Two Cooks A-Killing (10 page)

The living room was in complete chaos. The damaged sofa had been removed from the room. The mantel and walls had been stripped bare, and Angie watched Mariah remove the beautiful Victorian die-cut Wedgwood porcelain, and Kugel glass ornaments from the tree. “What are you doing?”

“Em decided on a change,” Mariah said tersely. “The new sofa will be here, special delivery, in a couple of hours.”

“You've removed everything. Why?” Boxes of gold-colored glass ornaments were stacked in the center of the room. Something niggled in the back of Angie's memory. “Would you like help?”

“These are special decorations.” Mariah backed Angie into the foyer. “I don't need anyone's help.” She shut the doors in Angie's face.

As Angie headed toward the kitchen, she saw Bart and Rhonda at the bar. She developed a sudden thirst.

“I'll have Perrier with a twist of lime.” Rhonda's speech was slightly slurred, her eyes
glassy, like someone strung out on painkillers, Valium, or possibly something stronger.

Bart nodded. He was behind the bar, making himself a Manhattan.

“Hello,” Angie said. “How are you two today?”

“I'm going to my room,” Rhonda said. “My head is beginning to throb. Tell Em I'm too sick to do anything today.”

“Here's your Perrier.” Bart handed her a glass. He came around to the front of the bar with his drink.

Angie replaced him. “I'm sure I saw some Tylenol back here. I'll find it for you.”

Rhonda sipped her water and eyed Bart's Manhattan hungrily.

“Did you hear I was given Brittany Keegan's room?” Angie asked Bart.

He glanced at Rhonda and put down his drink. “No, I can't say anyone thought to tell me that,” Bart replied. “Should they have?”

“I guess not. Were you here the night she died?”

“Everyone was here,” Rhonda answered abruptly. “We filmed the Christmas dinner scene. Haven't you found the Tylenol yet?”

Angie went back to rummaging.

“I remember that.” Bart laughed to himself. “There was a big fight. Julia Parker—that was Brittany—had just told Natalie that she was going to become the next Mrs. Cliff Roxbury, and that I—I should say, Cliff—had grown tired of Natalie with all her whining about ice skating, and how she really should have stayed with Adrian, who was a much nicer guy than me. Natalie slapped
Julia in the script. Remember, Rhonda?” He chuckled. “You nearly knocked her into the next state. I didn't know anyone so skinny could pack such a wallop.”

“Sounds like you two didn't like each other,” Angie said.

“You idiot!” Rhonda addressed her words to Bart. “It was an act. We're actors, remember?”

“After a scene like that, you must have felt strange when she died,” Angie said.

“I knew I shouldn't have come back here!” Rhonda cried. “I want to go home. I'm through with this.”

“Wait, darling,” Bart said. “You can't run out now. You need this job. Just try to relax.”

“How can I relax around here?” Rhonda was near tears. “It's all coming back again. Just like years ago, when Brittany died. I can't take it!”

“What happened years ago?” Angie asked. She handed the bottle of Tylenol to Rhonda.

Rhonda began tearing at the childproof cap.

“Do you know, Mr. Farrell?” Angie asked.

“Not really. I thought everything was fine, a little tense, but then, it's always tense when you get this many actors around. Then, she died.”

“You know there was more to it than that.” Rhonda spat the words, her hands shaking with frustration at being unable to open the bottle. “You were sleeping with her.”

“I never!”

“Everyone knew it,” she screamed. “Don't try to deny it!”

“Rhonda!”

“Get out! Get out of my sight!”

“There's no talking to you.” Bart stalked out of the room toward the kitchen.

The cap flew off and pills clattered onto the bar. Rhonda cast a furious glare at Angie and then also stormed away.

“Whew. That didn't go well,” Angie muttered as she headed for the kitchen.

 

Bart Farrell's backside pointed at her, his head in the Sub-Zero refrigerator. At the sound of her footsteps, he tried to straighten and bumped his head on a shelf. He had a carton of eggnog in his hand.

“Are you all right, Mr. Farrell?” Angie asked.

Wincing, he rubbed his head. “I should have let you do this. Rhonda is getting after me for being too fat. She's not eating, I'm not eating. You saw the result. I heard about the raw food diet—that it gives extra energy, staves off disease, even extends youth.”

“I don't know that I agree,” Angie said, “but I can cook, I mean, slice or mash something for you to eat, if it'll help.” The scene with Rhonda had unnerved her. Bart taking it so calmly was a surprise.

