Cook's Christmas Capers (The Angie Amalfi Mysteries)

by Joanne Pence

  "I'd love to see Nona," Angie told him. "Maybe she'll remember me."

  She helped Paavo close up the restaurant, including switching some of the money she had brought from her time with older bills in the cash register. The last thing she needed was to be arrested as a counterfeiter.

  Finally, as they left, she took Nona's keys from Paavo and locked the doors. Then, talking non-stop so Paavo didn't notice, she carefully put the keys into her purse.

  o0o

  Nona Farraday, wearing an orange jumpsuit, faced Paavo and Angie in City Jail's interview area. She was medium height and willowy, with enormous green eyes, a heart-shaped face and flowing, shoulder-length blond hair. "I'm really unhappy about this, Paavo. This is absolutely ridiculous!" Her jaundiced gaze fell on Angie. "Is that woman with you?"

  "This is Angie Amalfi," Paavo said. "She's suffering a bit of confusion, but she's a great cook and helping me at your restaurant."

  "Hello, Nona," Angie said. "Don't you remember me?"

  "Should I?" Nona glared at her. Angie glowered back, immediately feeling as if her whole body wanted to arch, her fingers to form claws, and a hiss to fall from her lips. Nona was clearly fighting the same urge. The air became charged with an immediate and intense dislike. At least, Angie thought, some things did not change through time.

  Nona faced Paavo with narrowed eyes. "Where did you find her?"

  "She seems to know all of us." Paavo sounded defensive, speaking to Nona as if Angie, his fiancée, wasn't even there. "I don't remember her either. Still, the poor girl has no place to go. She seems harmless enough, just a little confused. Earlier, I even watched her try to call her parents and get nowhere. Connie is helping her until she gets her memory to work right. She must be a friend or relative of someone close to us."

  Nona sniffed. "I'm sure I'd remember such a person."

  "Would you like me to call a bail bondsman for you?" Paavo asked. "If you tell me where to find your checkbook…"

  "Are you kidding me?" Nona looked more horrified by that thought than she was at being in jail. "No way am I going to waste my money like that! I work too hard for it. Besides, what I'm losing by not being in the restaurant, I'll gain in publicity for every day I stay in jail. Being here only proves my innocence."

  "Lorenzo was saying that Alan seemed upset after you returned from your vacation," Angie said. "Did you know that?"

  "Upset? I don't think so. He had a lot of questions about where I’d been. I thought he might be interested in attending."

  "Attending ISMI?" Angie’s eyes narrowed.

  "That's right." Nona's tone was arch. "It helps you become a gentler, more caring person."

  "How lovely," Angie said. If Nona was a poster girl for the program, it was in big trouble. "It certainly worked. You're surprisingly calm for someone in prison."

  "Why should I care about being in prison? It's almost a vacation from my usual routine."

  "What about Professor Aloysius Starr?" Angie asked. "I don't understand how the police can tie you to his death."

  "They can't." Nora ran a fingertip along one eyebrow, every bit as haughtily as if she were having cocktails at the Top of the Mark. "They think because he was poisoned with the same macrobiotic food that killed poor Alan, that I must have administered it to him. They're fools. Anyone could have cooked up that dish."

  Anyone in the restaurant, Angie thought. She couldn't imagine anyone else making a dish like the poisoned one—not anyone who had a palate.

  "Who do you think killed Alan Trimball?" Angie asked.

  "I have no idea!" Nona sounded bored by the question. "Alan was a sweetheart. Everyone loved him."

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning, Angie put one of Connie’s Perry Como Christmas albums on a 1960’s era turntable and tried to let the background music settle her anxiety.

  After a cup of warm mulled cider, she decided to phone ISMI in Mendocino. She wanted to learn was the institute was all about. The main thing she learned was that its sessions—three- and five-day retreats—were expensive.

  The doorbell rang. Since Connie was at work, Angie went down the stairs before answering, and discovered Stan Bonnette at the door.

