Too Many Cooks (4 page)

Angie's mouth dropped open. She felt she'd just heard from Mr. Wizard. One of the few times she could ever remember, she was speechless.

“Lacy!” Henry stood in the doorway.

Lacy jumped at his voice and turned to face him. “Henry, what's wrong?”

“That was our chef. Karl Wielund's dead. His car went off a cliff up in the Sierras.”

“No!” Lacy stared at him, raised her hand to her forehead, and dropped to the floor in a faint.

Henry stood immobile, looking down at her.

“Henry?” Angie said.

He ran to Lacy. Kneeling at her side, he slipped his arm under her head. “Angie, do something!”

She was already hurrying into the bathroom, where she turned on the cold-water tap and held a washcloth under it for a moment. When she ran back into the living room, Henry had Lacy lying on the sofa. She was already awake. Henry took the cloth and placed it on her forehead.

Angie looked long at the woman, trying to figure out why she had such an extreme reaction. “I didn't know she was so close to Karl,” she said.

Henry looked at her with astonishment. “Close?
They weren't close. Our restaurants are across the street from each other. We'd see him every day. He's been missing for a few days, and we were all so worried, and now to hear…” Henry shuddered.

Lacy stared at the ceiling, her fingers over her mouth.

“There, there,” Henry murmured, stroking her hand.

Angie didn't buy it. One rarely fainted over the death of a business acquaintance, even if you did see him every day. Did this mean Lacy and Karl meant more to each other than neighbors? But Karl's taste veered toward much younger women, as Angie well knew. If younger women always turned him down, though—

“Look at her.” Henry addressed Angie while staring adoringly at his wife. “How good-hearted she is! I mean Wielund's was killing our business, yet look at how sorry she is that Karl died. I'm sure there are those who expect us to dance a jig at this news. But we're better people than that.”

“I'll get her a glass of water,” Angie said.

As she went toward the kitchen, she noticed the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was open. On the far wall, facing the hall, were large framed photographs. Angie walked down to the doorway and looked in. Covering the whole wall were black-and-white photos of a young Lacy. She had been a beautiful woman, one who easily could have been a model. In bathing suits and ball gowns, Lacy looked like someone ready to step into a Miss America pageant—with a good chance of winning. With her light, lustrous, probably red hair, amply curved figure, and surpris
ingly innocent face, she was an all-American dream. Angie stopped gawking, and rushed to the kitchen to get the water.

“I couldn't help but notice those photos of you. They're beautiful,” she said. She handed the glass to Lacy, who was sitting up now.

Haunted eyes lifted to Angie. “I think Henry's the only person in the world who still sees me that way.”

“But you look just the same.” Henry patted her knee.

“Were you a model?” Angie asked.

“No. I was just a secretary, that's all, until I met Henry. Now I'm on top of the world.”

On that note, Angie left.

Paavo parked on the street
, blocking the driveway of the house next door to Angie's apartment building. He knew he wouldn't be towed or ticketed for the illegal parking because the garage had long before been converted into an illegal “in-law” apartment. Two wrongs might not make a right, but at least they added up to one more parking space in a city where parking was harder to find than public restrooms, and sometimes more badly needed.

He walked into the lobby and waved at Mr. Belzer, a man of about seventy-five years and retired. Angie's father, who owned the building, had decided it might be wise to have a sort of caretaker in the lobby, watching the people who came and went. Mr. Belzer received his first-floor apartment free of charge in return for spending afternoons and evenings watching television in the lobby. At 10
P.M
., Belzer locked the lobby door and would only let in those people the residents had previously designated.

Paavo stepped onto the elevator and rode up to the twelfth floor. Getting out, he moved toward the light beige door with gold-plated letters that read 1201. Angie's place.

She opened the door, a small woman with short brown wavy hair that had lots of golden strands—which tended to disappear and reappear according to her visits to the beauty parlor—big brown sparkling eyes, and a wide mouth that often curled up in a broad smile—just like now—for no reason except that she was happy to see him. He was so used to people looking either afraid or angry when he rapped on their door, he was still taken aback by Angie's reaction, even after three months of knowing her.

“You're here!” she said.

“Shouldn't I be?”

“I just tried to call you. The rudest man took the call. Calderon, was it? Just because I asked if he'd hurry up and find you was no reason to bite my head off.”

Paavo couldn't help but chuckle inwardly, thinking about Calderon's reaction to her request. “Sorry.”

“It's all right. You're here, and I can help you with your case. That's all that matters.”

“You can what?”

As he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a dining chair, Angie went into the kitchen and in a moment came back out, pouring a bottle of Anchor Steam Beer into a pilsner glass for him. “You must be surprised I already know. But he was a cook, so you know how that is. Poor guy.” She handed Paavo the glass, put the bottle on the coffee table, and clasped her hands. “Has the department already
decided to investigate, or are you here for a little insider information, so to speak? Frankly, for the newest and hottest San Francisco restaurateur to suddenly go sailing off a cliff in the mountains for no good reason is more than a little suspicious, if you ask me. Which I hope you do.”

