To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (2 page)

“It looks like a search, followed by frustration.”

As she wandered through the little house, she realized he was right. It wasn’t random destruction as she had first thought, but where the search to her apartment had appeared slow and meticulous, here it was hurried and frenzied.

“Hercules!” he called. “Herc? Come on, boy, are you all right?”

Angie’s breath caught. His cat…He loved that cat.

“Do you see him?” she asked, standing in the bedroom doorway.

“No. They better not have hurt my cat,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. They looked under the bed, in the closets, and throughout the backyard.

She was afraid—and for Hercules, more afraid that they’d find the cat than that they wouldn’t. If he had run and was hiding, scared, he should return home eventually, but if he was nearby, and unable to come when called…

They couldn’t find him.

Finally, back in the living room, Paavo bleakly took in the damage, the ugliness before him. “Who’s doing this, Angie, and why?”

The bellboy wheeled in a cart with Angie’s luggage and turned on lamps. Paavo put down his duffel bag and inspected their room at the Huntington, an elegant hotel at the top of Nob Hill. The walls were papered powder blue, and the cream-colored gilded furniture was imitation Louis XIV. The view overlooked Huntington Park and the exclusive Pacific Union Club, from Grace Cathedral to the Fairmont Hotel.

“Didn’t I tell you this would be much nicer than sleeping on the floor at your place?” Angie asked, clearly pleased with her choice.

“This is much nicer than my whole house,” Paavo remarked as he tipped the porter and locked the door.

“Very funny.”

Now, in the hotel room, she looked exhausted. No wonder; it was nearly four o’clock in the morning. They’d spent hours waiting for the police to arrive. During that time, he’d packed a few things and changed out of his suit to Levi’s, a maroon pullover, and a brown leather jacket.

“Tomorrow I’ll contact my cousin Richie,” she said, flopping into a chair. “He might have a house
or apartment on the market we can use for a few weeks.”

“Let’s wait until we see what’s going on.” He unzipped his duffel bag. “Most people get new locks or a burglar alarm after a break-in, not a whole new place to live.”

She watched him a moment, then walked to his side and touched his shoulder, stopping him as he unloaded underwear into a bureau drawer. He straightened, and she eased herself against his chest.

“I think it’s wise to be prudent—just as you said when you suggested I stay with you for a while. Oh, maybe I didn’t think it was necessary at first, but now I do. My house, then yours? It’s bizarre.”

Paavo’s arms tightened protectively around her. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to Ben Chan, get him to check out my place for fingerprints and signs of entry.”
And I’ll look for Hercules
.

She seemed to study him. “Once he knows it’s safe, Hercules will come home,” she said, making him wonder once again if she could read his mind or his expression. Most people called him stone-faced, but not Angie.

He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead and ran his thumb lightly along her cheek, taking in the dark shadows under her eyes. She was so beautiful, so soft…and this hotel room was theirs to share…

“You’ll be fine here,” he said, setting her from him. “I’m going to take a shower, eat breakfast, and go to work. It’ll be morning soon and I’ll feel worse if I try to sleep for just an hour. This way, you can get some sleep.”

She firmed her jaw and nodded. “All right.” Her voice was a little too husky. She opened a suitcase and pulled out a satin nightgown when suddenly
she threw it back into the case. “Just a minute!” Hands on hips, she marched toward him. “On second thought, it’s not all right at all. Not at all. Someone broke into both our homes, made your furniture look like it’d been ground up by a Cuisinart, and you’re going to work? You’ve got better things to do, like getting some sleep so you’ll have enough energy to find the crook who did it and pulverize him.”

“Angie—”

“Even if you’re not worried about this, I am. Especially for you! What happened to your home, your things…I can’t get it out of my head. If anything happens to you—”

He gripped her shoulders. “Take it easy.” Moving his hands to her back, he drew her closer. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, or you. I’m sure it’s not that serious. We’ll catch whoever’s behind it soon. Heck, I needed new furniture anyway.”

He kissed her once, twice, then more, wanting to kiss away her anxieties. He thought of how she’d gone to Stan when he wasn’t able to be with her after the break-in. Was he really going to be such a jerk as to leave her alone again? “Maybe that stuff I was going to do at work can wait a few hours.”

Her arms circled his neck and she held him tight, kissing him back while a fearful shudder rippled through her.

He led her to the king-size bed and lay down beside her. There was no way he could leave her now. Instead, he held her, loving her as dawn lit the sky. She fell asleep before he did. As his own eyes shut, he gathered her close, and tried to keep the nightmares from them both.

Even after thirty years, the view from his office window caused Harold Partridge’s narrow chest to
swell with pride. The world’s cleverest engineers, computer scientists, and programmers strode briskly through the Silicon Valley complex, their minds ticking with the latest inventions and the next enhancements to the worldwide business that was Partridge Industries.

His private phone began to ring.
Finally!

He held it to his ear. “Well?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Skinny arms began to shake. “Impossible! You missed it! You cretins! Imbeciles!”

“We didn’t—”

A pulsating pain crossed his brow. “Do you think I’m doing this just for fun? It’s important, goddamn it!”

