If Cooks Could Kill (10 page)

She wasn't one to sit by with her mouth shut while he blew their money. The resulting fights were scary. Connie shuddered to remember how close to violence each came. That should have been a sign of both their immaturity and inability to cope with crises. And more important, their incompatibility.

Before winter ended, he was back on drugs. He stopped in spring when work started up again, but then he pulled a back muscle and had to lie around the house while it mended. Drugs helped ease the pain, he
said. Connie lived in dread of going home each day after work, wondering whether she'd find the loving man she'd married, or his evil twin, waiting for her.

Even worse was when he wasn't home when she got there, and she'd spend the evening worrying about the mood he'd be in when he returned. His good moods, eventually, simply weren't good enough, and the tension grew fiercer.

Ironically, she wanted to stay married to him through this time. She remembered the man who had charmed her, and she wanted him back. She tried to do whatever she could think of to get him back, including going to Alanon meetings.

For two years she tried, but the stress, financial strain, and unhappiness became too much. She contacted a divorce lawyer.

Kevin couldn't believe she'd abandon him that way. He needed her, while all she wanted was a husband she could depend on. Luxuries meant nothing to her, and she would have been perfectly happy with a couple of kids and a comfortable home. The kind of warm family life she'd never known. Was that too much to ask?

Was she bitter? Could she have gladly sent him through Angie's commercial-strength meat grinder? Never doubt it for a minute.

When All Farm Insurance downsized, she took her severance pay and used it to buy Everyone's Fancy. By that time, her parents were gone, and soon, her sister would be, too. Her little shop became everything to her.

The whole mess bummed her out until she met Angie and life began to pick up again. She'd lived like a loser because she'd let herself feel like one. Around Angie, she was different. Heck, Angie looked at her
with respect—Connie ran a business, while Angie couldn't find the right job or business, no matter how hard she looked.

Respect didn't mean that Angie wasn't always after her to do something to add a little zing to the shop. Maybe she should think about ways to spruce it up, make it more inviting for return visits, and attract more drop-in traffic. Maybe Angie would be willing to help.

Connie would be sure to ask her.

Thoughts of past travails flew out of her mind as, with a jolt, the current one appeared in front of her.

Max was walking along the sidewalk, and running toward him was Dennis Pagozzi! The two were supposedly friends, so it shouldn't have been a shock to see them together, but it was.

They seemed to argue a moment, then quickly calm down.

It was all Connie could do not to drive onto the sidewalk—and into Max. Seeing Dennis with him made her wonder about him, as well, and if he got in the way of her fender, she couldn't say she'd be too broken up.

Instead, she drove as fast as she could to the corner and turned. Almost immediately, she realized she ought to take a look at what the two were up to, or at minimum, follow Max to demand her money back. By the time she drove around the block to where she'd spotted them, however, they were gone.

Angie entered the offices of KYME, otherwise known as “Why Me?” radio, and approached the large reception area with a high, circular desk. Beyond reception were the executive offices and recording studio where Angie had once worked on a call-in talk show,
Lunch with Henri
, with chef Henri LaTour.

She was there now to pick up a list of top floral arrangers in the area. Last week, one of the station's talk-show hosts discussed big-events planning—weddings, bar mitzvahs, baby showers, graduations, and engagement parties. Angie telephoned and spoke with her on the air, and the host offered a list of decorators who specialized in floral arrangements, but it hadn't arrived. Most likely, it was stuck in clerical hell—the place requests wait for clerks to find the time to fill them.

There are some things a girl shouldn't have to wait for, and choosing the right help for her engagement party was one of them.

She explained why she'd come to the receptionist, who went off to search for Adrianne Marceau's list. As she waited at the desk, one of the station managers, a
young curly-haired fellow with horn-rimmed glasses and a bowtie, walked in.

“Angie!” he cried. “Joel Witcomb. Remember me?”

“How can I forget?” she asked. Back when she worked there, she wasn't allowed to say a word on the show, just listen to Chef Henri mangle recipes. “I'm here to pick up floral recommendations because I'm—”

“You were such an angel to help us in the past here,” Joel said. “I can't believe we let you go.”

“Well, we all make mistakes!” She laughed, and he actually joined her. “Not that such things matter in the least anymore, because I'm—”

“I'd like to remedy that,” he said with a toothy smile. “Pierre Takizawa, our current chef, will be leaving on Friday. His ratings just aren't what we'd hoped. We're going to be playing Country–Western music in that time slot until we get a replacement, which I pray will be soon, or we'll have no listeners left at all.”

