If Cooks Could Kill (2 page)

Her discomfort with the uncommunicative man increased with each passing second. “You can take off your overcoat…if you'd like.”

It was a gray, dusty, moth-eaten old thing. He removed it, trying to hold back a wince of pain, and let it
drape over the back of his chair. Under the coat he wore jeans and a black turtleneck, faded and misshapen. His shoulders and chest were broader and more muscular than she'd expected. He simply needed some flesh on his bones.

Just then, Earl showed up with salad, another basket of French bread, and more Perrier. The stranger practically salivated. “Eat. It's for you,” she urged.

He swallowed hard and shook his head.

“I insist.”

He placed his hands flat on the table. “I can't pay for it. It's the reason I'm here to meet Dennis. I need money.”

Despite his harsh tone and blunt words, the blow to his pride was evident. “Uh-oh. That means he won't be happy to see you,” Connie said wryly, trying to lighten the mood. “So much for my great blind date.”

He looked askance. “You have a blind date with Dennis? A woman like you?”

She couldn't tell if she'd been complimented or insulted. Maybe it was the new hairdo? Maybe it wasn't dramatic, and instead was butch? She surreptitiously patted it, then attempted to twist a fringe into a feminine curl near her ear. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Squire?”

Her question seemed to puzzle him. Instead of answering he faced the door again and simply said, “Nothing.”

His irritating responses aggravated her. “Your words mean nothing, and you're flat broke. Big deal.” She waited until she had his attention again. “Now that that's settled, will you please eat the damn salad?”

Surprise flashed across his solemn face, then, glowering, he considered the food. “What the hell,” he murmured, and soon began to wolf down everything on
his plate, plus the new basket of bread. As he ate, she ordered spaghetti and meatballs for both of them, asking Earl to bring it as quickly as possible.

“Want some wine wit' dat?” Earl asked.

She knew nothing about wine. House red? Did she want to spend the money? “I don't know…”

“A cabernet sauvignon would be good.” Max's comments were off-handed, as if he was scarcely listening, but concentrating on eating.

“I'll try one—your choice,” she said to Earl. “If it's not too expensive.”

“It'll be okay, Miss Connie.”

She glanced at Max. “Make that two.”

He looked up, as if chagrined, and then huddled over the bread again.

As requested, Earl soon brought out the entrees. For a while, Connie ate in silence, studying Max's thin, aristocratic nose and high forehead. His eyes were intelligent, his mouth sensitive. When he noticed her staring, he made no comment. She turned her head, trying to figure him out. So far, she'd taken him for a bum, a jerk, and a creep. Yet something about him didn't mesh with his threadbare clothes or his clean but “unpolished” state.

“Are you new to the city, Max?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I used to live here.”

“But not now?”

Reaching for more bread, he paused long enough to reply curtly, “No.”

“Why not?” she asked, undaunted.

Dark eyes met hers, his lips curving thinly. “I go wherever the weather and my inclination lead me.”

“Running away from something,” Connie said.

His hand tightened on his fork. “Or trying to find it.” The words were hushed.

The fierceness that radiated from deep inside him alarmed her, and she drew back, her mind searching for something more to say. “Are you hoping to live here again now?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” His own breadbasket empty, Connie slid hers toward him. He took a piece to sop up the last bits of sauce from his plate.

Connie ate about half of her spaghetti. “How about some of this? I'm full, really.” He needed it a lot more than she did. Especially in this skirt. Her stomach was going to have permanent grooves circling it from the waistband.

He glanced from her plate to his, seemingly bewildered by the now-empty plate in front of him. “Damn!”

“It's all right. I expect a man to have a good appetite.”

He again made no reply, his jawbone working as if he were filled with anger, but at what?

Earl came over, still grimacing at the stranger.

“We'll have some coffee, Earl,” Connie said. “And would you put the rest of my dinner in a doggie bag?”

“Anyt'ing you'd like, Miss Connie,” Earl said, picking up her dish with a flourish, followed by a sneer as he took Max's empty plate.

