Too Many Cooks (19 page)

“What?”

“Just kidding, Angie.” Or was he? What better way for Dustman to throw him off the track than to involve Angie? Would Dustman know that? And if so, why do it?

“Anyway,” Angie said, “how did you know to find him at LaTour's? I didn't think word had gotten out yet that he was going to work there.”

“Nona Farraday told me.”

Her face turned white. “Nona! So you're still seeing her!”

“Not at all. She's a good source, that's all.”

“Nona doesn't know anything to help your case that you couldn't find out from twenty other sources,” she announced. “And in particular from me.”

“She did, though.”

“Hah!”

Paavo nearly laughed aloud as he thought of how irate Angie would be if she realized how much she sounded like her mother just then. “She was writing an article for
Haute Cuisine
about Wielund when he was killed. She couldn't get it published, but she showed it to me.”

“But it's about cooking. It's not as if Karl was killed in an eggbeater duel. What could it tell you?”

“I'd hoped it would give some clues to his person
ality. But you're right. It was about cooking, and how fanatical he was about new recipes.”

“Hmm, that actually sounds more interesting than most things Nona writes.” She stood and began to stack their dishes. He helped carry them into the kitchen.

“Not to me, I'm afraid. I've got it out in my car if you'd like to read it.”

“Sure.”

“I'll go get it.”

“You don't have to make a special trip.” She picked up the jam and syrup and was carrying them into the kitchen, her head high, when he touched her arm, stopping her.

“You don't even realize how little there is that I
can
give you,” he said softly. “When I come across something like this, let me enjoy it.”

His words made her heart twist. It wasn't in her to think in such materialistic terms about the two of them, and probably never would be. The fact that he did still surprised and dismayed her. “All right,” she said. “I'd like that very much.”

“And don't touch those dishes! I'll be right back.” He headed toward the door.

“But Paavo,” she called, “all I was going to do was load them into my new Maytag.” She went back into the living room to sit down.

Shortly, he returned and handed her Nona's typed, double-spaced article. While Paavo straightened the kitchen, Angie leaned back, a fresh cup of coffee on the table in front of her, and read.

When he came back into the living room, he saw her with the article on her lap, one finger lightly
resting against her cheek, staring intently at the far wall. Silently, he sat down beside her and waited.

“Something's very strange here,” she said eventually.

“Strange?”

“From what you know about Henry LaTour and Karl Wielund, do you think the two of them could come up with the same recipe for anything short of how to boil water?”

“No.”

She rubbed her head. “It seems they did, though.”

“I don't follow.”

“It's here, in the article. It tells how Karl was working on a recipe for filet of lamb in puff pastry before he died. It talks about what a perfectionist he was, and how secretive. How he wouldn't let anyone see his recipes until he was completely satisfied with them. Karl never finished that particular recipe. Recently, though, Henry gave a lamb filet recipe on his radio show, and the ingredients were exactly the same as Karl's.”

“Can't it be coincidence?”

“Not when two of the ingredients are Greek olives and pine nuts. Oh, my God!” Angie gasped.

“What's wrong?”

“I'll bet Chick knew!”

A strange uneasiness was on the periphery of his subconscious, as if something she had said struck a wrong note or memory, but he said calmly, “Knew what?”

She grabbed his hand. “That Henry stole Karl's recipe! Janet Knight told me Chick had read Nona's article. He'd have noticed the strange ingredients. Plus Chick always listened to Henry's show. Said it
was the best comedy on radio. He heard Henry spouting Karl's recipe.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions, Angie.” But they were both remembering that, on the day he died, Chick went to see LaTour at his restaurant.

She covered her mouth and echoed his thought. “Chick might have confronted Henry with the theft. Oh, my God! It can't be my boss!”

“You do know how to pick 'em,” he said wryly, his mind again sending up a faint alarm.

“I'll keep an eye on Henry. Observe every strange move and report to you.”

