Something's Cooking (6 page)

The next afternoon
, the telephone rang.

“You're going to die, pigeon.” It was a man's voice, very deep and slurred.

Shock raced through her. “What?”

“Thought you had the brains to understand a clear message. Guess I was wrong. You're dumb. Keep it up and you'll be dead.”

Her hands shook as she clutched the receiver tightly. “Who is this?” she screamed. “What did I do? Tell me, please! Don't do this to me!”

There was a
click
as the caller hung up.

An hour later, Paavo entered the apartment. “Did you receive any more phone calls, Miss Amalfi?” She had called him immediately to report the threatening call, and she was puzzled at how formal and businesslike he sounded on the phone. He remained so now, and a sense of disappointment settled over her.

Last night, for a little while, she had allowed herself to forget he was a detective—Mike Hammer and Dick Tracy rolled into one—and had enjoyed his company until he had turned back into that pumpkin otherwise known as a homicide inspector.

Facing Paavo now, though, she realized that he clearly regretted the lapse in their strictly professional relationship. She had believed that he, too, had enjoyed the evening before, but obviously she had been wrong.

She tried to shake off her feeling of loss and lifted her gaze to his, inwardly vowing to never again forget that he was a cop just doing his job. But his eyes were so beautifully blue….

Her lips tightened. This reaction to him did nothing but irritate her. She felt like a schoolgirl, a real sucker for a uniform—even if it was a plainclothes one.

Rico had replaced Joey on the sofa in front of the T.V., so she gestured toward the large wingback chairs nestled in a corner of the room.

“No other calls,” she replied finally, when they were seated. He quizzed her about the one she'd received—the exact words used, the voice, accent, anything special she could remember. The caller had used the term
pigeon
, and Paavo questioned her over and over about birds, stool pigeons, chickens, turkeys, fowls, fouls, foes, even badminton, until she was ready to scream, if not chirp or caw.

“All right,” he said, backing off. “Tell me again about any visitors you've had.”

“I told you. I've stopped everyone from coming by except my sisters, my neighbor Stan, and you. That's it. Others came by, but I didn't let them in.”

“What others?”

“Delivery men, Edith from downstairs, the paper boy, people asking for money, a contributor to my food column—”

“You never mentioned that before.”

“The contributor? I told you I went to the
Shopper
to drop off recipes. You were too busy yelling about me going there to even ask me where I got the recipes.”

“I never yell. But anyway, you're saying this ‘contributor' dropped off the recipes in person?”

“Right.”

“Isn't that unusual?”

“Everything's unusual about my food column. But since that newspaper article gave out my address, I guess anyone can find me the way he did.”

“He?”

“A fair number of men contribute recipes.”

“Oh? So, why didn't
he
just mail the recipes to the paper?”

“I think he wanted to explain. This man, his name is Edward Crane, said he's friends with another contributor named Sam Martin. Sam brings me ‘spoof' recipes for breakfast foods, and signs his name as ‘Waffles' for use in my column. If you'd ever seen my column, you'd know what I mean. Anyway, Waffles, or Sam, has gone to
Carmel to work, and now Crane will be giving me the ‘spoof' recipes.”

Paavo just looked at her for a long time as if trying to sort out what she had just said. “A number of people mentioned your column and that sometimes it can be pretty…funny. Tell me more about these ‘spoof' recipes.”

“Well, for me, they started out as a joke, I mean, they're really weird recipes—things like Chocolate Oyster Pancakes, or Peppermint Brains Soufflé. But Jon Preston, my publisher, liked them, and claimed a lot of readers wrote in and said they liked them as well. He insisted I publish the ‘Waffles' recipes whenever I got them. As long as they're popular, we've kept them up.”

Angie caught his head shaking. She should feel insulted, but instead she laughed, imagining this whole recipe thing must sound like science fiction for all he understood about women's food columns or male contributors to them. But he wrote down the names Edward Crane and Sam Martin, and said he'd have them checked out.

“Are you working on anything else?”

“I was given the go-ahead for an article on the mayor for a Los Angeles–based magazine. I haven't been able to start it yet.”

“The mayor?”

“He's a friend of the family. I've done several human interest stories on him already. It's no big deal, but I guess he's good copy.”

Paavo leaned back in the chair, his expression thoughtful.

“That's not what's behind all this, Inspector.”

He shrugged. “I'll keep it in mind, though.”

She shook her head, then looked at him a moment before speaking. “Did you have lunch?”

