”

&nb
sp; “You think Karl was getting money from LaTour’s?”

  “We can’t rule out blackmail,” Paavo said.

  Angie could scarcely believe it. “But what possible reason would Wielund have for blackmailing Henry, unless it had something to do with Lacy and the porno film. Was Henry paying Karl for help with his restaurant? After all, Henry has at least one recipe that I know was Karl’s. Maybe there were others.”

  Her lack of conviction in her own words was reflected by Paavo’s shaking head. “I can’t believe chefs would kill over recipes, despite their competition. But Lacy’s films are a different story. It wouldn’t be the first time photos and films like that turned up later in life in the hands of a blackmailer.”

  “Remember how Lacy fainted when Karl’s body was found? Maybe she killed him and figured he’d be lost in the snow until the spring thaw, and she fainted from shock that he’d been found.”

  “Could be,” Paavo said. “Then, too, the snow and the length of time from when Wielund was killed until the autopsy was performed might have thrown the estimate off. Maybe he wasn’t killed while Henry was on the radio. Maybe it was after. Or even before. Henry could be our man.”

  “I still can’t see Henry hurting anyone,” Angie said. “But logically, it’s got to be him.”

  “It all points his way, or to Lacy. But remember, whoever is behind this may well have killed three people, and maybe Sheila Danning as well. A woman couldn’t have killed Danning, except as a man’s accomplice. Whatever this means, I don’t want you taking any more chances. Until we catch whoever’s behind it, keep away from Henry LaTour.”

  “I never take chances.”

  “Not much.” A chill went down his back at how much worse it could have been for her at Klaw’s. His thoughts turned to the way he’d brought her to his home afterward, to hold her. Since his talk with Sal Amalfi at Chick’s funeral, only once had he stayed with Angie through the night, and he was still haunted by the memory of how good it had been. He understood why alcoholics couldn’t take even one drink. “Well, Angie, thanks for the coffee and cookies.”

  “Thanks?”

  He stood.

  So did she.

  He steered her toward the door. “It’s late and I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary. I appreciate all you found out about this case. You did just great.”

  “Great?”

  “I’ll see you back to your apartment. I’ll make sure you arrive safe and sound, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.” He opened the door.

  She stiffened her shoulders, sent him a glare that should have skewered him on the spot, and, head high, walked out of the house. “I don’t need a police escort,” she said. “I’ll be just fine. I know all about taking care of myself.”

  22

  Angie fully intended to stay away from the LaTours, but the next day Lacy telephoned her, sobbing so hard and sounding so drunk she could hardly speak. “Angie, it’s terrible. Henry’s been arrested!”

  “Lacy, have you been drinking?”

  “Only to settle my nerves. I can’t take it, Angie. Not another second. What will I do if Henry’s in prison?”

  “What was he arrested for?”

  “Karl’s murder! Oh, Angie, you’ve got to help me.” She hiccuped loudly. “It was that detective, the one you brought to Karl’s memorial service. I thought he was a friend! Now I don’t know what to do. Maybe if you talked to him, told him Henry would never hurt Karl. Henry’s a darling! You know that.” She started crying loudly into the phone.

  “Pull yourself together, Lacy. Drink some black coffee. I’m sure Paavo’s just talking to him about something.”

  “But he was read his Miranda rights. At least, it sounded like Miranda rights.”

  “Did you call your lawyer?”

  “No. Henry said he’d handle everything, that I shouldn’t worry.”

  “He’s right.”

  “But, what about the radio show? How can I handle Chef Henri’s part? I don’t know anything about cooking! I might ruin Henry’s career!” Lacy cried with unabated hysteria.

  “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But it is! The thought of being on the radio scares me to death. And…and I had a little vermouth. Just a thimbleful, mind you. But since I never drink, it’s gone straight to my head.”

  Godzilla’s thimble, Angie thought.

  Lacy rambled on. “What if I say something foolish or something that upsets Henry? What if the police keep him and I have to go, day after day, back to the radio station, trying to answer questions from callers, trying to be witty like my Henry, to keep his listeners?” An onslaught of sobs got in the way of her words.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Angie said.

  “Oh?”

  “I could do it for you. I know the answers to most of the questions, and I’ve never been tongue-tied. I can hardly remember ever being nervous, come to think of it.” Visions of the expressions of the station executives after listening to her witty, knowledgeable, fast-paced, exciting radio show made her whole body tingle. “Sure, I’ll go on for you. I’d love to do it.”

