If Cooks Could Kill (4 page)

“Yeah. I guess so. Not that I've ever found out.” She gave a raspy whiskey-and-smoke-laced laugh.

“Oh? You're single?” Angie eyed the woman. Forty-ish, self-employed, strong, motivated. In other words, exactly the kind of woman for her neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette. He could use some discipline, motivation, and hard work in his life. At thirty-something, he kept
a job with a bank only because of his father's influence, not his dedication to the world of high finance. Helen and Stan. She liked it! Made for each other, and she could be the little Cupid who'd brought them together. Just as some good fortune had brought her Paavo. She smiled at Helen, starry-eyed. Ah,
amore!

“Never found a man I could abide long enough to marry,” Helen confessed. “Probably better off for it, too.”

“You never know what might turn up when you least expect it,” Angie said, her mind working. She was sure she could get Stan out to Helen's shoe repair shop on some pretext or other.

“Got to get back to work. Remember to tell Connie she'd better be here tomorrow or I'll kick her ass.”

“Don't worry,” Angie said. “There's no way I'd forget.”

 

“I'm getting too old for this stuff, Paavo,” Homicide Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara groaned and huffed as he climbed down from the rafters in an abandoned garage.

“Come on, Yosh. It wasn't that high.” Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith offered a hand as his partner leaped off a rickety wooden ladder, bypassing the last few worn-thin steps.

“I'm not complaining about the climb,” Yosh said. “It was trying to speak Japanese after all these years. You'd think the police department would have someone else on the payroll to do it.”

“They do—but not someone else who happened to be right around the corner when needed. You did a good job. The kid was scared, and now he's back with his mother.” Paavo watched the young Japanese woman tearfully hugging her son, yet obviously torn
between wanting to kiss him and wanting to tan his backside. Earlier, the five-year-old had gotten angry with her and run away from home. Around the corner from their apartment was a boarded up, dilapidated three-story building, the top two floors flats and a garage at ground level. In the back, a window leading into the garage had a loose board that could be pulled open wide enough for a child to squeeze through.

The police had been called to help find the missing boy. With the help of a bilingual neighbor, the mother explained what had happened. The police soon located the child, but he wouldn't obey the neighbor or his mother, and the cops didn't speak Japanese. He huddled on a flat piece of old, rotten wood that had been placed across some rafters at the top of the garage. It could hold a five-year-old's weight, but not an adult's.

Paavo and Yosh happened to be two blocks away investigating an apparent suicide when the call went out for Japanese-speaking assistance. As Yosh climbed up the ladder, he'd tried to remember the words and expressions he'd learned as a child. At nearly six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and legs, a thick neck, and stubbly hair, he looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and the lead in a samurai movie.

When he reached the top of the ladder, the boy gawked at him and shrieked, and before Yosh had finished saying,
“Konnichi-wa. Omawari-san desu,”
or “Hello. I'm a cop,” the child began to scramble toward his mother.

Now that the boy was safe, Paavo grew curious about the run-down building he found himself in. “Who owns this?” he asked one of the uniforms who had stood under the rafter, ready to catch the boy if he slipped or the board broke.

“The neighbors say its been abandoned for property taxes—a victim of rent control. The city owns it now but hasn't decided what to do with it,” the young cop replied. “The upstairs flats are infested with rats, and people never see anyone go in or out.”

Eight shoeboxes, arranged in a stack, were the only things in the garage that weren't coated with inches of dust and cobwebs. Paavo glanced at Yosh. “I wonder what's in them.”

Yosh took out his pocketknife. “Let's find out.”

Inside were baseballs. Yosh lifted one out and gawked at a valuable Roger Clemens autograph. “What the hell?”

Lifting out other balls, they found signatures from Barry Bonds, Pedro Martinez, Mark McGwire, and a number of lesser known players. Paavo and Yosh opened the other boxes and found the same thing. Several ballplayers had signed more than once.

“I wonder if this is someone's baseball collection,” Yosh said. “Why here, though? Unless they're hot.”

“Or fakes. Let's get them out of here. We can check them out—contact Robbery.” He glanced at the neighbors gathered. “They won't last if we leave them.”

After instructing a patrolman to send the boxes to storage, Paavo and Yosh left the garage and headed toward the city-issue Chevy. As Paavo took out his cell phone and called Robbery, a short, chubby man with a pencil-thin mustache and wearing a black suit with a red carnation in the lapel walked up to them. A fireplug with a flower.

