Two Cooks A-Killing (17 page)

That evening was not the time to spring Minnie and Connie on the cast or anyone else. Angie needed to sneak them out of the house first chance she got and let everyone stew about the “vision” they'd seen—or feared seeing.

All three were about to begin with the cleanup when there was a knock on the kitchen door.

Since they'd refilled the area under the sink with cleaning supplies, the only place Angie could think of to hide them was the wine cellar. She pointed to the door.

Minnie headed for it. Angie motioned for Connie to join her. If Minnie realized she was hiding where Fred had been killed, she might scream or otherwise freak out. Hopefully, Connie could keep her calm.

Angie called, “Come in.”

Gwen Hagen entered and offered to help with the cleanup.

“I didn't think stars like you even realized that someone had to clean pots, pans, and dishes,”
Angie said, amazed. Gwen filled the dishwasher while Angie scrubbed pots and pans in the sink.

Gwen smiled. “You wouldn't believe the kinds of things I did before I had money. Washing dishes is nothing. My only regret is that I never had a big family to do them with. I gather, talking to your mother, that you have sisters and brothers-in-law, and nieces and nephews. All the things that money can't buy. You're lucky, you know.”

“Does that mean I should be used to washing up after a big dinner?” Angie said with a laugh.

“Exactly. To me, it sounds like fun. Where's your friend, by the way? She wasn't the one out here scaring everyone…or was she?”

Angie swallowed. “She…she's in the courtyard. Enjoying the fresh air, I think. She couldn't scare a soul.”

Gwen's face turned hard, almost cruel. “She's not a midget, is she? Was she wearing Fred's body suit with stilts?”

“No,” Angie replied. “She wasn't the ghost I saw. Or thought I saw, if that's what you're asking.”

Gwen continued with the cleanup, not speaking for a while.

Eventually, the two began to talk amicably again, Angie about her family and her fiancé, and Gwen about growing up dirt poor and never having a Christmas until she was old enough to make one for herself.

Angie commented on how surprised she was that so many traditional Christmas foods and plants and decorations were fake in the house. Fortunately, she hadn't gone too far when Gwen
told her she decorated her home in much the same way. It was much easier on the waistline when the mince pies, iced sugar cookies, fruitcake, and sugar plums were made out of plastic or sculpted foam; easier on the carpet when trees didn't need to sit in stands filled with water and didn't drop needles all over the place. Her maid sprayed the house with pine aerosol so that it smelled Christmasy…or like a bathroom. Take your pick.

They were almost finished when Rhonda walked into the kitchen. “Oh! I didn't realize you were here.” She swayed slightly as she took in what they were doing. “I should have helped.”

“It's all right,” Angie said.

“I just wanted some ice for my water. There's none left at the bar. I'm going up to bed.”

“Already?” Gwen asked. “I was thinking of going into St. Helena tonight. To see something besides these four walls. Want to go?”

“No. I'm tired.” She filled up a bowl with ice, and then grabbed a tall glass. “Goodnight.”

Angie frowned. Something was very wrong with that woman. “Goodnight.”

They soon finished the dishes and went out to the family room. Kyle, who'd been talking with Tarleton, jumped to his feet with a smile at Gwen. Angie thought it was more than a “friends” type smile.

The three chatted a while and then Kyle asked, “Are you ready? Emery's going with us.”

“Great,” Gwen said. “Angie, want to come along?”

It was tempting, but she had to do something
about Connie and Minnie. “I don't think so. All that cooking was exhausting.”

“I can imagine,” Gwen said. “Let's go, everyone.”

 

As soon as they were out of sight, Angie dashed into the kitchen and opened the door to the wine cellar.

“You can come out now.”

Silence.

Oh, God!
“Connie? Minnie? The coast is clear.”

More silence.

She didn't want to go all the way down the stairs to that cold, dank cellar again. She really, really didn't want to do that.

She crept down a few steps, but couldn't see much of the cellar. She went down a few more. “Connie? Don't play games. This isn't funny.”

Taking a deep, courage-enhancing breath, she marched to the bottom without letting herself stop.

The cellar was empty.

A door led out to the side of the house. It had been unlocked.

Outside, she took a few steps toward the front of the house. Connie's car was still in the parking area.

She made an about-face to the courtyard.

