Courting Disaster (11 page)

“Where did you see Angie?” he repeated.

“Everywhere, Inspector Smith. I see her everywhere.”

Hannah had just gotten up from bed, wearing a bathrobe, her hair uncombed and tucked behind her ears, as she stumbled sleepily into the living room.

Stan sat on the sofa, the baby nestled in the Snugli.

“I can't believe I slept that long,” she said, her gaze lingering on Kaitlyn. “How did you manage?”

“Just fine,” he said. “No problem at all.”

She put her hand to her chest and looked down at her breasts. “I hate to ask you,” she said, “but next time you're at the store, could you look for some nursing pads? Even though I'm not nursing, I seem to be leaking a bit. I understand it's fairly common….”

He felt his stomach flip-flop. Well, if he could buy Kotex and survive, he could do just about anything. “Sure,” he said miserably, but then his eyes darted toward the apartment door.

Hannah followed his gaze to a white Jenny Lind–style crib with a bumper of pink clouds and a mobile of nursery rhyme characters.

“Stan, what did you do?” she gasped. With her hands to her mouth, she slowly walked over to it as if she half expected it to vanish into thin air. She lightly touched the sides, the top; she tapped the mobile and watched it dance, smoothed the sheets and mattress pad, fingered the blankets, all fresh and new and pretty, then whirled toward him. “It's gorgeous.”

“Fit for a princess,” Stan said. “It's from Angie. I'll wheel it into the bedroom, soon as I push the Bowflex out of the way.” As he gave her Kaitlyn, her hands touched his arms, then her body moved close as she tucked the baby against her breasts. She looked up at him as if he were a knight in shining armor. He didn't remember anyone ever looking at him quite that way before.

He found it unnerving, coughed lightly, and the moment was broken. She turned toward the crib. “I never meant for you to go to so much trouble and expense. I don't know how to thank you. And Angie, too,” she said, lightly touching the wood once more.

“It's my pleasure.” He called as he rearranged the bedroom to fit the crib. Once all was settled, Hannah placed the baby in it and stepped back, teary-eyed.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. It's just that she looks so pretty there. It's so lovely. No one's ever been this kind to me.” She gazed up at him. “Not ever, Stan.”

“That's hard to believe,” he said. “Did you…did you really grow up in foster homes?”

“Ah! You're wondering how many lies I've told you.”

“Well…”

“That was no lie.” His hand was resting on the top rail of the crib, and she placed hers gently atop it.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

She leaned against him. “I went from one house to another, looking for someone to love me, and making sure I never found that person by being as obnoxious and as much a troublemaker as I could possibly be.”

“You? That's hard to believe,” Stan interrupted, his tone soft and soothing.

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “It took me years to understand what I was doing, and I'm still not sure I do. Let's just say I was used to people sending me away because they didn't like me, and I didn't like them. But what if I found someone to love, and thought they loved me…and then they still sent me away? How could I cope? I was so afraid of that happening, of the rejection I'd feel, that I made sure it never did.”

She went on to explain how, at age eighteen, the state stopped paying for her keep. Since her foster parents needed the income, she had to leave their home, her bed was no longer available to her. It never had been “hers,” she realized. Nothing ever was.

She worked in Los Angeles a few years—first McDonald's, then a couple of waitressing jobs. Tired of it, getting nowhere, she moved to San Francisco and hooked up with some girls and guys who invited her to sleep on the floor of their flat in the Haight-Ashbury. The job situation, she quickly learned, was a lot worse than in L.A. She
wasn't the only one bedding on the floor. Everyone who could contributed a little money toward the rent.

Things went on in that apartment she didn't like to think about, but she managed to stay out of everyone's way. It was a roof over her head, and that was all that mattered.

One day, Hannah was panhandling at Fisherman's Wharf when Gail Leer spotted her. Gail looked at her strangely, and Hannah later learned it was because she reminded Gail so much of her sister. Gail's husband owned the Athina, and she offered Hannah a job.

“It was surely nice of Gail to do all that for you,” Stan said.

“She's a good person. I once asked her about it, and she said she and Eugene couldn't have children. If they had, they'd probably have a daughter my age, so I was taking the place of the child that never was. It was a strange thing for her to say, though, because I later learned they'd only been married about twelve years. I guess she was just trying to come up with an excuse for helping me.”

Hannah dropped her hands from the crib and moved away from Stan. “I don't know what's come over me, jabbering about myself like this. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be such a bother.”

“I'm glad you told me. Look, Kaitlyn's awake,” he said. “Look at her smiling at us.”

