Cooking Most Deadly (6 page)

“Who's been telling you
these stories, Angie?” Marianne Perrault, a staff writer at
Haute Cuisine
, chased a piece of rubbery squid
sashimi
around her plate with her chopsticks. “Hugh and I have been married ten months, and we're forever going places and doing things together. Just last night we went out to dinner.”

This was music to Angie's ears. Suddenly, her
sushi
lunch tasted much better. “That's so good to hear, Marianne,” Angie said. “I remember last week we were talking about that new Afghanistani restaurant, and you said how much you wanted to go. Did Hugh take you?”

“No.”

“Or that interesting Malaysian place you mentioned. Was that where you went?”

Marianne took a sip of warm
sake
from a small porcelain cup. “Actually, Hugh's a meat and potatoes kind of guy. He didn't want to try anything that might have ingredients he wasn't familiar with. Come to think of it, we were sort of rushed. I guess our dinner out wasn't such a great example.”

“What do you mean? Where did you two end up?”

“Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

Stanfield Bonnette trudged up
the Jones Street hill. The bus he rode after work left him off on Union Street, one block down from his apartment building. No bus tried to climb to the top of Russian Hill—it was too steep.

Someday, he might be able to afford a car, he thought bitterly. But even if he had one, parking was impossible in this city unless you had a garage—also prohibitively expensive. It was cheaper to bus and taxi everywhere. Especially when most of your money went to paying rent, as his did.

But he enjoyed his top floor apartment. It always impressed his dates, and he only went out with women he wanted to impress. It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich woman as a poor one, he told himself. Unfortunately, the only rich woman he'd met so far that aroused more than a passing interest cared far more about some homicide inspector than she did about him. Last night, she'd given him a start with her question about marriage. He should have known better than to react the way he did, tipping his hand that way. That she laughed made the bitter pill even harder to swallow.

And anyway, just what did that detective have that he didn't?

He stopped walking a moment to catch his breath. This hill was so steep that every so often some steps appeared, built right into the concrete sidewalk, supposedly to help high-heeled women walk downhill.

He'd made it to the top of the hill, the corner of Jones and Green streets, where his apartment building stood. He entered the lobby. A man wearing sunglasses, a San Jose Sharks cap, and carrying a bouquet of roses jumped back from the mailboxes. Startled by Stan's appearance, he bent his head downward, the brim of his cap hiding all but his chin from view.

“Sorry,” the deliveryman mumbled. “There don't seem to be no doorman.”

Stan didn't usually talk to strangers, not even ones carrying flowers. He'd lived in the city long enough to be paranoid about everyone and everything. “One is usually here,” he said, keeping his distance. “He must have stepped away for a minute.”

“I got some flowers for Angelina, the address is this building, but I don't know her apartment number.”

“Angelina? You mean Angelina Amalfi?”

“Amalfi. Yeah, that's her.”

More flowers for Angie, Stan thought. Probably from her hotshot detective. The guy probably heard he took her dancing last night, and now he wants to mend fences. Why didn't she just ditch the guy as he suggested? Well, the heck with him. If he couldn't get her address straight, that was too damn bad.

Then a wicked thought occurred to him. Why not hijack the flowers? Redirect them to his own apartment and never let Angie know Paavo had sent them. All's fair in love and war, he reminded himself, feeling good about how clever he was.

“She lives right here, in Apartment 12…1202,” he said.

“Twelve-oh-two,” the man repeated, his head still downturned as if bowing to Stan. “Thanks. I'll take them up.”

“I'm going up there,” Stan said. “I live across the hall, so I don't mind saving you a trip. Anyway, she's never home in the afternoon.”

“Oh…she's not? Okay, then. Thanks, pal.” The man shoved the flowers at Stan and hurried away.

By the time the elevator let Stan off on the twelfth floor, he was feeling a little guilty about what he'd done. Just a little.

 

Paavo knocked on Angie's door. He had left work promptly at 4:30, almost unheard of for him, driven across town to shower and change, and made it to Angie's place before their six o'clock date. The last thing he wanted was to be late.

Last night, he'd phoned and phoned, not giving up until he reached her instead of her answering machine. She didn't tell him where she'd been, which wasn't like her at all. It made him feel strange. Suspicious. Where had she gone? With whom? But to show that he trusted her, he didn't ask.