“Look at nature,” he mused, arms wide, as Angie pulled cauliflower, peas, and zucchini from the refrigerator. “Animals stay healthy until old age. You never hear of deer or giraffes or elephants dying of heart disease, cancer, or strokes, do you? No! Raw food can not only prevent life-threatening disease, it can even cure it.”

“You aren't sick, are you, Mr. Farrell?” Angie asked, concerned.

“Not yet, and I intend to stay healthy.” He eyed the eggnog, looking ready to drink out of the carton. Angie took it away, poured him a glass, and put the rest back in the refrigerator.

“Thanks,” he said. “Anyway, you saw how beautiful Rhonda is. Years ago she was a vegan. I thought it was extreme, but then I heard about raw food. I'll try it. She'll be impressed, I'm sure. Maybe you can whip enough food for both of us. Some people also recommend five daily enemas and radium therapy, but I don't want to go overboard.” He drank down the eggnog.

“Heaven forbid,” Angie said, trying to sound earnest. “I can mash the peas and add some spices and you can use it as a dip.”

“That's good. The spices can't be cooked or dried. Only raw. And no honey. Rhonda used to say it was the product of bee enslavement.”

“You seem to care for her quite a bit,” Angie said.

“Rhonda?” He truly sounded surprised.

“You're more than a little in love with her.”

His words were flustered and stumbling. “How could I not be? She's…everything. Perfect. For years…I just…I just…”

Angie smiled. “Have you seen her since
Eagle Crest
ended?”

“Now and then, at events. She made it clear she wasn't interested. My reputation preceded me. As with Brittany. I had no interest in that child. Not when a woman like Rhonda was near.”

Angie plated the food in a way she hoped was attractive, and Farrell left with it smiling like a man who believed he might have found the way to Rhonda Manning's heart.

She shivered. The mere thought of eating so much raw food, without the heat that makes food taste good and improves digestibility, made her stomach ache.

 

Seconds after Farrell walked out of the kitchen, Mariah entered. Disgusted and on the verge of a nervous collapse, she told Angie someone was yet again at the door.

Angie wondered which friend or relative had dropped in this time to meet the actors. When she went to the door, there stood Digger Gordon. He wore his fedora and a rumpled brown sport coat over grease-stained khaki Dockers.

“Oh, no,” she said, and tried to shut the door in his face.

“Hey! You're breaking my foot!” He'd wedged his foot between the door and the doorjamb. “You don't want me to sue, do you?”

“Your foot's the least of your worries. If you don't leave me and the people here alone, you'll have plenty more broken bones to worry about. Get out of here.”

“I thought I was a hero!” he cried. “Didn't I save the place from becoming a cinder, and maybe you with it?”

“Yes…until I told them you were a reporter.”

“We've got to talk, Angie.” His words came rapid fire. “I'll tell you about the Brittany Keegan look-alike.”

That gave her pause. “Do I care?” she asked.

“Sure you do. Or, at least you're curious about it. Aren't you?”

She thought about it a moment. Actually, less than a moment. He was right. “Come in.”

“We need somewhere private to talk.” Slack-jawed, he took in Eagle Crest's living and dining rooms. He darted down the hall to the family room. “Just like on TV,” he said, marveling. He grabbed a plastic chocolate-covered cherry from a display and plopped it in his mouth.

Angie expected him to spit it out. He didn't.

“You ate that?”

“They aren't as good as they used to be,” he admitted.

“Let's go up to my room. Since you're so fascinated by Brittany Keegan, you'll find it interesting.” She started up the stairs.

He smiled, following. “You do trust me.”

“Not one whit. However, this morning I phoned the
National Star
and talked to the news editor. He described you to a T, and even acknowledged you were in northern California. Great article about searching for Howard Hughes's heir, by the way. Real topical. When did he die? Twenty years ago?”

“That was clever on your part,” Digger said, ignoring her slam. “We're going to make a great team. I can feel it in my bones.”

“That's better than the cold chill I'm feeling.” She opened the door. “This was Brittany's room. That's the window she fell from.”

The aluminum framed window was about five feet wide. Digger opened it by pushing the left
half over to the right, sliding door style. He stuck his head out. “Amazing. How did you end up getting this room?”

“Dumb luck.”

“It's freezing in here,” he said, shutting the window.

“It always is. Creepy, too.” Angie rubbed her arms.

“Maybe the room's haunted,” he suggested.

“Shut up!” She didn't really believe in such things. Much.

He studied the view from the window again. “You know, it isn't all that far down.”