Paavo nearly choked on his coffee. He remembered the last time she promised to “observe and report.” She could have been killed and he nearly had been; he carried the scars to prove it. “I suggest you stay away from his restaurant, just in case.”

“I'll consider keeping away from the restaurant, but I can't give up the radio show.”

“I don't know, Angie. If Henry's involved—”

“But I love radio!” Then she clasped her hands, her gaze intense and her voice soft yet almost pleading. “I'm really hoping to make something of this job, you know?”

He knew. She had brains, education, money, energy, but for whatever reason had never really clicked with a job, career, or profession that she could make a go of and devote her talents to. And until that happened for her, it was yet another reason for him to be wary of involving her in a lasting relationship. When she was uncertain about everything else in her life, could he really believe her when she said she was certain about him?

His fingers tightened on his coffee cup. “I guess it'll be all right. Just make sure there are always lots of others around.” At least he'd never heard of anyone being done in by a microphone.

Angie knew the janitor
would let her in, even though she had no business being in LaTour's kitchen early in the morning before anyone else was there, and sure enough he did. She'd learned her skill with janitors after a few times of forgetting a book for a homework assignment while in high school. The janitors at St. Cecilia's were pushovers.

Henry's office was in a converted storeroom just off the kitchen. While she might not know what she was looking for, she had confidence she'd know it when she found it. The windowless room was dark. Without turning on the lights, she hurried across it.

“Good morning, Angie,” Mark said, holding a large carving knife as he walked toward her from around a large cold-storage locker.

She jumped. “You're here early.”

“I could say the same about you.” He reached over and flicked on the lights. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a class to teach this afternoon. I thought I'd come by early and see if there were any notes about today's menu, so I'd know what I could do to help prepare the food.”

“Your dedication is most commendable, Angie.” His voice was coated with sarcasm. “Where's your friend the cop?”

“He's working. I don't think he'll be back for some time.”

“Good. He plays a bit rough, wouldn't you say?”

She patted her hair. “Not always.”

“Ah, I see.” He opened the cooler and began to take out vegetables. “You can assist me today. I'm preparing breast of roast duck on a bed of julienne carrots, green peppers, and mushrooms.”

“It sounds magnificent.”

“Good. You can julienne the carrots.”

“Cut carrots? That's all?”

Ignoring her, he opened a black leather two-inch-thick binder and began to write in it.

“Oh, is that your chef's log?” Angie asked, peering over with professional interest, but Mark gave her a suspicious glance and moved it out of her view. It seemed he was as secretive as Karl had been.

“That's right. I'm writing about today's meal, saying that you helped and what you did, so that if the meal is especially successful or causes criticism, I'll know what was different about it.”

“How far back does that go?”

He made a note and closed it with finality. “About a year.”

“Before you began working for Karl?”

“True. But there wasn't a lot of creativity involved
at the Purple Sandpiper. It was good basic fare, and I needed a job. I was new in San Francisco.”

“Like Karl.”

“Exactly. We came here from Paris together.”

“So you must have known all his friends very well.”

Dustman chuckled. “There weren't many to know.”

“Did you know Sheila Danning?”

“Danning? Never heard of her.”

 

Paavo was in a foul mood. Benson snickered, Calderon glared, and Rebecca looked hurt as word spread about his dragging a bellowing Angie out of Mark Dustman's clutches two days earlier. Yosh had no business writing it in his report, and Hollins had no business talking about the report loud enough for Benson to overhear it.

Everyone figured Angie had set it up so he'd catch her and Dustman together. The maddening part was, they were right.

 

Angie finally found a chance to assuage a bit of her curiosity—in the name of culinary professionalism—and look at Dustman's log. He went off in a huff over the poor quality of the fresh vegetables delivered to LaTour's, saying it was no wonder Henry had used canned ones, since the so-called fresh ones Henry bought were farmers' market discards. Henry insisted he'd spent good money for them, but Dustman refused to use them and refused to cook. Henry finally gave him the okay to buy whatever he wanted.

