Something's Cooking (17 page)

As they walked toward her car, she remembered where she had heard Hollins's words before—Paavo had said them. He had told her he couldn't get involved with her because even a rookie knew it would be too dangerous—too dangerous for them both.

A few hours
later, Angie lay alone in Paavo's big bed.

He had insisted she return home with him. George's murder might mean that whoever was after her would be even more desperate, and Paavo didn't want to take any chances. Angie sent Joey back to her apartment to lock it up for a few days and inform Rico about all that had occurred. She tried to convince Paavo she'd be safe in her own apartment, but he was so furious over what Hollins had said and done, he wasn't amenable to either conversation or reason. He sent her to his bedroom while he spread out a blanket for himself on the sofa.

Over an hour passed. She lay still, her mind racing when the door to the bedroom opened slightly, casting a ray of light into the room from the hallway. “Angie?” he whispered.

“Yes, I'm still awake.”

He opened the door a little wider. “I want to apologize. Here I've been, acting like a jerk, and you just lost a friend. I hope you can forgive me—about everything tonight.”

He sounded so dejected that she got out of bed and approached him. The pajamas he had lent her, rolled up at the wrists and ankles, billowed around her as she crossed the room. Halfway there, she stopped.

“You have no need to apologize. You were wonderful. I'm sorry about Hollins, Paavo. I know how you must feel, and I realize, too, that everything you did and said was for me.” She stepped closer. “Do you think I'm so blind I couldn't see that?”

He stared at her in the darkness. “Thank you. You'd better go back to bed now, Angel. Good night.”

Before he could leave, she reached his side and took his hand. She hadn't hesitated a moment. It was that simple; she couldn't let him walk away from her again. Leading him to the bed, she placed her hands against his shoulders and eased him onto the mattress, and then stretched her body on top of his. “Just because I accepted your apology so quickly doesn't mean you're getting off scot-free, you know.” She tried to say it jokingly, to hide the tremor that shook her body as she touched him, but her voice was husky.

As she kissed him, his arms slowly went around her, their pressure increasing with the intensity of her kiss, until he crushed her against him and
rolled her body under his. The bed creaked with the weight of the two of them, and Hercules protested loudly from the foot of the bed at the disturbance to his peaceful slumber.

 

The next morning she got out of bed and put on Paavo's pajamas again, having shed them during the night. She liked them, even though she herself favored Christian Dior nightwear. She padded out to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” she said. Paavo was dressed and hunched over a cup of coffee.

“We've got to find Crane,” he said, his chin resting on his hand as he gazed out the kitchen window at the jungle that used to be his garden.

“You know,” she said, pouring herself some black coffee and sitting across from him at the table, “I really ought to bring a bunch of clothes over here. I feel like I spend more time at your place than my own.”

Paavo rubbed his eyes wearily. “It's maddening the way Crane disappeared. But he's got to be around here somewhere. I feel it! There's no other reason for George Meyers to have been killed. The two must have been partners.” He took another sip of coffee.

“I like your house very much.” Angie yawned. “Maybe we can forget all this detective stuff. You know, we wouldn't have to worry about anyone trying to kill me if I just moved in here with you.”

“On the one hand, we have the illegal guns connected to Sammy Blade and Sammy Blade
connected to Crane. And we know that the bullet that killed Matt was from the same gun as the bullet that killed Blade. On the other hand, we have George Meyers, the
Shopper
, and the fact that the man who killed Sammy Blade was also able to track you down in Bodega because your address went to the
Shopper
. That means he had to be connected somehow to the
Shopper
, or to George Meyers….”

“It goes round and round and makes no sense, Paavo.” Angie got up and walked to the window.

“The link between the two of them has to be you, the
Shopper
, and Crane's recipes.”

“The recipes, yes…. You know, I could easily write my food column from this house. That's the nice thing about being a writer. I can live anywhere. I think I'd like it here, in fact.”

He stroked his chin. “Maybe we should be trying to find out more about Blade. He knew Crane. Something in his past might just lead us to Crane. If only we knew where he was from, where he lived, anything.”

She sat across from him at the kitchen table. Their eyes met. “What did you say?” she asked.

“No…you,” he looked at her quizzically. “I don't think I heard you right.”

