Two Cooks A-Killing

by Joanne Pence

“This is horrible,” Rhonda moaned, hands on her cheeks. She was pale beneath her make-up, and her eyes were dilated. “It looks like you’re capitalizing once more on the death of that poor young girl. Wasn’t one season enough?”

  Tarleton strode back and forth, glaring at the four actors. The chef and Julia’s ghost hovered near the doorway. “What did we learn during that season?” Tarleton asked. “Nothing.”

  “We learned that life has no value,” Kyle tossed his script aside. “And its only use is to extend the storyline. It made me sick.”

  “Hey,” Bart said, flipping through the script. “I don’t have any lines in this segment, either.”

  Rhonda spun toward him. “Can’t you tell this is a little beyond your lousy lines, you idiot!”

  The Julia figure raised her arms and threw back her head. “Murderer! You will pay for your sins. You will pay…for killing me!” Then she ran down the hall toward the family room.

  “Who was she talking to?” Bart demanded. He jumped up. “Me?”

  Rhonda was on her feet, too. “I’m leaving. This is a travesty.”

  “Sit down!” Tarleton ordered. “We aren’t through. We haven’t talked about the most important thing. Who killed Brittany?”

  “Brittany?” Bart looked from Tarleton to Rhonda, confused. After a second’s hesitation, he and Rhonda sat. “Don’t you mean Julia?”

  “What are you saying?” Rhonda sounded strangled.

  “Hold it,” Kyle said, arms out, palms down as if trying to calm everyone. “We don’t need this. Not again.”

  “If anyone killed Brittany,” Bart shouted at Tarleton, “it would have been you! God knows, your directing nearly killed her career!”

  “Somebody killed her,” Goetring announced behind the laughing Santa mask. The others stopped bickering at once. He continued. “Two women were heard arguing right before she died.”

  “Two women?” Bart’s brow furrowed. “I never heard that. How would you know? Who are you?”

  “Who cares?” Kyle fumed. “Brittany’s door was locked from the inside with an old-fashioned sliding bolt. If anyone was in the bedroom with her, they couldn’t have gotten out. Brittany was alone and fell.”

  “Maybe someone broke through the door lock,” the chef suggested.

  “If so, that person would have had a very sore shoulder,” Kyle countered.

  “Is that so?” The Santa mask pivoted, the eyes focusing on the actors one by one. “How’s your bursitis, Rhonda? Still have those shoulder pains?”

  She stared at him a long moment, then grabbed Bart’s hand. “I don’t know what he’s saying. What he’s talking about. Take me away from this!”

  “You know!” the chef shouted. His holly jolly mask seemed to broaden its smile. Bart’s eyes were wide. He seemed unable to move.

  Rhonda looked faint. “Who are you?” she screamed.

  “The ghost of Christmas past, present and future,” he said, and headed toward the dining room.

  Seeing him approach, Angie and Digger scrambled through the kitchen and breakfast room to the courtyard, nearly tripping over each other.

  “Did that make sense to you?” Angie asked. They hurled themselves at a nearby table and chairs. Angie sat back, legs casually crossed, and Digger lit a cigarette with an equally peaceful demeanor. Inside, she was quaking, expecting someone to dash out and accuse her of spying.

  Digger pondered Angie’s question. “Unfortunately, it made a lot of sense,” he said.

  “Let’s meander into the family room,” Angie suggested. “If anyone sees us, they’ll think we were outside the whole time. I don’t want to miss any more than we have to.”

  “Good idea.”

  They casually strolled back into the house through the patio doors. The family room was empty. They continued down the hall to the foyer to find the living and dining rooms now empty as well.

  That was when Angie realized what had been bothering her the entire evening. Why everything seemed slightly out of kilter.

  Someone had unplugged the foyer Christmas tree. It no longer twirled and was now absolutely silent.

  Angie and Digger walked around the house to the front drive. “What happened in there?” Angie asked. “Did I dream it?”

  “And where did this latest Julia disappear to?” Digger asked. If it was a dream, he’d had the same one. Their search had led them outside the house.

