Cooks Overboard (6 page)

“I need to make sure she does not try to pull a fast one on me.” Colonel Ortega filled his beer glass with another Corona. He’d already drunk two six-packs during the afternoon, and now that dinner was over, he was starting on his third. If Eduardo Catalán had ever bothered to wonder where the man’s huge gut came from, one day with him would have answered the question.

“She would not dare. Everyone knows your reputation.” Catalán had a demitasse of black espresso on the lamp table at his elbow. They sat in the living room watching the sun sink behind the coast range to the west, Catalán on an easy chair, the colonel slouched down on the sofa, his head on the backrest and his feet up on the coffee table.

Ortega’s dark eyes searched his. “I guess you are right.”

“You worry too much, my colonel,” Catalán said. “That is my job.”

Ortega wouldn’t drop it. “She would not have the reputation for reliability if she went around stealing from the men who employed her,” he said, as much to himself as to Catalán.

“Exactly,” Catalán said.

“But then, how many times has she had her hands on something worth millions? Something that every government, every industry in the world would want to possess? If she recognizes the true value of what she has, she will not want to release it for a mere million dollars.” Ortega sat up straight, running his hands through his already messy hair. His clothes, in which he’d taken a siesta earlier that afternoon, were wrinkled and dirty.

“Especially when she learns you do not have the million to give her,” Eduardo added.

Ortega’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of being unfair,
amigo?
”

“Not unfair,” Eduardo said, quick to correct himself. “Clever.’

“Good.” The colonel drank half a glassful before he put the beer down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am always fair. She just has to wait a short time while I get the money. And the money will be twenty times—twenty, hell—
fifty
times over what I owe her, once I sell the formula to OPEC or whoever in the hell wants to pay me the most for it. Who knows, I might even be a real nice guy and sell it
to Shell Oil in the U.S.” He chuckled at the thought that he would soon actually possess something that every major world player in oil and gas would want to get their hands on.

“OPEC?” Catalán said. “You are not thinking of going over the heads of your friends, are you? Of cutting them out of the deal?”

Ortega shrugged. “What are friends for?” he said, then laughed. “Anyway, they would do the same to me if they had the opportunity.”

Catalán nodded. “So you will work with whomever, and let the Hydra wait? Is that it?”

“She can wait. Or she can die. It is all up to her.”

“You are clever indeed, my colonel.”

At dinner that evening, Dudley Livingstone joined the other passengers and officers. He was seated on one side of Angie, Paavo on the other.

“How are you feeling after your near miss on the deck, Mr. Livingstone?” she asked. “I’m sorry I caused you to trip.”

“No harm done,” he said with a chuckle.

The Neblers and Cockburns were busy arguing over the merits of bridge versus canasta, Captain Olafson was quietly drinking, and Paavo was talking to Mr. Johansen about navigation. She wondered if he was more serious than she’d suspected about a job at sea.

“So tell me about your business, Mr. Livingstone,” she said, feeling bad about ignoring the man at her side while the meal of Caesar salad, roast pork, mashed potatoes, and zucchini was being served.

He pressed a napkin to his lips, then folded his pudgy fingers before responding. “I’m basically an art dealer, Miss Amalfi. A dealer in South American antiquities. Right now, I’m escorting an Incan artifact back to Peru. It was found in Machu Picchu early in this century. It never should have been allowed to leave the country. It’s priceless, you see, and the Peruvian government is paying quite handsomely for its return. It’s in a container on this very ship. That’s why I’m here: to ensure it arrives safely. Once in Peru, I’ll see what I can find to take back to the States that can be legitimately sold to some very serious collectors or even museums there.”

“So you buy and sell the things you find, for the most part?” she asked.

“To tell the truth, I only sell what I must in order to eat.” He poured them each more white wine. “Mine is a very small, exclusive circle, Miss Amalfi,” he continued. “I doubt anyone outside of it has ever heard of me. It’s not as if many people want a ten-foot-tall Viracocha, the main Incan deity, sitting in their living room.”

“No, I guess not,” Angie admitted. “So, I take it you travel by freighter with your artifacts?”

“When time permits. I hate letting something priceless out of my hands for all the weeks it takes for shipment. Too much can happen to it.”

“Oh?” Whatever could he do to save a container with a ten-foot statue even if something did happen to it? “Like what?”

He was clearly taken aback by her question, and his response did not answer it. “Well, to be frank, I enjoy this kind of travel. One meets interesting people. Tell me about yourself. Miss Amalfi.”

“There’s not much to tell. Currently, I’m a restaurant reviewer.”

