Free Too Many Cooks by Joanne Pence Page A

red and swollen. He looked warily around the room. “I want to tell you all about Karl,” the young chef said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “And why he died.”

6
    The place began to buzz . Angie glanced at Paavo. He took her hand and they inched closer as Mark Dustman began to speak.
    â€œI talked Karl into coming to San Francisco last year. I met him while I was in Paris at a small cooking academy where he was an instructor. He took me under his wing.” He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “I could see that his exquisite talent with food might stay buried in Paris for years, one among so many. I’d lived in San Francisco awhile before deciding that I was sure I wanted to be a chef, and before saving enough money to go to Paris.
    â€œI told Karl that San Francisco was known for its fine hotels and restaurants, but that, despite so much competition, Karl would succeed here. I knew talent when I saw it. And succeed he did.”
    Mark looked out over the group.
    â€œHe succeeded too well, you might say. He wasclobbering you—all of you. Wielund’s was filled up while you went begging for customers. We never had to offer two-for-one or, God forbid, a ‘ladies’ night’ to get customers. We just provided food good enough to cause jealousy in even the kindest soul—and to make his life a living hell. He was a good, kind, and sensitive man, and knowing how so many of you felt hurt and pained him. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why he died.”
    Amid outraged cries, Eileen grabbed Mark’s arm to make him sit, but he shook her off. “I’ll keep Wielund’s open,” he shouted at them. “I’ll keep Karl’s memory alive. And keep the same high quality of food on these tables!”
    â€œSit down, Dustman!” Chick Marcuccio thundered. “We didn’t come to hear this.”
    â€œWhy did you come, then?” Mark leaned toward him, his palms on the table.
    Everyone was quiet, waiting for Marcuccio’s reply. “To pay respects to a dead colleague, of course.”
    Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Night after night I’ve wondered what made Karl go to that lonely mountain area in the dead of winter. I can’t help but believe it was simply that he wanted to go back to a spot that reminded him of his home in southern Germany. He wanted to get away from this nest of vipers—from you—to find a little peace and quiet. Why on that day? I’ll never know. But I’ll spend a lifetime wondering about it.” Unable to check his tears any longer, he covered his eyes as Eileen led him to the nearest chair.
    The room broke into a flurry of reproach.
    Paavo had never seen such a well-dressed groupget so ugly. He’d carefully watched the various mourners all evening as they came by to speak with Angie and talked among themselves. Dustman was right about one thing—not one of them seemed truly sorry that Wielund was dead. Yet Dustman’s description of Wielund as a caring, sensitive man was completely contrary to what everyone else said about him.
    The Wielund of the other restaurateurs wouldn’t have cared what any of them thought. But if he hadn’t gone to the mountains seeking peace and quiet, why was he there?
    The restaurant owners were furious that Dustman had called their bluff and openly pointed out their hypocrisy in pretending to mourn. Paavo silently took them in, one by one, committing their words, their expressions to memory. Something strange was going on. The detective side of him knew it was good he’d come here tonight, very good.
    â€œYou’re looking pleased with yourself,” Angie said, tucking her arm in Paavo’s as they watched the angry people file out the door.
    He nodded. “Very. Next time I go to a restaurant, I’ll make sure the knife’s beside my dinner plate, not in my back.”
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    Paavo carried a full-to-the-brim cup of