Cook's Christmas Capers (The Angie Amalfi Mysteries) Page 6

  She rolled her eyes. Her Paavo would give anyone who attempted to find his name humorous "the look" and they wouldn't say a word. His blue eyes could go so hard and icy that nobody dared cross him. She hadn't called him The Great Stoneface early in their relationship for nothing.

  She handed him the star that went on the top of the tree. “I can’t quite reach—“

  “It’s okay.” He put it in place.

  As they both stepped back to admire their handiwork, she remember how her Paavo had helped her decorate the tree in her apartment. She wasn’t going to bother with it this year, saying she had too many other things to do, but he thought it would be sad to miss some of the joy of Christmas and so she went along with him.

  Now, she realized how much she cherished the time they had spent together.

  With a sigh, she thanked this familiar looking stranger for helping her. "By the way, there's coffee," she murmured.

  "Super!" Paavo went into the kitchen.

  He drank a couple of cups while Angie made a cheese omelet for herself. Paavo had claimed he wasn't hungry and didn't like to eat breakfast anyway…until he smelled her omelet cooking. She gave him hers, and made herself a second. She found marmalade in the refrigerator and put it in front of Paavo for his toast.

  "Far out!" he said. "I really like marmalade."

  "I know," Angie replied as she finished cooking her omelet.

  "Has any of your memory come back to you yet?" he asked as he ate.

  "No. Nothing that makes any sense, anyway."

  "And you still can't remember where you met the man in that apartment?"

  She shook her head, then sat across the table from him to eat.

  "It's my theory that he might have met you somewhere and took you back to his place," Paavo suggested. "There, something happened, and you killed him—in self-defense, of course—and ran out so horrified by what you did that you created an entirely different reality in its place."

  She gaped at him, then took a few bites before answering. "I think I saw that movie, too, Paavo. Even if I didn't, it's a story that's been done a gazillion times."

  "Well, it could be true, couldn't it?"

  She dabbed her lips with a Santa Claus napkin. "It doesn't explain why I know you and Connie, does it? Or Nona, or anybody else."

  "The truth is, Angie, you don't really know any of us. You simply think you do. You showed up at my house—okay, we met somewhere and I don't remember. I'm sorry. But from then on, everywhere we've gone, everyone we've seen, you've been cued to ahead of time. You decided you knew them after hearing their names. That's all."

  "It runs deeper, Paavo."

  He shook his head and looked at her in a way she didn't appreciate.

  She stood up and put their dishes in the sink. "Look, I can take care of myself today. You don't have to miss work because of me. Go to your job. Maybe by this evening I'll be better."

  "I don't mind missing work," he said.

  "You don't?" She was again stunned by this new side to her fiancé.

  "Not at all. I do it all the time."

  "Are you sure you haven't been possessed by the spirit of Stan Bonnette?" she asked, thinking about the fellow who lived in the apartment across the hall from her—or should live there, if she lived in her apartment, which obviously she didn't because the dead Aloysius Starr lived there. God, but she hated all this!

  "The spirit of Stan Bonnette," Paavo repeated, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

  "Oh, sorry. I'm just raving again."

  "But how do you know Stan Bonnette."

  She rubbed her forehead wearily. "He’s my neighbor."

  "I know him as well, but not where he lives," Paavo said, standing. "Why don't we ask him, then we'll find your apartment."

  "We've found my apartment already, but a corpse was in it!" How could Paavo be so dense? "Stan lives right across the hall from that apartment."

  "Stan Bonnette couldn't afford a closet in that building, let alone an apartment on the top floor."

  In her world, Stan's father paid for it. Why, she wondered, should this world be any different? "Still, I do know him, and since you do as well, that proves I know people you do before you mention them! It proves I'm not making this up as I go along!"

  "But it doesn't. Stan's a reporter. Every so often, the Chronicle gives him a by-line. You probably saw it and remembered his name."

  She was furious. "You're being pigheaded! Out of all the people in the world who are journalists, why would I use one whose name nobody knows!" She quickly tried to think of some well-known San Francisco journalists, and could come up with…one. "Did I say you were like Herb Caen? No! I used the name Stan Bonnette. That's because he's a personal friend. Not for any other reason."

