Two Cooks A-Killing Read online

  Since that was what his fans wanted, he gave it to them in spades. He began looking for movie roles with Adrian-type, charming, educated good guys. And he got them.

  His movies were all big box office hits—not blockbuster films, but ones that women clamored to see, that they bought on videotape, and again on DVD, and rented over and over and over, Kleenex boxes close at hand as they watched.

  Someday, he hoped to be the young Robert Redford of his time. He didn’t see gambling all that by letting it be known that his personal life was akin to Return to Peyton Place.

  Negotiations for the Eagle Crest reunion had been well along before his agent let him in on what was happening, thrilled at the amount of money the producers had offered, and that the timing of the shoot was pushed all the way up to April so as not to interfere with his and Gwen Hagen’s film schedules. As famous as Bart Farrell and Rhonda Manning were when the show first appeared on TV, Kyle O’Rourke and Gwen Hagen were now the big stars—and the storyline for the reunion would reflect that.

  How the script would mesh Christmas with the sexy sleaze of the Roxbury clan was another matter.

  He had immediately asked to be written out of the story. But the producers refused and threatened a lawsuit.

  The usual phone calls began. Quickly, he realized just how stuck he was. The horror was already beginning.

  He caught a view of himself in the mirror, and stopped to admire the sight. He wasn’t as tall as Bart Farrell, but his physique was definitely better—toned and muscular. He glided his hand against thick, sandy blond hair that reached in back to his collar, studied his cobalt blue eyes, then touched a face that sun, sea, and age had made increasingly craggy.

  Robert Redford, all right.

  Tomorrow, the private jet he’d chartered would be heading north.

  Somehow, he would get past Eagle Crest and move on with his life. He could do it. He was a great actor.

  Gwen Hagen tossed aside the screenplay she’d been reading. Not funny enough; not enough action. She enjoyed action films, ones that didn’t require a lot of retrospection or insight. Ones that didn’t force her to delve inside her soul to understand the character she was playing.

  Some days, she was convinced she had no soul. Although it bothered her, the possibility of movie-goers seeing the same blackness was positively frightening. What would happen to her career then?

  Action films were safer, as was comedy. One had to be careful with comedy, though, as it was often a humorous way to expose the same truths as drama. She was always leery of revelation.

  Packets of scripts from her agent were stacked on the coffee table in the living room of her Malibu house. She was lying on the sofa going through them. It was tedious, but she was the best judge of roles she’d consider playing. She would never give that decision-making power to anyone else.

  She picked up the next script, read the logline, and saw that it had a Christmas theme. She sat up and slammed it onto the reject pile. No Miracle on 34th Street for her, thank you. Not even The Santa Clause.

  She hated Christmas, and she particularly hated Santa Claus.

  Not having seen the script yet for the Eagle Crest special upset her. This was the one time she had no control, no choice. It had been written in her original Eagle Crest contract. Restless, she stood and paced the room.

  She wondered if it’d be so hokey as to have Santa Claus make an entrance. When she was a child, Santa was the one who’d brought gifts to “good” boys and girls, but never to her. One year when she was six and believed in Santa with all her heart, she tried all year long to be a “good little girl.”

  That Christmas had come and gone, and there were still no presents. Not even a Christmas tree. She never tried to be good again.

  Not until she was fifteen and made some money on her own did she buy herself a Christmas present. A small teddy bear.

  She still had it, too. It was the one thing she’d kept with her all these years. The one thing that reminded her of the way her life used to be, and that she’d do anything, anything at all, never to have to go back to that life again.

  In her bedroom, she lifted the long, curly black wig she used to play Leona Roxbury from its box. The curls stood out about five inches all the way around her head and cascaded halfway down her back. The long, thick hair made the wig so heavy it gave her a headache.

  She placed it over her short, straight black hair and became Leona once again. Years ago, after two arrests for prostitution, and afraid to go back out onto the streets, she felt her life change when she answered a casting call for a television show.

  A good whore is nothing but an underpaid actress, she’d reasoned. And she’d been a good one.

