Two Cooks A-Killing Read online

  “Won’t you have a seat?” He pointed to the guest chair by his desk. She hoisted herself onto it. “What can I do for you?” he asked, also sitting.

  “I heard that you’re a damn good cop. I don’t want the butterbrains they’ve been sending me to mess up this case any more than they already have.” Her strident voice was ear-splitting. “We have an acquaintance in common, Connie Rogers. I live nearby and shop in her store, or go inside to say hello when it’s empty, which is most of the time. Anyway, I told her I needed a cop with brains. She said you’re engaged to her best friend. That I should talk to you. She also said if you didn’t do right by me, she’d tell your fiancée, and that one would set you straight.”

  Paavo’s eyebrows rose. He could feel the amusement of the other inspectors.

  “You’re involved in a homicide?” he asked.

  Her big eyes blinked rapidly and she lifted her shoulders in a woeful shrug. “I hope that pissant fool hasn’t gone and gotten his effing brains blown out, but he might have.” She appeared on the verge of tears. “I’m worried about him.”

  “Are you saying someone has disappeared? Have you checked with Missing Persons?” Paavo asked, his voice calm and soothing.

  “Of course I did! What kind of birdbrain do you take me for?” She folded her little arms. She was round and well padded, without a discernible shape under all her skirts and ruffles. “They haven’t done anything. I’m sure Fred’s out there, lying in some ditch, hopefully still alive. Who knows, with all the time they’ve wasted? What the hell’s wrong with that department?”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Paavo said, keeping his tone placid as he pulled out a notepad and pen. “Tell me your name.”

  “Minnie Petite.”

  His hand froze. He’d ask what her real name was after he talked to Missing Persons. “Age?”

  “Do you need that?”

  “Yes.”

  She glowered. “Fifty-nine.”

  “Residence?”

  She gave him the information he needed about her home in San Francisco, plus mentioned her work in movies and on television whenever they had a role for someone “extremely vertically challenged.”

  “Now,” Paavo said, “tell me about the missing person.”

  She folded her hands. “His name is Fred Demitasse, age sixty-four. Gray hair, brown eyes, one hundred ten pounds, and four feet three inches tall.”

  Paavo put down his pen and looked hard at his partner.

  If Yosh’s family had stayed in Japan, he might have become rich and famous as a sumo wrestler because he was tall, stocky, and muscular. Instead, he was a third-generation poor American cop. Such was life, and Paavo knew few people who enjoyed life more than Yosh.

  His partner had been openly eavesdropping ever since Minnie had first strolled between their desks. Yosh’s face was an open book. If this was a practical joke, Paavo would know it. Either Yosh wasn’t in on the joke, or the woman was legitimate.

  “All right, copper.” Minnie thrust out her jaw. “I’ll explain this once, and once only. Fred is a dwarf. He has achondroplasia, a not uncommon condition that results in short arms and legs, and a slightly enlarged head. It’s not life threatening or anything else. He was, in every way except limb size, quite normal. On the other hand, I’m all in proportion”—she sat a little straighter—“just small. People used to call those of us who are ultra petite ‘midgets.’ These days, you call me that and I’ll deck you. Got it now? Can we get on with finding Fred?”

  Paavo cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” Yosh buried his head in his papers.

  “Now, ask your questions,” Minnie demanded.

  “What is your relationship to Mr. Demitasse?” he began.

  “We’re just friends, good enough to…you know. But marriage isn’t our thing. We often work together, so we share a house with two other little people, also actors. They’re both out of town with gigs. One with Ringling Brothers. The other is part of a show in Vegas.”

  “When did you last see Mr. Demitasse?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Has he ever gone off without telling you?”

  “He has, but this time I’m worried.” She opened her handbag, pulled out a lace handkerchief—he thought everyone used tissues these days—and dabbed her eyes.

  “Why is that, Ms. Petite?” he asked.

  She looked heavenward. “I have a feeling about it.”

  A feeling, Paavo thought. Great. Thank you, Connie Rogers, for sending Ms. Petite this way. “When Mr. Demitasse left in the past, how long did he stay away?”

