Two Cooks A-Killing (15 page)

“Thank you, Miss Amalfi!” Digger cried as he bounded into the kitchen waving a microcassette tape. “You've given me the story of the century!” He grabbed a stale doughnut. “Bye!”

“Wait. What are you talking about?” she cried as she ran after him. She caught up with him on the front porch. “What's on that tape?”

“You are one in a million, lady!” Digger exclaimed. “Who ever would've thought he'd admit such a thing! Hallelujah!”

“Stop!” She kept after him to his car. “Who are you talking about? Tarleton? What do you have?” A horrible thought hit her. “Don't tell me you bugged the place?”

“Would I do that? Journalists don't do such things. My tape recorder was running and it happened to pick up some conversation.” He opened the car door and got in.

Angie jumped into the passenger side. “If you try to use that information, I'll go to your bosses and say it's a fake. I'll say it was me on the tape
and a man who was imitating Tarleton. I'll say we were thinking of coming up with a play, or something to blackmail Tarleton with. I'll ruin your credibility forever!”

“Angie,” he sounded bored. “I write for a tabloid. We aren't talking the
Wall Street Journal
here.”

She pounded her fists against the dash. “You will not publish this story.”

“The public has a right—”

“The public be damned! We're talking about a man's life, and the death of his daughter. It can't be splashed across some sleazy paper!”

His mouth was firm, his jaw jutting. “I'm going to run it.”

Her eyes narrowed. She considered trying to wrestle him for the tape, then she thought of a better way to win him over. “What if we come up with an even bigger story? What if we figure out what
really
happened to Brittany Keegan?”

“That's what I've wanted to do all along, only I'm not getting anywhere. Tarleton was my main suspect, and now he's been eliminated.”

“I've watched Paavo ferret out lots of murderers. I'm sure if we do what he does, we'll figure it out. Then, once you've got the story and are about to print it, I think you should ask Tarleton if he'll consent to you revealing that Brittany is his daughter. If we're the ones who solve her murder, I expect he'd be more than willing. It's not as if it could hurt anyone at that time. It'll make your story even hotter. You might end up on
Sixty Minutes
. Maybe even
Imus in the Morning.
”

“I'd rather be on
Howard Stern.
I'll have to think about it.”

She wasn't sure she'd convinced him. “You once worked for the
L.A. Times
, didn't you?”

His eyes met hers, first with a question, then his own answer. “You're a pretty good investigator yourself,” he said after a while. “Ever think of going into crime reporting?”

“Only if it involves the Food Network.” She was glad to see him smile at her little joke, and then added, “I also want to say…I'm sorry about your wife.”

Surprise flickered for a moment, then he nodded. “Thanks. I just said you were a good investigator, didn't I?”

“Have you found who killed her?”

His lips pursed. “Not yet, but I will someday. I know it wasn't an accident. The problem is that the prime suspects all have rock-solid alibis. I mean, really solid. So, someone else did it.” His gaze was stronger than she'd ever seen it. “I'll find him. In the meantime, if there are others out there still free who should be behind bars, I'll find them as well.”

“Like whoever killed Brittany?” Angie suggested.

“Exactly. And the chef.”

“Good. That means we're on the same page. Now, all I need is for you to promise me you will
not
use Tarleton's story.”

“Look, Angie—”

She was beyond frustrated with him. “You'd better not lie to me. I swear, Digger Gordon, if you lie to me on this, I'll devote myself to making your
life more miserable than you ever imagined it could be.”

His lips twitched, as if wanting to smile. “Why do I believe you?”

She glared fiercely.

“Maybe you should change your name to Antonia Soprano,” he suggested. She was in no mood for levity.

“Think about what I'm saying, Digger. Are you going for the gold—finding the killer, or will you wreck everything on a two-bit story now?”

He rubbed his chin. “You're right. Do I have your word you aren't going to tell any other reporters about this?”

She could hardly believe how many people she'd given her word to in the past twelve hours. “Of course!”

He gave her a pointed stare. “Okay. I think I can trust you with it.”

She slapped her forehead.

 

When she went back indoors, the house was quiet. Ever since the cook's death, the cast and Tarleton had barely spoken. Everyone went about their business somberly, and when not working seemed to spend most of their time in their rooms.

The smell of cigarette smoke in the family room surprised her.

“Busted!” Silver said. “I thought I was alone.” He was about to put out the cigarette when Angie opened the door to the courtyard.