The other name for KYME popped into her head in neon colors:
cwime
. As in that station's broadcasts were a
cwime
to anyone with eardrums.

“As I said, I'm here for the floral arrangers, because—”

“I think you could do it,” Joel enthused. “Instead of the Dixie Chicks, let's put on the Angie Amalfi Hour! You could talk about Bay Area restaurants, and also perhaps present a favorite recipe each day. What do you think?”

“As I started to say—”

“You can talk about how to prepare something exotic, and we could round out the hour with people calling in, asking you questions. How does that sound?”

Just then, the receptionist returned with Angie's list.
“Thank you,” she said, then to Joel, “Good-bye.” She turned and headed for the elevator.

“What's wrong?” He chased after her, flabbergasted. “Aren't you interested? Are you working on another radio show—”

“Goodness, no.”

“TV?”

“Heavens!”

“Newspaper? Magazine?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

The elevator doors opened and as she got on, she waggled her left hand in the air. “I'm engaged.”

 

“It's too bad she won't elope,” Yosh said to Paavo, then took a big bite from a slice of linguiça and artichoke heart frittata. “All this attention might be bad for you.”

“Not for me, though!” Benson said, taking another slice. Dapper, African-American, and streetwise, he dressed like Joseph Abboud, and went through women like a rock star. “This is even better than yesterday's mixed hors d'oeuvres platter. They tasted good, but a couple of bites and they were gone.”

“Don't even talk about her pâté,” Calderon groused.

“Especially at breakfast,” Bill Never-Take-a-Chance Sutter said between mouthfuls. In his late fifties, he kept threatening to retire from the force and get his pension, plus an easier, safer, and probably higher-paying job. Nothing like having someone around with his attitude to build up morale. “If Paavo's engagement goes on for long, I might postpone my retirement.”

“I thought you already had,” Rebecca Mayfield said sullenly to her nearly worthless, mind-on-fishing-
holes-and-future-bridge-games partner. She cut herself a little more frittata—luckily, Angie had sent two of them—as if to drown her sorrows in food. “So, why not elope, Paavo?”

“She'd never go for it. Her mother's probably planning to rent out City Hall to fit all the people she wants to invite to the reception. Maybe Golden Gate Park. What else is big enough in this city?”

“The Cow Palace,” Calderon called over. Not that he and everyone else in Homicide were eavesdropping. Not that they'd admit to it.

“That's scary,” Yosh continued. “Can't you talk her out of doing something so huge?”

“Have you ever met Angie's mother?” Paavo asked.

“No.”

“That's why you asked that question.”

“I think I now know who Angie takes after.”

Paavo visibly shuddered. “Don't remind me.”

“Here's something to take your mind off your wedding,” Calderon said, handing them a mug shot. “The name's Veronica Maple. She was released from Chowchilla Wednesday and apparently went down to Fresno, killed a pawnshop owner, and took off for the city. She has ties with a smalltime gang lord named Sid Fernandez, called ‘El Toro.' He used to make his money on drugs, but bigger fish are moving in. He's having some trouble keeping his territory, I hear. Vice doesn't know where he might pop up next. Anyway, her parole officer, a guy named Lexington, was here trying to get help finding her.”

“Why a PO?” Paavo asked.

“Sounds like he screwed up the case, job's on the line. He wants to bring her in himself. I told him we didn't go for cowboys here. Not our own, and for sure
not outsiders from the valley. I don't know why, but something about the woman, the case, just smells like trouble.”

Paavo nodded.

“Thanks for the info,” Yosh said, studying the photo.

Just then a florist walked into Homicide wheeling a cart filled with flowers—a huge bouquet of red roses, and ten smaller ones with amaryllis, daffodils, and lilies. Out of Lt. Hollins's office came a loud
aaah-choo.

 

“I had to see for myself if you were here, or if you were lyin', as usual,” Butch said, when Veronica opened the door to Dennis's home.

“Now, you see.” She was dressed in a high-necked, long sleeved black jumpsuit. “What do you want?”

He pushed past her and looked around. “I want to see Dennis. Where is he?” Butch said. He walked to the bar and poured himself a stiff shot of Chivas.

“You make yourself at home, don't you?” She gave the front door a shove and listened to the latch click.

“You have.” Butch took a sip, and let the smooth warmth drift down to his stomach. “Why're you here? What the hell do you want from him?”