  “A week, sometimes a little longer. But usually the other boys would be home. He never left me alone before.”

  “When will the others be back?”

  She blew her nose with a loud honk, then daintily put her handkerchief back in her purse. “Not for a month”—she sighed despondently—“maybe longer.”

  “I see. Well, Ms. Petite, I’ll look into this situation and let you know as soon as I find out something.”

  “What the hell kind of brush-off is that?” she brayed, to his amazement. “You don’t believe me, either!”

  “I believe you, but you’re letting your imagination run amok,” he said. “There’s no reason to think anything bad has happened to Mr. Demitasse. I’m sure he’ll come home soon, and you’ll find it was a simple mistake.”

  She slid off the chair, held her purse in front of her with two tiny hands, and cast a steely eye at him. “I’ll be back, Inspector Smith. I won’t stop until I find Fred, so don’t try to blow me off. I may be little in size, but I have a big mouth, and I’ll use it if anyone tries to push me around.”

  The threat didn’t sit well with Paavo, but he held his displeasure in check. “We’ll do our best to find him, Ms. Petite.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “You damn well better!” With that, she strode out of the room.

  Paavo sank back in his chair, feeling like he’d been run over by a Mack truck. Yosh glanced at him and grinned. “Looks to me, pal, like that’s the long and short of it.”

  Paavo wadded a piece of paper and threw it at him.

  Chapter 3

  Bart Farrell stared at the empty suitcase on the bed of his six-million-dollar Bel Air home—the house that Cliff Roxbury bought. It was a stately white mansion on Stone Canyon Road, the kind of place that looked more imposing, Farrell had to admit, from the outside. The rooms were small, the walls had spidery cracks from numerous earthquakes, there was no view to speak of, and the plumbing needed to be torn out and replaced, if he had the money to do it.

  The time had come to pack. He sucked in his gut and looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad. He’d only gained a bit over fifteen pounds…maybe twenty…at most twenty-five, over the past ten years, and stretched out over a six-foot frame, it was barely noticeable. Anyway, many megastars wore girdles from time to time.

  From the top of the closet he pulled down a hatbox and lifted out a tan Australian bush hat with one side tied against the crown—the Crocodile Dundee look. He never quite understood why Cliff Roxbury, who had left the Outback with amnesia, wore an Aussie hat since supposedly he couldn’t remember he was Australian. Farrell was a bit ashamed that it took him four years into the show before he thought to question the hat, but since nobody else brought it up, he kept that little discrepancy to himself. He guessed he was simply more clever than most.

  Before the mirror again, Farrell placed the hat on his head, cocked it to one side, and viewed his left profile, then the right. He adjusted the hat a little lower on the brow and tried again. That was it. Dashing. Rakish. And, if he did say so himself, sexy as hell.

  That was the real reason he didn’t question Cliff wearing the hat.

  He leaned closer to the mirror and stroked his cheeks. The wrinkles hadn’t been there in the past. Soon it would be time for another facelift. The last one wasn’t half bad. He especially liked the way it pulled his eyebrows up and outward, as if they were wings,
ready to fly away. He’d be seeing Dr. Waterfield in St. Helena. Maybe they could work out a deal.

  Too bad the skin tuck couldn’t remedy the bushiness of his brows. He’d tried plucking the stray hairs out, but they grew back thicker and more corkscrew-like than ever. When he trimmed them, they protruded like needles on a porcupine. He forced himself to ignore them, or, if absolutely necessary, to slick them down with pomade.

  He studied the lines on his face more critically this time. No problem, he’d simply ask for a heavy filter on the camera lens. Who’d ever know, besides the crew and cast?

  The cast…

  He shut his eyes. How could he go through it all again?

  Bring it all back to the surface after all these years? He should have been able to put it behind him by now, to move on. But he hadn’t.

  Somehow, from early on, he knew he’d be forever stuck in the Eagle Crest world, unable to break away. Not wanting to break away.

  And he’d been right.