“I said…I said…,” No, she couldn't repeat what she had said. “I said they might know something at the Ben Lomond Inn near Carmel, since Sam was once a chef there. Did you ask them?”

“I thought you said you wanted to live…I mean…he was?” He jumped up. “How long have you known this?”

“How long? He told me when we first met. Why?”

“Why? Why didn't you tell me!?”

“Why didn't you ask? How was I supposed to know you didn't know something so simple!”

“Simple!” He sank back in his chair. “I give up. Are you sure?”

“Well, I have no proof. But then, if he were going to lie, wouldn't he come up with something really fancy? I mean, why lie about a bed-and-breakfast inn for eight guests?”

“Have some breakfast, Angie. It's a long ride to Carmel.”

Her mouth turned downward. “It's not your problem anymore. You're off the case and it's too dangerous—”

He placed his finger against her lips and she stopped speaking. “I'm not abandoning you in this, Angie. I couldn't do it to you—or to Matt.”

 

By afternoon, they were on their way to Carmel, after a quick stop at Neiman-Marcus. She swore she wasn't going to Carmel without a suitable wardrobe, and Paavo wouldn't let her go back to her apartment to get anything.

As Paavo drove the Ferrari toward Carmel, he told her that he was convinced Crane had to be the link in all this, and that Sammy Blade was their link to Crane. He also believed that whoever was behind Blade's death was behind George Meyers's, maybe for the same reason—whatever it was. The man who had tried to kill Angie had
to have been no more than a hired gun who made the mistake of allowing her to see him. Paavo doubted he was the brain behind whatever was going on.

Perhaps the man behind it all was Crane. But, if so, why kill Sammy Blade? Blade and Crane were friends, cohorts, or so everyone thought.

Paavo explained that he couldn't go barging in to the Ben Lomond Inn, asking questions about Sammy Blade. If anyone knew, they might keep quiet in order to stay uninvolved. No, what he and Angie had to do was check in as guests. Angie would be a part of his cover, and this way he could keep an eye on her.

“Don't worry about me. I know all about investigative reporting,” she said.

“You're not Lois Lane, Angie.”

“What I'm referring to is that I took a journalism class that had three or four sessions on how to be subtle when investigating.”

“Miss Amalfi, I hate to disillusion you, but you're about as subtle as Henny Youngman.”

“Inspector Smith, I intend to be a real asset in this investigation.”

“Seriously, Angie, you just stay out of the way, enjoy the sea and sunshine and leave the police business to me.”

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Sure, Inspector. Anything you say.”

“Why do I
know
you're lying?”

 

They got off the highway about a mile past town and turned toward the ocean. Near the edge of a cliff overlooking the water stood a large gray and white house, its New England colonial architecture strangely out of place against the soft, California seascape. A blue and red sign in the shape of a coat of arms pronounced it to be the Ben Lomond Inn.

As they walked up the front steps, Paavo asked Angie to wait outside while he spoke to the innkeeper. “You're kidding!” she said.

Paavo entered with Angie behind him, but not too closely, only because he turned and glared at her.

A large woman with a cherubic face and gray hair pulled into a topknot emerged from the parlor. She wore a black dress with a crisp, white apron over it.

“I'm Mrs. Ward,” she said, marching across the room with long strides, extending her hand to Paavo. The power in the woman's voice astonished Angie. She hadn't heard a pair of lungs like that since Birgit Nilsson had performed at the San Francisco Opera House. “Forgive my appearance,” Mrs. Ward bellowed, gesturing toward the apron. Then she smiled prettily at Paavo. The voice and the face were totally incongruous.

Before Paavo could respond, Carmel's Brunhilde continued, “You must be Mr. Smith.”

“Yes,” Paavo's voice was hushed, as if trying to tone her down by example. “Thank you for providing a room on such short notice, I—”

“Think nothing of it. Newlyweds! It's the least I could do!” Angie knew her mouth hung open, but she was too stunned to shut it. The woman turned to her. “Congratulations, Mrs. Smith. Right this way, please.”

As Angie passed Paavo to follow Mrs. Ward up the stairs, she saw that his complexion had turned pale. She sniffed loudly as she walked by him, and he followed like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter.

