Too Many Cooks Read Free

leek, Gruyère cheese, heavy cream, and the flaky, buttery crust of the quiche, wafted over the kitchen.
    The visitor’s eyebrows rose. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid I poisoned it? Take a different piece, if you’re worried. Take what’s left of mine . I didn’t know you were so afraid of me.”
    Wielund stood and dumped his quiche in the garbage disposal. “How do I know you don’t have the blood of the Borgias in you?”
    The visitor laughed and continued eating. “Well, at least enjoy the wine.”
    Wielund gazed again at the quiche, then cut himself another wedge. “On second thought, it looks too good to waste.”
    He sat, sliced an enormous forkful, and crammed it into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open, then he slugged down some of the wine. “A little runny. Too heavy with the cream. But leek instead of shallots was inspired.”
    â€œYou think you could do better?”
    â€œOf course, but I won’t bother. Quiche has become gauche. Hmmm, not bad: ‘quiche is gauche.’ Clever.”
    â€œKarl, you’ve got to be fair—”
    â€œStop! Please, not while I’m eating.” Wielund finished his entire piece in four big bites.
    â€œYou must see reason.”
    â€œI’m always reasonable.”
    The visitor took a deep breath. “Please, I’m…I’m begging you.”
    Wielund laughed. “So melodramatic. Maybe you should go into acting. Or have you already done that?”
    â€œI’m sorry you said that, Karl.”
    â€œDon’t be. I’m not.”
    â€œBut now I’m going to have to let you die.”
    â€œWhat? You think you can threaten me? You should know me better than that by now.”
    â€œIt’s more than a threat, though. Monkshood—a most intriguing name for a deadly little poison.”
    Wielund jumped up. “What? The wine?”
    Now it was the visitor’s turn to laugh. “No. Not the wine. Guess again.”
    â€œBut I was careful first to watch you eat everything I did.”
    â€œAlmost everything. You’re such a greedy bastard. The quiche had a little extra rim along the top of its crust, with a special ingredient added to that portion only. My addition.”
    Wielund stared at the visitor’s plate. The part of the crust that extended over the edge of the quiche—baked brown and crispy—hadn’t been eaten. “No!” His fingers began to rake his cheeks and neck. “My throat…my face…they’re burning up. What have you done to me?”
    â€œOh, look at the time. It’s after one o’clock. Such a shame, Karl.” The visitor’s low chuckle quickly developed into a nasty laugh. “You just missed your last chance to ever hear Lunch with Henri .”

2
    The scowl on Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith’s face as he sat at his desk with two dozen long-stemmed red roses on one front corner, purple hyacinths on the other, and pink camellias on the bookshelf behind him should have been enough to keep the other inspectors on the far side of the squad room. But it wasn’t. He could see them circling around now, not sure of just what to say yet scarcely able to control their mirth. His frown deepened.
    Paavo was a tall, rangy man with short brown hair, icy blue eyes, and an expression that could make a panhandler give back change. He would have felt more at home in the middle of a stakeout than at a desk surrounded by flowers. The flowers were compliments of Angelina Amalfi, sent to welcome him on his first day back at work. He’d been out for ten weeks recovering from a nearly lethal bullet wound high on the left side of his chest. He knew Angie meant well, and he knew she’d be mortified to realizeher flowers had made the others in the squad room snicker, but he sure would have liked to throw them out. He couldn’t do it, though. It’d be like rejecting her, and he