“Inspector Paavo Smith?” he asked.

Paavo glanced at him, still on the phone. Yosh gave the strange guy an incredulous once-over before pointing to his partner.

Immediately, the little round fellow burst into a loud, operatic version of
“O Sole Mio.”

Paavo froze.
What the hell?
Then it struck him.

She wouldn't
, he thought. As the octaves rose higher and the volume louder, he was forced to admit the awful truth: she would. He jabbed a finger in his ear, and spun 180 degrees, trying to finish his phone conversation. The singer followed, bellowing the tune with grandiose gestures, sobs, and catches in his throat at the heartfelt Italian lyrics, whatever they were. The fireplug had morphed into a singing windmill. A loud singing windmill.

People stuck their heads out of windows, cars stopped on the street, panhandlers forgot to ask for spare change, and a bus missed a turn and ended up on the sidewalk.

Paavo quickly ended the call and fled toward the Chevy. The tenor chased him down the block, still singing and gesticulating. Yosh was already in the driver's seat, his vision blurred by tears of laughter, while the other cops added a chorus of guffaws to the serenade.

With a diving leap into the passenger seat, Paavo glared at his partner. “Are you going to drive?”

As Yosh sped off, Paavo turned to see the tenor in the middle of the street, hands over his heart, mouth opened wide in song, eyes shut. A large truck was bearing down on him. Just then, Yosh turned the corner…

Connie peeked into the living room around one o'clock. Max was still asleep. So much for going to work today. She might trust the stranger to sleep on her sofa, but no way would she leave him with all her possessions. They might not be much to others, but they were all she had, and she loved them. Besides, she'd let her renter's insurance lapse.

The last man to use her sofa that way had been her ex-husband whenever she'd thrown him out of the bedroom. Lots of big rumpled cushions made it comfortable, and the color was a practical brownish-gray. Years ago, a salesman, who could have taken lessons from her no-nonsense mother, had told her it would go with anything, and he was right—from the small house she'd rented with Kevin, to this little one-bedroom apartment in an older building filled with mostly long-term elderly neighbors.

Dark hardwood floors in need of refinishing ran through the hall, living room, and bedroom, and the walls in those rooms had floral wallpaper that had faded and yellowed with age. She knew better than to paint over it, and she didn't have the time or energy to
remove it, so she lived with it, trying to brighten up the apartment with lacy white curtains over dark wood window frames, posters of plays and art exhibits, and of course, her one completely impractical pleasure—the one her mother had called “junk”—her stuffed animal and old-fashioned doll collections displayed on shelves, windowsills, and the backs of bureaus and tabletops throughout the apartment.

And now, as a finishing touch—a man in the living room.

Not that Max Squire was a particularly good-looking man, or anything like that. He was no Pierce Brosnan, that was for sure. Not even close to a Brad Pitt. His face was much too narrow, and the curls on his dark blond hair were too tight to look good in today's casual climate. His nose was too long, his nostrils too high, and his eyes too closely set. Even his mouth was perhaps a shade too well-defined for a man.

Her ex, frankly, was a whole lot handsomer. Both men were tall and blond, but Kevin had often worked construction jobs and had the bulk and strength of a man who did such work. Max, though broad shouldered, was lithe. Maybe she hadn't been so far off when she'd said he sounded like an accountant.

Last night, when he'd gotten into her car, he'd nearly passed out again, so she'd brought him to her home. Thank God she'd cleaned, vacuumed, and dusted the place the day before. Even changed the sheets—whether simply because they needed it or out of wishful thinking about her blind date, she wasn't sure. Well, actually, she was sure.

The sheets hadn't been that dirty.

Once they reached her apartment, Max told her he'd been mugged earlier that day. When he fell, he'd managed to protect his head, but the kids who'd robbed
him—little Dennis Pagozzi wannabes in Forty-Niner jackets—had taken perverse pleasure in kicking him. He was sure he'd been badly bruised, but nothing more.

They took his money, and that was why he'd been looking for Dennis to borrow more. She decided not to question his story too closely. Since he didn't know how to reach Dennis by phone, and had to rely on hearsay from someone at the Forty-Niner gym to tell him how to locate the guy, Dennis hardly sounded like a close friend. Why turn to him when mugged unless Max had no other friends at all?

She'd run a warm bath for him and ordered him to take it after handing him a large terrycloth robe and the razor she used for her legs. She'd even put a fresh blade in it.