He jerked his head toward her. “I never eat—”

“I am a food columnist, after all,” she said as if that were an explanation as she disappeared into the kitchen. She returned almost immediately with a mug of hot coffee. While he sipped it, she made him an enormous cold cuts and cheese sandwich.

“You'll be less difficult on a full stomach,” she said in response to his questioning look as she handed him the sandwich.

He paused, as if contemplating how anyone could call him difficult, then began to demolish his lunch.

There was a knock at the door. Now what? Paavo stepped toward the door as Angie and Rico stood clear of the entry.

The detective peered through the peephole, glanced back at Angie, then with an oddly amused expression on his face, swung the door open all the way.

Rico took a step backwards into Angie, who nearly lost her balance. Scrambling to see what was going on, she peered around Rico's arm toward the doorway.

There, filling the lower half of it, stood her mother, Serefina Teresa Maria Giuseppina Amalfi, all five-foot-one, one hundred fifty pounds of her. She entered the room like the HMS
Queen Mary
lumbering from its berth.

“Mamma,” Angie whispered, her hand going to her throat.

Serefina slowly took in Angie and the two men beside her, and clearly found them all wanting.

“I'll be outside,” Rico muttered as he slipped out the door.

Coward, Angie thought. “Mamma,” she said, “what are you doing here? I thought you were in Palm Springs.”

Serefina stared at her a long moment, then crossed the room and dropped her handbag on the coffee table with a thud. She took off her neckscarf, then her overcoat, revealing an expanse of white polka dots against a navy blue background and hefty, black walking shoes. Her black hair was pulled straight back into a bun.

“
Che pasticcio!
” she said, reproach emanating from every outraged inch of her.

“Mamma, what did I do?”

“
Dimmi!
I ask you that!” She looked at Paavo. “Who's this?”

Paavo cleared his throat.

Angie came to his aid. “This is Paavo Smith, Mamma. Paavo, my mother.”

“Mrs. Amalfi,” he held out his hand, “nice to meet you.”

“Hah!” came the response. He pulled back his hand.

“Angelina! You don't talk to your mother or your sisters. I came myself to find out what's going on.”

“I telephone you, Mamma!”

“Hello, good-bye. That's a phone call?”

Paavo tried to interrupt. “I think I'll be going—”

“
Aspetti!
” Serefina ordered. She studied Paavo, top to bottom, then looked back at Angie. “What does he do?”

“He…he's a homicide inspector.”

Serefina's eyes widened as her gaze jumped from one to the other. “Homicide? So you are in danger, Angelina!”

“No, Mamma. There's nothing to worry about, believe me. Don't worry.”

“How can I not worry when my baby has strange things blowing up under her very nose? Living alone here this way. It's not good, Angelina!”

“Please, Mamma! It's all right. Just go back home.”

“Go home?
Dio!
You're talking to your mother this way!”

“Ladies,” Paavo began again as the two stood wringing their hands and looking at each other, both on the verge of tears. “If you'll excuse me—”

Angie spun toward him. “How can you think of leaving when my mother is so upset?”

“Well—” he began.

“Angelina,
poverina!
” her mother wailed. “Does he always want to run out on you like this?”

Paavo's face tightened.

“He's assigned my case, Mamma. That's all.”

“That's all?” Serefina cast her gaze, full force, on him.

Paavo loosened his tie. Poor man, Angie thought. He had to face Serefina when he could be out chasing a simple murderer.

“Something's strange here,” Serefina said, “but he's got good eyes. He's quiet. I like that in a man.”

Paavo raised his eyebrows.

“I know more is going on than you're telling me, Angelina. What can I do? Right, young man?” She finally addressed Paavo.

Angie chuckled inwardly as she realized he had no idea how to respond.

“There, now I've embarrassed him!
Mi dispiace!
” She reached up and grabbed his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and gave it a little squeeze.

“It's all right,” Serefina continued. “You take Angie to her cousin's wedding tomorrow, and you watch her good, you hear? Meet the family, too, except Salvatore, he couldn't come. His heart, you know. But Gina's father is only his second cousin, so it's okay.”

“God, Mamma,” Angie lay her palms against her forehead. “I forgot about the wedding.”

“
Dio!
How could you forget your own cousin?” Serefina raised her hands upward with desperation.

Paavo stepped back.

“She's only my third cousin, Mamma.”

“She's family.” Serefina turned to Paavo. “You come to my house at three tomorrow. It's formal. Angelina, give him the address.”

