Something's Cooking (4 page)

Not again, Angie
thought as she heard the light rapping on her front door the next morning. She felt like she had more callers these days than the White House. She pushed herself back groggily from her computer and walked to the living room. Rico was quizzing her visitor in the hallway outside the apartment.

“Miss Angelina,” he said as he shut the door, “it's some weird guy calls himself Edward G. Crane. Says he's your biggest fan.”

“I don't know anyone by that name.”

“You want I should get rid of him?”

“Wait. Did he say what he wanted?”

“Says he got some recipes. Sounds fishy.”

Crane must have found her because of the newspaper article the day after the explosion, which had given her address. Now she would have recipe peddlers and well-wishers adding to
her stream of visitors. She sighed. “Have him give you the recipes and thank him.”

Angie watched as Rico opened the door.

“Sir, I must see Miss Amalfi,” whined a man with a high-pitched, nasal voice.

“The recipes first. Take them out of that envelope. I don't take no chances with Miss Angelina.”

“Oh? Oh, certainly! But tell her I must see her.”

Rico shut the door again and brought her three sheets of paper. On each was a recipe:
Marshmallow and Bean Sprouts Blintzes, Liver Pâté Waffles
, and
Peanut Butter Omelet
. Her stomach flip-flopped, as it did whenever she read Sam's recipes.

These recipes were quite similar to Sam's, in fact. They were most unusual, sometimes interesting, and always nauseating. What was going on?

“Stay nearby, Rico.”

She opened the door herself. Before her stood a short, plump man, his shaved head covered with blue-tinged stubble. He looked at her through round, rimless spectacles, his eyes gray pinpricks and his nose red and bulbous. He was of indeterminate age, the pudginess of his face filling in any wrinkles.

“I'm E. G. Crane,” he announced.

“Mr. Crane. To what do I owe this honor?”

“Sammy won't be coming to see you anymore.”

Angie glanced at Rico. He stepped closer to
her. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm, though her heart began to race.

Crane's tiny eyes darted from Angie to the massive figure beside her. “Don't worry,” he said hurriedly, “Sammy is fine. He's gone back to work in Carmel. I'll be sending you recipes now.”

“You'll be sending me Sam's recipes?”

“No, no, no. My recipes.” His already high nasal voice screeched. “They've always been my recipes, my own little delicacies. Sammy just delivered them for me.”

Delicacies? The little man not only made her nervous, he was tasteless besides. “If you wish to supply any recipes to my column, Mr. Crane, you can send them to the
Bay Area Shopper
. I'll be sure to give them my personal attention.” She used her most gracious brush-off manner as she moved to swing the door shut.

“You used to meet Sammy,” Crane cried, holding out his hand to stop the door.

She frowned. “I like Sam!”

“Oh.” He looked abashed. Angie didn't care.

“Good-day, Mr. Crane.”

“But—”

She shut the door.

She returned to the computer and whipped out a short column all about persimmons.

“Grab your jacket, Rico, we're going to the
Shopper
.”

“But the inspector said don't go nowhere.”

“I'm not a prisoner!” She put on her coat and picked up her purse and the recipes. “This is
weird, and I want to talk to my editor about it.”

Rico followed reluctantly. They rode the elevator down to the basement garage, where her white Ferrari Testarossa was parked. As Rico rode shotgun, Angie tore out of the garage and across town to the
Shopper
office.

 

Paavo read the report on the pigeon found outside Angelina Amalfi's door. The “autopsy” caused more than a few snickers from the other homicide detectives. He ignored them.

A band-tailed pigeon,
Columba fasciata
, a species found throughout San Francisco. Bludgeoned to death. End of report.

Paavo rubbed his chin. Why would anyone sneak up to the door of an apartment and leave a dead pigeon?

Why not, when at the apartment, try to get past Joey or Rico? If this was the same person who had sent the bomb and tried to run Angie down with the car, why this grotesque stunt with the bird? Was the man, or woman, trying to kill Angie or just scare her off? Did the perpetrator change his or her mind midstream? Or was there more than one person involved?