As he bathed, she'd covered the comfortable sofa with sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. Normally, she wouldn't have dreamed of allowing a strange man into her home, let alone to her bath and to sleep on her sofa, but he seemed in too much pain to be harmful.

Besides, something about him touched her. She had no idea why. How many women ended up dead because a pitiable stranger had appealed to their compassion? Was she crazy, or what?

When he'd come out of the bath, with his absurdly white legs protruding from the bottom of the robe and his feet bare, he'd looked so exhausted that she was sure she would be safe that night. Her life as well as her honor.

Damn
.

She hadn't liked the way he'd grimaced as he'd lowered himself onto the sofa, so she'd suggested she take a look at his ribs.

He slumped wearily. “If they were broken, you couldn't do anything about it, so why bother?”

God, but he was negative. “I could wrap them for you,” she said. “At least you wouldn't feel as much pain with each breath.”

He kept the bottom of the robe clutched close about his waist as she slid the top off his shoulders. His arms and shoulders were milky white, while his chest, back, and rib cage were livid red and purple.

“You poor man!” Just looking at him made her wince. She found an old pillowcase and tore it up. As she wrapped it around his ribs, she said, “When you were passed out, you mentioned being late. Is there anything I can do to help you with that? Anyone you need to call?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.

“You were muttering those words. You sounded agitated.”

“You must be mistaken.” His voice was firm, almost harsh, and his eyes bored into her.

Once she finished with the padding, she lifted the robe back onto his shoulders and gave him two Aleve.

While easing him down onto the pillow, she wrapped one of her arms around his shoulders in support. As she lowered him, bending with him, their eyes met. His were like pools of dark coffee, rich and penetrating. Heat swept over her.

As soon as he was firmly down, she pulled her arm away and stood, stepping back from him, her face nearly as red as his bruises.

She wasn't a horny teenager anymore, but a thirty-plus divorcee. Okay, so maybe it had been a long time since her last fling, but this guy was a stranger, a not-very-handsome, brusque, mysterious stranger.

So, maybe she was a horny divorcée?
Get over it, Rogers
.

He'd fallen asleep immediately, and this morning, he'd awakened while she was having her usual breakfast of a couple of slices of unbuttered toast and black coffee. Each day she started out as if she were on a diet; unfortunately, something usually got in the way of calorie counting long before the day was over. Sometimes, even before breakfast was over.

She gave him more pain pills along with a couple of poached eggs, toast, and coffee, shocked at herself for cooking an almost traditional breakfast. Angie would be proud.

Her mother had always given her poached eggs when she was sick, so it seemed like the right thing to feed him. Personally, she hadn't eaten a poached egg since she'd left home, and hadn't missed the watery concoction one little bit.

It'd also been years since either bacon or sausage had found their way to her refrigerator, not because she was a vegetarian or anything, but because they were too fattening. Also because toast or chocolate-flavored granola bars made for a quicker and easier breakfast. The fanciest she ever got was Egg-O waffles with diet margarine and lite syrup. She debated leaving Max alone while she ran over to Safeway to buy sausage, but decided she'd do it only if he seemed hungry. Since he hadn't finished his toast before falling back asleep, she guessed he needed sleep more than toast or sausage anyway.

Now, hours later, he began stirring and muttering.

The doorbell rang. The clock read 1:30, and she slapped her forehead.

She had to decide, quick. Did she dare tell Angie she'd taken some stranger into her home? It was bad
enough she'd been stood up. Even to herself, she sounded really pathetic. How embarrassing was that?

 

Angie placed her hand on the door handle, ready to push as soon as Connie buzzed it open from her third-floor apartment.

Instead, after a long wait, Connie appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Angie,” she said brightly as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Connie wore one of her more garish dresses—a day-glo pink with V-neckline and short skirt—plus she was all made up. This was not the appearance of a woman at death's door. Or of one who'd just crawled out of a bed of passion. More like looking to crawl into one.

“Were you just leaving?” Angie asked. “Heading for your store, maybe? Or…somewhere else?”

“No, not at all,” Connie replied cheerfully.

“Why didn't you buzz me in?” Angie was confused. “What are you doing down here?”

“I figured it was you,” Connie answered.

Angie wondered if her apartment needed cleaning, or something. “I went to the shop to meet you for lunch.”

“Oh, shoot! That's right.” Connie looked contrite. “With all the excitement of my date, I forgot to tell you I had a dentist appointment this morning.”