“I'm sorry…” His voice had a slight quiver to
it. Angie recognized the symptom shared by many who ran headlong into Serefina. She hadn't realized even hard-nosed police detectives were susceptible. She feared Paavo would find himself at a wedding tomorrow with no idea how he got there.

“Mamma, he's a detective. He's got to work.”

Serefina shrugged. “So? Watching you isn't important work? I'll call Commissioner Barcelli.”

Paavo cleared his throat. “I have tomorrow off.”

“Maybe Rico should take me,” Angie quickly suggested.

“Rico?”

“He was the man who was just here who ran out the door.”

Serefina's eyes drilled her daughter.

Angie sighed and looked beseechingly at Paavo. “It's all right for you to come with me, isn't it? I'm not a suspect or anything.”

“It's not against procedure, but—”

“
Va bene
.” Serefina interrupted. “Enough talk. You know how to keep my Angelina safe. I know it's hard. She makes my hair gray the way she won't listen. And she never phones her mother.”

Serefina turned Angie toward her bedroom. “Get your things for tomorrow, Angelina. You come home with me now. We have a lot to do. I have a taxi waiting. I came here straight from the airport.”

“Walk us to the cab?” Angie looked back over her shoulder at Paavo.

“Sure.” His eye caught hers as if to tell her not to worry, she'd be watched.

Serefina looked from one to the other, then nodded.

Angie felt like
a bird released from its cage as she waited for Paavo in the library of her parents' Hillsborough mansion. Her apartment had become a prison cell. Now, for a little while at least, she could forget about all that madness.

She had summoned her hairdresser to her parents' home that morning, saying she was too busy to get to his shop, but paid him well enough to cover any lost business. The back of her hair was pinned up, while the front and sides were softly curled, framing her face and making her eyes seem even larger, darker, and more dramatically almond shaped than usual.

The late afternoon wedding was to have a formal reception. Angie wanted to wear something particularly beautiful and had chosen an ice-blue silk Celine that skimmed her waist and hips to a short, sexy puff of a skirt. With it she wore match
ing pumps and a simply mounted diamond necklace, earrings, and bracelet.

She knew, at her cousin's wedding, with Paavo, she could feel safe. She also wanted to feel glamorous and alive, once more. Not that it would matter to him. He had made it clear that to him she was just another case.

Now, standing in the library with bright sunshine streaming in through the windows, her freedom was heady. She felt good for the first time in days. She shut her eyes and tilted her head back, soaking up the warmth.

“Miss Angie?” the housekeeper called. Angie turned to see Paavo standing in the doorway of the library watching her. Their eyes met, and for a moment the way he looked at her made her head spin. But then his expression closed, becoming shuttered, as always, and she wondered if she had just imagined that there was ever anything more. Still, the sensation lingered.

She fluffed out her skirt, feigning nonchalance. The housekeeper nodded and walked away.

“I see why you told me not to bring a corsage,” Paavo said as he slowly approached her, eyeing her bare shoulders. “You look…beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes sweeping over his tall, powerful figure. He wore a black tuxedo with a black bow tie. Rather than making him appear awkward, it accentuated his underlying strength. His hair had been carefully brushed into place, and only one wayward lock had sprung loose onto his forehead. “You, too, look very nice today.”

“I feel like a maitre d',” he said, looking down at the tuxedo.

She smiled. “I have something for you!” From the desk she picked up the white silk handkerchief she had ordered for him. She moved close to him, close enough to smell the spicy musk of his after-shave, and tucked the handkerchief into his breast pocket. She rubbed her hand against the material to smooth it, feeling the hardness of his chest beneath her fingers.

“Perfect,” she whispered. As her fingers stilled, he covered her hand with his own in what began, she realized, as a defensive gesture by a man not used to being touched. As their hands met, though, instead of brushing hers aside, his lingered, creating a confusion of feelings within her. She pulled her hand away and stepped back.

He quickly turned, forcing his attention toward the room. He put his hands in his pockets in a gesture that reminded her of a little boy told not to touch anything. “This house is beautiful,” he said.

She followed his gaze to the vaulted ceilings, the tapestries, and the mahogany furnishings of the library.

“It's nice,” she said in a flat voice.

Just then, Serefina entered the room. She was wearing a floor-length gold dress with an overblouse of yellow chiffon that billowed wildly as she walked.