“Over here!” Connie called. She and Minnie stood a few feet up the hillside, enough so Minnie could see over the adobe wall and into the courtyard and the house. Angie joined them. “How could you have sent us down to that cellar?” Connie cried. “Are you crazy?”

“I'm sorry,” Angie cried. “Minnie, I hope it didn't upset you too much.”

“Me? I didn't give a damn. Connie here looked ready to wet her pants. I said ‘Boo' and she scaled the walls. Had to get her out of there.”

“Anyway,” Connie said, not hiding her irritation well, “from the hill, we could see into some bedrooms. The one with the lights on is Rhonda's.”

Connie pointed to a window just below and to the left of Angie's. In front of it was an almond tree.

“I wonder what she's up to,” Angie murmured. “It's hard to see with that tree in the way.” An idea came to her. “Connie, let's you and me go down to the courtyard. Minnie, wait right here.”

At the base of the almond tree Connie said, “You aren't thinking what I think you are, are you?”

“Of course I am.” She put her hands on the trunk. “Give me a boost.”

“You are crazy!” Connie declared.

“Rhonda is hiding something and I want to know what it is.”

“You can't spy on her!”

“It's not spying. It's investigating. What if she's up to something terrible? What if she's a homicidal maniac? Or suicidal? What if she's about to kill herself and I'm the only one who can save her? I need to see what she's up to.” Angie kicked off her sandals with four-inch heels and gestured impatiently for Connie to come closer.

“I give up.” Connie laced her fingers together. She'd been through this before.

Angie used her hands as a step and Connie lifted as Angie jumped, reaching for the Y in the tree trunk. She landed on her stomach and crawled to a sitting position. “I didn't realize how high this was. These branches are
round
, and they're slippery!”

“You've got to go up a couple more limbs,” Connie urged. “You can't see anything from there.”

Carefully, Angie got to her feet, clutching the trunk. Slowly, she climbed a few boughs higher. The words to “Rock-a-Bye Baby” ran through her head. What a nasty little song!

Clutching a tree limb, she looked right into Rhonda's bedroom window.

Rhonda stepped into view and behind her, Bart Farrell. Angie gasped and nearly lost her balance.

Bart wrapped his arms around Rhonda. They kissed passionately. Angie's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

Rhonda criticized Bart constantly and publicly, but hers was not the face of a woman hating what was going on. Bart apparently knew what he was doing with all the “darling” this and “darling” that, and being so solicitous. He'd acted like a man in love—possibly one who'd been in love for a long time.

“Get up here!” Angie whispered down to Connie. “You've got to see this.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Connie whispered back.

“You won't believe it!”

“I won't?” That got Connie moving. She reached for the Y of the tree and tried to lift herself
onto it. She couldn't. Maybe she should spend some time at a gym. Angie climbed back down and grabbed her hand, and while Connie's feet scrambled against the trunk, Angie pulled.

“Oh, my God!” Connie cried, finding herself clinging to a thick branch. “I can break my neck from here.”

“You aren't that high,” Angie said. “And I'll hold onto you.”

Connie wasn't sure if that would help or hurt. Clutching Angie's hand, she climbed higher, looked into the window, and gasped. “Those two? I thought she hated him.”

“Isn't it wild?”

“Like on TV, only better,” Connie squealed.

At that moment, Rhonda began to unbutton her dress while Bart walked toward the bed. He pulled back the covers and kicked off his shoes. Angie and Connie's eyes grew round as saucers.

“Uh…Angie,” Connie whispered.

An X-rated
Eagle Crest
was not part of Angie's viewing pleasure either. “I never did like those reality shows,” she said. “Time to get off this tree.”

Connie began down. “Stop stepping on my hand!” she said. “Let me go first. Once I'm on the ground, I'll guide you.”

“Okay.” Angie tried her best not to glance back at the window—just a peek or two. Things were definitely getting steamier by the minute.

Connie climbed down, and near the bottom, jumped.

Angie slowly moved her feet down one limb and then another. The tree bark was hard and prickly, the twigs and branches hurt the tender
soles of her feet. If she wore practical shoes like Connie's one-inch pumps she could have left them on and not had to endure this torment, but now…

All of a sudden, Connie turned and ran.

 

Angie didn't move, listening and wondering if the tree leaves would hide her from whatever had scared Connie. She certainly didn't want anyone to know she'd climbed a tree right outside Rhonda's bedroom. Now what?

