Two Cooks A-Killing Read Free

sophisticated, duped-out-of-half-the-winery-and-love-of-his-life brother, often held court in this room, nibbling at insubstantial foods, drinking fine wines, and plotting his revenge on Cliff.
    It was all a bit overwhelming.
    Angie dragged her luggage into the foyer. Now what? Still beyond belief at her good fortune to be here and actually to be part of the Christmas show, she went down the hallway to an enormous wood-paneled family room. Many a tryst, and many a war of words, had taken place there. Her gaze wandered over the honey brown leather furniture, the Kilim rugs, the moosehead over the massive river rock fireplace, and the full bar, where Cliff Roxbury often got sloshed while coming up with a devilish plan.
    Here, too, another grandiose tree, this one filled with colorful rustic hand-made ornaments of wood, glass, and china filled a corner. She could hardly take in all the wreaths, holly, candy, candles, lights, and other knickknacks that covered the room. A bowl full of luscious grapes sat on a table. She reached for one to cleanse her mouth of the plastic taste from the candy, then stopped.
    Fooled again.
    Just beyond the family room was a breakfast room with more decorations. On TV, the kitchen was connected to it, which she assumed was the case here. The door, however was closed.
    Three sets of French doors led to a courtyard enclosed within a four-foot adobe wall, and a bougainvillea-covered archway over a carved gate. It had always been great fun to watch a Roxbury sneak into or out of that gate late at night.
    Yet another Christmas tree stood in the courtyard. Blinking lights had been strung through all the plants and over the adobe wall. Plastic snow covered the tiled floor, gated archway, and even the bougainvillea.
    In the courtyard were three men and one woman, all seeming to be talking at once. The pigtailed woman wasn’t among them.
    Angie joined the group. They were obviously part of the crew, judging from clipboards, tape, and lighting equipment, and their generally bad dispositions.
    They ignored her.
    â€œHi. I’m here to help with the show,” she said brightly, interrupting a pudgy, balding fellow who was waving his arms and complaining about lights and cantilevers, whatever they were. In his hand was a blue lava lamp.
    â€œOh! I can’t believe it!” Angie squealed, pointing. “That’s the very lamp Leona convinced Cliff that Natalie would love, to make up for his sleeping with Leona, of course. It was so funny when Natalie hit him with it! I’m surprised it’s not broken.”
    All talking ceased as four heads swiveled her way and regarded her as if she’d just dropped in from the Jerry Springer Show . “It is broken,” one man said.
    At the same moment, another fellow ran up to them holding a jeweled hand mirror. Angie’s breathing quickened. It was Natalie’s very own—the one she always used to check her makeup before doing some particularly dastardly deed.
    The mirror was cracked. “Oh, no!” Angie wailed.
    â€œIt’s got to be sabotage,” the man holding it said. The others swore profusely.
    â€œWell, you folks are busy, so maybe you can tell me if Mr. Waterfield is around?” Angie asked. “I know the family.”
    â€œNot here, as you can see,” the woman snapped.
    â€œJust what do you want?” A bushy-haired man with a clipboard and a belt filled with measuring tapes and carpenter tools gave her a harsh glare.
    â€œI’m trying to find out who’s in charge. I’m here to see about handling the food preparation.”
    â€œFood preparation? The food is down by the trailers.” The woman sniffed and turned back to the others.
    â€œI’ll be working on the show. Who should I report to?” Angie asked in a friendly voice, despite the irritation building inside. She supposed she’d have to work with these people.
    â€œHow should I know?” the woman said. She