Two Cooks A-Killing (3 page)

Bart Farrell stared at the empty suitcase on the bed of his six-million-dollar Bel Air home—the house that Cliff Roxbury bought. It was a stately white mansion on Stone Canyon Road, the kind of place that looked more imposing, Farrell had to admit, from the outside. The rooms were small, the walls had spidery cracks from numerous earthquakes, there was no view to speak of, and the plumbing needed to be torn out and replaced, if he had the money to do it.

The time had come to pack. He sucked in his gut and looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad. He'd only gained a bit over fifteen pounds…maybe twenty…at most twenty-five, over the past ten years, and stretched out over a six-foot frame, it was barely noticeable. Anyway, many megastars wore girdles from time to time.

From the top of the closet he pulled down a hatbox and lifted out a tan Australian bush hat with one side tied against the crown—the Crocodile Dundee look. He never quite understood why
Cliff Roxbury, who had left the Outback with amnesia, wore an Aussie hat since supposedly he couldn't remember he
was
Australian. Farrell was a bit ashamed that it took him four years into the show before he thought to question the hat, but since nobody else brought it up, he kept that little discrepancy to himself. He guessed he was simply more clever than most.

Before the mirror again, Farrell placed the hat on his head, cocked it to one side, and viewed his left profile, then the right. He adjusted the hat a little lower on the brow and tried again. That was it. Dashing. Rakish. And, if he did say so himself, sexy as hell.

That was the real reason he didn't question Cliff wearing the hat.

He leaned closer to the mirror and stroked his cheeks. The wrinkles hadn't been there in the past. Soon it would be time for another facelift. The last one wasn't half bad. He especially liked the way it pulled his eyebrows up and outward, as if they were wings, ready to fly away. He'd be seeing Dr. Waterfield in St. Helena. Maybe they could work out a deal.

Too bad the skin tuck couldn't remedy the bushiness of his brows. He'd tried plucking the stray hairs out, but they grew back thicker and more corkscrew-like than ever. When he trimmed them, they protruded like needles on a porcupine. He forced himself to ignore them, or, if absolutely necessary, to slick them down with pomade.

He studied the lines on his face more critically this time. No problem, he'd simply ask for a
heavy filter on the camera lens. Who'd ever know, besides the crew and cast?

The cast…

He shut his eyes. How could he go through it all again?

Bring it all back to the surface after all these years? He should have been able to put it behind him by now, to move on. But he hadn't.

Somehow, from early on, he knew he'd be forever stuck in the
Eagle Crest
world, unable to break away. Not
wanting
to break away.

And he'd been right.

If it was his career he was thinking of, it wouldn't have mattered so much. If it was only his career, he'd be glad. Instead, it was much, much more.

Don't think about the past
, he ordered himself, not Rhonda, or Gwen, or Kyle…or Brittany. Especially not poor, dead Brittany.
Put it out of your mind and stop. Right now. Just stop!

He let himself drop onto the edge of the bed, the hat shadowing his eyes, and stared at the Persian carpet covering the floor.

 

Rhonda Manning entered the bedroom of her suite in San Francisco's Fairmont Hotel feeling pampered and beautiful. Three days ago she'd left her home in Beverly Hills and traveled north. Here, she was only a couple of hours from St. Helena.

In miles, the distance involved wasn't bad, but in years, it felt as if centuries had passed.

She took off her gloves and tossed them onto
the bed, followed by her coat. The chilliness of San Francisco as compared to Los Angeles never ceased to surprise her.

Today, she'd gone to Elizabeth Arden for “the works.” For the past ten years, she'd been a tall, slender, sleek-haired blonde, but now she was back to Natalie's flaming red color and bouffant, Ice Follies–queen style. Her blue eyes, always enormous, appeared even more spherical and wide with the carefully applied make-up, and her high, round cheekbones were made more pronounced by the dark, coppery blush in the hollows of her cheeks.

The cosmeticians had told her she was even more gorgeous than she'd been in the past, that she was more “mature” and more elegant. Her face had more character, more finesse.

