Two Cooks A-Killing

by Joanne Pence

  The California Park Service helped Paavo locate the wildlife reserve Junior Waterfield had told him about. The area was desolate, with a number of raptors and other wildlife native to the area. Varieties of falcon, hawk, and eagle feathers could readily be found there.

  The feather on the victim he’d investigated was that of an osprey, a type of hawk.

  The Park Service used mostly contract labor to handle the less pleasant duties, like taking care of outhouses, cleaning brush, and removing dead carcasses.

  Paavo got the name of the service, and from them a list of names, Social Security numbers, and addresses of people employed. Two addresses given were in Vallejo and one was in Napa. Most of the names were Hispanic. It wouldn’t surprise him if a number were illegals from south of the border.

  He turned the list over to Calderon.

  He hadn’t heard from Angie today. The fire in the living room worried him, but she did say lots of people there smoked. It could have been accidental. Angie did have a way of exaggerating, and though Paavo didn’t like to admit it, he had a slight tendency toward paranoia where she was concerned. Still, he’d be happier when she finished this little foray into filmdom.

  He also wondered if he’d be hearing from her friend Connie soon. The missing person case she’d sent his way—Fred Demitasse—was so far on the back burner it was frostbitten. There was a lot about that case that made no sense, where the information didn’t hold together.

  He looked at the thick Birds of Prey homicides binder on his desk. First things first.

  Rudolf Goetring sat at the kitchen counter watching South Park reruns, smoking, and eating a grilled cheese sandwich.

  “I’m here to make a cheese soufflé,” Angie announced, squaring her shoulders. She didn’t give him a chance to argue. “It’s the best way I know to check if the oven is too hot, too cold, how even it is, and everything else I need to know to make sure it’ll do a good job for me.”

  He stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” she said. “I just want to make my soufflé in peace and quiet.”

  “Fine.” He shut off the TV and stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s all yours.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You don’t care?”

  “Perhaps this isn’t as important to me as you think.” He gave a slight bow, grabbed his cane, and stiffly walked from the room.

  His about-face made no sense, unless it was that Tarleton had explained who the head chef was around here. About time, too!

  While the soufflé baked, Angie decided to check out the wine cellar. It was the one area she hadn’t gotten to yet.

  A door led down from the kitchen. The refrigerated room was filled with bottles of Waterfield wine. Only Waterfield, unfortunately. A small, old-fashioned grape press atop an open barrel and several oak barrels on their sides told her this was where small quantities of wine were not only stored, but also made and processed the loving, hands-on way done years ago before so many wineries turned into stainless steel mass-production factories. When she was a little girl, her father and his friend Giuseppe had used similar equipment to make wine over in Sonoma.

  Engrossed in the old wine-making paraphernalia, she almost forgot her soufflé. Fortunately, it turned out perfectly. The appliances and equipment performed wonderfully. She was just about to dish some out for herself when Digger stuck his head in the door.

  “I thought I smelled something delicious.” He entered and immediately began searching through cupboards and drawers for a plate and fork.

  “Are you related to a fellow in San Francisco named Stanfield Bonnette?” she asked wryly.

  “Never heard of him. Why?”

  “Nothing. I thought you’d gone long ago.”

  Angie scooped soufflé into both dishes.

  “I was studying the place.” He put a big spoonful in his mouth. “I heard Bart and Rhonda say they had to be ready at eight tonight. They were eating some green goo. It was sickening.”

  “It’ll be the first reading of the script.”

  “You going to sit in?”

  “No one is allowed to watch. They’re shutting themselves in the living room.”

  “Is that so?” He got up and checked out the butler’s pantry between the kitchen and formal dining room. “It would be interesting to hear it.”

  Angie didn’t want to admit he was right, however…

  She remembered back to the day she’d first arrived, when the crew was saying something about sabotage. Given all that had happened since, and having learned the script wasn’t Camille Spentworth’s, she wanted to hear it herself.

  He handed her a folded piece of paper. “Angie” was on it in Paavo’s handwriting.