“I'll join you outside if you'd like,” she said.

“Fine.” He stepped outside. “Are you feeling it too? A bit jittery? The others seem that way.”

“Can't blame them, can you?” she said. His father's concerns about Silver's future came to mind.

“No, I guess not.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Your mother died in this house, too, didn't she?”

“Why do you ask? Because she was such a bitch? No one killed her, if that's what you're getting at.”

She was taken aback by his vehemence. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” He put out one cigarette and immediately lit another. “She wasn't the easiest person to get along with,” he continued. “My parents stayed together for many reasons, but love wasn't one of them. My father found more warmth in one day with your mother than he got in a year from mine. Naturally, he reacted to that. Anyone would.”

“How did she die, Silver?” Angie asked, remembering Rhonda's warning.

“She'd had heart problems for years—lack of heart, some said. Finally, it killed her.”

How should she word her next question? “Was there ever any question about her death?”

His head jerked up, stunned, and then he laughed aloud. “Goetring's death got to you, didn't it? Seeing killers and cover-ups all around, are you? Her death was a natural one—in a hospital, even. It's ironic, though, that she died a month before Christmas, just as Brittany did.”

Angie thought of the cheery decorations throughout the house, of the tree and shrubbery lights that brightened this courtyard at night. “I imagine Christmases aren't easy for you.” Her voice was filled with concern. “Is it difficult, seeing all these decorations around you?”

“Don't worry about it, Angie,” he said with a scowl. “Christmas never was good, that I can remember. Maybe when I was really young it was, but that was before I understood anything about what was going on. Later, I saw it was a time when my mother complained about the gifts she got. Dad never could get it right, and me and Junior gave up trying, which made things even worse. It was a time when she got us gifts that showed how unsuccessful we were in her eyes. She gave Junior a new suit every year. He stopped bothering to have them tailored when he realized he never wore them. And every year, she gave me a wristwatch—as if to say it was time to make something of myself. Believe me, Angie, the only thing these decorations cause me to feel is thankful we don't celebrate Christmas anymore.”

He tried to add levity as he spoke, but Angie heard the sadness behind his words. For her, Christmas had a strong religious meaning, but she knew many people who weren't Christians celebrated the holiday as a time for families to get together and show their love of each other and life. The joy that was Christmas had many meanings that brought peace and hope. To find it so completely lacking in the Waterfields filled her with sorrow.

She often lived her life without giving much thought to the blessings she had. If she'd learned nothing else these few days surrounded by a fake Christmas, it was to be thankful for the happiness of her past and—she gazed at the engagement ring on her finger—for all that was to come in her future.

At noon, Officer Baker of the St. Helena police department called to inform Paavo that Fred Demitasse's death had been ruled an accident caused by him falling into a vat filled with water and being unable to get out due to his costume. The ruling raised more questions than it answered in Paavo's mind, but he knew Baker hadn't called simply to chat, or explain, or to impress with the rapidity of the SHPD's work. Paavo waited for the real reason.

It soon came. The SHPD police chief wanted nothing to tarnish the good name of St. Helena or Eagle Crest—not the estate or the show. Chief McIntosh saw no reason for San Francisco Homicide to have any interest in the case whatsoever. He expected Paavo to keep everything he'd learned confidential.

Baker didn't say it, but Paavo heard the unspoken message. The SHPD would do anything necessary to stop him. Paavo thanked Baker. The officer had done what he could to let Paavo know
which way the current flowed. The rest was up to him.

Paavo knew what he had to do.

 

At the same moment, Angie was speeding toward the St. Helena Hotel.

Off the lobby was a coffee shop. Seated at a table were her friend Connie Rogers and a tiny older woman. Very tiny. Fred Demitasse–tiny.

Angie and Connie embraced amid mutual squeals and cries of joy. After introductions, Angie gave condolences to Minnie.

“I wanted to meet the people Fred spent his last days with,” Minnie said sweetly, dabbing the corner of her eye with a black handkerchief. In fact, she was dressed head to toe in black, a black pillbox hat on her blond hair, and a full-length black dress with jet buttons down the bodice. Angie wouldn't have been surprised to see her cover her face with a black veil. “It was kind of Connie to drive me.”

“It was,” Angie said. The fact that Connie had been another closet
Eagle Crest
devotee and could hardly wait to meet the actors had nothing to do with it—yeah, right.

