Cooking Most Deadly (9 page)

“So tell me, Kirsten,”
Angie said on the telephone to the old friend she used to see quite a bit before Kirsten's marriage, “you and Al have been married for almost two years now. How's it going? What do you think of it?”

“What do I think? What do you mean?”

“You know. Do you recommend it? Any problems I should know about?”

“Problems? What makes you think there are any problems?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean there were problems. I was just—”

“You heard about Alan with that woman, didn't you? They work together, that's all.”

“No. I never—”

“I know what you're thinking! I didn't realize it had become common knowledge already. But I'm glad you told me. You've always been my friend, haven't you, Angie?”

“No. I mean, yes, I'm your friend, but about Alan and that woman—”

“My God! Everyone knows, don't they? They must
be going everywhere together! Making a laughingstock out of me! Alan swears they're just working, but if so, how would you know about it? How would all my friends know? Work,
hah!
Thanks for telling me!” The phone went dead.

“Telling you? Kirsten, wait. Kirsten? Hello? Hello?”

He parked a block away
from the house. It wasn't safe to park any closer. The judge had apparently noticed him sitting in his car a few times, and had begun to peer a little too closely, to grow a little too suspicious.

This was the morning. He had it all planned. Anticipation made his pulse race. He sat and waited for his breathing to return to normal, his pulse to slow a bit.

The first thing was to make sure no one noticed him. No one at all. He didn't want to throw up red flags before his entire plan—all of it—had succeeded.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. It was time to leave the car, to walk to the lush grounds along the Palace of Fine Arts, to stand behind the fir tree with the thick trunk and low, heavy branches, just as he had the past three days. There, he'd wait until the judge left the house to go on his morning walk along the Marina Green's waterfront path to Fort Mason for a cup of herb tea, and then walk home again. It seemed to be a health routine. It wasn't going to be very healthy for his wife, though.

He got out of the Honda and pulled the driver's seat forward so that he could reach into the backseat for his
bouquet of roses. An SFPD black-and-white appeared at the intersection and stopped at the stop sign.

He kept his head down. He could all but feel the policemen taking him in, probably calling in the license plate on his car to the DMV. What'd they think they'd discover? That the car had been stolen? Maybe they would check the registration. Did they really think he'd be so stupid as to register it in his own name?

Not that it mattered. He knew all about the DMV, their computer system, and the cops. He knew it'd take a long time before the cops put two and two together. He'd be finished here by that time.

In the rearview mirror, he watched the police car turn onto his street and slow down as it neared him. He waited, not moving, until he heard the sound of the engine as the car drove past. He glanced up, perspiration dripping from his forehead, and watched the car turn the corner.

They might have seen him. They should have. They must have. He breathed harder. What if they remembered something about him? Or his car? He had to be careful. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest. Patience, that's what he needed. It was necessary to be patient now.

It was a straight shot from here to Richardson Street and the Doyle Drive approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. By the time the cops went around the block, he'd be long gone. He jumped into the driver's seat, started the car, and sped away.

Today, the old woman was lucky. But her luck wouldn't last.

 

Paavo sat in an overstuffed easy chair in Tiffany Rogers's living room. The morning sunlight streamed in from the window, bright and cheerful, in stark contrast to the ugly dark stain before him. The body and most of the evidence had been long removed, indexed, categorized, sliced, and diced to be studied, analyzed, and preserved.

Fingerprints, hair follicles, blood types, DNA, anything
that could potentially be matched with a suspect, once one was identified, had been collected. The estimated time of death put it the evening before the first day she missed work—about forty-eight hours before the police were called. A six-inch military-style combat knife appeared to be the murder weapon. The roses strewn around her body and the single rose on her bed were from florists because the thorns had been trimmed and the stem cut at some fancy angle. Checking on florist shops, he'd learned there were more of them in San Francisco than he'd ever dreamed, including a flower market that was also open to anyone who wanted to get up early enough. He'd tried gathering information about customers who'd bought a dozen long-stemmed roses three or four days earlier, but after checking with just a few florists, he quickly abandoned hope of tracking down the killer through that means. The numbers were far too high, and a number of purchases had been cash transactions by men—as if they very suddenly found they needed to give someone a dozen roses. Paavo could understand that.

No vase had been found filled with water for the flowers. Nor was there a florist's box anywhere in the apartment. He couldn't imagine any woman leaving a dozen long-stemmed roses lying about to wither and die. Whoever killed her must have brought the roses with him.

A gesture of a lover? Of someone wanting to court her? If, even after receiving the roses, Tiffany spurned the man's advances, could that have driven him to murder? She hadn't been raped, so it wasn't a sexual assault.

The kind of killer who could have committed such a grisly murder and then stopped to pick up a florist's box and its wrappings wasn't anyone who had just committed a crime of passion. Someone had planned to murder this woman.

