Something's Cooking Read Free

asked.
    â€œThe tour’s that way.” She did her best to give a nonchalant wave of her thumb toward the kitchen.
    She froze as he reached into his breast pocket. “Police.” He pulled out a billfold and dropped open one flap to reveal his identification: Inspector Paavo Smith, Homicide.
    The relief that filled her upon hearing he was with the police department vanished when she saw the word Homicide on his badge. A little premature, she thought.
    â€œI’m Angelina Amalfi. This is my apartment.” Her voice shook. She took a deep breath.
    He glanced around the room. “Was anyone hurt here, Miss Amalfi?”
    â€œOnly in spirit.”
    â€œYou didn’t call for the coroner?”
    â€œThe coroner? Of course not.”
    He regarded her for a moment, without expression. “Excuse me, please,” he said as he turned toward the crowd. “All right, everyone, show’s over. Police. Clear the premises.”
    At that moment, a uniformed policeman entered the room, followed by four men in blue jumpsuits. One was carrying a black metal box. Angie folded her arms. The bomb squad, a half-hour too late.
    She watched as Inspector Smith’s merest glance caused people to scurry away, even Stan. She understood why. He had the harshest glare she’d ever seen, and he used it as a weapon. The bomb squad went into the kitchen. Inspector Smith and the uniformed policeman glanced at each other, then the inspector went into the kitchen and the other stepped outside the apartment.
    Angie pulled the chair she had used for support away from the dining table and sat in it, willing her heartbeat to slow down. She was grateful for this moment alone, this moment of silence to get her feelings in order.
    Before long, the inspector returned to the living room.
    She stood up to face him again, hoping hewould tell her what was going on and that this was all just a big mistake.
    He said nothing but studied her with a professional, detached air. His gaze moved over her from head to toe, ticking off her attributes—or flaws, judging from his expression. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her fluffy pink bedroom slippers.
    As his gaze rose again, his eyes fixed on her hands. She’d recently had her long nails silk-wrapped and painted a deep mauve. Now she was reminded of the time Sister Mary Ignatius had given her ten demerits for wearing polish in the eighth grade.
    Men usually found her attractive, but the way the inspector looked at her, she might as well have been one of Homicide’s corpses. She slid her hands into the pockets of her slacks and gave a slight ahem . His eyes met hers, but still he said nothing. It was as if he was calculating all he saw here, her included, but the numbers weren’t adding up.
    Angie couldn’t remember the last time she had met anyone so infuriatingly close-mouthed. He clearly wasn’t a man to give false assurances, to placate her with softness or warmth. She walked to the window.
    â€œWas it a bomb, Inspector?” She clasped her hands behind her back, her head held high as she gazed out at the bay.
    â€œIt looks like it was. We’ll know exactly in a day or two.”
    She bowed her head. “I see. I had hoped…”
    â€œWould you tell me what happened?”
    She folded her arms and shrugged, looking out the window again. “There’s nothing to tell. I received a package marked Occupant and threw it in the dishwasher. I always wash my mail, doesn’t everyone? This time, though, it blew up. Must have been one dynamite detergent….”
    He waited until she had finished babbling. “I have a few questions.”
    â€œSure, so do I. Like what’s going on?” she whispered as tears welled up in her. She turned to face him, to implore, but he stood rigid and frowning. At a loss, she looked around her familiar surroundings, trying to get something to make sense to her. She touched her forehead.