City Hall had a lot of pigeons around it. Chief Hollins said Angie's parents had friends in City Hall. Maybe they weren't all friends?

He glanced at the report on the incident again. At least he knew she was safely inside her apartment. He'd checked out Joey and Rico. They
were no intellectual giants, but as bodyguards, they were given high marks.

 

The
Bay Area Shopper
offices were located in a two-story converted warehouse on Folsom Street, just south of downtown San Francisco. The city room, a glass-partitioned office for the editor, and a private office for the publisher were on the second floor. The ground level held the presses.

Angie rode the elevator to the second floor, crossed the short hall, and pushed open the glass double doors to the city room. A hush fell over the room as salesmen, typists, and messengers stopped what they were doing to look at her. She strode toward the bosses' offices.

“You okay, Angie?” asked Mrs. Cruz, secretary to Jon Preston. “We heard about the bomb.”

“Yes, thank you.” Angie spoke loud enough for the curious to hear. “It was just some random thing, it seems. No one was after me in particular.”

A deep voice boomed out. “Really? What a relief that must be to you, Miss Amalfi!” Jon Preston stood at the door of his office. The owner and publisher of the
Shopper
, he was a man in his fifties, tall and blond, impeccably dressed in a navy blue double-breasted blazer, white slacks, and a yachting cap. He looked like an ad for Cunard Lines.

“It was quite a relief, Mr. Preston.”

That Jon Preston came from a wealthy family
was immediately evident to anyone who looked at the man. His chief work consisted of studying tide tables for his yacht and experimenting with high-tech metal woods and irons for his golf game. His sole business, the
Shopper
, was a shoestring operation whose main purpose, if not its only purpose, was as a tax write-off.

Preston was pleasant in a pompous, bumbling way, despite his trim, spit-and-polish naval image, and Angie had always assumed he was a bit slow—or more appropriately, didn't have all his oars in the water. She imagined that Papa Preston, who was said to be a financial genius, realized this sad fact and gave his boy Jonny a business and a boat to play with as a way to keep him out of trouble.

Preston said, “I had feared my best little columnist would have to take some time off after such a frightening experience. What a yeoman you are, Miss Amalfi.”

Best columnist?
“Thank you, Mr. Preston.”

“And you've still got those marvelous ‘spoof' recipes, I trust.” Angie had first printed one of Sam's recipes as a put-on and showed his name as “Waffles.” She was shocked when readers wrote in and said they liked it. “The spoof is in the pudding,” Preston had announced and had referred to Angie's popular “spoof” recipes ever since. Sam liked the name “Waffles,” and it stuck.

“I've got some odd recipes,” Angie replied, “but my regular source didn't make it. These are probably a fair substitute.”

“No need. If not the real thing, the
Bay Area
Shopper
offers no cheap imitations. Well, ship ahoy, mates.” At that, he walked toward the elevator, waving
bon voyage
to the staff. Before he stepped into it, he turned back to Angie.

“You know, you don't look well, Miss Amalfi. If you'd like a vacation, take it. We'll get along fine for a few weeks. Take a cruise. I'd recommend it, in fact.”

“I'll give it some thought, Mr. Preston.”

He got on the elevator and gave her a snappy salute as the doors slid shut.

Angie rolled her eyes. It was a wonder the man didn't demand to be addressed as “Captain Preston.” She hurried towards George Meyers's office. She could see him through the glass partitions, hunched over his desk. George Meyers was always hunched, even when he stood upright. He was a thin, nervous man, about forty-five, with bushy salt and pepper hair that looked like crinkled wire and black-framed eyeglasses.

She'd known George for fourteen months, ever since the day she'd walked into the
Shopper
office, asked to meet the editor, and proceeded to tell him why he needed a food column in his paper and why she was just the person to write it. She was willing to work for peanuts, or less, because the experience and name recognition were far more important to her than a salary.