He walked to the sofa and sat, took a sip of the beer, and placed the glass on a coaster before looking up at her. “Now, how about starting at the beginning?”

She couldn't believe how calmly and casually he sat there while she was head-to-toe nerves over all this. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You do know he's dead, right?”

“Who's dead?”

She threw up her hands. “Karl Wielund! Who do you think I've been talking about?”

“Until you said he was successful, I thought you were talking about Henry.”

“Henry! It's just his
show
that's dead, not Henry. He's alive and well and probably in his restaurant giving customers ptomaine right as we speak. I'm talking about Karl. We ate at his restaurant the other night.”

“The owner of Wielund's is dead? The owner of the place that's so popular you said other restaurant owners would love to skewer him like a shish kebab if they ever got him in a dark alley?”

She frowned. “I did say that, didn't I?”

“What happened to him?”

“They say it was an accident in the mountains. But I was talking to his assistant manager, Eileen Powell, who flew back from Paris when she heard the news, and I told her I used to be a good friend of Karl—or not
such a good friend, but you know what I mean—and she said nobody believes Karl went to the mountains. It just wasn't like him.”

“I see.”

He saw, all right, and he'd known this same thing to happen many times in the past. People get involved in a murder, like Angie did last October, and next thing you know they're seeing murders under every corpse. He gazed at her, at the excitement in her face—the thrill of the chase, so similar to the look he'd seen on the faces of rookies when the dispatcher gave them their first big call.

“I'm sorry to hear he was in an accident, Angie. But he was up in the mountains, and it's winter, even though you might not know it looking out at the blue skies of San Francisco. The Sierras are treacherous this time of year.”

“I know. I grew up hearing gory tales of the Donner Party. But that's not what happened. Something more did. I can feel it.”

“The Sierras aren't my jurisdiction.”

She folded her arms. “But he lived in your jurisdiction. What if he was forced there from his house?”

He shook his head.

She said in a hushed voice, “What if he was kidnapped?”

“I doubt that.”

She paused. “Are you hungry? How about some dinner? You can relax; then maybe we can talk about it more later.”

“Actually, I came by to ask you how you'd feel about a pizza and a movie.”

She looked at him with surprise. “Why, that sounds great. We've never gone to the movies together. And I
love films. In fact, there's a new Czech film playing at the Bridge that I've wanted to see. Do you mind subtitles?”

“No. But instead, how about German, like the new Schwarzenegger movie at the North Point?”

She wrinkled her nose. “How do you feel about Tom Cruise?”

He winced. “Chuck Norris?”

She rolled her eyes. “Sean Connery?”

He grinned. “Sold.”

“Let's go.” She grabbed her purse. “But first, are you busy Sunday night?”

“That depends on what you had in mind.”

“You are so full of yourself sometimes, Inspector. Anyway, Eileen said—”

“By Eileen, you mean the manager of Wielund's, right?”

“Assistant manager. Eileen said she and the chef, Mark Dustman, will hold a memorial service at Karl's restaurant late Sunday, after most of the other restaurants are closed. All his friends will be there and probably all his enemies. So I managed to get an invitation for us.”

“Oh, you did?”

“Right. Since everyone is asking why he was in the Sierras, and since Henry's wife fainted dead away when she heard Karl was dead, I just knew you'd want to go to the party—I mean, the service.”

He sighed. “Angie, I'm sure the talk means nothing. It's just gossip.”

“But aren't you curious? After all, the top restaurant owners and cooks in North Beach will be there, all in one place, all secretly thankful their prayers to get rid
of Wielund's have been answered. You don't want to miss that.”

Paavo's talk with Rebecca about the murdered waitress, Sheila Danning, came back to him. The place where she'd worked was one of the fancy North Beach restaurants, a French one. Something here made him suddenly uneasy. “You're pretty sure the other restaurant owners will be there?”

“I know it. After all, Wielund's was
the
place for everyone who was anybody to be seen, so I'm sure his memorial will be the same. I'll point the other owners out to you.”

It was too much of a reach to imagine that the death of a ritzy restaurant owner had anything to do with the murder of a waitress who'd just been in town a few months. But then, if Angie's friends were right in speculating about Karl Wielund's death, and if there was a connection with Danning…

“What time should I be here Sunday night to pick you up?” he asked.

She grinned. “Come by for dinner. That'll give us plenty of time.” She shut the lights and walked toward the door. “Before we leave, I'd like to check on one of our tenants, an older woman named Calamatti. She's been acting awfully strange lately.”

“Alzheimer's?”

“No. She worries constantly about the economy.”

“So do politicians.”

“See what I mean?”

They got on the elevator and she pushed the button for the basement, where the parking garage was. “I thought you wanted to check on Mrs. Calamatti,” Paavo said.