He walked around, looking out windows and in closets, trying to get a feel for the place and what had gone on here.

The apartment Tiffany lived in was supposedly secure.
There was a locked, steel front door, requiring the occupant to buzz the person into the building. Yet, time and again it happened with this type of security that after someone had legitimately buzzed in a friend, a trespasser would stop the door from relatching. He would hold it open about a half inch, and, once the legitimate caller was out of sight, the trespasser would enter.

The night Tiffany was killed, however, none of the other residents remembered having had a visitor or having let anyone in for any reason. A couple of people came in late that evening. They insisted they had been careful not to let anyone sneak in after them, but it might have happened.

Even if the murderer sneaked past the front door, Tiffany would have had to open her door to him. Why would she? A single woman would worry about how some stranger had gotten into the building and up to her apartment?

None of this made sense unless the man had been someone she knew. Someone bringing her flowers. She let him in, and then he killed her.

Neighbors up and down the block were questioned, but no one had seen a man carrying a box that could have held roses.

The police tried lifting prints off the buzzer to Tiffany's apartment, the front door handle, even the underside of her toilet seat, but found nothing, which meant the killer wore gloves or wiped off the prints. Again, the sign of premeditation.

In the meantime, a picture was emerging of Tiffany as a vivacious, ambitious young woman who had suddenly turned quiet. Everyone was convinced she'd been seeing someone who had warned her not to say anything about their relationship. Paavo asked why, but no one could say.

It also became clear that neither age, looks, nor interests mattered to Tiffany in the men she dated. If they had money or power, preferably both, they were date bait to her. In the last two months she had found someone to date
who was so special—for whatever reason—that she hadn't even told her best friend or her sister who he was, although it had become obvious that she and her sister weren't very close.

Paavo had searched through her desk and papers, trying to find some clue as to who the mystery man was. Maybe Tiffany no longer wanted to keep his identity a secret, and maybe he didn't like that. Whatever had happened between them, Paavo needed to find the man and question him.

There were few papers in the desk, no books, and Tiffany's reading material consisted of the
National Enquirer, Star
, and a single edition of the
Chronicle
dated nearly a week before she died.

The day after her sister, Connie, had ID'd the body, he had accompanied her back to the apartment to go through Tiffany's jewelry and clothes. They found gold and diamond jewelry from Moulin et Cie, Sans Souci Jewelers, and her namesake, Tiffany's. She even kept the boxes, as if to prove the jewels weren't paste.

Connie told him that the diamond tennis bracelet from Sans Souci Jewelers was new. It might have been from the new lover.

Sans Souci was where the Fabergé egg thief had killed Nathan Ellis. Could there be a connection between this death and Ellis's? It seemed too big a leap—but then Paavo had never believed in coincidence. He'd check it out.

He walked into the bedroom and looked at Tiffany's clothes hanging in the closet. Since meeting Angie he'd come to appreciate the simple lines and small details that separated quality clothing from that which was simply expensive. Tiffany spent more than the average working girl on clothes, that was obvious, but she hadn't learned quality yet. The outfits were full of the kind of frills and ruffles Angie wouldn't be caught dead in.

Paavo took the jewelry box with the tennis bracelet from the drawer and put it in his pocket.

He left Rogers's apartment and went straight to Sans
Souci Jewelers. The owner, Philip Justin Pierpont, was in the store working the counter with one of his clerks. He hadn't yet hired a replacement for Ellis.

“Hello, Inspector,” Pierpont said. “Any news on the killer?”

“We're still working on it. I've got something here I'd like you to check out for me.” Paavo opened the Sans Souci box to disclose the bracelet. “Does this look familiar?”

“Quite. We ran a special on those for Valentine's Day.”

“Is there any way you can check to find out who you sold this one to?”

“Of course. We didn't sell many of those. They weren't the best-quality diamonds. Usually, if someone is looking for a diamond bracelet, they're willing to spend a little more money to get top quality stones even if the size is smaller than they originally wanted.”

Paavo gave the box to the jeweler.

“We keep a record of all our merchandise.” He put on his jeweler's magnifying glass and carefully inspected the diamonds. “Yes, it appears to have been one of ours.” Next, he led Paavo into his office, where he looked up the bracelet on the computer.

“Ah. Here we go. We sold five. Two to women in the city. One to a couple from Los Angeles, one to a man in the city, and…” He stopped talking as he studied the computer. “This is strange. I almost never see a transaction like this.” He glanced up at Paavo.

“What is it?”

“We keep records of credit cards and checks. That's the way almost all of our customers pay us. Not in this case, though. The bracelet was paid for in cash. There was no need to get any customer information, not even a signature.”

