If Cooks Could Kill (13 page)

“Angelina Amalfi?” asked a pleasant voice on the telephone.

“Yes.” She found the web-page link she'd been searching for and clicked on it.

“I'm Kara Saunders, from KRAK-TV. We were recently talking about adding a cooking show to our Saturday morning line-up, and your name came up as a potential host for it. Someone remembered something you were involved in called…let me see…
Angelina in the Cucina
. Is that correct?”

Despite Angie's concentration on the Internet, she still cringed at the horrible name. The show never got off the ground. “That's right.” Nope. That wasn't the information she wanted. She tried another link.

“We're going to hold some auditions, but I'll be honest, you're number one on our list. Do say you'll come and try out for us.”

“What? TV? I don't do TV,” Angie murmured. As the web page unfolded, she smiled. It was exactly what she was looking for, and right here in San Francisco, too.

The woman on the phone kept talking. “You aren't saying you're not interested, are you?” Kara asked,
sounding crestfallen. “Don't you want to think about it? Hear the terms we're offering? The benefits? The publicity?”

A knock sounded. “Oh, my! Someone's at the door.” She used the cursor to save the page to Favorites, smiling as she read about leprechauns and shamrocks. What fun! “I've got to run.”

“But—”

“Good-bye!”

She put down the phone and stared at the web page a moment longer. Wasn't the Internet wonderful, and wouldn't Paavo be surprised? She could hardly wait to see his joyous expression, feel his gratitude, his love…

The knock sounded again, jerking her from her reverie. She dashed to open the door. It might be FedEx with the books she'd ordered about engagement parties. She'd hunted all over the city's bookstores, but couldn't find a thing that—

“Hi. Remember me?”

Angie stared in surprise at the man in her doorway—tall, blond, muscular, with a craggy face and twinkling blue eyes, and wearing a gray sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves and paint-and-grease-splattered jeans. A sort of Jeff Bridges or young Kris Kristofferson type. No way she could forget him.

“You're Connie's ex-husband,” she said. “Kevin, right?” Of course, she knew his name was Kevin, but she didn't want to make him think she and Connie had spent much time discussing him, which, of course, they had. In fact, if she thought of all the things Connie had told her about Kevin, she'd blush.

“That's me.” He put his hands on his hips and smiled.

She had no idea what he was doing there, but good manners won out. “Won't you come in?”

“Thanks. I wanted to talk to you about Connie.” He slowly entered the apartment, taking in, first of all, the view of San Francisco Bay that stretched from the Golden Gate to the Bay Bridge, with Alcatraz centered like a picture postcard. “Kee-rist!” he muttered under his breath. His gaze then leaped to her antique furniture, entertainment system, and lingered a moment on the Cézanne lithograph. Was Kevin an art lover? If half of what Connie had said was true, she should tell him it was a reproduction.

None of her art or antique furniture were reproductions and she certainly didn't want him sitting on anything with a light fabric. “How about some coffee?” she asked. “I've got some cheesecake in the refrigerator as well. Why don't we sit at the table?”

She led him away from the living room to her dining area off the kitchen. The table and chairs were cherry-wood. “Thanks,” he said, plunking himself down with all the ease of a man making himself at home. Angie peered surreptitiously at his shoes. Old construction boots. At least he didn't leave a trail of mud. The building owner—her father—was really going to have to start paying a doorman once again. San Francisco wasn't the East Side of Manhattan. Doormen were unknown here except for a few exclusive condos.

“That sounds great,” he said. “Connie always liked to eat those gooey chocolate desserts—women's desserts, I call them. Cheesecake is a man's food.”

“Really? I'd never thought of it that way before.”

“Yeah. Lots of my buddies feel like that.”

“Interesting.” She went into the kitchen and cut a slice of cake for Kevin. She'd made it that morning for
Paavo, who was coming over later. He liked cheesecake a lot. Maybe Kevin was right? But Paavo also liked other cakes and pastries, more elaborate ones, like Italian Rum Cake…

After giving Kevin cake and coffee, and pouring herself a cup, she sat down. “So, what brings you here?” she asked.

