Two Cooks A-Killing (19 page)

Paavo thought about this a moment. Demitasse wrote to Tarleton that
his
goose, Brittany, was not kosher. That meant Demitasse knew her neck had been broken as well, but not in the fall. It was broken some other way. And Demitasse witnessed it.

“Thank you, doctor,” he said. “One more thing. Can we take a look at Brittany's autopsy files again? I'd like you to look at any descriptions or photographs in them of her neck injuries.”

Seven o'clock arrived: dinnertime. The actors and Waterfields impatiently waited in the living room. Although Paavo still hadn't returned, Angie decided she couldn't delay any longer. It was time to put her ideas into play.

She left the dining room and began to shut lights through the house and outdoors. Last of all, she shut the lights in the foyer, leaving the guests in darkness anticipating her display.

After a moment's dramatic pause, she flung open the dining room doors, revealing a magical scene. A white-and-silver Christmas tree sparkled in front of the windows. The dining room table had been extended to nearly twelve feet. It was ablaze in candlelight. The flickering lights dancing off cut crystal wine and water goblets and white and gold Wedgwood dishes cast a red aura over the food—a maple-glazed goose surrounded by elegant gourmet side dishes, appetizers, soup, and salads.

“Beautiful!” “Mouth-watering!” “Better than
Spago's.” The compliments went on and on, to Angie's delight.

“
Bellissima!
My daughter cooked all this,” Serefina proudly announced as each person entered. Nametags directed them where to sit. Twelve were at the table, Sterling at the head, and Junior opposite. His presence was a surprise to everyone. Angie had talked to her mother about getting him to attend the dinner, and Serefina had spoken to Sterling. Whatever she'd said had worked.

When Paavo arrived, he would be the thirteenth guest. The symbolism wasn't lost on Angie.

Connie entered the room wearing a central casting maid's outfit of a black dress and frilly white apron. She served Mondavi Fumé Blanc as an aperitif. Fortunately, Waterfield didn't make a dry white, so Angie didn't have to worry about hurt feelings or outraged palates.

Minnie arrived, but stayed in the kitchen dressed in Fred Demitasse's chef's outfit. They had agreed she would wait quietly, and only appear if needed.

Individual bowls of mushroom-parsnip soup, plates of romaine-persimmon salad, and appetizers of small caviar-topped sweet-potato pancakes and pear-fontina strudel were at each place setting.

“Turkey!” Bart said as he settled in between Serefina and Camille. “My favorite!” He reached for his wine.

“It's goose,” Angie corrected.

“Goose?” Bart's hand stilled, his face scrunched as if trying to remember something.

Others did remember, however. The room fell silent.

“It's traditional at Christmas,” Tarleton intoned with a sly smile. “We were gathered this way over a Christmas goose eleven years ago.”

“Damn it, Em!” Gwen shouted. “Why the hell are you doing this? All this old Brittany shit. What are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing, dear.” Tarleton's smirk grew. “Nothing at all. Let's eat.”

Angie waited for everyone to dig in. Waited for the words of praise that usually accompanied meals she'd worked hard on.

The diners glanced at each other, at the food, at Tarleton. They sipped wine. Serefina began to eat, then Camille. Slowly, the others picked up spoons and forks. They looked like death-row inmates facing their last meal.

Angie should have realized the shock of a Christmas dinner featuring a goose would deaden appetites. It was all part of Tarleton's scheme to flush out the killer, a scheme that she'd gone along with wholeheartedly. Still, as she watched everyone but Serefina pick at the food, she was ready to cry. Or murder someone herself.

Even Paavo apparently found it more important to talk to the coroner or whoever than to enjoy her cooking while it was hot and at its best. He'd been right when he suggested she go home immediately. These people didn't deserve the work she'd done. They didn't deserve the beauty around them.

They didn't deserve Christmas!

She began to carve the goose. The only way to save this meal from becoming a complete fiasco and waste of time was to get the killer to confess. To do that, she needed the wine to flow freely.

At Angie's signal, Connie entered the dining room with bottles of what appeared to be Waterfield Cabernet Sauvignon. Earlier, Angie had dumped out the contents and refilled the bottles with Freemark Abbey Cabernet—a fabulous wine.

