Too Many Cooks (17 page)

Mark Dustman pulled tin
after tin of canned food off the shelves in LaTour's kitchen and tossed them into the industrial-size garbage can beside him.

“Excuse me.” Paavo stepped through the side alleyway door that led straight into the kitchen. Yosh followed behind him.

Dustman spun around, peas in one hand and canned peaches in the other. “I didn't hear you. Look at this! Cans! How does the man expect to serve quality food with inferior ingredients? This is totally unacceptable!” He dumped the cans into the trash along with all the others.

“Where is everyone?” Yosh asked, walking around the big kitchen.

“We're closed Tuesdays. I just came in to get the stock in some kind of order. I guess Henry did his own buying, but he let his pocketbook get in the way of his menu.”

Locks of sandy brown hair fell on Dustman's fore
head, and he flicked it back, off his face. In marked contrast to his demeanor just a few short weeks ago, he looked calm, at peace with himself and the world despite Henry's cheap food.

“Good of you to take the time to see us today, Mr. Dustman,” Yosh said. “We appreciate it, we really do.”

“I always have time to help find whoever killed Karl. You do still think he was murdered?”

“We know he was murdered, Mr. Dustman,” Paavo replied.

“Call me Mark, please. It's such a terrible thing. I keep wishing someone would figure out that it was a mistake, but now, with Chick dead too, I guess that'll never happen. Has there ever been a serial killer of cooks before?”

“There's no indication of a serial killer yet,” Paavo answered.

“Well, leave it to San Francisco to come up with another first.” Dustman glanced at the rows of canned foods on the shelf. “Do you mind if I continue working? I've got to get rid of these abominations and restock if we're ever to be a competitive restaurant.”

“Sure,” Yosh replied. “Can I help?”

Dustman chuckled. “I doubt it.” He got on a stepladder to reach the highest shelf. He pulled down a dusty can of chopped black olives and made a hook shot right into the garbage can. “Two points.”

“Can you tell us,” Paavo began, “when you last saw Mr. Marcuccio?”

Dustman stopped rummaging. “I wasn't expecting any questions about him. I hardly knew the man. Let
me think. I guess it was at Karl's funeral service.”

“Do you know how well he and Mr. Wielund knew each other?” Paavo asked.

“They were on friendly terms but had little interaction.”

“What about Mr. Wielund's assistant, Mrs. Powell? Did she know Mr. Marcuccio very well?” Paavo continued.

“Eileen Powell had the title of assistant manager, but she was really a glorified secretary. I doubt if she knew Marcuccio well enough to do more than say hello.”

“Why would a secretary be sent to Paris on a buying trip?” Paavo asked.

Dustman shugged. “Her competence was more in her own mind than Karl's, but she has an eye for what's popular and for what sells in this country. Also, of the three of us, she was the most expendable. Naturally, Karl sent her to Paris. Not to buy, though, just to look.” He said this with an air of hauteur that exaggerated his own importance and diminished Eileen Powell's. He seemed to have gotten over the trauma of Wielund's death quickly enough, Paavo thought.

“Did she keep the restaurant's books?”

“Karl did his own bookkeeping.”

“Did he ever have a partner?”

“Not that I know.”

“Did anyone ever want to go into partnership with him?” Yosh asked.

“Well, I heard once that Greg McAndrews, who owns Arbuckle's, suggested some kind of partnership. German seafood? I have no idea. Anyway, Karl
told him in no uncertain terms that he was nuts. McAndrews never forgave him.” Dustman looked from one inspector to the other.

Paavo took the next stab in the dark. “How long did you work for Wielund?”

“About nine months.”

“That isn't very long, considering how well you say you know him.”

“As I've mentioned, I met him in Paris. Here, when Karl first started the restaurant, he did his own cooking. He was a master chef, you know.”

“You've mentioned that, too.”

“He was the most superb cook. I learned so much from that man.”

“Didn't Wielund's grow popular awfully fast?” Yosh asked.