  If it was his career he was thinking of, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. If it was only his career, he’d be glad. Instead, it was much, much more.

  Don’t think about the past, he ordered himself, not Rhonda, or Gwen, or Kyle…or Brittany. Especially not poor, dead Brittany. Put it out of your mind and stop. Right now. Just stop!

  He let himself drop onto the edge of the bed, the hat shadowing his eyes, and stared at the Persian carpet covering the floor.

  Rhonda Manning entered the bedroom of her suite in San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel feeling pampered and beautiful. Three days ago she’d left her home in Beverly Hills and traveled north. Here, she was only a couple of hours from St. Helena.

  In miles, the distance involved wasn’t bad, but in years, it felt as if centuries had passed.

  She took off her gloves and tossed them onto the bed, followed by her coat. The chilliness of San Francisco as compared to Los Angeles never ceased to surprise her.

  Today, she’d gone to Elizabeth Arden for “the works.” For the past ten years, she’d been a tall, slender, sleek-haired blonde, but now she was back to Natalie’s flaming red color and bouffant, Ice Follies–queen style. Her blue eyes, always enormous, appeared even more spherical and wide with the carefully applied make-up, and her high, round cheekbones were made more pronounced by the dark, coppery blush in the hollows of her cheeks.

  The cosmeticians had told her she was even more gorgeous than she’d been in the past, that she was more “mature” and more elegant. Her face had more character, more finesse.

  She spun toward the mirror. Her jaws clenched, the joint below the ear working as she ground her teeth. She hated the way she looked.

  It was one thing to look at her transformation at Elizabeth Arden, quite another to see Natalie here, in her hotel suite.

  The past rushed at her.

  With her hand on her chest, in a breathy, little girl voice with a heavy hint of the Southern belle, she said, “It’s all yo-ah fault, Cliff dahling. Ah know you! How day-ah you talk to me lahk thay-at!”

  Her face fell and she stared, hard, at her reflection. “And I know you, Natalie. What you are. What you have the power to make me. How I hate you! I hate you!”

  She threw a hairbrush at the mirror. It hit with a clatter, but the glass didn’t break.

  She flung herself into a chair and covered her mouth with shaking hands. Soon her whole body trembled.

  Playing Natalie again was the last thing she wanted to do. She didn’t know if she could bear it. A Christmas special, no less. Brittany had died while taping a Christmas special. What an ironic coincidence.

  She began to laugh aloud, then stopped.

  Or was it?

  What if it wasn’t a coincidence?

  What if it was on purpose, all of this was on purpose? What if someone wanted to resurrect the horror after all these years?

  Her initial reaction had been to prevent the Christmas special from going forward. Now she was more convinced than ever.

  She clenched her fists. The show must not go on.

  Angie dashed down the two flights of stairs to the main floor of the house. She hadn’t bothered to unpack, but had simply freshened up before going in search of the director or someone in charge. It’d be prudent to make sure she had the job before she moved in.

  Also, she didn’t like being in that oppressive bedroom any longer than necessary.

  In the family room, Dr. Sterling Waterfield sat at a bar outlined in Christmas tree lights, with a Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer figure on one end. Rudolph’s nose glowed as he bucked up and down—which looked like he was either “prancing” awkwardly…or humping the bar top.

  It had been several years since Angie had last seen Waterfield. He appeared younger than ever—which, she supposed, was the way it should be for someone in the plastic surgery business. With thick gray hair and dark eyes, his face was sun-baked to a bronzed hue and looked as shiny as polished leather. No sags, though. Not around the eyes, not even beneath the chin. He was of medium height, and bony, as if in his quest to keep his skin firm, he’d forgotten to eat. He wore a maroon velvet smoking jacket and black slacks. On the bar at his elbow was a drink. It wasn’t wine.

  “Dr. Waterfield.” She walked toward him, her hands outstretched.