“Don't touch a thing in this kitchen!” Dustman shouted, then left.

His log sat open on his worktable. Everyone else, including Henry, had found other things to do, far from the spot where the temperamental Dustman had been, so Angie sat down to go through the log page by page, wanting to learn all she could about how a practicing cook adjusts recipes and temperatures.

She turned to the front, and suddenly the handwriting was Germanic script. She stared: Karl's! These were Karl's notes! She'd wondered what had become of them when Wielund's was closed, although she suspected Dustman or Eileen Powell must have gotten them. It would have been a shame for a bunch of lawyers to take them. They'd either overrate the log's value and lock it up, or underrate it and throw it away. Either way, the notes would be lost.

She tried to read them, but they were mostly in German, French, or a combination of both. Angie knew French but only a smattering of German. Turning the pages, she was stopped by a recipe all in English. She read it over, and her mouth was watering by the time she'd finished.

What? She read over the end of the recipe once more. It sounded delicious and complete, but what in the world did the number at the bottom of the page mean? Nine-one-one…

Emergency! She remembered—the films Paavo had in his briefcase. Of course. Was it the same as one of those numbers?

She copied down the number. Could it be another Sheila Danning film? Why would Karl write it down on this recipe? Should someone take a look at it?

She could tell Paavo about it, and he could tell the Berkeley PD.

On the other hand, she probably could get back inside the studio without much trouble. She'd done it
once and no one bothered her. It wasn't as if the place was dangerous or anything.

But then, Sheila Danning was dead. And the people at the film studio admitted knowing her.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Angie jumped a mile as Mark Dustman's voice boomed out at her. She'd been so lost in thought she hadn't even heard him come back in. “Nothing.” She shut the log and stood.

Dustman's jaw twitched. “So you found my little secret.”

Karl's recipes. “I don't suppose you told his family about them,” she said.

“I was more like family than any of them! Besides, none of them cook.”

“So it doesn't matter, then.”

“Look, Angie, I need these recipes to turn this restaurant around.”

“Probably so.”

“These gems will give me—and Henry—a chance to make something of ourselves. Something big. Okay?” Passion blazed in his eyes.

It wasn't her business to get into this. Particularly since she could sympathize with his ardor. To a chef, recipes were creations, works of art, and Karl was a great artist, whose work might have been lost if it weren't for Mark. “I'm just glad you're keeping Karl's work alive.”

He shut his eyes a moment, then turned around and gave the vegetables he'd just bought to a kitchen aide to wash.

 

Angie stood outside the plain glass door on Telegraph Avenue, the number she'd found in Wielund's notebook clasped in her hand. She looked at it one more time, memorizing it. Surely, she needn't worry about going inside again. There hadn't been anything frightening about the place. Not really. It was a legitimate business establishment, a type she'd never dealt with before but legitimate nonetheless. There was nothing for her to be frightened about. Why then was her stomach jumping maniacally?

Whiskbroom Head sat at the counter again. She shivered but kept walking toward him.

He pushed his thick glasses higher on his nose, following her every step. “Well, I didn't think I'd see you again.”

“I realized the last time I was here that I didn't know what I was doing or what I was supposed to ask for. I talked to my friend some more, and now I do know.”

“You know what?”

“Do you rent movies?”

“Rent them? Does this look like a Captain Video store?”

She placed her hands on the counter and gave him a heartfelt look. “My friend just loves all this stuff, you know, and he told me I should look at some films you folks have put together to learn everything I need to know.”

“Where'd you say this friend found out about us?”

“I don't know. He doesn't tell me too much.” She gave him a vacant grin.

The expression on the guy's face told Angie he wasn't surprised.

“You know, I was thinking,” Angie continued, “maybe we can watch some of these films together.”

“Together?”

She gave him what she hoped was a sly, knowing look. “Do you have someplace we could go?”

