Read Online Two Cooks A-Killing by Joanne Pence - Free Book Online Page B

buy herself a Christmas present. A small teddy bear.
    She still had it, too. It was the one thing she’d kept with her all these years. The one thing that reminded her of the way her life used to be, and that she’d do anything, anything at all, never to have to go back to that life again.
    In her bedroom, she lifted the long, curly black wig she used to play Leona Roxbury from its box. The curls stood out about five inches all the way around her head and cascaded halfway down her back. The long, thick hair made the wig so heavy it gave her a headache.
    She placed it over her short, straight black hair and became Leona once again. Years ago, after two arrests for prostitution, and afraid to go back out onto the streets, she felt her life change when she answered a casting call for a television show.
    A good whore is nothing but an underpaid actress, she’d reasoned. And she’d been a good one.
    She put everything she had into the reading and lied up one side and down the other on the job application. Only her phone number had been real.
    To her amazement, she was called for a further audition. After much back-and-forth, she landed the role of Leona Roxbury.
    At first the job was heaven. Then it all started to go to hell.
    It didn’t take her long to learn there was scum on both sides of the tracks. In many ways rich scum was worse than what she’d left behind in Watts. The rich had no reason to be rotten, except for greed, selfishness, and ego. The actors she met had all of that in abundance.
    She thought of Bart, Kyle, and Rhonda, and even Emery, and of all that had happened between them.
    And Brittany.
    She shut her eyes as she thought of Brittany. Then she took a .22 Glock from her nightstand, removed the magazine, carefully took the gun apart and placed it in its traveling case. She’d learned to use a gun when she was growing up in Watts. An occasional trip to the shooting range now and then made sure she never forgot it.
    â€œMerry Christmas, Eagle Crest,” she whispered, then tossed the gun and the ammunition into her suitcase.

Chapter 7
    An urn of weak Folger’s coffee and a platter of store-bought Danish pastry greeted Angie in the breakfast room. Not surprisingly, no one was there. The craft services area seemed more attractive than ever.
    Last night as she tried to fall asleep, over two dozen questions for Tarleton popped into her head as all the details involved with a television show began to overwhelm her. She needed to ask if she was responsible for the presentation of the food on platters and bowls, or for the dinner table—plates, silverware, glasses, napkins, even salt shakers, or for anything beyond cooking. She also needed to check out the kitchen supplies and equipment.
    This morning, the crew was crawling all over the house, inside and out. Tarleton was with them, red-faced and shouting orders.
    She opted for the kitchen, the one main room in the house free of all but overbearing Christmas decorations.
    This time she knocked before entering, notwanting to scare the cook into a repeat of yesterday.
    â€œYou again?” he grumped. He sat at the counter with a cup of coffee and a Marlboro, reading the Sacramento Bee . A small TV blared ESPN sports from the corner. “Who are you? Vhy do you insist on bothering me?”
    She inhaled sharply. “My name is Angelina Amalfi, and I’m considered by many to be a fine gourmet cook. I studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, I’ve worked in restaurants, on radio, on television cooking shows, I’ve done restaurant reviews, and owned my own business as a chocolatier and cake decorator. I think I’m qualified to be in this kitchen.”
    With each word she spoke the chef’s face grew redder. “Vell, bully for you!” He snuffed out his cigarette, then stood awkwardly, as if his legs didn’t work quite right.
    With his hands on his hips, she noticed that his arms seemed unnaturally short.