“I do.”

As they stepped off the elevator, a noise in the corner of the dark garage stopped him. He took hold of Angie's arm, ready to pull her out of harm's way, but she placed her hand on his, stopping him.

“Mrs. Calamatti?” she called.

“Yes. Is that you, Angie? My goodness, you sound so close. It's amazing.”

Angie glanced at Paavo and chuckled softly at his puzzled expression. “Not really. I'm right here.”

Paavo followed her around the corner of the basement to the area where a dumpster stood at the bottom of the garbage chute. Beside it, a thin white-haired woman wearing a floral housecoat held her hands out in front of her, gnarled string running from one hand to the other.

“What are you doing?” Angie asked, stepping up to the old woman.

“I was thinking about the baby. She died, you know.”

Paavo saw Angie shudder and felt a chill go up his own back. “What baby?” Angie whispered.

“Mine. She got sick. A high temperature. We couldn't help her. It was a long time ago. But I thought I had left her baby pictures here. Would you like to see her pictures, Angie? Such a pretty baby.”

“Come on.” Angie put her arm around the woman and gently led her away from the garbage. Paavo followed. “Let's go upstairs.”

“I can't imagine where I put them.”

“We'll look for them tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Angie. You're a good girl.” Mrs. Calamatti glanced back at Paavo and raised one finger, string dangling from it. “Prepare for the Depression!”

Paavo held the doors as Angie led Mrs. Calamatti into the elevator. “Don't worry about him,” Angie said. “He thinks he's Franklin D. Roosevelt.”

Mrs. Calamatti glanced at Angie and frowned. “Hmph. If he's FDR,
I'm
Jimmy Carter.”

Paavo did a double take. He couldn't figure out if the woman was kidding or not.

 

Angie extended her kitchen table to its full width, then spread a clean sheet over it. Her oldest sister, Bianca, slapped half of the mound of dough they'd mixed onto the cloth. She beat it down flat, and Angie took their grandmother's three-foot-long wooden rolling pin and started rolling out the dough. Bianca was an older version of Angie by fourteen years, her dark brown hair straight instead of wavy, worn in a chin-length blunt cut instead of short, and the only color she put in it was to hide the gray, not to add blond highlights.

“Henry LaTour's pompous with nothing to be pompous about,” Angie said, pulling and stretching the dough to make it thinner. Then she picked up the rolling pin again. Using her forearm, she pushed her bangs away from the perspiration that was already forming on her forehead. “His nose is so high in the air I'm surprised he doesn't get frostbite.”

“All those radio types think they're such hot stuff. I don't know why you bother with them.” Bianca whacked some cloves of garlic with the side of a cleaver and then peeled and minced them. “You need to take charge of your life. Stop frittering it away.”

“I don't think I'm frittering anything away.”

Bianca reached for an onion. “Teaching adult ed classes on San Francisco history is more a way for you to keep senior citizens off the streets than to build a career.”

“I also do Henry's radio show and tutor Hispanic kids in English at the Youth Center, I just sold a magazine article on San Francisco Victorians, and I've got an editor interested in my interview with the retired chef of the St. Francis Hotel—the one who worked back when presidents stayed there.”

“Well, lah-di-dah! I still think you need to settle down.”

“Give me a break, Bianca! You sound like Mamma.”

“So? She's right. What about Chick Marcuccio's son, Joey? You adore Chick, Joey's sister's one of your best friends, and he's always liked you.”

“That's why he used to steal my dessert out of my lunch box. I can't stand Joey Marcuccio. Anyway, I
am
seeing someone, you might recall.”

Bianca didn't answer. Angie knew all four of her sisters and all four of their husbands didn't approve of her interest in a homicide detective: too dangerous a job and not enough money in it. Her mother, on the other hand, was very fond of Paavo. Her father hadn't met him yet.

She rolled the dough harder, and in no time it reached about three feet around. Spreading a layer of flour over the top so it wouldn't stick, she rolled it up and pushed it aside. While she did this, Bianca sautéed the garlic and onion in olive oil and added a pound each of ground beef and veal.

“Is Henry LaTour young?” Bianca asked.

Angie spread more flour on the sheet, slapped the last half of the dough on it and attacked it with renewed vengeance with the rolling pin. “No, and he's married.”

“Too bad.”

“Too bad? Give me a break! That man should be selling snake oil instead of dinners. He's so slick he's lucky he wasn't sucked up along with the Exxon Valdez oil.”

Bianca was opening and closing all the drawers.

“What are you looking for?” Angie asked, tugging at a particularly thick hard-to-roll portion of the dough.

“Don't you have a Ginsu knife? Like on TV? I've got to chop three bunches of spinach.”

“Sorry. You're going to have to make do with one of my professional-quality German ones.”

“No need to get snippy.” Bianca continued to cook, not speaking as she allowed herself to sulk over Angie's not listening to her big-sisterly advice.