Cooking Most Deadly

by Joanne Pence

  “Because superstition is easier than hard work.”

  “Good point.”

  Paavo picked up the drawing the police artist had done based on St. Clair’s description. There were no distinctive features shown—only a baseball cap shading the eyes, aviator sunglasses to cover the cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips, and a heavy jaw. The guy was apparently around six feet, muscular arms and shoulders, but slim waist and hips. Sounded like someone who worked out.

  He could stop by a few gyms, Nautilus, whatever, and pass around the artist’s sketch. A long shot, but maybe worth a try. There were a lot of those places, though. And would someone with such a clunker of a car have money for expensive gyms?

  He could concentrate on inexpensive ones. Start with the Y, maybe? Where else? Heck, the cheapest places he knew of with workout equipment were prisons.

  Prisons. An ex-con? Hanging around a judge? Possible. Very possible, in fact.

  What if Angie was right about the DA? Fletcher and Tiffany’s boss, Supervisor Wainwright, were friends—Paavo saw them at the Court House together. And Tiffany got the job through “connections.” A judge and a DA. Interesting. Could there have been some trial, some case, they were both involved in?

  But it wasn’t the DA or the judge who were killed. It was their women. Was that the connection? Or, was it a coincidence?

  Damn. Much as he hated to think it, he had to believe that a criminal case, a trial, was the connection. He didn’t have anything else to go on. And he never did like coincidence.

  He tried reaching Angie again. She wasn’t at her place or his. Where could she have gone—and would she tell him this time where she’d gone, or would she give him more of her mysterious nonanswers?

  He tried the hospital. Stan hadn’t awakened yet.

  Paavo put down the phone in frustration. It was going to be another one of those days.

  Myron Liu had worked in the computer center at the Hall of Justice for nineteen years, starting as a clerk and working his way up to the prime programmer in the department. He should have been made supervisor last month. Instead, he was passed over, again. This time for a woman brought in from San Francisco State University who didn’t even know the police administration’s computer system. He was sick and tired of it.

  He watched Homicide Inspector Smith walk into their shop. He rose from his desk to help, when Ms. Smart-stuff stood up and gave him a look that told him to sit the hell back down and get to work.

  He’d been helping Homicide for fifteen years. No one was better at filling their requests than him. Now, she was going to cut him out of this part of his job as well. What was up? Did they want to fire him?

  He kept his head down as Smart-stuff came up to him a couple of minutes later.

  “Here’s a request from Homicide that I want you to get right on.” She slapped a form on his desk. “I want a computer printout of every case that Judge Lucas St. Clair and attorney Lloyd Fletcher were involved in together.”

  “When Lloyd Fletcher was DA or even before that?” Liu asked.

  “I said all of them, didn’t I?”

  He nodded. “You want complete SF records?”

  “I want it as complete as you can make it!”

  He lowered his gaze once more. “Really? As complete as that?”

  “You do understand English, don’t you?”

  His cheeks burned. “I’ll start the search immediately.”

  “Good.”

  Clenching his teeth to stop himself from telling his boss exactly what he thought of her, he began the development of a search program that accessed court databases throughout California, from tiny Yolo County, to the city and county of Los Angeles.

  He looked over what he’d done. On second thought, she’d said she wanted it as complete as he could make it. He changed “California” to “US.” Yes, Ms. Smart-stuff, he thought, I do understand English. I can make this search very complete indeed. He just hoped Inspector Smith wasn’t in too much of a hurry.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “I’m sorry, Mandy,” Angie said. “I didn’t think you’d be so busy at seven-thirty at night.”

  Mandy Dunleavy, one of Angie’s best friends in high school, dropped into the rocking chair. “If I don’t get the kids down early, I don’t have any time to myself.”

  “Time for you and Collin, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Do you expect him home soon?”

  “Like I’m supposed to know? I’m just his wife. Why would he tell me? I cook, clean, keep the house. Does Collin care? Does he help?”

