Murder by Devil's Food

by Joanne Pence

"He was tall, like a head taller than Heather. His hair was white and stuck out, kind of like pictures of Alfred Einstein, you know?"

  Paavo nodded.

  "And he was skinny," Ted added, "dressed all in black with a long coat—an overcoat I guess you call it. Dark eyes. That's all I remember."

  "Caucasian?"

  "Yes, and pale, really, really pale."

  "And where was this bus stop?" Paavo asked.

  The teen gave him streets just a couple of blocks from the old churchyard where Lorraine Miller's body was found.

  Paavo reminded himself that a lot of older, homeless people wandered Bay Area streets, particularly in the low-rent outer Mission area near the church and ballet studio. It might be a coincidence, although, to tell the truth, he distrusted coincidences since they often weren't.

  The boy's blue eyes opened wide, and his voice lowered as he said, "He noticed me watching him. Instead of getting into his car, he stood and stared at me until I drove away. Something about him was freaky, and I suspect he knows I work at the call center. He could find me."

  "You probably don't need to worry. We'll follow up, but if Heather went with him, he might have been someone she knew as you suspected. But still, your coming here is very helpful," Paavo said encouragingly. "I'll be sure to let the lead detectives know about your statement and your concerns. I'll have patrol officers canvass the area around your work place to look for the old man. If we see him, we'll pick him up. He might have something to say about what he saw at the bus stop."

  "Thanks."

  "Tell me more about the call center. What's the address? And is that where Heather also worked?"

  Ted gave the address. "She worked there, too, like me, on Vampyrika."

  It took a moment for the name to register. "That's a video game, right?" Paavo asked.

  "Right. One of the most popular in the world. You become a vampire and try to take over the world from all the bad vampires out there. You go through different levels so you can prove you're worthy of getting a Queen. Once you get her, you've got a lot more power, and then you and your Queen fight off everyone to get to the final, most difficult level. If you can make it there, you're the world's ultimate bad ass ruler."

  "So why does it need a call center?"

  "People need all kinds of help, and don't read the instructions. And lots of times, things get scrambled or the game freezes up. We help people get the game back on track without having to do a complete reboot and start all over."

  Paavo switched gears. "Did you often spend time with Heather outside of work?"

  Colton chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Sometimes. A lot of us hung out after work or on weekends when possible. We're all gamers, for one thing. Vampyrika and others. We like the same music, dances, videos, you name it. Heather only showed up sometimes, though. Mainly to dance."

  "Where?" Paavo asked.

  A sheen of sweat beaded on Ted's forehead. "When it was available, we liked to go to the Danse Macabre."

  "What's that?"

  "Post-punk bands, some heavy metal. You know."

  Paavo did know. A "night club" for the underage set. They couldn't legally drink alcohol, so a lot of kids would meet at traveling venues and do drugs.

  "So, where is this Danse Macabre?"

  "When it happened, it'd be held on a Saturday night in the basement of a converted warehouse not far from the call center. The upstairs, during the week, is used for dance classes."

  Paavo's shoulders stiffened. "Could those be ballet classes by any chance?"

  "Yeah, ballet. In fact, the woman who owns the building lets us use it because she can't do ballet like she used to before she got hurt, but she still likes to dance and … uh, well, you know."

  Paavo suspected he did know given what such venues were known for. But still, he asked, "Drugs?"

  "I didn't say that," Ted exclaimed. "I never got involved with that shit and neither did Heather. I'm just saying. In fact, I got to go. I have an early shift at work. I can leave, can't I?"

  "Of course." Paavo stood. "Thank you, again. As I said, Inspector Calderon or Inspector Benson will be in touch with you soon."

  "And they'll protect me?" Ted also stood, his eyes darting.

  "They'll do everything they can. Try to think of anything else that might help them. And if you see that old guy again, call me immediately." He gave Ted his business card.

  "I will. Thanks." Ted hurried out the door.

  Paavo quickly wrote out a report of the interview, along with the teen's address and phone number. One copy each went to Calderon and Benson, and one, he kept for himself.

  Neither lead inspector had yet returned to the bureau. Paavo opened the Tiburon report to see what had been written about the old man. Scanning it, he found nothing new, but something unrelated caught his eye—the answer to another of his questions.