“
Buon giorno
, Paavo,” she said, taking both hands and kissing his cheek. “You are so handsome today!
Bellissimo!
”

“Thank you. You look lovely, Mrs. Amalfi,” he responded.

She turned, grabbed her handbag, and headed out the door. “
Andiamo
. We'll take my car.”

Paavo took Angie's arm and followed Serefina. Angie wished she had a picture of Paavo's face as the chauffeur, Grayson, drove up with Serefina's silver Rolls Royce.

“Hurry.” Serefina shooed Angie into the car. “You can be late to your own wedding, but not to your cousin's.”

Serefina sat between Paavo and Angie. Serefina talked the whole way to the church.

When they arrived, the church was already filled with people. Angie felt herself grow tense as she looked at the crowd. Whoever was after her couldn't be at her cousin's wedding. Too many people were here. She was safe. Her hands felt suddenly cold and clammy. She was perfectly safe.

She didn't do more than wave at family and friends as she proceeded straight to an usher who led her and Paavo through the crowd to a place to sit. She breathed a heavy sigh and settled back in the pew.

“There are enough people here,” Paavo said, turning one way, then the other, finally unfastening the button on his jacket so he could move more easily.

“No one special. Mostly cousins.”

He gave her a disbelieving look and continued to eye the crowd.

The bridal march began, and the wedding
guests rose as the entourage marched down the aisle. Cousin Gina looked resplendent in a full, white gown and veil.

The guests sat, stood, and kneeled through the nuptial mass. As a soprano sang “Ave Maria,” Angie found herself watching Paavo out of the corner of her eye, surprised to see how wistful and soft the expression on his face had become. She decided she must be misreading him. He couldn't possibly be touched by a wedding.

After the recessional, Paavo led Angie out of the church. “Nice,” he said.

Before she could say anything, a cousin grabbed her arm and pulled her over to a group of relatives.

“Look, it's little Angelina!” an old family friend shouted. Angie particularly hated that name—it made her feel akin to Tom Thumb. “How have you been?”

“It's the baby!” one of her father's cousins said. “Look at how she's grown! I remember when she played on my knee.”

Someone else grabbed her. She stiffened. Where was Paavo? She turned her head to find him, but the crowd was too thick. She tried to pull back, even though she knew everyone around her must be finding her behavior strange. She usually joined right in with the whoops, shrieks, and hugs that accompanied greetings in these big family get-togethers, but instead she found herself unable to say anything. People laughed as they hugged and kissed her, all saying they had heard about the bomb and were so relieved she was
safe, and wasn't it terrible that the random act of some madman could touch their own family that way? She grew confused and dizzy as they spun her from one person to the next, and her anxiety mounted.

Then Paavo was there, right in front of her, capturing her with both arms. He drew her toward him and tucked her against his side. “Thank you,” he said to the family group, “for bringing her back to me.”

“Ooooh,” the crowd murmured approval at his words, then “Aaaah” as Angie, without thinking about what she was doing, wrapped her arms around him.

She felt Paavo stiffen and she pulled back.

“Let's go,” he said, his arm around her shoulders as he led her to the Rolls.

They climbed into the back seat. “I'm sorry,” she began, “but the crowd, even though it was my own family—”

“It's all right.”

“I hate this, Paavo! I hate it and I don't know what—”

The chauffeur opened the car door for Serefina. “Ready to go?”

Angie nodded to Paavo that she would be all right and took a deep breath before she turned to Serefina and found the strength to act as though nothing had upset her.

They soon arrived at a modern redwood-and-glass building on a bluff, with the ocean on one side and a lake on the other. The late afternoon sun was warm, and there was a light breeze.

Angie stopped at the ladies' lounge to comb her hair, freshen up, and get over her anxiety. Her cousin Pia slinked to her side. Leaning against the vanity countertop, she eyed Angie for a second before speaking.

“That's some guy you showed up with. Goodlooking.”

“I guess.” Especially when he's not reading you your rights, she was tempted to add.

“Hi, girls,” Angie's second oldest sister, Caterina, called out as she walked in.

“Love your hair,” Angie said, despite being appalled at seeing her sister as a platinum blond.

“Thanks. Actually, your blond highlights gave me the idea.”

Angie's mouth dropped. She'd definitely have to reconsider her hair color.

“I'm sure glad I got to see the mystery man you've been hanging out with,” her sister said in between quick swipes at her mouth with a tube of lipstick.

“Mystery man?” Pia stepped closer.