  She put everything she had into the reading and lied up one side and down the other on the job application. Only her phone number had been real.

  To her amazement, she was called for a further audition. After much back-and-forth, she landed the role of Leona Roxbury.

  At first the job was heaven. Then it all started to go to hell.

  It didn’t take her long to learn there was scum on both sides of the tracks. In many ways rich scum was worse than what she’d left behind in Watts. The rich had no reason to be rotten, except for greed, selfishness, and ego. The actors she met had all of that in abundance.

  She thought of Bart, Kyle, and Rhonda, and even Emery, and of all that had happened between them.

  And Brittany.

  She shut her eyes as she thought of Brittany. Then she took a .22 Glock from her nightstand, removed the magazine, carefully took the gun apart and placed it in its traveling case. She’d learned to use a gun when she was growing up in Watts. An occasional trip to the shooting range now and then made sure she never forgot it.

  “Merry Christmas, Eagle Crest,” she whispered, then tossed the gun and the ammunition into her suitcase.

  Chapter 7

  An urn of weak Folger’s coffee and a platter of store-bought Danish pastry greeted Angie in the breakfast room. Not surprisingly, no one was there. The craft services area seemed more attractive than ever.

  Last night as she tried to fall asleep, over two dozen questions for Tarleton popped into her head as all the details involved with a television show began to overwhelm her. She needed to ask if she was responsible for the presentation of the food on platters and bowls, or for the dinner table—plates, silverware, glasses, napkins, even salt shakers, or for anything beyond cooking. She also needed to check out the kitchen supplies and equipment.

  This morning, the crew was crawling all over the house, inside and out. Tarleton was with them, red-faced and shouting orders.

  She opted for the kitchen, the one main room in the house free of all but overbearing Christmas decorations.

  This time she knocked before entering, not wanting to scare the cook into a repeat of yesterday.

  “You again?” he grumped. He sat at the counter with a cup of coffee and a Marlboro, reading the Sacramento Bee. A small TV blared ESPN sports from the corner. “Who are you? Vhy do you insist on bothering me?”

  She inhaled sharply. “My name is Angelina Amalfi, and I’m considered by many to be a fine gourmet cook. I studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, I’ve worked in restaurants, on radio, on television cooking shows, I’ve done restaurant reviews, and owned my own business as a chocolatier and cake decorator. I think I’m qualified to be in this kitchen.”

  With each word she spoke the chef’s face grew redder. “Vell, bully for you!” He snuffed out his cigarette, then stood awkwardly, as if his legs didn’t work quite right.

  With his hands on his hips, she noticed that his arms seemed unnaturally short. “So, you come here vit your hoity and toity vords. Do you think to take over my kitchen? Is that vhat this is all about?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I’d hoped we could get along. I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”

  “My name? You vant my name?”

  “Yes.” She smiled sweetly.

  He look
ed about to explode. “I am Rudolf Goetring.”

  She had never heard of him. “Mr. Goetring, I’ll be creating the Christmas dinner for the TV show.” She walked over to the pantry, opened the door, and stepped inside, checking the shelves. “I thought it would be lovely if we could work together, since I need to test the recipes Mr. Tarleton will be giving me, as well as get to know the equipment.”

  “So that’s vhat you thought, is it? Get out of there!”

  She came out, pleased with what she saw, and began opening cupboards.

  “No one has said a vord to me about you or any of this! Vhat am I here? Am I some dog barf? You think you can just svoop in and take over? I have vork to do! I vant you out.”

  She tried to open a door on the far wall, but it was locked. “What’s this?”

  “The maid’s quarters. You can’t go in there! You can’t stay in here!”

  “Making coffee—poorly—and opening packages is hardly work.” She checked cabinets under the sink and counters. “I have a real job to do. You get out!”

  “I must vork on the lunch,” he protested.

  She was becoming truly irritated, and opened a door that led to a basement. It must be the wine cellar. “Lunch is catered.”

