A Cook in Time (11 page)

He sat down and took a big bite. “Delicious. You're a good cook, Angie, but your mother is really outstanding.”

“Uh-huh.” She'd heard that before. More times than she could count. It didn't do her attitude about Stan any good to hear him praise the food she'd been saving for her own dinner later that night.

Maybe this was God's way of telling her to start the diet she'd been thinking about ever since she and Paavo returned from a most peculiar cruise to Acapulco.

Although she had more important things to do than to pay attention to Stan, her curiosity
got the better of her. “Why do you think tinfoil will stop a headache?” she asked, even while knowing the answer would probably make little sense.

“It blocks radio waves,” he said.

As predicted. “Now, wait a minute. You think radio waves give you headaches?”

“I was listening to the radio, Art Bell's show. He was interviewing this scientist about the abduction of some lecturer. One of those millennium things, you know? Anyway, as the scientist was talking, he mentioned all the strange stuff that goes on in the world that we have no explanation for. The explanation, he said, is that it's all being controlled by aliens. They're working with the government. And one of the ways they control us is with radio waves. The more sensitive among us feel them and get headaches.”

“And you're one of the more sensitive, I take it.”

“I'm afraid so, Angie.” He sighed under the weight of all that fragility. “I figured the tinfoil would work like a lightning rod, capturing the waves at the tips and destroying them. Clever of me, don't you think?”

“How do you know it doesn't work like an antenna—sending the waves right through you?”

“Well, if it did that, I'd be hearing programs in my head all day long. Can you imagine what I'd be like if the program was Howard Stern's?”

She couldn't stand it. “Stan, radio waves do
not give people headaches! It's all this new-millennium talk that's making people worry about the craziest things. Including aliens! Has the whole world gone completely psycho?” She tried to calm down. “Listen, if you're getting a lot of bad headaches, that could be serious. You need to find out why. The foil won't help.”

“It's helped already,” he said. A satisfied look filled his face as he polished off the cannelloni.

She had to change the subject before she smacked him. “You said those people on the radio were talking about a lecturer who was abducted. Has he reappeared yet?”

“Apparently not.”

“How weird. Do you remember who was talking?”

“I'm not sure. Some guy. I think they said he was once some big astrophysicist. For NASA or something.”

“Derrick Holton?” she asked, troubled by Stan's saying he was once an astrophysicist and not still one.

“I don't remember. Look at it this way, Angie: If a guy like that takes this stuff seriously, there's got to be something to it. Hey, that isn't the guy you went out with the other night, is it?”

“It is. I was there when the lecturer disappeared.”

“No shit!” he murmured, staring at her as if she'd turned green with bulging black eyes and little antennae sprouting from her forehead.

She nodded.

“It's dangerous hanging around people like that. Very dangerous.” He jumped to his feet. “Sorry to eat and run. I just thought of some important stuff I've got to do tonight. Thanks for the dinner.” He dashed out the door so fast he didn't even grab a chocolate-covered macaroon. That meant he was truly upset.

Much as she hated to admit it, Stan might have been right. Derrick and his friends were strange. Could they be dangerous, too? She had thought she knew and could trust Derrick, but now she wasn't so sure.

She particularly didn't want Connie to get more involved in any of this. Connie had been a little too intrigued by Derrick and Algernon both.

She and Connie needed to have a heart-to-heart.

She picked up the phone and called Everyone's Fancy. Lyssa answered. “Connie's gone,” she replied to Angie's question.

“Gone? Where has she gone?”

“To buy a new dress. She's going to some meeting tonight and she wants to look good.”

“What meeting?”

“I'm not sure. I think she said something about UFOs. I didn't listen. It sounded, like, far out there, you know?”

Angie hung up. What had she gotten Connie into?

After someone leaked a report to the
San Francisco Chronicle
on the mutilated body found at the Giants' new stadium, causing more than a little paranoia in an already nervous city, calls about missing persons began.

