The Body in Bodega Bay (12 page)

You could say I'm a middling cook, and that would be generous. One thing that keeps me in the middle is my time limit. I say it should never take longer to prepare a meal than to eat it. With really good friends, I'm content to eat and drink and talk for three hours, but not more. So that's my limit on food prep and cooking: three hours. Lucky for me, Sonoma County caters to lazy gourmands as well as gourmet cooks, so I can pick up pre-made duck stock and any kind of crust and pretend it's my own. When I'm chef de cuisine, you get the speedy version.

My last stop was at Whole Foods in Sebastopol, where nobody knows me but where they always have what I need. As I was pushing my shopping cart out the door, I suddenly froze. A man in the parking lot was staring at me intently. He was standing next to an expensive-looking car and casually resting one arm on the roof. He was tall enough to do that easily. In his other hand he held a cell phone pressed against his ear. I'm not that glamorous that strangers stop and stare at me in the street, and besides, a woman can tell the difference between casual male interest and something else. This was something else, though I wasn't sure what. The guy wore jeans, had shaggy, movie star–length hair, and sported a stubble beard. That was a style these days but one I didn't care for. I say either grow a beard or don't, but why look like you just rolled out of bed?

As soon as our eyes met, he folded his phone, opened the door of his car, and got in. “Creep,” I said to myself as I loaded my bags into the trunk. I made a determined effort to forget about him and to concentrate on our upcoming dinner.

It was noon when I walked in the door. I was cutting it close. The recipe in my trusty edition of
The Cuisine of California
called for the duck to marinate for six to twelve hours in the fridge. It was one-thirty by the time I had unpacked the groceries, assembled the marinade, made the decision to double the amount of black currant syrup (to make up for the lost marinating time), washed and dried the halves of duck, and dunked the duck in the purple goop. I set the bowl aside, hoping it might hurry things along if I didn't refrigerate the duck for a while, say till Angie got home.

I figured I'd better get the prep work done on the rice pilaf so that Angie and I would have time to talk. I can get pretty sloppy with the cooking if I'm trying to carry on a conversation at the same time. So I plumped the dried currants in hot water and brandy, toasted the pine nuts, sautéed the onions, and rinsed the wild rice. These procedures were slowed by the disorganized state of the post-break-in drawers. Still, my timing was good. I could hear Angie at the door.

Two cups of tea later, I remembered to turn the duck in the marinade and stash it in the fridge. Angie and I were hot in discussion of her visit to the angel specialist. I don't think I've ever seen her so full of conviction.

“So, tell me about her. Who is she?” I asked.

“She's wonderful.” Angie was bubbling with enthusiasm. “Her name is Sophie Redmond, and she runs the bakery in Graton. She lives above it. That's where she gives her readings.”

So the angel reader had a day job. I knew the little bakery. It had a reputation for good croissants and morning buns, but since it was a bit of a drive, I didn't shop there unless I was passing through Graton. “Okay, I'm interested. Start from the beginning. You go upstairs, and what happens?”

“Well, on the first visit, naturally, she needs to get to know you. She asked a lot of questions, what my affinities were and so forth, what issues I had, what help did I need from my guardian angels, you know, really basic things.”

“Angels in the plural? You have more than one?”

“Everybody does. Like people, angels have specialties. So depending on what your problems are, she can help you get in tune with the angel who is best equipped to help you.”

“Is that so? What kinds of specialties do they have?”

“Okay, there are the healing angels, the romance angels, the moving angels who will help you find a perfect home, the angels of abundance who guide you in careers, and I can't remember all the others now. But they're always near you and trying to communicate, even if people don't realize it. That could be what's happening when people hear a ringing in their ears. The ringing could be your guardian angel trying to get through.”

“Now that you mention it, I do hear a ringing in my ears from time to time.”

“There you are,” said Angie. “That could be your guardian angel.”

My doctor thought it was tinnitus. “So what happened next, or did the angel reader only ask you questions?”

