Something's Cooking

by Joanne Pence

  “Sam Larson! Of course I remember him.”

  “I’d really like to see him again. He was a sweetheart.”

  “That’s true. He wasn’t the most reliable chef, but such a sweet little man.” Mrs. Ward beamed as Paavo’s head turned from one woman to the next.

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Oh my, no. It’s been months, but I suppose his friend in Monterey would know.”

  “I didn’t know he had one.”

  “Oh my, yes. Blackie. He’s the bartender at the Blue Whale. He’ll know where to find Sam, I’m sure.” She picked up the tray. “Well, I’ll leave you two young folks alone. I’m sure newlyweds don’t want some old lady like me standing around gossiping.”

  As Mrs. Ward walked away, Angie looked smugly at Paavo. “Well, Inspector, how did I do?”

  “Impressive. We may make a cop out of you yet, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Be careful with that name-calling. You may get to like it.”

  Paavo told Angie they had been incredibly lucky that Mrs. Ward knew Sammy and was willing to talk about him. He didn’t expect such helpfulness from Blackie. The only way to handle the case now was straight, he said. No more role-playing. He would go to the Monterey police, explain who he was and what he was doing there, and then question Blackie, legally, as a police officer. He would, of course, forget to mention that he was on vacation.

  Then he gave Angie a quick demotion from her “almost-cop” status of early afternoon back to “civilian,” in the hope of keeping her safe. First, he made her sit in the outer office when he went inside to talk with the police chief about the case. Later, she sat in the car as he entered the Blue Whale bar to talk to Blackie. He came out in a couple of minutes. Blackie wasn’t to come on duty until eight at night. Angie’s next job was to join Paavo for dinner to help pass the time. He decided the only reason she wasn’t livid was that she was preoccupied by her hunger.

  At about nine o’clock, they returned to the Blue Whale. Paavo didn’t think it was safe for Angie to remain alone in the car when it was dark, so he had her sit at a table in a corner. He asked the cocktail waitress if the bartender was Blackie. He was.

  Paavo left Angie fuming at being left out while he took his scotch to the far end of the bar and sat down. He wasn’t going to leave until he got all the information he could out of Blackie. He took a sip of his drink. Something told him it was going to be a long evening.

  “When Blackie finally got it through his head that I meant business, he remembered the names of a few bars that Blade frequented in San Francisco,” Paavo said as he drove along Highway 1 toward Carmel, a few hours later. “Apparently, after going to those bars, Blade would return to Carmel with a lot more money than when he left. The bars are all in the Tenderloin. Chances are, so’s Crane.”

  “The Tenderloin—the red-light district?”

  “Where you find prostitutes, you can be sure pimps, drugs, and guns are also nearby. It’d be as good a place for Crane to hide out as anywhere else, I suppose.”

  “Now what?” Angie asked with trepidation.

  “Now? Back to the city. I’ll find someplace safe for you, then look for Crane. I can’t help but suspect that if I watch him for a few days, he’ll do something, make some mistake, that’ll link him to the murders or to the smuggled guns. Then I can move in with an arrest.”

  Paavo made it sound so simple: find Crane, watch Crane, arrest Crane. He ignored the other part, the dangerous part—the part that had left his own partner dead. The Tenderloin was the district where Matt had been killed. The facts were starting to fit together now, she thought, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She saw the grim determination on Paavo’s face as he drove, and also saw the slow stirrings of a pain too fresh to be forgotten.

  She reached out and patted his shoulder, then brushed her hand over the back of his head, finally twisting a lock of his hair around her finger. She liked the soft, springy way his hair felt—the way all of him felt, the scent of him, the taste of him. Everything about him was a treasure to her, but one she could not keep, despite her wealth. She was finding out what made one feel truly rich in life.

  “It’ll be late by the time we get back to the inn,” she said. “Let’s wait until tomorrow to go back to the city and allow ourselves one more night of escaping whatever’s waiting for us back there. Would that be all right?”