She spun toward the mirror. Her jaws clenched, the joint below the ear working as she ground her teeth. She hated the way she looked.

It was one thing to look at her transformation at Elizabeth Arden, quite another to see Natalie here, in her hotel suite.

The past rushed at her.

With her hand on her chest, in a breathy, little girl voice with a heavy hint of the Southern belle, she said, “It's all yo-ah fault, Cliff dahling. Ah know you! How day-ah you talk to me lahk thay-at!”

Her face fell and she stared, hard, at her reflection. “And I know you, Natalie. What you are. What you have the power to make me. How I hate you! I hate you!”

She threw a hairbrush at the mirror. It hit with a clatter, but the glass didn't break.

She flung herself into a chair and covered her mouth with shaking hands. Soon her whole body trembled.

Playing Natalie again was the last thing she wanted to do. She didn't know if she could bear it. A Christmas special, no less. Brittany had died while taping a Christmas special. What an ironic coincidence.

She began to laugh aloud, then stopped.

Or was it?

What if it wasn't a coincidence?

What if it was on purpose, all of this was on purpose? What if someone wanted to resurrect the horror after all these years?

Her initial reaction had been to prevent the Christmas special from going forward. Now she was more convinced than ever.

She clenched her fists. The show must
not
go on.

 

Angie dashed down the two flights of stairs to the main floor of the house. She hadn't bothered to unpack, but had simply freshened up before going in search of the director or someone in charge. It'd be prudent to make sure she had the job before she moved in.

Also, she didn't like being in that oppressive bedroom any longer than necessary.

In the family room, Dr. Sterling Waterfield sat at a bar outlined in Christmas tree lights, with a Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer figure on one end. Rudolph's nose glowed as he bucked up and down—which looked like he was either “prancing” awkwardly…or humping the bar top.

It had been several years since Angie had last
seen Waterfield. He appeared younger than ever—which, she supposed, was the way it should be for someone in the plastic surgery business. With thick gray hair and dark eyes, his face was sun-baked to a bronzed hue and looked as shiny as polished leather. No sags, though. Not around the eyes, not even beneath the chin. He was of medium height, and bony, as if in his quest to keep his skin firm, he'd forgotten to eat. He wore a maroon velvet smoking jacket and black slacks. On the bar at his elbow was a drink. It wasn't wine.

“Dr. Waterfield.” She walked toward him, her hands outstretched.

He jumped up. They air-kissed, then he took one hand, stepping back to look at her. “Angelina! How you've grown. You're beautiful! Simply beautiful!”

“Thank you,” she murmured. His hair no longer receded as far as it used to. She studied his hairline for plugs. Sure enough, the little devils were there. When she was young she'd had a doll with washable hair. The hair had been attached by punching tufts of it into the doll's scalp.

It wasn't too ugly on a doll.

“Look at that face.” He lifted her chin, running his hands along her cheekbones. “Usually, I can find something to improve upon. I'm very skilled, you know. But not with you. You're beautiful enough to be a part of the
cast
, not just the crew…” His words trailed off as tiny eyes scrutinized her face.

She caught her breath, waiting.

Something was wrong.

He coughed slightly, then turned and walked around to the back of the bar. “Won't you join me in a drink? I'm having a little Scotch. I treat myself to my own wine at dinner.” He made a small smile. She was afraid the skin on his face would split open if he stretched it any more broadly. “I don't like to sit here and drink alone, but when I see so many people descend on my home, I feel the need.”

From the little she'd already seen and heard, Angie could understand needing liquor to deal with these people. Perhaps vast quantities of it—as long as it wasn't Waterfield wine.

Joining him was the only sociable thing to do. She sat down on a barstool and switched off Rudolph. The reindeer was too distracting. “I'll have some sherry.” She glanced toward the Christian Brothers on a shelf and prayed the Waterfield winery didn't make sherry. Luckily, he reached for the bottle on display. As he poured, she said, “I'd like to thank you for giving me the opportunity to come here and take part in all this.”