“We understand, Mr. Partridge.”

The words, so cloyingly spoken from these sycophantic fools who couldn’t follow simple instructions, made his overly acidic stomach curl. “Don’t call me again until you are successful.”

“That”—the caller coughed nervously—“that might require more than you said the first time.”

“I don’t care! Do whatever it takes!” He slammed down the phone but kept his gaze fixed on it as he nervously cracked his knuckles one by one. The time had come to do what he must, what he should have done immediately, much as he loathed the idea. Fighting the tremor in his body, he picked up the receiver again and began to dial.

“You’re going to get us thrown out, Angie.” Connie Rogers leaned across the table and spoke in a loud whisper. Angie’s best friend was in her early thirties, blond, divorced, the owner of a small gift shop, and a grudging accomplice in too many of Angie’s screwball schemes. Like now.

The two of them, dressed to kill—Angie in a Rena Lange burgundy brocade embroidered jacket and matching skirt, and Connie in an emerald-green silk dress from a mall shop’s fifty-percent-off rack—sat in Pisces, an elegant restaurant high on Nob Hill, newly opened and filled with a young and hip clientele. Angie was running her camcorder. So far, she’d taped a sweep of the restaurant, their table, the menu, and the wine list.

“If I walked in with a camera,” Angie explained calmly, “no one would object. It’s the same thing.”

“People with cameras take pictures of each other, not the food, the tables, and the help.”

“Look, restaurant reviews have to be made incognito.” Angie placed the camcorder on the table. “If the reviewer is known, it defeats the whole purpose. So we’re here pretending to be casual diners
who happen to have a camcorder. This way, instead of me taking notes and verbally describing everything I eat, we’re simply discussing the meal as we go along, and I’m taping it.”

“And then showing it to thousands of viewers on TV!” Connie scrunched her lips to the side like some gangster as an unsuspecting waiter sailed by.

“Shush! Not so loud.” Angie looked from one side to the other. “What’s the big deal? Taped TV restaurant reviews are a fabulous idea. They’ll catch on in a big way—in other words, I’ll make it big. The public will love them much more than bland old newspaper articles.”

“We could be sued!”

“Don’t worry. As I said, restaurant reviews are always written in secret, and all I’m taping is our dining experience, which is my right. You can also look at this as investigative reporting—photos and film are often used. Besides, I plan to only go to good restaurants with good food, ones that should appreciate the publicity. And if I do find something wrong, to sue because of a bad review would give a restaurant even more negative press. That’s the last thing they’d want.”

“Somehow, this seems wrong.”

“It’s fine. Quiet, now. Here comes our waiter.” She snapped open the camcorder viewer and aimed it at him.

“What are you celebrating?” The waiter grimaced into the lens as he served a salad of arugula, shaved Parmesan, and sliced artichoke with olive oil and lemon to Angie. Connie’s salad consisted of radicchio, scallions, and olives in a balsamic dressing.

“I’m going to buy a new car,” Angie said promptly. It wasn’t a lie. She had been thinking seriously about it ever since the problem of fitting her luggage into the Ferrari.

“Oh? Is that why you’re taking movies in this restaurant?”

She chose not to answer. “Haven’t you seen it done before?”

He peered down his nose. “No. I’ve never seen anyone do such a thing.”

“Oh…in time, you will. Just like cell phones.” She smiled. “Soon these will be all over the place. People talk on the phone everywhere, so why not film everything, too? You’ll get used to it. This is a great little recorder. It’s got sound and it’s digital, so you just talk into it.” She centered the viewer on him. “Tell me, do you enjoy working here?”

His eyes shifted left and right. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid some of the other customers are bothered by your filming.”

“They are?” Sure enough, everyone was staring at her.

“If you don’t mind…” the waiter said.

With a weighty sigh, she shut off the camcorder and laid it beside her plate again. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

The waiter sniffed, and then marched away.

“See what I mean?” Connie whispered.

“It’s none of their business! Next time I’ll be a little more subtle, that’s all.”

“Hah! You subtle? That’s the day I’ll become the next Mrs. Donald Trump! Anyway, why should there be a next time?”

“Because TV pays a lot more than newspapers.”

Connie tasted her salad, and decided to add a bit more salt. Quick as a flash, Angie taped her salting the food. “Your point?” Connie asked. Now she was grimacing at the camcorder, too.

“When I realized I was actually
glad
my apartment had been broken into so I had an excuse to move in with Paavo, I knew it was time to do some
thing about our living situation.” Angie took a bite of salad, and chewed thoughtfully before continuing. “I want to be with him. Despite the break-ins, we had a great day yesterday—we saw his friends at the police department, contacted his insurance company, then shopped for a new bed for him. Of course, this morning when I woke up in a beautiful hotel room—romantic, room service, every convenience at the touch of a button—and I found a note beside me instead of a man, I gritted my teeth. I swear, he doesn’t have a clue. Not a clue!”

“You don’t sound very worried about those break-ins,” Connie said as Angie rolled the camera on her salad and softly spoke into it about crispness and a slightly tinny flavor.