The homicide inspectors were always amazed at the number of people who had gone missing but whose disappearance had never been reported to the Missing Persons Bureau. People didn't want to hassle with answering all the questions missing-persons inspectors asked, but they were willing to call and ask if the murder victim fit the description of their missing loved one—or not-so-loved one.

Paavo and Yosh followed up on each call, but none matched the victim. They had to wait until a fingerprint ID came in. When it did, it provided a name, Felix Rolfe, but nothing more
except that he'd been given a dishonorable discharge from the army.

When people drop off the face of the earth that way, there's usually a good explanation. At the city's social services agency, they found it. Rolfe was a drifter who lived on Supplemental Security Income disability. He'd drifted all through the Southwest and finally came to California, where the weather was milder and the SSI state supplement more generous. Most of his SSI money went to drugs and alcohol, which contributed to the liver disease that gave him the SSI disability, which allowed him to continue with his drug and alcohol habit. The consensus was that all in all, if he hadn't been murdered, he wouldn't have lived much longer anyway.

The only address on record was his mother's—a rooming house on Third Street. As Paavo knocked on the door to her room, he braced himself to deal with a distraught mother. He should have saved himself the trouble.

He sat on a wooden chair with plaid-covered foam rubber cushions on the seat and back. Maureen Rolfe sat on the bed. She was an enormous woman with gray hair cut ragged below her ears. Huge thighs forced her knees wide apart and caused the skirt of her worn blue dress to ride up too high. Black socks and men's shoes adorned her feet, and she smoked the butt of a stogie.

“Felix's killer carved the number five on his chest. Does that number mean anything to
you?” Paavo asked after a short talk during which he gave his condolences for Rolfe's untimely death. She shrugged them off.

She sucked on the cigar. “Number five? Why'd anyone want to cut up Fe?”

“That's what we're trying to find out. Did five have any significance you can think of?”

“Nope.”

“Where did he live?” The fact that Bertram Lambert lived on Seventh Avenue and the number 7 had been carved on his chest hadn't been lost on Paavo.

“On the streets.”

When he asked where she would have looked for him had she needed to find him, she spit into an old coffee can and asked what it was worth to him.

Ten dollars got him the answer: the Giants' new ballpark. Felix Rolfe had found it a good place to panhandle.

 

“Beware the new millennium!” Oliver Hardy cried to the people passing Tardis Hall. He waved his UFO brochures. “Join us as we seek the safety of a new world. Learn what the government isn't telling you: The end is near!”

A gray-haired African-American man strode by, looking at the hall as he went.

“This is for you, brother,” Hardy cried, holding out a brochure.

The man gave Hardy a look of disdain. “I'm no brother of yours unless a miracle happened.”

Hardy forced a chuckle. “You pay attention to things of no importance, like the color of skin, when soon our differences will be nothing in the face of the enemy of all humankind. We will be side by side, and we will be brothers. Believe me. It's all here, in this flyer.” He waggled the brochure about Roswell. “And you just might win a hundred dollars, besides.” He pointed to the sign.

 

N
EW
M
EMBERS
! F
REE
D
RAWINGS
!
$100
TO THE
L
UCKY
W
INNER
! J
OIN
T
ODAY
!

 

The man studied the brochure a moment. “Does your group also talk about other things? Area Fifty-one, for instance?”

“Absolutely. Join us. It costs nothing, and even if you never come to a meeting, this is a chance to win a hundred dollars.”

The man's brow furrowed as he looked from the brochure to Hardy. “Why not?” He picked up the Bic on the table and filled out a card for the drawing.

Hardy glanced at the address, phone number, and name—Leon Cole.

He smiled. The spirit was truly with him on this day.

“I think you have a wonderful chance of winning, Mr. Cole,” he said. “This phone number is good to reach you at, right?”

“You call and tell me I've won, and I'll make any damn phone number you want be the right one.”

