If Cooks Could Kill Part 21

Under the chador, she wore a long-sleeved white blouse and a full-length baggy black cotton skirt that she borrowed from her neighbor Samantha.

"What if he's not home?" Stan asked hopefully.

"Look, I called a little while ago, and he was. He wouldn't give me any information about him or Max-claimed he knew nothing. He's lying again. This is the only way I can think of to get inside the house and look for evidence of what he knows or doesn't know. You clean the carpet. I'll do the rest."

"I don't know, Angie..."

She parked down the block from Dennis's house. She didn't think it would be believable for carpet cleaners to drive up in a Mercedes CL600. Besides, veil-wearing women didn't usually drive their men around, but there was no way she'd let Stan behind the wheel of her new car.

"This is heavy!" Stan complained, as he lifted the Bissell out of the trunk and onto the sidewalk.

"Don't put it down! We don't want the wheels and brushes to get dirty."

"Maybe you don't..."

Angie grabbed a couple of old sheets she'd put in the trunk, and then picked up two handfuls of dirt from beneath a j.a.panese maple near the sidewalk. "Shut up, Stan, and follow me."

Dennis answered the doorbell.

"It's Happy Carpet Time!" Stan said, handing Dennis a business card Angie had run off on her computer. He lifted the carpet cleaner into the house. "We'll be in and out in a jiff, just like we promised."

Angie stayed hidden behind Stan's back, her head bowed, her arms around the sheets.

"Hey, what is this?" Dennis demanded. He was a few inches taller than Stan, but about twice as wide, and a hundred pounds of pure muscle heavier.

As Stan tried to explain that he was there to improve Dennis's life, Angie darted past them and sprinkled dirt over the pure white carpet, then she twisted her engagement ring around on her finger so Dennis wouldn't see the distinctive blue diamond.

"You paid for it, man," Stan said, finally. "Like, I'm just doing my job."

"I didn't pay for this."

"Yeah, you did. It's on our records." Stan pointed to a folded-up piece of paper sticking out of his pocket. "Anyway, this place is a mess. Look at all the dirt you got in here. You're going to ruin your rugs if you leave it there. Don't worry, we're fast."

Dennis looked where Stan pointed, then up at the Arab-looking woman standing demurely by the wall, pulling her headpiece down further over her forehead.

"How long did you say this would take?" he asked.

"Just about twenty minutes," Stan answered.

"You said I already paid for it?"

"That's right."

"I never noticed all this c.r.a.p on the carpet before."

"That's always the way it is. You don't notice until someone else points out the filth you've been living with. It's kind of that way in life, wouldn't you say? In and out. Twenty minutes, that's all."

Angie cringed at Stan's sudden philosophical p.r.o.nouncements, and started to spread a sheet out next to the stairs to the bedroom. Dennis looked at her, and scratched his head. "I guess, since it's paid for..."

"Good."

As Stan plugged in the machine, Dennis escaped to the den.

Angie continued to spread sheets over the stairs. When her parents had their wall-to-wall carpets cleaned, the place was always covered with sheets so that no one would step on a still-damp carpet. It didn't make sense to put them on top of dirty carpets, but she was pretty sure Dennis wouldn't know that and was definitely sure Stan had no idea what she was doing.

She snuck into Dennis's bedroom and quickly looked around for anything that might tell her about Max. Nothing.

Another bedroom door stood open. Angie crept toward it, not wanting anyone to suddenly appear and find her snooping.

The room didn't have the unused look or musty smell of a guest room. The closet door stood open, one bureau drawer wasn't quite shut, and the bedspread looked mussed. What if this had been Max's room? What if he was staying at Dennis's house? Worse yet, what if the two of them had set up Connie?

The closet was empty. Opening the bureau drawers, she saw they were all empty as well. A bathroom was attached, and she entered.

A hairbrush lay on the washbasin. Twisted in its bristles was blond hair. She saw some clothing tags in the wastebasket and lifted them out. Two Liz Claiborne tags from Nordstrom's, size six, $149.95 and $79.95.

