A Cook in Time
Authors: Joanne Pence
An Angie Amalfi Mystery
To my wonderful aunts and uncles:
Marie Lopez Ugarte, John Addiego,
Gloria Craig Addiego, and
Melvin Addiegoâwith love
The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand â¦
âW. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”
The truth is out there.
âFox Mulder,
The X-Files
Patrol cars blocked the main entrance to Sigmund Stern Grove, their red and blue flashing lights harsh and garish against the gray December sky. The nearly ceaseless rains that caused the residents of San Francisco to believe they'd been transported eight hundred miles north to Seattle had stopped for the moment, but several police and park inspectors still wore yellow rain slickers, giving them the appearance of marching street lamps leading the way to the early morning crime scene.
Two men followed a narrow path through stands of eucalyptus and pine. Since the rains had washed away the gravel, their oxfords sank deep into the drenched mud, creating suction they had to fight against, as if the earth itself wanted to hold them back. Heavy, damp air filled their lungs, and a subtle tension grew with each deliberate step. Neither spoke.
Slightly in the lead was a tall, husky Japanese American in his late thirties with short-cropped black hair and a thick, muscular neck. His clothes were casualâlight wool Eddie Bauer overcoat, plaid shirt, brown Dockers, and brown tie. The man behind and to his left was an inch or so taller with a lean, narrow-hipped build. He was conservatively dressed in a gray Nordstrom sports coat and black slacks, a striped gray tie, and a plain white shirt. His hair was dark brown, and his angular face was as unreadable as his icy blue eyes.
Under the broad umbrellalike expanse of a weeping willow hovered a small crowd of morning joggers and dog walkers. Their expressions were hollow and fearful, different from the curious, excited looks usually worn by crime scene witnesses. Just off the path, a police officer bent low over the bushes. One hand was jammed against a tree trunk, and a harsh gagging sound erupted from his throat.
Up ahead, yellow crime scene tape stretched from tree to tree in a fifteen-foot radius manned by uniformed officers. The two men showed their badges and signed the crime scene attendance log. A police sergeant strode toward them and lifted the tape. He looked shaken, not like a veteran who had seen a multitude of horrors during years of police work. “The coroner hasn't arrived yet,” the sergeant said, breathing deeply. “Neither has the CSU.”
They proceeded to the center of the closed
off area. A patrolman stood guard over the body, which was covered by a thin plastic tarp. The wet ground around the body was a mire of running-shoe patterns and dog footprints. There was no blood, no flattened or torn grass or bushes, no sign that a death struggle had taken place there.
At the sergeant's nod, the patrolman reached down and gripped the edges of the tarp. His jaw tightened as, slowly and carefully, he drew away the covering. The two men stared down at the corpse.
“Good Christ,” Homicide Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara whispered under his breath. He turned his head.
His partner, Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, impassive and efficient, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then stepped closer to study the victim.
The nude body was that of a male Caucasian, early forties or so, about 5'10'', 160 pounds. The skin was an opaque white. Lips, nose, and ears had been removed, and the entire area from approximately the pubis to the sigmoid colon had been cored out, leaving a clean, bloodless cavity. No postmortem lividity appeared on the part of the body pressed against the ground. The whole thing had a tidy, almost surreal appearance. No blood spattered the area. No blood was anywhere; apparently, not even in the victim. A gutted, empty shell.
The man's hair was neatly razor-cut; his hands
were free of calluses or stains, the skin soft, the nails manicured; his toenails were short and square-cut, and his feet without bunions or other effects of ill-fitting shoes. In short, all signs of a comfortable life. Until now.
A wide band of skin in the shape of the number 7 had been removed from the pasty chest. Around the neck was a long black nylon strap attached to a bulky device that appeared to be a combination of binoculars and goggles. Made of black metal, the apparatus was as thick as a Nikon 35 mm camera, with something that looked like binoculars attached to one end and, on the other, a harness to hold them in place against the eyes.
Smith glanced over at Yoshiwara.
Yoshiwara's eyes betrayed no emotion. He shifted them to the sergeant. “Make sure your men get names and addresses from the crowd. Don't let anyone leave until we give the okay.”
Smith stepped over to his partner. “Have you ever seen goggles like those?”
