Cooking Most Deadly

by Joanne Pence

  “The guy confessed,” Paavo said. “That makes it easy.”

  “Yes, well…” Fletcher glanced at Yoshiwara. “You know, Yosh, I heard you were thinking about going back to Seattle. People have been saying you might be happier there. That true?”

  “What a laugh,” Yosh said with a big, friendly grin. “I’m having the time of my life here. You must have heard somebody’s wishful thinking.”

  Mr. Congeniality in action, Paavo thought. He wondered if Fletcher knew Yosh was being sarcastic as all hell.

  “Good, good,” Fletcher said. “Hate to lose a good man in Homicide. See you boys around.” With that, holding his hand aloft like the politician he hoped to become, and waving good-bye to friend and foe alike, Lloyd Fletcher left the bar.

  He sat in his green Honda and watched the procession come and go from the Court House. A couple of beat cops strolled out, then a sheriff’s deputy. Three women went in, dressed to kill. They were probably receptionists or secretaries for some bigwigs. They didn’t look old enough or tired enough to be any of the professional women who seemed to be taking over the running of this city.

  Lloyd Fletcher had stood outside the door for a long while, waving and smiling at everyone who came out or went in. And, like the sycophants they were, they bowed, scraped, and fawned over the powerful DA.

  It made him want to throw up. No one had ever fawned over him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ten years ago they kept saying he had to have been crazy to do what he’d done. He wouldn’t tell them the real reason. He wouldn’t tell them that he did it for Heather.

  Everything was for Heather.

  He leaned forward to watch as the cop and his Jap partner parted company. Now, if only Smith would go to his girlfriend’s house…

  He hadn’t been able to track down where she lived yet.

  But he would.

  The cop went into the parking lot and in a while reappeared in the old Austin Healey. He let him go ahead, then pulled into traffic two cars behind him. Once he found out where the girlfriend lived, he’d have all the information he needed. Then, life would be perfect.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Is she still eatin’?” Butch asked, stirring the spaghetti sauce so that chunks of the canned tomato he’d used wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the aluminum kettle.

  “Looks like she likes it,” Earl said.

  “You think so?” Butch’s eyes lit up. “Maybe I oughta cook up a couple more things?” He walked to the kitchen door and took a peek at their only customer. Wearing a self-satisfied grin, he turned to Earl. “Tell Vinnie to pipe down in the cellar. What kinda joint will she think this is?”

  “You tell him.” Earl was no fool.

  “Nobody’s gotta tell me,” Vinnie announced, just emerging from the cellar steps. He stomped to the middle of the kitchen floor and glared from Butch to Earl and back again. Despite the slump age had put in his back, his black eyes were still piercing under thick eyebrows.

  “What the hell you two bozos doin’ feedin’ people?” he asked. “What do you think this is? A goddamn restaurant? We got work to do. We gotta be fast. In and out, before anyone asks questions. Or maybe you two think everybody’s as dumb as you are?”

  “Look, Vinnie, we can’t go throwin’ out customers,” Butch said, going back to stir his sauce. “What if she complains to somebody? We gotta look legitimate.”

  Vinnie’s face turned fiery red. “You ain’t looked legitimate since the day you was born.”

  “Hey! You don’t talk like that about my mother, hear?”

  “What mother? You was hatched.”

  Butch crossed the room and stuck his face close to Vinnie’s. “Just remember, I was a contender for boxing champion of the world.”

  Vinnie didn’t look impressed. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Besides”—Butch folded his arms and lifted his chin—“if I quit, you wouldn’t have nobody to cook. Then what would you do?”

  “Ever hear of TV dinners? They probably taste better than your slop anyway.”

  “Okay, I will quit!”

  “You can’t.” Vinnie turned his back on Butch. “Earl, hurry her up. Get her out. Give her the bill or somethin’.”

  “She ain’t done eatin’ yet,” Earl said meekly.

  “So? What do you think this is, the Ritz? Give her the bill and make sure she takes the hint.”

  Earl swallowed hard. “I don’t t’ink she takes no hints, Vinnie.”