  "Why don't we go see him and find out," Paavo said.

  She wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, but she was very sure she liked the idea of getting out of the apartment.

  "I'll take a quick shower and be ready to go in fifteen minutes."

  "I'll clean up the kitchen while you do that."

  After a shower, she felt ready to face the world. Not too ready, though. She didn't have any clean clothes or her own make-up. She tried to use Connie's Max Factor foundation, but since Connie’s skin tone was that of a somewhat blushing blonde, the shade was so incompatible with Angie's brunette coloring, it made Angie look like she had died. She washed it off.

  She went to Connie's closet, and found a dress that had a belt she was able to pull tight enough that it didn’t hang on her like a bag. She had to get her own clothes dry cleaned right away.

  Time to meet a supposedly gainfully employed Stan Bonnette. This world was even stranger than she thought.

  o0o

  Angie and Paavo entered the Chronicle building and were directed to Stan Bonnette's desk. She had planned to remain completely calm and collected. He was, supposedly, a reporter after all.

  Then she saw him. "Stan Bonnette!" Angie gasped. "I don't believe it!"

  He turned, looked at her, and stood.

  His hair was not only long, but was pulled back into a pony tail. She couldn't begin to express how ugly it looked. Also, where the Stan she knew was always immaculately dressed, this Stan wore jeans, a Grateful Dead tee-shirt, and dirty tennis shoes that had holes where the little toes should have been. A clearly misshapen corduroy jacket hung off the back of his chair. The jacket looked like it was once camel color, but now was filthy.

  Stan's gaze drifted appreciatively but also curiously over Angie, as if he were trying to figure out who she was, and if he once knew her, how in the world he had forgotten.

  His eyes lingered a moment on her diamond engagement ring, and from there to her Cartier wristwatch. It was a classic style with Roman numerals. She noticed that most people wore digital watches. She found it interesting that as the years went by, they grew tired of looking at 01:58:26, and found it easier to take a quick glance at a traditional watch face and think to themselves, "It's almost two."

  If she fell low on funds, she might be able to pawn the watch...as long as it didn't have a date in the future anywhere on it. She would have to check.

  "Have we met?" he asked.

  "How else would I recognize you?" she asked right back.

  "You could know me from my stories."

  "That doesn't mean I'd know what you look like," she pointed out.

  "Uh, yeah," he admitted. He noticed Paavo lingering in the background, not saying a word. "But I do meet everyone who's anyone in this city, so you easily might have seen me with some politicians. You want to know anything, talk to Stan the Man." He looked from her to Paavo. "That is, unless I'm interrupting something…"

  "Not at all," Paavo said.

  "In that case," Stan said, smiling at Angie, "are you busy Friday night?"

  Angie's eyebrows rose. Arrogance obviously carried across time. "Yes, I'm busy!"

  "Well, maybe some other time. Saturday night?"

  She shook her head. />
  "She's here," Paavo interrupted, "to find out about Aloysius Starr and Alan Trimball. You're covering those murders, right?"

  Stan didn't take his gaze off Angie. He looked crushed for a moment, but quickly got over it. "You knew Starr and Trimball?"

  "No, I didn't," Angie said. "But I know Nona Farraday."

  "And," Paavo added, "the police think Angie might have something to do with the murders. Or the Zodiac killings."

  "Zodiac? I hardly think they're serious about that," Stan said with a smirk as he faced Angie again. "Since you know Nona, what's she like? Do you think she killed her chef?"

  "No, I don't. Nona's a lovely person. She'd never kill anyone." The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Angie realized she had lied in exactly the same way as everyone else when asked about a crazed killer. Suddenly, it all made sense. The press came on like a bunch of bloodsuckers, and a sane person didn't want to give them anything to suck the blood of.

  Nevertheless, Angie couldn't believe she had just defended Nona Farraday!

  Stan studied her a moment, then asked, "What can you tell me about Alan Trimball and Nona Farraday's relationship…especially outside of work?"