Yoshiwara studied them a moment before answering. “Never. The metal looks tarnished and oldâlike something out of World War Two, maybe.”
“They were left as a message,” Smith said.
Yoshiwara's gaze traveled over the mutilated corpse. “A message from a madman.”
Â
On a cliff facing the Pacific Ocean, nestled between the Presidio to the east and Lincoln Park
on the west, lay one of San Francisco's most exclusive enclaves. Angelina Amalfi parked her white Ferrari Testarossa in front of a stately gray mansion at 50 Sea Cliff Avenue, on the oceanfront side of the street. After checking the address again, she gazed at the house, then smiled.
Whistling “We're in the Money” under her breath, she walked to the white double entry doors and rang the bell. Christmas wreaths with holly, pinecones, and large red bows hung on the doors. After waiting, checking her silk-wrapped raspberry-ice manicure, smoothing her gray and raspberry Anne Klein suit, and waiting a little more, she rang again.
Finally, an older woman with perfectly coifed dyed blond hair opened the door. She was short and plump, and wore billowing slacks of blue silk, a matching overblouse, and several rows of gold chains in a variety of weaves and sizes. Heavy gold rings with diamonds and pearls graced nearly every finger.
With one such bejeweled finger she fluffed her bangs as her mascara-ringed eyes surveyed Angie from head to toe. “Yeah?”
“Hello,” Angie said cheerfully. “I'm Angelina Amalfi. Fantasy Dinners.” At the confused expression on the woman's face, Angie added, “We have an appointment. That is, if you're Triana Crisswell.” She held her breath, praying her first Fantasy Dinners assignment hadn't been a hoax. From the time she'd received Triana Crisswell's phone call, she'd felt a bit uneasy
about it. That was why she hadn't told the man in her life, Paavo Smith, about this appointment. She also hadn't told her friend Connie or her four older sisters. Not even her parents. As much as she would have loved to boast about her new business to them, she decided not to until she was sure she had something to gloat over. She'd had so many failures in the business world that she was feeling a teensy bit gun-shy. To put it mildly.
“Hey, you're right, sweetie,” Triana Crisswell said after a moment. “God, am I forgetful or what? Don't just stand there, come on in.” She pulled the door open wide and waited for Angie to enter. “So you're the gal with the cute little dinner business,” she said as she guided Angie across the entry hall to the living room. “When I saw your ad in the
Chronicle
, it sounded like such fun. I'm so glad you had the time to see me. I know you've got to be real busy, what with running a business like that and all.”
“I certainly am busy,” Angie said. Maybe not with her new business, exactly, but in general she was a busy person. “But simply talking to you on the phone told me that you were a person I would like to do business with. I made it a point to find room in my schedule to see you.” Especially since the schedule was empty.
“I appreciate it, sweetie,” Mrs. Crisswell said. “So, come on, sit down. I'll get us some coffee. You like coffee? I could make tea if you don't. Or maybe white wine?”
“Coffee would be fine,” Angie replied.
As Mrs. Crisswell disappeared down the hallway, Angie settled back into a silk-upholstered chair. Although the front of the house, facing the street, had a traditional look to it, the back wall of the living room had been removed and replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. The breathtaking view of the Pacific stretched from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Farallon Islands. Beyond the islands, dark storm clouds loomed.
The decor included the lavish standards usually found in multimillion-dollar homes: Napoléon III chairs, Louis IV mirrors, and English divans. In contrast, in the corner she saw a modern Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chair and an Eileen Gray tubular table. In the place of honor in front of the windows stood an enormous white Christmas tree solidly packed with gold-painted glass ornaments. Judging from the house, if she could convince Mrs. Crisswell to commission her to put on a fantasy dinner party, she shouldn't be stiffed for her fee.
Mrs. Crisswell came back into the living room carrying a tray with a Spode coffeepot, creamer, sugar bowl, and cups. She put them on the table, poured the coffee, then sat back with her cup and saucer in hand and loudly slurped some coffee. “God! Be careful. It's so hot I burned my tongue.” She waved her hand as if to fan herself. “You're probably wondering what I'm doing in this big house without a servant.
What would I do here all day with one? Someone comes in to clean, someone else to cook dinnersâmy husband is such a fussbudget about his foodâbut other than that, I hate strangers underfoot all day, telling my husband what I do, who my friends are, you know?”
