Too Many Cooks Page 9

  “Why not?”

  “It could be dangerous. You don’t know who might be involved.”

  “None of the restaurant owners had anything to do with Karl’s death. I know those people. Some might be jealous, vindictive, and even petty, but they’re not murderers.”

  “Someone is, Angie.”

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything dangerous. It’s just that I knew Karl Wielund. I did a review of his restaurant. And you and I ate there together. I’ll always remember it for that reason.” God, how could the man argue with her after a mushy statement like that? “Anyway, the last thing I want to do is get involved with a murderer. I learned my lesson already. All I’m talking about is a few phone calls.”

  “Angelina—no!”

  She smiled, then crossed her fingers behind her back as she walked with him to the door. “Whatever you say, Paavo.”

  “Thank you for coming by to talk with us. We really appreciate it,” Yoshiwara said, as he and Paavo led Mark Dustman into the small interviewing room across the hall from the Homicide Section.

  “I’ll do anything I can to help. I was surprised to hear from you, though, I’ll admit,” Dustman said with a nervous quiver.

  The three sat around a metal table. Paavo looked squarely at Dustman. “Karl Wielund’s death wasn’t an accident. He was poisoned.”

  Dustman’s face turned chalky. “Poisoned? You mean someone…purposefully…”

  “Yes.”

  “How? Where?” He pressed his hands to his face, covering his mouth, his green eyes wide and filled with horror. “Oh, God! I can’t believe it.”

  “You said many people were jealous of his success,” Paavo said.

  “But not enough to kill him!” He gave a shuddering sigh, his voice hoarse. “Are you sure? I thought he’d been in an auto accident, that his neck had been broken, the car demolished after flipping over into a deep ravine. That was horrible enough—but this!”

  “There was an autopsy.”

  Dustman looked more closely at Paavo, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I saw you at the memorial service, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “So there was already some suspicion?”

  Paavo studied Dustman, every nuance of expression, every gesture. “Not by me.”

  Dustman rubbed his forehead. “You were with Angie Amalfi, weren’t you? She must have said something…or one of the others.” He lifted his chin. “Well, good! That means it isn’t only me who suspects something. They know someone wanted Karl dead.” His eyes darted from Paavo to Yosh. “That must be what I felt. That must be why I knew, in my heart, there was more to this than a harmless trip to the mountains. Karl was killed by some bastard! Some jealous, rotten son of a bitch! Damn it to hell!” His eyes filled with tears.

  Yosh touched Dustman’s arm. “Take it easy, Mr. Dustman. We’ll do all we can to find whoever did this.”

  Dustman squeezed his eyes shut, nodded, and hung his head. “Thank you.”

  Paavo spoke. “We need to ask a few questions of everyone we talk to in this case.”

  “Of course,” Dustman murmured, trying to compose himself.

  “Where were you on Monday, January seventh?”

  “On Monday? I went to work at Wielund’s as usual.”

  “Time?”

  “Around noon. Oh, I didn’t go straight to the kitchen. Karl’s assistant, Eileen Powell, was in Paris, so I shut myself in her office to place some orders, pay bills, that sort of thing.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “All the kitchen help.”

  “What was Eileen Powell doing in Paris?”

  “Restaurant hopping: seeing what was popular, what’s new, who’s in trouble, who’s not. In short, looking for ideas for Wielund’s.”

  “What’s happening to Wielund’s now?”

  “We’ve had to close the doors. Karl’s brothers in Germany won’t release money to run it. Eileen made them release enough money to pay the staff two weeks’ severance, and that’s it.”

  “How long did you know Karl?” Yosh asked.

  “About two years. We met in Paris, at L’Ecole Cuisine, a culinary institute.”

  “So he knew the business from the inside of the pot, so to speak,” Yosh said.

  “He did. He was always in the kitchen, working on new recipes, improving old ones.”

  “But you’re the chef. Didn’t you care that he was in your domain?”

  “I was always a student in Karl’s eyes. He was, as you’d say in Japanese, the sensei. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes. The master, or master chef. I understand.” Yosh glanced at his partner.

