Cooking Most Deadly Page 6

  Paavo stared at some scribbles in his notebook, trying to decipher them. He was still focusing on the most troublesome aspect of this case. Why would anyone pass up diamonds to take replicas of some museum pieces? He glanced at Rebecca. “If it was, the alarms would be going off.”

  “I give up,” she murmured, pushing herself away from him, her back against the chair and her arms folded.

  Calderon marched into Homicide. “You still here, Mayfield?”

  “Just a couple minutes more, then I’m leaving.”

  “Any luck?”

  Rebecca gazed at Paavo. “None at all…. Uh, oh yes…your reports. They’re on your desk.”

  Calderon grunted, the nearest he ever came to thanking anyone. Rebecca stood up. “You want to go to dinner, Luis?”

  “I already ate.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll go now,” she said. “See you tomorrow, Paavo.”

  “See you,” he replied, never looking up from his computer screen.

  A short while later he shut the folder and put it in his desk drawer. Yosh had left for home long ago. Apparently the last couple of nights, between going to the Court House and working on the Ellis case, his wife was feeling neglected. Tonight was fence-mending time.

  One more example of how marriage and homicide didn’t mix. This caused him to think of Angie—and the reason why it did was so obvious it made him shudder. Every rational pore told him to give her up, that he wasn’t marriage material, and it was unfair to try to be a part of her life. But another part, a more selfish part, wouldn’t let her go. That part told him she was his—every petite, saucy, ambitious, warm-hearted, generous, maddening inch of her. They were as unlikely a pair as he’d ever come across, but when he was with her, he felt as if the whole world smiled. God, where had that come from?

  He thought about her phone call earlier that day, about her excitement at auditioning for the TV program, and her disappointment that he couldn’t celebrate with her.

  He pushed his chair back from his desk, not wanting to be here anymore. Suddenly, he knew exactly where he wanted to be.

  He got up, lifted his jacket from the back of his chair, and left.

  The minute Angie saw Paavo’s house, she knew he wasn’t home. The lights were off, and his car wasn’t in the driveway. Stan was in the Ferrari with her. They should continue on to the Sound Works. Why bother to stop? But then, given the off chance Yosh had given Paavo a ride home, she parked and ran up to the front door. He’d given her a key to his house for emergency use, but it didn’t seem right to go barging in for no good reason. Instead, she knocked on the door and rang the bell, hoping against hope that he was there.

  He wasn’t.

  The frustration she felt told her more than anything how much she had wanted to see him tonight. She’d put on a dynamite new black Isaac Mizrahi dress. Short, slinky, and shiny, with a flattering halter top, it fit like a layer of skin. Black silk hose and patent leather sandals with towering heels gave her the leggy look of models far taller than she. Big, bold gold earrings and a spritz of Flore completed the ensemble.

  The whole time she was dressing, she’d imagined Paavo opening his door, looking surprised, pleased, and unable to bear not taking her in his arms right then and there. Of course, she’d insist they go dancing first, but soon—maybe very soon—she’d consent to going home with him and then really celebrate her audition request.

  Now, the only man she had to show off for was Stan.

  Disappointed, she turned back to her car.

  A green Honda Civic pulled out of the parking space and sped to the corner. Even on city streets, the driver was probably going to have to floor the accelerator to keep up with the Ferrari he was following.

  At almost the same moment, Paavo turned onto his street from the opposite end of the block. By the time he reached his house, the green Honda was no more than a distant set of taillights. He paid scant attention, though, his thoughts centered on a phone call to Angie and his hope that, after he’d had a quick shower and shave, she’d be willing to have him over. He had a lot to make up to her for.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As the last note sounded, Angie turned to the latest in her long line of dance partners, “Thank you,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Good-bye, now.”

  During her pre-Paavo dating days, she’d learned how to deliver a definitive “Get lost, Buster” message without hurting a guy’s feelings—or, at least, not too badly.

  Tonight she’d doled out “get lost” messages by the bushel. She was tired, her feet hurt, and she wasn’t having any fun. Each man who introduced himself and asked her to dance was measured against Paavo. Each came up lacking. She hadn’t met a single one who, if Paavo wasn’t in her life, she’d consider dating, let alone marrying. Dancing itself, while fun, didn’t hold as much allure for her as it once did. She wondered if it had really been the dancing that she’d found so entertaining, or the flirting that went along with it. So far, she’d spotted only one obviously married couple. A few others were there wearing wedding rings, but they didn’t appear to be married to each other.

  She was ready to go home.

  She tried to spot Stan from where she stood, a near-impossible task. Earlier, discussing marriage with him was just about as unrewarding as, in her heart, she should have known it would be.

  “What do you think of getting married, Stan?” she had blurted. She realized as soon as she said it how the question sounded.

  “Angie, this is so unexpected.”

  “But you know I’m mad about you,” she said, then laughed. “Now, tell me what you really think.”

  “I accept.”

  “Stan, forget it.” She walked away, wondering why she even bothered to try to be serious with him.

  The dimly lit dance hall, hazy with smoke, was packed tighter than a can of anchovies. From the time she’d wandered away from Stan, she’d seen him a couple of times wrapped in the arms of a big redhead.

