Two Cooks A-Killing (6 page)

“There's a man here to see you,” Mariah said, after finding Angie in the kitchen. “He said he's your assistant.”

“A man!” Angie's eye lit up. Third time's the charm, she thought. It had to be Paavo. He came to be with her after all. He didn't really want to be separated from her for long, lonely days…and nights. “How wonderful! Is he in the living room?”

“He's outside the door.” Mariah's pigtails swished as she spun rapidly around and stalked off.

Angie was horrified that Paavo had been left standing on the stoop like some door-to-door salesman. “That will never do!” She dashed to the front door and pulled it open, ready to throw herself into her fiancé's arms. She stopped herself just in time.

Standing in the doorway, covered with snow, was her neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette. Stan could have been a decent-looking fellow—early thirties, fairly tall, wiry build, good dresser, with silky
light brown hair that flopped boyishly onto his forehead and sappy brown eyes—except that his one fault caused people to overlook everything else about him. Laziness. Those who knew him marveled over the way his father's influence kept him in a cushy job at a bank and a nice apartment right across the hall from Angie.

Somehow, he and Angie had become friends. Not the tell-your-deepest-secrets-to kind of friends, but the I-can-count-on-you-in-a-pinch type.

“Can I come in, Angie?” he asked, teeth chattering. “It's freezing out here.”

Freezing? She gawked at the machine shooting a stream of plastic snowflakes over the front of the house and everything on it, including Stan. Some even blasted her. She grabbed Stan's arm and jerked him indoors. “The snow is fake, Stan.”

“That's good,” he said. “I'm not wearing my thermals.” He reached into his pocket. “I brought you something.”

“You did?” She was shocked. This was like the Three Wise Men bearing gifts…except that Stan was no Magi. Nor, for that matter, was Rebecca Mayfield. Or her sister.

“Your favorite perfume. I was surprised you left it home.”

Gold, incense, perfume…it fit well enough. What was going on here? This was all too eerie.

He placed the expensive bottle of Fleur in her hand. She stared at it, all thoughts of Wise Men fizzling. “Where did the perfume go?”

He looked at the empty container. “So that's why my car smells so good.”

Bah, humbug!

“This house is incredible!” He took off his jacket and shook the snowflakes from it, then brushed his fingers through his hair. More snow fell. “It's like Christmas.”

Angie frowned. The small foyer Christmas tree whirled, playing, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” which was laughable considering Stan, not Paavo, had been at the door.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “And what do you mean by telling anyone that you're anything to me, let alone my assistant? I don't need any assistance—”

“Calm down, Angie. I just wanted to be helpful. I brought you something you need to know. I had a bunch of the old
Eagle Crest
shows on tape and I transferred them to DVD.” He handed her a disk. “Watch and learn.”

He darted into the living room and touched all the furniture, piece by piece. “You don't know how demanding these television types are.”

“Is that so?” Angie tried to kick the snowflakes under the Christmas tree skirt. The set people were fanatical about the slightest thing out of place. “And you know all about it, I suppose? You still have snowflakes in your hair, by the way.” The more she kicked, the more the flakes scattered. She gave up.

“I didn't expect a blizzard.” He sat on the sofa, then each chair in the room, practically bouncing on them. “I've watched every episode at least twice. Some even more. If you're part of a reunion show, you need to know what's impor
tant to its fans. How many shows have you seen?”

She tapped his disk against her palm. “All of them.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really? I had no idea you had such good taste. You don't need this.” He took back his gift, then ducked around some dollies and lights and scurried down the hall to the family room. “I love this room! Remember how Julia Parker used to hop up on those barstools? Man, I was madly in love with her. When she died, I actually cried.”

Angie shook her head and chuckled. “I had no idea.”

“Whatever you need, I can help. Say the word.”

“All I need is for you to keep an eye on my apartment while I'm away.”

“It'll be like I'm two places at once. Hey, look at that!” He pointed at the bounding Rudolph. Someone had turned it back on. “Man, that dude must be really horny,” Stan said.

Angie yanked the plug and stuffed the red-nosed one far in the back of a closet.

When she turned around, Stan was behind the bar, then disappeared to study the contents of the under-counter refrigerator. First, a bottle of Sam Adams was lifted onto the bar top, then a bag of pretzels.

“Want some?” he asked, his mouth full of pretzels as he held the bag toward her.

Angie sat on a barstool. “No, thanks, but I'll have a diet Pepsi. I'm surprised you aren't asking about lunch.”

