Cooking Spirits: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (Angie Amalfi Mysteries) Read online

  Taylor said his wife looked like every man’s dream, but beauty was all she had. He claimed the only thing she ever loved was her mirror. He didn’t even know why she married him.

  His girl, on the other hand, was fun, fascinating, had a wild imagination, and did everything with great enthusiasm, including making love. Taylor said he had never been around anyone with such a lust for life. That was why, at work, he couldn’t handle the drab way she dressed and acted.

  Donny thought a moment. “I’m remembering one time something weird happened. He was real shook up the day it took place—just a day or two before he left on his last business trip. He cornered her in the supply room and kissed her. She burst into tears and ran off. He said it felt like kissing a stranger. It shook him, and he didn’t know what had happened to her. He couldn’t take it anymore. He said he didn’t like her looking so dowdy either. He knew the real woman. He said he wanted to stop living a lie. I never saw him after that, and now I learn he’s dead. Poor guy; I guess he got his wish.”

  Yosh nodded.

  Donny leaned on the bar and looked at Yosh. “You know what was really sad about the guy? I think I was the only one he ever really opened up to about all this. He gave me the impression that his whole life, except for me and his weekends with his girl, was make-believe. He was a good guy, and a good tipper. I’m gonna miss the poor schlub.”

  Chapter 12

  ANGIE DECIDED TO GO to the next prospective wedding planner’s place of business after the irritating experience of Diane LaGrande seizing on a wedding theme based on her Cezanne lithograph. Now, Angie found herself in the back of a wedding gown shop. She glanced at the dresses as she entered, but she didn’t find one that jumped out at her as “the” dress.

  Nancy Blum, wedding planner, was a tall, thin woman, pretty enough to have been a fashion model. She greeted Angie and had her sit on the opposite side of her desk.

  “Here are some pictures of weddings I’ve done in the past,” she said, handing Angie a thick photo album. While Angie turned the pages, Nancy asked questions about the type of wedding she hoped for, the size, location, and so on.

  The weddings in the photos were lovely but, to Angie’s eye, nothing special. There wasn’t one unique thing about them from the cakes, to the flower arrangements, to the reception halls, to the combos for live music. The brides’ dresses and veils were unexceptional, and the same for the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  Boring.

  “So, let’s talk in specifics about the wedding you hope for,” Nancy said.

  “Something traditional, yet unique,” Angie said, handing back the album.

  “Yes, that’s what everyone says,” Nancy said dismissive sigh. “We can do that. We always do that. Rose bouquets, matchbooks and candles as favors. I’ve got it covered. But tell me, what are your interests? Do you work? What about the groom? What does he do?”

  “My main interest is in cooking. I’ve had a variety of jobs involved with haute cuisine, but nothing currently. My fiancé is a homicide inspector.”

  “Oh. Well…let’s see. We could have a huge variety of foods at the wedding dinner.”

  “Yes, we could,” Angie said, not impressed. “I’ll take care of the food.”

  Nancy’s face suddenly brightened. “Did you say the groom is a homicide detective?”

  “Yes, we call them inspectors in San Francisco.”

  “You know, you might be one of the few people who actually can have a unique wedding! Few can, you know. Most brides and grooms have incredibly boring jobs in big office buildings or shops. But for you, oh my God! We can actually do something fun”

  She suddenly jumped to her feet. Angie just gawked at her. “Finally, something different from the usual! I know, let’s get crazy!”

  “Crazy?” Angie gulped.

  “We can put yellow crime scene tape all around the reception hall! And maybe draw a chalk figure on the floor, you know, where the body was found. In fact, we could draw two chalk figures, a bride and a groom! Wouldn’t that be hilarious!”

  “Hilarious?” Angie said, horrified at the idea.

  Nancy didn’t notice. “Of course! The wedding as the scene of the crime! That is truly unique! And you said you’ll be getting married in a church, right?”