“Oh, dear!” Angie hated going to the dentist. “Was it so painful you decided to stay home all day?”

“He had to use a lot of novocaine…and it took forever to wear off. My face puffed up like a chipmunk's. I couldn't go to work like that. Slurred speech, face swollen. What would people have thought?”

“Well, you look fine now,” Angie said with a compassionate smile. “Shall we go? I can't wait to hear every little detail of your date last night.”

“There's nothing to tell.” Connie folded her arms. “Not enough for a five-minute break, let alone an entire lunch. He stood me up.”

Angie didn't think she'd heard right. “Dennis Pagozzi?”

“Neither hide nor hair. Look, I've got to go.”

Angie stared at her. “Wait! I can't believe it. He's Butch's nephew.”

“Believe it, Angie.” Connie's mood deteriorated with each word. “The guy must be flaky. It was embarrassing. But on the other hand, what else is new? It isn't the first time a blind date's ended up that way for me, and I'm sure it won't be the last. But I'm a big girl. I can handle it.”

Angie's indignation over her best friend's treatment soared. “What a slime bucket!” she cried, throwing her arms outward. “I never thought Butch's nephew would be such a…a…”

“Dickhead?”

“Exactly!”

“Who cares?” Connie said.

“That's the attitude!” Angie's jaw was firm, her whole being determined to make things right. “I'll find the perfect man for you. The world needs more love it in.”

“Sure it does.” Connie said without conviction. “And while I'm holding my breath, I'm going back inside to nurse my sore mouth.”

“Connie, wait!” Angie cried as Connie turned away. None of this made any sense. “What's going on?”

Connie stepped inside the foyer to the apartment building and left the door open a crack as she faced Angie again. “Nothing. I told you. I just want a break today. Don't worry about me. I'll be back at work tomorrow.”

“But—”

Connie sighed. “You're so pushy, Angie.”

“I'm pushy?” That took her aback. “Well, yes. Maybe sometimes. With good reason—”

“Good-bye!”

Angie quickly yelled as the door swung shut, “I don't suppose you have time to go to coffee and tell me again what it was like when Paavo proposed?” She heard the click of the latch. “No, I don't suppose you do.”

She hated herself for having missed a good deal of her very own marriage proposal, having keeled over in a dead faint at Paavo's words. It wasn't shock, she was sure, but just an accumulation of everything else that had happened that particular evening.

Someday, she might even convince herself of that. On the other hand, she loved hearing about the proposal from Connie who, among others, had witnessed the whole thing.

Hands on hips, Angie stood facing the closed door. That dentist story didn't hold an iota of truth. Connie never dressed up for her dentist, and always said the last thing she wanted to do around one was to look like she could afford to pay for bridges, root canals, or anything cosmetic.

If Connie didn't live on the third floor, Angie would have tried to see just what was going on inside her apartment. Never before had things been so strained between them that they'd held a conversation out on the street or, come to think of it, had she been given such a brush-off.

She didn't even get to tell Connie about her brainstorm regarding her neighbor Stan and Helen the shoemaker.

As she walked back to her car, the sense that what
ever was causing Connie to act so unusual had something to do with last night struck her. She checked her wristwatch—just for fun, waggling her ring finger to watch the diamond sparkle as she did so. There wasn't time now, but tonight would be soon enough, and if no one had been murdered today, Paavo could join her in sleuthing it out. Besides, he loved the food at the Wings of an Angel.

 

Chuck Lexington hit “Send” on one E-mail and another popped open. He didn't much like computers, didn't like all the technological changes that he'd had to learn since the old days when he was a law enforcement officer. He'd enjoyed that time, even though he'd put in so many hours his wife had walked out and his kids had grown up without him ever getting to know them. Now, he felt more like a clerk, sitting and staring at a screen for hours at a time. The phone rang while he was reading yet another E-mail. Without looking up, he answered.

“This is Joe Neeley at McDonald's down on Main Street,” a male voice said. “I was told you're Veronica Maple's parole officer. She applied for a job here and was supposed to show up this morning, but she hasn't arrived. Do you know if she was released?”

Lexington wasn't sure what to make of the call. Maple wasn't one to consider serving Big Macs. “I don't know how you heard that. Her release isn't for a couple of days.”

The question, though, made him uneasy. Nothing about Veronica Maple was ordinary, and especially not the woman herself. As they spoke, he pulled up her records on the computer.

“I was wrong.” The information on the screen shocked him. “She was let go this morning.”