  "I've got something for you," Stan said when they were back in Connie's apartment. He made himself comfortable on Connie’s sofa, then handed Angie two photocopies. "The originals were given to the police." The first showed a small envelope addressed "To the Beautiful Lady Who Found Miranda Higgins."

  "Who’s Miranda Higgins?" Angie asked.

  "That was the name of the Zodiac's last victim," Stan said. "The one found by you."

  Angie's stomach did a flip-flop. The next photocopy was a piece of lined binder paper, with a strange almost child-like printing on it. But the words weren't child-like; they were creepy.

  This is the Zodiac speaking.

  I am unhappy because you do not know me yet. But you will.

  I lay awake at nite thinking about you.

  You will be warm under my hands. You will be my Slave and wait for me in Paradice.

  I will have fun inflicting the most delicious pain.

  I know the cops will read this letter. I have grone angry with their snooping.

  There is glory in killing cops.

  They cannot figgure out who I am.

  Zodiac - 17 SFPD - 0

  "Oh, my God!" Angie shoved the photocopies back into Stan's hands and collapsed in the chair across from him. She knew, from history, that the Zodiac was never caught, never even identified, and that the number of his victims might not have been accurately counted. "Do you think this is real?"

  "It's written in his style.” Stan said, laying the papers on the coffee table next to the stack of Connie’s not yet mailed out Christmas cards. “Zodiac always has a few strange spellings—maybe just to throw off the police. What's important is, it sounds as if he's someone you've met, perhaps recently."

  "I've met a lot of new people recently," she said, locking her eyes on Stan's. "And frankly, most of them—this whole era—seems strange to me."

  He frowned. "This whole era?"

  "I don't know why I said that." She thought a moment. "But I did meet a strange fellow at Land's End before I found that woman. We talked for a while. His name is Tim Burrows, I believe. He’s middle aged, probably in his fifties, with blond hair that’s turning gray and worn slicked straight back from a receding hairline. He’s a big man—probably 6'2" or so, and heavy, with quite a bit of a stomach on him. Let’s see…he wears glasses and his eyes, I think, are gray or blue. Also, he seems a bit slow. Mentally, a little off. And he’s a veteran. He talked about having served in the Air Force."

  Stan shook his head. "He doesn't fit the description at all. The Zodiac is highly intelligent, possibly with a genius IQ. He does wear glasses, and he is a big fellow, with military training it's believed, but other than that, the police suspect he's in his late twenties or early thirties, probably fairly good looking, with short dark hair. He gets close to people, especially women, and then kills them."

  Angie swallowed hard. "How?"

  "He's shot some, stabbed some, strangled some. The police psychologist says he's a sexual sadist. That's an explanation for why, in a few cases, he attacked men as well as women—couples he’s found together in lovers' lane type secluded places. Maybe out of jealousy for what he doesn't, or can't, do.” He shrugged. “They say he reduces his victims to objects. The hunt for them is foreplay, and then he tortures them. Murder is the substitute for a sexual act. Violence and love are intertwined in his mind, so when he writes to you specifically, you've got to be extremely careful."

  "But haven't his murders taken place in spots other than San Francisco?" she asked. "Isn't it safe here?"

  "One reason he's been hard to find is he travels throughout the area. Some victims have been found in San Francisco, but also in Vallejo, Lake Berryessa, Sacramento, Santa Rosa, other nearby places, and possibly as far away as Riverside. All in all, he's suspected of bei
ng someone who has charm, brains, acts friendly toward people, and has a winning personality."

  "Are you sure about the description you gave?" she asked. "I mean, the few people who really know what he looks like are all dead, right?"

  "A few have survived the attacks, so I think it's more than guesswork, although I'm not privy to police files. Seriously, Angie, if anyone you've met fits the description of the Zodiac, be sure to call me immediately. Oh…and call the police, too."

  "Wait…" Angie said, trying hard to remember something important. "Weren't there some other strange murders going on around this time?"

  Stan looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?"

  "Wasn't there some initiation ritual that involved killing white people? I remember hearing that everyone was afraid to go out. They stopped going to restaurants, movies, anything at all. My mother told me the joke of the time was that the only people seen out on the street at night were busloads of Japanese tourists!"