  “Do you know Lacy LaTour?” Paavo asked.

  “Mrs. LaTour? A little. Just to say hello.”

  “Do you know if she and Mr. Wielund were close friends?”

  “Close? No. I always thought they didn’t even like each other.”

  “Tell me,” Yosh asked, “how did you get into Wielund’s house before you reported him missing?”

  Dustman’s head snapped back toward Yoshiwara. His voice was growing more shrill with each reply. “I didn’t think anyone would care. I just used the spare key in the Hide-A-Key stuck underneath the mailbox.”

  “How did you know it was there?”

  “I stayed at Karl’s house a few days when I first came to the city. We were very close, like brothers, or father and son.” His eyes turned red and watery. “I loved the man! Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “Did you ever go back into Wielund’s house after that first visit while he was missing?” Paavo asked.

  Dustman shook his head. “No. I had no reason to.”

  “What was the condition of the house when you saw it?”

  “The condition? Neat, of course. Karl was fanatical about his house. I’m sure it was exactly the way he left it.”

  Angie put on her headphones and gave a thumbs up to Henry as “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” played to open the show. She promised herself she’d do her job well today. She’d concentrate, not answer any questions, and be everything Henry could ever hope for in an assistant.

  A call was coming in. She sat up straight in her chair and pushed the open-line button. “Welcome to Lunch with Henri. This is Angie. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Angie. I’d like to talk to Chef Henri. I love listening to him.”

  Is this person for real? “Great! What’s your name and where are you calling from?”

  “I’m Dinah, from St. Helena.”

  “Okay, Dinah. What’s your question?”

  “I’m preparing a small but very formal, elegant dinner, and I want to cook something really special. Any advice?”

  Yes, don’t ask Henry. She bit her tongue. “That’s a great question. Chef Henri will have lots of fantastic ideas for you. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She sat through the commercial but received no more calls. When Henry saw that only one call was waiting for him to answer, he gave his phone number again. Angie waited, so did he. Finally, he took the call.

  After introducing himself, he made small talk with Dinah and asked her about St. Helena. Her answer took about three seconds. Exasperated, he listened to her question.

  Still, no one else called.

  “Well,” he said, stalling, “something special but elegant for four people…. Ah, why not Filet of Lamb in Puff Pastry served with Gratin Dauphinois?”

  No calls came in. Angie grew panicky. Should she pretend to be a caller herself?

  “That sounds absolutely delicious, Chef Henri. Thank you so much for taking my call.” Dinah was clearly ready to hang up.

  Henry glanced at the empty call-waiting queue. “I know a wonderful recipe for the lamb filet,” he said hurriedly.

  Angie was horror-struck. That man didn’t know a lamb chop from mutton stew. Whatever was he thinking of? She grabbed for his cookbook, Luscious Licks, and began wildly thumbing through the index.

 
“You do?” Dinah asked.

  “Grab a pencil and paper and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Angie’s heart sank as she dropped Henry’s cookbook—quietly. Nothing even close to the elegant recipe was in it. She reached for Mastering the Art of French Cooking. STALL! She wrote the word in huge letters and held it up so Henry could see it.

  He winked at her. She gawked.

  “You start by cutting the filet from a three-pound rack of lamb. Or, better yet, have your butcher cut it!” Henry laughed.

  “Good idea,” Dinah said.

  “Chop two shallots, six ounces mushrooms, and eight slivered pine nuts, then cook in butter and lemon juice until the liquid evaporates. Then stone ten kalamata olives…”

  Angie looked up from the cookbook. What did Henry know about kalamata olives? He only knew Spanish olives in a martini. Kalamatas were Greek to him!

  “…and blend with a teaspoon of anchovy paste and a half teaspoon of rosemary. Add six ounces of olive oil, drop by drop. Don’t hurry it.”

  “All right.”

  As she listened, Angie’s jaw slackened.