“In the clear light of day, I decided they were nothing,” Angie said, the taping momentarily over. “I’m sure whoever broke in was searching for money, and something scared them away before they realized I don’t keep money at home, and before they took any of my valuables. I’ll bet they saw Paavo’s name and address among my things. Maybe they thought we were together and figured since they’d been scared off from my place, they’d hit his. Who knows?”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions, girlfriend.”

“I’m sure the break-ins are no more than that. But if Paavo wants to worry about me, who am I to argue?” She winked conspiratorially.

Connie smiled back. “I get it.”

“And that’s where my TV restaurant reviews come in.”

“Now I don’t get it.”

“It’s simple. The two of us
need
a house. My clothes, and cookware, and antiques simply won’t fit into his small place. And there’s no way he’ll live under my father’s roof.” She didn’t have to tell Con
nie that Paavo and Salvatore Amalfi didn’t exactly see eye to eye about Paavo’s relationship with Angie. “Do you know how much houses cost in San Francisco these days? That’s why I’ve got to get a TV job even if I have to hire a movie crew to film these restaurants!”

“All so you can buy a house?”

“Eventually.”

Connie swallowed a big mouthful of radicchio. “Frankly, I really don’t see how you can think about buying a house with a man when there’s so much you don’t know about him.”

Angie stopped eating. “What do you mean?”

Connie shifted uncomfortably. “Well…you don’t really know him.”

“Don’t
know
him? How can you say that after all Paavo and I have been through together?”

“That’s what I mean. Things have happened to you both while you’ve been together, but how much of him do you know?”

“You sound like my father,” Angie cried, waving her fork in exasperation.

“Think about it. He keeps so much hidden.”

“Hidden? Nothing’s hidden about Paavo!”

“How much has he told you about his past?”

“Connie, he had a hard life, especially as a kid. I can understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure?”

Angie couldn’t believe her friend was talking this way. “I thought you liked Paavo.”

“I do, but you can’t build a life together with too many unknowns—with hidden pasts. I know what I’m talking about—that’s what killed my marriage. Along with my ex being a slime. But if I had known more about him, I would have known he was a
slime before I married him. You’ve got to learn all you can about Paavo.”

“I know about him!”

“Angie, you don’t even know the man’s real name.”

She glared hard at Connie. “What are you talking about?”

“You told me he said his Finnish stepfather gave him the name Paavo.” Connie jabbed the table with her forefinger to make her point. “Well, he didn’t live with Aulis until he was four years old. What was he called before that?”

“Aulis might have given him the name when he was first born,” Angie answered vehemently. “I don’t know
when
Aulis came up with Paavo, and I don’t care. I like the name!”

“Why didn’t Paavo’s own mother and father name him? Why some neighbor? Unless—” Connie gasped.

Angie felt a chill go through her. “Unless what?”

“Unless Aulis is really his father! Wow!”

“Connie, really!”

The waiter approached the table. Flustered, Angie started her camcorder rolling again, grateful for the interruption. She had no idea why Connie was talking to her this way. So what that she had wondered about some of it herself…

That was unfair. Whenever she asked, Paavo told her about his childhood. Maybe not all the particulars, but then, he didn’t know much about them.

Still, Connie’s questions bothered her.

The waiter smiled as he served Connie grilled Washington State salmon on spinach cream sauce, and scowled fiercely at Angie and the camcorder as he shoved a plate of steamed lobster medallions with saffron, tomatoes, basil, and thyme broth in
front of her. Angie smoldered. He was probably afraid the camcorder would pick up some dandruff on his shoulders.

As soon as he left, Connie leaned closer to Angie and in a hushed voice said, “I’ll confess that I never did give much credence to that story that Aulis simply took in Paavo and his older sister. I mean, being neighborly is one thing, but how many people raise their neighbor’s kids? It just isn’t done.”

Connie’s continuous harping moved beyond annoying. “Will you stop, already?”

“Angie, you’re my friend—my best friend—and I think it’s about time you learn exactly what’s going on here,” Connie insisted. “I mean, you’re counting on him for your future, but you’ve got too many unanswered questions for you to do such a thing. It’s foolish, Angie, and you’re not a foolish person.”

“I’m ready to stick a fork in my ear!”

“Damn it, woman, you are a certifiable wack job where Paavo Smith is concerned!” Connie cried.

Angie began to sputter, practically speechless for a moment. “Did you just call me a
wack
job?”

Connie put her palms on the table. “A short pier away from going over the edge!”

The two glared at each other.

Suddenly Angie grinned. “About to fall into the drink, eh?”

Connie chuckled. “Deep-sea-fishing time.”

Angie laughed, then shook her head helplessly. “I wonder where I can find a diver’s suit.”

To Angie’s amazement, Paavo was there when she returned to the hotel room. The day’s court session at which he was to testify had been canceled, the CSU still hadn’t found time to go to his place, and no new murders happened. He left work early to be with her.

The other inspectors must have gawked at him as if he’d sprouted wings.

They ordered room service for dinner. Dessert was memorable…and it wasn’t even on the menu.