Too Many Cooks

by Joanne Pence

  “Didn’t Wielund’s grow popular awfully fast?” Yosh asked.

  “That’s the way it is in this business. Either you make it right away, attracting customers and at least breaking even for a while and then starting to build a profit, or, in most cases, you simply die on the vine and fall off without ever making a splash. If you’re lucky, like LaTour’s, instead of dying off because you’ve got a lousy restaurant, you can keep going by doing radio shows and plagiarizing cookbooks, just to keep your name in the public eye. Of course, no one goes to LaTour’s more than once. Things will change soon, though. I’m in charge of this kitchen.”

  “I thought you’d wanted to keep Wielund’s open?” Paavo asked.

  “I did. I should have. But Karl’s family wouldn’t cooperate, the fools. I have the last laugh, though, because without me the place is worthless.”

  “Why did you choose to work at LaTour’s?” Yosh asked.

  “I wanted a job where I could run things my way. I can do that here, since Henry LaTour is a lousy cook and he knows it.”

  A female voice rang out from the doorway. “Isn’t that a little harsh, Mark?”

  Paavo felt his blood pound. Angie. It’d been ten days, fifteen hours, and approximately forty-five minutes since he’d last seen her. Not that he missed her. Not that he wondered every day and night what she’d been doing, or if she’d been doing anything with anyone in particular. He turned slowly. She was wearing a jaunty white pants suit with a nautical look. The gold buttons and braiding on the double-breasted waist-length jacket caused him to notice that she filled out the jacket in a way sailors never did. Her short hair was a tumble of curls today, falling onto her forehead and framing her face. They made her lashes seem longer than usual, her eyes wider and more shiny. He’d somehow forgotten how small and straight her nose was, and how her top lip had a deep dip in the center between two peaks, and how the fullness of the bottom made it easy for her to look like a child when she pouted, which she tended to do with some regularity, at least around him.

  She ignored him now, though, and kept her attention on Dustman as he crossed the room toward her, his arms outstretched. “What a surprise! I didn’t think you meant it when you said you’d come by to help.” He gave her a hug. Paavo’s teeth ground watching them, and a volcanic swelling in his chest told him this wasn’t something he could put up with for long. Luckily, they broke it off soon, and Dustman turned to face the inspectors, his arm still around Angie’s shoulders.

  Dustman? Could she be seeing Dustman? If she said she’d come by to help him, this wasn’t a chance meeting. They’d met before, talked, or more. Suddenly, he was seized with a desire to grab Dustman’s hand, which was holding Angie’s shoulder a little too snugly, a little too possessively, and make sure LaTour’s new chef didn’t ever lift anything again, not even a soupspoon.

  “I’m being quizzed here by two of San Francisco’s finest,” Mark explained. “But of course you already know them.”

  “I do,” Angie said, “although I haven’t seen them in a very long time. How have you been, Inspector Yoshiwara?” She held out her hand.

  Yoshiwara glanced at the set expression on his partner’s face and then shook Angie’s hand. “Fine, thanks,” Yosh said. “Yourself?”

  She stepped back, and Dustman again took her in the circle of his arm. “Just ducky,” she replied. “And you, Inspector Smith? How have you been?” She raised her brows ever so superciliously as she gazed at him.

  He had the sudden urge to wipe Angie’s smile off her face. “Never better,” he replied. He should have felt satisfaction at seeing her cheeks pale and her brown eyes dim. He didn’t.

  Yosh’s head swiveled from Angie to Paavo; then he moved closer to the refrigerators, as if he feared being in the line of fire.

  “Gentlemen, I must tell you, this is the best little restaurant critic in the country,” Dustman said to the detectives. “She was the first to give Wielund’s the recognition it deserved in a wonderful newspaper article about us. I still have it on the wall of my den, Angie.”

  “I didn’t know I was your first, Mark.” Her voice was filled with innuendo as she leaned closer to him.

  Paavo’s teeth clenched.

  “I’d always loved Weilund’s,” she said, with a radiant smile that lit up her face and also Paavo’s heart—except that the smile was directed at Dustman. “I might even give some thought to buying it myself. Would you want to share it with me, Mark?”