  Angie rubbed her arms from the chill. It wasn’t from the outside temperature. “Good question—and who was she?”

  “You don’t know?” Digger asked. “Wasn’t she part of the cast? No wonder they looked so shocked.”

  “I wish I knew what was going on with Tarleton,” Angie said. “Everyone knew Rudolf Goetring was his chef. It’s clear now that Tarleton brought him here to put a scare into everyone. To read those lines about the Julia–Brittany death or murder.”

  “True, but even he looked shocked when the chef talked about Rhonda’s sore shoulder.”

  The front drive was also empty. Everyone must have immediately gone up to their rooms. Angie looked at the house, bright and cheerful with Christmas lights, wreaths, and ornaments, and wondered what secrets had been buried there.

  “I don’t get it,” she murmured. “They said Brittany’s door was locked with a slide bolt from the inside. The door is the only way into and out of that bedroom, and yet it looks as if none of them thought Brittany’s death was an accident.”

  “You noticed that, too, did you?” Digger said. “My nose told me there was a story here. Damn, I’m good! I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m a journalist. Who knows?”

  Angie called Paavo and filled him in on this latest weirdness.

  “The chef all but accused Rhonda?” he asked.

  “I don’t think anyone actually murdered Brittany,” she said. “But Rhonda—or someone—might have driven her to jump. I’d say the others suspect it as well.”

  “Angie,” Paavo said, “come home.”

  Chapter 21

  The next morning when Angie went down to breakfast, not even cold cereal awaited her. Or coffee.

  No one was in the breakfast area or the patio. She went into the kitchen. It, too, was empty. Mariah stood alone, looking helpless.

  “Where’s Goetring?” Angie asked.

  “I don’t know. I told him we’d cater lunch and dinner, but that he should put out a light breakfast spread for everyone in the house. He understood he was supposed to have coffee ready by seven A.M.”

  “No one else is here, either,” Angie added, perplexed.

  “I guess nobody’s hungry,” Mariah said. “They were all pretty upset about last night.”

  “Oh, really? What happened?” Angie made her expression as guileless and innocent as she could.

  Mariah hesitated. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t there either. In any event, if the cook doesn’t show up, can you help with breakfast?”

  “Of course.” Angie was pleased with the opportunity to show off to one and all, and especially to Tarleton, how well she cooked.

  Serefina walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mamma,” Angie said.

  Serefina eyed Angie, Mariah, and the pristine kitchen. “There was some trouble here last night, eh?” she asked. “No breakfast. No cook. Everyone’s upset.”

  Mariah confirmed it.

  Serefina nodded. “Let’s make breakfast for them, Angelina. Nothing fancy. Maybe a little egg, a little toast. It’ll cheer them up.”

  “We can do better than that.” Angie began pulling ingredients from the pantry. “Want to help, too, Mariah?”

  “Not me.” She showed them her back. “I’m out of here.”

  Angie rummaged through the freezer while Serefina pulled out a few bowls, pots, and pans. Before long they began to work on a meal of Angie’s poached eggs with crab and hollandaise sauce, and Serefina’s frittata of pancetta, avocado, and chilies. With it, they planned biscuits, strawberries, c
offee, tea, and a variety of juices.

  As they cooked, Tarleton entered the kitchen. “Food. Good. Everyone’s hungry.” He turned to leave again.

  Angie hurled herself in front of the exit. “Do you still want the traditional Christmas dinner from the last show Brittany played in?”

  “Of course.” He gave her a who-are-you-to-question-me glare. “The crew’s returning, and we’ll start shooting day after tomorrow. Two days after that, we need the dinner.”

  “Just one?” she asked, thinking about the three separate dinner scenes she’d witnessed.

  “Yes, of course. What do you mean?”

  Since she wasn’t supposed to have heard anything from last night’s rehearsal, she couldn’t question him further. “Fine. In that case, I remember the show—”

  “You do?”

  “I remember the roast goose, but the trimmings are all vague.”

  “Whatever,” he said, stepping to the side to get past her.