“Really? You must know a lot about cooking, I take it.”

“A bit,” she said, trying to sound modest.

“What kind?”

“All kinds.” That, she had to admit, was less modest. “My specialties are French and Italian. I studied in Paris for a while.”

“So you must know all kinds of tricks of the trade, such as how to enhance the flavor of fresh truffles, perhaps?”

“Is this a test, Monsieur Livingstone?”

“
Oui, mademoiselle
.” He looked so serious all of a sudden it made her uneasy.

“Are you talking about adding a little Madeira to the truffles?” she asked, although she was quite sure of the answer. “If so, I’d suggest doing that only to canned truffles—or should I say
truffes?
—which are a mere shadow of the fresh ones dug up from early December through the end of January. Nothing should be done to change one iota of the flavor of fresh
truffes
. Do I pass your test,
monsieur?
”

“With flying colors,
mademoiselle
. And now I must be off. Oh, one last thing. You didn’t tell me about Mr. Smith. What line of work is he in?”

“Paavo is a San Francisco homicide inspector.”

Suddenly, Angie noticed that the table grew absolutely silent. She turned from Livingstone, who had had all her attention. Quickly, the Neblars and Cockburns went back to their discussion. Had they been listening to her?

Then she remembered how they had all gathered close as she told Paavo about her idea for a cookbook. She began to eye them suspiciously.

“That’s most interesting, Miss Amalfi,” Livingstone said. She realized he was still talking about Paavo’s job. He gulped down the wine.

Angie glanced at Paavo, but he continued talking with Johansen. He seemed to be the only one who hadn’t noticed what had just ensued about his profession.

Just then, pecan pie was served for dessert, and once again, all conversation stopped.

After dinner, Angie and Paavo returned to their cabin. Angie went into the bedroom and changed to mauve silk lounging pajamas, purchased especially for this trip. When she returned to the sitting area, she found Paavo on the sofa with a book on his lap. He wasn’t reading it, though. He was staring off into space. She’d seen that brooding look before. He noticed her and gave a faint smile.

She glanced at the one lamp on the end table beside the sofa.

Well, no wonder he wasn’t reading. The lamp was so small, and the light bulb in it so weak, he’d get eyestrain in no time at all. Last night, sitting there and looking at a magazine, she had scarcely been able to see it. That, at least, was a problem she could solve.

She picked up the telephone. “Who are you calling?” Paavo asked, jarred from his reverie.

“You’ll see,” she said, giving him a smile and a wink. “Julio? This is Angie Amalfi. Do you have any larger lamps on board? I’d like to replace the one by the couch. I want a taller lamp with a brighter, stronger bulb.” She waited. “Great. Thanks.”

Paavo was surprised. “They actually have extra lamps on a freighter?”

“He’ll probably swap this one with someone who doesn’t care. It’s no big deal.”

Before long, there was a knock at the door. “
Buenos días, señorita
.” Breathless, as if he’d run the whole way, Julio stood in the doorway holding a lamp so tall it could have served as a portable lighthouse. Angie gaped at it.

Julio gaped at her in her silk pajamas.

Paavo got up from the sofa and announced a sudden desire to change his shoes. He fled into the bedroom. Coward, Angie thought.

Julio entered the cabin, then handed Angie the big lamp and unplugged the little one on the end table. When he lifted it, one small button-like object fell off the base.

“What in the world?” Angie pointed at the floor. “The lamp is falling apart.”

“What?” Julio stepped to the side, and she heard a crunch.

“Watch out!” she said, too late.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “Forgive me,
señorita
.” He dropped to the ground and started picking up the tiny pieces. “I didn’t mean to break your whatever-it-is. I will replace it.”

“It isn’t mine. It’s part of the lamp.”

“I don’t think so.” He put the pieces in his pocket. “But it was not yours. That is good.” Leaving the small lamp on the floor, he took the tall one from Angie, put it on the table, plugged it in, then switched it on. It didn’t light. He switched light bulbs with the small lamp, and it still wouldn’t light.

“What is wrong? There is…
nada
.” He took off the bulb and studied the socket. Before Angie could say anything, he stuck his finger in the socket to prod it. Then, with a yelp, he jerked it out.

The electric current wasn’t the problem.

“Are you all right?” Angie asked.

“
Sí, señorita
.” He sounded a little uncertain.

“Let’s forget about the lamp. This new one is too big anyway. The smaller one will be fine.”

“I will keep searching. Anything for you,
señorita
.” He put the small lamp back, on the table and plugged it in.