“Oh, no, next comes the important part when she teaches you the relaxation techniques that help you open your mind to receive the communications from the angels who are near you.” Angie demonstrated some deep-breathing exercises and postures that weren't far removed from the yoga routine I did when I wasn't too slothful. One maneuver, though, was eccentric. “You place the middle finger of your left hand on the highest point you can reach on the back of your head. Go ahead—try it.”

I did.

“Then you imagine a bolt of electricity passing through your head and ending at the tip of the middle finger of your right hand, like an electrical circuit. It's a way to clear a pathway through your mind so you can be receptive.”

I gave it a try.

“Next,” Angie demonstrated, “cup your right hand behind your right ear and your left hand behind your left ear”—she showed me and I followed instructions—“and imagine the electricity passing through your right hand's middle finger. Then move both of your hands toward the highest point on the back of your head and concentrate. That's the area of the brain that is most receptive to awareness. Keep moving your hands in little circles and keep concentrating until you see a white light. Do you see it?”

“Not yet. Do you?”

“Yes, I do see it,” said Angie.

I massaged my head. “Nope.”

“It's something you have to practice before it works,” Angie said. “That's the exercise we did today. She's going to show me other exercises next time. And then we began the personalized reading, which is different for everyone. Sophie says my special guardian angel is Michael. He offers spiritual guidance to help you find your way in life. And not only that, Nora, but from what I've told her, Sophie says that Michael is your guardian angel too, and that you need to be attentive to his messages.”

“Really? How does she know that? She's never met me. Well, maybe I bought a baguette from her, but we weren't introduced.”

“Sophie knows what she's talking about. And she agrees with Sister Theresa. The archangel Michael has something to tell you, and me too. But he hasn't been able to communicate with us because we haven't asked him to help us.”

“You mean, he won't help unless he's been invited?”

“Absolutely not. You can be as skeptical as you like, but it will just keep him away. Sophie told me that one of the first principles of working with the angels is that you have to ask for the angel's aid. He won't come to you otherwise.”

“I see. And what makes your Sophie think that we should be asking for Michael's intervention?”

Angie's pretty eyebrows rose in protest to my tone.

“First,” she said, “you've lost his picture, that icon. That's a direct connection. Second, Michael is the angel who guards your personal safety. He's the defender. You've had a murder, a robbery, and a house invasion. You need protection.”

She had a point there. “And what about you?”

Angie looked uneasy. “That's completely different. It's not relevant.”

“Well, it is to me. If Sophie is claiming that you need Michael as much as I do, I want to know what her reasoning is and why you believe she's right.”

Angie fumbled with her teacup. Then she raised her eyes to mine. “Can you keep a sister-secret?”

“Sure. What's up?”

With a pained look, Angie admitted, “I haven't been very happy since I came back to the salon from London. The training was fun, and I know I'm doing skilled work now, but it doesn't feel right.”

“Are you thinking of moving to another salon?”

“The salon isn't the problem. Barb is the best boss ever, and Carol totally cracks me up. But I may need to leave anyhow. And that's where the angel Michael comes in. You can look it up for yourself. Michael is the defender. But he's also the angel who can help you find your life's purpose. That's what I need help on—being sure I'm doing the work I was meant to do.”

Nothing could be more important, so we kept talking about Angie's choices till the tea was cold. Then we worked together setting the table, laying a fire, putting out the wines, and setting up the barbecue for the duck. Suddenly, Angie clapped her forehead.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“I just remembered. Sophie gave me a homework assignment. I almost forgot it. We're supposed to clear our minds of psychic negativity in order to keep the receptive channels open. One way to do that is to write down the name of anyone who's abused you or caused negative feelings in your relationships. That's got to be Hank.”

Hank was the boyfriend who had tried to swindle Angie out of her small inheritance with his scheme of buying a Winnebago to ferry motorcycles from Boston to Florida. Good riddance to him—anything that put distance between them had my blessing. I found a pen and paper for Angie.