  The friend of Joy Woolsey who had filed the missing person's report, had given her first name only. The name was "Anna."

  o0o

  Angie sat on the living room sofa in ivory lounging pajamas and matching mules, the morning Chronicle on her lap and a wake-up cup of coffee on the end table.

  She was startled to read that there had been another murder in the city. A woman had been found dead, a Korean-American woman named Heather Kim. She was only twenty years old, and had been last seen heading for a bus stop in the outer Mission area.

  Her body had been found in a nearby alley.

  The newspaper alluded to it being another "ritualistic" murder scene like the one that took the life of ballerina Lorraine Miller. Angie stopped reading. After seeing the churchyard again yesterday, horrible memories had flooded back making it hard to fall asleep last night, and even worse, when she did sleep, she had nothing but nightmares. She didn't want to read any gory details.

  At the sound of her doorbell, she looked through her peek-hole to see Kylie Zee in the doorway. In a momentary flash of enthusiasm the day before, she had suggested that Kylie work for her. Kylie took down her name and address, then wandered off to McDonald's.

  Later, Angie's more rational self decided she had made a huge mistake. She decided Kylie's employment story had been made up—after all, Angie was carrying two dozen cupcakes. She obviously knew what to say to win Angie's sympathy. The woman had surely laughed all the way to the nearest bar or crack dealer, waving Angie's ten bucks as she went, as well as the box of orange cupcakes Angie had given her.

  Angie's irritation flared. Had she seemed such a soft touch that Kylie was here to ask for even more money? She yanked the door open, ready to run her off.

  "Here you go," Kylie said, her hand outstretched. "Your change." She handed Angie one dollar bill, two quarters and a dime. "I bought myself sacks of dried beans, rice, lettuce and Tabasco. I'll be eating real good for a lot longer than one meal at Mickey D's."

  Stunned, Angie gazed from the money in her hand to Kylie. Parked in front of her house, she saw Kylie's beat-up, white Chevy. "I thought you wanted a Big Mac," she said.

  Kylie smiled, making her narrow face and sad dark eyes light up. "Fast food's bad for you," she said simply. Today, she wore a white pullover and blue jeans, her black jacket over her arm. For some reason, Angie was sure she acted much tougher than she really was.

  Angie's throat tightened as she handed Kylie back the money. "Keep it. Please. Won't you come in?"

  Kylie's eyes widened as she entered the home. "Wow, what a view. This house is really neat." Angie was pleased at how good her apartment furniture looked in her new home. Even the small Cézanne watercolor had a place of honor over her state-of-the-art entertainment system.

  "Won't you have a seat?" Angie suggested. "Would you like some coffee? Maybe a doughnut?"

  "Yes to both," Kylie said hesitantly, before adding, "I'm sure you wonder why I'm here. You seemed genuinely interested in my experience as a pastry chef. If you really do need help, I thought, why not? Besides, your cupcakes are really delicious, so I wouldn't be wasting my expe
rtise putting fancy icings and other designs on them."

  Despite being flattered, Angie was worried. Last night—although she hadn't told Paavo about her two bizarre customers and wasted cupcakes, not wanting to hear his lectures—she had told him about meeting Kylie and considering hiring her. He had been horrified that she would trust someone she'd met on the street. He said "Kylie Zee" sounded like a made-up name, and that he didn't think she should even let Kylie in the house. But now, she had.

  Noticing her hesitancy, Kylie reached into her back jeans pocket and pulled out a piece of white paper. Unfolding it, she said, "You probably know some of these guys."

  Angie gazed at the list of several top chefs and restaurants in Los Angeles. "These are your references?" she gasped.

  Kylie nodded.

  "And they can vouch for you?" Angie asked incredulously.

  "Maybe one or two forgot me, but I hope some remember. You can call and ask them about Kylie Zee. See what they tell you."

  Kylie did look a lot healthier today—not as much like a street person.