She stared at him. Her gray eyes seemed flat, almost soulless. “It's none of your business.”

“I don't trust you, Veronica,” Butch said. “And if Dennis does, he's a fool. Is he home?”

She smiled at him, a smile that never reached her eyes. “He's out buying some steaks for our dinner. Filet mignon. Just like an old married couple, wouldn't you say?”

Butch's body tensed. “Damn you, Veronica. You almost ruined his life once. Wasn't that enough?”

“Get out of here, old man.”

He poured the rest of the Scotch down his throat and slammed the glass on the bar. “I'm going, and so will you.”

“Don't count on it,” she taunted.

He left the house before he could do anything he'd regret, but when he reached the sidewalk, he turned and looked back at it. He frowned, scratching his head. He had to admit he hadn't used his brain much over the years. Maybe that was because he knew it didn't work so good anymore.

Nevertheless, as he pictured Veronica with his nephew, his sister's pride and joy, he knew what he had to do. The question was, did he dare do it?

“So, tell me about your date with Dennis!” Angie sat across from Connie at the Cliff House, a restaurant overlooking the ocean.

Connie opened her mouth when the waiter came by to take their order—golden red snapper in a coconut lime sauce for Connie, and fricassee of chicken with tomatoes, raisins, and olives for Angie.

“Say, aren't you Angelina Amalfi?” he asked.

“Why, yes, I am.” Angie tried to remember if she'd met the young man before.

“I saw you on television sometime back, doing a video restaurant review. I'll have to get the owner. He'd love to meet you.”

“Sure,” she said, watching him dash off. She turned back to Connie. “Isn't that amazing? I thought no one watched my reviews, yet this fellow actually recognized me. But I interrupted you. You were saying about Dennis…”

“I met him at Wings, and—”

“Here she is!” The waiter beamed as he ushered in a distinguished man with a fringe of gray hair, a large jaw, and a picket fence of false teeth. “Miss Amalfi, I'd
like you to meet the owner, Donald Kaufman.”

“Miss Amalfi! What a pleasure to have you here,” Kaufman blurted, his teeth clattering slightly.

“Thank you.” She introduced Connie. “Your menu is a wonderful combination of Southwest plus San Francisco seafood.”

“Do you think so? That's grand! Just learning you were here has given me an idea, if I might be so presumptuous.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “I was wondering if you might be willing to work with me on this menu.”

Angie stared. What was with him? “Work on it how?” she asked.

The waiter came by with a complimentary bottle of Charles Krug Cabernet Sauvignon Blanc, 1992, as the owner explained that he'd like to hire her as a consultant.

Connie caught her eye and nodded enthusiastically. What was with
her
? Angie wondered. “You don't need a consultant,” she said firmly. “Now, my friend and I are here for some
girl
talk. We wouldn't want to bore you…”
(Hint, hint!)

Kaufman's face fell. “Think about it, please. Give me a call when you're ready to talk.” He handed her his card and left.

“Angie,” Connie marveled. “What's wrong with you? He was offering the chance of a lifetime. The kind of job you've always wanted.”

“No, no, no! I want to hear about
amore.
That's what life is really about!”

“Well, if you're sure…” Connie glanced back at the hopeful owner, letting her eyes wander through the fine restaurant with the gorgeous Pacific view.

An appetizer of seviche—raw halibut marinated until “poached” in lime juice, chili, onion, tomato, oregano,
and olive oil—was placed on the table. “Compliments of Mr. Kaufman,” the waiter said.

“Thank you,” Angie said dismissively. Then, to Connie, “Tell me, did you like him?”

“Kaufman?” Connie's eyes widened.

“Dennis!”

“Of course. What's not to like?”

“Will you see him again soon?”

“I don't know. He didn't ask me. It's been three days. He hasn't called.”

Angie's face fell.

“So, what did you think?” Kaufman materialized at the table. “Too much lime juice, perhaps? Seviche is temperamental.”

Not nearly as temperamental as I'm going to be,
Angie thought. She wanted to get back to Dennis's not calling Connie, but before she could say a word, a bevy of waiters paraded from the kitchen, each carrying a plate with a small portion of an entree.

“I've died and gone to heaven!” Connie cried. Kaufman hovered over them, grilling Angie with questions while Connie oohed and aahed with each dish. One of the waiters took over as sommelier, pouring wine to help Angie cleanse her palate from one dish to the other, while another stood off to the side and wrote down almost every word she said.

