Courting Disaster Part 5

Angie hoped to be a help to Paavo as well, although given his career she couldn't work beside him the way her parents had. On the other hand, she had helped him solve a murder or two.

Like Sal, Paavo had grown up without the support of a large, loving family. He considered himself unloved and unlovable except for the elderly Finnish man, Aulis Kokkonen, who raised him. He'd always a.s.sumed his mother had abandoned him after drugs or alcohol got the better of her. Not until recently did he learn who his father was or why his mother left.*

He'd led a fairly wild life until he went into the Army. It straightened him out and taught him a lot about himself and responsibility. The discipline and order he'd enjoyed in the Army made police work attractive. He liked what the force stood for and what it meant to do the job well. Working hard, taking criminology cla.s.ses at San Francisco State, and with a talent for a.n.a.lysis, he quickly rose to the position of Homicide inspector.

Angie could readily see the similarities between Sal and Paavo, even if they couldn't.

Both men were driven to succeed in their chosen fields.

Both didn't suffer fools.

Both hid their emotions with a gruff exterior over hearts soft as marshmallows.

And if need be, each would give his life to save hers.

She'd rarely met men of such strength, courage, and resilience.

Now, if only they could get along....

The second problem was Serefina. Her mother had phoned to ask if she thought it would be best to serve basic sus.h.i.+ or if the more exotic types would be better as appetizers.

Angie nearly had palpitations. She didn't want raw fish at her engagement party. What was her Italian mother doing spouting names like unagi, ikura, or ama-ebi sus.h.i.+ anyway? Angie liked j.a.panese food well enough. After a bottle of warm sake she'd even eat chewy but tasteless raw octopus tentacles. But it was hardly engagement party fare-at least, not her engagement party.

Purple cakes, yellow chicks, and raw fish.

The party from h.e.l.l. And now she only had two weeks left to straighten it out!

After a restless night's sleep, the situation appeared no less bleak when she awoke. She phoned Connie Rogers to lament, but her dear friend actually had a customer who seemed interested in buying more than a buck-fifty greeting card. She had no time to talk.

Angie didn't think things could get any worse when Nona Farraday phoned. To Angie's amazement, the conversation was actually interesting.

Soon afterward, Stan knocked on the door.

"If you're sitting around moping about your party," Stan offered, eying her robe and slippers, "I thought you might want to go to lunch."

"I'd like that," Angie said. "We can talk about what we've both been up to."

"How about the Athina?" Stan suggested. "I've got a yen for Greek food."

"Don't talk to me about yens." Angie shuddered. The word for j.a.panese currency brought her back to sus.h.i.+, which brought her back to her party, which made her depressed. "You surely do like Greek food all of a sudden. It's one of Nona's favorite cuisines, by the way."

He stared at her, stunned. "She phoned you?"

Angie just chuckled.

"Welcome to Athina. I'm the owner, Eugene Leer." The rotund, gray, jowly fellow Angie had noticed during her prior visit greeted them. He'd obviously remembered her and Stan as well. "I'm glad to see you like my little restaurant." He led them to a booth near the window.

"The food's quite good, very authentic." Angie studied his chubby face and wide forehead and nose. "I must say, the name Leer doesn't sound Greek."

"I'm not, but my cook is. Michael Zeno. You'll have to meet him. I understand you're a restaurant reviewer. Miss Amalfi, is it?"

"That's right. I'm sorry to say I haven't written any reviews lately." She fingered her engagement ring. "I've been distracted."

"Congratulations." Leer glanced from her to Stan. "No wonder you aren't doing reviews." He handed them menus. "My waiter will be with you in a moment." With that, he bowed and walked away.

"I guess he's disappointed," Angie said to Stan. "No free publicity." She stopped talking as the friendly and garrulous Tyler Marsh arrived to take their orders. Fresh-caught ba.s.s baked in a tomato, wine, and garlic sauce called spetsiotiko, with egg-lemon soup for Angie and chicken gyros again for Stan. Tyler rolled his eyes.

"There's something about that guy I just don't like," Stan muttered when he and Angie were alone again.

