A Cook in Time (10 page)

“I don't know about this.”

Angie and Connie peered up at the large, dark, and dreary building on the part of Larkin Street that lay between the gentrified gay area of Polk Street and the seedy porn shops and prostitute haunts of the Tenderloin. Angie double-checked the address Triana had given her. This was where she was supposed to meet Algernon.

Connie nervously hooked her arm in Angie's. “It looks kind of creepy from out here, but I'm sure it'll be fine inside. Can't judge a book by its cover. Ha, ha.”

Angie glanced at her friend and grimaced. Still, she was thankful Connie had consented to come with her. “We'll go up there, see what Algernon is all about, then leave,” Angie said, mustering her courage.

“That's right. It'll help you in planning his dinner party, plus I need to do this.” Connie
straightened her back, lifting her chin as she pushed open the main door and entered the building. “If Derrick and I are to have a chance together, I need to understand him and everything he's involved in a whole lot better than I do now.”

Angie had to agree to that. After the bizarre lecture about the men in black—a mysterious lot whose job was to intimidate witnesses to UFO activities—she and Connie had gone with Derrick to the Top of the Mark for cocktails. Angie had to admit that Connie couldn't have looked better. Derrick, though, had been troubled and distracted.

Dr. Mosshad hadn't reappeared that night, as expected. Derrick darkly hinted that Algernon was somehow behind the scientist's disappearance. Angie couldn't get him to say why, but as the evening wore on, Derrick had grown increasingly agitated.

When Connie asked if Algernon was dangerous and if the police should get involved, Derrick had laughed. Algernon was no more dangerous than a maggot, he had said. In fact, he added, that was what Algernon was—a maggot to be squished.

Soon after, they had called it a night.

Now, with growing apprehension, Angie walked up the stairs to the Prometheus Group meeting in apartment six. The walls of the stairwell and hallways were painted black and the doors a garish red. No welcoming doorbell was
evident. As Connie nodded encouragement, Angie knocked.

The door was opened by a woman wearing a soiled, sleeveless, floor-length Cleopatra-style outfit—except Cleopatra wouldn't have been caught dead in it. Tied around her head was a gold ribbon and sticking up from the center, over her forehead, was a small yellow plastic snake—the type that cost about fifty-nine cents at a toy store.

It was all Angie could do to stop staring.

“Greetings, fellow voyagers,” the woman bellowed. “I am Isis, daughter of the Great Pyramid. Welcome.”

“I'm Angie, daughter of Sal and Serefina. This is Connie. We're here as guests of Triana Crisswell.” The two moved cautiously into the apartment. The furniture was as run-down as the rest of the building—a green Naugahyde sofa and chairs that must have been nearly forty years old. Didn't that stuff ever wear out? It was the most resilient legacy of the fifties. Wooden chairs filled the rest of the room. Three men and four women chatted and paid no attention to the new arrivals. Triana was not among them.

“Here it comes!” someone shouted. Everyone leaped from their chairs and circled a computer monitor.

“We're going to look at some pictures taken by members of our Santa Fe chapter while visiting Egypt,” Isis explained. “Santa Fe is filled
with good feng shui, so sensitive people such as us can live there. Only a few places are suitable for us, you know.”

“Is that so?” Connie asked, bobbing her head to see the computer screen.

“Yes. Santa Fe, Sedona, and of course, San Francisco and Berkeley.”

There was nothing in the least bit spiritual or ethereal about Berkeley to Angie's eye. She wondered if that was feng shui humor.

“It's beautiful!” one of the men shouted when the photo came clearly into view. Connie moved in close to get a better view. To Angie, though, it looked like all other photos she'd seen of the Great Pyramid.

Angie watched the changing images for less than a minute, then stepped back to Isis, who remained near the door. Connie seemed to be as engrossed as the others watching the photos and listening to a running commentary about the chambers inside the pyramid.

“Why does it mean anything special to you?” Angie asked Isis. “Does this have to do with pyramid power—putting things inside little pyramids to make plants grow better, or whatever?”