“Where the hell is Pagozzi?” Max said, eying the clock on the back wall. “I didn't expect to be here this late.”

“He seems to have stood me up, that's for sure.” She was surprised that she could say it with a lilt to her voice, as opposed to the horrible way she felt a short while ago.

“He's usually not so unlucky,” Max murmured, more to himself than to Connie. He stared at the clock
once more, then shook his head and sighed. “That's my area of expertise.”

Earl brought them both some coffee, and the doggie bag. She slid it toward Max, and he gave a slight nod in thanks, his cheeks flushed.

Connie spent most days in Everyone's Fancy, her modest gift shop in a lazy corner of San Francisco. She ran it alone, except for a college student who helped out a few hours each week. Her apartment building was just a couple of blocks away.

Sometimes, like tonight, she enjoyed getting away from her own neighborhood with hope of adventure, or at least avoiding the same old familiar routines. Unfortunately, this evening hadn't worked out the way she'd planned, although it hadn't been boring either.

Max folded his hands around the coffee cup as if enjoying its warmth, and she wondered at a man who appreciated something so ordinary.

“Have you known Mr. Pagozzi very long?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“So, you must have known him when he was just starting out in football.”

“Right.” Max sipped the coffee and said no more.

“Did you work with the Forty-Niners?” she asked with enthusiasm.

He seemed to find her question funny. “Not at all.”

“I see.” She racked her brain for something more to say. “What about family? Are you married? Any kids?”

“No wife, no kids, no family who'll admit to it.” His mood shifted, and he glared at her. “I suppose you come from a big, warm, loving brood?”

The derision in his voice stung. “Actually, I don't.
For years, it was just me and my sister, and we weren't close.” Connie hesitated, but something about the way he dismissed her, as if he were the only person in the world who knew trouble, made her add, “A while back, she was murdered.”

Shocked, his gaze met hers. Then the moment passed and he drained his coffee cup. “Shit happens.”

His words stung. “That's one way to put it.” The pain of Tiffany's murder had been overwhelming. The only good that had come of it—other than Paavo Smith finding the killer—was that she'd met Angie. Oddly, she and Angie were much closer than she'd ever been with her sister.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to—”

Earl cleared his throat as he stood stiffly beside the table. “Butch an' Vinnie say da dinner's on da house, seein' as how youse guys was here to see Butch's nephew an' he didn't show.”

“You don't have to do that,” Connie said. “No one's to blame.”

“Please accept it wit' our apologies. An' Butch'll box Dennis's ears next time he sees him.”

“He doesn't have to do that either,” Connie said with a smile. Many years ago, Butch had been a prizefighter—bantamweight. He usually lost, and he was still a little scrambled-brained from a few too many head blows. She didn't know if it was the prizefighting that had led to his life of crime, or vice versa. “Thank you for the dinner, and be sure to tell Butch and Vinnie for me, too. I really appreciate it.”

“Me, too,” Max murmured, uncomfortable.

“Yeah, well, I guess you're bot' welcome. Have a good night, Miss Connie.” Earl scowled yet again at Max, and left.

She glanced at Max. “I suppose it's time for me to get a move on.”

“Pagozzi's not coming here any more tonight, that's for sure.” He sounded disgusted.

She tried not to grimace as she wriggled her feet back into their stiletto torture racks, then took out her wallet, trying to figure out a tip.

“I looked at the menu in the window,” he said. “Food's not too expensive here. That was about a thirty-dollar meal, so fifteen percent would be four-fifty. If you want to go twenty, that'd be six bucks.”

“What are you, some kind of accountant?” Connie said with a laugh. She put a ten-dollar bill on the table.

He looked stricken by her words, then stood and put on his overcoat. The color that had returned to his complexion as he sat and ate disappeared once more.

“Max?” she said, worried.

“I'll be all right.” He slowly straightened, an arm pressed again to his ribs. He helped her with her heavy wool coat, a shapeless navy blue one that reached to mid-calf, the kind her mother had taught her was “practical.”