He proceeded to tell her about meeting Nona, but the entire time he searched for the mysterious waitress. He knew he wasn't an artistic man, knew that much of the beauty around him went right over his head unnoticed and unappreciated. And yet, he felt like Michelangelo discovering the face for his Pieta. He couldn't get enough of looking at her.

She wasn't in the dining room. He had no idea if that meant she wasn't working or if her duties kept her in the kitchen. He tried to concentrate on Nona and to work up some enthusiasm. Nona was not only gorgeous and stylish, but she was clearly interested and available. She wouldn't have phoned Angie about him if she wasn't.

And yet...

"Sounds like she's not your type," Angie said, studying Stan. "It surprises me. I thought you two would be a perfect match."

"So did I," he said, his mind contrasting take-charge Nona with the soft winsome woman he'd seen on the dock. "Once."

Stan watched Angie head toward the parking garage. She would have dropped him off back at the apartment, but he didn't feel like going home yet. Nothing waited for him there.

Even here on Jefferson Street, nothing interested him. He hadn't seen the waitress. She was probably home with her husband. Maybe with her new baby as well. Everyone seemed to have someone but him.

And Nona.

He sighed, trying to decide what to do with himself, when he glanced down the side street to the wharf. Although it made no sense, his steps turned in that direction. The backsides of restaurants had never interested him before, nor had staring at the water or at fis.h.i.+ng boats. They always looked dirty. He suspected fish guts lurked in every corner. He hated untidiness in anything, and flicked a speck of lint from his cashmere sweater.

The dock closest to the restaurant was empty, just as it was the last time he'd been there. Boats lined other docks, tied to thick moorings. He wondered what it would be like to own one of those boats, to sail out to sea away from all this. The only problem was he'd be there-boring, same-old-same-old Stan.

He stood with his toes along the edge of the wharf, hands in the pockets of his slacks, and looked down at the water. Today it had a greenish tinge, like pea soup. He never much liked pea soup.

Behind him, he heard a soft, "h.e.l.lo."

Startled, he turned to see the woman who had captured his thoughts. She wore a long trench coat. It wasn't b.u.t.toned or belted and where it gaped open her stomach protruded.

He stepped back.

"Be careful!" She started, reaching her hand out toward him, then looked embarra.s.sed by her action. "There aren't any railings. You don't want to tumble into the bay, do you?"

Her voice was gentle and light, much as he'd expected it might be. For sure, she'd never cackle.

He moved away from the edge.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said, "I'm sorry." She looked chagrined, yet her eyes sparkled as if she were laughing at his discomfort.

He stood straighter. "What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"It's my lunchtime. I came out to see if a friend was here, a homeless man who calls himself Sh.e.l.ly Farms. He usually hangs out around the docks and used to check in with me regularly. I haven't seen him for a week and I'm worried."

Stan looked around. Except for the two of them, the area was empty. "Sorry, it's only me here."

She smiled. "That's fine, too. You can also be my friend."

He liked that.

She moved toward the bench she used the first time he'd seen her and sat, unwrapping her sandwich.

He'd followed as surely as a puppy on a leash. "What is it?" he asked, hovering near.

"Tuna. The smells make everything around here taste fishy. It isn't an area to try to eat baloney, for instance. Or peanut b.u.t.ter."

Stan winced at the thought.

She chuckled. "Luckily, I like tuna."

He nodded. "Me, too."

"Why don't you sit and talk to me while I eat?" She patted the bench. "You seem like a nice fellow."

"I do?"

"Yes." She twisted open a bottle of Aquafina. "And you have a beautiful fiancee."

"Fi-? Oh, you mean Angie. She's not my fiancee. We're just friends. Neighbors, actually." He nodded and fidgeted; nervous, shy, and unable to believe he was finally talking to her. As she ate, he tried to fill the silence. "She's marrying someone else, and I just go along with her now and then for moral support. Her mother is planning a big engagement party for her, you see, and the two made a deal that Serefina would stay out of the wedding plans if she could handle the engagement, but then she took it a step further and is keeping everything a secret from Angie, so now the whole thing is driving Angie crazy and she's going all over San Francisco asking restaurant owners if they have a party scheduled for May fifth, and..."