“I don't visit you only to eat.” Stan actually looked hurt. He opened a Pepsi and slowly poured it into a glass. “I'm here to help, as you can see.”

“This isn't the first time I've had to cook an elegant Christmas dinner. I know how to do it,” she said.

“You've never done it for a TV show before.” He handed her the glass.

“They won't be filming me. I'll be sweating off-camera, in the kitchen.” She took a sip.

“See! You do need me,” he said smugly as he walked around the bar and sat beside her. “I can give you cool things to drink and dab your brow with a napkin.” Popping another pretzel into his mouth, he looked around the room. “Remember the scene in front of the fireplace where Cliff first seduced Natalie and convinced her to marry him? I was a young teen, and I swear, I'd never seen anything so hot. Man, I can see it right now.”

“That's right. When Adrian found out, he tried to melt Natalie's ice skating trophies by putting them in that same fireplace.”

Stan sighed wistfully. “I even took up ice skating. I wanted to find a girlfriend like Natalie. Didn't happen. I won a couple of trophies, though.”

“You were a skater?” Angie gaped.

“I could have been good, but I got too dizzy when I twirled. Never learned how to stop that. I brought one of my old trophies. It's in the car. No one will notice if we add it to Natalie's”—he pointed to the trophy cabinet—“will they? It'll be such fun to watch the show and see it. Our little secret, Angie.”

Stan finished the pretzels, then draped himself over the bar to reach behind it for a jumbo sack of Frito-Lay. He didn't realize that the sack had been opened, and as he lifted it, potato chips tumbled all over the floor. “Oops,” Stan said. He went behind the bar and began to pick up chips. He looked around for a wastebasket and found one in the cabinet under the sink.

“Forget the trophy.” Angie joined him behind the bar to help. “The crew here is quite picky. Someone's sure to notice, and if they trace it back to me, it wouldn't be good. I plan to impress them. A lot.”

“Why are you so uptight about this job? Hey, what's a bottle of wine doing under the sink?” He lifted it onto the bar. “Let's have some. Maybe you'll see things my way.”

She smiled. “Not likely. Mainly, though, I want to make my father proud. He asked me to do this for his friend.” She stood, having picked up quite enough potato chips for one day.

Stan also stood. “Say, this wine's already been open. I wonder if it was down there because it's bad.”

“With Waterfield wines, who could tell?” Angie said.

Stan worked the cork out of the bottle. “How bad can it be?” He sniffed, then coughed and gasped. “It's awful!”

Angie took it from him. “Didn't I warn you?” She made a slight sniff, then sniffed again. “This isn't wine. It's gasoline.”

“Gasoline? Under the bar? That's dangerous. Even I know that. And there are a bunch of rags down there, too.”

“What was someone thinking? Did they want to start a fire?” Something niggled in the back of her memory. She put the cork back in the bottle. “I'll give all this to Sterling, and warn him about an incompetent worker in the group.”

They went around to the front of the bar and sat, Stan with his Sam Adams and an unopened bag of cheese popcorn, which he promptly broke into. “You've got to let me stay, Angie. I even asked the bank for vacation time.”

“Vacation time? How can you have any? You're always home.”

“Those are sick days. If I don't see my favorite TV stars here, now,
today
, I might get sick.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but the cast isn't here yet.”

Stan gawked. “No cast? You mean Cliff and Natalie and Leona—”

“Not yet.”

“How can that be?” He was so upset he stopped eating.

“The crew is filming all the outside shots and getting things ready for them inside. I hear the cast won't be needed for another couple of days.”

He stood up. “Well…in that case, don't let me take up any more of your time. I'd better head back to the city for now, and try again later. See you soon!”

With that, he grabbed the popcorn and his jacket, then faced the plastic snow, trudging back to his car much like Sir Edmund Hillary braving Mt. Everest.

 

The front door slowly opened. Light footsteps crossed the foyer to the living room.

There it was!

Gloved hands reached up and gently lifted the Little Drummer Boy. The temptation to turn the key, to hear the song, was enormous. Instead, the figurine was placed into a large paper bag.

As quietly as the entrance was made, so was the exit.

Angie hiked a little way into the hills after Stan's visit to get some fresh air, see the scenery, and clear her head. So far, it had been a very strange day.

When she returned, the house was abuzz with activity.