  “Not for Mr. Tarleton.” He lifted his chin.

  She shut the door and gave the kitchen another quick once-over. “Fine. It still won’t require you to use the entire kitchen. I need it this afternoon. I’m going to talk to Mr. Tarleton. I will be back.”

  “I think he went into town,” Mariah said when asked Tarleton’s whereabouts. “The equipment is all fouled up. Some fool plugged things into the wrong slots. Em threw a temper tantrum and left.”

  “Oh, dear!” Angie was glad she hadn’t tried to talk to him earlier. They were standing on the front veranda. She eyed the crew filling the fake-snow machine. “You know it doesn’t snow in St. Helena, except maybe once in ten years.”

  “They want snow,” Mariah said.

  Angie decided not to argue. “Do you expect him back soon?”

  “I guess.” Mariah turned away.

  “But…I’ve got to get started preparing the Christmas dinner.”

  Mariah looked at her as if she were crazy. “Relax! The dinner scene won’t be for a week. Maybe longer.”

  “A week?” Angie was dumbfounded. “Why was I asked to come here already?”

  “Beats me.”

  Angie couldn’t believe it! She liked being at Eagle Crest, meeting celebrities and so on, but she saw no reason to be here a week early twiddling her thumbs when she could be home with Paavo twiddling something a lot more interesting.

  As Angie stepped back into the house she was greeted by the foyer Christmas tree whirling and playing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”

  “Bah, humbug!” she said, and entered the dining room. Maybe if she tried to visualize how she’d like to present the food she’d be less upset.

  “Angie, excuse me,” Mariah called. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  In the doorway stood her sister Bianca, the oldest of the five Amalfi daughters. She looked a lot like Angie, except that she was at least twenty pounds heavier, her hair was straight and chin-length, and she had a preference for polyester slacks over designer outfits.

  “I heard you were here. I couldn’t believe it!” Bianca shrieked. “I loved this show! I simply adored it! Look at this house! It’s like being on TV. Angie, how can you stand it?”

  The two laughed and hugged. Finally, Angie thought, someone to share the enthusiasm she had when she first arrived.

  “I brought you a gift,” Bianca said. “A gold goblet for the dining room. I’m sure you can figure out a way to use it on the table or buffet. It’d be such fun to see it when the Christmas show airs!”

  Angie took the heavy goblet. It had been in the family for years. “I can try, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Look at all the flowers!” Bianca nearly tripped over cables as she hurried into the living room and stuck her nose into a display on the coffee table. “Phew! They’re fake! Too bad, they look so real. Let’s see the rest of the house.”

  Angie walked her through the main floor.

  “Where are the actors?” Bianca asked. “Can I meet them? I adore Adrian! He’s so suave. I used to say to Johnnie, why can’t you be more like him?”

  “The actors aren’t here yet,” Angie said.

  “Not here? Oh…well, in that case I guess I’d better run.” She gave Angie a peck on the cheek and headed for the front door. “One bit of advice—if you get a chance, show off what you can do in the kitchen. I mean, everything! You’re a gifted cook, Angie. You never know where that talent might lead you.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Angie didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye.

  Chapter 8

  The victim was a Latino male, his body riddled with bullet holes. A long white, brown, and black bird’s feather was tucked into the neck of his sweatshirt.

  Paavo stood over the body in a garbage-strewn alley off Alemany Boulevard. It was in one of the roughest parts of the Ingleside district.

  Last week, a nineteen-year-old Guatemalan had been gunned down on Scribner’s Street not far from there. A red-tailed hawk feather was left on his chest, tucked into a shirt buttonhole. Luis Calderon and Bo Benson, the on-call inspectors at the time, took the case.

  Three days later there’d been a second murder, also in the Ingleside. The Nicaraguan victim had a peregrine falcon feather in his jacket pocket. Calderon and Benson handled that case as well.

  This morning, another call came in, similar to the last two. Calderon and Benson were swamped running down leads. With the danger of overlooking something important, Paavo had been assigned to handle the legwork on this latest shooting.