Less than peanuts was what he had offered, but he had been willing to give her a chance. As she had predicted, the lure of good recipes and a snappy column caused women shoppers to
thumb through the paper more faithfully than they might have otherwise. As George saw the stack of recipes from contributors grow, he realized Angie's column was a hit and hired her.

Angie had quickly come to like George Meyers. She learned from Mrs. Cruz, the
Shopper
's own Louella Parsons, otherwise known as Preston's secretary, that George had once been a “real” newspaper man in Seattle, a crime reporter whose beat included the central station at night. One night, following a lead about a drug raid, he walked right into a set-up. The three policemen with him, all friends, were killed. For seven hours, until the dealers were all killed or wounded, George had crouched in a corner of a back alley, afraid that if he moved he'd be caught in the cross fire between the drug dealers and the police. After that, his nerves wouldn't let him return to his old job. He didn't have the skill or wit to write a column, and he had too much pride to take anything less prestigious than reporting. After about five years of living on disability compensation and odd jobs, he left Seattle to become the editor of the
Shopper
, a newspaper job in name only.

“Hello, there.” Angie stuck her head into George's office and he jumped up.

“Angelina!” He tugged off his glasses. “You startled me.”

She explained that she was safe from mad bombers and that she had brought her food column. She gave him the persimmon write-up and Crane's recipes.

George read them over. “More recipes from your friend, I see.” Sam never used the mail but always dropped his recipes off at the
Shopper
office or met Angie at a park or coffee shop to deliver them in person. He had lots of time on his hands, he had said. She'd quickly been charmed by the man. He was one of the sweetest people she'd ever met.

“They aren't from Sam,” Angie replied. “It's the oddest thing. These are from a man named Edward G. Crane. He said all Sam's recipes had really been
his
. He was a creepy little man. I didn't know what to think. It strikes me as very strange, so I came to see you. What do you think?”

“Think? Does it matter who gives you the spoof recipes, Angie?”

“I guess not, but Preston doesn't think we should run these.”

“Not run them? But Preston always insisted…” George took them from her. “We're getting attention because of your offbeat column. Other editors look down their noses and sneer, but advertising is up.”

George ran a handkerchief over his brow as he leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

“Are you all right, George?” She thought George was pale, but then, everything seemed to make George ill.

“Yes. Just a little tired. Now, let's see these recipes.” He looked them over quickly. “I don't see what Preston's worried about, Angie. Or you. I think we should run these just like the others. I
don't see that anything else matters, as long as they're from your readers. Let's run
Liver Pâté Waffles
in tomorrow's column with the persimmons, the omelet next Monday, and the marshmallow sprout blintzes the Monday after that.”

“Clearly the
crème de la crème
,” she said with a sigh as she took back the remaining two recipes. She didn't see how he could care so much about them, but then, he was the editor, not her. “Maybe I do need a vacation,” she added.

The flesh between his earlobes and jawbones twitched nervously. “It's up to you, but your column is hot now, Angie. One of the local T.V. shows is even thinking of doing a five- or ten-minute spot about it—cooking up some of your ‘Waffles' recipes and seeing what they taste like and everything. You know how this town is—it's got a very short memory. All this attention could disappear in a couple of weeks. Then we'll be back where we started.” His jaw tightened. “And that's nowhere.”

The bitterness in his voice came as no surprise. She had long suspected George's disenchantment with his work, and his words revealed the full extent of that unhappiness. “I guess you're right, George,” she said. Under normal circumstances, the news about the television show would be exciting, even fantastic, but now, she just didn't know. It made her uneasy.

As she left the office, George called out, “Be careful, Angelina. Keep your door locked.”

That's an odd thing for George to say, she
thought as she waited for the elevator. She had told him the bomb was just a random attack.

After impatiently waiting a couple of minutes, she decided the elevator must not be working. It was only one floor down to ground level, and the stairs led to a side alley a half block from the parking lot where Rico would be waiting.