Something's Cooking Read Free Page A

“Would you like some coffee?” The question struck her as so inappropriate she nearly laughed. I sound like my mother, she thought. Whenever anything went wrong, Serefina Amalfi brought out the coffee. Supposedly, it made the world a little more tolerable. Angie was ready to try anything.
    â€œCoffee?” he asked in surprise.
    â€œAs long as my coffee maker wasn’t damaged, that is.”
    His same impassive stare gripped her a moment. “All right. Thank you.” His reply was polite and controlled, yet his acquiescence gave Angie a welcome chance to do something other than stand around and listen to questions to which she had no answers.
    â€œPlease be seated, Inspector Smith,” she said, gesturing toward the small armchair beside her. She squared her shoulders and went to make apot of Italian roast. At least I can still do that, she thought. She went into the bathroom to fill the coffee pot with water, since the kitchen water was off, then stood in the corner of the kitchen while it brewed, watching the bomb team collect the fragmented remains of her package. When the coffee was ready, she served them each a cup, and even brought one to the patrolman outside her door.
    When she returned to the living room, she saw the tall, intense-looking detective folded into her delicate, yellow, nineteenth-century Hepplewhite armchair. She tried to suppress a smile. Poor man hadn’t even complained. The chair squeaked in an ominous way as he turned to take the coffee she offered.
    â€œThanks,” he said with a grateful look. It was the first glimmer of humanity she had seen from the Great Stoneface.
    She sat on the sofa, her hands clasped, and waited.
    He took a sip, then glanced at her as he pulled out his notebook and a pen. His hands weren’t particularly large, but she saw power and strength in them. “Good coffee,” he said. “Full name?”
    â€œAngelina Rosaria Maria Amalfi.”
    He seemed to take forever to write it down. She smiled, wondering how badly he’d mangled the spelling. “Age?” he asked.
    â€œTwenty-four.”
    â€œMarital status?”
    â€œSingle.”
    â€œEngaged?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBoyfriend?”
    â€œWhich one?”
    He glanced up. “Anyone special?”
    She shook her head. “Not at the moment.” A slight smile played on her lips as she glanced at the dusty mess around her. “My luck’s been bad in a lot of areas lately.”
    His eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “Do you live here alone?”
    â€œOf course.”
    He pierced her with a harsh blue gaze.
    â€œOccupation?”
    â€œI do free-lance writing for magazines now and then, I’m working on a history of late-Victorian San Francisco, and I have a newspaper column.”
    â€œYou’re a columnist?”
    â€œYes. The Bay Area Shopper . It’s an advertiser, published three times a week. I write a kind of offbeat food column called ‘Eggs and Egg-onomics.’” She smiled. “The name was my idea. Readers send me recipes. The column has a very loyal following.”
    His gaze deliberately traveled over the spacious apartment with its lavish furnishings, paintings, sculptures, and million-dollar view that stretched all the way from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Bay Bridge. Her back stiffened at the skeptical expression on his face. “This is a pretty expensive apartment,” he mused, as if to himself.
    â€œPerhaps.”
    He swallowed more coffee and then remarked,“I didn’t know magazine articles and food columns paid so well.”
    â€œThey don’t.”
    He leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs in front of him. “Someone, I assume, helps you out here, so to speak.”
    She couldn’t believe his audacity. Her temper flared, but she managed to keep her voice low. “I am not a…a ‘kept woman,’ Inspector Smith. I don’t see that