“It was nothing. I was just lucky that I happened to be in the city and ran into your dad at our favorite watering hole in North Beach.”

“You ran into him?” she asked, trying to hide her surprise. That wasn't what Salvatore had told her.

“Yes. We started talking. I told him about the show, and how a big scene would take place around the Christmas dinner table. He suggested you cook the meal for us.”

Angie was shocked. “I didn't realize that.”

“He didn't tell you? I wonder why not?”

Her mind was racing. Why would her father lie? Did he think she would be offended that it was his idea and not Waterfield's? “I don't know,” she admitted. “But it's fine. I appreciate your faith in me.”

“You're most welcome. I think you'll do much better than the caterer we were going to use—”

Caterer?
She was horrified. Visions of huge metal bins of overcooked spaghetti and under-cooked pot roast assaulted her.
I should hope so!

“—And, we love having you here. When your dad said you could use some time out of the city, I was glad to offer my place. You remember Junior, I hope. Sal and I were always sorry things didn't work out for Junior and Frannie. I've always wanted you to meet Silver.”

“I see.” Angie's lips pursed as her father's possible motive took an ugly turn. “This is all most interesting.”

“Not telling tales out of school, am I?”

“Not at all.” She gave a weak smile, then tried to come up with a diplomatic way to ask her question. “With this large house, I'm surprised you don't have your own cook, not to mention a housekeeper and gardener.”

“I do, but when the TV crew shows up, they take care of everything. My people are on vacation.”

“They take care of the food as well?”

“It's all catered, but Tarleton also brought along his own cook, who's staying in the house, in fact. He takes care of anything special Tarleton might want.”

Angie didn't need to hear that. “I don't under
stand. Tarleton has his own cook, yet he wants someone else to prepare the Christmas dinner?”

“I don't understand it either.”

Angie's brow furrowed.

“Don't worry. I've been told the special is all yours. At most, he'll provide an extra pair of hands for preparing your Christmas feast.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Here's to a wonderful meal—good tidings and good wassailing.”

“Thank you.
Salute
.”

Feeling somewhat appeased as to her prospects for the job, she had a pressing question. “Earlier, you said that with my looks I could be in the cast. Then you stopped. I was wondering why. Did you notice some problem?”

“Oh, my dear girl!” He chuckled self-consciously. “How could you think such a thing?”

He didn't deny it. She steeled herself. “I can take it.”

“Why do you care? Are you interested in acting? If so, I'm sure I can introduce you to some important people. You can't be a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles for as many years as I have without meeting lots of the right people.”

“I've never thought about acting.”
Much.
“At least not until I came here.”
And started thinking about it full time.

“Looks like the acting bug may be nibbling at you already.” He chuckled. “Have you ever acted, Angie?”

Completely flustered, she could only murmur, “I've been in a couple of plays.” High school plays, but he hadn't asked for specifics. “I had a lead role in
Damn Yankees
.”

She took a deep breath and belted out, “Whatever Lola Wants,” complete with well-practiced hand gestures.

When she got to the part where she sang, “Little man, little Lola wants you!” and pointed at Waterfield, he stopped her.

“That's enough!” he cried, rubbing his ear. “You have a very strong voice. Rumor has it Tarleton will be directing a musical next. They're making something of a comeback, you know.”

“Really?” Was this fate? Kismet? Is this why she'd never found a job that satisfied her creativity and paid a decent wage? Because she was cut out for stardom?

“Thank you,” she beamed.

“Won't Salvatore be proud to see his very own daughter in the movies! You'll have riches and a glamorous way of life beyond your wildest dreams! And many rich, handsome men after you…”

Her heart hammered. “I'm sure, but…”

“But?”

“I'm engaged. I'm going to be married.”

His face fell. “Oh, Angelina, I'm so very sorry.” With that, he took his Scotch and left the room.

