by Joanne Pence
“Let’s go, Angie,” he said, so flummoxed he forgot that she was the one who promised to take him to lunch, and he threw money on the table. “You need to get home so you can concentrate better.”
“Maybe you’re right. Wait, what about my ouzo?”
He didn’t answer as he helped her from the chair and hurried her out of the restaurant, leaving Angie to wonder what in the world had come over him.
Chapter 4
The next morning, Angie was sipping her morning coffee and reading the newspaper about the murder of Shelly Farms, who she was shocked to learn had really been named Sherlock, when the phone rang. As she reached for it, she couldn’t help but think anyone named Sherlock probably would grow up with either great compassion for those who had misfortunes from birth, or would become a serial killer.
“Hello, this is Diamond Pastry,” said a very slow-talking woman with a high, nasal voice. Angie was about to laugh—it had to be her friend Connie imitating Ernestine the Operator: One ringy-dingy. Before she could say anything, the woman continued, “Is this the Amalfi residence that ordered the purple cake?”
Angie’s throat closed so tightly she could barely squeak out the words. “Purple cake?”
“Uh…sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re here at Diamond Pastry—”
“I know, I know. Tell me about the cake. Is it a big cake? Like…an engagement-party-size cake?” Please, God, don’t let Serefina have ordered a purple cake for me.
“You see, ma’am, the lady who ordered, the phone number got wiped out when a big blob of chocolate frosting dropped on the order form. Not that we usually toss around chocolate frosting…well, sometimes. But I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of our bak—”
“Don’t worry about it!” Angie jumped to her feet, clutching the phone tight. “Is the cake for a party on May fifth?”
“Uh…oh. You won’t believe it, but the other baker just found what we need. Everything’s okay now. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, ma’am.”
“Wait!” Angie shrieked. But the connection had already been broken.
It couldn’t have been Serefina, Angie told herself as she paced back and forth across the living room. There were lots of Amalfis in the city. Oodles of them. Some weren’t even relatives.
Any one of them could have ordered a purple cake for a variety of reasons…couldn’t they?
She pressed a hand to her forehead. What if her engagement cake was purple? What if the entire décor for the party was purple? Her beautiful Dior dress was yellow.
Yellow and purple together would remind people of Easter—and she’d end up looking like a baby chick!
She collapsed onto a chair, stricken. The only solution was either to find out what color her cake was, or to change the dress to be on the safe side.
Using the caller ID feature on her phone, she saw that the pastry shop was listed as “PRIVATE.” Odd. Nevertheless, she hit the redial button and got the same slow-talking woman. “Diamond Past—”
“This is Angie Amalfi. Can you tell me—did my mother, Serefina Amalfi, order the purple cake? Is she your customer?”
“Uh…I don’t know. I don’t think I can tell you, anyway.”
Angie really hated this privacy mania. “Can you tell me if it was for a cake on May fifth?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just don’t remember the date. I can tell you that it was a big cake. Real big. And it has big yellow flowers on it. They take time with all the petals—”
Angie hung up. Yellow flowers? Her worst fears were coming true. The good news was that the flowers would match her dress.
The bad news was that her party was going to look like a giant Easter egg hunt.
Paavo walked into Moose’s Restaurant. Slightly upscale and with Italian cuisine, it was on Washington Square in North Beach, catty-corner to St. Peter and Paul’s Church where Angie went to mass.
The maître d’ asked if he was there to see Mr. Amalfi, and when Paavo answered in the affirmative, he was led to a private room in the back. Either Salvatore didn’t want to be seen with him, or didn’t want to be seen, period.
He had no idea what this meeting was about. More than once, a bribe to break the engagement crossed his mind. He hoped he was wrong.
“Sal,” he said, holding out his hand.
Angie’s father stood, and the two shook hands warily. Sal was nearly six feet tall, but thin and somewhat frail due to a heart condition. His hair was gray, and he had a small gray mustache. His eyes weren’t the dark, rich chocolate brown of Angie’s, but were lighter with flecks of green. When he spoke, he had a slight Italian accent. “Thanks for coming,” Sal said. “Sit. I told the chef to bring out a few of his specialties. Whatever he thought was good. Is that okay with you?”