  “Lightly fry the meat to seal it, place it on a rolled-out piece of puff pastry of the same size, then spread it with the mushroom and anchovy mixtures. Roll the pastry to encase everything, press the edges together, brush with egg, and cook at four hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit for ten minutes, then lower the heat to three hundred and fifty and bake another twenty-five or thirty minutes. That should do it.”

  Angie couldn’t have been more surprised had Henry turned green and sprouted antennas. How could he possibly know a recipe like that? What was going on? She couldn’t have misjudged him these past weeks, could she?

  When her phone monitor began to blink because another call had come in, it took her a long time even to notice it.

  9

  “I give up.” Yosh tossed Karl Wielund’s porn photos in Paavo’s little-used briefcase onto the back-seat of the tan Chevy, then got into the passenger seat. “For all we know, we’ve already been to the place these films and shots were made, but everyone denied ever seeing any of them, and we have no way to prove otherwise.”

  The car was parked in front of Wielund’s, Paavo behind the wheel. As he drove toward the Hall of Justice, his frustration built over the pitiful lack of evidence and clues they had so far. Dirty pictures, a poisoned restaurateur, and, on top of that, Greuber’s wife said the landlord hadn’t come home after going off to meet the detectives at Wielund’s house. They’d issued a bulletin for him, but so far had heard nothing.

  Wielund’s car hadn’t been tampered with and was lousy with fingerprints, as was his house. For a loner, this guy had a lot of people in his life.

  Paavo and Yosh had interviewed Eileen Powell and, as Dustman said, she had been in Paris at the time of the murder, talking to restaurant owners and chefs—with the receipts to prove it. She, like Dustman, had no idea who would want to kill Wielund.

  Waiters, waitresses, and kitchen help at Wielund’s corroborated that Dustman went in to the restaurant the day Karl was killed, then went off to handle Eileen Powell’s work.

  Neighbors had seen nothing strange about Wielund. Relatives were interviewed with the help of translators and expressed shock at Wielund’s death. He’d given no indication of any problems to any of them. Shop owners up and down Grant Avenue were questioned about anyone or anything near the restaurant that seemed odd to them. Another big zero.

  That’s why Paavo and Yosh had turned to the photos and films. At least they were something to put their hands on.

  “What if the pictures weren’t even shot in San Francisco?” Yosh continued. “What if they’re from New York or LA or even Podunk?”

  Paavo stopped at a red light and rubbed his shoulder. It had begun to throb again. “The films look too professional to have been taken in someone’s house, but studios that do this kind of thing don’t necessarily register with the Chamber of Commerce. Still, we might be just wasting time.”

  Yosh began to chuckle.

  Paavo frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just remembering the expressions on the faces of Wielund’s staff and the restaurant owners when you whipped out those pictures and asked if they knew any of those men or women or ever saw Wielund with any of them.”

  Paavo shook his head. “They were something.”

  Laughter bubbled up in Yoshiwara. “Vladimir Polotski looked like he didn’t want to give the pictures back, Mark Dustman didn’t want to touch them, and Dupries scarcely gave them a glance—not very French of him.”

  Paavo nodded.

  Yosh laughed harder. “I almost lost it when Henry LaTour stopped to put his reading glasses on to see better—‘as a public service’ he said. Considering the pictures, maybe he meant to say ‘a pubic service’?”

  “Ohhhh,” Paavo groaned; then despite himself, he too was laughing.

  Their laughter stopped abruptly, when a call came over the car radio. They found the patrolman who called in the report leaning against his black-and-white, his complexion the same color as Hank Greuber’s green Buick, nearby. The car had been parked along the tree-lined drive through Lincoln Park, near the Palace of the Legion of Honor. Although tourists visited the beautiful museum by day, at night it stood secluded and empty. Not until Patrolman Crossen noticed the car had been parked there for over twenty-four hours did he slow down to investigate. He hadn’t yet read Homicide’s bulletin.

  An oddly shaped white object sticking against the windshield had intrigued him enough to get out of his car. Only as he got closer did he see it was hair—human hair. The rest of the man’s body was sprawled across the front seat, the back of his head gone.

