Two Cooks A-Killing (9 page)

Angie was conflicted. When she returned to Eagle Crest she'd phoned Paavo to learn he'd been in St. Helena at the same time as she'd been in San Francisco. They'd agreed it would be best not to try such “surprises” in the future.

Although sorry she'd missed him, at the same time she was moved that he'd come all the way to the Napa Valley to see her. How romantic! How touching!

How infuriating that she wasn't there!

The whole experience reminded her of O. Henry's “The Gift of the Magi,” in which a woman cuts her hair to buy her husband a fob for his watch, and he sells his watch for a comb for her hair. The story was about love. Just like her and Paavo.

She learned he'd left her a note. Immediately she ran down to the foyer to retrieve it. Somehow, she'd overlooked it when she returned.

It wasn't there. She searched high and low. The stupid rotating tree's “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” sounded more and more mocking
with each passing moment. The note was gone.

Who would have taken it? Later, when she climbed into bed, dreams of Paavo and an electric blanket kept her warm in the frigid room until she fell asleep.

But the wailing of fire sirens woke her.

Disoriented, she put on a robe and ran downstairs. Tarleton, Mariah, Sterling, Silver, and Serefina huddled in the foyer, watching firemen check the situation in the living room.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Some man saw smoke coming from the sofa,” Serefina said. “I heard him shouting about it.” Serefina and Tarleton were the only ones who wore nightclothes.

“What man?”

“I don't know who he was,” Sterling said. “Maybe one of the crew. He was dressed in brown, kind of scruffy, and wore a fedora. He ran out the door as I came downstairs. Whoever he was, thank God he was here. We were able to put out the fire before any damage was done.”

“He wasn't one of the crew,” Angie said. “He's a reporter. He's here looking into the death of Brittany Keegan.”

 

Sunday morning Angie found herself at mass at St. Helena Catholic Church, a beautiful old building that was once a mission. She'd been so inundated with Christmas at Eagle Crest, she was expecting a service about the journey to Bethlehem. What month was it, anyway?

As they drove home from church, Serefina told her Sterling's story of the missing Little Drummer
Boy. Apparently, it had belonged to the Waterfield family for years. His wife, Crystal, had loved it and was quite upset when, years ago, it disappeared. Sterling was relieved when the set designer found it. He'd planned to reclaim it after the taping was over. Its sudden disappearance, once again, only added to the mystery.

They no sooner reentered the house when Sterling whisked Serefina away for breakfast and the wine train tour of the Valley.

Angie had wanted to ask him more about the missing music box, but when he gave her face another of his disconcerting stares, all she could think about was what could possibly be wrong with it. She was relieved, in fact, when he left.

In the breakfast room a choice of cold cereal, fresh fruit, pastry, and coffee had been set out. As Angie peeled an orange, Mariah entered.

“Have you seen Mr. Tarleton this morning?” Angie asked.

Mariah picked through the pastry. “He's planning a read-through of the script tonight.”

“How exciting!” Finally she'd learn—

“It's for the actors only,” Mariah added. “They'll use the living room, with the doors shut. He doesn't want the actors to feel self-conscious since they haven't had time to practice.”

Angie shrugged. “That's okay. Where is he now?”

“I think he went for a walk. Kyle, too.” Mariah bit into a glazed doughnut. “All he talks to me about is that damned drummer boy music box. How the hell should I know who took it? I don't even care.”

“Will they be back soon?” Angie asked.

“Who knows? They took the path that leads into the hills just outside the courtyard gate. You could probably find them easily enough if you don't want to wait.”

Angie didn't want to waste another day waiting for Tarleton. Muttering to herself, she quickly changed into jeans and hiking boots.

The path behind the house was well worn, probably a deer path that people had taken over.

For a long while the trees and shrubs weren't thick, and she was able to see the house. She hurried, hoping to catch up to Tarleton and O'Rourke.

The house disappeared and the path narrowed. She continued on, expecting that once she reached the top of the hill she'd be able to see how far ahead they might be. If she was very lucky, she'd run into them on their way back.

The path ran diagonally rather than straight up, and the top of the hill remained a good distance away. As she plunged deeper into the brush, she wondered why Tarleton was so anxious about the Little Drummer Boy when it belonged to the Waterfield family. And why had Silver taken the doll she'd found in Gwen's bedroom? What had he done with it? Was there a connection?

Not to mention last night's fire. The firemen said it was lucky someone—Digger, she suspected—had come by in time to smother the flames with pillows before it erupted into a full-fledged fire. They didn't know what had caused it, and suggested sending out arson investigators.

Sterling demurred, preferring to blame it on a cigarette. The firemen looked skeptical.

None of this made sense.

Weary, she was about to give up when she heard a noise.

She stopped. Silence. What could the noise have been? Was it human…or was it more like a roar or growl?

The city girl remembered that mountain lions were fairly common in this area. She glanced up, her head swiveling. They liked to climb trees and pounce on their prey according to Animal Planet. She didn't see any, but then, they were good at hiding. She began to back away. Could there be bears as well?

What was she supposed to do? She'd heard something about people not running away from mountain lions—that such behavior caused them to chase their prey. On the other hand, all she had to use as a weapon was a fingernail file in her back pocket.

