If Cooks Could Kill by Joanne Pence Page A

clenched as she focused on the cakes behind the glass display. “I’ve got to get some cake for an open house one of my friends is holding at her art gallery. It would be much more fun, I’m sure, to be buying sweets for my fiancé’s friends.”
    â€œIt is fun.”
    Nona rested one hand on the counter, the other on her nearly nonexistent hip and angled toward Angie. “Maybe you’ve gone about this the right way,” she said. “You’ve found a regular guy, maybe not real exciting, but basic, a guy who believes in things like marriage.” Angie’s eyes narrowed as Nona gave a toss of her head, making her hair whiplash away from her face. “Here, I’ve been going out with artists, chefs, restaurateurs, even a couple of film directors—poor ones, which is why they’re here instead of Hollywood. What good has it done me?”
    â€œI don’t know how ‘basic’ Paavo is—”
    â€œI’m not getting anywhere! These men are so busy trying to figure out themselves, they can’t begin to take on the problems a woman might have, especially a strong businesswoman like moi .” Nona ran a hand through her hair. She was a melodramatic nightmare.
    Angie had had it. She turned back to the chef, whose eyes were starting to glaze over. If she wasn’t putting out big bucks for the meringue, he’d have bounded back into his kitchen the minute Nona started talking. She addressed him. “It isn’t as if my fiancé jumpedonto the marriage bandwagon first chance he got, believe me, and—”
    â€œYou know what I mean, Angie,” Nona interrupted. “At least there was hope for the two of you.” She folded her arms. “All right. I’ll admit it. Much as my life, my dates, my sex life have been wild and successful and exciting, I wish I knew someone like Paavo.”
    Angie did a double take. She tossed her recipe at the startled chef, giving him a quick thumbs up. He clutched the recipe to his chest and escaped.
    Then she faced Nona, her mind quickly racing through the unmarried homicide inspectors she knew—and just as quickly came up with the perfect match. “No problem.”
    Â 
    Dennis sat at a table at Fior d’Italia, a large restaurant near saints Peter and Paul’s Church on Washington Square. He was early for their lunch meeting, but he was anxious to see Max Squire. He’d left word at the Forty-Niner office that if anyone should try to reach him, to give out his cell phone number. Sure enough, Max had called, and they’d arranged to meet.
    The waiter, a young man with sandy-colored hair, one gold earring, and a well-scrubbed demeanor, brought him a Johnny Walker Red and water and put it on the table. “Say, you aren’t Dennis Pagozzi, are you?” the man asked.
    Pagozzi focused on the earring. “Yeah, I am.”
    â€œWow! I watch the Forty-Niners all the time on TV. Can’t buy a ticket”—he chuckled—“even if I could afford one! Man, seeing you here is great. Want to order? Wine? An appetizer? I’m Scott, by the way.”
    â€œLet’s give my friend a few minutes to show up,” Dennis said. “In fact…here he comes now.”
    Scott turned and tried not to look shocked as heglanced from Max back to Dennis, as if to be sure he had the right man. “I’ll show him to your seat,” he said, baffled.
    Dennis could understand why. Max’s gaunt appearance stunned him, as well. He’d seen beggars better dressed.
    He stood. “Good to see you, old buddy,” he said, hand outstretched.
    â€œDennis!” Max shook his hand, his lips smiling, but his eyes hard. “Thanks for seeing me. I wouldn’t have contacted you if it weren’t important.”
    The waiter hovered near. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”
    Max glanced at Dennis’s Scotch and began to shake his head when