The room was perfect for honeymooners. It had a four-poster double bed with a white lace coverlet, an antique dresser, and a lowboy with mirror. On the dresser stood an old-fashioned pitcher and water bowl set. A fireplace provided heat, and the gabled windows looked out over the ocean.

Mrs. Ward showed them where everything was, including the communal bathroom down the hall. She explained that the Ben Lomond was more than just a bed-and-breakfast inn; the management also ran a very nice restaurant next door, which was open Thursday through Sunday. Angie and Paavo exchanged glances but said nothing. It was Wednesday—one day until mealtime.

“I hope everything meets with your approval.” Mrs. Ward nodded at them as she turned toward the door.

“It's quite lovely,” Angie replied.

“Good-day, Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith,” she murmured as she left them alone, shutting the door behind her.

Angie spun around to face Paavo as soon as she
thought Mrs. Ward was out of earshot. “Mrs. Smith!” she cried. “Why did you say we were married? What century are you living in, Inspector?”

“Shush, not so loud.”

“Don't you shush me. Answer me!”

“I didn't expect you'd hear about it.”

“No kidding!” She folded her arms and sat on the bed.

He paced the room. “Policemen tend to be very conservative about such things.”

“Policemen, Inspector?”

“All right,
I
am.
Me
. All right? Are you happy now?”

She looked up at him, and slowly a smile crept across her face. “Yes. I'm happy.”

He seemed completely puzzled by her reaction. They unpacked in silence.

It was dusk when they made the short trip to Carmel to find a restaurant for dinner. They picked an unimposing place in the middle of town, with a few tables and a good-sized bar filled with locals. Paavo told her he knew the owner, an actor who sometimes played a San Francisco homicide inspector, but the man wasn't there that night.

After dinner they returned to the inn. Everything was quiet. Angie and Paavo hurried to their room and lit a fire, leaving the lamps off.

They sat before the firelight and let the charm of the old house work its magic, giving Angie a feeling of peace and safety in its cozy warmth. Soon it was time to retire.

She had made a purchase at Neiman-Marcus which, at the time, had seemed somewhat foolish, but which she was now glad to have made. It could have been for a trousseau—a lacy, cream-colored negligee. She went to the hall bathroom to change clothes and then returned. As Paavo watched the fire, she removed her robe and stepped closer to him. When he turned his head toward her, the look in his eyes told her everything she wanted to know. He stood up slowly, his gaze fixed upon her, and as she stepped into his arms, she did feel like a bride.

Angie awoke in
the middle of the night. The sea air was damp and chilly. She got out of bed to stoke the fire and add more wood, then sat in front of the blaze, her long gown tucked under her toes and her arms wrapped around her legs. She rested her head against her knees. In the daylight hours, she could pretend that she was coping wonderfully with the whole terrible mess surrounding her—even with the idea that there was some madman out there trying to kill her, and that someone had killed George. She could put on a brave front then. But in the night, when she slept, the whole ugly business would catch up with her. That was when ghosts tormented her, when her fears rose up and turned into sightless, faceless monsters. She tried to run from them, but they could run faster. She tried to hide, but they always found her. That's when she'd awaken, more exhausted than when she'd gone to sleep.

“Another nightmare, Angie?” Paavo whispered. The flickering light of the fire barely reached the dark shadows where Paavo lay.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“It's okay. Are you all right?”

“Oh, Paavo,” she cried, burying her face in her hands. “Let's go away. Far, far away, you and I.”

He shrugged on his robe and joined her, settling down cross-legged on the floor. Gently, he stroked her hair.

“You and I,” she pleaded. “Let's leave all this craziness. I've got money. We can go wherever we want, do whatever we want—whatever
you
want! What do you say? Let's do it, okay?”

“Angie,” he said, placing his finger against her chin, “that's the nicest proposition anyone's ever given me.”

She shoved his hand away. “I mean it!”

“I know you do. Now. But believe me, little Angel, when this is over—I mean truly over—you'll walk away from it with a big sigh of relief and never want to see a cop again. I've seen it happen before. You'll just see the color blue and you'll run.”

“Never!” Her hands grabbed both of his. “I don't want to leave you.”

“I know.”

“You don't believe me,” she whispered. “For you, this is just a job, isn't it? Nothing more.”