  Paavo gave the okay for the coroner’s team and CSI to move in. CSI would take the feather and identify it. Judging from the length it was from a huge bird, not the type normally seen flitting around the streets of San Francisco.

  Where were the shooters getting these feathers? If he and the other inspectors could figure that out, it might be a major breakthrough. They needed some kind of big lead soon. He had a bad feeling that these murders weren’t going to stop without one.

  He phoned Information for the number and address of the Audubon Society.

  “Angie,” Mariah called, her voice filled with outrage. “You have company again!”

  “All right, already.” Earlier, Angie had marched into the kitchen ready to do battle, only to find it empty. She was carefully going through the spices and condiments checking for freshness. “Is it my fault if people come to visit? Sheesh!”

  She marched to the front door, pulled it open, looked at her visitor, and felt her knees go weak. Before her stood Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield. Rebecca held her purse over her head to protect herself from the flying snowflakes.

  Angie’s heart pounded. Her brain searched for possible reasons for one of Paavo’s co-workers to come all this way to talk to her…in person. Her fingers tightened on the door. “Paavo?” she whispered.

  “Relax, Angie,” Rebecca said. “You’re white as a sheet. He’s fine. I’m here to see you.”

  Angie’s pulse slowly returned to normal. “You want to see me?” That made no sense. Rebecca Mayfield hated her, and everyone knew it. “Come in.”

  “I came bearing a gift.”

  Where had Angie heard that before? She watched as Rebecca pulled an incense burner from a bag. “I have another at home just like it. It has special significance for me, and Eagle Crest is one of my favorite shows. I was wondering if I could just slip it onto a table or someplace where it’d be sure to be filmed?”

  Angie’s eyes narrowed. She and Paavo had been walking through Chinatown one day when he pointed out a miniature brass temple and told her he’d given one to Rebecca after she’d oohed and aahed over it. “I’m sure I can find an appropriate spot for it.”

  “Wonderful!�
�� Rebecca cried, fluffing her hair and strolling through the rooms, touching and studying every bit of Eagle Crest minutiae and Christmas paraphernalia as she went. “I have a confession to make. I also came to see the cast. The show was my absolute favorite. I may have even become a cop because of it. I wanted to know who killed Julia Parker and was furious that the dumb cops on the show went after Cliff Roxbury. As if! But you probably have no idea what I’m talking about…and I’m babbling…but I can’t believe I’m actually here, inside the Roxbury house! It’s so beautiful.”

  “I always suspected Leona,” Angie said. “The other woman and all…”

  Rebecca peeked in the dining room. “Where’s the cast?”

  “Not here yet.”

  Disappointment clouded Rebecca’s face. “Bummer!” In the family room, she placed her large purse on a tabletop filled with pictures of the Roxbury family and stood in front of it, lifting and studying each photo.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Angie stepped behind the bar and switched off the glowing and bobbing Rudolph. “It’s a long trip up here and back.”

  “A Coke’s good.”

  “Diet?”

  Rebecca put her hands on her svelte hips. “No.”

  Angie handed her a can.

  “I’ll take it with me,” Rebecca said as she turned toward the courtyard. “I can still see Julia sneaking into the gate after her romance with the stable-boy. He had wavy dark hair and big sky blue eyes just like Paavo. I guess I’ve always been partial to that combination.” She sighed as if she’d been in love with the boy herself. “This is fantastic, Angie. Thank you for letting me see it.”

  Angie walked her to the door. “Drive safely.”

  “I’ll give Paavo your best. I’m sure I’ll see him tonight. By the way, I gave him a screen saver for his computer. A black Corvette. He loves it! He didn’t try to give it back, either.” She smiled. “Bye!”

  Angie hadn’t known one could smile and wave with clenched teeth. Somehow she managed to. She’d tried to give Paavo a black Corvette as an engagement present, but he’d refused to accept it. Too expensive he’d said, despite his obvious love for the car. Instead, he drove around in a clunker…and looked at Rebecca’s present to him at work. Damn!