Too Many Cooks

by Joanne Pence

  “It really doesn’t take that long,” Angie said. “And with the commercial breaks and all—”

  “It doesn’t sound good,”—Lacy took Henry’s hand—“for my Henry not to have the answer right on the tip of his cute little tongue.”

  His cute little green tongue.

  Henry cleared his throat. “I agree. Chef Henri must be able to respond tout de suite.”

  Lacy glanced at him. “Henry, dear, you don’t need to speak French around us. Right, Angie? My big Pooh Bear is such a show off!”

  He harrumphed and leaned back against the sofa, his lips pursed indignantly.

  “Pooh Bear?” Angie regretted it the moment the words passed her lips. Some explanations were better left unspoken.

  “That’s what I call him. And it’ll explain the new theme music we just picked out. Every show should have something distinctive.”

  Angie refused the temptation of asking any more about it. “So, about finding the answers for Chef Henri, what does this mean?” she asked.

  “What it means is, we want you to screen the calls before Henry takes them. You can find out what the callers’ names are and what they want to ask about; then you find the answer and give it to Henry before he ever even says hello to them.”

  Angie stared at her. Some shows, on bigger radio stations, went to the expense of paying screeners to answer every call off the air—to make sure it wasn’t a wrong number or a crank or whatever. But not KYME. The radio hosts took their own calls, for better or worse. “I really don’t understand why I would need to—”

  “It’s just not right that poor Henry has to take these questions cold, with nothing but that silly time delay to bleep them off if anyone starts to say obscenities. I mean, really, how many people swear at cooks?” Lacy formed her mouth into a pout, her eyes darting from Angie to Henry and back again.

  “Well…” Angie decided it’d be best not to reply, but from all she’d heard about the cook at Henry’s restaurant, she suspected plenty of people wanted to swear at him just about every day, especially after being presented with the bill. “The problem is,” she said, “I’ve got to listen carefully to Henry’s calls while they’re happening. Many people start out with one question, but before you know it they’ve asked about something altogether different.”

  Lacy jumped to her feet. “But that’s not what’s important!”

  Her voice was shrill yet quivering.

  Angie leaned back in her chair, looking up at the woman in surprise. “Not important? It seems to me that’s the main part of what I do.”

  “Now, dear.” Henry jerked on Lacy’s arm, trying to get her to sit back down. “Let’s not upset Angelina about this. Good help is so hard to find these days.”

  Good help! He made her sound like a cleaning lady. Angie was ready to fly out of there, but she forced herself to be patient with them. She wanted this job, she could be good at this job, and if Henry would ever let her say even one word on the radio she could prove it. It was more than a little ironic, she thought, that any Tom, Dick, or Harry from the greater Bay Area could call and be on the radio, but if she said anything and ruined the illusion that Henry’s answers were popping full-blown from his head like Athena, she’d be canned. She bit her tongue and did her best to stay calm.

  “Angie,” Henry said soothingly, “won’t you at least give it a try?”

  “But Henry, what happens when I’m busily talking to a future caller and the one who’s on the air with you asks a follow-up question?”

  “I’ll just have to answer it.”

  “Isn’t that what got you in trouble the first time?”

  Henry’s face flushed red. “Trouble? What trouble?”

  “God help us,” Angie whispered under her breath.

  “Henry can do whatever he wants,” Lacy said, twisting her fingers. “And if he doesn’t know the answer, he can simply take a station break. Right, dear heart?”

  “Of course.”

  Just then the telephone began to ring and Henry went into the hallway to answer it.

  “So.” Lacy watched Henry leave the room, then stood and began to pace back and forth in front of Angie’s chair. “It’s all settled.”

  “It’s not going to work, you know.”

  Lacy spun on her. “It’ll work. Whatever Henry does works.”

  “But—”

  “Look, sweetie.” Lacy smiled and stepped closer, “I’ve been around a long time. Girls like you are a dime a dozen here, all looking for their big break in radio. You come and go, thinking you know best. But I care about Henry and what’s best for him.”

  “But every day—”

  “I know, I know. Every day he gets one or two tough follow-ups. What’s that? Two hundred sixty a year. But each day he takes ten to fifteen calls. You screen them, and he looks good twenty-six to thirty-nine hundred times a year! I’d take odds like that any time. Wouldn’t you?”

  Angie’s mouth dropped open. She felt she’d just heard from Mr. Wizard. One of the few times she could ever remember, she was speechless.

  “Lacy!” Henry stood in the doorway.

  Lacy jumped at his voice and turned to face him. “Henry, what’s wrong?”

  “That was our chef. Karl Wielund’s dead. His car went off a cliff up in the Sierras.”

  “No!” Lacy stared at him, raised her hand to her forehead, and dropped to the floor in a faint.

  Henry stood immobile, looking down at her.

  “Henry?” Angie said.

  He ran to Lacy. Kneeling at her side, he slipped his arm under her head. “Angie, do something!”

  She was already hurrying into the bathroom, where she turned on the cold-water tap and held a washcloth under it for a moment. When she ran back into the living room, Henry had Lacy lying on the sofa. She was already awake. Henry took the cloth and placed it on her forehead.

