Cooking Most Deadly (11 page)

Angie walked into her
classroom to find a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in the center of her desk. Could they be from Paavo? she wondered, although he wasn't exactly the flowers-giving type. Maybe he'd sent them because he'd been too busy to see her lately?

She searched the flowers for a card.

She hadn't heard from Paavo in a couple of days. The city was astir in the wake of the murder of a retired judge's wife, and Paavo was in charge of the investigation. This was another one of those cases where she saw more of him on the local TV newscasts than she did in person.

The press speculated that the same crazed murderer who had killed the typist had also killed the judge's wife. They made much of the fact that Tiffany worked for a supervisor—the city government connection, they called it—which led them to dub the case the Municipal Murders.

The mayor and Board of Supervisors were furious at the gory attention given to their administration, as if bad government had led to the murders. No matter how much political pressure they exerted on the press to stop its cov
erage of the murder investigation, the interest continued. Finally, they realized there would be only one way to end the examination—for Homicide to catch the killer. Paavo was in the middle of a firestorm.

No card. That was strange. Who would send her such beautiful roses and not give his name? It had to be Paavo.

She quickly shuffled through the stack of papers the school's administration office had left in her mailbox. Information about some fund-raising events, a faculty meeting for the regular staff, a meeting to introduce the new third assistant vice administrator, a list of some supplies that wouldn't be bought because there was no money, another list of books that wouldn't be bought for the same reason, and a card telling her about a late enrollee into her class, W.C. Lake. She flipped it over to see if it was a joke. She'd spent enough vacations in England to know their meaning of WC, and tied with “lake” made her wonder. She put the card aside. Probably just some unfortunate American name.

“Does anyone know who brought me the flowers?” she asked the few students, retirees mostly, who'd arrived early for her class.

“A sweet young man. Rather shy,” Lynette answered. “He said he was signing up for your class, but he couldn't stay today, and hoped you'd forgive him.”

Something was strange about this. She'd had students sorry they'd missed class before, but none had been sorry enough to bring her a gift. Not even a posy of pansies, let alone roses. Especially since this was just an adult ed class. No grades and no credit.

“Did he give his name?” she asked Lynette.

“I don't think so.”

“He said you'd know him when the two of you finally met,” Herman said, looking up from his notebook.

“He did?” Angie was more confused than ever.

“He seemed to be quite a fan of yours,” Joan, another student, added, then smiled. “I thought he was a bit smitten myself.”

Angie tried to put aside thoughts of her mysterious,
smitten student while she gave her lecture, but it was difficult. Particularly as the strong scent of the flowers permeated the front of the classroom.

The lecture dealt with President Warren G. Harding's visit to San Francisco. He checked in at the St. Francis Hotel and promptly checked out—permanently. The public was told he'd died of influenza and exhaustion due to a tour through the western U.S. and Alaska, but rumor had it that he'd been poisoned.

No one has ever found out, to this day, what the real story is.

When the class ended, Angie began to gather up her lecture notes. She, Lynette, and Joan were going out for coffee after class. Usually, Angie had some decadent chocolate dessert—but not during Lent.

“Roses, Angie?”

She knew that voice. Paavo stood in the doorway scowling at the flowers.

“They're from one of my students,” she said, smiling broadly.

“They look a little wilted,” he said as he approached her desk.

Spoilsport
. But then, maybe he was jealous that he hadn't thought of giving her flowers himself? “It's the thought that counts,” she said.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to pick on your student.” He glanced at the two older women standing nearby, gawking at him and taking in every word he and Angie said. “I guess you're busy. I should get going.”

“No, not at all. These ladies are Lynette and Joan, two of my students. They used to work for the government.”

“Oh?” Try as he might, he couldn't make himself sound the least bit interested.

“We're retired now,” Lynette said, a big, friendly smile on her face. “We were going out to have some coffee. Want to join us?”