“I'm worried about Connie.” He stuffed a big piece of cake in his mouth, and made appreciative noises as he rolled it around on his tongue.
Obviously not too worried,
she thought.

She waited until he'd swallowed to be sure he wouldn't answer with a mouthful of mooshy dessert. “What are you worried about?”

“I heard she's been seeing some guy connected with football. The Forty-Niners. Big joke, huh?”

“What's wrong with that?”

He put the fork down, blue eyes widening. “So, it's true?”

“I'm not saying it isn't.”

He looked stricken. “Those guys are out of her league. She's just a nice kid. Innocent, you know. I don't trust guys like that.”

And Angie didn't trust
him.
“Connie can handle herself.”

He finished the cake before asking, “Is he a nice guy, at least? Is he…white?”

She nearly spat out her coffee. “He's Italian, okay? Will that do?”

His eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. “Ohmygod! Not…not
Joe Montana
?”

“Don't you think he's a little old for her? Not to mention that he's married?”

Kevin folded his tanned and tattooed arms. “I don't remember that that's stopped her before.”

“If so, she didn't know it when she started dating such a guy!” Angie said indignantly, and suppressed the urge to stab him with his own fork. “Anyway, you just said she was an innocent.”

He stood, sliding his fingertips into his back pockets, and strode to the window. “So, she
has
met someone who's a big deal.” He stared at the bay a long moment. “I didn't think it'd happen.”

Angie felt a twinge of pity for him. She made no reply. Was Kevin actually remorseful about the way he'd treated Connie? She knew Connie had been crazy about him, but when he'd been given the choice between his wife and heroin, the drug had won out. Angie wondered if he'd cleaned up sufficiently, and for long enough, that Connie would be interested in him again.

On the other hand, Connie had given him plenty of chances, and each time he'd failed her. Now she had a chance with Dennis Pagozzi, who was just about perfect in every way—except that he might be two-timing her. Or breaking up with that other woman so that he could be free to concentrate on Connie. Who knew?

“I guess you miss her,” Angie said, not quite sure what to say or why she suddenly felt sympathy for him. Was she turning into a total marshmallow because of love?

His mouth tightened. “Could be.” He did another once-over of her apartment. “I guess she'll be getting a place as nice as this, if she stays with this guy. Maybe even a house. She always used to say she wanted a house—just a little house to call her own, nothing more. Now, she'll be able to afford a mansion, if she can pull it off.” He chuckled morosely.

“Pull what off?”

“Make the guy think she's in love with him. I know
how she feels about me…how we still feel about each other.” He smirked, on sure footing once again.

What little sympathy she felt vanished. Angie didn't like the words or the attitude. “She doesn't have to pretend anything. I've seen the two of them together. This guy worships the ground she walks on. He treats her like a princess, and she adores him.”

His smile disappeared. “The hell with her, then. Who cares, right? Well, I'm outta here. Thanks for nothing!”

Angie escorted him to the front door and opened it, glad to see the back of the loser. How had Connie stood him?

He stepped out into the hall, then faced her once again. “Say, when you talk to her, ask her if she can get a couple of Forty-Niner tickets for me, okay?”

 

“Dennis Pagozzi?”

Bleary-eyed, Pagozzi stood in his doorway in his robe and pajamas, trying to focus on the identification presented by the round, balding man. “Chowchilla Probation Department?”

Lexington stood tall. “That's right. I'm looking for Veronica Maple. Our records indicate that you are a longtime acquaintance of hers.”

Pagozzi rubbed his face, wanting nothing more than a shower and a shave. “That was ages ago. I don't know anything about her.”

“Mr. Pagozzi, we have reason to believe she's armed and dangerous. To you, and to others.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears that she killed a man in Fresno right after getting out of prison. She failed to report in to my office as required, which lends credence to her having perpetuated the crime. She was tracked to San Fran
cisco, but we don't know where she's gone from here.”

Pagozzi was suddenly wide awake. “Veronica? A killer? She was always just interested in money.”