She wondered how many of the diners had the same reaction as she did when looking at the label: the image of Fred Demitasse in the wine barrel.

Connie poured a little into Sterling's wineglass and watched his face light up with pleasure at the taste. “A particularly fine year,” he said, reading the date on the bottle. “My, I'm surpr—er, yes! A very fine year!”

Serefina vehemently shook her head when Connie tried to pour her some. “Try it,” Angie urged, catching her mother's eye. At Serefina's pleased reaction, the others also agreed to the wine.

Silver tasted it and lifted his eyebrows at Angie. He knew what she'd done.

Still, even though they drank lots of wine, no one spoke. They passed the platters and bowls of food but took only small portions, as if quietly determined to get through the meal as quickly as possible. This wasn't going the way Angie had expected.

 

After reviewing Brittany's files, Paavo asked to borrow a telephone. He needed one more bit of information, and he didn't trust his cell phone to hold the call while he waited for the information he needed.

He checked his watch. He needed to get back to Eagle Crest, but some places, like U.S. Government offices after hours, you knew even before dialing you'd be on hold a long, long time.

 

When Angie saw Rhonda remove the napkin from her lap as if ready to excuse herself, she knew she couldn't wait any longer. She stood and everyone's attention turned her way.

“There have been troubles in this house,” she said. “Accidents. Deaths. It's time for them to stop.”

“Here, here!” Sterling shouted.

The others scowled at him.

Angie continued. “When Brittany Keegan died, the police ruled her death an accident. We believe there is more to the story.”

Now, the scowls turned on Angie.

“Her bedroom was locked,” Sterling shouted. “I was there. I had to fight to get the door to open. The police were right in their conclusion.”

He rose to his feet, grabbed the platter with the goose and waved the carving knife. “Who wants another slice? This is a wonderful meal, Angie. We really don't want to talk about ugly things now. Why don't you sit back down? We're enjoying your dinner very much.” He smiled, but she didn't sit.

“You said the door to Brittany's room was locked.” She directed her words at Sterling. “Are you certain it was due to the slide bolt? You aren't! You do know, however, that Junior was troubled, and that he was infatuated with Brittany—”

“That's none of your business!” Junior shouted.

No one else spoke; a suffocating silence gripped the room.

Sterling began carving the goose even though no one had asked for seconds. “Sit down, Angie,” he said, his teeth clenched. His slices were torn and mangled.

“Is there a reason to bring this up again?” Bart demanded.

“Haven't we been over it enough?” Kyle shouted.

“This might be new and interesting to you, Angie dear,” Gwen added, “but frankly, it bores me. You really should stick to cooking.”

Angie ignored them, all her attention on Junior. “Years ago, Junior was charged with stalking a young woman. You worried about him, didn't you, Sterling? You worried that he broke into Brittany's room and that she fell trying to get away from him. You pretended to struggle to break into her room so everyone would think the slide bolt was holding the door shut.”

Junior jumped to his feet as well. “That stalking charge was a lie! I just asked her out a few times!” He glared at Sterling. “Is this why you insisted I attend this dinner? So you could accuse me?”

“I never…” Sterling's eyes were watery. He continued to hack at the goose.

“I'm out of here!” Junior yelled.

“Wait!” Angie cried. She glanced toward the doorway. Still no Paavo. “I have proof. Your father and your brother can't hide your guilt any longer.”

“Proof?” Junior's stunned gaze searched Angie's, then lingered on Sterling and Silver. “You believe her?” he asked. The other diners watched with rapt curiosity. “You think I hurt Brittany? Why would I? She was the most beautiful person I'd ever met. She…she had no interest in me, but I didn't kill her. Don't you think I'm used to women not caring if I live or die? Not wanting to
date me, or even have a conversation.” Sad eyes gazed at Angie. “I once said I thought you'd run away, too. When you didn't, I thought you were special. I should have known. This is even worse.”

The others stared at Junior as if seeing him for the first time.

“There's been sabotage on this set,” Angie said. “Wires crossed, props destroyed, fire, a bloody doll left on Gwen's bed—”

“What?” Gwen shrieked.