“She can't smile yet, Stan,” Hannah said with a laugh as she picked up the baby and held her to her chest.

Unfortunately, as soon as she did that, all Stan
could think about was that her breasts might start to leak, right there in front of him, and the previously tender moment vanished.

“Time for dinner,” he said, and stumbled quickly into the kitchen, hoping to clear his head. He never realized women were so…drippy.

He found a frozen macaroni and cheese container and plopped it into the microwave at the same time as he dropped some hot dogs into a pot to boil.

Meat, starch, and…vegetables! That's what was needed.

He grabbed the head of iceberg lettuce Angie insisted he buy, hacked it into fourths, placed two quarters on plates, and smothered them with Thousand Island dressing.
Chef Emeril, move over!

He was dishing out the mac and cheese when the doorbell rang. It had to be Angie. He wasn't expecting anyone.

“Can you get that, Hannah?” he called.

“Sure.”

He heard a female voice say, “I'm sorry, I thought this was where Stan Bonnette lives.”

“It is,” Hannah said. “Won't you come in?”

Just then, Stan stepped into the living room, a dinner plate in each hand. He saw Hannah in a robe, the baby in her arms, and Nona Farraday at the door.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she gawked at him. “I'm sorry,” she said to Hannah. “I've got the
wrong
Stan Bonnette. Good-bye.”

 

Dinners at four of the city's top restaurants were among the “big” prizes to be awarded each night
at the public television auction, and it was Angie's job to read the pitch that would get donors to open their wallets wide.

Her voice quivered and her hands shook the first time she read the script aloud for the TV producer. By read number three, however, she was bored and calm. Her pitch would take place before, during, and after three hours of Julia Child reruns.

Before the show began, Angie went in search of the restaurant owners who would be part of the first night's auction.

Two of them she'd met before, but nevertheless, as she spotted each one, she walked up, held out her hand, and announced, “The name is Amalfi, Angie Amalfi.” The first time she said it she felt like she was part of a Bond, James Bond movie, but she needed to be sure the owners distinctly heard her name, since she was hoping for a reaction such as,
Oh, my—we're holding your engagement party at our restaurant!

It didn't happen. Not even when she added, “Have you met my mother, Serefina Amalfi? I believe she mentioned you to me.”

They hadn't.

The evening didn't work out the way Angie had wished, but she had two more nights of this. She'd never had beginner's luck anyway, so why expect it now?

For her first appearance, she was given a cue and nervously made the pitch. By the end of the third hour, she was so far beyond being nervous she even ad-libbed and was ready to do more of it when she saw the director scowling at her.

She went back to the script.

When her job was over, she put in a call to Yellow Cab and asked for Peter Leong. He'd picked her up at her apartment to bring her to the studio and when she told him she'd be making the same round trip three nights in a row, he said to ask for him and he'd make sure she was safe.

KQED was located in a small building south of Market Street. Unfortunately, it wasn't in the central SoMa area that was being gentrified and revitalized, nor was it in the eastern area with the Pac Bell baseball stadium and other new office buildings. Instead, it was in the still-decrepit western sector. That was the reason she decided to take a cab instead of driving. The parking lot would be pretty lonely this time of night, and anyone could be lurking in it since public TV's security wasn't top-notch, nor needed to be. Besides that, it wasn't the type of area to leave a Mercedes CL-600, alarms and GPS notwithstanding.

She took the stairs from the studio to the lobby and huddled at the door to the main entrance, looking out the glass doors to the street for her taxi. Before long, she saw headlights. Peter got out of the cab and opened a back door. She hurried to it, glad to see him.

“Did you make a lot of money for public TV?” he asked as he drove.

The auction had gone surprisingly well. As they talked, she learned he'd been driving a cab for over twenty years, ever since his restaurant business bellied up. It had been a lunch spot in the Financial District, but there was so much competition, he
couldn't make a go of it. Still, it gave them a lot to talk about. Angie had never wanted to open a restaurant. Too well did she know about the long hours, hard work, and struggle to make a profit. Only if one was very lucky and developed the kind of word-of-mouth that resulted in steady customers could a restaurant make money. If not, the waste of food was phenomenal.

“I don't want to make you nervous,” Peter said suddenly, “but is there any reason a car might be following us?”

“What?” She turned and saw a car some distance behind them. “Not that I know of.”

“I'm going to turn, just to see what he does,” Peter said.

The car turned where they did. The residential streets were quiet this time of night. The coincidence of the only other car out there going in exactly the same direction was worrisome.