  Angie tried not to show her surprise. Mandy and Collin were inseparable in high school and married shortly afterward. Angie and had always thought of them as the perfect couple.

  “I’m sorry.” Mandy sat wearily. “I don’t know what got into me. What was it you wanted me to help you with?”

  “Well…” Angie cleared her throat, suddenly having her doubts as to whether this was the right time to ask her questions.

  “Yes?”

  “You and Collin were always so much alike. You had so much in common. It made me wonder if that’s a key to a happy marriage?”

  Mandy gave a hollow laugh. “Me and Collin?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were alike, weren’t we? We shared everything once.”

  “Exactly. Isn’t that important?”

  “I don’t know, Angie. For the last few years, we’ve seemed to grow more and more apart. Without shared interests, there isn’t much else between us.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “Oh well, we might work it out. Who knows? There are times that marriage is really good—even mine and Collin’s.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel, ticking the minutes by. “But there are other times, Angie, when the kids are in bed, and the house is quiet, and you watch the clock and wonder where your husband is, and who he might be with…”

  Mandy’s gaze grew flat, haunted. “Times like that, marriage is the loneliest experience you’ve ever had in your whole life.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Angie sat at a table by the window of The Wings Of An Angel, reading her script for the TV show she would audition for the next day. Thank goodness they’d finally called her. After all, she might have had other irons in the fire if they’d waited much longer—something a whole lot better than a show on a predominantly Farsi station, too. On the other hand, considering the butterflies in her stomach with this audition, if it were any bigger, they’d have to carry her out to the TV cameras on a stretcher.

  “I was hoping I’d find you here again.”

  A shadow fell across her script, and she looked up to see Carter standing in front of her. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. Earl’s warning rang in her ear.

  “It’s good to see you again, Angie.” He slid his hands in his back pockets. “You make this restaurant special.”

  Earl ran up to Carter. “You back? You gonna stick around dis time and eat?”

  “I intend to.”

  “We don’t like guys who order food den skip out on us. Dat’s a warnin’, bud. You can sit over dere.”

  “Oh…well…” He looked expectantly from Angie to the empty chair at her table and back, but when no invitation was forthcoming, he went with Earl to the next table.

  Two other tables had customers—two women at one and a man at the other. Angie was glad to see that a few other people had begun to discover the restaurant. She had brought in some lace curtains she no longer used and helped Earl hang them this morning. They added a nice touch. She also gave him a brochure from a restaurant supply house for some white tablecloths and napkins, and suggested old-fashioned wooden chairs to replace the aluminum ones. The fifties decor just didn’t do it for her.

  Earl took Carter’s order, then stopped at Angie’s table on his way to the kitchen. “I forgot to ask, how’s your friend doin’, Miss Angie? Da one who got stabbed.”

  “Much better. Thanks, Ear
l.”

  “He know who stabbed him?”

  “I don’t think he ever saw the man.”

  “Yeah? Dat’s too bad. You call da police about it?”

  “Of course!”

  “Yeah, I shoulda figgered dat. Dey know anyt’in’ about it?”

  “Not yet. Actually, my boyfriend’s got the case. He’s a homicide inspector. We went to see Stan in the hospital last night, but he wasn’t able to answer any of Paavo’s questions yet.”

  “I didn’t know your boyfriend was a cop. A cop and a Fed. Man, you two must have to follow laws about kissin’.”

  “Not quite,” Angie said with a laugh.

  “So, what’s Homicide doin’ wit’ a stabbin’?”

  “It’s similar to a couple of other big cases he’s got.”

  “Busy guy, huh? Guess you don’t see him much.”

  “Not only that, he’s got a third case, too. One where someone’s been going around the city stealing fake Fabergé eggs. In one robbery, a clerk was killed. You better warn the jeweler next door. He’s got one of those eggs in his window.”