She stood there, about five feet up, clutching the trunk. She'd never realized how far five feet was. No way was she brave enough to jump. At best, it'd hurt. She could easily twist an ankle or worse.

“Angie?” Junior looked up at her. She could understand Connie running. He looked like a wild man of Borneo, even if you didn't know he was once charged with being a stalker.

She felt trapped.

Once, she read that sexual predators never changed, never could be rehabilitated. Was stalking the same thing? She wished she'd asked Paavo more about it.

“Why are you up there?” he asked.

Everything about Junior disturbed her, but she didn't want to stay in the tree any longer. “Help me down, please.”

She lowered herself to a sitting position. Leaning forward, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He took hold of her waist. Slowly, he eased her from the tree down to the ground. Their bodies touched, and he used his for leverage not to
drop her. She felt more of his body than she ever wanted to.

“Why were you up there?” he asked when her feet touched the ground, his arms still around her.

She didn't want to upset him. “I…used to climb trees all the time when I was a kid,” she said, easing herself away from him. “The going up was easier than coming back down.”

“Like a cat.” He smiled, touching her cheek. He stepped closer.

“Let me go, Junior,” she ordered.

He did as she asked, his expression wary. “I saw your friends,” he said. “It seems I'm not the only one with secrets here.”

“There are too many secrets in this house,” she said. “Why don't you come inside, join everyone. There's no need for you to continue to hide.”

He looked at the house, at the cheerful Christmas lights. “Yes, there is.” He studied her. “Do you know where the music box is?”

She was growing more nervous. “Music box?”

“The Drummer Boy.
‘Come, they told me…'
” he softly sang.

His voice made a cold chill ripple down her spine. “I don't know where it is. Do you?”

“You should know, Angie. It's important,” he said.

His affinity with the poor child with no gift to bring struck her. His loneliness, his lack of gift, of any social grace or self-confidence, was sad to behold in one whose life should have been filled with so very much. On the surface, it was, but inside, she'd rarely seen such a hollow shell of a man. Her sister said he wanted someone to love
and to love him. Maybe that's what was behind the stalking charge—desperation rather than perversion. Still, it was wrong.

“I've learned more about your mother since I've been here, Junior,” she said, wishing she could find a way to get through his solitary shell. Curious, he gazed down at her. “She was an unhappy woman. Unhappy, unfulfilled. Her bitterness wasn't about you.” Angie ached to touch him, to comfort him, but something held her back, some sense that she needed to be careful not to cause more upheaval than she knew how to handle. If she said or did the wrong thing it could tip the scale in a dangerous way.

“You weren't the problem,” she continued. “It was her. There wasn't anything you could do, no way for you to change, to make it up to her. You've got to understand that.”

“I don't know what you mean,” he said stubbornly.

She didn't know what else to say. The possibility that Brittany, unknowingly, had set off Junior worried and sickened her. He could have been a good man.

“I'm going inside now, Junior. I have to find my friends.”

“Your friends?” He touched her cheek once more. “You're my friend, Angie. My only friend.”

She hurried into the house.

The Quetzalcoatl gang member who'd come out the back door firing got off one shot before he was wounded by the SWAT sniper on the opposing roof. The other SWAT members fired until the back door was pulverized. Then they stopped and waited.

In a matter of minutes, the other members surrendered.

Since Quetzalcoatl had been the gang moving into the city and upsetting the perverse balance of power that existed among the drug dealers there, with them out of the way, the city could go back to the status quo.

Ironically, that meant the police had helped the dealers return to selling, rather than hiding in order to save their own lives.

Paavo and the other cops knew it; as they made the arrests, they could see it in each others' eyes. All they could do was shake their heads over the situation and hope that arresting and jailing the members of one ruthless gang would create an overall drop in drug traffic. Still, many of them
were probably going to have a long struggle with their consciences over this case. According to the law, they'd done the right thing.

As soon as he could, Paavo left the city. Worry about what was going on at Eagle Crest nagged at him. Often, Angie managed to stir a pot in ways that caused trouble to bubble up even when it wasn't there before—or was there, but hidden under the surface.