  “Oh, waiter,” Angie called out gaily. She waited a second. No answer. “Waiter?” Nothing but muffled voices from the kitchen. What dreadful service.

  Finally the waiter stuck his head through the swinging kitchen doors. “Whadya want dis time?”

  “This spaghetti sauce and these meatballs are absolutely wonderful,” she said, ignoring his bad manners. “I really would like to talk to your cook. I’m sort of in the business myself, you see.”

  “He don’t wanna see you,” Earl shouted.

  “Why not?” The restaurant was still empty. “It can’t be because he’s too busy. I’m not asking that he come out here. In fact,” she said as she stood, “I’ll go into the kitchen to talk to him. Believe me, if he uses this sauce on just two or three more dishes, this restaurant will do wonderfully.”

  Earl hurried toward her, holding his arms outright the way he’d learned to do in Vegas when someone lunged for a blackjack dealer. “There ain’t no way you can talk to him.”

  “Won’t you ask him?”

  “He’s shy,” Earl said.

  “Shy?”

  “Look, it’s gettin’ late. You want some dessert?”

  Somehow, she couldn’t imagine a restaurant with only one entree offering anything decent in desserts. “I’ve given up desserts for Lent.”

  “Yeah? I t’ink dis place has, too.”

  The waiter spoke with such a deadpan style, Angie had to laugh. She sat back down, unsure if he was serious or not. Even if she couldn’t see the cook this time, she would eventually. She wasn’t about to give up finding out what made the meatballs and sauce so special. If only the restaurant had a bit more to offer, it might have been a find for her—an interesting place to write about for her magazine article. Right now, though, it didn’t make the grade.

  The lack of a presentable menu was irritating. After all, any fool could stumble across a good high-priced restaurant in this city. It took someone clever to discover a cheap place worth going to. Someone like her, in fact.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. It was eight-thirty, not late at all. If she went home now, she’d probably sit around watching TV or trying to figure out if she was ready for marriage—or both. Paavo was most likely busy as ever with his cases and would see her when he could. He was pretty good at dropping by unexpectedly for a visit—and then some—but she didn’t want to get into a rut of going home to wait for him. It wasn’t as if they were married. She had freedom, choice, opportunity. She just had to figure out what to do with it.

  “I’ll have a caffe latte,” she said suddenly.

  “A caffe latte?” Earl repeated.

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay.”

  Earl ran into the kitchen. “Now she wants a caffe latte. What’s dat?”

  Butch glanced toward heaven. “Didn’t you learn nothin’ before you went to the big house? It’s half strong coffee and half milk.”

  “So why don’t you just make da coffee weaker?”

  Butch shook his head. “There’s a pot of coffee all made. It’s Chase and Sanborn, but I made it around noon, so it’s probably strong enough to take the wax off the floor. Plug in that espresso machine, and the gizmo on the end there will make the milk all foamy. It’s easy. You understand?”

  Earl looked at the machine. He’d never seen anything like it before. “’Course I understand. It’s easy.”

  “Okay. So do it. Oh, one more thing. You got to serve it in a tall glass.” Butch went back down into the cellar to help Vinnie.

  “Yea
h. I can do it.”

  Earl turned on the machine before he took a half gallon of milk from the refrigerator. He poured it into a wide-mouthed pitcher and held the pitcher below the espresso machine’s steam arm. He twisted the valve and a jet of steam shot some of the milk out of the pitcher onto his shirt. But it didn’t look any more foamy than when he started.

  He cursed and tried again. This time the milk sprayed his slacks. He gave it another try. Milk rained onto his hair.

  He twisted the knob faster this time. A jet of milk shot straight into his eye, nearly blinding him as more foul language erupted.

  He shoved the pitcher as high as it would go onto the steam arm and turned the valve with all his might. Milk hit the ceiling. Still no foam.

  The milk that had landed on his toupee earlier seeped through it and began to trickle down onto his forehead. He wiped it away.

  Rage turned to cold determination.

  He moved the milk into a bowl, put it under the beaters of a big, industrial-sized mixer and turned it on.

