Free Too Many Cooks by Joanne Pence

placed her hand lightly against his chest. “I definitely prefer you.”
    The heat from her hand and the warmth that flowed through him at her words singed him all the way to his toes. He took her hand from his chest, letting her fingers curve lightly over his, and slowly lifted it to his lips for a kiss.
    Her breath caught and her heart pounded as his gaze met hers, piercing her with his eyes. “Was that what you like?”
    She could scarcely believe her tough cop would do such a romantic thing. It took a moment to find her voice. “That’s a good start, Inspector. Did you just say some nonsense about not being sexy?”
    His usually stern mouth spread into an easy grin and she felt her spirits buoyed by the sight. She smiled back and couldn’t help but think what a silly pair they must seem, beaming at each other this way in the middle of a memorial.
    Paavo ran his fingers through his hair as he turned away, away from the delicate look and feel of her, the perfect smile, the lingering scent of roses, and forced his attention back to the restaurateurs. This was not the time or place to let himself think more about Angie.
    â€œSo,” he said after a while, “who are this Nona and Bernie that Dupries mentioned?”
    She, too, turned, standing side by side with him as she looked over the crowd. “Nona Farraday and C. Bernhardt Eickerman are two of the most widely read restaurant critics in the Bay Area. Nona writes for Haute Cuisine and Bernie for the Chronicle .”
    â€œ Haute Cuisine —the magazine Chick Marcuccio’s girlfriend edits?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œDoesn’t this whole thing seem a little incestuous?”
    â€œSame interests, same friends. Look at the police department. All your friends are cops.”
    No, he wanted to say, that wasn’t quite right. His closest acquaintances were cops. His only real friend, Matt, was dead.
    Angie saw the sudden shadowing of his expression, and a pang touched her heart as she realizedwhat he had to be thinking. She slid her arm around his waist. “And me,” she added softly, looking up at him.
    Cautious blue eyes met her brown ones, and slowly his guard eased. A friend. Yes, he had to admit it. As much as there was about her that was all naïveté and femininity, so too he was finding that he could talk to her about his thoughts, and she never brushed them aside, or his feelings, and she never dismissed them. Angie as a friend…the idea warmed him in a comforting way that was as puzzling to him as it was novel. He gazed down at her, at the trust and openness in her face, and even as he forced his expression to remain stern, a lump filled his throat. Quickly, he looked away.
    Just then Eileen Powell, Karl Wielund’s assistant manager, walked to the center of the room. “I’d like to say a few words.”
    Everyone grew silent. Eileen was attractive in her black suit and starched white blouse, her black hair sleek and shoulder length. She gave a polite, nondescript little speech, saying what a kind, generous, and outgoing man Karl Wielund had been—all lies.
    Then Mark Dustman got up and slowly stumbled toward Eileen. He’d obviously been crying. Angie leaned toward Paavo. “He’s been Karl Wielund’s chef since shortly after the restaurant opened a year ago,” she whispered. “He studied cooking in Paris, wanting to become a master chef in time. Karl had also been a cook before buying his own business. By hiring Mark, Karl could keep his hand in the kitchen as well. Cooks with more experience than Dustman would never have tolerated such a thing.”
    Paavo nodded, although he scarcely understood the world Angie was talking about. But then, temperamental chefs were the last people he wanted to know better.
    Dustman was GQ -model handsome, with sandy brown hair, green eyes, and a boyish demeanor. Now that young face was pale and wan, his eyes