Natalie Roxbury stood in the middle of the room talking to Tarleton. In reality, she was Rhonda Manning, but to Angie she was Natalie come to life. She was taller than Angie had expected and much thinner—skinny, in fact—but looked classy yet fragile, as if she'd suffered a deep hurt. Angie wondered how much of the vulnerability she gave to Natalie's character came from acting, and how much from the woman herself.

Angie glanced down at the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy boots she wore for the hike. She was backing quietly out of the room when Tarleton called her.

“Here's our Christmas cook. Angie, come and meet Miss Manning.”

Rhonda flashed a smile as phony as the snow and said, “Hello. How lovely to meet you.” It sounded like a child reciting a nursery rhyme—singsong and meaningless.

Before Angie could reply, Rhonda turned back to Tarleton, showing Angie what it felt like to be part of a “crew” and not an individual. She didn't care for the feeling. She reached up to give her hair an arrogant flick, and felt a twig. Nothing like oak leaves and hiking boots to ruin one's image.

At that moment, Bart Farrell swaggered into the room, his head high and his chest puffed out. The years had not been kind to him.

Farrell was wearing a Western-style leather sport coat with a fringe. His brown hair flowed back from his brow, and the gray at the temples was distinguished, but his facelift was so tight she wondered if he could shut his eyes to go to sleep. If he was one of Dr. Waterfield's customers, he wasn't a good advertisement.

His stomach protruded way too far, and his eyes were bloodshot.

So much for the heroes of our youth, she thought with disappointment.

“What are we drinking?” His voice boomed across the room, assuring all attention was on him. Then, he laughed loud, exactly the way Cliff Roxbury would do.

His gaze met Rhonda's and held. A sudden softening gentleness came over his features. Angie wasn't sure whether she was seeing Bart's regard for Rhonda, or Cliff's for Natalie.

“How good to see you, Rhonda.” He walked toward his TV spouse with his hands extended. She
reached out and grasped them. “You look more beautiful than ever.” He sounded like a bad movie script even as he kissed her cheek.

“Bart, hello,” she replied, in that husky little-girl voice with a twinge of the South that made Natalie such an endearing character—tough, yet vulnerable; bitchy, yet easily hurt. Angie felt a tingle just hearing that particular inflection. Her disappointment vanished and she sighed dreamily. Cliff and Natalie, together again.

“I've missed you,” Farrell said, his voice deep and rumbling. Tarleton cleared his throat.

Farrell dropped Rhonda's hands. With a lazy grin, he slapped Tarleton on the back. “But not this slave driver! How ya' doin'?” Tarleton greeted him quietly.

“Doesn't Rhonda look great?” Farrell said. “Why is it she looks younger, and you and I just look older?” His gaze captured Rhonda's again, as if Tarleton had vanished into thin air. “How have you been?”

Her eyes darted from side to side, as if she needed to get away. Not looking at either man, Rhonda replied, “Fine. I've been just fine.”

A question marred Farrell's brow. Angie wondered, too, what was wrong with Rhonda.

“Say, you haven't met our cook yet,” Tarleton interjected, as if needing to ease the sudden charge in the air. “This is Angie Amalfi.”

“Please excuse my appearance, Mr. Farrell,” Angie said after introductions. “I took a walk in the hills behind Eagle Crest and managed to slip. I didn't think that was supposed to happen with boots like this.”

His gaze slowly drifted over her body, then lifted to meet her eyes. He smiled approvingly, and she felt a “zing,” just like when she was a kid watching Cliff Roxbury charm and seduce women on the soap. He might be too old and too overweight and too much work had been done on his face, but still he had that indescribable something that separated sexy stars from mere mortals.

“It's all right, Angie,” he said, “as long as you don't get any of that St. Helena clay into our meals, that's all we ask.”

She was too tongue-tied to reply. Though she knew she must look like an idiot standing there grinning at the man, she couldn't help herself.

“My God!” Tarleton cried. “Where'd it go?” His eyes raked the group. “Who took it?”

Mariah lightly placed her hand on his back. “What is it?” She moved close, and somehow, her body language wasn't that of an employee.

“There.” He pointed toward the mantel—the empty spot where the drummer boy had been.

“We'll find something else to put there,” Mariah said. “It's not a problem.”

“I want the music box,” Tarleton shouted. “It was special!”

“Special? I thought it was a studio prop.” Mariah looked from one person to the other, confusion on her face.

“It wasn't.” Tarleton shook his head and turned back to Bart and Rhonda. “I'm sorry.”

Angie gaped at him, then to Farrell and Manning with equal confusion.

She excused herself and left the room.