“Who knows how she landed, though?” Angie didn't want to look. Lately she'd had a strange feeling in this room, almost a premonition, of herself falling. She forced away the image and studied Digger, who was staring down at the pavement, lost in thought.

“Tell me all about it,” Angie said, breaking the spell.

He turned his back to the glass, hands in pockets. “The pickup truck disappeared by the time I reached the road. I think it pulled into a garage not too far out of town. Maybe in town. It can't have disappeared on the open country that quickly.”

“Why not?” She sat on the bed.

“There were too many cars and trucks going after it. Some of those yahoos have their trucks so souped up they could probably race in the Indy 500. My car didn't stand a chance.”

“In other words, you have nothing to tell me,”
Angie said, disgusted with herself for letting him in. Why had she listened to him?

“Well, it does mean that it wasn't just some fan playing around. It means someone planned a way to spook people and then disappear. Maybe rented a garage, or storage facility, or something.”

“Or, it was someone who lived in town, they had fun and went home! I don't get it, Digger. Why are you so sure Brittany's death wasn't accidental?”

He leaned back against the bureau, his eyes bleak, as if he was not so much the hardnosed reporter, but a man who cared about justice for a victim. “A gut feeling from the time I read the story. And I talked to her mother.”

“Her mother?” Angie was stunned.

He'd learned that Brittany's mother had believed her daughter was happy with her life and career, and in love. Deeply, seriously in love. The mother's sense was that somehow the love had led to disaster, either from jealousy, or love not returned; she had no idea. Digger trusted her feeling.

“Who was she in love with?” Angie asked, intrigued. She thought of the houseful of potential prospects.

Digger shrugged. “Any of them. Talk is, though, she and Tarleton were close. He did all he could to beef up her part and make her scenes dramatic. Who knows? The mother convinced me something happened here, and I want to know what it was.”

“What about Brittany's father? Did you talk to him?”

“She was raised by a single parent. Sounds like she never knew her father.”

“Poor girl,” Angie said. As much as her own father drove her crazy sometimes—like wanting her to drop Paavo for Silver—she couldn't imagine life without him.

Digger strolled toward the door. “Keep an eye on things here and let me know if anything else strange happens. Someone dressed up as Julia and drove by that picnic for a reason. I want to know why.” He opened the door. “Don't bother to see me out.”

With that, he left. She thought of following, but then, she'd just have to talk to him some more. She didn't want to do that.

She walked toward the window and looked out at the hillside. Junior stood on it facing her way as if he'd been watching her room the entire time. Startled, she drew back inside, her heart giving a little leap of fright.

The bedroom felt even colder.

“Are you the owner of the house?” a woman called out as Angie hit the bottom step. She stood in the living room, a plain woman with straight brown hair, a turned-up nose, pointed chin, and glasses, and wearing a boxy gray tweed suit.

“Me? No, not hardly,” Angie replied. “Are you looking for Mr. Waterfield?”

“No. I need the director.”

“Don't we all?” Angie agreed. “He's out somewhere.”

The woman nervously twisted the strap on her massive shoulder bag. “I'm here for tonight's read-through. I wrote the script. My name is Camille Spentworth.”

“How nice to meet you.” Angie introduced herself. “Let's go into the family room. I'm sure someone will show up soon.”

Once they were seated on each end of the leather sofa, Angie said, “Now that I'm here seeing all the work that goes into a production, I'll be paying more attention to the behind-the-scenes
stuff than ever.” She smiled, trying to set Camille at ease. “Without you scriptwriters, for example, where would all the directors, producers, and actors be?”

“That's how I feel about it.” Camille's voice was whiny and woeful. “No one else does, though. They all seem to think it's easy to turn out sparkling lines of dialogue each week.”

“I guess you weren't at the barbecue yesterday,” Angie said. “They put it on to honor the show.”

“I didn't know about it.” Her mouth turned down. “That's what I mean about everyone forgetting the poor writer.”

“You didn't miss a thing except when someone dressed up as Julia Parker and rode by in a truck.”

“How strange,” Camille remarked, eyes wide. “Doesn't anyone remember that Julia's dead?”

“Are you saying she won't be reappearing in your script?”

“Of course not.” Camille looked at Angie as if she'd lost her mind.

“What is the story—”

Angie stopped talking when Mariah dashed into the living room. “Miss Spentworth! So glad you're here. I've run off copies of the script they'll be using. It isn't yours, exactly, but Mr. Tarleton wants to see how things play with a few ideas he's kicking around.”

“What do you mean it's not mine?” Camille's voice crept higher with each word. “I accept revisions, but don't you think he should read my script first?”