  He jumped up. They air-kissed, then he took one hand, stepping back to look at her. “Angelina! How you’ve grown. You’re beautiful! Simply beautiful!”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. His hair no longer receded as far as it used to. She studied his hairline for plugs. Sure enough, the little devils were there. When she was young she’d had a doll with washable hair. The hair had been attached by punching tufts of it into the doll’s scalp.

  It wasn’t too ugly on a doll.

  “Look at that face.” He lifted her chin, running his hands along her cheekbones. “Usually, I can find something to improve upon. I’m very skilled, you know. But not with you. You’re beautiful enough to be a part of the cast, not just the crew…” His words trailed off as tiny eyes scrutinized her face.

  She caught her breath, waiting.

  Something was wrong.

  He coughed slightly, then turned and walked around to the back of the bar. “Won’t you join me in a drink? I’m having a little Scotch. I treat myself to my own wine at dinner.” He made a small smile. She was afraid the skin on his face would split open if he stretched it any more broadly. “I don’t like to sit here and drink alone, but when I see so many people descend on my home, I feel the need.”

  From the little she’d already seen and heard, Angie could understand needing liquor to deal with these people. Perhaps vast quantities of it—as long as it wasn’t Waterfield wine.

  Joining him was the only sociable thing to do. She sat down on a barstool and switched off Rudolph. The reindeer was too distracting. “I’ll have some sherry.” She glanced toward the Christian Brothers on a shelf and prayed the Waterfield winery didn’t make sherry. Luckily, he reached for the bottle on display. As he poured, she said, “I’d like to thank you for giving me the opportunity to come here and take part in all this.”

  “It was nothing. I was just lucky that I happened to be in the city and ran into your dad at our favorite watering hole in North Beach.”

  “You ran into him?” she asked, trying to hide her surprise. That wasn’t what Salvatore had told her.

  “Yes. We started talking. I told him about the show, and how a big scene would take place around the Christmas dinner table. He suggested you cook the meal for us.”

  Angie was shocked. “I didn’t realize that.”

  “He didn’t tell you? I wonder why not?”

  Her mind was racing. Why would her father lie? Did he think she would be offended that it was his idea and not Waterfield’s? “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it’s fine. I appreciate your faith in me.”

  “You’re most welcome. I think you’ll do much better than the caterer we were going to use—”

  Caterer? Sh
e was horrified. Visions of huge metal bins of overcooked spaghetti and under-cooked pot roast assaulted her. I should hope so!

  “—And, we love having you here. When your dad said you could use some time out of the city, I was glad to offer my place. You remember Junior, I hope. Sal and I were always sorry things didn’t work out for Junior and Frannie. I’ve always wanted you to meet Silver.”

  “I see.” Angie’s lips pursed as her father’s possible motive took an ugly turn. “This is all most interesting.”

  “Not telling tales out of school, am I?”

  “Not at all.” She gave a weak smile, then tried to come up with a diplomatic way to ask her question. “With this large house, I’m surprised you don’t have your own cook, not to mention a housekeeper and gardener.”

  “I do, but when the TV crew shows up, they take care of everything. My people are on vacation.”

  “They take care of the food as well?”

  “It’s all catered, but Tarleton also brought along his own cook, who’s staying in the house, in fact. He takes care of anything special Tarleton might want.”

  Angie didn’t need to hear that. “I don’t understand. Tarleton has his own cook, yet he wants someone else to prepare the Christmas dinner?”

  “I don’t understand it either.”

  Angie’s brow furrowed.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been told the special is all yours. At most, he’ll provide an extra pair of hands for preparing your Christmas feast.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to a wonderful meal—good tidings and good wassailing.”

  “Thank you. Salute.”

  Feeling somewhat appeased as to her prospects for the job, she had a pressing question. “Earlier, you said that with my looks I could be in the cast. Then you stopped. I was wondering why. Did you notice some problem?”

  “Oh, my dear girl!” He chuckled self-consciously. “How could you think such a thing?”

  He didn’t deny it. She steeled herself. “I can take it.”

  “Why do you care? Are you interested in acting? If so, I’m sure I can introduce you to some important people. You can’t be a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles for as many years as I have without meeting lots of the right people.”