Instead, he made a date with her for this evening, and he planned to keep it. Particularly if she was going to star in her own TV show. He wondered if he'd be able to compete with the type of men she'd meet. Or if she was already growing tired of him, and that's why she'd been out so much lately and not saying where.

That something about the two of them was troubling her was clear. Since she'd been so secretive recently, he couldn't help but suspect she'd met someone new or was, at minimum, having second thoughts about their relationship.

When he heard the doorknob turn, his pulse quickened. She opened the door.

She wore a lace-trimmed, ivory-colored silk top and matching wide-legged pajama pants. The outfit was soft, expensive, and feminine—just like Angie. She smiled, and in a moment he held her in his arms and kissed her. He
gave the door a shove with his foot and listened for the click of the latch, not even wanting to turn away for the time it took to shut the door properly.

“I missed you,” he said, all his earlier doubts foolishly vanishing in the glow of her smile. “But I don't want to wrinkle your pretty new outfit.”

“Wrinkle it,” she ordered.

His grin, he suspected, was too wide, too lopsided, and too out-and-out dopey, but that was how she made him feel. How easily she could get him to smile, even laugh, still surprised him. Before meeting her, he'd almost forgotten how.

“Where are we going to dinner?” he asked, still holding her.

“
Chez
Angelina.”

“What?”

“We're eating right here.”

“Here? I didn't want you to work. I wanted to take you out.”

“You expect me to give up a chance to keep you all to myself? No way!”

His eyes crinkled into a mischievous glint as he took off his sport jacket and loosened his tie. “All right, Miss Amalfi,” he said. “If you want me to yourself that much, then you've got me.” He dropped his jacket on a chair and stepped toward her.

She placed her hands against his shoulders, backing up. “Wait! When did you last eat?”

He kept walking forward and she kept backing up until she backed into her Chippendale desk. He leaned forward and kissed her. “Who cares?” he murmured.

Who indeed, she thought, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She was right, suggesting they stay here this evening. His kisses were dizzying, soon driving all thought from her mind. Her arms tightened around him, and she pressed her body against his as their kisses deepened. He even made her ears ring…and ring…and…

“Oh! The timer.” She pulled away.

“What timer?” he asked.

Adjusting her clothes she headed toward the kitchen. “Dinner.”

“Now?”

“This meal,” she said, keeping her voice low and sultry, “will be a seduction in itself.” Then she winked.

Big blue eyes widened with pleased curiosity.

She laughed. “Come on, big man. You can help.”

He followed her into the kitchen and checked pots, pans, and bowls as she proudly announced a dinner of filets mignon, lobster tails, asparagus tips, saffron rice, Caesar salad, red and white wine, and sourdough bread. For dessert, one Italian rum tart for Paavo. She'd given up dessert for Lent, after all. The only thing left to do was to fire up the heavy skillet and put the two thick filets mignon in the bed of melted garlic butter.

A shave-and-a-haircut beat sounded at the door.

“Watch the filets,” she said to Paavo, who was slicing the sourdough. “I'll take care of this.”

She hurried across the living room and peeked through the peephole before opening the door. “I'm busy.”

“And hello to you, too,” Stan said cheerfully, slipping past her into the apartment. “Where were you all afternoon?”

“I don't have time to talk, Stan. Go home.” She stayed at the door.

“But I brought some dessert for us.” He tossed her a paper bag. “Also, I wanted to tell you about my day today. There was even a strange deliveryman.” He crossed the living room and sank into her sofa.

“That sounds fascinating,” she said drily. Leaving the door open she looked inside the bag. “One cookie?”

“But it's a Mrs. Fields. Very rich. We can split it. How about some coffee? Dinner smells great, by the way. I can tell you about the delivery while we eat.”

“Angie, you'd better check these steaks,” Paavo said, stepping into the dining area from the kitchen. He stopped short, his eyes narrowing as he gave Angie's neighbor a quick once-over. “Well, well, look who's here.”

Stan jumped to his feet. “Oh, I didn't know you had
company, Angie. And here I thought you'd want some intellectual conversation. Oh, well, some other time.” He snatched back the paper bag with the cookie. “By the way,” he said, dropping his voice seductively, “thanks
a lot
for last night.” He lifted an eyebrow at Paavo as he sauntered from the room. Angie shut the door behind him.