  “It’s yours,” he said. “I wouldn’t have taken it if I’d known it belonged to you. You never did tell me your name…Angie.”

  Chapter 19

  At eight o’clock, Tarleton met Rhonda and Bart in the foyer. Angie had waited in the darkened kitchen and now crept into the butler’s pantry. The dining room lights were off, the doors to the foyer open. She crept closer.

  The double doors leading into the living room were closed, as expected, but the actors stood in the foyer.

  “Is this necessary, Tarleton?” Bart asked, taking a seat on the stairs. “Today was supposed to be for getting fitted. Didn’t that shrew Donna Heinz put me through enough grief for one day?”

  “No sense wasting time,” Tarleton said.

  “I don’t like it.” Rhonda murmured absently, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

  “What are we waiting for?” Bart said. “Let’s go in and get this show on the road.”

  “We need Gwen and Kyle.” Tarleton glared at him.

  “Oh, them.” Bart sneered.

  Sterling and Serefina tried to join the group. When Tarleton asked them to leave, Sterling marched from the house in a huff, taking Serefina with him. Angie wondered where they were going this time. As much as she told herself not to worry, she felt like a parent with a wayward teenager. She was sure she’d be watching the clock until her mother returned.

  Screenwriter Camille Spentworth showed up next. Right behind her, the last two stars walked in, laughing, their faces ruddy.

  “Ready?” Tarleton asked.

  The others stared at him as if bored. He opened the double doors to the living room with a flourish.

  Angie crept into the dark dining room, the need to see the reading overcoming caution. She gasped, and then nearly screamed as someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Digger!

  Instead of tossing him from the house, she pointed toward the living room.

  The elegant, lush decorations were gone and had been replaced with a white-and-gold horror. Gold ornaments, bows, and tinsel filled the tree, long gold filigree cloth was draped over the top and sides of the mantel, gold streamers hung from drapery rods, and gold garlands crisscrossed the ceiling. Stacks of gold presents filled the floor under the tree.

  Angie had seen the room decorated that way before. Her mind raced…

  “These decorations look familiar,” Gwen said, letting Kyle remove her mink jacket. “Haven’t I seen them before?”

  “They were used in the past,” Tarleton replied.

  When? Angie nearly shouted.

  “So that’s why they look so outdated,” Bart said. “I think the other was prettier. You didn’t change it all because of the missing Little Drummer Boy, did you?”

  “What missing boy?” Kyle asked.

  “It’s what the audience wants. Trust me in this,” Tarleton said.

  I remember now! Angie thought, a sudden wariness running though her. What were Tarleton and Mariah up to?

  “They go back to the show when Cliff and Leona were lovers.” Gwen frowned at Tarleton. “Surely we aren’t going to drag that old storyline out again.”

  “We’re not.” Tarleton replied.

  “Thank God,” Gwen murmured. She patted Kyle’s
face as if to show he was her preferred love interest. At least for now.

  “Something else went on that season,” Rhonda said slowly. “It was the year Brittany died.”

  Finally! Angie exhaled. Why had Tarleton wanted the room decorated that way? His decision to have her cook the same Christmas dinner as served on Julia Parker’s last show was eerily similar. Why was he so interested in that time?

  A bad feeling crept along her spine.

  Digger inched closer. He gave her a questioning look, and she nodded.

  “I think you’re wrong about that, sweet thing,” Bart said, with a loud, out-of-place laugh. “No one would have the bad taste to bring that up again.”

  “Here we go.” Tarleton handed them copies of the script. “This is short. It’s the ending segment of the show. I haven’t read the beginning yet, but I’m sure Miss Spentworth did a fine job with it.”

  Camille smiled sourly. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. As long as she was there, Angie thought, they might leave the doors open.

  “How the hell do you know how something ends if you don’t know how it starts?” Bart asked.

  “This is a special ending,” Tarleton explained. “It’s a take-off on A Christmas Carol, but in reverse. We’ll start out with the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

  “Goddamn, Em, you can’t show it in reverse,” Bart cried. “The audience is going to think we’re ass backward.”

