If Cooks Could Kill (11 page)

Paavo could smell pizza as he and Yosh walked down the hall on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice the next afternoon. Normally, that would have made him feel good—a shared treat for one and all usually meant the successful conclusion of some particularly sticky or horrible case. He had his doubts, though, that business was the cause of today's celebration.

The first thing that struck him was the weird shape of the cardboard that had once held a pizza on it. As he neared, he felt the knot in his stomach grow. The pizza tray was heart-shaped.

Not again.

Even as he thought that, he knew he was wrong.

Again.

No pizza remained in the box, however.

“What's going on?” Yosh asked.

“Hey, Paav,” Benson called. “That was great. Pepperoni, Italian sausage, three cheeses, loaded with mushroom and olives. Outstanding. The shape was a little weird, but no matter. We're getting used to heart-shaped food. In fact, heart-shaped steaks would be nice.”

“Too bad pizza gives me heartburn,” Calderon grumped.

“Heart-shaped barbecued ribs!” Sutter added, ignoring Calderon's remark.

“Heart-shaped ravioli, with a rich beef sauce.” Rebecca was practically salivating.

“Heart-shaped biscuits and gravy”—Benson drooled—“with a slice of heart-shaped sweet potato pie on the side.”

“Knock it off,” Paavo said. “This isn't funny.”

Yosh said nothing. He was too busy staring longingly at the empty cardboard. A glob of cheese and a piece of pepperoni had been left on the tray, and he scooped it up and ate it. The way he licked his fingers noisily confirmed Benson's raving about the pizza.

“It's all gone already?” Angie's voice bubbled over with good cheer as she walked into Homicide, her sometime friend Nona Farraday behind her. “Did you like it?” she asked Paavo as she gave him a quick peck. The Hall of Justice was not a place for displays of affection. Even Angie was quelled by the somber surroundings. But not Nona.

“Paavo, dearest!” she squealed. “Congratulations!” She threw her arms around him in a bear hug that, if it had gone on much longer, would have resulted in Angie grasping a fistful of blond hair.

Paavo backed up and thanked her, while Benson, Homicide's resident Romeo, moved in. “Hey, there.” He acknowledged Nona, and without removing his eyes from her, said, “Angie, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Sure. Nona, meet Inspector Bo Benson.”

Bo was coolly extending his hand to grasp Nona's with some snappy comment when Angie hooked her arm in Nona's and spun her away. Paavo's eyebrows
rose in wonder as Angie marched Nona up to Luis Calderon's desk.

Calderon slowly lifted his head from his reports, his eyes narrow, and focused hard on the two women before him. “Yes?”

“Inspector Calderon,” Angie said, “I'd like you to meet my dear friend Nona Farraday.”

Nona held out her hand. Calderon lifted himself to his feet, his knee cracking, and with a look of utter weariness, shook it.

Benson smoothed his jacket and took a step toward them, but Paavo put out his arm to stop him. Their gazes met, and Paavo shook his head. Benson's eyes widened, then his mouth spread into a grin, as the situation hit him.

“Who died?” Calderon asked gruffly.

“Died?” Angie asked. “You misunderstand—my friend is just here for a visit. She knew you were all having pizza for lunch, so she brought along a little dessert.”

She glanced at Nona, who was gaping at Calderon as if her brainpower had bounded away like a slinky toy. Angie elbowed her.
“The dessert,”
she whispered.

“Oh! Of course! Here you are.” Nona lifted a large cookie tin out of a shopping bag and put it on his desk, right on top of his papers. His scowl deepened. Then she opened the tin.

The smell of alcohol filled the room. Rum, to be precise.

“Holy Moses!” Bill Sutter cried, walking over to Calderon's desk. “Is it happy hour already?”

“What did you do?” Angie asked, puzzling over the soggy chocolate chip cookies in the tin. “The recipe called for only a tablespoon of rum.”

Nona gave a come-hither look to Calderon. “I
wanted them to be
adult
cookies, so I tripled it.” She lifted one out with her fingertips. “It's my recipe—Nona's Pecan Rum Chocolate Chip Cookies. Try it. You won't be disappointed.”