“No, thanks. I don't think so. I guess I'll catch you later, Angie.” He backed up a step.

“We'll make it another time,” Joan said. “You two young people don't need us. Right, Lynette?”

Lynette kept looking from Paavo to Angie and back. Joan jabbed her with her elbow. “Oh. Right!” she said, and they left.

“Sorry about that,” Paavo said. Alone with her now, he walked to her side and tucked back a curl that had fallen too near her eye, then bent forward and kissed her quickly.

“It's okay,” she said. “You've been pretty busy yourself, Inspector.”

His gaze caught the flowers. “It's been no bed of roses.”

She put her hands on his arms. “It sounds like you're getting a lot of pressure from City Hall,” she said, concern in her voice.

He held her waist. “You could say that.”

He wasn't the type to admit to more, no matter how ugly it could get. And she knew local politics could get very ugly indeed. “Where's Yosh?”

“He's gone home for a change of clothes and some home cooking. He also wants to make sure his wife and kids don't forget what he looks like.”

“Did he drop you off?”

Paavo nodded. “I saw your car in the lot. I've wondered what you've been up to.”

“Me?” She felt her cheeks burn as she thought about her conversations on marriage with friends and family. She dropped her hands from his arms and turned away. “A little of this, a little of that. Nothing special.” She stuffed papers into her briefcase.

He paused. “Nothing special? What about your roses? They seem pretty special.”

“They're from a student.”

“You've been pretty busy charming him, I guess.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She snapped the briefcase shut. He took hold of the handle before she did.

“How about I take you out for that cup of coffee?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “Shouldn't you eat and freshen up like Yosh? I suppose you have to go back to work?”

“In a couple of hours.”

“Tell you what, let's go to your place so you can relax, change, shower, and feed Hercules. I'll make something for you to eat.”

“You don't have to do all that.”

“I know. And I know you don't expect me to. That's why I don't mind doing it.”

He wasn't sure what to say. He wanted her with him, wanted to be together, but she had been acting so strange lately he didn't know what was going on. Just what did “a little of this and a little of that” mean, anyway?

She picked up the roses. He wished she'd left them. He wished he'd thought of bringing her flowers. He wished…a lot of things. He eyed the roses. From a student…sure they were. As they walked down the corridor, the smell of the flowers brought back to him the scent of death and blood.

 

She carried
his
roses, he thought, carried them against her breast. His smile vanished, though, when he saw the detective behind her. He'd almost forgotten about Smith. How could he forget? He was letting her distract him from his mission. Letting thoughts of her as a woman…as
his
woman…get in the way. He couldn't allow that.

He adjusted his glasses and leaned forward. He liked how gently she carried the roses. One of them touched the hollow of her throat. He could almost see it pulse with the warmth of her blood. Red blood, like his roses. Sacrificial blood.

How would it be to offer her blood instead of an old woman's or a young whore's on the altar of revenge? She was more innocent. Innocent like Heather. Hers would be the blood debt paid—no, not paid—there was no redemption to be had. On Easter his work as avenger, not redeemer, would be complete.

He followed the white Ferrari. She drove straight to Smith's house. It was becoming pretty clear that despite her blond fiancé, she cared about Smith, and that the feeling was mutual. That was all he needed to know.

Despite himself, though, disappointment filled him. Too bad he had to kill her.

 

Paavo's kitchen was always a challenge. She picked up a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Why would anyone waste money buying something packaged that was so easy to make? A little pasta, fresh grated cheddar, or even better, fontina, add some onion powder, salt, cracked red pepper, milk, and butter—and of course, a little garlic never hurt anything—and it was ready.

Hercules let out a howl at the back door. It had to be intuition, Angie thought as she let him in, that told him when she was in the kitchen. The sight of the big, tough tom making little mewls and rubbing against her ankles made her laugh.

She scooped a teaspoon of mayonnaise onto a saucer. “That'll have to do until I get back,” she said. As soon as she heard the shower running, she hurried to her car and drove to a good market not too far away.