  “We are,” Kyle offered. The actors sat down and began flipping through the pages. Probably counting their lines, Angie thought.

  “We’ll read the parts together,” Tarleton said, “and go through it all, piece by piece.”

  “I like to read it to myself first,” Bart said.

  “You don’t need to. It’s easy enough,” Tarleton offered. “It begins with Cliff sitting at the dining room table, a Christmas feast in front of him. Natalie is behind him. There’s no place setting for her.”

  Angie’s ears perked up at the words “Christmas feast.”

  Rhonda began to read. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Future, and I’m here to show you your future, Cliff Roxbury.”

  Bart scowled in confusion. “What do you mean, you’re a ghost? You’re my wife!” He looked at Tarleton and laughed. “Hey, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “No, not for many years,” Rhonda/Natalie continued. “I grew tired of your philandering ways, Cliff. I finally left you. Everyone left you.”

  “Well”—he laughed—“that didn’t work out so well for you, did it? You’re dead, Natalie, but I’m still alive.”

  “You are alive, but you aren’t living. You’re alone, Cliff. Everyone’s gone. You’re nothing but a lonely, ugly old man. The people who know you are all waiting for you to die.”

  “No. My son loves me. Jon Royce doesn’t want me to die.”

  “Your son hates you for driving away his mother. He’s no longer in Eagle Crest.”

  “Jon Royce is gone?” Bart/Cliff sounded truly shocked and sad. “What about Adrian and Leona? They’re here. They wouldn’t go.”

  “They realized that to save their marriage, they had to leave Eagle Crest. And they did. It was worth it to Adrian to give up the wealth he had. The future he shares with Leona—their love—is much more valuable.”

  “Love? Those two? No way. This is ridiculous. I’m not alone. You’re lying.”

  “Look into your future, Cliff, look at yourself in another five years.”

  “Stop there,” Tarleton said. “At this point, we’ll have make-up give Bart long white hair and gaunt gray skin. He’ll be in bed alone. He’ll ring the bell for the butler to come to help, but no one will. He’ll call out, but no one will hear. Then he’ll die.”

  “I’ll die?” Bart asked with sudden enthusiasm.

  Tarleton nodded.

  “Wow!” Bart said. “I’ve never had a role where I got to die before. It’ll be sad, won’t it? I mean, I’d like to make the audience cry for once. Usually they just boo and hiss at my roles.”

  Gwen snorted, “After what Cliff’s done, nobody’s going to shed tears for you, and you know it.”

  Bart spun toward the director. “Damn it, Tarleton, if I’m going to die, it’s going to be sad. Do you hear? Or I’m not going to do it. Look, it’s the end of an era—the death of Cliff Roxbury. We’ve got to play it big time. I think it should be last, not first! We need to end with it. My death scene. Just like…Hamlet. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and—’”

  “That’s Macbeth!” Tarleton shouted, quivering with rage. He tried to calm himself. “We’ve got to continue. You’re right about it being the end of an era, but keep in mind, it isn’t the end of the story. We’re doing Christmas Future first, and that’s final.”

  Rhonda rolled her eyes and walked away, and Bart scratched his head, perplexed. Angie had to admit, she was with Bart. Why mess up a classic?

  “Now,” Tarleton said, “we’re going to go into the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

  “Hey, I must be missing some pages,” Bart bellowed. “I don’t see any lines for me in this section.”

  “There aren’t any.” Tarleton’s teeth were clenched. “It starts with Adrian looking into the dining room and seeing Cliff at the head of the table, a Christmas feast before him, and Natalie sitting at the opposite end, looking drunk and completely out of it.”

  Angie wondered if this would be the same meal as the one she’d need to prepare for the earlier scene. If it was up to her, she’d show a different meal, although that’d be a lot more work.

  “Do we need to go into the dining room?” Bart asked, circling toward it. Angie and Digger, who had crept closer, tiptoed backward toward the butler’s pantry.