  "Nothing," Angie said.

  "They weren't involved," Paavo added. "Nona is seeing me."

  "That's not the way I hear it," Stan said.

  "Nona and Alan?" Angie was aghast, but at the same time she could kick herself. What did she care if her worst enemy was two-timing her fiancé? Served him right!

  "What do you know about the murders?" Stan asked.

  "Nothing," Angie said. "And I have the distinct impression that you don't either."

  "As I said, I'm not into the crime beat. What I like to cover is politics! I want to become the top reporter in City Hall."

  Oh no, Angie thought. "Who's mayor?"

  Stan glanced at Paavo. "Joe Alioto, of course. And Moscone will be inaugurated in January. Where have you been?"

  She felt herself go pale. She knew what was coming to City Hall before long. She hated the thought of Stan being there when bullets started flying.

  But that was silly. No reporter had been hurt in the Moscone-Milk assassinations.

  Still, could she sit back and do nothing?

  What if Stan's being there changed history and he got hurt or killed? "There are other things going on in the area," she said. "Why not head down to Silicon Valley? Not only will it be interesting over the years, but you'll be able to make a lot of money if you understand what it's all about."

  "Silicon Valley? What's that?"

  "The Santa Clara valley area close to San Jose. Buy property, start covering technology. And, while you're at it, buy Microsoft and Apple."

  "Buy an apple?"

  "Trust me. Stay away from City Hall."

  "You're crazy."

  Angie only shook her head; it was useless to argue.

  "My job is in San Francisco. I can't go to Santa Clara! I cover the news right here."

  "The biggest news here is to prove Nona Farraday is innocent, and you said you aren't interested," Angie pointed out.

  "It's not that I'm not interested, I don't have any leads."

  "I do," Angie said and was only slightly exaggerating. "How about the Individual System for Meaning Institute?"

  "ISMI? The murders have to do with that?"

  She didn't say yes or no, she only smiled knowingly, which was the sort of thing to capture any reporter's curiosity.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After the meeting with Stan, Angie went with Paavo to Nona's, A Restaurant so she could get started with dinner preparation. She doubted being a chef at Nona's would require dealing with many customers at one time.

  Plus, with it being a macrobiotic restaurant, Angie discovered, the wholesale food costs were quite low. And if it spoiled, when you’re eating little more than tofu and seaweed, who could tell?

  The best thing about the restaurant was its location—Union Street near Fillmore. Angie knew the spot was going to become more and more valuable as the years went by.

  Winslow Louie was already there waiting as Angie and Paavo reached the restaurant. He was a young Chinese man, thin, not much taller than Angie, with thick black hair that refused to lie flat. His job was as the dishwasher and to keep both the kitchen and dining room neat and tidy.

  When Paavo unlocked the doors, Winslow went straight to the kitchen and began washing down the countertops and chopping boards since the kitchen had been closed for a couple of days.

  Angie was rinsing Swiss chard and kale when she heard a woman's voice.

  "I can't believe we're supposed to work today. How can we, when Alan's dead and Nona Farraday is in jail for his murder? Doesn't anyone have a sense of decency anymore?" The woman was shaped like a pencil with a mass of curly black hair held off her face with a colorful head band. She wore no make-up.

  "Who are you?" Angie asked.

  "Matilda."

  "That's a very pretty—"

  "Finkelstein. You wanna make something of it?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "A lot of people think Finkelstein is a funny name. It shows up in comedy routines. It's nothing to joke about."

  "Of course not."

  Matilda's eyes turned toward Winslow with a glare. "You're actually willing to work?"

  "My sense of decency," Winslow said, "begins and ends with my paycheck. No one will pay us to sit home and mourn."

  "Hah!" Matilda put her bony wrists on her hard-to-find hips. "You should talk! You have no business holding a job like this anyway, not with your hot-shot Berkeley law degree. Too bad you sucked at it. Or maybe you worked here hoping Alan would hire you for that lawsuit he was always talking about! How did that work out for you? I have no sympathy for you or your paycheck!"

  Winslow's ears reddened and he turned away, going back to washing a cutting board a second time.