“Thank you, Julio. Here you go.” She handed him back the huge lamp.

He didn’t turn around, though. Instead, he started backing out of the room, a toothy smile on his face, his longing gaze on her the whole time. At the door, he turned too quickly and crashed the lamp into the door frame. Blushing fiercely, he whispered, “
Adiós, señorita
.”

“
Adiós
, Julio,” Angie said, then folded her arms and glared at the offending, still-remaining, too-small lamp.

“Is that walking destruction derby coming back soon?” Paavo called from the bedroom.

“He’s just trying to be helpful,” she said, joining him. “Although I must admit, he might be more helpful if he were less trying.” She sighed.

“What was it that fell off the lamp?” Paavo asked.

“It was a little round disk.”

“A disk?”

“That’s right.” Suddenly, her eyes opened wide and she spun toward him. “When Julio stepped on it, it broke open and had tiny wires. Paavo, it looked like a bug!”

His mouth wrinkled. “A bug?”

“A listening device, not an insect! What if our room was bugged?” She flung her arms in the air. “First someone goes through our bathroom cabinet, then they bug our lamp! What’s with this place?”

He held his hands up, palms outward. “Angie, calm down. Now, tell me, do you know about lamp parts and wiring?”

“Well, no. But so what? I—”

“It was probably just a normal piece of the lamp.”

“Let’s find Julio and get it back. Then you can look at it and see for yourself.”

“Not now. I think I’ll read after all.” He picked up his book.

“But Paavo—”

Obstinately, he shook his head. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Angie.
Relax. Enjoy the cruise. Nothing is going on.”

“How can you say that? Didn’t you notice how whenever I ask about Sven or the cook, people change the conversation?” she asked.

“I think you were the one who was changing the conversation,” he said.

“Me?”

“Come over here.”

She crossed to his side. He took her hand and let his grip tighten, unable to hide the need he felt for her. He drew her onto the bed and she snuggled against him, the scent of her new perfume—a mixture of lilac and lilies—wafting over him. He kissed her, lightly at first, then deeply as his thoughts of how important she was to him enveloped him once more.

“I don’t think—”

“You’re changing the conversation again.” As he pulled her down among the pillows, she wrapped her arms around him, returning his kisses as fast as he gave them.

“You taste so good,” she whispered then smiled impishly. “Maybe this is the
Good Ship Lollipop
.” She licked his ear.

He felt as if fireworks exploded all around him. “As long as it’s not the
Titanic
.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“It is the
Titanic
,” Paavo groaned, flopping onto his stomach.

“Forget it,” she said, running her hands over his shoulders.

The knock sounded again.

“If you don’t go see who it is, you’ll be wondering about it all night.” He pulled the pillow over his head.

She was already off the bed. “It can’t be anything serious.” She walked to the door and opened it. To her amazement two men, one tall and the other short, stood in the dark hallway.

“Angie Amalfi?” the tall one asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“We heard you’re a restaurant reviewer,” the short one said.

“Why, yes.” She’d heard of calling on doctors late at night, but never restaurant reviewers.

“We’re the cooks,” the taller one said. “Mike Jones here.”

Mike Jones—what a simple name, she thought. Jones was a tall, slim, sandy-haired man, disarmingly handsome, wearing jeans and a blue pullover. He held out his hand. She took it and he gave her a strong, enthusiastic handshake, more like someone trying to sell Amway products than a cook.

“Andrew Brown,” the short one said. “But I’m only Mike’s assistant.” He was young, short, and slender, with black hair and a peaked, almost washed-out look about his eyes. He, too, held out his hand in a firm handshake.

“You’re both American,” Angie said, unable to hide her surprise.

“That’s because most of the passengers are,” Jones explained. “We cook simple meals, but we’d like to cook something more. Pete Lichty
was the experienced cook, a Dane, but since he’s gone now—”

“That’s why we came to see you,” Brown added.

Did they expect her to cook? “Oh, well, I don’t—”

“This is our free time—we don’t have to cook for anyone at night—and we were wondering if you’d join us for a drink in the lounge.” Jones smiled at her. A deep dimple marked his right cheek and its crease worked its way to his jaw. Young Andrew Brown seemed more washed out than ever by comparison.

Before she had a chance to reply, he quickly added, “We’d really enjoy talking to someone who knows good food and good cooking.”

“Well…” She glanced over her shoulder. “One second.”

Something told her not to call out Paavo’s name as she walked back into the bedroom, and sure enough, his even breathing confirmed what she’d suspected might have happened—lying on the bed, he’d fallen asleep. Most likely, he’d be out for the night. He was still catching up on much-needed sleep. She hoped he’d catch up soon and again be the curious inspector she knew and loved.