Connie hadn't worn a six since high school, if then. She was a snug eight on a good day. What was wrong with all these people who said the two women looked alike?

So, Dennis had Veronica Maple staying at his home at the same time as he was making goo-goo eyes at Connie. The two-timing cad! And to think, she'd encouraged them! Why, oh why had she ever gotten involved in anyone else's love life?

A cordless telephone was on the nightstand by the bed, a pen and paper beside it. It had a digital display and several special features. When she hit the "last number redial" b.u.t.ton, a number popped onto the display. She jotted it down.

A quick look in what would have been a third bedroom revealed a room filled with football trophies, footb.a.l.l.s with dates and special achievements marked on them, photos, and memorabilia from Pop Warner to the Forty-Niners. Dennis Pagozzi, this is your life.

She pulled the door shut and headed for the stairs.

Stan wasn't sure how to fill the Bissell tank with water or where to add the cleaning solution, so he simply got a gla.s.s of water from the kitchen and poured it on the dirt. He then flipped a switch. The brushes spun and he pushed the carpet cleaner. Water and dirt swirled around and formed mud. More water, Stan thought, and ran to the kitchen for another gla.s.s full.

The now diluted mud began to spread, the white carpet taking on a peculiar brown tinge. Back and forth he went adding more water. The mud puddle grew, engulfing even more carpet.

Frantically, Stan rolled the machine furiously back and forth over the carpet. The slop only spread further. He then ran with the cleaner up and down the length of the carpet, pus.h.i.+ng down hard, his gaze darting every so often to the stairs Angie had taken and feeling like Cinderella being watched over by her evil stepmother.

He leaned heavily on the machine, hoping that would cause the cleaner to slurp up the mess like milk-shake through a straw. It didn't. He must have pressed down too hard, because the Bissell suddenly shrieked, gasped, and died, refusing even one glug of the gelatinous mess.

Now what? Stan wiped perspiration from his brow, then headed for the kitchen, flinging doors, drawers, and cabinets open and shut as he searched for a cure-all. Panic grew.

Angie was going to kill him.

"Finally!" Relief and triumph filled him. He reached for the aerosol can labeled "Easy-Off-Industrial Strength."

Exactly what the doctor ordered, Stan thought, s.n.a.t.c.hing the container from the shelf and holding it close to his heart.

He sped back to the mud and sprayed the entire contents of the can onto the oozing ma.s.s. "Gotcha!"

He waited for the brown color to lift up and away, leaving the carpet clean and new again. Easy off, right?

Carpet fibers began to quiver and shake. The mud started to bubble ominously. He watched aghast as Easy-Off plus water plus poly-this and poly-that fabric, and G.o.d-only-knows what components in the dirt, caused a chemical reaction. A cloudy vapor rose from the swamp. The stench was unbelievable.

Triumph turned to horror.

He'd created a gas chamber.

Holding his breath, he flung open windows and the front door, praying Angie wouldn't come downstairs and the football player wouldn't turn him into a pigskin. Then he ransacked the kitchen for paper towels and anything else he could use to scoop up the toxic dump site.

On his hands and knees, he desperately scooped the molten muck into a light plastic bucket he'd found under the sink.

The center of the rug was gone, and in its place lay a crater. He peered down it. In some spots it was bare all the way to the hardwood floor.

The few surviving carpet threads at the edge of the crater appeared to be writhing.

His hands and knees tingled ominously and he jumped to his feet and looked down at himself. His shoes were pockmarked with fissures, and his slacks were shredded around his knees. He was being eaten alive!

"Stan!"

Angie's cry barely cut through his shocked numbness.

"What did you do here?" she whispered, pulling on his sleeve, and looking toward the den as if praying Pagozzi hadn't heard her cry.

"Thank G.o.d you've found me!" he wailed. "Quick, take me to Emergency. I'm rotting!"