  "What lawsuit?" Angie asked Matilda.

  Matilda snorted. "Who the hell knows? He was always talking about suing somebody to make it big."

  With that, she went out to the dining room.

  A very Irish-looking young man with reddish-brown hair and green eyes strode up to Angie. His mouth, cheeks and chin were puckered like a bulldog, and his already upturned nose, held high.

  "Who are you?" Angie asked, when she didn't see Paavo nearby.

  "Greg Reed. I was Alan's assistant. I was going to cook since he's dead, or are you taking his place?" His voice was so big it echoed in the kitchen.

  "Well, in a sense. I'm—"

  Gregory's already ruddy face grew brighter. "The murderous bitch didn't wait long to replace him, did she? I'll bet she's figuring the publicity is going to make her even more money. I can't stand it! I'm leaving."

  "Wait!" Angie called. "I'm not replacing Alan. I'm just here to help Paavo for a few days. Nona Farraday is innocent. If you know her at all, you would know she isn't the type to go around poisoning anyone. And even if she was, do you think she'd have poisoned him with her own cooking? Think about it."

  He pouted and shrugged.

  "Anyway, Greg," Angie continued, trying to be nice, "what brings you to this job?"

  "It's a job. They aren't easy to come by, in case you haven't heard. Who the hell are you to be asking me anything?"

  Angie smiled as pleasantly as possible. "Just trying to be friendly."

  "Well, don't!"

  Angie bit her lip. She was on the verge of telling him what she thought of his rudeness, but forced herself to maintain control. She couldn't afford to offend the sous chef and have him leave.

  By five o'clock, waiter Lorenzo McCaffrey arrived. Angie actually thought Lorenzo McCaffrey was a much weirder name than Matilda Finkelstein, but nobody asked, and she decided it was best to keep such observations to herself.

  Matilda and Lorenzo set up the tables in the dining room, while Angie and Gregory Reed prepared the food, and Winslow Louie filled in anywhere he was needed—which was not often, as far as Angie c
ould tell.

  Paavo looked over the accounts. He seemed to think that because he was a teller, he knew something about business finances. Angie bit her tongue.

  At one point, Angie noticed she was alone with Gregory. "So, what do you think happened here, Greg?" she asked as she sliced onions.

  He was sautéing mushrooms in olive oil. "I don't know, but I don't think Nona killed Alan. She liked him. Besides, he did a lot of work for much lower wages than most chefs would take."

  "Why was that?" The onions made her eyes water.

  "Because he wasn't really a chef. He knew how to cook, but he wasn't all that great."

  "So why did he do it?"

  "I guess he couldn't get a better job." He added butter to the mushrooms, which wasn’t kosher macrobiotic, but Angie approved.

  "I guess not. Tell me about Alan," she said, wiping her eyes. "What was he like?"

  "He was good-looking. Everybody noticed that about him. Even Nona. She took one look at him, and her eyes lit up. She gave him recipes, and he followed them without any changes. That's not a real chef!"

  "Interesting," Angie murmured, wondering if Greg Reed wasn't more of a chef than Nona recognized.

  Matilda Finkelstein burst into the kitchen full of excitement when the first customers arrived.

  The evening went well enough, with Matilda Finkelstein seeing every slight, every low tip, every morsel of food left on the plate as a personal insult and affront. She was constantly ready to go out and argue with the customers, and Angie had to stop her. Paavo should have been the one doing that, but whenever Matilda entered the kitchen with "that look" on her face, he cowered in a corner.

  Why, Angie wondered, did Nona put up with her?

  It wasn't until the restaurant closed that Angie got an answer. When she put all the tips together, Matilda refused to take her share. "I don't take tips! They're nothing but capitalistic handouts. I don't take handouts from anyone for any reason."

  So Lorenzo and Winslow got her share. They sang her praises as they took the money she helped them earn, and she beamed from it.

  Soon, everyone left the restaurant except Angie and Paavo. "Nona called earlier," Paavo said. "She'd like me to see her at the jail. I'll drop you off at Connie's first."