  “Man, someone got killed ’cause of some kinda egg? What’s dis world comin’ to? I gotta tell Butch. He’s got a dozen of them.”

  “Wait,” she called him back. “It’s an art piece shaped like an egg. Some of them open up and there are delicate porcelain figures or jewels inside.”

  “Yeah? People buy dose t’ings?”

  “They certainly do. A friend of mine works in a shop that sells them. I was thinking that she and I should make a prominent display of a bunch of them, then hide in the back room, and when someone tried to steal them, we’d call Paavo to make the arrest.”

  “Sounds kinda dangerous, Miss Angie, for a coupla gals.”

  “Not if you join us, Earl,” she said, teasing him. His expression, though, remained serious.

  “I don’t t’ink so. But I’ll ask Vinnie. He’s got da brains in da gang—I mean, group.”

  A pager went off. The man sitting alone took it off his belt, looked at it, then stood to pay his bill and leave.

  “I was joking, Earl,” Angie said as she watched the man with the pager. “But actually, that’s what we need—a silent pager. We need to put bugs inside a bunch of those eggs. Then, when the thief strikes, we could get it to beep silently and follow him to his hiding place. We’d catch him.”

  “Dat’s a good idea. Maybe you oughta be a crook.”

  “Only problem is where to get such a device.”

  “Excuse me,” Carter called, sliding his chair a bit closer to Angie. “I couldn’t help but hear a bit of your conversation. I’m a licensed electrician, and I know some people who’ve been developing a prototype of a device very similar to what you’re talking about.”

  Angie didn’t like eavesdroppers, even if they might be helpful ones. It seemed a little too convenient, and this guy a little too pushy, to suit her. “That’s all right. We’re just doing a little speculating here.”

  “It’s a very sound idea, you know.”

  Sound? What was he? A punster?

  “I can see your skepticism,” he said hurriedly. “But I really do know what I’m talking about, and I can access a lot of items not generally available. Take this.” He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small plastic case, and opened it. Inside was a tiny metal chip that looked like a wristwatch battery. “It doesn’t look like much, but with it, I can break into very sophisticated voice mail and fax systems—and can make copies of every message or fax being sent to the number I’m tapped into.”

  “You can?” Angie studied the chip, unsure if she ought to believe him or not. But why would he lie about such a thing?

  “Internet accounts, e-mails, home answering machines—they’re easiest, in fact.”

  “Dere’s always guys wit’ big ideas, Miss Angie. You can’t trust ’em.”

  Carter ignored Earl and kept right on talking. “There’s another device that works like a reverse paging system. I install them in luxury cars all the time. They can also be used in dogs, cats…kids, although we don’t do any of that yet. Suppose your car is stolen, or your child is kidnapped. You follow the beep, which is silent since you don’t want to alert the thief or kidnapper, and it’ll lead you to it.”

  Angie thought she might have heard about something like he was describing. “That’s impressive,” she said.

  “My friends are working on a microchip that does the same thing. The chips should go for about a hundred dollars a pop.”

  “That’s all?”

  “The biggest part of the cost with cars is the installation—you don’t want anything a thief can see and remove. Also, the ones for cars are a lot more powerful than the one I’m talking about for you. They’re good for hundreds of miles. These microchips, on the other hand, have a radius of about ten miles. From the place where stolen to a fence who’ll pay cash for them inside the city.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, until da car t’iefs and dose udders figger out howta break da signal.”

  “But in the meantime, Earl,” Angie said, her mind racing with possibilities, “I wouldn’t mind learning a little more about them.”

  “By the way, waiter,” Carter said, moving to Angie’s table, “I’d like another glass of wine.”

  “Dat guy’s gotta go,” Earl muttered, pouring some house wine into a glass.

  “What guy’s that?” Butch asked, checking on the Italian sausage he was now offering with omelets, polenta, or in a sandwich.

  “Da one always hangin’ around Angie. He’s back.”