Wait…where had that thought come from? He was giving up all that dangerous curiosity, and she was glad of it. She had to keep in mind the old saying about curiosity and the cat, and be glad of Paavo’s new-found acquiescence.

She glanced at her watch. It was only nine o’clock. Heck, she might as well go to the lounge with Mike and Andrew. She certainly wasn’t ready for bed. The only ones on board who were in bed this early were probably the Neblers, the Cockburns…and Paavo. She grabbed her tote bag.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling the door quietly shut as she stepped into the hall.

They went down to the second deck, to the passenger lounge. In the ship’s brochure, the room had been referred to as the “Panorama Lounge,” even though there was nothing in the least panoramic about it. It had Formica tables, padded chairs, and large windows facing the sundeck, where the pool was found. Mike sent Andrew down to the galley, which was located below the main deck, to get some cold beers from the refrigerator.

Mike found a table in a dark corner of the room where, he said, they could sit and not be disturbed by anyone. Angie wasn’t sure who might disturb them, since the other passengers had apparently gone to bed and the room was empty. As they made small talk about the chilly weather, Brown returned and put three cans of Budweiser on the table, without glasses. “We don’t have anything fancy on a ship like this,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Angie popped the top.

“So,” Jones said, sitting back after drinking some of the beer, “tell us about cooking beef
Wellington. Just how do you get the meat to cook inside a pastry shell without burning the pastry to a crisp in the process?”

Angie was amazed at the question. That wasn’t the sort of cooking tip she would have expected from beer-drinking freighter cooks. But if that was what they wanted to know…

Despite Angie’s curiosity about how two such nice-looking young men had ended up working on a freighter, they had kept her talking almost nonstop, not only about beef Wellington, but about how to get the greatest height possible in a soufflé. How to make a dependable white sauce that could be counted on to work every time. How to apply the glaze to crême brulée.

“Enough already,” she said with a laugh. “You’re giving me a headache!”

“We’re sorry,” Jones said. “When we found out about your background, well…”

“Tell me about yourselves,” Angie said. She turned to Andrew Brown. “You look very young to be working on a ship like this.”

“I guess I am,” Brown said, then glanced shyly at Jones and bowed his head. “I only got the job because of Mike.”

“He needed work,” Jones said matter-of-factly. “When I met him, he was eating out of the Dumpsters behind restaurants so that he wouldn’t get sent to another foster home. He was willing to learn, and I needed an assistant who spoke English. I got tired of trying to communicate in
anything from Norwegian to Chinese on these freighters. Not many Americans are involved in shipping anymore. So I told Captain Olafson we were a package deal—an inexpensive package deal. He took us on.”

Angie faced Andrew. “So, is Mike treating you well?”

He gave a half smile. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“And I take it,” Angie continued, with sudden insight on how the young man would have had to escape the courts and child protective services, “Andrew Brown isn’t your real name?”

Even in the dark corner, Angie could see Brown’s eyes meet Jones’s a moment before he looked down at the tabletop. “You could say that.”

Angie smiled smugly as she turned back to Jones. “And you, Mr. Jones, how did you get started in this line of work?”

He grimaced. “I guess it was because of a woman. My ex-wife. After the divorce, I was cleaned out. I couldn’t even get back on my feet because of alimony and child support payments—and they weren’t even my kids. So I joined the ranks of deadbeat dads, or in my case, deadbeat cuckolded spouses responsible for other men’s kids.”

“Whoa, talk about a bitter speech,” Angie said, surprised at the man’s vehemence.

“Talk about a bitter man,” he replied. “Say, Andy, maybe we should have another round of beer.”

“Sure,” she said. “And then you two can tell me about something I’ve been curious about since I got on this ship.”

“Oh? What’s that, Miss Amalfi?” Jones asked.

“Why the cook went running off. He seemed so anxious to get away, he even tried to jump! Working in the galley can’t be that bad, can it?”

“He was always a comedian,” Jones said. “It was just a joke. He’d planned to leave for some time.”

“I hardly knew him,” Andrew Brown said as he stood up. “Excuse me. I have to get up at four-thirty. The crew is served breakfast at six, well before the passengers eat.”

“My goodness,” Angie said. “I didn’t realize that.”

“You’re right, Andy. I’d better come along, too.” Jones stood as well. “Good night, Miss Amalfi, and thank you for all your help.”

With that, they both left.

Angie stared after them. Was it something she’d said?