Paavo hung up the phone. Angie had used a landline in the house since she couldn't get her cell phone to work. The location was too remote, the hills too high. They'd barely begun to talk when someone else picked up and began dialing. They cut the conversation short.

She'd sounded overjoyed to be at Eagle Crest and babbled on about all kinds of things and people that made no sense.

Plastic chocolates? Lava lamps? And who in the world was Lola?

Then she hung up, and his world seemed even emptier than before they'd talked.

Yosh came in to the bureau. He immediately searched all the table and desktops, and practically stood on his head looking under them when he found nothing on top.

“What's up?” Paavo asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking how, when you and Angie were first engaged, she kept sending food down here. Remember the cream puffs,
and how they had so much powdered sugar, it sprinkled out of the bottom of the box and the whole hazardous materials team, in their suits, followed it up the elevator, down the hall, then came in here and quarantined us?”

“Yeah…I remember,” Paavo said glumly.

“Or,” Yosh chuckled—“when she sent the angel food cake covered with little balloons, and how we were all having such a good time popping them? Who knew someone would report gunfire?”

“I remember.” Paavo grew impatient.

“Or the ten-foot-long mortadella, and how we said it must remind her—”

“Stop! I remember, all right?”

“It was kinda cute, you know.” Yosh sounded wistful. “Not that I'm missing it, or anything. Hey, it couldn't go on forever. She's got a life, after all.”

“Yeah, she's got a life,” Paavo said, feeling more morose than he had in a long time. Yosh wasn't the only one who missed Angie's attention.

 

Angie downed her sherry and squared her shoulders. Time to get to work. As she headed for the kitchen, a sense of peace and purpose settled over her for the first time today. She had a job to do on a popular TV show. With a skip of joy, she sang to herself—quietly this time—“This Could Be the Start of Something Big.”

To Angie, kitchens were oases of comfort, of warm aromas and friendly memories. Of childhood and family, dinner parties and holidays. Of times when you're feeling sick and need something soothing like hot soup. Or joyful, and want
to splurge with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. Or troubled, and you sit at the counter or table with a cup of latte and a biscotti or two. Or simply feeling good about cooking a meal that is nourishing and tasty for those you love.

Eagle Crest's kitchen was situated in the center of the house between the breakfast room on one side and a butler's pantry leading to the dining room on the other. The door was propped halfway open. One step inside, and she stopped, amazed.

It was a gourmet cook's delight—roomy, with lots of counter space, a massive center island, and filled with professional-quality Viking appliances. As she compared it to the small, well-packed kitchen in her apartment, she gave a little “Ah” and walked further into the room.

“Ouch! What the hell!” A red-faced chef dropped his knife onto the onion he'd been slicing. He stuck a finger in his mouth as he glared over his shoulder at her.

Angie froze. He was scarcely taller than she was, with what seemed to be a muscular physique under a long-sleeved white chef's smock and an apron that reached past his knees. His hair was the yellow-white color that comes only from bleach, and atop it was a tall chef's cap. His eyebrows were similarly bleached. She hadn't noticed him because the half-opened door had blocked her view of his part of the kitchen. She was horrified that she'd caused him to cut himself. “I'm sorry!”

He remained flushed with anger. “Who are you coming in here and scaring the vits out of a person?”

“I didn't mean to…
vits?
”

“Vits! Vits!” He stabbed at his forehead with his cut finger. It left no blood. The cut was obviously miniscule. No doubt, he was being a baby. Typical chef. He seemed to have acquired an accent much like Sergeant Schultz in
Hogan's Heroes
. She didn't remember any accent when he cut himself.

“Who the hell are you?” he ranted. “Who let you into my kitchen? Nobody is supposed to come in here. Vhat's wrong vit you people? Get out!”

And she did. She supposed a man who'd just cut himself was allowed to be in a bad mood. This was not the time to introduce herself as the person who'd be giving him recipes and expecting him to help her cook—
if
the director agreed to give her the job.

She needed to find Tarleton. Once she had the job, she didn't care how much the cook yelled. He wasn't keeping her out of
her
kitchen.