It worked, because a grin slowly spread over his bearded face. “Sure I do.”

“I'd like to pick out the film, though. I've got some idea of the kind my friend wants me to see.”

“So do I, baby.”

“Do you have a catalog?”

“No.”

“No? You just keep canisters of film lying around without knowing what's in them?”

“We've got some write-ups. And outtake photos.”

“That sounds fine. I'll look at those.”

“Great. Let's hang your coat here. I want you to be comfortable.”

Angie quickly unbuttoned it herself this time, remembering how creepy it felt when he did it. She handed it to him and stayed far back.

He led her to a dusty back room filled with boxes of films. File boxes on a table were labeled with folders. “Here you go.”

“Great.” She started to look through them. They were sort of in numerical order, though someone had done a pretty sloppy filing job. She flipped through them until she found the one labeled 911,394, the number in Karl's cooking notes. She couldn't go to that one first, so she started elsewhere, randomly picking out files, opening one file after the other, all showing men and women having sex in a variety of combinations. After the initial shock, much to her
surprise, the vacant emotionlessness of the photos quickly grew strangely boring.

Finally, she decided enough time had passed and picked up folder 911,394. She opened it, stared, then quickly shut the folder. Her mind refused to accept the face, the body, she'd just seen. Trying to control the sudden shaking of her hands, she pulled out one photo, turned it face down, then shoved the folder back into its spot in the file. “Thank you. I believe I'd simply like to buy this one shot. Before we watch a whole movie, I'd like to show my boyfriend and see if this is what he wants.”

She left the room and started down the hall toward the desk.

“Wait a minute. We were going to watch some films together.”

“I'm sorry. I've changed my mind.”

He stood in front of her, blocking her path. “You don't get to just waltz in here and look at all this for free, you know. You got to pay, one way or another.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I will. For this one photo. How much?”

Whiskbroom Head glanced at her clothes and her shoes as he stroked his beard. “Two hundred bucks.”

“Two hundred! That's outrageous!”

“It's a bargain. Less than a pair of shoes, even.”

“Oh.” She glanced at her feet. “Well, if you put it that way. Do you take plastic?”

“A personal check will be fine. I trust you.” He smiled wide, the green on his teeth turning Angie's stomach.

As she filled out the check he said, “Make it out to Dwayne Cartwright.”

“Wrong, Dwayne,” a deep booming voice said.

Angie spun around to see a flashy-looking character: medium height, trim but muscular, somewhere in his forties. The first thing Angie noticed was his short bleached-blond hair, worn forward, Napoleon style, framing a darkly tanned face. With his scarcely buttoned shirt, turquoise and silver rings, and Indian necklace and bracelets, he looked like someone who should be on the beach in Los Angeles, not a studio in Berkeley. But then, Berkeley attracted all types.

As he approached, Angie thought he had some kind of a bug on the side of his face. When he came closer, she saw it was a large black mole.

The man smiled at Angie. “Cross off his name and make the check out to Axel Klaw, with a K.”

“Oh?” She looked back at Dwayne. When she saw how pale he was and how rapidly he nodded his head, she didn't hesitate. She completed the check and handed it to Klaw, then turned to leave.

“Not so fast.” Powerful fingers gripped her wrist firmly as he glanced at the name and address on her check. “Tell me, Angelina, whatever makes a sweet young thing like you interested in these eight millimeters?”

“My boyfriend—”

He released her wrist but slowly shook his head as she spoke. “Uh-uh. You aren't the type for boyfriends like that.”

She blanched. “Bad taste in men, I guess.” Her laugh was hollow. She stepped back from him. “I've got to go. Thank you for your help.”

Klaw grabbed the picture from her.

“Hey!” she cried.

He turned it over, his eyes narrowing as he glanced from the picture to Angie. “Why this one?”

“I don't know. We looked at a bunch. I took one.”

“You know her, don't you?”