“Not at all,” a voice behind them said.

Angie turned toward the man who entered the room. He was tall and darkly handsome, with flowing black hair and a black suit that bore a close resemblance to the old Nehru jackets of fleeting popularity. “That was New Age nonsense,” he said. “This is real. The Great Pyra
mid is so large it can be seen from the moon.” His gaze fixed on Angie. “Were you aware of that?”

“No, not really.” She took a step back, as if pushed by the power of the man's eyes. “I don't see that that matters.”

“The Great Pyramid's base is equal to thirteen acres. Its weight is so great, only a solid stone mountain would be able to hold it—and the ancients built it right on top of solid granite. You must be a new member of our group,” he said, taking her hand in both of his. His middle finger bore a heavy gold ring in the design of a cobra. “Tell me, little skeptic, how did such primitive people know that deep within the earth, far below the sand they chose, stood a mountain of solid granite?”

Mesmerized, Angie's gaze flitted between his black eyes and the gold snake that coiled round and round his finger. “How did they?” she asked. This man had to be Algernon. There couldn't be two such powerful personalities in one group. She glanced toward the entrance. Where was Triana?

The man was already speaking. “It took a special knowledge impossible for them to possess”—his voice dropped dramatically—“on their own. It also took a special knowledge for the ancients to place the Great Pyramid in the exact center of the Earth's land mass.”

Angie's eyes widened. “The exact center?”

“Come.” Holding her hand, he led her away
from the others, across the room to a desk with a globe of the world. She turned toward Connie, wanting to gesture for Connie to come with her, but Connie's attention was glued to the computer monitor.

With his right hand he slowly spun the globe. “East to west, the pyramid's axis corresponds to the longest land parallel across the Earth.” He stopped the globe with Egypt facing them. “North to south, it passes through the longest land meridian on Earth. In other words, out of three billion places on this planet where the Great Pyramid could have been built, the spot chosen was the one place where the greatest north-to-south and east-to-west land masses cross.” He whispered in her ear, “How could the ancients have known that?”

She swallowed hard, both intrigued and somewhat alarmed by this man and the sexual energy he exuded. “I don't know.”

He wore a closed-mouthed, indulgent smile as he turned her to face him. Gazing down at her, he kept his hands on her arms as he spoke. “The total length of the Great Pyramid's base is a precise fraction of the Earth's circumference, and the ratio of the height to its base perimeter is the same as the Earth's radius to its circumference. How could the ancient Egyptians have known that?”

She couldn't even follow what he said, let alone be able to answer. Where were Triana and Connie?

“When you look at the stars, little skeptic,” he said, placing his hand on her chin to tilt her head upward as if toward the heavens, but in fact toward him, “the positioning of the pyramids is mathematically proportionate to how the constellation of Orion would have appeared in the sky in 10500
B.C.
”

“That's very long ago,” she murmured. She felt as if her body had turned to Jell-O.

A harsh female voice broke the spell being cast on her, and the stranger dropped his hands. “Old doesn't begin to do it justice,” Isis said, stepping up to them both. Her eyes burned. “The pyramids were built at that time, you know.”

Angie faced her. This was something she did know. “The pyramids were built twenty-five hundred years before Christ, not ten thousand.”

“That's old thinking,” Isis said with a sneer. “The new places them much earlier. Archaeologists discovered that a vent in the King's Chamber points to Orion. A vent in the Queen's Chamber points to Sirius—the star sacred to Osiris's consort, Isis. Orion, as you probably know, was the sacred home of Osiris, the Egyptian god.”

“Isn't Osiris the god of the dead?” Angie asked, her gaze drawn again toward the dark stranger.

“Life and death spring from each other,” he said. “One could say the pyramids, too, are as connected with death as with immortality. In that sense it is, in all, a death cult.”

Isis held her chin high. “We are its priest and priestess. Osiris and Isis, the lovers.” She gazed fondly at the man, then back to Angie. “Let me introduce Osiris.”