“No! No, Angie, never think that. You mean…very much to me.”

“But…” the words caught in her throat. They
were so hard, so very hard, to say…to admit…. “You don't love me.”

He didn't answer right away, and when he did, his voice was distant. “What good would it do for me to speak of loving you? You know we have no future together. It would only mean more pain.”

“But we can have a future, we just need to go away where you don't have to risk your life!”

“I'm a cop, Angie.”

Those few words said it all. She let go of him, clasping her hands together. “I'm making a fool of myself again, aren't I?”

“Listen to me,” he covered her hands with his, and as she raised her face, their eyes met. “You're warm, generous, and witty, and you wear your emotions on your sleeve. You're strong, yet with a vulnerability that makes a man want to take care of you. I can't tell you how good it's been having you in my life, even though I know it's only for a few weeks, and that's all it can ever be. You're easy to love, Angel, but the differences between us are too great.”

“What differences really matter, Paavo?” She dropped her gaze. It hurt too much to look at him, but she had to tell him how she felt. “We enjoy being together…or so it's seemed to me. We enjoy talking. At times, we've even laughed in the midst of all this madness. I believe there's something special between us, Paavo, something I've never felt before with anyone. Serefina saw it and, I think, so did Aulis. I admire you, who you are and what you do. There are differences be
tween us, but they're our strength, not our weakness.”

“Ah, Angie,” he sighed and then stood and walked around the room, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen to me. You're living in the middle of a nightmare. You don't know your own mind or heart.”

“But you can't be sure of that.”

“No.” He stopped pacing and put his hands in the pockets of his robe. She could see an aching emptiness in his eyes. “But I can be sure that our worlds, our lives, would clash more horribly than you could bear. Believe me when I say that. And believe how sorry I am that it's true. I don't want to watch what we have now die slowly. When it's over, it's all over. Recognize that, and promise me.”

“I can't.”

“You can. Promise.”

“I promise you I'll try to do as you wish. Is that good enough?”

He sighed, then gave an indulgent, half-smile. “I guess it'll have to do. Can I add stubbornness to the qualities I was praising a little while ago?”

“Of course. It's part of my devastating charm.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she shut them and quickly turned toward the fire, away from him, not letting him know the effect of his words.

 

Angie awoke the next morning feeling drained. Paavo was sitting on the floor with Sam's recipes spread out around him. His chin rested on his
hand, and he was lost in deep thought. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all. This crazy situation between the two of them couldn't possibly be affecting him in that way, could it? After all, he was the one who kept pushing her away.

She shrugged off the thought. It was obviously the unsolved murders that bothered him, not her. She rolled to her side and propped herself up on an elbow.

He looked up at the sound of movement. “I saw these lying on top of your luggage,” he said, gesturing toward the recipes.

She yawned. “I brought them to work on. Since you're so sure they carry the clue, I plan to crack them and solve the case.”

He shuffled the papers around a bit. “You crack codes, not clues, Angie,” he replied absently.

The thought seemed to strike both of them at the same time. Angie scrambled from the bed to sit beside Paavo.

“If it
is
a code, it has to say who, what, when, and where,” Paavo began.

“Every one of these is one of four foods—waffles, pancakes, omelets, or blintzes.” They stacked them accordingly.

“They all are made with eggs—” Paavo added. “Get some paper, Angie, I'll read off how many eggs in each recipe.”

Milk, too, was in every recipe. They stared at the sheets before them.

“You know,” Angie mused, “there's an awful lot of lemon in these recipes. Over half of them.
That's unusual. And those without have cinnamon or nutmeg.”

She ticked off her fingers. “We have four types of recipes. All have one of three spices, one to six eggs, lots of milk—and lots and lots of other ingredients! Maybe we're on the wrong track.”

“Is
9T
of milk an odd way to write a recipe?”

“Yes…but it's just a fluke. Look, almost all of them are in cups: 1, 2, 2½,
…Hey, that's a weird one.”

“You printed it!”

“Well, chefs are so tempermental about revisions.”

He stood and paced, every so often stopping to stare at Angie's notes. Then he paced, then stared again. She kept quiet.

“Look at the milk,” he said.

“What?”