  The milk spun around in the bowl at a fantastic speed, but it still didn’t get foamy. He added an egg.

  That helped a little.

  A bottle of blue Dawn sat on the counter by the sink. Just a splash. Who’d ever know? Like magic, bubbles appeared.

  Now we’re in business, he thought. Leaving the machine running, he began to search for the type of glass Butch had described. There were short, fat glasses, and tall, thin glasses, but nothing tall, yet thick enough to hold hot coffee. He didn’t want the customer to burn her fingers.

  Pulling up a chair, he stood on it so that he could reach into the back of the upper shelves of the cabinet where restaurant owners past had left behind mismatched cups, plates, and glasses that they didn’t want to cart away with them. After several minutes searching, he found a tall, thick glass with a handle.

  Perfect. He grabbed the glass, got off the chair, turned around, and to his horror saw that the milk had foamed up and out of the bowl, across the counter, and down onto the floor. It was heading for the dining room.

  He carefully tiptoed through the slippery foam to turn off the mixer, then continued on to the pot of coffee. He poured the coffee into the glass. Despite the handle, it still felt hot, so he found a small, flat plate to put it on. Nice.

  He then plopped a spoonful of sudsy milk on top. He’d only used a small amount, but still, a slight detergent scent wafted out of the cup, mixed with the smell of bitter coffee. Maybe she’d think they used really clean glasses.

  He was headed toward the dining room when Butch came up from the basement where he’d been helping Vinnie. “What the hell! What’d you do to my kitchen?” He lunged toward Earl.

  Earl tried to run, but the soles of his shoes were slick. His feet scrambled wildly. He held the plate tightly, watching the glass as it slid from one side of the plate to the other. With each slip of the glass, he angled the plate in the opposite direction, so that, like a juggler, he managed to keep the glass upright and filled with coffee while his feet, legs, and body gyrated.

  As Butch hit the slippery floor, he hydroplaned across it and smacked right into Earl’s back, knocking Earl farther forward.

  Earl’s legs flew out from under him. He went down into the frothy muck and slid away from Butch, right through the swinging doors into the dining room.

  Angie turned around to see man, foam, and caffe latte shooting toward her.

  He came to a halt and somehow, miraculously, still held the coffee upright in its tall glass on its flat plate.

  Angie stood as the waiter picked himself up and carried her the coffee.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s nothin’.” With a deep sigh he placed the coffee on the table, but right on top of her fork. The plate made a little rocking motion, then tilted. The glass slid off the plate, hit the tabletop, tipped over, and the caffe latte rushed out of the glass, across the table, and dripped right onto Earl’s shoes.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Angie said. “Well, I wasn’t really in the mood for coffee anyway. I think I’ll take in a movie.”

  She opened her purse, took out two dollars, plus fifty cents for the tip, and placed them on the table. “Ciao,” she said, and sauntered out of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Angie, you should be talking with Paavo about marriage, not me.” Bianca, the oldest of Angie’s four sisters, emptied the morning’s first load of wash from the dryer into a basket. She quickly refilled the dryer with another load, then picked up the basket and came back into the family room to join Angie.

  “I’m not ready to yet. First, I need to understand what it would mean to us. After all, I don’t want to turn into another broken marriage statistic. The problem is, though, I think about it day and night.” Angie sat on the sofa, her chin in her hands. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t even think about my article for Haute Cuisine. You’ve got to help me!”

  “Have you talked to Mamma or Papà?” Bianca was fourteen years older than Angie and at least fourteen pounds heavier, with straight, dark brown, chin-length hair. She began to sort out underwear between husband, older, and younger sons—a chore Angie couldn’t imagine herself emulating anytime soon.

  “Are you kidding?” Angie said miserably.

  “You’re right. Mamma would have you walking down the aisle before you’re ready, and Papà would have you shipped off to a nunnery until you came to your senses—or were too old to care anymore. I’ve noticed that Paavo’s not exactly his favorite.”

  “Don’t remind me. That’s why I’ve come to you. I’ve got to know if I’m ready for this. It’s a big step. Enormous, in fact! I need you, Bianca. To tell me everything.”