“Here's what I have to do. Write his name on a sheet of paper, put it in a plastic container, then place the container in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator.”

I dug out a plastic container and watched as Angie followed this prescription.

“The key is to keep the container in the freezer for a minimum of three months.”

“I can do that,” I said.

“Even after I'm gone?”

“I promise.” I moved packages around to find a corner for the container bearing the offending name. I stacked some frozen peas on top of it and a bag of breakfast sausages on top of that.

“I can already feel a sense of release!” Angie exclaimed.

I'll make that six months, I said to myself, just to be safe.

“And now you,” Angie urged. “Who are you going to deep-freeze?”

That would be Charlie's killer, but I didn't have a name. I wasn't going to ice-cube Tom Keogh, because my heart said he didn't do it. The only other names I had were Andrew Federenco and Arnold Kohler, and I didn't know yet whether either was involved. Dan should be arriving with more information from his interview. For now, I just wrote “Charlie's killer,” folded the paper a couple of times, put it in a Ziploc bag, and buried it in the freezer next to Angie's container.

B
y the time twilight fell, all the chores were done, and we had shared enough nonsense and confidences. We were ready for Toby's company. After a day at the gallery, he was head chef for the evening. I was counting on him to take charge of the double-cooking of the ducks, first roasted in the oven, then grilled on the barbecue. The recipe looked good on paper, but I wouldn't trust myself with the execution. So we were relieved when he came in, proffering a sunny bunch of daffodils. Early March is the daffodil moment in Sonoma County. I set Angie to arranging the flowers to go on the table, while I poured all of us a glass of white wine.

Angie started singing her favorite song and Dad's, “I'm gonna love you like nobody's loved you, come rain or come shine …,” as she washed the stems of the flowers, trimmed them under cold running water as Mom taught us, and arranged them in the vase I brought her. “I just love daffodils—the way their trumpets pop out from underneath their frilly skirts.”

“Hey, you're good,” I said. “How did you make that bunch of simple daffs look like a still-life painting?”

“The artist's touch, my dear. There's not much difference between cutting flowers and cutting hair.” She gave me the fetching smile that has gotten her into mischief with so many men.

Toby spoke up. “How about giving me some room, girls? A man needs his space to cook a decent duck.”

In the dining room, I gave Angie the scoop on the Gourmet Club we were hosting. It started out as a way for three basketball buddies—Toby, Dan, and Ken—to keep their friendship going through the non-hoop season. Periodically they would get together and make spaghetti. It turned into a tradition, and the guys had a decade of bachelor pasta parties until the women came along and were added to the club. One by one, the girls became wives and the menu became more diverse. Now we're somewhat self-mockingly called the Gourmet Club, and we meet six times a year.

Dan's sheriff's work keeps him perennially on call, so Colleen takes responsibility for the Ellis family's assignment. She's a busy real-estate agent, but she loves making desserts and presenting them with all the frills you see in the cooking magazines. For tonight, we gave her a recipe for frozen vanilla mousse with blackberry sauce, and I knew she'd do something special with it. The third couple, Ken and Gloria, run an art gallery in Sebastopol, and they cook together as well. They were coming with a starter of baked goat cheese and watercress, as well as an orange and fennel salad to follow the duck.

Dan, as expected, arrived before the others, and I sat down with him while Toby bustled around in the kitchen.

“We don't have any leads on your break-in last night,” he admitted. “Whoever did it probably is the same guy who broke into the gallery and Charlie's apartment.”

“Looking for Charlie's icon,” I added.

“Could be.”

“But at least you agree he was looking for something particular, not just trashing the premises.”

“Looks that way, yeah,” Dan concurred.

“And that pours cold water on your theory that Tom Keogh killed Charlie out of jealousy and trashed his apartment out of anger, doesn't it? I mean, now that our home has been a target, doesn't that suggest a different scenario?”