He made another left and watched from the rearview mirror. The other car made the left as well. Peter drove another couple of blocks and then made another left.

So did the car following.

“Sometimes taxis are robbed because these punks know we carry cash,” Peter said. “Buckle up. I'm going to get rid of whoever it is.”

“Go for it,” Angie encouraged.

He stepped on the gas and they were off, first racing up the hills to Pacific Heights. From there he turned north onto Fillmore Street, one of the steepest in the city, and bounded downhill. At each intersection the street would level out, and then drop precipitously, causing the cab to be
come airborne a short while before landing with a thud on the pavement.

Angie wedged herself against the corner, clutching the top of the seat with one hand, the door with the other. Her teeth rattled, and it was all she could do to hold her mouth shut so she didn't bite her tongue.

Peter zigzagged through the Marina where the streets curved, mazelike, and some were only one block long.

Not until he was sure that the car following them was gone did he drive up to Russian Hill and Angie's apartment.

She thanked him, gave a big tip, and then tottered to the safety of her apartment building on shaky legs. The Disneyland attraction, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, had nothing on Peter.

 

He drove around, block after block, pounding the dashboard and cursing. That rattletrap of a taxi somehow evaded him this time, but never again.

He pulled into a parking space and cut the engine, then stared up at the night sky, hoping the serenity of the full moon could calm him. There was still plenty of time, he told himself. No need to panic. He'd find her soon enough.

With that thought, he smiled.
Next time,
he told himself.
For sure, next time….

“M
adonna mia!
” Serefina cried as Angie stepped out of the dressing room in a pale blue evening gown. The front dipped in a V almost to the waist, and the skirt was short. “Are you crazy, Angelina? There's nothing there!”

“It's fine, Mamma,” Angie cried, looking down at herself. “Maybe a little short. And low.”

“Exactly.” Serefina folded her arms and glared at the offending dress. She was a short, stout woman with black hair pulled straight back into an elaborate bun, and wearing a rayon dress of white and navy diagonal stripes. As she marched around the boutique inspecting the clothes, the stripes pirouetted like a
dans macabre.

Angie went back into the dressing room and switched to a different pale blue dress with a halter top and ruffles from knee to floor. Serefina's reaction was even more negative.

Next, Angie tried a pale blue dress with a lace bodice and bell skirt. It made her look like a schoolgirl. That one, Serefina liked. Angie didn't,
so she moved on to a pale blue bias-cut one-shoulder number that dropped to the floor in a straight skirt.

“Not bad, but why do you choose nothing but light blue?” Serefina asked, sitting now. “It's so drab on you. You look better with warm colors. You know that.”

Angie had to admit it was true, but the more she thought about the purple cake, she feared the entire décor might be purple. A soft blue dress would look much better than the yellow Dior she loved.

Besides, her party was now only eight days away. Since she was having no luck finding out anything about it from anyone, she'd come up with this plan.

“Blue is a color that will go well with any décor,” she said, then added pointedly, “I don't want to clash with the decorations or the cake, for example. Lots of them are in strong colors these days. Colors like, oh, for example,
purple.
”

“Purple?” Serefina looked at her as if she'd grown two heads. “Who uses purple for engagement parties?”

“What? No purple?” Angie was both shocked and relieved. “What about…black doves?”

“Are they dead?” Serefina asked, horrified.

Angie's relief was so great she could have waltzed her mother around the boutique. “Well, maybe my yellow dress will be fine after all.” She turned back to the dressing room. Serefina followed.

Back in the dressing room, Angie had to wonder: if Serefina wasn't behind the strange phone calls and dove delivery, who was? Her sisters
didn't have that warped a sense of humor. No way would Connie or Stan do it. That left—Angie scowled—Nona Farraday!

It had all started after she met Nona at the Fairmont. That rat! That snake in the grass!

“Can we leave now?” Serefina asked. “I'm tired.”

“We'll go.” Angie started to change to her own clothes. Feelings of relief and revenge filled her, but she didn't want to think about that now. “By the way,” she said, “Did Papà say anything to you about his meeting with Paavo last week?”

Serefina gasped. “He met with Paavo?”

Uh-oh.
Angie gulped. “I saw them together at Moose's. Paavo won't say why.”

Serefina's lips pursed. “Your father's been acting peculiar lately. Now I learn he's sneaking into the city without telling me! He's up to something and I'm going to find out what! You need to help me, Angelina.”

Her mother's reaction, her expression, were strange. Angie felt suddenly uncomfortable. She didn't want to know about trouble between her parents. “It's probably nothing. Maybe they just decided to get along, like they said. For the sake of the party.”