Angie glanced up at him. He gave her a small bow and that same haunting smile. “In a past life I was Osiris, little skeptic,” he said. “In this life, I am also called Algernon.”

“Algernon! You're the person I'm here to meet,” Angie said. “I was hired by Triana Crisswell to put on a dinner party for your new book.”

He chuckled and took her hands. “Well, no wonder you are so skeptical, then. I was wondering how someone such as you had found her way here.”

“Triana Crisswell invited me here to meet you. I wonder where she is. With me is my fr—my assistant. Let me get her.”

Connie chose that moment to look up, and she saw Angie waving her over. Her eyes widened when she noticed Algernon.

As the two met, Angie took the opportunity to better study the man now that she knew for sure who he was. He was a lot older than she had first assumed. His skin had the too-tight look usually associated with women who'd had
face-lifts, and his hair was too black to be natural. His neck and hands most gave his age away. Still, natural or not, he was a handsome man and—she had to admit—he had a lot of sex appeal. Just as Triana Crisswell had told her.

“It's so nice to meet you,” Connie said. “Angie and I went to a NAUTS lecture yesterday. I heard so much about you.”

A hard look passed over his eyes and then was gone. Angie hoped she had imagined it. It was chilling. “You went to a NAUTS event and learned about me?” Black eyes darted from one to the other. Then he burst out laughing. “That was like going to Rush Limbaugh to learn about Bill Clinton. Did they have anything good to say?”

“Are you rivals, or what?” Angie asked, careful not to answer his question.

“
Rivals
denotes equals,” he replied. “I'm afraid jealousy has more to do with our differences than anything. When the first leader of the Prometheans died, I took over. That was how he would have wanted it. Others—Derrick Holton in particular—couldn't bear to be second to anyone and left the group. NAUTS is small and weak and wrong. That's why they have no followers, why they must resort to stunts like that ridiculous alien abduction of Mosshad to get attention. It makes us all look silly.”

Angie remembered that Derrick was convinced Algernon had something to do with Mosshad's being gone so many days. Listening
to him now, though, she doubted Derrick's assumption was correct.

“What if Mosshad's disappearance wasn't a sham?” Connie asked. “Mosshad didn't return for the big NAUTS meeting when he was supposed to.”

Algernon shrugged. “More drama? Who cares? The Prometheans and I know the truth about the universe and the future. There is more to the universe than most men can imagine. The ancients, the Egyptians, understood it, and so do I. I am followed by many. I am the truth.”

“And Derrick Holton?” Connie asked.

“A gnat. To be swatted.”

A maggot and a gnat, Angie thought. How she'd gone from astronomy to entomology she'd never know.

 

The next morning, Paavo did something he'd never done before. Instead of throwing away the Macy's advertising supplement to the
Chronicle
, he went through it page by page, studying jewelry, dresses, suits, blouses, sweaters, pots, dishes, knives, and even bedding in hopes that something—anything—might trigger an idea of what to buy Angie for Christmas.

Inspector Bo Benson passed by his desk, dropped some memos in his in tray, and focused on the underwear ad Paavo was reading. “I'm not sure which will look better on you, Paav,” Benson said, “the red lace or the black satin.”

He howled with laughter as he continued on to his desk.

Paavo shut the paper and dropped it into the wastebasket. Benson was Homicide's man about town. A tall, thin, handsome African-American, he always wore fashionably cut, elegant suits in a homicide bureau where most inspectors had readily adopted California casual. As if the suits weren't enough to set him apart from the others, he topped them with a fedora. On him, the hat looked cool. If Paavo had tried to wear one, he'd look like he was auditioning for a 1930s role with central casting.

Paavo's gaze followed the inspector. Benson had a lot of experience figuring out what women liked. “Bo, have you ever given a woman a Christmas present?” he asked.

“Every year, bro. This year, I've outdone myself. I've got three women to please.”

“Do you know what you'll give them?”

“Sure. I've given every girlfriend the same thing for years now—ever since I first discovered the reaction I got. They love it.”

That sounded perfect, Paavo thought. “What is it?”