 

Wearing a simple Vera Wang black sheath and Sergio Rossi heels, Angie glided into the family room.

It was empty.

She hadn't been gone that long, although she had phoned Paavo to tell him all about meeting Bart Farrell—he didn't seem to share her excitement—and about Rebecca's visit. She left out Rebecca's little gifts to the set. She also took a quick shower, practicing “Don't Cry For Me, Argentina” the whole time. It would show off her singing range to Tarleton in case he had any openings in his upcoming musical. All she did after that was to dry her hair, get dressed, and hurry downstairs to join Tarleton and the celebrities.

How had she missed them?

Mariah, her coat on, was on her way out the front door.

“Wait,” Angie called. “Where is everyone?”

“Gone,” Mariah said.

“What do you mean, gone? I've got to talk to Tarleton about the menu he wants me to cook, and…and stuff.”

“You can forget about it tonight. He took Farrell and Manning out to dinner.” She didn't look happy to have been left behind. “They'll probably go out drinking afterward, maybe dancing, and come back too sloshed to do anything.”

“Great,” she said dejectedly. “That means I've wasted a whole day and accomplished absolutely nothing.”

“Get used to it,” Mariah said.

“Where are you going?” Angie asked.

“I'm hungry. The caterer's truck came by not long ago.”

 

All dressed up with no place to go…except the crew's mess. Angie threw on a coat and crossed the snowy driveway to the trailers. As her nice shoes stayed clean and dry, she understood why plastic was the snow of choice for this situation.

Although the trailers were still in place, many of the cars were gone, and only a couple of people walked around. Donna Heinz from wardrobe sat alone smoking a cigarette, an empty plate in front of her.

“Where is everyone?” Angie asked.

“Most of them have finished setting up and won't be needed again until it's time to shoot. They took off this afternoon. Beautiful dress, by the way. But a little elegant for trailer dining, I'd say.”

“I wasn't heading this way when I put it on. Speaking of trailers, doesn't the cast usually stay in them? They've been given rooms in the house.”

“This will be a short shoot. A few times in the past, they've stayed in the house for short shoots. In many ways, they preferred it. The house is sure as hell big enough for them, and comfortable. The catered food will be sent there, I suppose. Can't have them walk all this way, can we?”

“I see.”

“For a few of the crew, like me and my assistants, our work begins now that the talent is arriving. I just hope they haven't gained too much weight over these past ten years or I'm going to
have to do a lot more alterations than I'd expected.”

Angie thought about Farrell's waistline. “Have you seen Bart Farrell yet?”

“No. Just a glimpse of Manning. Why?”

“Nothing.” Let the woman enjoy her evening. She'd find out soon enough. “It was fun for me to see them together. In real life, they seem like Cliff and Natalie—kind of in love, yet troubled.”

“You noticed that already, did you?” Donna said, taking a puff. “I'd have thought that'd be over by now.”

“You mean there was something between them?”

“They tried to keep it hidden. Didn't work. She had her hands full, though. He was quite the ladies' man in those days.”

“Was she jealous?”

Donna gave a raspy laugh. “Sometimes, when Natalie bashed Cliff with a book or vase, she did it hard enough we were sure she was getting even for something.”

“Farrell didn't mess around with other women on the set, did he?”

“Is a lemon yellow?”

“Gwen Hagen?”

“She was more interested in Kyle O'Rourke, if you ask me, but that didn't stop Farrell from trying.”

“What about Brittany, or was she too young for him?”

“Nobody was too young for Farrell. And Brittany was twenty-three when she died. She wasn't all that innocent.”

“I still can't get over Brittany dying on this set,” Angie said, spearing some asparagus. “How did you cope?”

“It wasn't easy, but you've heard the old adage
the show must go on
. That's what we told each other. We all felt her loss, though. She was…a presence.”

“And Farrell had an affair with her.”

“Suspected, not proven.”

Angie nodded, trying to get a handle on all these people and their relationships. She was having a hard time. “Rhonda was in love with Bart, but he played around with others in the cast, including Gwen and Brittany, right?”

Donna eyed her curiously, then nodded.

“Gwen was having an affair with Kyle, who might also have been having an affair with Brittany.”

“And don't forget Emery Tarleton,” Donna said. “He isn't the first director to fall in love with his stars.” She snuffed out her cigarette and stood. “Can't smoke in my trailer,” she announced, as if purposefully changing the subject. “The smell will get on the clothes, and Rhonda will have a conniption. Goodnight, Angie.”

With that, she went into her trailer and shut the door.