“That's the way it is in this business. Either you make it right away, attracting customers and at least breaking even for a while and then starting to build a profit, or, in most cases, you simply die on the vine and fall off without ever making a splash. If you're lucky, like LaTour's, instead of dying off because you've got a lousy restaurant, you can keep going by doing radio shows and plagiarizing cookbooks, just to keep your name in the public eye. Of course, no one goes to LaTour's more than once. Things will change soon, though. I'm in charge of this kitchen.”

“I thought you'd wanted to keep Wielund's open?” Paavo asked.

“I did. I should have. But Karl's family wouldn't cooperate, the fools. I have the last laugh, though, because without me the place is worthless.”

“Why did you choose to work at LaTour's?” Yosh asked.

“I wanted a job where I could run things my way. I can do that here, since Henry LaTour is a lousy cook and he knows it.”

A female voice rang out from the doorway. “Isn't that a little harsh, Mark?”

Paavo felt his blood pound. Angie. It'd been ten days, fifteen hours, and approximately forty-five minutes since he'd last seen her. Not that he missed her. Not that he wondered every day and night what she'd been doing, or if she'd been doing anything with anyone in particular. He turned slowly. She was wearing a jaunty white pants suit with a nautical look. The gold buttons and braiding on the double-breasted waist-length jacket caused him to notice that she filled out the jacket in a way sailors never did. Her short hair was a tumble of curls today, falling onto her forehead and framing her face. They made her lashes seem longer than usual, her eyes wider and more shiny. He'd somehow forgotten how small and straight her nose was, and how her top lip had a deep dip in the center between two peaks, and how the fullness of the bottom made it easy for her to look like a child when she pouted, which she tended to do with some regularity, at least around him.

She ignored him now, though, and kept her attention on Dustman as he crossed the room toward her, his arms outstretched. “What a surprise! I didn't think you meant it when you said you'd come by to help.” He gave her a hug. Paavo's teeth ground watching them, and a volcanic swelling in his chest told him
this wasn't something he could put up with for long. Luckily, they broke it off soon, and Dustman turned to face the inspectors, his arm still around Angie's shoulders.

Dustman? Could she be seeing Dustman? If she said she'd come by to help him, this wasn't a chance meeting. They'd met before, talked, or more. Suddenly, he was seized with a desire to grab Dustman's hand, which was holding Angie's shoulder a little too snugly, a little too possessively, and make sure LaTour's new chef didn't ever lift anything again, not even a soupspoon.

“I'm being quizzed here by two of San Francisco's finest,” Mark explained. “But of course you already know them.”

“I do,” Angie said, “although I haven't seen them in a
very long time
. How have you been, Inspector Yoshiwara?” She held out her hand.

Yoshiwara glanced at the set expression on his partner's face and then shook Angie's hand. “Fine, thanks,” Yosh said. “Yourself?”

She stepped back, and Dustman again took her in the circle of his arm. “Just ducky,” she replied. “And you, Inspector Smith? How have you been?” She raised her brows ever so superciliously as she gazed at him.

He had the sudden urge to wipe Angie's smile off her face. “Never better,” he replied. He should have felt satisfaction at seeing her cheeks pale and her brown eyes dim. He didn't.

Yosh's head swiveled from Angie to Paavo; then he moved closer to the refrigerators, as if he feared being in the line of fire.

“Gentlemen, I must tell you, this is the best little restaurant critic in the country,” Dustman said to the detectives. “She was the first to give Wielund's the recognition it deserved in a wonderful newspaper article about us. I still have it on the wall of my den, Angie.”

“I didn't know I was your
first
, Mark.” Her voice was filled with innuendo as she leaned closer to him.

Paavo's teeth clenched.

“I'd always loved Weilund's,” she said, with a radiant smile that lit up her face and also Paavo's heart—except that the smile was directed at Dustman. “I might even give some thought to buying it myself. Would you want to share it with me, Mark?”

Dustman smiled and gave her another hug. “Oh, Angie! Would I ever!”

Slowly raising her long lashes to look into Dustman's eyes, she asked, “Am I interrupting anything?” Paavo swallowed hard, remembering how she used to give
him
those looks.