  To find him now, she’d have to plow through the crowd, and even then, she’d need a considerable amount of luck. The heat and stuffiness of this room was getting to her, as was the loud, blaring music. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck and wandered toward an open window far back in the club, away from the dancers and the tables that circled them. Luckily, the building was old, with real windows that opened and shut, not those new, permanently sealed monstrosities that kept out any fresh air. She bent forward, her hands on the windowsill, enjoying the feel of the cool breeze against her face and shoulders, enjoying being alone for the first time that evening.

  “Warm, isn’t it?” said a silky smooth male voice.

  She glanced up. A tall, muscular man with oversize, darkly tinted glasses and a long, thick mustache stood beside her, a little too close. He smiled at her. “Yes, very,” she said, polite but cool, and again faced the window.

  “This is my first time here,” he said. His hair was slicked straight back and heavily pomaded.

  She didn’t reply.

  “It’s rather intimidating,” he continued. “All these people. You never know if any of them will talk to you or not. My friends told me to give it a try, though. They said…they said most people were pretty nice.”

  What was this guy doing, trying to pick her up or hold a session with Dr. Joyce Brothers? “And some want to be left alone,” she said pointedly.

  “That’s very true. Do you come here often?” he asked.

  He was dense or persistent or both. She folded her arms, still staring at the alley view of garbage cans and backs of buildings. “No.”

  “Oh? Why not?” he asked. He leaned his shoulder against the window frame and cocked his head, a casual pose, as if they were having a friendly chat. It was presumptuous. She wished he’d go away from her window.

  She stiffened. “I haven’t wanted to.”

  “Ah. Well, you’re lucky. Yours is a much better reason than mine.”

  She’d had it. This boor was a walking cliché. “I k
now, you were too busy working, right? Something involving high finance, making lots of money, I suppose? Pardon me if I’m not impressed.” She’d delivered the words with a sneering tone that should make any self-respecting male leave in a huff. It didn’t.

  “No, that’s not it at all. But still, I don’t blame you for not being impressed. There’s nothing impressive about me, I’m afraid.” She glanced his way. These were the first words he’d spoken that had any ring of truth. He shook his head, then bowed it, as if casting his gaze downward. Through his eyeglasses’ dark tint, she couldn’t tell for sure. “I’ve been alone too much,” he added.

  This guy had quite a line going. He’d almost taken her in, too. He was pretty good at this. “So you’ve come to a dance club to make up for it?”

  He chuckled. “I can see you don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. My…my reason isn’t very believable, I’m afraid.”

  “Now that I do believe,” she said, not sure why she was still being civil. Well, sort of civil.

  He adjusted his glasses. “Actually, it was pretty terrible—”

  That did it. “Excuse me,” she said, and turned to leave.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. I’m making quite a mess of explaining.” He quickly stepped in front of her. “My…my wife died some months ago.”

  “Sure.” She tried to get around him.

  “Here I thought you were a decent human being!” His lip curled in disgust, and he stepped back as if fearful of being tainted by her.

  She stared at him in shock.

  “I don’t know the kind of people you normally associate with, lady,” he said, “but I assure you, I wouldn’t lie about my wife’s death. You may be lovely, but no one is that beautiful.” His voice broke, and he faced the window.

  She felt guilty and very, very small over the way she’d spoken. When had she become so jaded? “Wait! I’m sorry.” She touched his arm. “It was just after being hit on all evening, I was feeling, well…It was a callous thing to say.”

  He nodded, saying nothing, his back rigid as he stared through those dark, sightless glasses.

  Uneasily she said, “It’ll take time.” She began backing away. “But you’ll do all right, I’m sure.”

  “It’s hard.” He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Very hard.” His voice was hushed, almost a whisper.

  She forced herself to stop backing up even though he made her feel uncomfortable. Poor man. She had to remember that he was a new widower. He was facing the downside of marriage—from the ultimate togetherness, to a time alone. Suddenly, her heart ached for this man, for what he must have gone through. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Angie.”

  “Angie what?”

  “Just Angie.”

  He gave a tentative smile. “Well, Just Angie, my name’s Lee. I must confess,” he continued, “I noticed you when you came in with that handsome blond fellow. Is he your steady?”

  Perhaps their meeting by the open window hadn’t been as much by chance as she’d assumed. This stranger—Lee—was far too inquisitive. “He’s my fiancé,” she said, remembering her earlier conversation with Stan. Also, being betrothed was a way to keep men such as Lee at arm’s length.

  “Ah. A lucky man,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  One of the band’s few slow dances began. “Since you’re engaged,” Lee said, “and the last thing I want is a woman who’s available, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

  “I’m afraid not. Thank you anyway.”

  “Oh. Well, I can’t say that I blame you.” An embarrassed blush rose on his cheeks. “I don’t think I’d want to dance with me, either. I haven’t been on a dance floor since who knows when. My wife was sick for a number of years before she died, you see. I just thought it’d be nice to see what it felt like again, in a safe situation. You’re so lovely, though, I shouldn’t have presumed…. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Again he bent his head and shook it slightly, as if berating himself for being foolish enough to ask her to dance.