“Mamma told me about it,” Caterina replied. “He's a detective, and Angie met him when that bomb went off. I can see why she's spending so much time with him.”

“That bomb!” Pia smoothed one eyebrow. “God, I heard about it so many times I feel like it went off in
my
kitchen!”

She glanced at Angie and then tugged at the hips of her dress. “A police detective, huh? If you're not serious about him, let me know.”

“Hey, Angie,” her sixteen-year-old cousin
Loretta stuck her head in the lounge, “your sexy friend is pacing around waiting for you. And about six women are closing in on him.”

Without a word, Angie left, walked straight to Paavo, hooked her arm in his, and led him to the other side of the room, near the buffet table.

“What's wrong?” he asked, his eyes intense on her flushed face.

She glanced quickly at him. He was definitely
not
Pia's type. “Nothing, nothing at all,” she replied and lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray as a waiter walked by. She handed him one.

Serefina joined them. “Paavo,
caro mio
,” she said, turning
Paavo
into an Italian word, “come with me. I want to introduce you.”

“Mamma, I don't think—” Angie began.

“No, you don't. But that's all right, Angelina. Come along if you wish.”

At that, Serefina dived into the crowd, pulling Paavo in with her. One hour, two more glasses of champagne, and untold numbers of hors d'oeuvres later, they came up for air on the far side of the room. Somewhere along the line, “Mrs. Amalfi” had become “Serefina” to Paavo, and they talked together like long-time friends. Angie tagged along, wondering why she bothered.

When Serefina finally became distracted while talking to Bianca, Angie's oldest sister, Angie took Paavo aside to whisper, “Sorry about that.”

“Sorry?” He frowned. “Your mother's a warm, affectionate person, able to make a stranger, even
a cop, feel welcome. It doesn't happen often. A lot of people could learn quite a bit from her.”

She wondered if he'd include her in that group.

During dinner, Paavo sat between Angie and Serefina. He hardly said a word as Serefina kept everyone near her entertained with her stories, and Angie filled Paavo in on who the numerous relatives were that Serefina was talking about.

“You know, Paavo,” Serefina turned to him abruptly, “when I met my Salvatore, after only three days I knew I wanted to marry him. We were in Calabria, right after the war. The country was poor, and he found a job on a small freighter that would take him to America. He left only three weeks after we met. But I waited. And two years later, he spent his savings on boat fare for me to come to him.” She smiled knowingly at the two of them.

Angie glanced at Paavo. His expression was suitably blank, but the look he cast toward Angie was one that should be inflicted only on mass murderers or child molesters. She wished she could dive under the table.

After the meal, the guests milled about with coffee and liqueurs until the band started up. The bride and groom danced the first dance, then others began to join them.

As the band finished its third rendering of “Volare” and began “Arrivederci, Roma,” Paavo held out his hand. “Angie?”

She looked at him in astonishment. Surely, police inspectors didn't dance!

“I don't think so,” she said, vigorously shaking her head.

He turned to her mother. “Serefina?”

She beamed. “
Caro
, I love to dance. But I'm such an old lady!”

“You'll show us all how it's done, Serefina.” He lightly touched her back and escorted her to the dance floor.

Angie folded her arms, her lips pursed, as she watched her mother and Casanova doing a fancy waltz step.

“Pretty good, huh?” Bianca nudged her arm.

Angie made no comment.

When the song ended, Paavo helped Serefina, laughing and puffing, to a chair. He got her some champagne before she sent him back to Angie.

As the band played, “That's Amore,” Angie's third sister, Maria, asked Paavo if he'd talk to her husband, Dominic, because his business had been burglarized three times recently and he wanted better police protection.

“Well…” he glanced at Angie.

“Go ahead, I'm fine.” She waved them away.

“I'll waltz him back to you,” Caterina leaned toward Angie and whispered. “Pia's making a beeline for him right now.”

“Super.” Angie sniffed and then folded her arms and watched her platinum blond sister disappear into the crowd.

Bianca, still standing beside her, chuckled.

“So where's Francesca?” Angie asked, looking around for her fourth, and final, sister. “She should be next in line with Mr. Bojangles.”

“Fran's at the bar, sloshed. She's having trouble with Seth again. American men are so difficult!”

Angie rolled her eyes. Then she turned down a dance with her cousin Vince, who had sweaty palms and used to sock her when they were kids.

Bianca gave Angie a scathing look. She felt obligated to accept Vince's request to dance. Angie watched the two of them waltz off to “Non Dimenticar.”