A slow, lazy smile creased Dustman's face. No grown man should have dimples, Paavo thought uncharitably. “No. I don't have anything new to say. I think we're done. Am I right, gentlemen?” It was a smooth hustle out the door.

“I guess so,” Yosh said. “If we think of anything more, we'll give you a call.”

“Very good. Good day.”

Yosh started toward the door. Paavo turned abruptly and followed.

“If you need to ask me anything about Karl or Chick,” Angie called, “I'll probably be here for many,
many
hours.”

Paavo's step faltered. His jaw tightened as he gazed straight ahead. But then he saw, reflected against the blackened glass of the kitchen doors, Angie and Dustman behind him. They were watching him, not each other. Angie stuck her elbow in Dustman's ribs, and he nodded and put his arms around her waist.

A ruse? Was that what this was? Was Angie purposely torturing him, making him think she had something going with Dustman just so he would suffer, so he would realize he still cared about her enough that he'd feel jealous? The volcano that smoldered when he first saw her with Dustman began rumbling again. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mark beaming down at her like the fox who's just had a chicken walk into his den.

“Fine,” Mark said softly. “I've got lots of ideas for filling time.”

“Paav.” Yosh put his hand on Paavo's shoulder, trying to nudge him to continue out the door.

He saw Angie quickly jerk her head toward Dustman. “We
do
have to work, though.”

Dustman pulled her close. The front of their bodies were plastered together, while his hands started sliding lower than her waist. That did it!

Yoshiwara's hand dropped as Paavo took slow, deliberate steps toward the couple. Angie took one look at the expression on his face, dropped her arms from Dustman, and backed up. “Now, Paavo.”

“Playtime is over, Miss Amalfi.” He came closer. “Time to go home and let this man get on with his work.”

“Playtime! I'll have you know we need to discuss some important business.”

“Let's go.” He tried to take hold of her arm, but she pulled it away. His anger, which he'd always managed to contain, was at the boiling point. “Business deals over murdered men can put that sassy little butt of yours in a ringer.”

“What! That's a horrid thing to say!”

Seeing her hands on her hips and her pert nose going once more into the air drove him right over the top. He grabbed her wrist and started to pull her out the door.

“You're going home.”

“Home? Stop! This is harassment! Police brutality!”

“Wait! What's going on?” Dustman called, but Paavo ignored him and stomped out the door, dragging Angie behind him.

“He's a psychopath,” she yelled. “A real life Hannibal Lecter. Don't let him—”

The door banged shut behind her. Mark Dustman didn't come running to save her virtue or anything else.

Yosh followed them out the door. Paavo let go of a still-shrieking Angie once they reached the sidewalk. “I think I'll leave you two alone awhile,” Yosh said.

“No need. I have nothing private to discuss with her. She just needs to clear her head about who she wants to spend her time with. And it's not with murder suspects!” Paavo glared at her.

She got right in his face. “It's not with meddling cops either, Inspector!”

He was beside himself. “I'm not the only one who's meddling around here, Miss Amalfi!”

“Excuse me,” Yosh interjected. “I think it's time I got going.”

“Good-bye already!” Angie said, her eyes never leaving Paavo's.

He glared back, his lips a grim line. Neither noticed Yoshiwara's departure.

“He's telling the restaurateurs it's over between us.” She spat the words at him.

“I told you myself. You wouldn't listen.”

“I guess I should have realized, after your dinner with Nona at Arbuckle's, and then going to La Maison Rouge with a lady detective—”

“Who's the detective around here, Miss Amalfi? I think you should take over.”

“I only hear about these things because mine is a small world, Inspector, and your case has landed smack in the middle of it. I'll try not to meddle any longer. Good-bye.”

He watched her march away from him on her high heels, head up, shoulders square, backside swinging, and felt his stomach tighten. It was all he could do not to go after her. A vision flashed before him of her with Mark Dustman leering down at her with his arm around her.

“Angie!”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”

He stared at her a long while. “Those times with the women you mentioned.”

“Yes?”