  Their eyes met briefly, and Paavo reached over and squeezed her hand. “One more night.”

  Early the next morning they checked out of the inn, explaining to Mrs. Ward that some unexpected business had come up. Mrs. Ward said she was sorry it had to interfere with their honeymoon.

  Two hours later the world once again consisted of skyscrapers, paved hills, and gridlock. They had entered San Francisco.

  “There’s got to be a better way to live,” Angie said.

  “There is, but you’d be bored silly in two weeks if you tried it.”

  “No I wouldn’t. I could live at the Ben Lomond Inn forever.”

  “Face it, Angie. You have the same goofy love-hate affection for this city that I do.”

  As they came to the crest of a hill, Angie caught a glimpse of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco Bay. She sighed. He was right.

  26

  All afternoon, Paavo was strangely quiet, but she felt his gaze on her as she walked around, straightening up his house, taking care of the laundry, and then later putting away the groceries he’d bought. He left the house again for about an hour. When he returned, he was even quieter. He wouldn’t say a word to her about what he was planning.

  That evening, his face scruffy since he hadn’t shaved that day, his hair uncombed, wearing old jeans, a Levi’s jacket, and a plaid shirt, Paavo said good-bye.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” he told her. “Wait here for me. Remember, if you hear nothing, everything’s all right. If I were to get hurt or anything happened with Crane, the police would contact you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. Don’t worry. I’ve got to find Crane, Angie. And when I do I’m going to learn what’s going on. Who killed Matt, who killed George Meyers, and why. Meyers—that’s the one that really makes no sense. He had to have been working with Crane to get those crazy recipes published on time. So why would Crane kill him? It doesn’t add up.”

  “I guess only Crane can explain it.”

  “Exactly.” His gaze softened. “Good-bye, Angie. You’ll be safe here, since no one but Inspector Calderon knows where you’re hiding.”

  “I’ll wait for you, Paavo. You should know that by now.”

  Then he was gone.

  She waited for two days, but he didn’t return, and he didn’t call. It became more than she could bear. She telephoned her mother, her sisters, some friends—one she hadn’t talked to since high school. She even became fascinated by a 900 number that told horoscopes. She did a lot of weed pulling in the backyard, despite the constant fog. Without her notes, she couldn’t even work on her book, and of course she knew better than to write recipes now.

  She was in the garden, wiping the tears that threatened to splash onto the begonias, when she decided she was tired of sitting around, cooped up and waiting to be rescued like some princess in a tower. Paavo was out there in the real world, knowing exactly what was happening, facing adventure, danger, intrigue, and probably enjoying every second of it. She certainly wasn’t doing what she enjoyed. She was bored to death, and…

  She sank back on her heels, her knuckles pressed against her teeth.

  And worried sick about him. Where could he be? What was taking him so long?

  She returned to the house, but she couldn’t sit still. In the bedroom, she looked in the mirror at her red, puffy eyes, shiny nose, and dirt-smudged face. What a mess, and all due to some man! She looked out the window and saw a trickle of sunshine peeking through the fog. That made it harder than ever to sit around and do nothing.

  She had never been an idle person; she
hated trying to stay put. The need to go out grew in her, along with her fears about Paavo. She had to find him and be sure he was okay.

  A plan began to formulate in her mind. She knew it was dangerous—Paavo would rage at her if he found out—and she knew a whole lot better than to do it….

  It was taking a chance, a foolish chance maybe. But so was Paavo, and this was her battle, not his. It was hers and George’s. But George had lost.

  It wasn’t as if Angie knew nothing about the Tenderloin. She had driven through it many times with her car doors locked, trying to avoid looking at the derelicts and hookers on the streets, the pornographic book shops, and the old hotels. There were a number of legitimate theaters along the edge of it, with a few not-so-legitimate ones inside.

  Angie knew she had to be careful. She couldn’t simply waltz into the area at night looking for Paavo. She’d be an easy target and probably wouldn’t make it from one block to the next without losing her purse—not to consider what else she might lose. The only way to be safe was to fit in, just as Paavo had done. Or so she hoped.