Calderon noticed the other inspectors silently watching his every move. “Forget it. I don't eat pizza, and I don't eat sweets.”

“You don't?” Nona dropped the cookie in the trash and stepped a little closer. “I don't either. It helps me keep my weight down.” She held her arms out to the sides.

Calderon coughed lightly. “I see.” He picked the cookie tin off his desk and handed it back to her. Without even looking at what they were, he grabbed a handful of papers and his suit jacket. “Got to go investigate a murder.”

As Angie and Nona stared, he hurried out of the bureau.

“I'm sorry,” Angie said.

“Don't be.” Rubber-kneed, Nona sat on the edge of Calderon's desk and sighed longingly at the door he'd just exited. “He's so…masculine. I'm totally in love!”

 

“What a surprise to find you both here,” Connie said, eying Angie and Dennis sitting together at Wings of an Angel.

Angie smiled innocently. “Butch made some lasagna, Dennis's favorite. He called Dennis, who was all alone when I arrived, so I invited him to join us for lunch.”

“I'm glad to see you again, Connie.” Dennis's cheeks dimpled when he smiled. Shades of Tom Selleck, Angie thought. He used to be her ideal man when she was a little girl. She wondered whatever became of him. Old age, she guessed. None of them was getting any younger, and looking at Connie and Dennis and
hoping young love would blossom between them, while she was soon to become a wife, she felt more mature and sophisticated by the minute. Although it was too bad Paavo didn't have dimples.

“Dennis has an idea to expand the restaurant,” Angie said, as enthusiastically as she could. Frankly, she hated the idea.

“So I've heard,” Connie said.

“Say, Angie,” Dennis turned to her, “wouldn't you say Connie is the perfect person to run some ideas past? She's got a good head on her shoulders. Practical. Sensible. I like that in a woman.”

“You do?” Angie asked, delighted. “I'm so glad! Those are wonderful qualities, and Connie is one of the most practical, steady people I know. That's her—Constant Connie, in the flesh.”

Her smile slipped a notch as Connie's foot met her shin under the table.

“Constant?” Dennis asked, confused.

“Dennis is also constant,” Angie said. “He's loyal. Generous. Handsome.” She was running out of adjectives.

“Well, he's more constant than some friends,” Connie sniped.

Dennis looked lost, as if he couldn't hear his quarterback's audibles. “About the restaurant,” he said, “I'm hoping to make this place hit the big time. Right up there where the Washbag used to be—you know, the Washington Bar and Grill.”

Angie frowned. The place was at its height about the same time as Tom Selleck. What was Dennis thinking? She didn't want to call him on it in front of Connie. “See, he's full of ideas for business,” she said brightly.

Just then, Butch bounded out of the kitchen holding
a bottle of wine and candles. Earl followed with a violin.

Angie's jaw dropped.

Connie glowered.

Dennis cleared the table of the menus so Butch could put the candlesticks down and open the burgundy. Last week's vintage. At least it didn't have a screw top.

Earl tucked the violin under his chin and began sawing away at something that vaguely resembled “You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings.” Unfortunately, it sounded like a different kind of wind.

Other customers stopped eating, dumbfounded.

“If I'm part owner of a sports bar,” Dennis shouted over the cacophony, “I could probably get some of the guys to drop in.”

“They'd love this, all right!” Connie yelled back sarcastically.

“Absolutely!” Dennis's voice strained.

Angie made expressions at Connie to smile and be nice. It didn't work.

Butch poured the wine.

Connie snatched a breadstick and broke it in half. Instead of eating it, she reached for another and broke it as well. Angie didn't like the way Connie was eying her as she did so.

Butch had to strike a half dozen matches to light the candles.

Earl switched to “Feelings,” a nails-on-the-chalkboard rendition that must have had the entire neighborhood of dogs, cats, and mice running for their lives.

As Dennis hoisted his wineglass, Connie reached for another breadstick, bumping it against Dennis's hand,
which caromed against a candle that dived kamikaze-style onto a napkin. The wine sloshed from the glass, high into the air, to land with a splat on Angie.

The napkin burst into flames and ignited the tablecloth.