“Two dozen roses and a two-pound box of Godiva chocolates. They even let me eat most of the chocolates. The secret is, see, I get them two dozen and two pounds. Then I tell them it's because I love 'em twice as much.” He smiled broadly, well pleased with himself.

Paavo pulled the Macy's ad out of the wastebasket and went back to studying it again.

 

When Angie awoke, she was nearly as tired as when she had gone to sleep. Things just weren't working out the way she had hoped they would. The man who would be the star attraction for her first fantasy dinner troubled her greatly. He was fascinating, intelligent, even charismatic. But he came on too strong with her, and the issue of the worship of death, even if it was in the classic Egyptian form of Osiris, was disturbing to her on many levels, both social and spiritual.

The bad blood between him and Derrick also concerned her. Derrick had changed a lot since she'd known him, but basically he still seemed to be the good person she had once dated. She gave store to his feelings about Algernon.

She needed to rethink her involvement in Algernon's party. The people around him were too strange for her taste. She would call Triana and bow out.

Just then her phone rang.

“Hello,” she said.

“Angie? This is Triana Crisswell.”

She could hardly believe it. “Hello, Mrs. Crisswell, I missed you last night.”

“I would have been there except my husband came home early and started up again about my friends. He just doesn't understand the Prome
theus Group. He gave me such a headache, I had to take to my bed! In any event, I talked to Algernon this morning. You made such a hit with him, I can't tell you! I've rarely heard him so excited about anyone. Not only was he impressed with you, but with me, too, for finding you. You're a pro, Miss Amalfi. I'm going to tell all my friends about you.”

“Oh.” How was she going to bow out now? “Thank you, but—”

“No need to thank me. We're up to three hundred people already! And I haven't done any publicity to speak of. This party is going to be bigger and more important than ever.”

“I'm really sorry, but—”

“Don't be! It's so much more exciting this way! It means your hard work will be seen and valued by even more people. Your name will be made with this event, sweetie. You better believe it.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of.

“One more little thing,” Triana continued. “Algernon wants to get together to discuss this party with you personally.”

“He does?”

“This is such an honor! He's even willing to come to your house. He, uh, suggested that since I'm so busy, I don't need to be there, so don't worry about me. What would be a good time for you?”

So that's his game
. “Why, Mrs. Crisswell, I couldn't possibly meet with him unless you were there as well,” Angie said. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Oh, isn't that sweet of you, Angie! I'd love to join you both—if you're sure. Algernon sounded as if he thought I might not be needed, and I certainly wouldn't want to be in the way.”

“Don't be silly. You couldn't possibly be anything but a welcome addition. Maybe in a couple of days? Give me a call when you both settle on a time.”

“I'll be in touch, Angie. One last thing: How is the planning coming?”

“Wonderfully, just wonderfully. We'll talk about it when you're here,” she added quickly, hoping Triana wouldn't ask for details.

“I'm so pleased. Call me if you need me. Ta-ta!”

With that, she hung up.

Angie just sat for a few minutes staring at the phone. How had she gotten into this fix? All she wanted to do was to have a simple little business. Cater some fun dinners for people. Throw a few parties. That was all. Instead she was going to end up feeding all the nut cases in the Bay Area.

And one very sexy Egyptian god.

Triana was right about one thing, though. The people attending this party would be the crème de la crème of San Francisco. They might be wacko crème, but crème nonetheless. And crème always gave big dinner parties, needing to hire people just like her to help out.

She might make a go of this business yet.

She wandered into the den and saw the stack of Roswell books on a lamp table. She had put them
there when she returned from the science fiction convention and hadn't looked at them since. The events there certainly caused strong reactions from people. She thought of Elvis's awe and Kronos's anger at the mention of the name.

She picked out the one the man behind the booth had pulled out of his briefcase, a well-thumbed book with some underlining and some asterisks. She sat down on the daybed, put her feet up, rearranged the pillows, and began to read.

On July 3, 1947, strange sightings began over the vast, empty desert outside of Roswell, New Mexico
.