“Humph!” was Serefina's reply. Angie agreed.

She finished dressing and stood before Serefina in a red and black Donna Karan suit.

Suddenly tears sprang to Serefina's eyes.

“Mamma, what's wrong?” Angie asked, horrified. “Is it about Papà?”

“No. You!” Serefina fished a handkerchief from her black Coach bag.

“Me? What did I do?”

“I remembered when you were just a little girl in frilly dresses. Now you're a sophisticated woman, hawking stuff on television—”

“Hawking?”

“—and soon you'll be a bride.” More tears flowed. “My little girl. Soon all my daughters will be married women, with families of their own. You won't need me or your Papà anymore.”

Angie was near tears as well. Hands clasped, she moved toward her mother. “We'll always need you, Mamma. How often does Frannie come running back home when she gets mad at Seth?”

“I wouldn't wish a marriage like that on you and Paavo!” Serefina wiped her eyes, dropped the hankie back into her purse, and smoothed her hair. “Marriage does change a person, though. There's a reason it's called settling
down
.”

“Mamma, it'll be all right.” Angie tried to give her mother a hug.

“Don't be so mushy, Angelina! Of course it will be fine.” She brushed her off and took out her compact to check her eye makeup. “Those were tears of joy. Now, before we leave, I saw an Hermès scarf I want to buy.”

Angie wondered if she'd ever understand her mother. At least they enjoyed shopping together.

 

Paavo was beginning to understand Sal Amalfi a lot better, which was why he was certain he should drive by Elizabeth Schull's apartment building on her day off.

Sure enough, just like the other night, Sal's red
Lincoln was parked a few doors from it, as big and ugly as a neon sign flashing
STALKER
. If Elizabeth ever had any doubt that he was watching her, it had to be gone now.

Paavo parked and walked up to Sal's car, while Sal scowled at him through the window. The passenger door wasn't locked. He opened it and got in. “What do you think you're doing?” he asked.

Sal's eyes narrowed. “I know what I'm doing, but I don't know about you. I'm watching her! I want to follow her to see what she's up to. If she goes near Angelina or Serefina, I'll run her down.”

Paavo decided he hadn't heard the threat, but more than ever, he was going to have to keep an eye on Sal. If Angie's father ended up in jail, she'd never forgive him. “Don't you think Schull will recognize your car?” he asked.

“Why should she? I never drive it to the stores. I hire a limo, or let Serefina drive. This car is special. Besides, it's comfortable for surveillance work. You can easily stretch out in it—at least, you can when no one's with you. Why don't you get out of here?”

In the car was a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, a thermos of coffee, and an empty Cran-Apple bottle with a screw top. Obviously, Sal had been reading up on how male private eyes do surveillance and had come well prepared.

“What would you do if she tried anything?” Paavo asked, working hard to keep calm and resist the urge to wrap his fingers around the man's scrawny neck and squeeze some sense into him. “You don't dare to confront her.”

“I'd call you.”

“Well, that's good, at least,” Paavo said.

“Not that it would do any good,” Sal muttered.

The garage door to Schull's apartment building opened and an old blue Ford Escort pulled out. “It's her!” Sal cried. He handed his coffee cup to Paavo and started the car.

The Escort put-putted down the street, sounding and looking like a lawn mower with a roof over it, and turned at the corner. Sal cranked the ignition and the Lincoln roared to life, but then he checked the rear-and sideview mirrors, pushed the lever into drive, wriggled it to be sure it engaged, put on his turn signal, and slowly eased the behemoth into the street.

Sal drove so slowly Paavo was sure if he got out and walked, he'd have reached the corner long before the car did. Once at the intersection, Sal stopped, slowly and carefully looked both ways, then turned.

At stop signs, Sal not only stopped, but even waited a beat before proceeding. Paavo was ready to shout,
This is California!
Nobody came to full stops here but out-of-state drivers.

Fortunately, Schull's driving wasn't any zippier. The whole thing was like watching a football replay with a slo-mo camera.

Schull turned into the Safeway parking lot. When Sal finally reached it, the Escort was empty.

Sal pulled into a space at some distance from the Escort, yet with easy eye contact, and then took back his coffee cup. Not a drop had spilled. He
drove so slowly and steadily Paavo doubted any of it sloshed. Not even going around curves.

“You want a doughnut?” Sal asked.

Paavo's jaw was clamped so tightly it ached. “No, thanks.”

They sat and waited, and after about twenty minutes, Schull came out pushing a cart. Driving slowly as ever, Sal followed her back to her house, where she entered the garage.