"But the carpet-"

"Who cares?" He waved his red, slightly swollen hands. "My pants are disintegrating. My knees are on fire. My shoes are frying off my feet!" He started to cry.

"Okay, okay. But how?"

"I found a spray-Easy Off, it said. I thought that sounded good."

"That's oven cleaner!"

"So?"

Angie didn't answer. Instead, she stared slack-jawed at the plastic bucket, at the hole that formed at the bottom, and the muck that was starting to ooze out and eat its way toward them.

Just then, they heard movement in the den.

Stan grabbed the Bissell, Angie wadded up the sheets, and the two fled in terror.

Chapter 24.

Paavo arrived at Wings of an Angel before the dinner customers. He marched up to Earl. "I'd like to talk to Butch now. In the kitchen."

"In da kitchen? Why, sure, Inspector. No problem." He waved his arm toward the swinging double doors and pushed one open wide. "Go right in, Inspector. It's okay."

He gave Earl an odd look. Butch was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce.

"I want to ask you a little more about Veronica Maple," Paavo said.

Butch flinched. "Who's that?"

"The woman in the photo I brought you."

"I told you, I don't know nothin' about her." He set the wooden spoon on the counter.

"Your nephew knows her," Paavo said.

Earl walked to Butch's side as he washed his hands. "Dennis knows lotsa people."

"He tried to deny it," Paavo added.

Butch's entire body began to twitch. "Maybe he forgot."

Paavo wouldn't let up. "She used to work for Max Squire."

"The guy helpin' with our books?" Butch's voice squeaked. He looked ready to faint and turned imploringly toward Earl.

"Can you imagine dat?" Earl cried, a suspiciously astonished expression on his face. "I didn't t'ink Max could've had somebody woikin' for him. He acts like woik is poison."

"And he ain't been around here for days," Butch added, now that he could breathe again.

"In fact," Earl said quickly, "we'll tell Dennis. We don't want his friend to come back here no more. How's dat? In fact, why don't you go tell him right now, Butch?"

Butch grabbed his jacket. "Sounds good. You hold down the place. I'll go find Dennis."

"Wait a minute," Paavo said. These guys were acting peculiar, even for them.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," Butch said, fidgeting and studiously avoiding Paavo's eyes. "I got no information for you. Absolutely nothin'."

Paavo climbed up the steep sandy soil to the street above. He was on the dunes edging the Pacific.

When he stepped over the concrete guardrail between the roadway and the oceanside drop, Yosh joined him. Lying at the bottom of the dunes was the body of a man, thin with black hair. They couldn't tell much more at the moment. The body lay hidden under shrubs, sand, and rocks until a combination of buzzards and bad smells aroused the curiosity of some residents.

When the body was found, word had quickly spread through the nearby neighborhood of middle-cla.s.s homes, and a crowd formed. A dead body discovered in that part of town was rare, one that had obviously been a murder victim rarer still. The uniformed cops had cordoned off the hill, and now Homicide, CSI, the coroner, and her staff were all over the area.

"G.o.d, but I'm getting sick of this," Yosh said, disgust marring his usually cheerful face as he scanned the area and the crowd. When it was clear the victim wasn't known to any of them, they were able to relax and treat it almost as a TV show come to life, creating a neighborhood block-party atmosphere. "Sometimes it seems they kill them faster than we can catch the perps. It's a losing battle, Paavo."

"What choice do we have?" Paavo's voice was coldly rational. "We need to try."

"Maybe it's time for me to quit this job. I think I'd like my next job to be at Disneyland. Someplace where I can work with kids all day long-kids who still believe in joy and fantasy and goodness in life. Wouldn't that be a change? Man, listen to me. I need a beer."

Paavo nodded. "You and me both. Maybe after we get through with the prelims."

His partner grumbled grudgingly, but followed him toward the crowd. "That should be about six A.M. tomorrow morning, the way these things usually go. What a time for a brew."