  Dustman smiled and gave her another hug. “Oh, Angie! Would I ever!”

  Slowly raising her long lashes to look into Dustman’s eyes, she asked, “Am I interrupting anything?” Paavo swallowed hard, remembering how she used to give him those looks.

  A slow, lazy smile creased Dustman’s face. No grown man should have dimples, Paavo thought uncharitably. “No. I don’t have anything new to say. I think we’re done. Am I right, gentlemen?” It was a smooth hustle out the door.

  “I guess so,” Yosh said. “If we think of anything more, we’ll give you a call.”

  “Very good. Good day.”

  Yosh started toward the door. Paavo turned abruptly and followed.

  “If you need to ask me anything about Karl or Chick,” Angie called, “I’ll probably be here for many, many hours.”

  Paavo’s step faltered. His jaw tightened as he gazed straight ahead. But then he saw, reflected against the blackened glass of the kitchen doors, Angie and Dustman behind him. They were watching him, not each other. Angie stuck her elbow in Dustman’s ribs, and he nodded and put his arms around her waist.

  A ruse? Was that what this was? Was Angie purposely torturing him, making him think she had something going with Dustman just so he would suffer, so he would realize he still cared about her enough that he’d feel jealous? The volcano that smoldered when he first saw her with Dustman began rumbling again. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mark beaming down at her like the fox who’s just had a chicken walk into his den.

  “Fine,” Mark said softly. “I’ve got lots of ideas for filling time.”

  “Paav.” Yosh put his hand on Paavo’s shoulder, trying to nudge him to continue out the door.

  He saw Angie quickly jerk her head toward Dustman. “We do have to work, though.”

  Dustman pulled her close. The front of their bodies were plastered together, while his hands started sliding lower than her waist. That did it!

  Yoshiwara’s hand dropped as Paavo took slow, deliberate steps toward the couple. Angie took one look at the expression on his face, dropped her arms from Dustman, and backed up. “Now, Paavo.”

  “Playtime is over, Miss Amalfi.” He came closer. “Time to go home and let this man get on with his work.”

  “Playtime! I’ll have you know we need to discuss some important business.”

  “Let’s go.” He tried to take hold of her arm, but she pulled it away. His anger, which he’d always managed to contain, was at the boiling point. “Business deals over murdered men can put that sassy little butt of yours in a ringer.”

  “What! That’s a horrid thing to say!”

  Seeing her hands on her hips and her pert nose going once more into the air drove him right over the top. He grabbed her wrist and started to pull her out the door.

  “You’re going home.”

  “Home? Stop! This is harassment! Police brutality!”

  “Wait! What’s going on?” Dustman called, but Paavo ignored him and stomped out the door, dragging Angie behind him.

  “He’s a psychopath,” she yelled. “A real life Hannibal Lecter. Don’t let him—”

  The door banged shut behind her. Mark Dustman didn’t come running to save her virtue or anything else.

  Yosh followed them out the door. Paavo let go of a still-shrieking Angie once they reached the sidewalk. “I think I’ll leave you two alone awhile,” Yosh said.

  “No need. I have nothing private to discuss with her. She just needs to clear her head about who she wants to spend her time
with. And it’s not with murder suspects!” Paavo glared at her.

  She got right in his face. “It’s not with meddling cops either, Inspector!”

  He was beside himself. “I’m not the only one who’s meddling around here, Miss Amalfi!”

  “Excuse me,” Yosh interjected. “I think it’s time I got going.”

  “Good-bye already!” Angie said, her eyes never leaving Paavo’s.

  He glared back, his lips a grim line. Neither noticed Yoshiwara’s departure.

  “He’s telling the restaurateurs it’s over between us.” She spat the words at him.

  “I told you myself. You wouldn’t listen.”

  “I guess I should have realized, after your dinner with Nona at Arbuckle’s, and then going to La Maison Rouge with a lady detective—”

  “Who’s the detective around here, Miss Amalfi? I think you should take over.”