The woman's brows kept rising higher and higher as Stan talked, as if nothing he said made sense to her.

"I know," he admitted with a small smile. "It's weird."

"Someone else is your special girlfriend, then?" she asked, continuing with her sandwich.

"No. No one."

She looked at him curiously. "I'm surprised."

He felt his cheeks redden. His lack of companions.h.i.+p wasn't anything he liked to talk about. "Tell me," he said, changing the subject, "when is your baby due?"

"Yesterday," she replied, and then burst into laughter at his stricken expression. "Not really! I've got three weeks yet." She had a beautiful laugh, warm and hearty. Her slight shoulders shook with mirth. Everything about her was a delight. He didn't understand this strange reaction at all.

"Should you still be working?" he asked. "I mean, shouldn't you be lying down? Or in the hospital or something?"

"I'm fine. Everyone says it's okay to work up to one or two weeks before the due date. Anyway, I need the money. It's going to be hard after the baby is born. I'm trying to save for that."

As much as he didn't want to know, he had to ask. "What about the baby's father? Are you married? Doesn't he work?"

She shook her head. "He's no longer involved." Her eyes clouded and she looked away.

"Once, I saw you and the waiter arguing," Stan said.

"It's over," she murmured. And that, in itself, told him everything he needed to know about that relations.h.i.+p. She continued, "He was a mistake, nothing more. Maybe-" Her voice caught. "Maybe the baby is, as well."

"No, don't think that," Stan said vehemently.

Their eyes met. "I don't, at least not most of the time. But to be alone at a time like this, it isn't easy."

An unfamiliar feeling stirred in Stan's breast. What was wrong with him? He tried to ignore it. "You've got a hospital and doctor lined up, don't you?"

"My social worker has lined up a birthing clinic for me."

"Social worker?" he asked, confused.

"I'm poor," she said with a sad smile, then lifted her arms as she looked down at the cheap clothes and shoes she wore. "Or hadn't you realized that?"

"I'm sorry." The realization swept over him of how incongruous it was to be having such a conversation with a woman he knew absolutely nothing about.

He found himself studying her. Her frame was slight yet solid, her jaw firm, her hands strong and capable-looking with square, polish-free nails. He liked everything about her. "I'm concerned, that's all."

Dark eyes held his. "Why?"

Her question puzzled him because he had no answer. He gazed out at the water. "You're right. I should keep my mouth shut." He glanced at her again. "But you do have people who'll take care of you, don't you?"

She smiled shyly. "I know some who might help."

He didn't like the sound of that. "Look, if they don't help enough, call me. This is my cell phone number." He took out a small leather-bound notebook and wrote out his name and number. It took him a moment to build up the courage, but then his chest swelled and he blurted out the words, "I'll help you."

"Stan." She whispered the name as she read it, then carefully folded the paper and put it in her pocket. "You're very nice, Stan." She crumbled up her sandwich's waxed paper and threw it and the empty water bottle in a trash barrel. "I've got to get back inside. My lunchtime is over. Thanks for sitting with me."

He stood as well. "Thank you."

She started to walk away. "Come back again. I'll see you another time, I hope."

"Okay," Stan said, watching her as she used a key to unlock the back door to the restaurant and go inside. "Hey, wait! What's your name?"

The door shut behind her before she answered.

Chapter 7.

Paavo stood on the cement walkway above the beach at Aquatic Park. The sun was going down over the Golden Gate, and he watched the waves roll onto the sh.o.r.e. At sundown the changing temperatures over the water caused a chill wind to blow into the city. He turned up the collar of his sports coat.

Just above the beach the Maritime Museum looked down upon the scene. He knew it was one of Angie's favorite "old San Francisco" spots. She often talked of how, when she was a little girl and her older sisters were in school or busy, she and her mother would walk to it from their Marina-district flat. She'd learned a lot about San Francisco history there, insisting that Serefina read descriptions of the displays over and over. Afterward, if the day was warm, she'd play in the sand; if cold, they'd walk out onto Muni Pier and check on the fishermen who dropped their lines into the water.