Finally, she could stand no more. She grabbed Kaufman's arm, dragged him to a far wall, and poked him in the chest. “Listen, I'm here to talk about love, damn it! I want to have a conversation with my girlfriend, but she's too busy stuffing her face to talk! Will you leave us alone?”

He twisted his tie. “But you know food, Miss Amalfi! Just to watch your expression as you take each bite is a full course in gastronomy. You're a dream come true to me.”

“You are so dead!”

“All right, all right. Be that way.” He stiffened his upper lip. “Go, now. I won't bother you any longer.”

“Thank you!”

She marched back into the dining room, to find Connie in full swoon over a gigantic strawberry charlotte.

 

Paavo and Yosh came out of the Central Police Station, where they had gone to talk to a couple of uniformed cops about the stash of autographed sports paraphernalia they'd found in the abandoned garage. It was definitely counterfeit. No lead yet was available on who'd put it there.

As they hit the sidewalk, Yosh stopped, bent forward, and slowly peered first to the left and then to the right.

“What is it?” Paavo asked.

He held his finger against his lips a moment, then lowered it and whispered, “Just making sure there aren't any bakers, florists, or Italian tenors waiting to waylay us.”

Paavo growled.

Yosh chuckled as they walked toward the car. “The good news is that Angie's so busy buying and making you stuff, she isn't snooping into your cases.”

The two froze.

A man was getting out of a van with a huge stuffed bear.

In stark horror, San Francisco's finest fled to their car and sped off.

 

“We'll work together, like in the old days.” Sid Fernandez placed his hand on Veronica's thigh and lightly stroked it.

“I think it'll be great fun,” she murmured, and with
a toss of the head, looked over at Julius. “I love your plan.” She flashed a smile meant for him alone.

She had walked two blocks from Dennis's house to the street corner where Fernandez's limo had been double-parked and waiting. Fernandez knew Dennis's home and was the one who'd told her where it was, but she wanted to make sure the two men didn't encounter each other unless it became necessary. She could control them better if they remained separated.

“You make our little ‘strategy' perfect, Vero.” Julius used what he thought was his very own pet name for her.
Vero
—truth. It made her want to puke, but that was all right. He was lots less revolting than the so-called El Toro, who didn't even have the good fortune to be bull-like where it mattered most.

“What's this Vero stuff?” Fernandez asked, squeezing Veronica's thigh. “We call her Ronnie, don't we?”

“Veronica is the name,” she said.

He squeezed harder. “I thought you liked being called Ronnie.”

“You can call me anything you like, Toro. You know that.”

“
Bueno, puta
.” With that, he laughed hard. Julius joined him, as did Veronica. Fernandez was everything she despised in a man, but she needed him, and he didn't like his jokes dissed. He'd been the only one to help her when she was in prison, and he counted on her loyalty as a result. And had it. Up to a point.

“Now, we must get serious,” Fernandez said. “In three days, Julius will have your identification. Everything is set. It should be perfect.”

“It will be, boss,” Julius said.

“That's it, then. It's up to you, Veronica, to get us in. Then the diamonds—all of them—will be ours.”

“As long as I get my share,” she said, “I can do it.”

“You think I'd try to gyp my little
puta
?” Fernandez asked.

God, but she hated the fat bastard. “Only if you want to see your
puta
gut you,” she replied.

He roared with laughter. “
Dios,
I love this woman!” He pulled her head toward him and nearly smothered her with a wet French kiss. She could feel Julius's eyes boring into her back, his jealousy a raw, livid, and very useful thing. She reached her hand out behind her, toward him, and he took hold of her fingers, their grasp hidden from El Toro's view.

 

Fernandez lifted his gaze while continuing the kiss. He'd missed her too damn much to be healthy, and he knew it, but she was the one soft spot remaining in his heart. Something about her had burrowed deep inside him years before, when they were little more than kids, first starting out.

Julius made it clear he didn't approve of the way Fernandez felt about her, but he didn't care. His kiss deepened, his hand cupping her breast. He'd searched a long time for a woman who thought like he did, and now that she was once again out of prison, she'd be with him, work with him, and—

The glass-covered bar area in the limo was polished until it shone like a mirror, and his eye caught a movement in it. He saw Veronica's back, her slim waist, her hips. For some reason, she had snaked one hand behind her, while the other pressed against the back of his neck, holding his mouth to hers.

Then, he saw Julius's hand reach for hers, their fingers entwined, like lovers…