“You were with Bonnette last night?” Paavo asked, his eyes glacial.

“It was nothing.” Angie tried to push him back into the kitchen.

“Bonnette seemed to find it special.”

“Pay no attention to him.”

“You haven't said where you two went.”

“No.” How could she tell him she'd gone with Stan to take a cold, calculated look at the singles scene. She found it wanting. Badly. “We went to the Sound Works.”

“A dance club?”

She nodded.

“I see.”

“No, I don't think you do. Stan said we should go out to celebrate my upcoming audition. I agreed.”

His gaze was hard. “That's right. I was busy last night, wasn't I?”

“I waited, but—”

“It's okay, Angie,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

“Stop saying you understand! Stan's a friend.”

“Right. And the Sound Works is the kind of place to go to with a friend. Lots of single people go there—to dance, meet each other. Why shouldn't you go as well?”

Could all that sarcasm be masking a twinge of jealousy? She wondered if he'd ever experienced such a thing before?

“I knew you'd understand,” she said, hugging him. “Let's go eat.”

The man looked positively baffled as he followed her to the table. Once the food was on, though, they quickly put aside Stan and his cheap innuendo.

“You're a genius,” he said, dipping his last bite of lobster into the warm, clarified butter.

“I know.” She took a piece of her lobster with her fingers, slathered it in butter, and lifted it to his lips.

He ate, then caught her hand and licked the butter from her fingertips one by one. She shut her eyes, reveling in the slow, lazy sensuousness of his tongue against her fingertips. When he finished with her pinky, she reached for another piece.

“Uh, uh,” he murmured, taking her hand and drawing her from her chair to his lap. “You taste much better than lobster.” He pretended to take a bite out of her chin, her jaw, her neck. His hand slid down her waist to her hips. Where he touched, she sizzled.

“I miss you so much when we're not together,” she whispered. “The days seem so empty.”

“And the nights,” he murmured, carefully pulling her top free from the waistband of her slacks.

She loved him, but her head spun. She felt confused. A little scared. Never one to keep things inside, she had to tell him how she felt.

She drew back. “I have to talk to you, Paavo,” she said seriously. “I know we agreed that our relationship needed time to grow, to mature, and to see how things might work out between us, but…”

His hands stilled. Eyes wide, he stared at her.

Could he be reading her mind? she wondered. Could he be looking so stricken just because she thought it might be time for them to discuss marriage?

Suddenly, the phone rang. They both nearly jumped out of their skins at the shrill sound.

It rang again. “You'd better answer it, Angie. It might be important.”

“I'm sure it's not. Let the answering machine—”

He stood, lifting her out of his lap and helping her stand. “I told Homicide they could reach me here tonight, if anything came up.”

“All right, all right. I'll get it.” She kissed him. “You stay right there.”

He started to follow her to the phone.

“Freeze, Inspector!”

He threw up his hands and, as she picked up the phone, he sat back down.

“Yes?” she said curtly.

“Hey, there, Angie. How ya doin'?”

She groaned inwardly. She knew that jubilant voice. Paavo's homicide partner.

“Actually, I'm kind of busy.”

“Say, is the Big P.S. there?”

She winced. P.S.—an afterthought. That's what she'd be once Paavo took this phone call. “He's here,” she said with a sigh. “Hold on.”

She handed Paavo the phone. “It's your partner.”

He put the phone to his ear. “Yosh, what's up?”

He listened for a couple of minutes, then frowned. “What was her name?”

Angie caught the “was.” God, no, she thought. Another homicide. She prayed she was wrong.

“City Hall? Is that why the chief's worried?”

Was someone killed at City Hall? she wondered. She rubbed the chill from her arms.

“Got it,” he said, then placed the phone back in its cradle. As he turned, the expression on his face told her Yosh's call was more than just informational.

“You don't have to leave, do you?” she asked.

“I'm on call this week.”

“My God, Paavo, there
are
other homicide inspectors in this city! We were supposed to have this time together.”

“I'm sorry, Angie. This isn't the way I wanted our evening to end.”

She looked at the unhappy, yet determined look in his pale blue eyes. When he turned them on her that way, she couldn't argue with him. “I'm sorry, too, Paavo. I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's not your fault.”

He put his hands on her waist, pulling her close. “Maybe it's for the best. Maybe that talk…about our relationship needing time…maybe we need more time before we have it.”