  “No need. We’ll just read the parts for now,” Tarleton said. “An empty place setting is at the table. It’s Adrian’s. Cliff and Natalie are waiting for him. He stops at the door and doesn’t enter.”

  Tarleton himself picked up the script and read, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

  The actors all looked at each other. Tarleton nodded at Kyle, who began to read Adrian Roxbury’s role.

  “Where’s Leona?” Kyle/Adrian read. “I don’t want Christmas dinner without Leona.”

  “You have no choice, Adrian,” Gwen read in Leona’s little girl voice. “You’re all alone now.”

  “Alone? You’re my wife.”

  “But you didn’t trust me enough to make me a partner as well as a wife. You learned too well from Cliff. I couldn’t take all the lies, the suspicion, and the deceit, and so I left you. I’d made mistakes, but in time I came to love you, Adrian. Not Cliff, or Arthur, or John, or Graham, or…well, enough of that. You didn’t love me back!” She began to cry.

  Ham, Angie thought.

  “I do love you, Leona! I’ve put Natalie out of my head. Along with Julia, Charlotte, Kathy, Beatrice—”

  “Beatrice? That tub!”

  “Forget Beatrice. I don’t want to be here without you.”

  “You should have thought of that a long time ago. Good-bye, Adrian.” Gwen/Leona cried harder.

  “Don’t go! What shall I do?” Kyle/Adrian wailed. “How can I win her back? What shall I do?”

  “Hey,” shouted Bart. “That doesn’t make any sense. We know from the previous scene that Adrian does go away with Leona, so her statement about leaving him alone isn’t true.”

  “No—it would have been true,” Tarleton explained, “except that Adrian changed his fate. We can all change our fate. The viewer will remember the last scene, and know that Leona took Adrian back and the two are happy together.”

  “Ow! My head is hurting now,” Bart whined. “No audience will understand it! Where’s the scriptwriter?”

  “And now, the Ghost of Christmas Past,” Tarleton announced, ignoring the protest. “We’ve got a new member of the cast, plus an old one who returned especially for this scene. It takes place at the Christmas dining table—”

  Angie had to cover her mouth to suppre
ss a groan. Three big meals? He couldn’t want three separate meals, could he?

  “—Cliff, Natalie, Adrian, and Leona are seated…”

  “Where’s Jon Royce?” Rhonda asked. “Wouldn’t our son be with us at Christmas?”

  “He’s…in the army,” Tarleton said. “Quiet everyone. Let’s begin.” He looked toward the doorway and waved his arm.

  Rudolf Goetring, wearing a Santa Claus mask and red cap over his white chef’s smock, stepped slowly into the room. The expressionless mask, with its fake, jolly smile, slowly focused on one actor then the other, brown eyes peering out at them. They shrank back. “I am the ghost of Christmas Past.” He read, the words with a low reverberation in his voice. “I am here, Cliff Roxbury, to help you remember why your present and your future are so lonely, and so wretched. Be silent, and you shall learn!”

  The room was silent as the actors looked at each other, waiting for someone to begin reading. No one did.

  A young woman entered, a sheer white veil draped over her from head to toe. Her hair was straight and blond, she wore tight pink jeans, a fringed shorty top and high-heeled strappy white sandals. She was the ghost of Julia Parker, looking much as she had when she rode by in the truck.

  Chapter 20

  Rhonda half stood, then dropped back down in her chair. Bart clutched her hand.

  The chef read, “Julia Parker, the time has come for you to speak. Your death is a cancer eating away the hearts of everyone in this family. You will have justice; you will have revenge, and only then will eternal rest be yours.”

  “I was told Julia wasn’t part of this story,” Camille said. Tarleton shushed her.

  “Be thankful you didn’t write that,” Gwen nattered. “It’s so hokey, my teeth ache.”

  “Hokey? It’s claptrap,” Kyle roared. “We already ended that storyline! Julia was killed when she walked out on her boyfriend to go to a cheap bar and let herself be picked up. A transient killed her. Everyone was speculating that it was Cliff, then up popped the real culprit and Cliff spent the next few episodes getting even with everyone who’d called him a murderer.”