  “I only hear about these things because mine is a small world, Inspector, and your case has landed smack in the middle of it. I’ll try not to meddle any longer. Good-bye.”

  He watched her march away from him on her high heels, head up, shoulders square, backside swinging, and felt his stomach tighten. It was all he could do not to go after her. A vision flashed before him of her with Mark Dustman leering down at her with his arm around her.

  “Angie!”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”

  He stared at her a long while. “Those times with the women you mentioned.”

  “Yes?”

  “They were for business reasons. For my work.”

  “Work, Inspector? Or were you just hiding from life?”

  He stepped toward her, but she turned and walked away.

  Angie splashed herself liberally with perfume and put on a slinky black satin jumpsuit with a long past-the-navel gold zipper. It was eight o’clock.

  If she knew Paavo at all, if he really cared about her at all, he’d come by to see her tonight. If he could stay away after this afternoon, if he didn’t care enough to try to patch up this San Andreas fault-size rift between them, it was truly over.

  She put Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde on the stereo. The long, sad, emotional opera about star-crossed lovers suited her mood perfectly.

  At eleven, she made a fresh pot of coffee. Paavo would probably need it, if he showed up.

  What would she do if he didn’t stop by? How could she ever let go?

  But if he didn’t still care about her, he wouldn’t have acted like Cave Man Clyde at Wielund’s today. He cared. He had to.

  By midnight, she knew she’d been wrong.

  She removed the sexy jumpsuit and changed into her comfortable old football jersey nightshirt and washed off her make-up. She shut off the lights, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  At 12:30 A.M. she got up again, made herself a cup of warm milk, and took it back to her bedroom along with a book about San Francisco’s rough Barbary Coast during the 1880s and 1890s, when people were shanghaied right off the city streets. All in all, it sounded like child’s play compared to these days.

  She put the milk and the book on her nightstand, got into bed, then sat back against the pillows. Her head bumped the wooden headboard. She got out of bed, plumped and turned the pillows on their ends so they stood upright against the headboard, and got into bed again. Comfort. She reached for her book and milk, and the pillows fell over. When she sat back, her spine rapped the headboard sharply.

  She leaned forward, knees bent, and wrapped her arms around her legs. It took all her strength not to cry.

  At one o’clock in the morning, the knock she’d waited for all evening sounded. She sprang up and fairly floated to the door. There was no reason to feel happy, she warned herself. He might be coming by to quiz her about Mark Dustman, for all she knew. Still, the spring in her step was unmistakable.

  He stood there with his sports jacket unbuttoned, his tie and shirt collar loose, looking more weary than a human being should. But his blue eyes brightened as they took her in, and the granite-hard look he wore so often eased. She stared at him, afraid she might, as she did so often, say the wrong thing and drive him away again. So she said nothing.

  He leaned one hand against the door frame. “I know it’s late.”

  “Come in.” She let go of the door and stepped back, letting him enter the apartment. He seemed to fill the room, and to fill the emptiness she felt inside.

  He walked in, and the uncertain pause in his steps made her catch her breath. She had never known Paavo to be unsure. What were they doing to each other? Why were they wasting so much time?

  “Coffee?” she asked, standing before him. “Or maybe you’re hungry? Would you like a sandwich? An omelet, maybe?” She bit her bottom lip. “I could see what I’ve got. Or we can call out. Pizza, maybe? Or Chinese?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh…Well, do you want to wait a moment? I know I look a sight.”

  As she turned to go to the bedroom and put on something more enticing, he stepped closer to her, putting his hand on her chin and lifting her face to see it better. “You look fine.”

  She trembled at his touch, her body suddenly alive. “Fine?” She tried to sound casual. “Little old ladies look ‘fine,’ Paavo!” Her voice was breathless.

  He dropped his hand and gave a slight smile. “I’m not staying. I just stopped by to make sure you were all right.”

  She sat down on the Hepplewhite. “Have a seat, please.”

  He sat on the sofa. “Neither one of us was exactly on our best behavior this afternoon.”

  She steepled her hands, then pressed them to her lips. “I can’t imagine what your new partner must think of me! I pray I never see him again.”