“People change in prison,” Lexington explained. “They go in as white-collar criminals and come out hard, willing to do anything for a buck. She robbed the pawn shop along with killing the owner.”

Pagozzi's nerves felt ready to snap. Veronica moved out last night after the blow-up at the restaurant, and he was glad. She'd changed, and hardened. He didn't think she could commit murder, but it wasn't the first time he'd been wrong about her. This time, he could be dead wrong.

His mind raced. “Thanks for letting me know. I'll contact you if I see her.”

“Just what was your relationship with Miss Maple?” Lexington asked.

“Nothing. We hung out when we were young, that's all.”

Lexington nodded, peering intently into Pagozzi's eyes. “For your sake, I hope it wasn't anything more than that. Here's my card. We have to get her before she kills again. Once a person like her starts, it can lead anywhere.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking.”

 

Connie glanced at the clock—5:55
P.M
. Five minutes more and she could lock up shop, thank goodness. The day began much too early at six-thirty, in time for the New York Stock Exchange's opening bell. Stockbrokers were already at their desks in San Francisco—not a good way to live, in her opinion, but she was glad she could immediately get the answer to the question that had plagued her all night.

“I'm interested in buying a stock,” she said to the
Merrill Lynch broker who answered her call, “but I want to know the price first.”

“Great. I can help you,” the enthusiastic voice responded. “What is it?”

“Geostar Biotechnologies.”

“Okay.” In a moment he came back. “Are you sure of the name? I checked the New York, NASDAQ, even American exchanges, but I don't see it.”

“That's what I was told. Oh, wait. He said something about over the counter and GBST. Does that help?”

“It sure does. One moment.” He found it selling at two dollars a share. The broker nearly choked as he asked her if she wanted to “actually” buy any of it.

With a shudder, she said no.

What kind of fool did Max Squire take her for?

She'd fumed about him all day, and maybe that was why she'd only sold a single item—a twenty-dollar porcelain flower and vase to a woman looking for a small gift for a hospitalized friend allergic to real flowers.

Not only that, Dennis hadn't called, either. What was with him? He should at least have apologized for not saying good-bye when he ran out on their lunch. He was making it mighty hard for her to keep him high up on her stud rating chart. Right now, he was a whisker below Russell Crowe, and sinking fast.

A minute before closing time, the shop's bell rang. Connie froze. If the customer was returning the vase, she'd run into the back room and hide until she gave up and left again. That sale was important. She needed to eat.

When she gathered her nerve and glanced up, Max stood in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She
could feel her face redden—God, sometimes it was awful being blond—as anger and frustration warred. “Looking for more money?”

“I was desperate, as I told you,” he said, approaching her. He hesitated, then said gruffly, “I'm sorry about the way I treated you yesterday. It was uncalled for. I also want to thank you for not saying anything about it to Dennis. What I did was embarrassing enough without him knowing.”

Now he wanted to apologize? “It embarrassed me, too, to have been such a patsy!”

“I've known Dennis a while,” he continued, his voice calm. “I saw you with him—the way he looked at you. He's a good guy. A good woman is exactly what he needs, and you're a good woman, Connie. I feel bad about involving you in my problems at all. I'll try to do something, when or if I'm able, to remedy it.”

None of this made any sense to her. “You feel bad about me?”

Dark eyes captured hers. “Hell, woman, do you think I'd be here if I didn't? I couldn't get you out of my mind, even though I tried. Believe me, I tried real hard.”

That gave her pause. She swallowed, then asked, “Why?”

“Why couldn't I forget you?”

“Why did you want to?”

He shook his head. “Your kindness. Your trust. I didn't think women like you existed anymore.”

She didn't know what to make of him, only that he was hurting and desperate. She'd been there herself at times. Slowly stepping around the counter toward him, she lifted her hand to touch his arm, but then dropped it again and drew in her breath. “We met, we talked, and to my amazement, we seemed to enjoy
each other's company. You were hurt, and I helped you. It was all good…until you made it turn ugly.”