“If the transaction was that rare, there's a chance the clerk might remember it, right?”

“Absolutely. Except in this case.”

Paavo suspected he knew the reason before he even asked his question. “Why?”

“The clerk was Nathan Ellis.”

 

As Paavo took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, he looked at the flurry of notes and messages left on the desk in his absence. He added to them the names of the people who'd used checks or credit cards to buy diamond bracelets at Sans Souci, as well as the name of the clerk who had worked with Ellis the day the diamond bracelet cash purchase had been made. Except for early morning, Pierpont always had two employees in the store at the same time.

The clerk, Meredith Park, was off work that day. Paavo tried reaching her at home, but there was no answer. Next, he quickly disposed of the other buyers—all were able to give solid information as to what happened to the bracelet they'd bought.

He was about to try Park's home again when the phone buzzed.

“Smith here,” he said.

“This is O'Rourke in Robbery. We just got a call I think you might want to check out.”

“What's it about?”

“A jeweler. Said a small guy with a fake beard came in, held him up at gunpoint, and stole just one thing. When my lieutenant heard what it was, he said I should call you.”

Paavo could think of one object only that could cause the Robbery detail to think of him. “An imitation Fabergé egg?”

“You win the big banana.”

Paavo stood. Hollins had given Nathan Ellis's case to the team of Calderon and Benson. But they were out working on another case at the moment. The possibility of a tie-in with Tiffany Rogers's murder existed, but also he remembered his interview with Debbie Ellis, how she begged him to find whoever killed her husband.

“I'll be right there,” he said.

Angie sat in the family room
of her parents' Hillsborough mansion with her father. He had a hockey game on the TV, a basketball game on the radio, and the TV remote control in his hand. Periodically, he'd flip through the channels to be sure he wasn't missing anything else. Salvatore Amalfi wasn't a sports fanatic by any means, but since his bypass surgery, the doctors told him he had to back away from his retail shoe business. He was too naturally competitive and needed to find a way to relax and not worry about how each of his many stores was doing.

Looking at him scowl and complain about the Sharks' play on the TV and the Warriors on the radio, Angie thought he didn't seem to be following orders about being noncompetitive at all.

She sighed and kept watching, glassy-eyed, while talk of power plays, hat tricks, and slap shots swirled around her. She couldn't have given the score if her life depended on it. The more she thought about it, she wasn't even sure why she was here. All she knew was that she hadn't felt like spending a Friday night home alone hoping Paavo would show up.

Her single girlfriends, those few there were left, would be out on dates, and she didn't want to disturb the married ones.

Everyone seemed to have someone to belong to but her, she thought, indulging in a heavy dose of self-pity. So, she came to the place she did belong—home to her parents. She was always welcome here.

Although, considering that her mother had gone off to bed with a book, and her father was engrossed in TV and radio, they, too, didn't seem terribly overjoyed at her unannounced arrival. She heaved a heavy, rueful sigh.

“
Che c'è
, Angelina? I haven't heard so many sighs since I took your mother to see her first Marcello Mastroianni movie.”

“It's not funny, Papà. I'm trying to figure out my future.”

“Your future? That's no reason for such a long face. You're young, healthy, with a good education. You can do whatever you want. So, what is it you want?”

“Well, maybe I want to get married.”

“Married? You mean to that fellow with the strange name?
That's
what you want for your future?”

“I'm not talking specifics here, Papà. In general. Marriage? Career? Both?”

“You haven't settled on a career yet. I think you should. How can you think of giving up what you've never had?”

“It's not for lack of trying.” She heaved another sigh.

“
Il poliziotto—
he's your problem. You
do
want to marry him, don't you?”

“I'm not sure. I mean, what is marriage?”

“It's a life sentence, and you're too young for it.” Suddenly, he jumped to his feet, staring at the TV. “No! The Sharks just scored. I've been watching for two hours, the score one to nothing. Detroit's favor. The Sharks tie, and I miss it!”

So much for her future. “Sorry, Papà. I'm going to bed,” she said, standing.

He put down the remote, his dark eyes studying her for a long time. He was still a handsome man, tall and distin
guished despite the shadows his illness had brought to the area under his eyes and the sallow color to his skin. “Don't be sad,
bambina
. There's so much in life for you to see and do and experience. Take your time. Life's a wonderful thing, Angelina. Now get out of here. They're going to show a replay.”

She walked to his side, rested her hand on his shoulder, and kissed his cheek. “Good-night.”

He touched her fingers lightly, and she left the room.

Before going into her bedroom, she stopped to say good-night to her mother.

She knocked on the bedroom door. “Mamma?”

