Cooking Most Deadly (16 page)

“I'm sorry, Mandy,”
Angie said. “I didn't think you'd be so busy at seven-thirty at night.”

Mandy Dunleavy, one of Angie's best friends in high school, dropped into the rocking chair. “If I don't get the kids down early, I don't have any time to myself.”

“Time for you and Collin, right?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Do you expect him home soon?”

“Like I'm supposed to know? I'm just his wife. Why would he tell me? I cook, clean, keep the house. Does Collin care? Does he help?”

Angie tried not to show her surprise. Mandy and Collin were inseparable in high school and married shortly afterward. Angie and had always thought of them as the perfect couple.

“I'm sorry.” Mandy sat wearily. “I don't know what got into me. What was it you wanted me to help you with?”

“Well…” Angie cleared her throat, suddenly having her doubts as to whether this was the right time to ask her questions.

“Yes?”

“You and Collin were always so much alike. You had so much in common. It made me wonder if that's a key to a happy marriage?”

Mandy gave a hollow laugh. “Me and Collin?”

“Yes.”

“We were alike, weren't we? We shared everything once.”

“Exactly. Isn't that important?”

“I don't know, Angie. For the last few years, we've seemed to grow more and more apart. Without shared interests, there isn't much else between us.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize.”

“Oh well, we might work it out. Who knows? There are times that marriage is really good—even mine and Collin's.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel, ticking the minutes by. “But there are other times, Angie, when the kids are in bed, and the house is quiet, and you watch the clock and wonder where your husband is, and who he might be with…”

Mandy's gaze grew flat, haunted. “Times like that, marriage is the loneliest experience you've ever had in your whole life.”

Angie sat at a table by
the window of The Wings Of An Angel, reading her script for the TV show she would audition for the next day. Thank goodness they'd finally called her. After all, she might have had other irons in the fire if they'd waited much longer—something a whole lot better than a show on a predominantly Farsi station, too. On the other hand, considering the butterflies in her stomach with this audition, if it were any bigger, they'd have to carry her out to the TV cameras on a stretcher.

“I was hoping I'd find you here again.”

A shadow fell across her script, and she looked up to see Carter standing in front of her. “Oh, it's you,” she said. Earl's warning rang in her ear.

“It's good to see you again, Angie.” He slid his hands in his back pockets. “You make this restaurant special.”

Earl ran up to Carter. “You back? You gonna stick around dis time and eat?”

“I intend to.”

“We don't like guys who order food den skip out on us. Dat's a warnin', bud. You can sit over dere.”

“Oh…well…” He looked expectantly from Angie to
the empty chair at her table and back, but when no invitation was forthcoming, he went with Earl to the next table.

Two other tables had customers—two women at one and a man at the other. Angie was glad to see that a few other people had begun to discover the restaurant. She had brought in some lace curtains she no longer used and helped Earl hang them this morning. They added a nice touch. She also gave him a brochure from a restaurant supply house for some white tablecloths and napkins, and suggested old-fashioned wooden chairs to replace the aluminum ones. The fifties decor just didn't do it for her.

Earl took Carter's order, then stopped at Angie's table on his way to the kitchen. “I forgot to ask, how's your friend doin', Miss Angie? Da one who got stabbed.”

“Much better. Thanks, Earl.”

“He know who stabbed him?”

“I don't think he ever saw the man.”

“Yeah? Dat's too bad. You call da police about it?”

“Of course!”

“Yeah, I shoulda figgered dat. Dey know anyt'in' about it?”

“Not yet. Actually, my boyfriend's got the case. He's a homicide inspector. We went to see Stan in the hospital last night, but he wasn't able to answer any of Paavo's questions yet.”

“I didn't know your boyfriend was a cop. A cop and a Fed. Man, you two must have to follow laws about kissin'.”

“Not quite,” Angie said with a laugh.

“So, what's Homicide doin' wit' a stabbin'?”

“It's similar to a couple of other big cases he's got.”

“Busy guy, huh? Guess you don't see him much.”