  She planned her wardrobe more carefully than she’d planned her last outfit for the Black and White Ball.

  She put on slacks, a sweater, a pair of sneakers, and then covered as much as she could with Paavo’s old army jacket. She stuffed about a hundred dollars in her pockets and hid Paavo’s house key in the garden so she could get back into the house when she returned. No purse, no credit cards, no identification. She felt positively naked.

  She called a taxi and had the cab drop her off in front of a tacky-looking discount store on the edge of the Tenderloin. They had just what she wanted: a platinum-blond afro wig, shimmering black tights, a long-sleeved yellow leotard, false eyelashes, plenty of garish makeup, and a large, black canvas drawstring bag. From there she went to a store that seemed to sell only leather, where she found a red leather miniskirt and a pair of black sandals with ankle straps and narrow, four-inch heels.

  She ate at a diner and drank several cups of coffee while waiting for nightfall.

  At about nine o’clock, she walked toward the theater district and found a gas station on the way. She went into the ladies’ room, changed into her new clothes, and stuffed everything she’d been wearing into the canvas bag. She globbed on the makeup and even added a couple of beauty marks. She stepped back from the tiny mirror to survey the results. What a looker! Would Sister Mary Ignatius have considered this outfit merely a venial sin or an out-and-out mortal one? She poked her head out of the restroom, wondering if she really had the nerve to appear in public like this.

  She had no choice. Paavo was out there alone, and so was Crane. She stepped through the doorway and hesitated. The skies didn’t open up, and not a single lightning bolt struck her. She headed across the station to the sidewalk, and then up the street toward the Tenderloin.

  Slow down, she told herself. You’ve got to fit in, to act like one of the regulars and not call attention to yourself.

  Coming toward her were two women, arm in arm. When Angie saw them she stopped walking and her mouth dropped open as she stared. One had bright purple hair, the top straight up and spiky, the sides slicked back. She wore white face powder, with black lips and blue circles around her eyes. Her clothes were black—a tee-shirt and leggings, with a low-slung, wide, silver belt—and heavy aluminum rings were around her neck and forearms.

  The other woman’s hair was turquoise, almost shaved over the left ear and hanging to the earlobe of the right ear. She was also dressed in black—a tank top, the shortest miniskirt Angie had ever seen, and boots with metal studs down the sides. She wore a silver pentagon-shaped medallion and silver earrings that fell to her shoulders. Her eyebrows were shaved off.

  Damn! Angie thought. I’m out-of-date, passé. How mortifying!

  She tried to ignore the derisive expressions on the faces of the two women as they eyed her outfit. The medallion caught Angie’s eye. It looked Satanic. She felt as if a cold hand had touched her. She dropped her gaze and hurried on. This was going to be more difficult than she had expected.

  The Tenderloin was small—about six blocks long, all centered around two main streets. In one night she could cover the whole thing. If Crane was there, she’d find him. If he wasn’t, she didn’t even want to think about it.

  She started at one end of the district and methodically went into every bar and dirty bookstore on one side of the street to the end of the district, and then she crossed the street and started down the opposite side. She received many strange looks, some very frightening. It wouldn’t do. Although going into the bars and clubs seemed to be the easiest way to find Crane, it was probably the easiest way to get into serious trouble.

  When she saw two women vacate a centrally located doorway and get into an enormous white car, she took their place, leaning against a wall. Now she just had to hope she didn’t get arrested.

  A car pulled up and stopped. A middle-aged man reached over and rolled down the passenger-side window. “Nice night, isn’t it?” he called.

  “Get lost!” she yelled.

  “Say, er, would you—”

  “No! Leave me alone, or I’ll scream!” She was shaking. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. He looked confused and flustered as he stepped on the gas and drove off.

  “You musta know’d I was comin’ baby. I seed you get ridda that john.” A black man swaggered up to her, hands on his belt.

  “Stuff it!”