 

As Angie passed by the dining room in her search, she stopped and entered. In this room, TV cameras would film the food she'd prepare, her creations, her delectable joys—she ran her fingers over the solid mahogany table—here, for millions and millions of people to see.

Her gaze stopped at the ornate mirror over the buffet, and an earlier, troublesome conversation rushed back at her. She looked over her shoulders, even stuck her head into the entry hall. No one was around. This was as good a time as any.

She darted to the mirror and studied her image.
Up close, back further. What did Dr. Waterfield think was so wrong with it?

She remembered reading that a lot of movie stars were putting collagen in their lips to make them thicker. Maybe that was the problem. Her lips, though, weren't thin. In fact, her mouth was usually described as “full,” although possibly not full enough. Not Warner Brothers full.

She stuck her tongue under her top lip to see if that might give her an idea of what she'd look like with a puffier mouth.

It told her what a fat lip looked like in a boxing ring.

She protruded her lips and tried folding back the upper one. All it did was hit her nose and make her gums show.

“Miss Amalfi? Is something wrong?”

In the mirror, she saw another tall, tanned, thin Hollywood-type heading her way. Did everyone have a tan who lived in that part of the state? Hadn't they ever heard of sun block?

This man was L.A. personified with a short-sleeved tangerine shirt that had the first three buttons open. His gray chest hair was a lot fuller than the few similarly colored strands that stretched across the top of his head. A gold-chain necklace winked at her. It seemed so dated, the costume of an over-the-hill, only-in-his-own-mind swinger.

She frowned. “Who are you?”

Voice icy, words clipped, he replied, “Emery Tarleton.”

The director!
She spun around, blushing furiously. “Oh! I'm so sorry. I…I just wanted to
make sure there was no food stuck between my teeth. I hate it when that happens.” If the floor had opened up, she would have gladly sunk into it.

Tarleton adjusted his thick black-framed glasses, studying her as she did him. “I wish to talk to you about your role,” he said. “The
Eagle Crest Christmas Reunion
will be aired during the December sweeps. Already, the buzz is that it will be the most watched show of the year—if not the decade. Inspiration got the cast together again.” An eyebrow arched. “Inspiration and genius.”

His
genius was clearly what he was thinking. His good luck, she thought, that the two members of the cast who'd gone on to become popular movie stars—Kyle O'Rourke and Gwen Hagen, aka Adrian and Leona Roxbury—were available and still affordable.

“Yes, sir,” she murmured.

“You will present the Christmas dinner—mouthwatering, somewhat-traditional-but-not-overly, entrées and desserts,” he declared. “The Roxburys put on airs to show off their money. They might serve frogs' legs, but none of them would actually eat one. Same for escargots. You get the picture. That's the kind of food I want.”

“No problem.” A few tweaks here and there in the dinner she'd planned, perhaps by adding sea urchins, sweetbreads, eel, or other equally gourmet-but-squeamish foods, and she'd have it.

“You will serve a different wine with each course. Waterfield wine.”

“Waterfield?” The word fell from her lips. Did the man have no taste? Could she tell the director,
on their first meeting, that Waterfield wine was only useful for clearing clogged drains? She tried for diplomacy. “Are you sure we don't want to showcase other great Napa Valley wines?”

He frowned. “This is the Waterfield winery. Dr. Waterfield allows us to use his home, and as a favor, we use his wine on the show. The man's rich, but he's got to get some compensation. Don't you agree?”

It wasn't a question that required anything more than an “Of course,” which she immediately gave him.

“Keep in mind,” Tarleton said, “the menu must be exact.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, as if she knew what he meant.
Exact what?

“If you aren't able to do something so simple, speak up now.” He turned sharp eyes on her. “Don't waste my time later saying you can't do this or that. I'll refuse to hear it. Refuse! Absolutely. No backing out. Got it?”

“I've got it.” He was making her more nervous by the second. She hated being spoken to like a backward child.