  “I think you wanna be the only one hangin’ around her,” Butch said. “She even has you puttin’ up curtains like some little househusband. You two was really cute this mornin’.” He snorted with laughter.

  “Where’s Vinnie? He downstairs?”

  “Naw. Now she’s got him buyin’ chairs an’ tablecloths. He’s afraid she’ll get suspicious if he don’t. He don’t want no suspicious Feds now that we’re so close.”

  “We’re close, huh?” Earl asked, turning a hangdog gaze on Butch.

  “Yeah.” Butch kept his head bowed, not wanting to look at his partner. He checked on his sausages. Angie had taught him to fry them in water instead of oil to make them less greasy. They were browning nicely. “It’ll be nice to not have so much work to do alla time. Just sit around and count our money.”

  “Yeah. I’m really lookin’ forward to it.” Earl pushed the swinging door open a little way and eyed Angie talking with Carter. “You, too, Butch?”

  “Sure. Me, too. Why not? You don’t think I care about this place, do you?”

  “Heck no, Butch. Me neither.”

  “I don’t think this is something you should get involved in, Angie.” Connie Rogers’s worried frown annoyed Angie. Her plan was perfectly safe.

  “I’m not getting involved. It’s a test, that’s all.” She moved the miniature glass swan to the back of the display counter and the turtle to the front. Swans were out this season. “He’s an electrician. He knows about such things. Tomorrow, I’m meeting him at the restaurant and buying one from him.”

  “But what if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then I’m out a hundred dollars and feeling duped. It won’t be the first time,” she answered. “Anyway, I bought the egg. It’s mine to do with as I wish, right? And I wish to leave it in your shop. As soon as I get the device, I’ll put it in my egg. Then, you take it to your apartment when you leave the shop at night, and I’ll try to track it from my place. Since I don’t know where you live, it’ll be a great test. Then, if it works, I’ll tell Paavo. The police can bug about five or ten eggs in the city, take all the others out of the stores, and when the thief strikes, they’ll follow the beeper and catch him. It’s so simple a child could do it!”

  “If it’s so easy, why don’t the police use this pager-thing already?”

  “Paavo says local police forces never have state-of-the-art equipment.”
<
br />   Connie looked dubious. “I don’t like it.”

  “Look at it this way. If Paavo doesn’t have to think about this case, he’ll spend more time trying to find Tiffany’s killer.”

  “But I thought Tiffany’s case already had his full attention.”

  “It has, but you know him. He’s got all the Easter Egg Murder information stored in his head. Whenever he hears anything about the case, he gets involved all over again. What will it hurt to try? My last idea turned out well, didn’t it? Have confidence!”

  “Why? You’ve got enough for both of us,” Connie said, and then gave a sigh of resignation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Quiet on the set! Take eleven? I mean, take eleven!” SNAP!

  Angie took a deep breath. Looking straight at the camera she tried her best, under sweltering lights that hung within inches of her face, to smile instead of cry. What she wanted more than anything was to wipe away the perspiration dripping from her forehead. But that would smear her quarter-inch-thick TV makeup. Considering that the makeup artist’s idea of female beauty was a face that resembled a Barbie doll, that might not have been a bad idea.

  The director, cameraman, and assistant—the only ones there besides her—were hidden in the darkness, while she stood in a two-by-four-foot area with a sink, range, and butcher block counter, wearing a once-gorgeous Oscar de la Renta blue dress with the sort of understated simplicity she’d thought would look elegant on TV.

  It did, before she began to drip with perspiration and flour. Behind her, cardboard had been painted to look like kitchen cabinets and a window overlooking a giant sunflower-filled garden, reminiscent of the road to Oz. Maybe that’s where she was, come to think of it.

  “I’ve put two cups of flour and two cups of mashed potatoes into this bowl,” she said, smiling broadly as she tilted the bowl toward the camera. Her head bobbed up and down so that she could look at the camera and not drop the bowl—as she had back in the fifth take.