  “I can take care a you. Your prayers is answered, baby.”

  She hadn’t expected so much attention so soon, and her initial upset was quickly turning to irritation. She scowled. “I don’t know you, and Leon don’t know you, so you get the hell away from me.”

  “I don’t care ’bout no Leon,” he said, smirking.

  “You will, sucker.” She looked at him and smiled. That must have been what did it—her smile. The man just shook his head and moved on, muttering something about a “bad news broad.”

  Time passed. A couple of men stopped and looked in her direction, but she averted her eyes, and they left without saying a word.

  The street became quiet. The night swallowed up the other “girls,” and eventually, only Angie still stood there, unwilling to give up, certain that Crane or Paavo might yet walk by. Her legs, feet, and back all ached from standing for so many hours. No more than three or four johns spoke to her. She was glad she wasn’t doing this for a living; she would probably have starved to death.

  No Crane, no Paavo. And she thought finding them would be easy. When two-thirty A.M. rolled around, she was chilled to the bone and dejected. An empty taxi rode by. That decided it. She ran out to hail it, but it kept right on going.

  “Wait!” she screamed, running down the street after the rapidly departing cab.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” a low, mellifluous female voice called from the shadows. “Don’t you have anyone to give you a ride?”

  “I’ve had more than enough rides for one evening, I guess,” Angie said, squinting into the darkness, trying to see whom she was talking to.

  A throaty laugh filled the quiet street and then stopped as quickly as it began. “You new here, honey?”

  “Yes.” Angie hesitated to say more. She wondered if she shouldn’t just move on.

  “From?”

  Good question, she thought. “San Jose.”

  The woman began to sing an old song about the way to San Jose. Her voice was deep and off-key. Then she stepped forward, in front of the red and yellow neon lights from a shop window. All Angie could see was the fiery silhouette of a very tall, large, and amply endowed woman with hair like a lion’s mane and a long, thick boa over her shoulders. Her face was shrouded in darkness. Angie shrank back, saying nothing.

  “You can’t get a taxi to take you all that way, honey. Come with me. I’ll help.”

  “I can take care of myself, thanks, anyway.”

  “Not here
you can’t honey. I’ll take care of you. I can introduce you to people. This can turn into a good, profitable relationship.”

  “You know lots of people around here?”

  “’Course, honey. In fact, I was going to an after-hours place now. Why don’t you come along?”

  Angie’s stomach flip-flopped. Something told her she should just go back to Paavo’s house and forget this. She just might be getting in way over her head. On the other hand, what better place to find someone like Crane than inside the world she was only seeing the periphery of?

  The woman stepped up to her, dwarfing her. Angie was surprised to see a face heavy with powder, rouge, and mascara—a face that had lost the battle against years of rough living.

  27

  The woman’s name was Rachel. Angie called herself Star, and told Rachel a long story of unhappiness which culminated in the streets of the Tenderloin. Rachel didn’t say much but was sympathetic and friendly. She reminded Angie of a crocodile crying before dispatching its victim.

  When Rachel turned into a dark alley, Angie hung back. It seemed too dangerous, too forbidding. “Don’t worry, honey,” Rachel’s voice rumbled. “We’re here.”

  She knocked on a door which immediately opened and then beckoned to Angie. Cautiously, Angie followed.

  The massive room was hazy with smoke and filled with people. The lighting was dim, consisting only of shaded bulbs casting cold glares. In the shadows, Angie made out a long bar lined with people, a number of tables with card games in progress, a band dressed in black leather, and a dance floor. It reminded her of a movie she had seen years ago that had depicted a modern-day Orpheus going to Hades to find Eurydice. But Hades had nothing on this place; the evil that lurked here was palpable.

  Rachel introduced her to a tall, thin man named Fish. He had greasy, slicked-back hair, cirrhotic skin color, and a shiny, gold front tooth. He smiled broadly, the tooth twinkling, and extended a hand toward her. She grasped it and found it as cold and scaly as his name suggested.