Paavo could see that Sal didn’t want to waste time ordering. “Sure,” he replied.
“Wine?” Sal asked.
“No, thanks. I’m on duty.”
Sal scowled. “What, you don’t drink?”
“Not when I’m on duty,” Paavo repeated.
Sal beckoned the waiter. “A bottle of a nice chianti, per piacere. And?” He glanced at Paavo.
“Water’s fine,” Paavo replied.
“Perrier?” the waiter asked.
Paavo nodded. Sal looked disgusted.
As the waiter turned, Sal called, “I said I want wine that’s ‘nice’—not the most expensive.” He glowered in Paavo’s direction. “I’m the only one in the family who knows the value of a dollar.”
Paavo’s jaw tightened. Was this going to be about money? How he didn’t make near enough to support Angie in the style to which she was accustomed? “Angie and I have reached an agreement about money,” he said firmly.
He had to wait for Sal’s answer as a different waiter brought out sourdough bread and salad, and then the first reappeared for Sal to okay the wine choice.
When they were alone again, Sal said, “Yeah, I know you and Angelina don’t talk about money—you got nothing to talk about, right? Anyway, you got it wrong. I didn’t ask you here to flap my gums about the two of you. There’s nothing more to say. You both made that clear to me. I’m just the father. Why should I count, long as I pay the bills, right?”
Paavo chomped down hard on his tongue, but was rapidly losing the battle with himself.
“Anyway, you treat her good, keep her happy,” Sal said, “and we’ll be all right.” Despite the words, his tone dripped with doubt over Paavo’s ability to do that.
“Fine.” Paavo’s word was clipped and cold.
“This is something else,” Sal continued. “Police business. Eat, then we’ll talk.”
The meal was silent and tense. Paavo recognized that the veal scaloppini and pappardelle with porcini mushroom sauce were excellent, but they could have been cardboard and fell in a lump in his stomach. Sal only nibbled at his food, finally pushing the plate aside. “Look, Smith, I got a problem.”
Paavo put down his fork, ready to listen.
“I guess Angelina told you I have managers to run my stores nowadays. I’m president of the family corporation, so I go check on them from time to time.”
“Angie’s told me,” Paavo said. He knew all about Sal’s string of shoe stores in shopping malls and downtown areas throughout northern California.
“I got a problem with one of my managers.” Sal dropped his gaze.
When he didn’t continue, Paavo considered the situations that result in “police business,” as Sal called it. “Are you talking theft? Embezzlement?” he asked.
Sal shook his head. “I wish. It’s worse. Lots worse.” He caught Paavo’s eye. “It’s love.”
Paavo felt the blood drain from his face. “You aren’t saying that you and this manager—”
“No! God, no!” Sal exclaimed. “Hell, I never even liked her all that much.” He took a sip of wine. “She called me, one, two times, with questions about the store. So, I answered. Then she says she wants to meet about the stor
e—ways to improve profit. Her store’s doing fine, but what’s wrong with making more money, right? I had lunch with her a couple times. Then they started.”
Paavo’s brows crossed. “They?”
“Phone calls, letters.”
Paavo studied him, trying to figure out exactly what this was about. “So this employee, a store manager, has a crush on you?”
Sal nodded. “I have to break my goddamned neck every day to get out to the mailbox before Serefina does.”
“Serefina doesn’t know?”
“Hell, no! And I don’t want her to, understand?” He glared, then folded his hands, his discomfort at having to tell this to Paavo evident with every painful gesture.
“Tell me about the woman,” Paavo said.
“Her name’s Elizabeth Schull. When she first called, it was kind of flattering—I’m an old man, been married over forty years. She’s a young woman. Well, young compared to Serefina. Or me.” He drew in his breath. “But she’s making my life hell. Serefina wants to know why the line goes dead so often when she answers. I told Elizabeth to stop calling. When she didn’t listen, I said I would fire her.” His voice dropped low. “She said I wouldn’t dare.”