“Not only that, he's got a third case, too. One where someone's been going around the city stealing fake Fabergé eggs. In one robbery, a clerk was killed. You better warn the jeweler next door. He's got one of those eggs in his window.”

“Man, someone got killed 'cause of some kinda egg?
What's dis world comin' to? I gotta tell Butch. He's got a dozen of them.”

“Wait,” she called him back. “It's an art piece shaped like an egg. Some of them open up and there are delicate porcelain figures or jewels inside.”

“Yeah? People buy dose t'ings?”

“They certainly do. A friend of mine works in a shop that sells them. I was thinking that she and I should make a prominent display of a bunch of them, then hide in the back room, and when someone tried to steal them, we'd call Paavo to make the arrest.”

“Sounds kinda dangerous, Miss Angie, for a coupla gals.”

“Not if you join us, Earl,” she said, teasing him. His expression, though, remained serious.

“I don't t'ink so. But I'll ask Vinnie. He's got da brains in da gang—I mean, group.”

A pager went off. The man sitting alone took it off his belt, looked at it, then stood to pay his bill and leave.

“I was joking, Earl,” Angie said as she watched the man with the pager. “But actually, that's what we need—a silent pager. We need to put bugs inside a bunch of those eggs. Then, when the thief strikes, we could get it to beep silently and follow him to his hiding place. We'd catch him.”

“Dat's a good idea. Maybe you oughta be a crook.”

“Only problem is where to get such a device.”

“Excuse me,” Carter called, sliding his chair a bit closer to Angie. “I couldn't help but hear a bit of your conversation. I'm a licensed electrician, and I know some people who've been developing a prototype of a device very similar to what you're talking about.”

Angie didn't like eavesdroppers, even if they might be helpful ones. It seemed a little too convenient, and this guy a little too pushy, to suit her. “That's all right. We're just doing a little speculating here.”

“It's a very sound idea, you know.”

Sound? What was he? A punster?

“I can see your skepticism,” he said hurriedly. “But I really do know what I'm talking about, and I can access a lot of items not generally available. Take this.” He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small plastic case, and opened it. Inside was a tiny metal chip that looked like a wristwatch battery. “It doesn't look like much, but with it, I can break into very sophisticated voice mail and fax systems—and can make copies of every message or fax being sent to the number I'm tapped into.”

“You can?” Angie studied the chip, unsure if she ought to believe him or not. But why would he lie about such a thing?

“Internet accounts, e-mails, home answering machines—they're easiest, in fact.”

“Dere's always guys wit' big ideas, Miss Angie. You can't trust 'em.”

Carter ignored Earl and kept right on talking. “There's another device that works like a reverse paging system. I install them in luxury cars all the time. They can also be used in dogs, cats…kids, although we don't do any of that yet. Suppose your car is stolen, or your child is kidnapped. You follow the beep, which is silent since you don't want to alert the thief or kidnapper, and it'll lead you to it.”

Angie thought she might have heard about something like he was describing. “That's impressive,” she said.

“My friends are working on a microchip that does the same thing. The chips should go for about a hundred dollars a pop.”

“That's all?”

“The biggest part of the cost with cars is the installation—you don't want anything a thief can see and remove. Also, the ones for cars are a lot more powerful than the one I'm talking about for you. They're good for hundreds of miles. These microchips, on the other hand, have a radius of about ten miles. From the place where stolen to a fence who'll pay cash for them inside the city.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, until da car t'iefs and dose udders figger out howta break da signal.”

“But in the meantime, Earl,” Angie said, her mind racing with possibilities, “I wouldn't mind learning a little more about them.”

“By the way, waiter,” Carter said, moving to Angie's table, “I'd like another glass of wine.”

 

“Dat guy's gotta go,” Earl muttered, pouring some house wine into a glass.

“What guy's that?” Butch asked, checking on the Italian sausage he was now offering with omelets, polenta, or in a sandwich.

“Da one always hangin' around Angie. He's back.”

“I think
you
wanna be the only one hangin' around her,” Butch said. “She even has you puttin' up curtains like some little househusband. You two was really cute this mornin'.” He snorted with laughter.

“Where's Vinnie? He downstairs?”