  Angie made a quick decision. Refolding the list, she placed it on the coffee table. "I'll call them another time. I'm sure everything will be just fine. In fact, if you're ready to start work, I have to bake two dozen cupcakes this morning for a surprise party for a"—she coughed delicately—"proctologist. It's obviously the type of profession people love to joke about. This is the third request I've received in as many weeks. The other two I refused, but since this one wanted cupcakes with what look like tiny rubber gloves on the top, instead of what the other customers wanted, I accepted."

  Kylie grinned. "I can make fondant icing into whatever color and shape you want. Now, you sure you don't want to contact the chefs on that list first? Because I don't want to get grief about chef so-and-so saying this or that later on."

  "I'm comfortable with you," Angie said with grave sincerity.

  Kylie gazed at her a moment, then dropped her eyes. "You're a nice person." Her voice was quiet.

  Given the way her so-called friend had been treating her, those words buoyed Angie's spirits. "Let me show you what I need you to do. You can get started while I dress. You might not think of me as so nice once I put you to work. I'm pretty fussy."

  In the kitchen, cupcake pans in a variety of sizes were stacked on the counter.

  Kylie stood in the doorway. "So this is where you make your cupcakes?"

  "It sure is," Angie said. "If I'd known my kitchen would be put to commercial use, I'd have designed it quite differently."

  Just then, they heard a loud howl and saw Hercules run out of the living room and down the hall to the bedroom.

  Angie, followed by Kylie, headed into the living room to see what had so obviously scared him.

  "Oh, what a cute little dog!" Kylie cried. "Can he come in?"

  Angie was surprised to see Jock, the West Highland White Terrier who used to come to visit her, standing at the sliding glass door. "Sure."

  Kylie slid open the door. To Angie's surprise, instead of darting straight to the kitchen where she kept food for him, the dog went to Kylie and brushed back and forth several times against her legs as she bent and petted him. "He's so soft," Kylie said. "I've never felt a dog so soft."

  Angie was stunned. In all the time she'd spent with Jock, he would never get close enough for her to touch him and would run away if she tried, but now he was cozying up to Kylie. "Yes, well, he belongs to a neighbor, but he likes to come visit from time to time."

  Finally, he trotted into the kitchen, then turned and looked up at Angie. "So, now you're paying attention to me, you little rascal," she said to him. "What am I, your maid?"

  He walked to the cupboard where she kept cans of fancy free-of-everything-possibly-bad-for-dogs (and humans) dog food.

  She swore he smiled as she put the bowl down for him and gave him another bowl of fresh water. Then, she faced Kylie. "Now, where were we?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Paavo drove to the Gomez family's address, a flat in a three-story building in the Ingleside district. Anna Gomez had been living at home when she was killed.

  Her mother, Martina, answered. The ravages of losing a daughter showed in her lined and haggard expression.

  Paavo introduced himself, gave his condolences, made small talk about the investigation, the police doing all they could, and so on, and then held up a picture of Joy Woolsey. He didn't hand it to her. It was a death photo, and many people were squeamish about even touching such a thing. Martina Gomez was one of them. Her whole body jerked as she realized why the eyes were shut.

  "Have you ever seen this woman?" he asked. "I'm trying to find out if she and Anna knew each other. Her name was Joy Woolsey."

  "She's dead, too," Martina murmured, horrified yet unable to avert her gaze.

  He nodded. "We think the same man killed them both."

  Martina's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry. I've never seen her. Not many of Anna's friends came to the house."

  "Do you have names of friends of hers I can talk to, to see if they can connect Joy to Anna?"

  Martina shook her head. "Anna was always a good girl, but lately …"

  "Yes?"

  "I'll show you." She took Paavo to Anna's room. It was filled with dark posters of heavy-metal and punk-rock bands—like Black Sabbath, and Morbid Angel, as well as some a bit lighter like one with the odd name of Jimmy Eat World.

  "I hated this stuff," Martina said. "I told Anna it was evil. She just laughed and said I took everything too seriously, that it was fun, and that she was making lots of new friends, interesting friends, for the first time in her life."

  "Do you know where she went to meet these new friends?" he asked.

  "No, but maybe her boyfriend knows. He's a good man. Hard working, with no ... airs. I'll give you Raymond's address." With that, they left Anna's room. Paavo noticed that as Martina shut the door, she made the sign of the cross.

  o0o

  Paavo tried Raymond Planter's home phone, and when no one answered, he drove to Planter's work address. C&Y Pipe Fitters was in the southeast part of the city, an area where increasing numbers of industrial buildings were being converted into yuppie offices and lofts. Planter was in the shop, and Paavo waited at the front desk for him.