  “You didn’t offend me.”

  “You mean you will dance with me?” His lips, his voice, smiled. But his eyes? “You’re too kind.” He held out his hand to her.

  She hadn’t meant that. She wanted to tell him he could easily find someone else to dance with. But his hand stayed outstretched, waiting. Well, what harm would one dance do?

  She placed her hand in his, and his fingers quickly folded around it. They were firm and strong. His thumb lightly stroked her knuckles. “Soft,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your hand is very soft.” He led her onto the dance floor, then faced her. “You’re soft. I’d forgotten how soft a woman can be.”

  “Actually, I think I see my fiancé—”

  “One dance.” He took her in his arms. “We’ll dance our way over to him.”

  She held herself back, feeling a sudden urge to run from him. Resting her hand lightly on his shoulder, she could feel his bulky muscles, much like a bodybuilder’s. The strength he must possess scared her. But when he didn’t try to draw her closer, she tried to convince herself she’d been overreacting. Paavo always accused her of doing that.

  Still, up close, even in the dimness of the club, she could see that his mustache was strange—a fake?—and his teeth seemed too big for his mouth, almost as if they were an actor’s prop. The pomade on his hair had a heavy, overly sweet smell.

  She fixed her attention on a nearby couple, her mind clearly playing tricks on her where this man was concerned.

  Hot, sweaty bodies packed the center of the dance floor. Elbows jabbed her. Someone stepped on her foot. Another person spun his partner into her back, knocking her flat against Lee as they danced. His body was surprisingly hard and muscular. “Excuse me,” she murmured.

  “It’s all right.” His lips grazed her ear as he whispered the words. A cold shudder trickled through her.

  Frightened, she broke free. “I must find my fiancé,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  He grabbed her arm and held it tight. Too tight. “Not good-bye, Angie. Until we meet again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Who’s been telling you these stories, Angie?” Marianne Perrault, a staff writer at Haute Cuisine, chased a piece of rubbery squid sashimi around her plate with her chopsticks. “Hugh and I have been married ten months, and we’re forever going places and doing things together. Just last night we went out to dinner.”

  This was music to Angie’s ears. Suddenly, her sushi lunch tasted much better. “That’s so good to hear, Marianne,” Angie said. “I remember last week we were talking about that new Afghanistani restaurant, and you said how much you wanted to go. Did Hugh take you?”

  “No.”

  “Or that interesting Malaysian place you mentioned. Was that where you went?”

  Marianne took a sip of warm sake from a small porcelain cup. “Actually, Hugh’s a meat and potatoes kind of guy. He didn’t want to try anything that might have ingredients he wasn’t familiar with. Come to think of it, we were sort of rushed. I guess our dinner out wasn’t such a great example.”

  “What do you mean? Where did you two end up?”

  “Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Stanfield Bonnette trudged up the Jones Street hill. The bus he rode after work left him off on Union Street, one block down from his apartment building. No bus tried to climb to the top of Russian Hill—it was too steep.

  Someday, he might be able to afford a car, he thought bitterly. But even if he had one, parking was impossible in this city unless you had a garage—also prohibitively expensive. It was cheaper to bus and taxi everywhere. Especially when most of your money went to paying rent, as his did.

  But he enjoyed his top floor apartment. It always impressed his dates, and he only went out with women he wanted to impress. It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich
woman as a poor one, he told himself. Unfortunately, the only rich woman he’d met so far that aroused more than a passing interest cared far more about some homicide inspector than she did about him. Last night, she’d given him a start with her question about marriage. He should have known better than to react the way he did, tipping his hand that way. That she laughed made the bitter pill even harder to swallow.

  And anyway, just what did that detective have that he didn’t?

  He stopped walking a moment to catch his breath. This hill was so steep that every so often some steps appeared, built right into the concrete sidewalk, supposedly to help high-heeled women walk downhill.

  He’d made it to the top of the hill, the corner of Jones and Green streets, where his apartment building stood. He entered the lobby. A man wearing sunglasses, a San Jose Sharks cap, and carrying a bouquet of roses jumped back from the mailboxes. Startled by Stan’s appearance, he bent his head downward, the brim of his cap hiding all but his chin from view.

  “Sorry,” the deliveryman mumbled. “There don’t seem to be no doorman.”

  Stan didn’t usually talk to strangers, not even ones carrying flowers. He’d lived in the city long enough to be paranoid about everyone and everything. “One is usually here,” he said, keeping his distance. “He must have stepped away for a minute.”

  “I got some flowers for Angelina, the address is this building, but I don’t know her apartment number.”

  “Angelina? You mean Angelina Amalfi?”

  “Amalfi. Yeah, that’s her.”

  More flowers for Angie, Stan thought. Probably from her hotshot detective. The guy probably heard he took her dancing last night, and now he wants to mend fences. Why didn’t she just ditch the guy as he suggested? Well, the heck with him. If he couldn’t get her address straight, that was too damn bad.

  Then a wicked thought occurred to him. Why not hijack the flowers? Redirect them to his own apartment and never let Angie know Paavo had sent them. All’s fair in love and war, he reminded himself, feeling good about how clever he was.