Suddenly, she knew the true meaning of “
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!
”

It meant
run
.

Rational thought left her. She careened straight down the mountain side as fast as her legs could take her, terrified that she'd come face to face with a mountain lion, wishing she were back home in her penthouse on Russian Hill, wishing for Paavo, wondering how long he'd mourn for her after they found her half-eaten body…

A figure reared up in front of her.

Unable to stop, she let out a scream and ran right into it.

 

Two more “Birds of Prey” murders, as the press had dubbed them, occurred Saturday night. Half
of Homicide, including Paavo, Calderon and Benson, the chief of police, and the mayor's chief of staff met to talk about the murders and the panic the news media was trying to drum up about them.

It was clear to everyone working the cases that the cause was a turf war between gangs engaged in drug trafficking. The police had not yet released any hard evidence, however, and without it they could open themselves up to charges of besmirching the good names of fine people who came to these shores seeking a better life if they referred to them as drug dealers. So the situation became a tug-of-war between the police department and the press over facts and figures and truth—not an unusual state of affairs in San Francisco.

No one felt especially bad about drug dealers deciding to off each other. Their concern was about drugs flooding the area and innocent people getting killed in the crossfire as this war threatened to grow ever larger. An all-out effort to stop it was in the works.

Paavo threw himself into the investigation. The irony of it was that most intense manhunts like this one would have served to divert some of his thoughts and worry away from Angie and the strange people surrounding her in the Napa Valley. With this case, though, he was constantly coming up against the words “birds of prey” and “eagle,” which only served as reminders that he wanted her home.

His concentration was completely shattered when Homicide's secretary, Elizabeth, brought
him the copy he'd requested of Brittany Keegan's death certificate.

Multiple traumas to head and neck, the result of a fall, had caused Keegan's death. The California database held no files on the case. The determination of accidental death had apparently been so definitive to the medical examiner and detectives at the scene that despite the high profile of the victim, no investigation was launched.

How could they have been so certain? He was tempted to phone the St. Helena police department, but his call would be met with suspicion and irritation. He would be seen as the big city “expert” ready to second-guess a small town police force. Which was exactly what he was doing.

Napa County probably had sent people from the City of Napa's police department or sheriff's office to make sure the SHPD's findings weren't completely off the wall. He hoped.

He shoved Keegan's death certificate aside. No time for snooping around an eleven-year-old case existed with the city on the brink of a firestorm.

Rebecca Mayfield had been right. He had no business investigating everyone and everything Angie interacted with.

Angie's scream was loud enough to scare away any bear, tiger, or lion within a ten-mile radius. Her momentum carried her into the object in her way. Luckily, the ground was even in this spot, and she managed not to mow them both down.

A shaggy-haired, broad-shouldered mountain man grabbed her arms, stopping her from falling over from the impact.

“Angie! Are you all right?” He winced as he tried to regain his hearing.

She blinked a couple of times. Under the hair, behind the beard, she recognized Junior Waterfield. “I don't know.” She looked over her shoulder to see if she was being chased.

He let go of her. “I'd heard you were here working at Eagle Crest. Do you remember me?”

She tried to catch her breath and stop trembling. “Of course, Junior.” Aside from having hair like a wooly mammoth, he hadn't changed all that much from the days when she was seventeen. She
couldn't help but compare him to the handsome Silver. There was no comparison.

They bore some resemblance, but his features were too sharp, his eyes too small, and his brow too heavy.

“What are you doing climbing around up here?” he asked.

She fidgeted. “Maybe we should hurry back to the house. I heard a mountain lion.”

He grinned. “You don't have to worry about them here. This area is filled with trails for hikers and horseback riders. No one's ever had a problem. Anyway, if there was one, you wouldn't have heard it. One reason they're dangerous is that they're quiet until they pounce.”

“I heard a roar!”

He raised his eyebrows. That was one thing she hadn't liked about him when he came around the house to see Frannie. He always acted as if he were laughing at her—the cute kid sister. She didn't appreciate it.

Paavo out and out laughed with her many times, but never
at
her. It made all the difference.

“There are a lot of feral cats in the hills. Maybe you got too close to one. Sure you didn't hear a meow?”

“All right, if you say so.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Is this part of Waterfield land?”

“It is. Now, why don't you sit down and take a big breath? The last thing you want to do is go back down there with all those people and be talking about strange noises and mountain lions. They'll never let you live it down.”

They found a grassy area and sat side by side, the sun warm on their faces.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” He curled an arm around his bent knees.

She told him about her search for Tarleton.

“I haven't seen him. Maybe he changed his mind. This hill is steeper than it looks.

“So I've noticed.”

He studied her a long while. “I remember our family's plans for me and your sister. Did they send you to take her place?”

Shocked, she stared at him. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“I am ridiculous, Angie,” he said, scratching at his beard. “Everyone says so. And, I was just teasing you about us.”

“It wasn't funny.”

“None of my jokes are. Why haven't you run off?” he asked. “Most women run away from me.”

“I have no reason to run, do I?” She met his gaze squarely.

“Aren't you afraid?”