  Tall, barrel-chested, with a scar over his right eye, he greeted Paavo with a string of expletives. "Why are you here?" he demanded. "Another woman was just killed, and you waste time asking me more questions? I told those other two assholes I don't know nothing about it. Anna's killer is out there, not here!"

  "I know that," Paavo said. "I'm here to ask about this woman." He showed Planter the Woolsey photo.

  He calmed down immediately. "Is she another victim?"

  "She was killed in Tiburon about a month ago. A woman named Anna reported her missing."

  His gaze lifted to Paavo's at the name of the town. "Tiburon. I don't know, man."

  "Do you think Anna knew Joy Woolsey?"

  His head rolled from side to side. "I don't know. Maybe. Anna and me, we had troubles. She was going to school, to college. Look at me—a pipe fitter. We split up for a while. Then she got into some bad shit, hanging with the wrong people. It was like she was hypnotized or something. She was even … I guess it doesn't matter to tell you now, but she started doing E—ecstasy." He looked at Joy Woolsey's picture again.

  "What is it?" Paavo asked. Something seemed to be on Planter's mind.

  "She was going up to some parties in Marin County a month or so ago—fancy ones, coke, I heard. Anyway, something happened to a friend of hers. She wouldn't say what, but she was really bothered by it. She stopped going to the parties up there—even told me she was sick of those people. But she kept seeing people here."

  "When you say 'here,' where did she go?"

  He shook his head. "I'm not sure. I never went with her." The big man's eyes turned inward and hollow.

  "But you followed her, didn't you?" Paavo asked.

  Plante
r shut his eyes. "Once." The word was clipped. "A club in an old warehouse in the south of Market area. It was disgusting. The people—they liked the crazy punk look. Some even made themselves up to look like demons, or vampires. I pulled her out of there. She said she was sorry, and promised she'd never go back."

  "Did you believe her?"

  "Not really. But it didn't matter. Two days later, she was dead."

  Paavo soon left. There was nothing more to say.

  His last stop was a long shot, but worth the trip if it panned out. He went back to Tiburon and was directed to Officer Kimura, who handled most of the town's missing person reports, including the one on Joy Woolsey.

  Paavo introduced himself. "The Woolsey report was given to you by a woman named Anna," he said.

  Kimura nodded. "She wouldn't give her last name. We tried to contact her after Joy's body was discovered, but we couldn't track her down."

  "Is this her?" Paavo handed him a photo of Anna Gomez. To aid in the investigation, her mother had given Paavo one of Anna's high school graduation photos. It hadn't even had time to yellow with age.

  Kimura didn't need much time. "She's a little older, a lot more 'cool' looking now—but that's her. Emo, as in 'emotional hard rock,' I think the kids call her type. But that's her." He handed back the photo. "So, you found her for us."

  "Not exactly," Paavo said.

  o0o

  "Frannie," Angie shouted, her head swiveling from side to side as she followed her sister's pacing. Frannie rocked and patted her baby, doing everything she could to get him to stop crying. Nothing worked. "I need to talk to you about friendship."

  After arriving at Angie's house that morning, Kylie had helped make four dozen cupcakes, and also agreed to help deliver them that evening to a big sorority meeting. Angie had been amazed at how quickly the job got done using the help of someone who actually knew what she was doing.

  Now, since she had some free time, Angie decided to pay a visit to her sister's small city home.

  Seth Junior's head bobbed on Frannie's shoulder, his face beet red and contorted from crying. She was the sister closest to Angie in age. She was the tallest of the five sisters, and had a bulimic's thinness, even during her pregnancy. Her hair was light brown, chin length, and permed into ringlets making it a cross between a young Shirley Temple and an old Harpo Marx. Frannie's blue denim housedress hung shapeless, and her Birkenstocks looked ready to fall off her feet. "Which friends did you want to talk about?" She shouted over the baby's screeching as she rubbed his back, hoping a loud belch would stop his distress.