 

The first thing Angie noticed as she entered Tardis Hall was a table with food and beverages spread out on it. Paper cups were next to a punch bowl with lemonade, and platters of thin pretzel sticks and goldfish-shaped crackers were offered. Angie couldn't imagine serving anything so uncreative. If this was the kind of catering a UFO group was used to, she wouldn't have to work hard at all to win praise for the party she was planning for Triana. If she went through with it.

“Hey there! You're back,” Elvis said. “This is Phil.” He gestured toward the man beside him. “Phil, Angie's a friend of Derrick's.”

Still wearing love beads and sandals, his hair long and frizzy, and now with goldfish-cracker crumbs sprinkling his beard, Phil wiped a hand against his jeans, then held it out to shake hers while mumbling something that she guessed was a greeting.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, then to Elvis, “Is Derrick here yet? Or my friend Connie?”

“I guess she didn't come back for my company,” Elvis said with mock dejection to Phil. “I haven't seen Derrick yet, or Connie. Derrick's supposed to be here. Maybe they're together.”

“That's just what I was thinking,” Angie said, looking around. There wasn't a large enough crowd there for Connie to be lost in it. No wonder Algernon was so derisive of NAUTS—unless his crowds weren't any larger.

“I'd have noticed if some attractive babe had gone through here, man,” Phil said, his words wispy and languid. “Could Derrick be hiding her? Keeping her to himself?”

“I don't think so,” Elvis said.

“Maybe she hasn't arrived yet.” Angie wasn't sure what to do. “I just want to make sure she's all right—and that Derrick is as well. He was troubled last time I saw him.”

“That's his natural state,” Phil said with a lazy smile. “He got what he wanted now that Mosshad's out of the way. All the glory. All the women.”

“He's not out for glory, Phil,” Elvis said.

“No? You could have fooled me, man. Who was here when the Prometheans started? Me, not him. Who knew Neumann personally and worked with him? Me, not Holton.”

“Neumann?” Angie asked.

“He was the founder of the Prometheans,” Elvis explained. “NAUTS broke off from the Prometheus Group after Neumann died.”

“After he was killed, you mean,” Phil said, his flat eyes boring into Angie. “The government killed him. Just like they did my buddies in 'Nam. Just like they probably killed Mosshad.”

“No one knows the government killed anybody,” Elvis said to Angie. She was growing increasingly alarmed by Phil's words, not because she believed them, but because Phil so obviously did. Elvis turned to Phil. “Who said Mosshad is dead? He's apparently hiding out somewhere. He'll show up.”

“He's dead.” Phil's eyes shifted. “All the good ones are. Algernon or Holton—which will die, and which will live? They'll see to it that the good one dies. They always do. From the time of JFK. It's always that way.” His dark gaze met Angie's. “Trust nobody. Especially not Algernon.” He glanced at Elvis. “Maybe not even our own leader. Not even Holton.”

He walked away.

“Don't worry about him,” Elvis said. “He's an example of better living through chemistry. Don't listen to anything he says.”

“Is it true Mosshad is still missing, though?” Angie asked.

“Derrick knows what he's doing,” Elvis said.

Derrick?

“Hello.” Oliver Hardy joined the group. His gaze shifted nervously from Elvis to Angie. He flicked his daisy-patterned tie. “I don't know if you remember me.”

“Of course I do, Oliver,” she said.

“Who wouldn't?” Elvis said. “I'll see if I can find Derrick and your friend for you,” he said to Angie before he walked away.

Angie turned to Oliver. She was alone with him again, and something about him, frankly, made her nervous. She scanned the small group once more for Connie.

“I guess you and Derrick are an item?” Oliver asked, stepping closer.

“We're not.” Her tone was curt. “I knew him a few years ago.”

“That doesn't mean you can't go out with him now!” He sounded almost angry.

“I'm seeing someone else.” She clamped her mouth shut as if to say,
End of story
.

Instead he twisted his head from side to side. “Not that I'd notice. If you were my girlfriend, I'd be with you.”