Angie nodded uncomfortably. This sudden heart-to-heart made her wonder just how lonesome Triana Crisswell might be.
“Well, anyway,” Mrs. Crisswell continued, “tell me about your dinners.”
Angie poured some cream into her coffee, then sat up primly, her hands neatly folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles. “Well, as I mentioned on the phone, the idea behind Fantasy Dinners is to create a dinner party around a themeâwhatever you would like it to be. We take care of all the details, including hiring caterers to prepare the meal and serve it, helping guests with costumes if your party requires them, and generally creating the perfect setting for you. You tell me what your theme is, and your budget, and we'll build a fantasy to fulfill it.”
“Build me a fantasyâmy, my, doesn't that sound great! I tell you, my fantasies were hot and heavy when I was young, sweetie.” Mrs. Crisswell chuckled.
Angie decided she needed to come up with a slightly different way to describe her business. Ignoring the suggestive remark, she placed her hand on the leather binder at her side. “In here are many ideas for dinners. For example, if
you're interested in using ancient Rome as your theme, I can put on a dinner featuring food for the godsânectar and ambrosia, as well as some modern Roman dishes such as manicotti or something fancier, like medallions of veal stuffed with crabmeat, fontina, and asparagus. Or whatever you'd like me to serve. We could drape fabric on the walls, and ask all guests to wear togas. Plus, as a special feature, I have a number of mystery plays that your guests could participate in. They are all variations on some basic mysteries. The Roman one, for example, is called âWho Killed Nero?'”
“I don't know about all that.” Mrs. Crisswell chewed her thumbnail. “People at my party might not care about it.”
“Nero is just an example. It could be anyone you want.”
“I mean, they might not care about who killed anybody. They look to the future. After all, most of us have to live in the future.”
“The future?”
What in the world is a future fantasy?
“Ah, the future!” Angie cried. “Of course. I love dinners that have to do with the future. They're my favorite fantasies!”
Whatever they are
.
Mrs. Crisswell's eyes widened. “Really? You've done them before?”
“I've cooked lots of dinners, Mrs. Crisswell,” Angie said. She wasn't lying, either. She had cooked many dinners. Not a single fantasy dinner yet, but she was careful not to say she had. Anyway, she had to start somewhere.
“Call me Triana, sweetie.” Mrs. Crisswell smiled. Her thick lipstick was beginning to smear over her teeth.
“Thank you. Please call me Angie. Now, why don't you tell me what our futuristic dinner is all about so I can begin planning a fabulous event for you?”
“It's for a group I belong to. The Prometheus Group. Prometheus was the one who carried the worldâno, that was Charles Atlas. Prometheus was the fire-and-liver guy. Anyway, these people are so smart, I can't tell you. I admire them so much.” Triana stopped speaking and a dreamy-eyed look came over her. “The leader of the group, he's so handsome, like to die. Wait until you meet him! You'll want to pinch yourself to be sure you're awake.
“He's called Algernon. That's it, just one name. Anyway, he's written a book. So I want to have a party and invite important people from the media and bookstore owners and people who will buy this book from him. We'll feed them so well that they'll buy it and write good reviews, right? Don't you think that'll be a good thing?”
“I think that'll be a very good thing,” Angie said, her head already filled with thoughts of an elegant meal to serve the literati of the Bay Area. This was the kind of exciting party she'd imagined when she came up with the idea for Fantasy Dinners. Running daily ads in the
San
Francisco Chronicle
for three weeks, along with an Internet site, both without a single legitimate nibble, had been discouraging, but this dinnerâher first catchâwas a big one. This could launch her career, along with Algernon's book.
“The book's coming out next month,” Triana said. “I'd like the party soon after New Year's. Is that enough time?”
Angie saw her big launch beached before it even set sail. Four weeks, discounting all the days lost due to the holidays, was not much time. Maybe the dinner wouldn't be quite as elegant as she'd imagined. It might well be difficult to get the very best caterers in the city with such short notice. Somehow, though, she'd make do. “It's no problem at all. When Fantasy Dinners takes charge, we handle everything on time, every time. Remember: Our business is your fantasy, not your nightmare.” She'd come up with that motto. But it didn't have quite the right ring to it yet.