  She stepped to the side as well. “I was thinking the roast goose should be maple glazed. It makes a beautiful centerpiece.”

  “Good, now—”

  “With it, I’ll serve corn pudding with smoked oysters, yams in orange cups, mushroom and parsnip soup, heart of romaine and persimmon salad—”

  He took a few steps backward. She moved toward him.

  “—Spinach with tasso ham, braised pork backs with bourbon gravy, green onion biscuits, a relish tray, pear-onion-fontina strudel—”

  He backed further. She followed.

  “—Little sweet-potato pancakes with caviar, broccoli with fennel, apple-filled acorn squash rings, cranberry sauce—”

  He bumped into the far wall.

  “—A Waldorf salad, and pumpkin chiffon and pecan pies for dessert.”

  “Stop!”

  “That’s it,” she said with a smile. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t care. You fill the table with good food and Waterfield wines. That’s all.”

  Her face fell. After hours of worry and planning…“You don’t care?” she repeated, stunned.

  “I don’t care! As long as it looks pretty, Miss Amalfi, I…don’t…care.”

  Anger, embarrassment, and frustration warred. It was all she could do to keep her tone civil. “If you don’t care, why did you want a gourmet chef to cook it? You could have used plastic food, just like everything else in this house!”

  Out of patience, Tarleton bellowed, “That’s exactly what I told Waterfield! He said you needed to get away from the city for a while.”

  Angie felt the floor rock beneath her feet.

  “What about the chef with the broken leg?”

  “Broken leg? What broken leg? I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  From being flush with embarrassment, Angie suddenly felt as if all the blood drained from her face. She spun toward her mother. “What’s going on?”

  Serefina’s gaze was sad and understanding. “Enough, Angelina,” her mother said gently. “You were given a job to do. You’ll do it, and make the food special. You gave your word that you’d help. In fact, this morning, it looks like everyone needs help more than ever. Now, signor direttore, scusi! We are cooking here.”

  As soon as Tarleton fled, Angie slumped into a chair. “What is Papà up to?”

  Serefina measured flour into a sifter. “He has his little ideas. It’s nothing.”

  Angie placed her hands on the counter. “Does having a couple of bachelors in this house—rich bachelors—have anything to do with it? Is that why you’re here, too?”

  “Angelina, I love Paavo. He’s a good man.” Puffs of flour billowed into the air as Serefina sifted too vigorously. “Your papà, though, he only sees money, or lack of it. He knows you won’t look at another man on your own, so he suggested I come stay here a few days to help you realize what a fine man and good husband Silver would be for you.”

  “What? You agreed to that?” Angie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Of course.” Serefina added eggs and milk. “I could use a vacation, and this is a lovely place for one. Also, Sterling has always been a little sweet on me. You don’t know what fun it is to have a man pay close attention to me, like a woman, instead of a wife.” She sighed dreamily.

  Angie gawked.

  “Not that I would ever do anything about it, but it’s good for the ego.” Her black eyes sparkled. She put down the whisk and wiped her hands. “Besides, when the day comes that I need a facelift, he might give me a discount.” She smoothed her hair, making sure not one strand was out of place.

  Angie stared at her a long moment, then broke into laughter. That was the mother she knew and loved.

  Ignoring blaring horns and dirty looks from fellow drivers, Angie swung into a parking space when she saw Digger Gordon walking along a sidewalk in downtown Napa. Although it was the largest town in the valley, if anyone went there looking for great wineries, they’d be sorely disappointed. A few upscale restaurants and “gateway to the wine country” establishments helped, but not much.

  Since the grocery stores in St. Helena were miniscule, Angie took her shopping list of gourmet ingredients to Napa.

  She rolled down the passenger window of her Mercedes and called to Digger, “What are you doing here?”

  He approached, surprised to see her. “After what we witnessed last night, I need to check something out.”

  She wanted to find out a few things as well, but didn’t know where to start. It seemed Digger did. “What is it?”

  “You don’t want to know.” With a good-bye wave, he continued past her.