  Angie blanched, having a good guess as to what was coming. “Correct. A very old world, traditional Catholic church.”

  “Hmm…I wonder if they’d let us put crime scene tape up and down the aisle. They shouldn’t object to that. Oh! Oh! Another idea! We could use toy guns—squirt guns—as party favors! Your guests could have so much fun shooting each other! And you and the groom! I’m just loving it! I’ve done so many weddings that are all alike. Every last one of them, the same thing over and over and over. But this, I’m loving! And I can tell you’re loving it, too, aren’t you?”

  Without saying a word, Angie stood up and left the shop.

  o0o

  Angie wasn’t surprised when Paavo came to her apartment that night. She knew she had worried him the night before, showing up at his place because she’d been so frightened by the strangeness on Clover Street. She had worried herself, and had replayed in her head every horror film she had ever seen until fatigue overtook her.

  Now, she wanted to tell him that episode in her life was over. She had already forgotten about the house...mostly. But first, she put her arms around him and kissed him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, enjoying staring into his translucent blue eyes.

  “So am I.” He continued to hold her. “I’ve now got two murders instead of one and I expect things to heat up soon. But tonight, I’m free and I’d like to see the house you’re so excited about. I’ve been thinking about what you said about us finding our own place.” He drew her closer, studying her as he added, “You’re right. We need to do that.”

  She stepped back and gaped at him. “I am?”

  “Definitely.” He smiled. “I like the idea. A lot.”

  “Uhhh…”

  His brows crossed slightly. “Have you changed your mind about it?”

  “No.” Even to her ear, her voice sounded strangely high.

  “Good! The Sea Cliff house sounds like a real find. And if the murders of tenants thirty years ago have other buyers spooked, we might be able to get it at an even better price.”

  Angie shivered at the word “spooked.” Paavo didn’t notice.

  “That could be.” She scooted over to the coffee table and started straightening the bridal magazines spread over it.

  “Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He stared at her, then sat on the sofa. “What’s going on, Angie?” When she didn’t answer right away, he continued. “Is this about the murders? You’ve been through enough cases with me to know there’s nothing to be afraid of. Murders are rare, but they happen in big cities. You’ve never let that kind of thing bother you before.”

  She put down the magazines, took a few deep breaths and said, “You’re right.” She nodded. “It shouldn’t bother me.”

  “Good. So…shall we go see it?”

  Her mind roiled. If she told him her earlier decision, she would sound like an idiot.

  “Angie?” he said.

  She walked over to the picture window, looking out at the lights of the city rather than facing him. “Well…”

  He watched her, then stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Drawing her back against him, he kissed her ear, her cheek, then said. “Tell me what’s the matter. Did someone else beat us to it?”

  “No…that’s not it.”

  “Are we unable to see it for some reason?”

  “No…Caterina, uh, gave me a key. She knows how interested I was. Am.”

  “Well, then?”

  She turned to face him. She felt as if the word stuck in her throat, but finally she forced it out, and squawked, “Okay.”

  o0o

  Angie unlocked the door and slowly, nervously,
pushed it open. She stuck her head inside. “Hello!” she called loudly. “We’re here to see the house. Is anybody home? It’s Angelina Amalfi and Inspector Paavo Smith of the San Francisco Police Department!”

  “Angie, what are you doing?” Paavo asked. “The whole neighborhood doesn’t need to know our names. Besides, I thought you said the house is empty.”

  “It is, but sometimes other people come to see it, and if anyone else is here”—she swallowed hard—“I want to be sure they know you’re a cop and we shouldn’t be messed with.”

  “This is hardly an area where you have to worry about such things,” Paavo said. “Are you going to let us in, or will we spend the night on the front porch?”

  “You’re right, since we’re here, you should see it. It’s just that it’s not daytime. In the daylight you’d be able to see how beautiful the view is, and in the dark, you can’t and—”

  He reached around her, pushed the door open and walked in. He flipped on the lights, and Angie could see his amazement. He didn’t say a word as went through the living, dining and kitchen areas, then returned to the living room, opened the sliding glass door to the garden and stepped out.