“Should I be?”

“I'm the madman who spends most of his time alone in these hills instead of in a beautiful house, filled with beautiful people. My own father tried to turn me into one of them, but it didn't work, did it? I'm still the way I was. Still Junior, no matter what my face looks like.”

His words puzzled her. She wondered if he was right and she should run to the house. “Are you talking about your beard? What do you mean?”

“Not the beard. Surely you know.”

She shook her head.

He picked a clover and plucked off the leaves. “I was the homely son. That's how my mother used to introduce me. She'd say, ‘Junior is our oldest. When Silver came along, we got it right.' Then she'd laugh.” Swamp green eyes pierced her. “Frannie never told you that?”

Angie couldn't imagine such a thing. The strange way his father studied her face caused her insides to churn. How could a young boy handle it? “No. Of course not.”

“No?” Now it was his turn to look surprised. He plucked another clover. “Do you know what I got for my high school graduation? Not a car, or a computer, or even an expensive wristwatch. I was given a plastic surgery job.”

Angie said nothing. She suspected Frannie hadn't known. It wasn't the kind of thing Frannie would have kept to herself.

Junior tossed the clover stem aside. “Good old Dad made my nose thinner, my chin squarer, even removed some bags under my eyes. Once the bandages were off, you know what the first words I heard were?”

She shook her head.

“My mom telling my father that I was still ‘no Silver.'” His fingers tightened around a bunch of clover and he pulled them from the ground. “She said she thought he was a better plastic surgeon than that.”

Angie was sickened and horrified. How could a mother be that way? “I'm so sorry, Junior.”

He grimaced, his voice harsh. “Why should you be sorry? I'm surrounded here by beautiful people, and a father whose entire life involves the cre
ation of beauty. What more could any sane person possibly want?” He stood, dusted off his hands and held one out to her. “I'll walk you back to the house. I'd hate for a killer kitty cat to get you.”

She hesitated a moment. His words and sarcasm troubled her, but then she took his hand. He pulled her to her feet.

“Did you always stay away from the actors?” she asked as they walked.

“Not like now. Earlier, I used to talk to some of them.”

Angie's step slowed. “Like Brittany?”

His jaw tightened. “Like Brittany.”

“They gave me her old room,” Angie said.

“I know,” he all but whispered.

“Do you think her death was an accident, Junior?”

His jaw worked. “It's best if you don't ask such questions, Angie. Don't ask anything about her.”

Despite his warning, she couldn't stop herself. “Did you love her?”

He snorted derisively. “Did I love anyone? No, never. Not even my mother, who up and died on me. There's a saying about having a face only a mother could love. I never even had that.”

“I'll admit your brother is exceptional, but you aren't bad looking in the least,” Angie said. “I don't understand why she talked to you that way. She must have been a very unhappy woman.”

He stopped as a family of mountain quail ambled across the path ahead of them. “Who knows? All I knew was that I wasn't good enough. I wasn't Silver, who she was so proud of. I wasn't
good enough for Brittany either. I learned well from both of them.”

The quails' heads bobbed. They darted from side to side, making slow progress as Angie watched. “Tell me about Brittany. You were both around the same age when she died.”

He folded his arms protectively. “She was a slut. What more can I say?”

Angie studied him. “She slept with everyone?”

“That's right,” he said bitterly.

“Bart?”

He hesitated, then spat out the answer. “Yes.”

Somehow, she didn't believe him. “Kyle?”

He answered quickly. “Yes!”

Irritation filled her. “Tarleton? Silver? Your father? You?”

Hate gleamed from his eyes. “What business is it of yours?” His mouth twisted. “Do you want to take over for her? Maybe you'd like to sleep with me? Or, at least tell me you love me. No woman ever has, Angie. You can be the first.” He loomed closer, scaring her. Instinct cried out that it was his hurt talking, that she wasn't in danger. She held firm.

“I'm sorry, Junior,” she murmured. He told the truth as he perceived it, not a truth worth pursuing. “I'm sorry your family has made you so bitter, that they've caused you to waste your life this way. There are women who would gladly have gotten to know you, maybe to have fallen in love with you. I'm sorry you never learned that.”

“Get out of here, Angie. Go back to your city, your fiancé, and forget about this family,” he said.

“I hope to do exactly that as soon as I can.”

“And take your mother with you. She's treading on dangerous waters.” He laughed at his little play on words.

A chill went down Angie's spine as she hurried toward the house by herself.

 

“Paavo, I don't know why, but no one will talk to me about Brittany Keegan,” Angie said into the bedroom extension phone. “Isn't that odd? They'll admit she died here. They all know it. But that's as far as it goes.”

“If they don't want to talk about it,” Paavo cautioned, “it's best not to. Who knows what memories you might be stirring up?” He told her about the lack of police records in the case. The findings were open and shut.

“There's more to it. I can feel it when they look at me.”

“Keep out of it, Angie.”

“I'm curious. Nothing more.”

“I know it, and you know it, but it seems everyone else wants to keep whatever happened there a secret. Remember what happened when Pandora opened the box? Or to put it in terms more fitting to where you are, sometimes in Santa's sack you find a lump of coal and switches.”