She looked at the date and wondered if the whole controversy had been caused by too much Fourth of July celebrating. She continued reading.

The guided-missile base at White Sands had monitored the bizarre activity on radar, but could not explain it. Two days later, word reached the U.S. Army's 509th airfield of a crash in a remote area. Investigators were sent out, and the next day, the base commander approved a press release saying a flying saucer had crashed. The Associated Press picked up the story
.

Angie chortled. There went the base commander's career.

Immediately, the army changed its tune. The next day, they announced the fuss had been a mistake caused by a weather balloon that had broken up. One of the men who had been to the crash site was the base intelligence officer, Major Jesse Marcel. He was neither a fool nor a psychopath. Other weather balloons had fallen and none had ever been mistaken for a flying saucer
.

So, Angie thought, the army wasn't any better at covering up things fifty years ago than it was these days. She continued reading.

The army sent a convoy of soldiers to the crash site to pick up every single scrap. That material was sent to Fort Bliss, Texas, headquarters of the 8th Army Air Force. From there, the most important materiel continued on to the Air Materiel command at Wright Field in Ohio: four extraterrestrials. Three were dead, and one was still alive
.

She frowned. How could anyone believe such garbage? Nonetheless, she couldn't bring herself to put down the book.

A shave-and-a-haircut knock on the door to her apartment came as a welcome distraction. Stretching as she walked to the door, she was surprised that nearly two hours had passed. Maybe this was true time-warp alien-abduction stuff—wasting time reading made-up, albeit entertaining, stories about UFOs.

“Stan! What in the world?” She stared at her neighbor from across the hall, then backed up as he entered her apartment.

“Angie, I'm desperate. Do you have anything to eat? I can't go to a restaurant looking like this. In fact, not even to the corner grocery. I haven't eaten all day today.” In each ear, Stan had stuck a piece of aluminum foil, twisted into the size and shape of a cigarette.

“Tell me, Stanfield,” Angie said, “why do you have tinfoil stuck in your ears?”

“I can explain … after I've eaten.” He gave
her a doe-eyed, hollow-cheeked look, like a starving waif in a Keene painting. Angie knew he was anything but starving, considering that he mooched meals throughout the apartment building, and probably from people at work as well.

“Check the fridge.” Angie waved her thumb toward her kitchen, although it was nearly as familiar to him as to her. “My mother—”

“What? You'll have to speak up a bit,” Stan said, his back to her as he dashed toward the kitchen. “The foil, you know.”

“My mother sent my sister Bianca over with a care package for me—some leftover cannelloni from a big dinner party. If you aren't interested in that, there's some yogurt. Or you can open a can of tuna, throw in some curry powder and sour cream, and—”

“No, no.” Stan shuddered at the thought and pulled open the door of the refrigerator. “I have nothing against leftovers.” As he stuck his head inside to check out the goodies, one of the pieces of foil hit the side and fell to the floor. He straightened up and reattached it. Then, squatting slightly, he continued his search for the cannelloni—pasta tubes filled with ricotta and Parmesan cheese, chunks of chicken, ground veal, and spices, then covered with a red sauce and teleme cheese—along with any other food that might find its way to his stomach. “I wonder if I dare use your microwave with this tinfoil?”

“I think you'll be fine as long as you don't
stick your head in it,” Angie replied dryly. “Why are you wearing those things, anyway?”

“Headaches. I couldn't even go to work the other day because of them.” Clearly deciding to brave the dangers of the microwave, he put the pasta in and set it on high for three minutes.

“So you're trying to prove your case for disability benefits, is that it? If you don't get them for physical, you will for mental.” With the microwave oven on and the aluminum foil in his ears, he didn't seem to hear her.

He got himself a fork, a napkin, and a glass of red wine. He liked wine with Italian food.

She mixed a green salad with a simple olive oil, onion, garlic, oregano, and balsamic vinegar dressing for him and brought it and the wine out to the dining room table, closely followed by Stan, gingerly carrying the hot plate of food.