  The moon sat low on the horizon, casting a ray of light onto the ocean. The area around them was so dark they could see thousands of stars overhead, a rare occurrence in foggy San Francisco where even on clear nights the city lights were so bright few stars were visible. The waves lapping on the beach far below created a serene, calming sound. Even Angie, despite her angst at what would greet them inside the house, had to admit that the heavens were putting on quite a show for Paavo.

  When he finally spoke, his voice sounded soft and awe-filled. “It’s not daylight, but even now, I can get a sense of how beautiful this is.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” she said. His expression was serious, thoughtful. “Do you think, Paavo, we could be happy here?”

  He faced her. “To be wherever you are, Angel, makes me happy. I don’t want or need anything else.”

  “That’s how I feel, too,” she said and kissed him.

  They went back inside and he saw that the master bedroom had the same ocean view as the main rooms. “Hmm…someone wearing perfume must have been in here recently,” Paavo said. “It’s a good scent. I like it.”

  Angie noticed it, too—just as she’d noticed it earlier with Caterina. But now, realizing it wasn’t Cat’s perfume, she recognized the scent. Her mother used all the time when Angie was young—Joy by Jean Patou. Her heart started to pound. Who would have been here wearing it?

  Paavo quickly took in the master bedroom and bath, the room Angie called a “den or nursery,” and the two bedrooms and bath upstairs.

  Angie tried to ignore the perfume, which seemed to follow them wherever they went. But she couldn’t, and grew more nervous with each passing moment.

  “Let’s see the garage,” Paavo said.

  Angie led him to it. “There’s a big area in the back with room for tools, a lawn mower, all kinds of stuff.”

  “I’ll have to buy a lawn mower if we live here.” Paavo slung his arm over Angie’s shoulders. “I guess that’ll mean I’m really a married man.”

  His simple words touched her heart. “A rite of passage, I’d say. But no matter where we live, you’ll really be a married man.” She smiled up at him. “I know seeing this at night isn’t ideal. You can’t tell a thing about the paint, the roof, the yard…all those important things. But as to the feel of the place, the layout…?”

  They returned to the living room and she watched him look over the woodwork, the large stone fireplace, the hardwood floors, high ceilings. “It’s a good house for us,” he said. “You’re right that I’d want to see it in daylight, but I find it hard to imagine that my impression will change.”

  Paavo’s positive reaction thrilled her. The house put on quite a show for him, she thought. For the first time, she felt welcome here…despite the perfume. What had she been worried about?

  She watched him as he stood at the living room windows and looked out at the ocean, the big tough detective who was also the kindest, most gentle man she had ever known. Yes, she thought. She could see the two of them happily living in this house.

  “What are you thinking, Paavo?” she asked stepping to his side.

  His hand clasped hers. “I know you’ve got some concerns about this house’s past.”

  “Not me!” she said quickly. “It was all Connie’s fault! She pointed out that with the furniture here, she felt as if the prior tenants could walk into the house at any time—that she felt their presence! But Cat explained the furniture is simply to ‘stage’ the house so it looks better.”

  “Connie, hum?” he said.

  “That’s right!” she insisted.

  “So if we bought the house, the furniture stays?”

  “No way! For one thing, all this furniture is over thirty years old!”

  “Practically antiques,” Paavo said, trying not to smile.

  “I particularly can’t wait to get rid of that sofa.” She pointed to the overly modern, low back, no arm sofa in moss green with gold lame stripes. “It’s butt-ugly, if you ask me.”

  Just then, a watercolor of a mountain lake in the dining area fell off the wall. Angie started so badly she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Paavo went over to it and found that the nail still protruded from the wall, so he simply had to lift the picture up and rehang it. “Odd,” he said.