“A threat?”
Sal nodded, watching, expectant.
Others had gone to Paavo with similar stories about threats. They never liked what he had to say. He knew Sal would be the same. “It’s not illegal to threaten people. There’s nothing the police can do about it. Your attorneys can come up with a good case to fire her, though. She’s harassing you. Why not just do it?”
“Nothing you can do?” Sal took the napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. His words dripped with disgust. “I listen to some woman threaten me, my family, and you say I’m supposed to handle it myself? I thought you were a strong man, some big macho guy that swept my daughter off her feet. Now I see the truth.”
Paavo had just put up with more than he’d ever taken from anyone else. “Look, Sal,” he said, his voice a calm cover over a cauldron about to blow, “she hasn’t committed a crime. I’ll see what I can find out about her, talk to her, whatever. But I won’t be doing it as a cop. Is that clear?”
“Clear as mud!” Sal bellowed. “Don’t you want to know what she said?”
“Of course I do.” Paavo’s jaws were beginning to throb from the gnashing of his teeth.
“She said, ‘I know what Serefina’s up to, and I know all about your youngest daughter’s engagement party.’ Then she described Serefina’s day to me, and Angelina’s apartment building. She’s watching them both.”
Paavo was astonished. “You actually think she might harm Angie or Serefina? That’s a hell of a lot more serious than an employee having a crush on you.”
“Don’t swear at me, Smith!” Sal said.
Paavo had had just about all he could take, Angie’s father or not. “You’ve got to tell them. Warn them about her.”
“No!” Sal was firm, unmovable. “She won’t touch them, but she can still make trouble. The last thing I want to do is ruin the happiness around my little girl’s engagement party, even if it is to…Well, forget it. If we do this right, Serefina and Angelina won’t have to know anything about it.”
Paavo leaned back in his chair, focusing on Schull and not on Angie’s father’s obnoxious personality. In his judgment as a professional police officer, not as a future son-in-law, he didn’t like seeing this kept secret, and his cop instincts told him that Sal was being neither open nor honest about it. However, if the woman was as off-balance as he made her sound, she had to be kept away from Serefina and Angie no matter what Sal’s problem actually was. He nodded, his lips tight. “I’ll help.”
The North Beach area’s Fior d’Italia had no Amalfi party, nor did the Washington Square Bar and Grill. The next restaurant for Angie to check on was Moose’s. As she passed St. Peter and Paul’s Church, she went inside to light candles and say a prayer for loved ones and those seeking guidance about engagement parties.
As she stepped out of the dark church, the bright sunlight made it hard to see. She stopped and blinked, looking up and down the street a moment.
Parked at the corner was a car that looked amazingly like her father’s. Sal Amalfi was the only person she knew who still drove a 1969 four-door red Lincoln sedan with red leather seats and a huge red steering wheel. Sal loved the car. It was the first one he ever bought straight off the showroom floor. It had everything he’d ever wanted, and he’d babied it completely. It ran like a dream, eight miles to the gallon. It used to get better mileage before the California Air Resource Board pressured him into adjusting it to take unleaded gas, but their computers went berserk every year that it came up for a smog check.
Every so often Angie or Serefina would take him out to test drive a Mercedes or BMW or even a Jaguar. He declared them all garbage—flimsy, poorly made, death-trap tin cans. Nothing compared to his own personal Sherman tank.
Maybe he’d like a new Hummer.
Angie eyed the car as she walked toward it. It had to be his. If so, what was he doing in North Beach? Her parents lived south of the city in the wealthy peninsula town of Hillsborough. Because of his heart condition, Sal rarely left home, and it was even rarer for him to drive anywhere, especially into San Francisco, one of the most congested cities in the nation.
Serefina, on the other hand, enjoyed driving her Rolls-Royce. If Sal was riding with her, however, he clutched the dashboard the entire time. As a result, they often hired a chauffeur to get them from one place to the other. That way they didn’t have to worry about parking or Serefina’s driving.