  “The real picture?”

  “The hard truth.”

  “The cold facts?”

  “The ugly details.”

  “Of marriage.”

  “Exactly!” Angie cried. “I want the better and worse. Actually, the worse. I can handle the better.”

  Bianca held up a pair of jockey shorts and studied them. “Hmm, the tag with their size fell off.” With a shrug, she tossed them in with her older son’s clothes. “It’s a tall order, Angie. Marriage, more than anything else I can think of, is in the eye of the beholder. I can give you one person’s opinion, but I think you need to talk to a few other people as well.”

  “I will!” Angie started folding bath towels. “I mean, this is my life we’re talking about. ‘Look before you leap,’ that’s my motto. God, you’ve got a lot of towels here. What are you doing? Starting a bathhouse?”

  “Teenage boys—when they discover girls, they discover soap and water. And since when is that your motto? I thought it was ‘No time like the present.’” Bianca gave Angie a pointed, big-sisterly look.

  “That aside, I need your help.”

  “What’s marriage like…” Bianca said thoughtfully, matching pairs of white socks and folding them together. “Well, let’s say you like opera.”

  “You know I love it.”

  “And let’s suppose Paavo doesn’t care for it.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “He likes, what?”

  “Jazz, mostly.”

  “Okay, a good marriage is when you don’t take him to an opera, where he’d be miserable, and he doesn’t take you to a jazz concert, which you wouldn’t care for.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “You compromise. You go hear Barry Manilow.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Red-and-blue lights atop three police cars spiraled and flashed. Businessmen and professional women, shoppers, tourists, and the city’s usual wide and motley crowd of street people stood eerily silent in the wake of senseless, brutal death. Beyond them, all the noise and traffic of downtown city life on a weekday morning continued as usual, oblivious to the tragedy that had struck here.

  Sans Souci Jewelers was a small, exclusive jewelry shop tucked
between a women’s boutique and a large stationer’s on Post Street. At ten o’clock that morning, someone had walked into the jeweler’s, shot and killed the clerk, and escaped. The motive, most likely, was robbery.

  Paavo stopped his city-issued Chevrolet behind a black-and-white. He and Yosh trained their eyes on the crime scene, already cordoned off by the patrolmen who’d first answered the call. The paramedics leaned against their ambulance, waiting patiently for the homicide team to arrive. They were in shirtsleeves, enjoying the warm, sunny spring morning, and Paavo couldn’t help but notice the irony of it.

  As he and Yosh walked toward the shop, a patrolman filled them in on the few details he’d learned. Pulling out their notebooks, the two inspectors began scribbling raw data. By unspoken prior agreement, Paavo would take the inside, Yosh the outside.

  Yosh glanced inside the shop to get a feel for the situation, to see the victim and where he’d fallen. Then he began questioning the people who hovered around on the sidewalk—taking down their names, addresses, and initial reactions before they drifted away or said too much to each other, causing their own views and sightings to become confused or distorted by others’ stories.

  Inside the shop, Paavo didn’t head directly toward the body, but edged along the perimeter of the store, jotting down and rough-sketching each detail noted, including the way the victim lay and the spatter from his body.

  The victim, Nathan Ellis, was a white male, about age thirty, six feet tall, 180 pounds, with short blond hair and a pale complexion. He was tastefully dressed in a brown-and-gray tweed blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, and brown tie, and wore a gold watch and wedding band. He lay on his side, almost in a fetal position, in a pool of blood stemming from a gunshot wound to the chest.

  None of the merchandise in the store seemed disturbed, yet the store owner, discovering Ellis’s body, had called this in as a robbery. Why?

  Minutes after Paavo and Yosh arrived, the coroner showed up with her team, and soon after, the photographer and Crime Scene Investigations unit. As Paavo wrote, questioned, and studied, the photographer videotaped and took stills of the inside and outside of the store, while the CSI unit began collecting trace evidence and fingerprinting. The coroner soon completed her exam, and her team waited for Paavo’s okay to remove the body.