  "Are you talking about the Zebra murders?" Stan asked. "How can you not remember them? The trial was just a few months ago—four men caught at the Black Self-Help Moving and Storage, convicted, sentenced to life. I covered that trial. Really interesting stuff."

  "You're right. They had nothing to do with the Zodiac," Angie said, finding it hard to believe all the murders and killings and assassinations and general madness that went on in and around one small city during this time.

  "Anyway, keep a look out for anyone who might be the Zodiac,” Stan said, “since it seems you've crossed paths with him."

  "Will do," Angie murmured. Other than the glasses, the description sounded a lot like Lorenzo McCaffrey. Or Gregory Reed. Or for that matter, Stan Bonnette.

  "Thank you for warning me," she said, and quickly saw Stan out the door.

  o0o

  As soon as Stan left, Angie called a taxi and had it take her to Homicide where she met Connie. Angie showed her the letter from the Zodiac.

  "I know," Connie said. "Stan brought it here as soon as he received it. We have the original and we're hoping to pull prints off it. So far, no luck. Don't worry. You should be safe at my place."

  "I don't know." Angie was badly frightened. "What if the Zodiac sent the letter to him and then watched him, knowing he'd show it to me? He might have led the killer straight to your door!"

  "Don't talk that way!" Connie said with a shudder. "I'm a cop, I'm armed. The apartment is safe."

  "Except that you're rarely home," Angie muttered.

  Connie bit her bottom lip, knowing Angie's words were true.

  "Let's talk about something else," Angie said. "I've been thinking about Nona's situation. I think we should learn more about the people who work for her."

  She didn't tell Connie that—if Stan Bonnette's description of the Zodiac was correct—one of them might be the serial killer. And maybe Alan Trimball figured it out and that's why he was killed.

  Of course, that didn't explain Aloysius Starr's murder. But for Angie these days, explanations were hard to come by.

  "The police are quite convinced Nona's guilty," Connie said. "They're taking the evidence to the DA to urge him to go for murder one. Premeditated. They want the death penalty."

  "That's crazy. You don't even know that she knew Professor Starr!"

  "But we do. He phoned the restaurant several times."

  "You don't know he talked to her."

  "We don't know that he didn't. She won't admit that he did. But then, it's in her self-interest not to admit it."

  "You're awfully suspicious, Connie."

  Connie looked at her and rolled her eyes. "I'm a cop. What else do you expect?"

  "I know...but it's so not you!"

  "Not me?” Connie looked at her quizzically. “Who else should it be then?"

  Angie opened her mouth to answer, but then decided her explanation would only make things worse.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  With Nona's apartment, restaurant and car keys in her purse, Angie took a taxi to Nona's apartment building at the foot of Van Ness Avenue, not far from the San Francisco Maritime Museum. Since her friends all lived in the same places as they did in her world, she assumed Nona did as well. The area was a lot less upscale than it had become in her time.

  Nona's car key had Volvo imprinted on it, and only one Volvo 240 was parked nearby. Angie tried it in the door and it worked.

  Angie's first stop was to a hardware store on Polk Street where she had copies of Nona's keys made. She would return the originals to Paavo and hope he hadn't noticed them missing.

  After that, finally with a car to get her around the city, she had several long-researched and planned stops to make. Some things were even more important than poisonings or Zodiac killers.

  o0o

  Earlier, in the phone book, Angie had found a Salvatore Amalfi living on Taylor Street on Russian Hill. She dialed the number, and immediately recognized her mother's voice. Angie had pretended it was a wrong number and hung up.

  Now, she knocked on that Taylor Street door, and stared a long moment when her mother opened it. "Serefina," she said finally. "Don't you know me?"

  "Know you?" Serefina studied her. "I don't think so. Although, I will say, you do look familiar. You have Lucchese eyes like my sister. She's back in Italy. I talk to her on the phone, but I miss seeing her. Who are you?"

  "My name is Angelina. Angelina Amalfi."

  "Amalfi? Then you are related to my husband's family. Fa bene! Why don't you come inside? My husband will be so happy to hear about a new relative."