  “Oh, God, would you? You’re not just being nice, are you?”

  “Heck, no. This is an opportunity made in heaven.”

  “An opportunity?” Lacy sounded shocked.

  Angie guessed she hadn’t been her most diplomatic. “To be helpful,” she added quickly.

  “Ah! In that case—”

  “Wait!” A vision of Paavo waggling his finger and warning her to stay away from the LaTours flashed in front of her. “Let me just make a couple of phone calls to be sure I have the time.”

  “The time? But you were planning to be there anyway with Henry, weren’t you?”

  “You never know,” Angie said. “I’ll call you right back.”

  With that, she hung up.

  “Homicide Department, may I help you?” the nasal voice intoned.

  “Inspector Paavo Smith, please.”

  “One moment.”

  It didn’t take long for the woman to tell Angie that Paavo wasn’t answering his phone. Angie asked to speak to Inspector Yoshiwara.

  “Hey there, Angie.” Yoshiwara’s voice boomed. “How’s it going? Seen any good movies lately?”

  She winced. “That’s sick. Look, I need to reach Paavo. Any idea where he is?”

  “He’s not here. Can I take a message for him? Or, maybe there’s something I can help you with? Hey, the big P.S. told me about you finding out someone’s been skimming the take at LaTour’s. Good work! You might be going into the private eye trade before you know it.”

  “I don’t think so. Is he with Henry LaTour?”

  Yosh hesitated a moment, then said, “You guessed it.”

  “Are they there?”

  “I think they’re talking at LaTour’s restaurant.”

  “Was Henry arrested?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  It took Angie less than a second to decide. Lacy was drunk and Paavo was probably gathering the last bits of evidence to use against Henry. What danger could there be?

  “Thanks, Yosh. Would you do me a favor and tell Paavo that I’m doing Henry’s radio show? Lacy called. She’s upset and has been drinking and is in no condition to go on the air. I volunteered to go on for her.”

  “The radio show, huh? Pretty brave, Angie, old girl.”

  “Or pretty foolish.”

  “Anyway, I’ll let him know. Let’s see, that’s a twelve o’clock show, right? I’ll try to listen to it. Paavo too, if he’s free.”

  “Great. I’ll give you a special hello.”

  After calling Lacy back to tell her everything was set, Angie went to KYME. She’d never noticed it before, but the call letters looked distinctly like “cwyme,” as in the way Elmer Fudd would say “scene of the cwyme.”

  Angie arrived early so she’d have plenty of time to tell the station manager and his ass
istant that she’d be doing Henry’s show today, and possibly several days in the future, due to a personal problem. But it was near lunchtime, and she’d learned they’d gone to McDonald’s.

  Well, she’d go ahead without their okay. Since Lunch with Henri was ranked seventy-eighth in the greater Bay Area, she figured no one really cared who ran it. Or if they ran it. The old Conelrad Alerts had had higher ratings.

  Angie picked up her reference cookbooks and waited outside the studio booth for the show ahead of Henry’s to end. A man whose name Angie could never remember held a lively talk show on fly-fishing. The fact that almost no fly-fishing was done in the Bay Area didn’t seem to bother him, nor did the fact that he got even fewer callers than Henry. Maybe it wasn’t Henry’s fault his show did so poorly. Maybe the fly fisherman put the audience to sleep.

  Since she wouldn’t have any call screener, she realized she’d have to take the phone calls blind. She just hoped she didn’t get the funny little man who called at least three times a week to ask if this were Marvella’s French Laundry. After politely telling him no every time, Angie had finally replied that if he called one more time, she’d donate his clothes to the nearest homeless shelter. He’d remembered her threat for two days and then called again.

  Ten minutes until showtime.

  The station engineer, sitting at his console in a separate glassed-in area, paid no attention to her.

  At five minutes before the hour, to her surprise, she saw Lacy go into the engineer’s booth. The engineer nodded sagely as she spoke to him.

  A short while later, Lacy joined Angie. “I’ll screen your calls,” she said.

  The woman looked awful—almost as bad as she’d sounded earlier on the phone, in fact. Her hair was uncombed, her makeup smeared and caked, and she had put on a plaid blouse with a striped skirt, no nylons, and black flats. “Are you sure you feel up to being here, Lacy?” Angie asked.