“Naw. Now she's got him buyin' chairs an' tablecloths. He's afraid she'll get suspicious if he don't. He don't want no suspicious Feds now that we're so close.”

“We're close, huh?” Earl asked, turning a hangdog gaze on Butch.

“Yeah.” Butch kept his head bowed, not wanting to look at his partner. He checked on his sausages. Angie had taught him to fry them in water instead of oil to make them less greasy. They were browning nicely. “It'll be nice to not have so much work to do alla time. Just sit around and count our money.”

“Yeah. I'm really lookin' forward to it.” Earl pushed the swinging door open a little way and eyed Angie talking with Carter. “You, too, Butch?”

“Sure. Me, too. Why not? You don't think I care about this place, do you?”

“Heck no, Butch. Me neither.”

 

“I don't think this is something you should get involved in, Angie.” Connie Rogers's worried frown annoyed Angie. Her plan was perfectly safe.

“I'm not getting involved. It's a test, that's all.” She moved the miniature glass swan to the back of the display counter and the turtle to the front. Swans were out this season. “He's an electrician. He knows about such things. Tomorrow, I'm meeting him at the restaurant and buying one from him.”

“But what if it doesn't work?”

“Then I'm out a hundred dollars and feeling duped. It won't be the first time,” she answered. “Anyway, I bought the egg. It's mine to do with as I wish, right? And I wish to leave it in your shop. As soon as I get the device, I'll put it in my egg. Then, you take it to your apartment when you leave the shop at night, and I'll try to track it from my place. Since I don't know where you live, it'll be a great test. Then, if it works, I'll tell Paavo. The police can bug about five or ten eggs in the city, take all the others out of the stores, and when the thief strikes, they'll follow the beeper and catch him. It's so simple a child could do it!”

“If it's so easy, why don't the police use this pager-thing already?”

“Paavo says local police forces never have state-of-the-art equipment.”

Connie looked dubious. “I don't like it.”

“Look at it this way. If Paavo doesn't have to think about this case, he'll spend more time trying to find Tiffany's killer.”

“But I thought Tiffany's case already had his full attention.”

“It has, but you know him. He's got all the Easter Egg Murder information stored in his head. Whenever he hears anything about the case, he gets involved all over again. What will it hurt to try? My last idea turned out well, didn't it? Have confidence!”

“Why? You've got enough for both of us,” Connie said, and then gave a sigh of resignation.

“Quiet on the set!
Take
eleven?
I mean, take eleven!”
SNAP!

Angie took a deep breath. Looking straight at the camera she tried her best, under sweltering lights that hung within inches of her face, to smile instead of cry. What she wanted more than anything was to wipe away the perspiration dripping from her forehead. But that would smear her quarter-inch-thick TV makeup. Considering that the makeup artist's idea of female beauty was a face that resembled a Barbie doll, that might not have been a bad idea.

The director, cameraman, and assistant—the only ones there besides her—were hidden in the darkness, while she stood in a two-by-four-foot area with a sink, range, and butcher block counter, wearing a once-gorgeous Oscar de la Renta blue dress with the sort of understated simplicity she'd thought would look elegant on TV.

It did, before she began to drip with perspiration and flour. Behind her, cardboard had been painted to look like kitchen cabinets and a window overlooking a giant sunflower-filled garden, reminiscent of the road to Oz. Maybe that's where she was, come to think of it.

“I've put two cups of flour and two cups of mashed potatoes into this bowl,” she said, smiling broadly as she tilted the bowl toward the camera. Her head bobbed up and down so that she could look at the camera and not drop the bowl—as she had back in the fifth take.

“Now it's a matter of mixing the two together so that they form a sticky pasta dough for your
gnocchi
. Remember, even though it's spelled to look like ‘ga-no-chee,' it's pronounced ‘nyohk-key'.” She smiled again.

“Watch those smiles! Television is serious business,” growled the director, who clearly fancied himself the Ingmar Bergman of cooking shows. He'd already interrupted her during take four to explain that this was a cooking lesson, not a lecture on Italian pronunciation or an advertisement for cosmetic dentistry. Takes one, two, and three hadn't made it to the insults stage. But after that, things had gone from bad to worse.