She knew Paavo had been living on Dunkin' Donuts and wanted to make him something substantial.

Using the key he'd given her to let herself back into his house, she hurried into the kitchen, gave Hercules a small salmon fillet, and then put Paavo's French lamb chops into a marinade of red wine, vinegar, olive oil, bay leaves, and peppercorns. She sautéed fresh garlic and red pepper flakes in olive oil, and added chicken stock. When it came to a boil, penne pasta went into the pan. Once the liquid boiled again, she put broccoli florets atop the mixture, covered it, and let it cook until the pasta was done. As it cooked, she broiled the lamp chops and made a small green salad.

It was funny, she reflected, as she prepared the meal, but she had always thought she'd end up with an epicure—
someone who enjoyed and knew good food and wine the way she did. Paavo wouldn't know a truffle from a mushroom, beluga caviar from trout eggs. Where had she gone wrong? Not only that, she didn't even care.

But then, the staff writer at
Haute Cuisine
, Marianne Perrault, dined with her husband at Kentucky Fried Chicken. At least Paavo appreciated good food when he had the time to eat it.

“Angie, what's this? I didn't want you to go to all this trouble.”

His face was shiny from his shave and shower, his hair slightly damp, and he smelled like Old Spice after-shave. She turned back to the pots and pans, forcing her thoughts back to cooking instead of other things he made her think of. He had to eat and go back to work even if she didn't. “It's no trouble,” she said. “I enjoy it.”

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and nuzzled her neck. “I enjoy you.”

“Go sit down,” she said. “You'll make me burn the food.”

“If I wasn't half-starved, I'd try.” He lifted the pot lid to look at the pasta, and then checked on the broiling lamb chops. “Where did you get all this?”

“Ve haf our vays.”

When the pasta was al dente and the broccoli crisp but tender, she drained the mixture, leaving a little as a sauce. She put pasta, broccoli, lamb chops, and thin-sliced hot cherry peppers on plates and served them.

“How are your cases going?” she asked as she sat to eat. “Any luck yet?”

“Not yet.” He tasted the penne pasta. “This is delicious.”

“I thought you might like it. You seem to enjoy good food.”

“Sure. You're a wonderful cook.”

That wasn't exactly what she meant. “The newspapers are saying the same person killed both the judge's wife and the City Hall typist.”

“So I've heard.” Each bite of the small, thick lamb chops tasted better than the last. He could get used to coming home to Angie's cooking very easily. It was all he could do to stop himself from shutting his eyes in ecstasy.

“What do you think of renting movies for entertainment?”

He glanced up at her. “What
kind
of movie?”

“I don't know…I was going to ask you that.”

“What's this about?”

“Nothing. Just curious.”

He thought a moment. “Well, Yosh was singing the praises of
Kung-fu Killer
the other day.”

“Oh, dear.”

He chuckled at her stricken expression and quietly enjoyed the rest of the meal.

As they cleared the table, Angie said, “You know, Paavo, the press wants to link the Rogers and St. Clair murders, but Tiffany worked at City Hall and superior court is at the Hall of Justice, right?”

“True.”

“I guess it's possible,” Angie said, “even though the judge worked in one place and Tiffany in another, that they came into contact with the same people—the same madman.”

“We're checking on it, over and over again.” Paavo put the pot and cooking utensils in the sink. “The most logical thing is that the two women knew someone in common. So far, though, we haven't found anyone at all. Not even a hint of a mutual friend.”

“If there was a connection,” Angie said, putting the spices she'd used back in the cupboard, “between the judge and Tiffany, why kill the judge's wife? Wouldn't the judge have been the most likely victim?”

“Exactly. The press hasn't bothered to ask that question. I guess they haven't figured it out yet. We're checking out Wainwright, Rogers's boss, and everything connected with the office, but so far it's another zero.”