“The milk! Yes! All the numbers make sense for dates. If you ignore the bottom of the fraction, then there's 1 cup, 2, 2½ might be twenty-one,
could be twenty-seven, and 9T for nine. I don't see anything higher than twenty-seven. Dates, Angie! The milk just might represent dates.”

“Too weird,” she replied.

“It's got to be!”

It was almost noon before they left their room, but Mrs. Ward insisted they have coffee and croissants before leaving the inn, even though they had missed breakfast. They weren't about to argue with her.

“I understand you'll be serving dinner here
tonight,” Paavo said as Mrs. Ward placed enormous, warm croissants on the table in the dining room.

“That's right. I hope you give us a try.”

Angie decided then and there that she was tired of cat-and-mouse games. She looked directly up at Mrs. Ward. “An old friend of ours used to be a chef here. He recommended we stay here, in fact.”

“Really? What was his name?”

“Sam. He was an older man, and was once a sailor.”

“Sam Larson! Of course I remember him.”

“I'd really like to see him again. He was a sweetheart.”

“That's true. He wasn't the most reliable chef, but such a sweet little man.” Mrs. Ward beamed as Paavo's head turned from one woman to the next.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Oh my, no. It's been months, but I suppose his friend in Monterey would know.”

“I didn't know he had one.”

“Oh my, yes. Blackie. He's the bartender at the Blue Whale. He'll know where to find Sam, I'm sure.” She picked up the tray. “Well, I'll leave you two young folks alone. I'm sure newlyweds don't want some old lady like me standing around gossiping.”

As Mrs. Ward walked away, Angie looked smugly at Paavo. “Well, Inspector, how did I do?”

“Impressive. We may make a cop out of you yet, Mrs. Smith.”

“Be careful with that name-calling. You may get to like it.”

 

Paavo told Angie they had been incredibly lucky that Mrs. Ward knew Sammy and was willing to talk about him. He didn't expect such helpfulness from Blackie. The only way to handle the case now was straight, he said. No more role-playing. He would go to the Monterey police, explain who he was and what he was doing there, and then question Blackie, legally, as a police officer. He would, of course, forget to mention that he was on vacation.

Then he gave Angie a quick demotion from her “almost-cop” status of early afternoon back to “civilian,” in the hope of keeping her safe. First, he made her sit in the outer office when he went inside to talk with the police chief about the case. Later, she sat in the car as he entered the Blue Whale bar to talk to Blackie. He came out in a couple of minutes. Blackie wasn't to come on duty until eight at night. Angie's next job was to join Paavo for dinner to help pass the time. He decided the only reason she wasn't livid was that she was preoccupied by her hunger.

At about nine o'clock, they returned to the Blue Whale. Paavo didn't think it was safe for Angie to remain alone in the car when it was dark, so he had her sit at a table in a corner. He asked the cocktail waitress if the bartender was Blackie. He was.

Paavo left Angie fuming at being left out while
he took his scotch to the far end of the bar and sat down. He wasn't going to leave until he got all the information he could out of Blackie. He took a sip of his drink. Something told him it was going to be a long evening.

 

“When Blackie finally got it through his head that I meant business, he remembered the names of a few bars that Blade frequented in San Francisco,” Paavo said as he drove along Highway 1 toward Carmel, a few hours later. “Apparently, after going to those bars, Blade would return to Carmel with a lot more money than when he left. The bars are all in the Tenderloin. Chances are, so's Crane.”

“The Tenderloin—the red-light district?”

“Where you find prostitutes, you can be sure pimps, drugs, and guns are also nearby. It'd be as good a place for Crane to hide out as anywhere else, I suppose.”

“Now what?” Angie asked with trepidation.

“Now? Back to the city. I'll find someplace safe for you, then look for Crane. I can't help but suspect that if I watch him for a few days, he'll do something, make some mistake, that'll link him to the murders or to the smuggled guns. Then I can move in with an arrest.”

Paavo made it sound so simple: find Crane, watch Crane, arrest Crane. He ignored the other part, the dangerous part—the part that had left his own partner dead. The Tenderloin was the district where Matt had been killed. The facts
were starting to fit together now, she thought, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She saw the grim determination on Paavo's face as he drove, and also saw the slow stirrings of a pain too fresh to be forgotten.