  That did it! Wide-eyed, she looked all around. Time to get out. No sense pushing her luck. “Let’s lock up and get out of here,” she said, speaking more rapidly than she thought possible. “I’m suddenly ravenous for dinner. Let’s find a place to eat. Fast!”

  Chapter 13

  GAIA WYNDOM’S CELL phone bill lay on Paavo’s desk when he arrived at Homicide the next morning. He had been unable to find any indication that she had a cell phone in her home, and even her employment records showed only a landline. The landline showed no personal calls beyond her boss trying to check on her health. Once again, Paavo had been left wondering if the woman had any kind of a life.

  Yet, indications were that she had an affair with Taylor Bedford, hard though it was to believe. She might have had a split personality but they still needed some way to communicate.

  He did a check of AT&T, Sprint, Verizon, and T-Mobile—the big carriers in the San Francisco area—and sure enough, a cell phone record for her showed up with AT&T.

  Call after call went to one number only—Taylor Bedford’s cell phone. Long calls were made in the evening, and just a few short ones on weekends. The pattern of calls confirmed the story the bartender at Harrigan’s told Yosh. Taylor Bedford and Gaia Wyndom were having an affair.

  He looked over Bedford’s cell service and discovered he had two cell phones, along with a family landline. One was for calls related to his business and his wife; the second was exclusively for Gaia.

  From what he and Yosh had learned about the two victims, it was hard to imagine them together. But then Otto Link had also made suggestive comments about Bedford. Maybe he was the Casanova of the tool and die trade.

  Paavo called Larina Bedford into Homicide. She had acted so poised and self-assured at her home, he wanted her in a less comfortable environment.

  Homicide’s administrative assistant escorted her to the interview room. Paavo allowed her to sit alone in it for nearly ten minutes before joining her. The windowless room, with cameras in the ceiling, one gray metal table and four cold, hard metal chairs was intimidating. It often made people so nervous they couldn’t hide their lies.

  While Yosh observed from outside the room, Paavo entered it.

  “Do you have news, Inspector?” Larina said without even a preliminary “hello.” She appeared to be anything but intimidated.

  “Something new has turned up.” He sat across from her and opened a folder, taking out Gaia Wyndom’s photo. “Do you know this woman?”

  Larina looked at it a long m
oment. “I do not.”

  “She also worked at Zygog, and also died suspiciously just days after your husband. Does that help your memory any?”

  “There’s no reason why it should,” Larina looked him steadily in the eye. “I did read in the newspaper about a death at Zygog, but that was a suicide, as I recall.”

  “Her name was Gaia Wyndom. She made a number of phone calls to your husband.”

  Larina folded her hands, resting them on the table. “They apparently worked together. Taylor spent weeks at a time out of the office. How else was she supposed to reach him? Carrier pigeon?”

  “The calls were off hours, to a cell phone different from the one he used for everyone else. You, included.”

  “My husband worked twenty-four-seven, Inspector. He had no ‘off hours.’ If he called and wanted something, he would expect a reply anytime of the day or night. If they had a special way to contact each other, I’m sure they had a business reason for it.”

  “I spoke with many of Mr. Bedford’s customers, and they said he never took them out to dinner or anywhere else.”

  Larina’s face flushed red. “They’re lying. They don’t want anyone to know what he gave them! If they admitted to receiving gifts, they’re afraid the IRS will tax them. Instead, they deny, deny, deny.”

  “The clerk at your husband’s favorite motel in Healdsburg said Mr. Bedford would check into the motel, but rarely sleep there.”

  She grimaced. “A motel clerk gives you your information? For all you know, Taylor didn’t tip him or the housekeepers and they decided to make trouble. I don’t know or care. Now, it appears to me you’ve wasted my time by asking about some dead person at Zygog. Was she killed in the same manner as my husband?”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “Do you have any proof that my husband cheated on me?” she asked stiffly.

  “Do you?”

  She stood. “This interview is over, Inspector. If you want to speak to me again, call my lawyer.”