  She locked her car and ran to catch up with him. “Why not? I know all kinds of things about murder investigations. Didn’t I tell you my fiancé is a homicide inspector in San Francisco?”

  “Several times. Sounds like you agree this is a good story,” Digger said without slowing down. “Maybe such a good story you want to steal it.”

  Shocked, her step faltered a moment. “I don’t want your damn story! I want to know what happened, that’s all.”

  “Maybe you want to sell the story, or make a book out of it.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake! We’ve got a bunch of TV stars and others acting peculiarly. We both want to know why—you for your job; me because it’s important.”

  “Maybe it’s important to me as well.” Digger turned into a small building with Napa Press Tribune stenciled on the window.

  “The newspaper office?” Angie asked. “Are you going to tell the local press about this?”

  “Nope.” He waggled his eyebrows. “If you must come along, keep quiet and watch an expert in action.”

  Digger showed his press credentials, introduced her as his assistant, and was given access to the morgue—the newspaper’s back copies.

  “Surely you’ve already read the newspaper accounts,” Angie said as they entered a room filled with newsprint and microfiche.

  Digger perused the dates written on the file drawers. “I’ve read the AP reports and those from a couple of San Francisco reporters who came up here, but I never saw the first stories from the site—what was written before it became big news.”

  “In other words, the first and maybe second stories out of here,” Angie said, “before the big reporters took over and the Napa guys were shunted back to the obit page.”

  He found the right year and began flipping through the microfiche. “I like the way you think, Angie. Like a journalist.”

  “Actually, I was a journalist once.”

  “Do I have a nose, or what?” He gloated as he found one with the dates he wanted. “I wasn’t so out-of-line when I thought you wanted to steal my story after all. I must have sensed the news-hound in you.”

  “Actually, I wrote about food and recipes.”

  “For the San Francisco Chronicle or the Examiner?”

  “The Bay Area Advertiser.”

  He stopped searching long enough to look at her and frown. “Advertiser? It isn�
��t one of those newspapers delivered free with lots of ads, is it?”

  “It was. I’m afraid it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  He pulled out a fiche. “And you looked down your nose at me writing for a national tabloid?”

  “We must have standards, Digger,” she said, then added with resignation, “even if we don’t live up to them ourselves.”

  Digger chuckled. At a microfiche reader he searched for the date of Brittany’s death—November 15. The record of the fifteenth showed nothing, which wasn’t unexpected. But the sixteenth also reported nothing, and the seventeenth only ran an AP report out of Los Angeles with a local sidebar in which Sterling Waterfield spoke of what a lovely, talented young woman Brittany had been, blah, blah, blah—all the usual things said about any dead star.

  The lack of first-hand news reporting made no sense. Digger was out of the morgue like a shot. Showing his press badge, he asked if the editor was available.

  “Daniel Gordon,” Nicholas Clark said, extending his hand as Angie and Digger entered his office. “Glad to meet you. I’ve admired your work.”

  Angie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This newspaper had to be really small potatoes if the editor admired a National Star reporter.

  “Thanks,” Digger said, looking somewhat embarrassed. He told Clark what he was looking for.

  “That was before I got the job, but I was curious about it myself,” the editor said. “No one will say why or how, but the story was spiked. I can only speculate on what happened…and I won’t.”

  “What about the cops and the medical examiner?” Angie asked. “Reporters often question them.”

  “They had little to offer.” Clark explained that, almost immediately, the death was ruled an accident. Sterling didn’t want any kind of investigation done in his house. He refused to let the CSI check things out unless they could get a court order stating there was a suspicion of foul play, and he refused to allow the police to talk to anyone in his family, saying they were too distraught over the death to do so.

  Sterling had been the one who’d broken into Brittany’s room. Clark said his reporters speculated that more happened when he’d broken in than he wanted to say—or to let CSI discover. Everyone assumed the door was locked with a slide bolt because they found the bolt intact on the door and the doorframe portion of the lock ripped from the wood molding. Sterling never said if the lock had been previously damaged or if the wood was bad. It was never questioned, and without the kind of investigation a CSI could do, no one would ever know if that was the case.