“Come in, Angelina,” Serefina said. The bedroom was large, with an adjoining sitting room that overlooked a small creek, and a bathroom that was larger than the living room of Angie's apartment. The room was furnished with Italian antiques, the pieces lavishly carved and ornately finished in an off-white color with pink-cast faux marble, and trimmed in gold paint. It would have been gaudy except that it was so inherently Italian, it made Angie feel comfortable and secure.

Her parents' bed was king-size, and the mattresses sat high off the ground. Serefina was sitting on the bed, propped up with pillows, and had tears streaming down her eyes.

Angie's heart nearly stopped. She could feel the blood drain from her face as she stared at her mother. “Mamma, what's wrong?” she cried. She ran to the side of the bed, her mind swirling. Was it her father's illness? One of her sisters? Serefina? Not Serefina—her mother couldn't be sick!

Serefina dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “It's this book. It's so sad.
Che terribile
. It's called
The Bridges of Madison County
. It's about a poor husband who goes away from home to help his family, and his back is no sooner turned than his wife has an affair with some drifter photographer! She doesn't even know the man!”

Angie took a deep breath to calm herself. “Mamma, I don't think that's the point.”

“Not only that, Angelina
—Dio! Che disonore!—
this terri
ble wife…she's Italian!” Serefina tossed the book to the foot of the bed.

“It'll be all right, Mamma. Most people won't remember that about her. She didn't act very Italian.”

Serefina dried her eyes. “Maybe you're right. That story—that's not what marriage is all about.”

“It's not?” Angie sat on the edge of the bed.

“It's two people building a life together. It's the union between the two that makes them strong and let's them survive whatever life throws at them.”

“You really believe that, Mamma?”

“
Veramente
.” She took Angie's hand. “When me and your father were first married, he worked two jobs. Almost eighteen hours he was gone, six days a week. It didn't matter, though, to how we felt about each other. If anything, it made our love stronger because we saw how much we hated being apart. We worked hard so that we could make this time to be together.”

“I know you did, I remember.”

“And you know what's strange, Angelina, as much as I adored your father when I was a young wife, I love him even more now. When young, our love was the flame of a match—sharp and hot and bright. Now, it's like the fire of coals—dry and warm and solid—and will last until we are but ashes.”

Angie nodded. “It's good to hear that.”

Serefina looked surprised. “You didn't know?”

“I should have, shouldn't I?” She stood up. “I think I'll go back home tonight after all.”

“You are home.”

“I mean, to
my
home. I love you, Mamma.”

“
T'amo
, Angelina. But before you go, will you hand me my book again. I tossed it way down there by my feet.”

 

Angie arrived home before midnight, and about a half hour later came the knock on the door she'd been hoping to hear for the last few nights. She ran to the peephole and looked out.

“Paavo.” She opened the door.

He came in, closed the door behind him, then took her in his arms and held her tightly. “I missed you,” he murmured, his voice heavy with weariness and longing.

“I missed you, too,” she said, running her hands over his hair, damp from the night fog. She gazed up at him. “Can you stay awhile? Shall I put on coffee? Have you eaten?”

“No, to everything.” He gripped her shoulders and held her back so that he could see her better. “Don't bother. I wanted to see you, to be sure you're all right.”

“You could have called me.” The words blurted out, seeming to come from nowhere, even though she'd meant to be supportive, nonaccusatory. She'd have to backpedal rapidly.

“I tried a couple times, but there wasn't any answer.”

That was his excuse
? “I have an answering machine. You could have left a message. You could have said, ‘Angie, this is Paavo. I'm at work, but I wanted you to know I was thinking about you.'” Great, she thought, now I sound even more like a shrew. She walked away, toward her petit point sofa. He followed.

“I do think about you, whether I talk to machines about it or not.”

She bit her lip. It was serious turn-over-a-new-leaf time for her with this man. “I know,” she whispered, then, louder. “I understand.”

“You do?”

He seemed shocked that she could be understanding. “Of course! You don't like answering machines, and you're busy with your job. It's important to you. I can accept that.”

His eyes narrowed. “Have you bought more ballet tickets?”

This suspicion of his about her motives was pretty darn insulting. “I meant what I said! I understand.”

“Well, all right, but…”

“But what?” She tensed.

“Nothing.”

She studied him carefully. The words of her parents, her friends, spilled over one another, adding to her confusion. Her voice was hushed. “I'm important to you, too, aren't I?”

He took her hand and sat down on the sofa, then pulled her down after him. Wrapping her in his arms he said, “If you weren't important to me, I wouldn't be here. I'd be off somewhere, like Yosh, taking a quick nap.”

“I went to my parents' house tonight,” she said softly. “I was going to stay there, wondering if you'd even know or care. Then I felt silly for playing such games and came home.”

“Never play games with me, Angie.”

Her breath caught. “I won't,” she whispered. “I love you, Paavo. Like a match.”

“A what?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and no further explanations were needed.