  Angie looked long at the woman, trying to figure out why she had such an extreme reaction. “I didn’t know she was so close to Karl,” she said.

  Henry looked at her with astonishment. “Close? They weren’t close. Our restaurants are across the street from each other. We’d see him every day. He’s been missing for a few days, and we were all so worried, and now to hear…” Henry shuddered.

  Lacy stared at the ceiling, her fingers over her mouth.

  “There, there,” Henry murmured, stroking her hand.

  Angie didn’t buy it. One rarely fainted over the death of a business acquaintance, even if you did see him every day. Did this mean Lacy and Karl meant more to each other than neighbors? But Karl’s taste veered toward much younger women, as Angie well knew. If younger women always turned him down, though—

  “Look at her.” Henry addressed Angie while staring adoringly at his wife. “How good-hearted she is! I mean Wielund’s was killing our business, yet look at how sorry she is that Karl died. I’m sure there are those who expect us to dance a jig at this news. But we’re better people than that.”

  “I’ll get her a glass of water,” Angie said.

  As she went toward the kitchen, she noticed the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was open. On the far wall, facing the hall, were large framed photographs. Angie walked down to the doorway and looked in. Covering the whole wall were black-and-white photos of a young Lacy. She had been a beautiful woman, one who easily could have been a model. In bathing suits and ball gowns, Lacy looked like someone ready to step into a Miss America pageant—with a good chance of winning. With her light, lustrous, probably red hair, amply curved figure, and surprisingly innocent face, she was an all-American dream. Angie stopped gawking, and rushed to the kitchen to get the water.

  “I couldn’t help but notice those photos of you. They’re beautiful,” she said. She handed the glass to Lacy, who was sitting up now.

  Haunted eyes lifted to Angie. “I think Henry’s the only person in the world who still sees me that way.”

  “But you look just the same.” Henry patted her knee.

>   “Were you a model?” Angie asked.

  “No. I was just a secretary, that’s all, until I met Henry. Now I’m on top of the world.”

  On that note, Angie left.

  5

  Paavo parked on the street, blocking the driveway of the house next door to Angie’s apartment building. He knew he wouldn’t be towed or ticketed for the illegal parking because the garage had long before been converted into an illegal “in-law” apartment. Two wrongs might not make a right, but at least they added up to one more parking space in a city where parking was harder to find than public restrooms, and sometimes more badly needed.

  He walked into the lobby and waved at Mr. Belzer, a man of about seventy-five years and retired. Angie’s father, who owned the building, had decided it might be wise to have a sort of caretaker in the lobby, watching the people who came and went. Mr. Belzer received his first-floor apartment free of charge in return for spending afternoons and evenings watching television in the lobby. At 10 P.M., Belzer locked the lobby door and would only let in those people the residents had previously designated.

  Paavo stepped onto the elevator and rode up to the twelfth floor. Getting out, he moved toward the light beige door with gold-plated letters that read 1201. Angie’s place.

  She opened the door, a small woman with short brown wavy hair that had lots of golden strands—which tended to disappear and reappear according to her visits to the beauty parlor—big brown sparkling eyes, and a wide mouth that often curled up in a broad smile—just like now—for no reason except that she was happy to see him. He was so used to people looking either afraid or angry when he rapped on their door, he was still taken aback by Angie’s reaction, even after three months of knowing her.

  “You’re here!” she said.

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “I just tried to call you. The rudest man took the call. Calderon, was it? Just because I asked if he’d hurry up and find you was no reason to bite my head off.”

  Paavo couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly, thinking about Calderon’s reaction to her request. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You’re here, and I can help you with your case. That’s all that matters.”

  “You can what?”

  As he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a dining chair, Angie went into the kitchen and in a moment came back out, pouring a bottle of Anchor Steam Beer into a pilsner glass for him. “You must be surprised I already know. But he was a cook, so you know how that is. Poor guy.” She handed Paavo the glass, put the bottle on the coffee table, and clasped her hands. “Has the department already decided to investigate, or are you here for a little insider information, so to speak? Frankly, for the newest and hottest San Francisco restaurateur to suddenly go sailing off a cliff in the mountains for no good reason is more than a little suspicious, if you ask me. Which I hope you do.”

  He walked to the sofa and sat, took a sip of the beer, and placed the glass on a coaster before looking up at her. “Now, how about starting at the beginning?”

  She couldn’t believe how calmly and casually he sat there while she was head-to-toe nerves over all this. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You do know he’s dead, right?”

  “Who’s dead?”

  She threw up her hands. “Karl Wielund! Who do you think I’ve been talking about?”

  “Until you said he was successful, I thought you were talking about Henry.”

  “Henry! It’s just his show that’s dead, not Henry. He’s alive and well and probably in his restaurant giving customers ptomaine right as we speak. I’m talking about Karl. We ate at his restaurant the other night.”

  “The owner of Wielund’s is dead? The owner of the place that’s so popular you said other restaurant owners would love to skewer him like a shish kebab if they ever got him in a dark alley?”