As her matchmaking plans went up in smoke, Angie doused the napkin flambé with water from her glass, while Butch smothered the tablecloth.

The violin's tune changed. Earl launched into a rousing rendition of Johnny Cash's “Ring of Fire.”

 

Connie was glad to see Angie heading back from the ladies' room to clean up. Dennis had talked her ear off about his sports bar plans, as if she cared. She still smarted that he hadn't called her over the past week. To come in second fiddle to lasagna didn't make her feel warm and fuzzy toward him.

Angie returned wearing a big smile. What was with her now, Connie wondered.

“It's so nice that the two of you are discussing the place this way,” Angie said. “I think it's important that two people, when they're seeing each other, are able to discuss all kinds of things, and work them out together. Just like me and Paavo. We always discuss stuff. He tells me about his cases…”

Connie rolled her eyes. The only time Paavo told Angie about his cases was when he was telling her to keep her nose out of them.

“…And we discuss what he should do next…”

Connie placed her hand to her mouth, needing to bite her tongue. Since when did Angie consider herself a homicide expert?

“…And I always tell him about my business ideas and get his input…”

Paavo learned a long time ago it was easier to stop a train than to move Angie to a different track when she was in single-minded pursuit of a business idea.

“…We're a team,” Angie declared.

“Sure you are.” Connie nodded. “Like Cagney and Lacey, or do I mean Lucy and Desi?”

“What?” Angie looked at her curiously. Recognizing sarcasm wasn't her long suit.

“Anyway,” Dennis interrupted, “making this place bigger and better is a great idea, don't you think?”

Connie didn't know what to think. Dennis was excited over his ideas, but she understood Angie's reluctance. Wings was an inexpensive bistro with a pleasant atmosphere that caused it to have a number of loyal customers. She'd hate to see it lose them for something showy.

Showy, in her experience, didn't last long. Showy…like Dennis, who was now smiling at her and batting his long eyelashes. She smiled back—who wouldn't?—and could feel Angie scrutinizing them both.

“I'm so glad you two found each other,” Angie gushed in a revolting display of sappiness. “As soon as I met Dennis, I knew you would get along. It was just like when I met Paavo. One look, and I knew he was for me.”

Give me a break,
Connie thought. She knew the true version of the story—one look, and Angie couldn't stand Paavo. The Great Stoneface, she'd called him.

“Now,” Angie continued dreamily, “orange blossoms are in my future, and…”

All this mush just didn't do it for her, so Connie turned toward the door to contemplate escape. Immediately, though, Angie's voice, the restaurant, everything seemed to dissolve.

Max Squire walked in.

Connie began to get up from the chair, but then gripped the seat, trying hard to appear nonchalant. Max gazed at her for what seemed like an eternity.

As he approached the table, though, he ignored her. “Hello, Dennis.”

Dennis stood, his expression serious. “Hey, Max. Good you could make it.”

They shook hands and Dennis introduced him. “Ladies, this is an old friend, Max Squire. I just happened to run into him on the street yesterday. Max, this is Angie Amalfi, and…wait a minute, you two already met, didn't you?”

Max shook Angie's hand first, then turned to Connie. “Miss Rogers and I met briefly the other night.”

Connie slowly lifted her hand to his. She wasn't sure who pulled his or her hand away faster.

“Is that so?” Angie's eyeballs had quite a workout as they bounced from one to the other.

Connie tried to regard Max as Angie might. His clothes were crumpled and worn. Jeans and a once-navy blue pullover were washed one time too many. His shoes were scuffed on top. She hated to think of what the soles must look like. His dark, mysterious eyes held hers, and when he looked away, her face burned. Why did she react that way? Damn him!

“Have a seat,” Dennis said warmly, oblivious to the tension between his friend and Connie.

“Thanks, but,” Max continued standing, “I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I can come back when you're free, Dennis.”

“No, no,” Dennis said. He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and slid it between Connie and Angie. “Sit. I asked you here for a reason. We're discussing expanding the place, and that's where you come in.”

Max did as told. He looked everywhere but at Con
nie, yet she could feel his nearness. She tried to concentrate on Dennis's bright smile, his hazel eyes.
Looks, talent, money,
she told herself.
Looks, talent, money—