Fat chance. “I'm afraid he's busy. He's a homicide inspector,” she said pointedly. “He's investigating those mutilation murders.”

Oliver's eyes widened. “Mutilation murders?”

Sheesh, as if the whole city isn't talking about them
. “The ones on the front page of the paper.”

“I don't read the news. It's too depressing. Especially horrible murders of young women. I keep away from them. I'm too sensitive for this world, I'm afraid.”

She seemed to be hearing a lot about sensitive males these days. “They aren't young women, they're men.”

His face turned milky white. “Men? Are you sure?”

“That's what the papers say. I don't know the second one's name—but I'm sure it was a man found at the Giants' stadium. The first one, though, had a name easy to remember—Bertram Lambert—sort of singsongy, don't you think?”

She stopped speaking. Oliver had gone from pale to green and now looked as if he was going to be ill. “What's wrong?”

“N-Nothing.”

“Did you know Mr. Lambert?”

“Me? No. Never heard of him. Not at all. You said these men were mutilated, but not like cattle mutilations, right?”

Her head began to spin. “Cattle mutilations? Whatever are you talking about?”

“Uh, nothing. Go on.”

She didn't want to talk any more to him about this or anything else. “Paavo won't give me the details, and they've been kept out of the paper. All I know is, the mutilations were quite horrible. I can't tell you anything more than that.”

“Oh my.” He pressed his hand to his stomach. “Excuse me, please. I told you things like that upset me. That's why I don't read or listen to the news anymore.”

He turned and rushed away from her, practically stumbling his way into the auditorium. She supposed he was either going to sit down and calm himself or continue through the auditorium to the backstage area, where Derrick and some of the others might be.

The doors were already open, so people could take their seats. She checked her watch—not that it did much good in Time-Stands-Still Hall. After her first visit to this place, she'd had to buy a new watch battery. She still didn't see Derrick or Connie. Where were they? Since they'd probably show up for the lecture, she entered the auditorium. Although she hadn't wanted to listen to more weird alien talk, she
didn't want to abandon Connie to the tender mercies of this strange crowd. Connie was too vulnerable now, being divorced and alone, with the holidays approaching. Angie watched out for her friends.

No sooner had she sat down in the back row of the auditorium than a familiar face appeared. “Hello, Malachi,” she said to the gaunt, bearded man she'd met at her first visit to Tardis Hall. He was again dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks. “Are you here to see another abduction?”

“Absolutely.” He gave her a wink. “I haven't had so much fun in years.” She laughed. She had no idea if he took the abduction seriously or not, but he was having a good time with it no matter what.

“But why are you here again?” he asked. “Surely you have better things to do than to spend time with people who have so much trouble dealing with this world they search for a better one in the stars.”

She was surprised to hear him say that. “You're being a little unfair. These are simply people with an overblown imagination.”

He grinned. “I stand corrected … somewhat.”

She was starting to like him. “Last time we talked you told me about the rift between Derrick and Algernon. I met Algernon. What a piece of work.”

Malachi chuckled. “Algernon is all show. He
wouldn't know a flying saucer from a turnip. And frankly, I believe he's more interested in women than in any EBE, which isn't to say an alien chick would be safe around him. Why do you care about Algernon? You surely don't want to join the Prometheans, do you?”

She felt a little peculiar telling a stranger something she hadn't yet told Paavo. On the other hand, she wouldn't care if Malachi learned her business idea was a failure. She would care if Paavo found that out. “I've been asked to cater a theme party for Algernon's book launch. Since I have a new business, I wanted to do it right. The right theme, the right food. But with this Algernon, I just don't know….”

“Well, I'll tell you, you won't go wrong with these people if you use the crash at Roswell as your theme. Everyone is fascinated by it … and by what happened after the crash.”

“After?” she asked. She hadn't yet heard a word about after the crash. From the corner of her eye she saw Derrick step up to the microphone. Where was Connie?