  “So now we know why no one saw Greuber after he left Wielund’s house yesterday,” Yosh said.

  “Damn!” Paavo wanted to shake the old man awake again. He could only figure that someone must have been hiding inside Wielund’s house when they arrived. Then, when Greuber got spooked and ran outside, the person must have grabbed him to make a fast getaway. He might have been in the back seat of Greuber’s car, inches away from Paavo as he tried to stop it. “We shouldn’t have let Greuber out of our sight. This never should have happened.”

  “You nearly lost your arm trying to stop him.”

  “But he lost his life.”

  “I’m glad you called, Angelina.” Chick Marcuccio’s gaze was subdued yet wistful as he looked at Angie from across the table at Italian Seasons.

  “It’s been a long time, padrino,” she said. “I’d forgotten how long until I saw you at Wielund’s Sunday night. Our families ought to get together sometime, like we used to years ago.”

  “The families are so big, spread out. It’s not like the old days, Angie. Ever since Teresa got married.” He sighed. “But my Joey’s still single. He’s always had his eye on you, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told. But Joey’s like a brother. I couldn’t go out with him.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll look at him with different eyes and see his true worth.”

  I should live so long, she thought, but didn’t say it. “Maybe.”

  “In the old days, me and Salvatore would have made sure you and Joey fell in love. Today, though, things are different. Kids don’t listen to their parents anymore. Nobody listens.” He glumly poured more wine in his glass. “And people get killed for no good reason whatsoever.”

  She was ready to object to his saying that he and her father would have “made sure” she and Joey fell in love, but she saw the change that came over him as he spoke his last words. As he picked at the taglierini on his dinner plate, his face took on a worried cast. “What is it?” she asked.

  He started, then glanced at her. “Niente.”

  “You were thinking about Karl, weren’t you?”

  “Does that boyfriend of yours, the cop, have any idea who killed him?”

  “Not yet. Not that I’ve heard, anyway. He doesn’t tell me much about his cases.
”

  “What about your boss?”

  “Henry? He doesn’t know anything about Karl’s murder.”

  “I didn’t think he knew anything about cooking, either, but that was some hell of a recipe he gave for lamb in a pastry shell today.”

  “You listen to Lunch with Henri?” Angie could scarcely believe it.

  “Every chance I get. It’s the best comedy around.”

  Angie frowned. “Not since I’ve been working there, I hope.”

  “No. I have to say you’re doing a good job keeping him honest. Was the lamb your recipe?”

  “I wish it was. It surprised me as much as it did most of his listeners, I’m sure.”

  “Hmm.” Chick stared at the zucchini on his fork, as though surprised to find it there, and put the fork down with a preoccupied impatience. He’d always been an energetic, busy man, his mind working through a dozen different projects at once. “I expect it did.”

  “He knows a little about cooking, of course. But he’s not great in anything, not like Karl.”

  Chick sat back in his chair and took a sip of his pinot noir. “No. Karl was…uno maestro. A perfectionist. Everything he touched turned to gold, in the bank or on the tongue.”

  Angie finished the last of her manicotti. “Delizioso. You’re uno maestro as well, padrino.”

  “Not me. That’s the cook. I’m too old for all this. But Wielund, he still worked on his recipes.”

  “It sounds like you knew him pretty well.”

  “Not that good. He was a strange one. Nona Farraday worked on a story about him for Haute Cuisine magazine. My friend Janet, you remember, is food editor. Do you know Nona?”

  “Do I? I know her too well. She’s been trying to one-up me ever since high school. I swear she became a food critic just because I became one. Then she ends up with Haute Cuisine and I end up on a newspaper that goes belly up. I could spit!”

  Chick gave her a bemused smile, but she didn’t care. She felt too strongly about some things to pussyfoot around.

  Chick cleared his throat. “She said Karl spent many days on one recipe, early morning and late at night, whenever he was home and alone. He wouldn’t let anyone know about it or even try it out until he was sure it was right. He was an absolute perfectionist that way. Nona thought he was mad.” He leaned back and pushed the plate aside.