Stiffening her shoulders, she put the bowl with three cups of flour, one large potato, mashed, and one and a half cups of water under the mixer, hit the On button for the heavy tongs to whir, and jumped back out of the way. At take six the director had upset her so much that she failed to add the water, so when she turned on the mixer dry flour shot all over the studio, burying her and the set in a cloud of white powder. She still had some in her hair. So much for her $175 styling job. Instead of sexy blond highlights, she had aging white globules.

The next take had ended because they hadn't gotten all the flour off the camera—or the cameraman—and it looked like she was cooking in the middle of a snowstorm. A sneeze ended take eight. The film ran out on take nine. And an attack of giggles from the director's assistant ruined take ten.

But now the mixer whirred nicely. When the dough looked to be the right consistency, she stopped the blades, grabbed a dollop of the mixture, pulled and tugged at it, and then broke off a tiny piece and tasted it.

“Fine. Now we're ready—”

“WHAT do you think you're doing?”

“Testing it.”

“You're not supposed to play with the product with your fingers!” The director stormed into the lights to face her, waving his hands in the air. “And we certainly don't advocate eating raw dough on our program.
Tell
the people what it's supposed to look like, Miss Amalfi, so that they can see for themselves if it's ready.”

“But…you can't tell by just looking.”

He got down on one knee. “Pretend, Miss Amalfi. This is television, after all.”

She wasn't in the least amused by this man's histrionics. “Fine,” she said.

He got up and went back to his chair. “Let's start from this spot.”

In the dark, someone snickered.

“Three, two, one. Take twelve.”
SNAP!

“See how the flour and potato have combined to form a dough. Once that's done, it's time for you to make the gnocchi. Here's a simple way to do it. Take about a half cup of dough.” She grabbed a small handful of it. “Then roll it into a long tube, about a half inch around. After that's done, lay the tube down on a cutting board and cut it into two-inch-long pieces. See these cute little tubes? That's the way you need to make them. Then, you take that lovely cut glass bowl that's been sitting in your dining room, probably doing nothing but gathering dust, and you carefully turn it upside down—”

“Stop! Right there! Hold everything!”

The director marched over and planted himself in front of her, his arms crossed over his chest.

She gave him a cold stare. “Yes?”

“You think this is some kind of joke, don't you?”

“Not at all.”

“You think that because you don't like the name
Angelina in the Cucina
that you can come here and make a laughingstock out of this show!”

“What did I do?”

“If you tell people to take that damn bowl and put it on their heads, you're out of here, lady. Do you understand?”

“All I'm doing,” she explained calmly, “is trying to show my audience the best way to make the gnocchi.” She turned the bowl upside down. “You take one little tube of rolled dough,” she said, demonstrating as she spoke, “and put three fingers along the tube, then press down in the center and r-o-l-l it along the cut glass. This way, you get a hole in the center of the tube, and indentations from the cut glass make a pretty pattern. You can also roll it along a cheese grater, but that's tacky for television.”

“I'm not going to have you stand here and tell people to poke their fingers into pasta and roll it on the outside of bowls! Television is art, Miss Amalfi. Not play school!”

“But if you don't form the
gnocchi
properly, the center will be doughy and heavy and taste horrible!”

“Do it some other way!” he bellowed.

Angie got down off the phony kitchen platform. “I'll do it right, or not at all. After all, I know what I'm doing, which is more than I can say for you!”

“How dare you! You…you
ptomaine pusher!
”

“I'll bet Yan Can Cook never had this kind of trouble.” She picked up her bowl, gave a harrumph, and marched out of the studio.

 

He sat on a stool in the basement telephone closet just off the garage of Angelina's apartment building and studied the phone lines and cabling. If only I could show you, Angelina—my Angelina—how truly brilliant I am, you'd be even more impressed with me, he thought. The lines were marked to the different apartments, but to be certain, he used the cellular phone he'd lifted from an unlocked Lincoln Town Car in the garage. The phone book showed an A. Amalfi. He dialed the number.