  "Thank you." Angie drew in her breath as she walked into the flat. It smelled of Christmas—the scent of the fir tree in the living room covered with ornaments she recognized—ones her mother had used for years, of votive candles around a manger scene, and wafting in from the kitchen, the aroma of fresh baked cookies.

  What if, here, she came face-to-face with herself? What would happen? She remembered hearing if you ever came face-to-face with your doppleganger one of you would die. Could that be what was going on?

  She turned her attention back to Serefina. "Is your husband home?"

  "He's working." She led Angie to the living room where they sat.

  "Oh? What does he do?"

  "We…we work at a dance studio, Arthur Murray’s. Sometimes." A troubled look clouded her eyes, but then she smiled. "It's fun, but it doesn't pay well anymore. Not like the old days when everyone wanted to learn ballroom dancing. But money isn't everything."

  "No, it isn't." Sal Amalfi—a dance instructor?

  Angie could see that something was very wrong here. She hoped it was simply, as her mother said, that being a dance instructor wasn't the road to riches. In her world, her father had started out with a shoe store. He used to joke that with five daughters and a wife who loved shoes, it was cheaper to own his own store even if he never had another customer. "Has your husband ever tried selling shoes? Women's shoes?"

  "Shoes?" Serefina laughed. "What does he know about women's shoes? Nothing! He did try opening a hat shop once. He wanted to sell fine men's hat wear. After all, President Truman was a haberdasher, you know. That influenced Salvatore. But he no sooner got the shop open, than President Kennedy came along and didn't even wear a hat to his inauguration! That jinxed the shop. Everybody stopped wearing them. And then the young people all started growing their hair long like the Beatles, and didn't even wear baseball caps, which was Sal's fallback. Eventually, the shop closed, and took all our savings with it. Nothing much goes on in San Francisco except the dock, and the Longshoremen. Sal is too old to do that."

  "This city is going to become a great financial center," Angie said. "So do whatever it takes to buy property. Any property. And keep buying it."

  "Who has money for property?" Serefina asked wryly. "Not me. I'm perfectly happy renting."

  "Try," Angie urged. "It'll be worth it to you."

  Serefina looked at her oddly. "You're a very strange young lady, but I do like you. Your n
ame may be Amalfi, but you look like you're related to the Lucchese family."

  "I'm sure I am."

  "It's funny about your name," Serefina said, her voice wistful. "Angelina. If I ever had a daughter, I was going to name her Angelina."

  "Yes, except that Salvatore never got along with your father, Angelo, so you'd have to choose other names first before you ever got around to naming a daughter after him."

  Serefina's face turned white as a ghost. "How do you know that?"

  "Uh…" Angie's mind went blank a long moment. "It must have been something I heard somewhere. Do you have any children?"

  Serefina looked unconvinced and stared warily at Angie. "No, we were never so blessed."

  The words were a stab to Angie's heart. She dropped her gaze as she asked, "Is Pa...uh, I mean, Salvatore at the dance studio now? I'd like to meet him."

  "He's got a part-time job at the Emporium. In men's wear." Serefina seemed to shake off her confusion over Angie as a different sort of trouble filled her eyes. "Sal tried to teach 'disco,' which is what everyone wants to learn, but it was hard on him and, I'm sorry to say, he looked a bit ridiculous doing it. It's not dancing—just standing around and shaking."

  Angie blinked back tears. "I'm so sorry."

  "It's nothing for you to be sorry about!" Serefina said. "It's simply the way of the world. Allora, dimmi, cara mia, tell me what's wrong. You look so very sad."

  "Nothing. I'm just being foolish." Angie couldn't take any more. She stood. "I should leave, but…can I give you a hug?"

  Serefina also stood. "A hug? Of course." She held out her arms and Angie went to them. The scent of her mother was as she remembered it. Her tears fell over all the wonderful memories of her childhood that had no place in this world, of Christmases past with her parents and sisters and, of course, Paavo. Of Christmases that she might never have again.

  "I think you miss your family very much,” Serefina said. “How did you say you're related to my husband?"