Angie and Connie had discussed the situation at length on the phone after Minnie had asked Connie to drive her to St. Helena. Angie met them in town to lead the way through the back roads to the Waterfield estate.

“I hope Fred was happy here, and had an important role.” Minnie turned an expectant gaze Angie's way.

Angie was taken aback. “I don't know what to say.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“Did you know he was disguised? He was pretending to be a chef named Rudolf Goetring.”

“Goetring?” Minnie eyed Angie as if she were crazy. “That was the name of a character he played in a comedy about Nazis years back—back when people laughed at such things. Was he pretending to be Goetring when he was killed?”

“He was always pretending to be Goetring.” Angie told her about his bleached white hair and body suit.

“Bleached hair? His hair was brown…before it turned gray.”

“I don't know if anyone recognized him as Demitasse. There's some question in my mind—although not in the crime investigators—that someone in the house was responsible for Fred's death.”

Minnie started, her gaze searching Angie's. “I was told it was an accident.”

“That's the official version,” Angie said with unhidden sarcasm.

Connie chewed her bottom lip. She'd heard all this from Angie already, but hadn't wanted to be the one to break it to Minnie.

“Paavo questions what happened as well,” Angie said, “but the St. Helena police don't want to help him. The whole situation raises too many questions and too many coincidences. Are people who visit that house all clumsy? They fall out windows, into wine barrels. It doesn't make sense.”

“Fred wasn't clumsy,” Minnie countered, her jaw tight. “Of course, wearing those stilts…”

“An accident sounds reasonable to me,” Connie
said hopefully. Clearly, she'd been involved in too many “unreasonable” deaths since meeting Angie.

“Living there has made me suspicious,” Angie admitted. “Nothing is as it seems. That's the trouble with being around actors. They aren't who or what they seem, either.” As she said this, she looked at Minnie, who'd been dabbing her eyes a moment ago. Her eyes, however, were clear and dry.

“You think one of them is a murderer?” Minnie asked, appalled.

“I think something happened to Fred that was much more than it…oh, no!” Angie cried. Digger Gordon entered the coffee shop.

“You know him?” Connie asked sitting a little straighter and with obvious interest. At least today Digger's slacks were clean and pressed. His corduroy jacket, however, was grungy. Angie wondered—once again—about her friend's bizarre taste in men.

“You ladies certainly brighten this corner of the room,” Digger said as he approached their table. “Mind if I join you?” He smiled at Connie. Angie could practically see the wheels in his brain chug mightily as he studied the diminutive Minnie Petite.

Connie looked interested, Minnie wary, and Angie resigned. She made introductions and explained Minnie's relationship to the dead chef.

“Fred Demitasse…” Digger rubbed his chin. “I do remember that name. He was associated, somehow, with
Eagle Crest.”

“I would have remembered if he was on the show,” Angie said. “He wasn't.”

“Are you here to write a story about my Fred?” Minnie asked, smiling daintily.

“I wasn't originally,” Digger answered as the waitress came by to take his coffee-and-berry pie order. “I planned to write the true story of Brittany Keegan's death.”

“I thought she died because of an accident in LA,” Minnie said.

“That was the story given to the press.” He gave Connie an I'm-connected-and-in-the-know smile. She smiled back.

Minnie's eyes widened. Digger's words made a definite impact on her. Angie waited for some explanation, but none was forthcoming.

“You think her death wasn't an accident either?” Connie asked Digger.

“That's what I was here investigating, and then this new death happened,” he replied.

“Of course!” Minnie exclaimed.

“Of course?” Angie asked.

Minnie's head jerked toward her, her face pale. “I meant,
of course
a reporter would find it all quite curious.” She glanced at her watch. “Hell! Look at the time. Come on, Connie, we got to get our asses in gear. Death certificates, papers to sign. A body can't just die anymore without the government's nose in every damn thing.”

Everyone stood. Digger inched closer to Connie. “Are you staying at the hotel?” he asked.

“Yes,” Connie answered, her manner friendly. “I expect to spend most of my time at Eagle Crest, though. I can't wait to see it.”

“I'll be heading that way myself,” he said. “In fact, I can help Minnie get through the red tape—
as a reporter I know what she'll be facing—and then I can show you the way to Eagle Crest.”

“We'd appreciate the help,” Connie said. “That means Angie doesn't have to wait.”

Angie frowned. “Are you sure?”

Connie glanced at Digger. “Sure,” she said.