Cooking Most Deadly (21 page)

Vinnie, standing tall in his
black suit, greeted Angie and Paavo at the entrance to The Wings Of An Angel. “We saved a table for you an' the Inspector, Miss Angie.”

The restaurant was filled to capacity. Three more tables had been added, and two couples sat by the entry waiting for the next available place.

Vinnie seated them, then hurried back to his station at the front door and the cash register.

“I can't believe this,” Angie said, marveling at the crowd.

Earl walked up. “'Ey, Inspector, you made it. Awright!” He handed them each a menu. “Dey jus' came in today, Miss Angie.”

On heavy, slick white paper, in gold foil lettering were the words: THE WINGS OF AN ANGEL. Below, Butch's specialties.

Angie jumped from her chair and kissed him on the cheek. “It's beautiful, Earl. Congratulations to all of you.”

A blush started at the neck of Earl's white shirt and quickly traveled up his face to his shellacked hair. “T'anks, Miss Angie. You helped a lot, too.”

She laughed as she sat down again. “How's the spaghetti and meatballs today?”

“Same as ever.”

“All these people obviously think they're terrific,” she said. “Of course, my article in
Haute Cuisine
praised this restaurant to the hilt, and—I know it's not very modest of me—but I'd say the recommendation of Angelina Amalfi carries some weight in this town.” Facing Paavo, she beamed. “This is such a
find
for me.”

“An' da food's okay, too,” Earl said. “A lotta dese people say da place smells really good when dey pass by, so dey come in.” He turned to Paavo. “Inspector, me and da boys wanna say t'anks for explainin' how dat hole in da wall was just 'cause we was tryin' to fix a leak in a water pipe. We didn't mean to go all da way t'rough to da jeweler's store. Honest.”

Paavo fixed a steady gaze on Earl. “The guys at the Hall of Justice understood perfectly. I told them you three promised the next time you had a leak, you'd call a plumber. Right?”

“Sure t'ing, Inspector.”

“Glad to see you're back on your feet.”

“Yeah. It was jus' a nick. An' da swellin' on Butch's nose an' his black eyes is almost back to normal, too. I'll get your dinner.”

Angie reached for Paavo's hand. He took hers and gave it a light squeeze. She looked beautiful tonight, with a cream-colored dress that dipped to a V in front and diamond earrings that sparkled with every turn of her head.

He'd taken her to his house that horrible night, and she'd stayed with him the past ten days. She was much better, almost over the nightmares that had awakened her every night for a week afterward.

Each time it happened, he'd held her until she fell asleep again. Held her so that he could pretend to be strong, so that he wouldn't need to talk about his own nightmare. The one that plagued him over and over; the one in which he was unable to find her no matter what he did, no matter where he looked. The one in which Wesley Carville won.

He looked at her small hand wrapped in his, at her well-cared-for nails. They were a soft, creamy white color tonight, to match her dress, he supposed. He must love her even more than he'd imagined if he even paid attention to her nail polish.

“I was thinking, Paavo, that after Easter dinner tomorrow at my mother's—oh, I did tell you all my sisters and their families were going to be there, didn't I?”

He grimaced. “You hadn't given me that good news yet.”

“Well, anyway”—she drew in her breath—“after that I'm going back to my apartment.”

He shouldn't have felt surprise. She had a beautiful apartment, a great view, while his place was just a simple cottage. But…on the other hand…so what?

She liked staying with him. He knew she did. She'd told him so often enough. “There's no need to rush,” he replied.

“I was driven out of it by fear. I can't accept that any longer.”

He nodded in understanding. “Keep in mind, Miss Amalfi,” he said, “you can always come back.”

“Oh, I'll keep that in mind all right, Inspector Smith.”

“Good.” He leaned back and smiled at her, his heart full.

“Very good.” She leaned back, her eyes dancing.

“Here you go.” Earl carried a tray with their meal and put their plates before them. “Enjoy.”

“This is it, Paavo,” Angie said excitedly. He picked up his fork. “These are the special meatballs and the wonderful spaghetti sauce I was telling you about. Butch won't tell me what the secret ingredient is. Whatever it is, though, he should package it. He'd make a fortune.”

She watched expectantly as Paavo took a bite of the spaghetti.

Secret ingredient? he thought. What secret? He cut into the meatball and tasted it, then eyed the meat, then Angie, then the meat again, and nearly laughed aloud. No secret here. Not to him, anyway. To Angie, though, maybe. Yes, he could believe she might be puzzled by it.

“Paavo?”

He put down his fork.

“It's wonderful. Isn't it?”

He touched the napkin to his lips.

She gripped the tablecloth. “What's wrong?”

He looked at the plate of food. “Institutional memory, I'm afraid.”

“Institutional what?” She clasped her hands. “I don't understand.”

“You see, Angie, it's all of a piece.”

She twisted her napkin. “You're talking in riddles,” she cried. She hated it when he talked in riddles.

“Down at the Hall the other day, we were discussing Earl, Vinnie, and Butch. And Yosh, who knows all about old songs, remembered one from back in the thirties, with words something like ‘if we had the wings of an angel, over these prison walls we would fly.'”

She felt her throat tighten. “Prison walls?”

He nodded. “Army vets, like me, and ex-cons have one thing in common. Unforgettable memories of institutional food. I remember. Butch
really
remembers.”

She didn't want to hear any more. Visions of another assignment for
Haute Cuisine
flew away, just like those wings over prison walls. But she couldn't stop herself from saying, “Tell me, Paavo. What's the secret ingredient?”

“You really want to know?” he asked.

“I really want to know,” she answered.

“Butch didn't use a whole lot of it,” he said, as if that was some sort of consolation. “It's basically just to stretch the meat.”

She groaned aloud. Gourmet restaurants did not
stretch
the meat. Barely able to speak, she whispered, “Out with it, Inspector.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he said. And then, although he spoke in the lowest possible voice, his words seemed to reverberate throughout the entire restaurant. “The secret ingredient, Angie…is Spam.”