“Don't worry,” Mariah soothed. “It's not the whole script—just the last segment.”

“The ending?” Camille squealed. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. “He's changed my ending?”

“Is he using Julia in the script?” Angie asked.

Mariah looked surprised. “Julia's dead.” She glanced at Camille one last time as she left the room. “Eight o'clock.”

Camille sat staring at the wall, looking miserable and saying nothing.

Angie decided it was a good time to test the kitchen appliances.

 

The California Park Service helped Paavo locate the wildlife reserve Junior Waterfield had told him about. The area was desolate, with a number of raptors and other wildlife native to the area. Varieties of falcon, hawk, and eagle feathers could readily be found there.

The feather on the victim he'd investigated was that of an osprey, a type of hawk.

The Park Service used mostly contract labor to handle the less pleasant duties, like taking care of outhouses, cleaning brush, and removing dead carcasses.

Paavo got the name of the service, and from them a list of names, Social Security numbers, and addresses of people employed. Two addresses given were in Vallejo and one was in Napa. Most of the names were Hispanic. It wouldn't surprise him if a number were illegals from south of the border.

He turned the list over to Calderon.

He hadn't heard from Angie today. The fire in the living room worried him, but she did say lots
of people there smoked. It could have been accidental. Angie did have a way of exaggerating, and though Paavo didn't like to admit it, he had a slight tendency toward paranoia where she was concerned. Still, he'd be happier when she finished this little foray into filmdom.

He also wondered if he'd be hearing from her friend Connie soon. The missing person case she'd sent his way—Fred Demitasse—was so far on the back burner it was frostbitten. There was a lot about that case that made no sense, where the information didn't hold together.

He looked at the thick Birds of Prey homicides binder on his desk. First things first.

 

Rudolf Goetring sat at the kitchen counter watching
South Park
reruns, smoking, and eating a grilled cheese sandwich.

“I'm here to make a cheese soufflé,” Angie announced, squaring her shoulders. She didn't give him a chance to argue. “It's the best way I know to check if the oven is too hot, too cold, how even it is, and everything else I need to know to make sure it'll do a good job for me.”

He stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues.

“I don't want to argue with you,” she said. “I just want to make my soufflé in peace and quiet.”

“Fine.” He shut off the TV and stubbed out his cigarette. “It's all yours.”

Her jaw dropped. “You don't care?”

“Perhaps this isn't as important to me as you think.” He gave a slight bow, grabbed his cane, and stiffly walked from the room.

His about-face made no sense, unless it was that Tarleton had explained who the head chef was around here. About time, too!

While the soufflé baked, Angie decided to check out the wine cellar. It was the one area she hadn't gotten to yet.

A door led down from the kitchen. The refrigerated room was filled with bottles of Waterfield wine. Only Waterfield, unfortunately. A small, old-fashioned grape press atop an open barrel and several oak barrels on their sides told her this was where small quantities of wine were not only stored, but also made and processed the loving, hands-on way done years ago before so many wineries turned into stainless steel mass-production factories. When she was a little girl, her father and his friend Giuseppe had used similar equipment to make wine over in Sonoma.

Engrossed in the old wine-making paraphernalia, she almost forgot her soufflé. Fortunately, it turned out perfectly. The appliances and equipment performed wonderfully. She was just about to dish some out for herself when Digger stuck his head in the door.

“I thought I smelled something delicious.” He entered and immediately began searching through cupboards and drawers for a plate and fork.

“Are you related to a fellow in San Francisco named Stanfield Bonnette?” she asked wryly.

“Never heard of him. Why?”

“Nothing. I thought you'd gone long ago.”

Angie scooped soufflé into both dishes.

“I was studying the place.” He put a big spoonful in his mouth. “I heard Bart and Rhonda say
they had to be ready at eight tonight. They were eating some green goo. It was sickening.”

“It'll be the first reading of the script.”

“You going to sit in?”

“No one is allowed to watch. They're shutting themselves in the living room.”

“Is that so?” He got up and checked out the butler's pantry between the kitchen and formal dining room. “It would be interesting to hear it.”

Angie didn't want to admit he was right, however…

She remembered back to the day she'd first arrived, when the crew was saying something about sabotage. Given all that had happened since, and having learned the script wasn't Camille Spentworth's, she wanted to hear it herself.

He handed her a folded piece of paper. “Angie” was on it in Paavo's handwriting.

“It's yours,” he said. “I wouldn't have taken it if I'd known it belonged to you. You never did tell me your name…Angie.”