“You'll have a budget; I expect you to stay within it, give or take a few grand. All I want is to see the results, not to hear about them. Is that clear?”

“It's not that difficult,” she protested when he stopped barking orders.

He scowled derisively. “Have you ever worked in television before?”

“No.”

With pursed lips, he smirked. “It figures.”

“I can do it,” she said. “I'm already thinking of a meal—”

“Quiet!” His eyes narrowed as he put his fingers to his lips and began to stroll around the dining room table. “The more I think about it…yes!” He waved his arms. “Forget everything I just said! We're going to use the same menu as on an earlier Christmas show.”

She prayed she'd misunderstood. “I can come up with a wonderful holiday menu. Something elegant, true haute cuisine. How much is my budget, by the way?”

“Forget it. My idea is much better. Perfection. I even surprise myself sometimes!”

“What are you saying?” She felt tears threatening. She wanted to create a fabulous meal and show the world—or the
Eagle Crest
-watching part of it—what she could do. Launch a television career, make a name for herself…

With his hands flat on the tabletop, he leaned toward her, dropping his voice. “We're going to re-create the meal that was served on the night Julia Parker was murdered. I don't suppose you know what I'm talking about.”

“Of course I do,” Angie said, puzzled. “She was Natalie's sister's daughter, the result of the sister going to a sperm bank and getting sperm that, in fact, might have been Cliff and Adrian's fathers, making her their half-sister. And, if so, part owner of the winery. Then, she was mysteriously killed. After that, there were hints that Julia was haunting the family. In fact, everything inexplicable that happened after she died was blamed on Julia's ghost. Frankly, I always suspected it was just a
cop-out when the writers couldn't come up with a halfway decent rationale…”

She snapped her mouth shut. As director, Tarleton had to have approved the scripts. “If so,” she said with a broad smile, “it was clever. Extremely clever.”

Tarleton stared at her. “You really do know your
Eagle Crest
history.”

“Of course,” Angie said proudly. “But what does that have to do with the dinner?”

“Haven't you ever wondered who killed her?”

“I know Cliff was accused. Of course, he was innocent.” She remembered her disappointment with the storyline. “Big surprise! As if the public would continue watching if the show's sexiest star was cooped up in jail instead of out flirting and making mischief. As I understand it, the whole problem came about because the actress who played Julia died. I remember the press trying to hint that drugs or something more was involved, but the police said no, that it was just a terrible accident. Am I right?”

“Exactly.” Tarleton said. “She was a beautiful young woman named Brittany Keegan.” His jaw clenched. “But everyone has forgotten her. Everyone! She died right here at Eagle Crest.”

Angie's eyes widened. “In this house? I didn't know that. How could I have missed hearing such a thing?”

“After the initial reports,” Tarleton said, lifting his chin, “the follow-up stories were worded so that the fans would assume her death took place in Los Angeles, not on location. We did it for the sake of the Waterfield family, of course.”

“Of course,” Angie replied. Not to mention for the sake of the show, although it continued only one more season after that.

When Bart Farrell and Rhonda Manning refused to renew their contracts, the show was as dead as Brittany Keegan.

“I'm telling you this simply because you'll be working here, and everyone else knows it.” His gaze was severe. “I trust you'll keep it quiet.”

“Yes,” Angie promised. Not only was it unbelievable that she had this job, now she was privy to insider-only Hollywood gossip. Wait until she told Paavo!

“Miss Keegan was only twenty-three years old.” Tarleton walked over to the poinsettias on the buffet and stroked the red leaves. He brushed off his fingertips against his slacks, grimacing with disgust at forgetting they were fake. He spun toward Angie.

“Everyone kept a stiff upper lip and continued on as if nothing had happened, except, of course, coming up with the new plot about Julia's murder.” His voice softened. “It was almost as if Brittany had never lived and hadn't died right under their noses. The show grew ever more popular—even after it was cancelled. The younger stars—O'Rourke and Hagen—went on to bigger things. Their salaries soared. Brittany should have been one of them.”