On Columbus Avenue, the foggy breeze blowing off the bay and slashing through the North Beach area was brutal. Connie's stylish hairdo was whipped back and swirled from side to side as if caught in an egg-beater. So much for trying to look gorgeous, not to mention all the gel and hairspray she'd used so that this wouldn't happen. She burrowed into her coat, and Max raised the collar of his thin overcoat. Between the cold and the pain he was obviously in, he looked ready to pass out. “I can drop you off somewhere,” she said.

“No, thanks,” he said, through unsteady breaths. “My hotel isn't far.”

“It's no big deal. You look like you're hurting.”

“Not…not really…” He was gasping more heavily. “Is your car near? I'll walk to you it.”

She was relieved to hear that. She didn't relish walking the streets alone. “It's on the next corner. A little red Toyota Corolla—ten years old. I bought it a few months ago. So far, it's given me no trouble, and I can go all over the city on a gallon of gas.”

“Sounds good,” he murmured.

As they walked, he seemed a bit shaky—even wobblier than she was in her heels. Had she known him better she would have taken his arm to steady him. “The car's small enough that I squeezed it in between a Caddy and a fire hydrant. Parking lots cost a fortune in this area.”

“Yes.” He paused. “So I've heard.”

He worried her. “Are you sure you won't need a ride?”

“No. Let's get you to…to your good-luck car.”

As they hurried on without speaking, Connie felt she should do something, but he was a stranger to her.

“Here it is.” The back seat of the Corolla was filled with boxes of supplies for her store that she hadn't carried inside yet, along with mountains of paperwork saved for federal and state tax purposes, while the front passenger seat had remnants of her last couple of McDonald's drive-throughs. She usually kept her car neater than this—a little—but she'd been busy.

The car was too old and cheap for alarms and remote-control buttons and had to be unlocked the old-fashioned way—with a key. “Thanks for walking with me, Max.”

“Dennis was very much a loser tonight for not showing up. He is a nice guy, though. One of the best. Don't
hold this against him.” He stepped back, studying her. A lamppost was beside the car, and he reached for it, gripping it as if the pole alone was responsible for keeping him upright. “Take care of yourself, Connie.”

His regard was unnerving. It'd been a long time since a man had looked at her in quite that way. “You, too,” she murmured.

She didn't know what more to add, but leaving like this seemed somehow incomplete. He was a strange man, and an interesting one. She waited a moment for him to say something more, but he didn't. Standing there gawking at him was childish, so she smiled and said. “See you.” When he still made no response, she bolted around the car to the driver's side.

He stood and watched, pale and wan under the streetlights, as she drove off.

What a weird character. She should just forget about him, think how lucky she was to be going home to her cozy little apartment. A half block later, she began to berate herself for having left him in such a sorry condition. He was hurting. What if he needed a doctor? She'd dumped him like rotten Limburger. How cold was that?

On the other hand, he was penniless and dressed like a bum. Was she crazy? What did she want with him? Nothing! By two blocks, though, guilt overcame her. She pulled over to the curb to build up the courage to face Max again and insist he let her drive him to his hotel or a doctor—his choice.

She angled the rearview mirror to check her makeup and make sure she didn't have a parsley flake stuck between her teeth.

Holy cripes!
Her hair had frizzed from the heavy mist and stuck straight out from her head in weird, crinkly
clumps. Any man who hadn't been appalled by such a sight was worth saving. Now, for sure, she had to make certain he was okay.

If he was walking along and looking fit, she'd just drive by and hope he wouldn't notice it was her. On the other hand, what did it matter if he did notice? She'd never see him again, anyway. Why should she care?

She made a U-turn in the middle of the block and headed back to the corner she'd left him on.

It was empty. She stopped the car and got out. He wasn't walking down the block they'd come up, and she didn't see him on any of the adjacent streets either. Apparently, he'd been able to move a lot faster than she thought he could.

You're such a jerk, Rogers!
she thought. He'd probably been faking it all along. How much of what he'd said that evening was a lie? What was it about her that made men turn into a song parody—as in
don't believe their lying eyes
?