“Hi. This is Angie. I can't answer your call…”

Smiling, he attached her phone wire to a large metal box and turned up the volume control to listen to the rest
of her message. The very sound of her voice was enough to make him hard with wanting her. Sitting with her at lunch had been an exquisite torment.

Her answering machine beeped, waiting for his message. When none came, it waited patiently for a few seconds, then not so patiently shut itself off.

But not completely. His phone trap blinked knowingly at him, telling him it was on and working. Listening, invading her apartment. Her privacy. Her.

 

“It was horrible, absolutely horrible.” Angie stood in front of Paavo's desk and burst into tears.

He jumped to his feet. He'd rather face a murder suspect any day than Angie crying. “What is it?”

“Oh, God. They were so mean, so…so
evil!
” Her sobs grew louder. “He even called me a ptomaine pusher!”

The other detectives were watching. Even without looking their way, Paavo could feel their grins, their knowing glances at each other, their curiosity as to what Angie was involved with now.

He hustled her into an interview room, grabbing a handful of Kleenex from Inspector Mayfield's desk as he went by.

“Here.” He handed Angie the tissues and shut the door. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Angie wiped her eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to carry on like this, but I tried so hard. I wanted everything to be so perfect. I even cut my fingernails for the
gnocchi
, and now…”

He pulled one of the chairs out from the metal table and helped Angie sit. “Does this have anything to do with your audition this morning?” he asked, standing before her.

She nodded.

“It didn't go well, I take it.”

She shook her head, wiping the tears that had started once more.

“Wasn't this your first audition, Miss Amalfi?” he said, keeping his expression serious, his tone professional.

She glanced at him. “Yes.”

“Do you know how many times even the biggest TV stars had to audition before they got a show?”

“No.”

“Well,” his voice grew soft and gentle, “I have it on good authority that Leno went through dozens of auditions, and no one would touch Letterman for years. Julia Child wore out an oven before anyone would pick up her show.”

She gave a half smile. “You're just saying that.”

“Would I lie?” He sat in the chair beside her. “Nobody expected you to be perfect the very first time you tried it.”

She used more Kleenex. “I did.”

“I know.” He covered her hand with his. “Did they tell you specific things they didn't like?”

“Just about everything.”

“But some things more than others.”

She had to think about this. “I guess so.”

“Good. That's a place to start. Think about what they didn't like, what you can do to change or improve what you did, and then get out there and try again.”

She dropped her gaze. “I couldn't do that. I feel like such a fool.”

He lifted her chin and looked into her teary brown eyes, trying to gauge the extent of her disappointment. “You're no fool, Angie. You're clever and beautiful. If you want it enough, you'll probably be on TV some day, and then there'll be no stopping you. You can be anything you want.”

Her arms circled his neck, and she pressed her cheek to his. “I wish I believed in myself half as much as you believe in me, Paavo.” Then she raised her head again and sighed. “I know I try to talk big, but sometimes I feel like such a fraud.”

He stroked her back. “You're no fraud, Angie. Not at all. The only problem you have is being impatient. Have patience, and believe me, you're going to do just fine.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

She hugged him a long while, her eyes teary for another reason now. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably quite well.”

“Never!”

He stood and helped her to her feet, then glanced at his watch. “Why don't we get out of here and have some lunch? I think a nice dessert in particular will make the world a much brighter place for you.”

“Lunch? Oh…I…I can't. It's Lent.”

“Forget the dessert, then.”

“Well, I'd like to, but I'm…busy.”

“Oh?” He frowned. “Something important?”

“No. I mean, yes. My…my mother. I promised Serefina I'd meet her. I'd better get going.”

“I see.”

“Maybe dinner?” she suggested.

He hesitated. He knew he could get away for a while now, but by tonight, he wasn't sure. “I'll know better later. I'll call.”

“Hmm. Maybe you'll get some help in one of these cases soon,” she said with a sudden cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile.

“It would certainly help.” Especially help us, he wanted to add.

“See you tonight.” She gave him a kiss that scorched, then slipped from his arms, left the interview room, and headed out the door, waving a cheerful good-bye to the men in the office. He knew he was going to be in for a lot of ribbing about this little visit.