Sal parked back in the space he'd used earlier and looked at Paavo with disgust. “You do this kind of surveillance work often?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Paavo admitted.

“Your job is sure boring, isn't it?”

 

Earl White warmly greeted Angie at the Wings of an Angel Restaurant. “Long time no see, Miss Angie.”

“Things have been a little…hectic,” Angie said. After saying good-bye to her mother after their strange series of conversations at the boutique, she decided a glass of wine would be just what the doctor ordered. A glass of strong wine. Fortified, in fact.

He led her to her favorite seat. “I s'pose so, what wit' your engagement party an' all.”

“My engagement party, yes.” She shuddered. All that
wasn't
happening with it made her a little sick. At least she now could be certain that the cake and doves were nothing to worry about.

“What'll you have?” Earl asked.

“Port.”

“No food?”

“I'm not hungry. Tell me, Earl, do you know
anything about the Athina Restaurant down at the wharf? It's just a little place. The owner's name is Eugene Leer.”

“Can't say I know it, but I'll ask Vinnie and Butch. Why? You aren't t'inking of making dat your favorite restaurant, are you?”

“Of course not! There's something strange going on there, and I'd love to know what it is.”

“Somet'ing strange? Hey, I'd love to know, too. I don't like strange. We gotta keep everyt'ing on da up and up.”

Angie nodded and managed to keep a straight face. Earl, Butch, and Vinnie had met at San Quentin while they were all doing time for scams or burglaries. Considering their continuing interest in the shadier side of life despite promises to the contrary, Earl's talk about the “up and up” was more than a little hypocritical.

“Thanks, Earl. I appreciate it,” Angie said.

She was halfway through her wine and calming down when her nerves made a U-turn. Nona Farraday stuck her engagement-party-meddling head in the door. “You're here!” she said, marching toward Angie's table. “I was driving down Columbus Avenue and saw your car parked outside. I have to talk to you.”

“Speak of the devil. I was just thinking about you. Have a seat,” Angie invited, eyes narrow. She supposed Nona had come by to learn how well she was holding up under the strain of a party in shambles. Wouldn't she be disappointed?

Earl came over with a menu, but Nona just wanted a glass of Riesling.

“Don't laugh,” Nona said before Angie could get a word in, “but I want to ask about your neighbor.”

That wasn't expected. “You mean Stan?”

“What's going on, Angie?” Nona asked peevishly. “
You
told me he was a good guy. I believed you! When he didn't call, I decided he was shy and kindly took the first step. I went to his apartment and it looks like he's got a wife and child! I don't like being played for a sucker. What's with the two-timing bastard?”

How could Nona sound so serious about Stan Bonnette? Maybe this was an act she was pulling to throw Angie off track. “I don't know,” Angie said innocently. “Maybe he doesn't like black doves.”

“Doves? What are you talking about?” Nona asked.

“Or strippers!” Angie practically spit the word at her.

“Who said she was a stripper?” Nona pressed her fingers to her temples. “I can't take it, Angie! I'm really sick of the men you throw at me. First that bossy Calderon, and now two-timing Stan. Don't you know anyone
decent
?”

Angie couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Are you trying to tell me you don't know about the black doves and purple cake?”

Nona gawked at her. “I'm out of here. The whole world has gone mad.”

“Wait. Stan's no two-timer,” Angie said, wondering why it was suddenly her job to defend Stan. “He met the woman at a restaurant, the Athina. She was pregnant, needed help, and turned to Stan.”

“Help? Bone-crushingly desperate sounds more like it!” Nona sneered. “And what's this Athina business? Are you sure it's a restaurant? I've never heard of it, and I know all the restaurants in town. In my line of work, I have to, you know.”

Angie hated it when Nona talked about her job. It was like rubbing salt in a wound. In fact, she was tired of being pushed around, used, lied to, and accused of having worthless friends. “You don't know the Athina?” Her eyes opened wide and shock reverberated in her voice. She might have been wrong about Nona and the engagement party, but she wasn't wrong about Nona in general. “I simply can't believe it!”

Nona's face hardened. “So, are you going to tell me or not?”

“It's the new in-place.” Angie lowered her voice as if she were letting Nona in on a deep secret. “Shabby chic. It looks very prepossessing, frankly, but the singles crowd loves it. Which is why I don't go—being
engaged
and all.” How she loved using her own brand of salt, so to speak. “But those who aren't attached hang out there. Especially Stan. He says the food is excellent. Apparently, he thinks the kitchen help is, too.”