  Paavo grinned. “Actually, he was quite impressed with your lung power. He said he hadn’t heard anything that loud since a Grateful Dead concert at the Oakland Coliseum.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God.”

  He put his hand on her knee. “It’s all right.”

  Her breath caught. Her skin felt seared, as if his hand were a branding iron. As she glanced up, their gazes met.

  He pulled back his hand and stood. “I should go.”

  She stood and nodded.

  “Hiding from life, hmm?” he said, repeating the charge she’d hurled at him that afternoon; then he walked toward the door.

  She took his hand, stopping him. “Yes, until you learn to trust someone besides Aulis.”

  She could see him bristle. “I’ve trusted other people,” he said.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Matt.”

  His partner, who had been killed. “And?”

  “My sister.”

  Who had also been killed. “And?”

  Blue eyes hardened. “That’s enough.”

  Her heart ached for him. “No, Paavo. It isn’t.”

  “You?”

  There was a pause. Angie’s eyes felt shadowed, and she spoke softly. “No. I know you don’t trust me.”

  He took his hand away, his eyes cold. “I know what you expect me to say, but I’m sorry, I can’t do it. I don’t trust a father I never knew or a mother who walked out on me. If that means I don’t trust much, it’s true. But I’ve got good reason.”

  “Maybe you could find them. There might have been a reason they left. Then you could forgive and—”

  “Hell, Angie! Stop dreaming. The bastard never even married my mother. I know it.” He gave a derisive snort. “And well I should, considering I just called him what he made me.” He looked hard at her, then cupped her chin. “Don’t let it upset you, Angie. It was a long time ago. They’re probably both dead by now. They have nothing to do with this—with you and me.”

  “What does, then? Why must I always be saying good-bye to you?”

  Because everyone says it’s best, he wanted to shout, including your own father! And, damn it, because I know they’re right!

  But when he looked
down at her, saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes, he couldn’t say it. He touched the sides of her face, then moved closer. “I don’t want to hurt you, Angie. Believe me. All I ever wanted was to do right by you. Logically, rationally right.”

  Her arms circled his shoulders as she looked up at him. “Don’t you know love doesn’t work that way?”

  “Good Christ, woman!”

  “Don’t!” She pressed her fingers to his lips. The heat of her hand, the silken softness of her fingers, burned where she touched him. He stayed absolutely still, knowing that to move would be to lose all his resolve.

  She felt his warm breath on her hand, felt the firm but smooth skin of his lips, edged by the bristle of tiny whiskers just appearing above his upper lip and on his chin. Her hands quivered as her breath caught. Ever so lightly she moved her fingers along the outline of his lips, memorizing their shape and form and feel, as if she were blind and would never be able to touch him this way again.

  His mouth opened, as she traced along the inner edge of his bottom lip.

  His mouth was pinched with terse lines, the skin below his lower eyelids dark and hollow, his broad high brow lined with tension. Slowly her gaze met his, and in his eyes she saw the full ache of his longing and of his loneliness.

  “Hold me,” she whispered.

  Grasping her shoulders, with a delicate pressure he drew her closer. When her face lifted to his, he lowered his lips, meeting hers in a kiss that held all the love he would never speak of.

  The kiss deepened. With long, slow, deliberate pressure, his hands moved to her back, then lower, over her waist, her hips. Wherever he touched, she came alive, each nerve end singing. She gripped his shoulders as need rocked her.

  He picked her up as easily as if she were a doll and carried her to her bed. There he tossed her football jersey onto the floor. Shucking his own clothing, he lay beside her. She raised her arms to circle his neck, but instead of moving closer to her, he took a moment to stay back and simply look at her. He ran his forefinger lightly over her dark brows, her small nose, along the edges of her generous lips, then over to her ears until she smiled from the tickles. Then his hand traveled downward, over her breasts, her small waist, wide hips, and, lower still, to her dark, inviting warmth. As much as he’d tried to break away from her these past days, seeing her with another man, even though they meant nothing to each other, made him realize how he’d feel if he lost her, how much she meant to him and always would.