  She frowned. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They say it was an accident in the mountains. But I was talking to his assistant manager, Eileen Powell, who flew back from Paris when she heard the news, and I told her I used to be a good friend of Karl—or not such a good friend, but you know what I mean—and she said nobody believes Karl went to the mountains. It just wasn’t like him.”

  “I see.”

  He saw, all right, and he’d known this same thing to happen many times in the past. People get involved in a murder, like Angie did last October, and next thing you know they’re seeing murders under every corpse. He gazed at her, at the excitement in her face—the thrill of the chase, so similar to the look he’d seen on the faces of rookies when the dispatcher gave them their first big call.

  “I’m sorry to hear he was in an accident, Angie. But he was up in the mountains, and it’s winter, even though you might not know it looking out at the blue skies of San Francisco. The Sierras are treacherous this time of year.”

  “I know. I grew up hearing gory tales of the Donner Party. But that’s not what happened. Something more did. I can feel it.”

  “The Sierras aren’t my jurisdiction.”

  She folded her arms. “But he lived in your jurisdiction. What if he was forced there from his house?”

  He shook his head.

  She said in a hushed voice, “What if he was kidnapped?”

  “I doubt that.”

  She paused. “Are you hungry? How about some dinner? You can relax; then maybe we can talk about it more later.”

  “Actually, I came by to ask you how you’d feel about a pizza and a movie.”

  She looked at him with surprise. “Why, that sounds great. We’ve never gone to the movies together. And I love films. In fact, there’s a new Czech film playing at the Bridge that I’ve wanted to see. Do you mind subtitles?”

  “No. But instead, how about German, like the new Schwarzenegger movie at the North Point?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “How do you feel about Tom Cruise?”

  He winced. “Chuck Norris?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sean Connery?”

  He grinned. “Sold.”

  “Let’s go.” She grabbed her purse. “But first, are you busy Sunday night?”

  “That depends on what you had in mind.”

  “You are so full of yourself sometimes, Inspector. Anyway, Eileen said—”

  “By Eileen, you mean the manager of Wielund’s, right?”

  “Assistant manager. Eileen said she and the chef, Mark Dustman, will hold a memorial service at Karl’s restaurant late Sunday, after most of the other restaurants are closed. All his friends will be there and probably all his enemies. So I managed to get an invitation for us.”

  “Oh, you did?”

  “Right. Since everyone is asking why he was in the Sierras, and since Henry’s wife fainted dead away when she heard Karl was dead, I just knew you’d want to go to the party—I mean, the service.”

  He sighed. “Angie, I’m sure the talk means nothing. It’s just gossip.”

  “But aren’t you curious? After all, the top restaurant owners and cooks in North Beach will be there, all in one place, all secretly thankful their prayers to get rid of Wielund’s have been answered. You don’t want to miss that.”

  Paavo’s talk with Rebecca about the murdered waitress, Sheila Danning, came back to him. The place where she’d worked was one of the fancy North Beach restaurants, a French one. Something here made him suddenly uneasy. “You’re pretty sure the other restaurant owners will be there?”

  “I know it. After all, Wielund’s was the place for everyone who was anybody to be seen, so I’m sure his memorial will be the same. I’ll point the other owners out to you.”

  It was too much of a reach to imagine that the death of a ritzy restaurant owner had anything to do with the murder of a waitress who’d just been in town a few months. But then, if Angie’s friends were right in speculating about Karl Wielund’s death, and if there was a connection with Danning…

  “What time should I be here Sund
ay night to pick you up?” he asked.

  She grinned. “Come by for dinner. That’ll give us plenty of time.” She shut the lights and walked toward the door. “Before we leave, I’d like to check on one of our tenants, an older woman named Calamatti. She’s been acting awfully strange lately.”

  “Alzheimer’s?”

  “No. She worries constantly about the economy.”

  “So do politicians.”

  “See what I mean?”

  They got on the elevator and she pushed the button for the basement, where the parking garage was. “I thought you wanted to check on Mrs. Calamatti,” Paavo said.

  “I do.”

  As they stepped off the elevator, a noise in the corner of the dark garage stopped him. He took hold of Angie’s arm, ready to pull her out of harm’s way, but she placed her hand on his, stopping him.

  “Mrs. Calamatti?” she called.

  “Yes. Is that you, Angie? My goodness, you sound so close. It’s amazing.”

  Angie glanced at Paavo and chuckled softly at his puzzled expression. “Not really. I’m right here.”

  Paavo followed her around the corner of the basement to the area where a dumpster stood at the bottom of the garbage chute. Beside it, a thin white-haired woman wearing a floral housecoat held her hands out in front of her, gnarled string running from one hand to the other.

  “What are you doing?” Angie asked, stepping up to the old woman.

  “I was thinking about the baby. She died, you know.”

  Paavo saw Angie shudder and felt a chill go up his own back. “What baby?” Angie whispered.

  “Mine. She got sick. A high temperature. We couldn’t help her. It was a long time ago. But I thought I had left her baby pictures here. Would you like to see her pictures, Angie? Such a pretty baby.”

  “Come on.” Angie put her arm around the woman and gently led her away from the garbage. Paavo followed. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “I can’t imagine where I put them.”

  “We’ll look for them tomorrow.”