At night, Highway 29 through the valley was nearly empty, far different from the weekend parking lot he'd dealt with the last time. When he turned off it for Eagle Crest, the narrow road was pitch black. He put his headlights on high, but he could have been alone in the world for all that was visible around him.

He drove for five minutes before he saw a light in the distance. A shining light in the East. He chuckled to himself. Angie's talk about Christmas had impressed him more than he'd imagined.

He followed the light. As he got closer, he saw it wasn't one light but many, strung around the house, over the roof, porch, and windows to look like something out of a Hallmark advertisement.

He turned into the parking area. In this light, even the fake snow looked pretty.

 

“Angie, the door,” Mariah said, her lips pursed, but she didn't look nearly as irritated as she had in the past.

Angie was in her room. After leaving Junior, she'd found Connie and Minnie on the front veranda. She saw them off, with plans to return the next day. Since then, she'd thought a lot about Ju
nior, as well as holding a full-fledged debate with herself over whether her “ghostly” dinner party ruse had been helpful, harmful, or simply a foolish waste of time and energy. Unfortunately, she was leaning toward the latter.

Now who? she wondered. Had Connie returned for some reason? As she headed downstairs, she expected the foyer to be empty, that her guest would have been left outdoors as usual.

He wasn't.

Paavo stood in the foyer wearing a brown leather jacket, cream-colored sports shirt, jeans, and looking so handsome she could hardly stand it.

She threw her arms around him, showering him with hugs and kisses. “I'm so glad you made it. I wasn't expecting you this soon.”

He kissed her back with equal enthusiasm. “I couldn't wait. At least this time, you aren't on your way to San Francisco.”

“Thank goodness!” She hugged him again before stepping back, his hands in hers. “Now that I've dragged you up here, though, I can't help but wonder what you could possibly do. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Maybe I'm putting my nose where I shouldn't and—”

“Why don't you show me the scenes of the crimes?”

“That's easy.” She led him through the main floor, then to the wine cellar, the family and guest wings of the second floor, and finally to her bedroom. It was a good spot, she decided, eyeing him, to end the tour.

 

“A kosher goose?” Angie looked incredulously at Paavo later when they got around to talking once again.

They were side-by-side on the narrow single bed. “There's a lot involved,” she said. “In kosher cooking, you aren't supposed to eat anything that's been strangled, for example. For poultry, that means the bird can't be killed by wringing its neck. I can find out more for you, if you'd like.”

Paavo shifted his arm under her shoulder. “So if the goose isn't kosher, a simple meaning would be that its neck was twisted, or broken. Interesting.” Paavo then told Angie about the e-mails Fred had sent to Tarleton. “They tie in somehow, I'm sure. Keep an eye on Minnie. She's an actress. I don't know that you can trust her.”

“Same as all the others in this house,” Angie said, her arm across his bare chest.

Paavo was silent, thoughtful.

She shivered and pulled the covers higher. “This room is always so cold,” she said. “Some say it's caused by Brittany's ghost.”

“Very funny. Isn't there a thermostat around?”

“The house has central heating, but none comes in here.”

“That doesn't make sense.” He got out of bed and put on his jeans. Angie switched on the small lamp by the bed.

Behind the bureau he found a wall register. “Maybe this is your problem.” He shoved the bureau to one side. It actually looked better since it was now centered.

Paavo held his hand in front of the grate. “There's no air. I wonder if some inside vents are closed.”

“I looked, but they're open,” Angie said.

He studied it. In the dim light, it did appear to be open. He knelt closer, then got up and grabbed Angie's rat-tailed comb and pushed the handle inside the grate. It didn't go in far at all.

“Something's blocking it.”

“There is?” Angie wrapped herself in his cotton shirt and knelt down beside him.

“Do you have a screwdriver?” he asked. At her blank expression, he continued. “Knife? How about a fingernail file?”

“That I've got.”

He used it to unscrew the cover from the wall. A piece of black cardboard had been pressed against the register cover so that, to the casual glance, it appeared one was looking into the open cavernous maw of a heating system.

He pried the cardboard off. “Someone wanted it cold in here.”

“Or someone wanted to hide something,” Angie said. She reached into the opening and pulled out some papers.

They were from an obstetrician–gynecologist in San Francisco. The patient's name was Brittany Keegan. As Angie and Paavo read through all the medical jargon and the billing records, one fact became clear. When she died, Brittany Keegan was pregnant.