Angie stood beside Sal’s car. He liked Moose’s Restaurant. Perhaps he was there having lunch with a friend.
She should try to find him. Wouldn’t he be surprised!
She was a few feet from the entrance when her father stepped onto the sidewalk. She waved and smiled. To her amazement, Paavo appeared right behind him.
Both men awkwardly watched her approach. They seemed to be leaning away from each other, which she dismissed as a weird perspective, or uneven sidewalks. She gave each a quick kiss. “What a nice surprise! My two favorite men right here together….” She stopped talking, expecting them to tell her why they were there.
Instead, Paavo said, “What are you doing here, Angie?” His voice sounded strangled, as if he were under some great strain.
She didn’t want Sal to know what she was up to. “Just shopping, a walk in the park. Nothing special. What about you two?” She kept the smile on her face, difficult though it was.
All of a sudden, to her amazement, Sal wrapped a stiff arm around Paavo’s broad shoulders and yanked him close, then patted his back hard. Very hard. “We’ve decided it’s time to get along even better than we have been.”
Angie gawked. Paavo pulled free, yet kept a sickly smile pasted to his face as he said, “That’s right. Bury the old hatchet.” He gave Sal what looked like a friendly tap on the shoulder. Sal staggered back a couple of steps.
The two men eyed each other, stiff as lampposts, smiles spread wide, teeth clenched. What in the world was going on? “I’m so glad to hear it,” Angie said nervously.
“Yes,” Paavo said, his gaze hard as ice.
“Right,” Sal murmured, returning a smoldering glare.
“How nice,” Angie added, trying to get them to remember she was there.
“Excuse me, Angie.” Paavo faced her. “I’ve got to get back to work, I’ll call you later.” He made a ninety-degree turn toward Sal with as much finesse as a tin soldier. “Good lunch, Sal. Thanks.”
The two stiffly shook hands. Both looked positively miserable.
“Me, too.” Sal also backed up. “Got to get home. Arrivederci, Smith. Angelina, ciao!”
The men darted off in opposite directions as she stood rooted to the spot.
Angie watched them go. The Tyson-Holyfield bite-off-an-earlobe boxing match had nothing on those two.
Chapter 5
Fr
iday night with nothing to do.
The only good thing about it, Stan thought, was that it wasn’t Saturday night. Although, to be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been excited about a date for a Saturday night. Were the women getting worse or was he growing choosier? Or just not interested in disrupting the placid but dull life he was living?
Saturday nights, more and more, meant renting movies from Blockbuster. Sometimes he’d call up a buddy from work and they’d go barhopping to meet women. The right women, though, were always already taken.
Like Angie.
He needed to get out of this funk. If he was being completely honest with himself, he’d admit that Angie never was and never would be the woman for him. For one thing, she was too bossy with him. He noticed she never bossed Paavo. That told him a lot.
The last thing he wanted was a girlfriend who acted like a drill sergeant. He wanted someone sweet and pleasant. Malleable wasn’t bad, either, come to think of it. Someone who idolized him, found no faults, praised his virtues. The perfect woman.
Angie had mentioned a few times that the women who worked at Haute Cuisine magazine would go to a bar after work on Fridays. Whenever she had an assignment with them she’d go along to schmooze with the editors so they’d remember her if a staff position ever opened up.
Unfortunately, Nona Farraday already occupied the only staff position she really wanted—restaurant reviewer. Angie was sure if the woman died she’d take the job with her just so Angie wouldn’t get it.
Stan’s remembering Angie’s story was either because it had so impressed him or was a measure of how desperately lonely he’d become.
At four o’clock he left his apartment and took a cable car, then two Munis across town to the Blue Unicorn. He didn’t own a car. Didn’t see the need for one in the city crisscrossed with bus and cable car lines. It was nearly six o’clock before he reached the bar, which wasn’t as bad as it seemed when you considered that a person driving could easily waste an hour trying to find street parking.