“—And the Little Drummer Boy stolen. Everyone knows you didn't want the show here again. The doll was to scare Gwen away, to cause her to walk out, which would have destroyed the show—”

“What bloody doll?” Gwen asked. “I never saw—”

“Silver took it away,” Angie replied. “He did it to protect his brother.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Junior pounded the table. His fist hit his soup spoon, splattering creamed mushrooms and parsnips over the table. The others recoiled to avoid the airborne side dish. “I never did anything like that!” He glowered at his brother. “You felt you had to protect me? You? I thought you, at least, had confidence in me. I know Dad has none. He thinks I'm crazier than a loon.”

“I never said that!” Sterling cried. He slammed down the carving knife. Glasses, dishes, and flat-ware shook and rattled. The goose was hash. Angie gaped at it.

“You didn't have to.” Junior stared at his father with dismay. “You, me, and Silver all know the
slide lock to Brittany's door was weak, the wood bad. It wouldn't have taken any effort to break it open. Your acting job at trying to show that you tore it from the wall was better than anything seen on
Eagle Crest.
I thought you did it to protect yourself…or Silver.”

“Me?” Silver cried. “You
are
crazy.”

Sterling held up his hands. “Both of you, stop. This is going too far. Angie, I don't know why you're bringing this up. Why are you making these accusations? It's time for you to apologize.”

Under Angie's chair was a paper bag. From it, she lifted the Little Drummer Boy music box and placed it on the table. Junior started, then sank back into his chair. “This once belonged to Brittany,” she said. “That's why it was so important to Emery to find it. It was a reminder to him of Brittany, as was everything that he did—from the decorations he used, to his rewrite of the script, to tonight's meal.”

“Why?” Gwen swiveled toward Tarleton. “I never understood why Brittany meant so much to you when she was alive, and especially now that she's dead. It's been years, and we can all see Mariah is far more devoted to you than Brittany ever was.”

“It's nothing,” Tarleton said, his voice choked.

“Nothing?” Mariah cried. “Gwen is right. She's all you think about. She's dead, Em. I'm not…not that I seem to matter to you.”

Tarleton's gaze traveled from Mariah to Angie and settled there. Finally, he shut his eyes a moment, and when he opened them again, he studied his fellow diners, one by one. “Brittany,” he said quietly, “was my daughter.”

The very room seemed to gasp. Those four words opened a floodgate within Tarleton. He explained why he'd kept the news secret, and what torment that secret had been to him. He had suspected Brittany's death was more than an accident. Fred Demitasse's e-mails to him affirmed it. He had to do something. “I wanted to know who killed my daughter,” Tarleton said, teary eyed. “But as a result of my questions, my friend died as well. I believe he was murdered.”

“This music box is the key,” Angie said. “I believe the person who killed her is the one who couldn't bear to look at it, to have it remind him, day after day, of Brittany and the way he loved her. I believe Fred saw him take it, and that's why he, too, was killed. I found it in your room, Junior. This is my proof.”

 

Digger stayed close by the hotel's fax machine waiting for the information he needed. It had cost the newspaper a pretty penny to order it, and to request it quickly as possible, but if it would result in the story he thought it would, it'd be worth every cent. The time crawled by; he needed to meet Paavo, to get back to Eagle Crest.

Finally, the desk clerk waved him over.

He grabbed the first page to spit out of the machine and began reading. It wasn't what he'd expected at all. He had to be patient, he told himself, not go too fast, and make sure he had all his facts in order before acting.

 

“Damn you!” Tarleton lunged for Junior, knocking over the platter of acorn squash rings. The
rings rolled and raced across the tabletop, and the painstakingly added apple stuffing spurted out and left a trail a snail could envy.

“I didn't do anything to her!” Junior pushed Tarleton back. Tarleton's arm smashed onto Junior's plate, knocked over his wine and water glasses, and caused the bowl of spinach and tasso ham to crash to the floor. “I gave her the music box. My mother loved it. I thought Brittany would as well. Instead, she laughed at it and gave it to the set designer. When I got my chance, I took it back. That's all! I had no reason to kill her! I liked her!”

“You had a reason,” Angie said, trying to be philosophic about her ruined spinach dish. “It's here, in my hand. Do you want me to go on, Junior?”

“Yes, damn you!”

The other diners exchanged anxious, puzzled glances at each other, but didn't interfere. Angie and Junior were center stage, with Tarleton held back and ineffectual by Junior's strong arm.