Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery
Read Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery Online
Authors: Joanne Pence
An Angie Amalfi Mystery
To my mother, Rose, with admiration for her courage, optimism, and constant good spirits; to my beautiful and talented niece, Vittoria Barra, who is already (gasp!) Angie’s age; and to David for all his help, love, and support, as always
On a bridge midway over the Colorado River, Angie Amalfi…
About four miles from town, Paavo turned onto a rutted…
After testing the bed’s comfort—an important thing to check out…
Angie and Paavo ate dinner alone. Clarissa had decided, like…
Angie thought the two-lane road they’d traveled from Jackpot to…
Soon, three tall, beautiful horses stood saddled and ready to…
A trail of billowing sand kicked up from the desert…
Much later that day, Angie found herself back at the…
Angie rushed over to Doc’s house. She’d rather stay there…
Maritza Flores opened the door of the ranch-style house. She…
Paavo was glad to walk in the brisk morning air…
Angie was used to mortuaries. As a little girl, when…
Paavo glanced up at the painting over the mirror that…
After the meeting at the Stagecoach, Paavo and a feeling-no-pain…
Hal Edwards’s cattle ranch was northeast of town, where the…
Angie and Paavo were alone in the dining room, drinking…
Angie was looking for Lionel to get directions to the…
It was the day of the funeral.
Merry Belle probably didn’t mean to cause a commotion, but…
“Boomer can’t lift any prints off the gas can.” Merry…
It was late, too late for a priest who would…
“What are you doing here?” Teresa stood as she saw…
“What’s Teresa up to?” Angie asked. Although half asleep when…
The next morning, Paavo drove Angie to Jackpot’s medical clinic,…
Angie could scarcely believe it when she saw Paavo and…
An hour later Angie entered the sheriff’s station. Buster greeted…
Early the next morning, Paavo went to Doc with news…
“Those ostriches are a good metaphor,” Teresa said when Angie…
Paavo hung up the phone.
Paavo, Angie, and Teresa piled into the SUV, while Joey…
Merry Belle walked into her office the next morning. It…
All Angie’s enjoyment at working in the controlled chaos of…
With a woeful Buster beside her, Merry Belle drove along…
Lying on the ground, eyes shut, Angie’s first thought was…
Dolores made her way through the narrow trails that led…
Angie sat in Jackpot’s medical clinic waiting room, Joey beside…
The next afternoon, Angie and Paavo stopped at the Stagecoach…
On a bridge midway over the Colorado River, Angie Amalfi read the
WELCOME TO ARIZONA
sign. Her heart palpitated, her breathing quickened, and her feet tingled as a feeling of warmth, well-being, and certainty filled her. Above her head like a bubble in a cartoon strip, she was sure the words “Destination Wedding Locale” danced in red neon letters.
Not only was this going to be the perfect place for the perfect wedding, but that she’d found it on her very first try was nothing short of remarkable. Something told her Jackpot, Arizona, would be a memorable spot—from the moment her fiancé, San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, suddenly announced that he planned to spend a week there.
Before then, she’d never even heard of Jackpot, so when Paavo mentioned that he had spent time there as a boy, she was stunned. Paavo was close-mouthed, true, but to have kept an entire chunk of his childhood from her was maddening. She was doing all she could to get him to open up, and usu
ally she thought she’d succeeded. But every so often he threw her a curve that left her gasping.
This was one of those times.
While he claimed to be a “private person,” she was someone who believed that it was necessary for people to share their feelings. As a matter of fact, she’d speak her thoughts to anyone who’d listen, always interested to hear the response. If not, what was the difference between being with a real live person and being with a statue in a dark, stuffy museum?
That was why, as soon as she learned about Jackpot, wild horses couldn’t keep her from joining Paavo to see it for herself. And the more she learned about the area, she realized wild horses—bucking broncos, mustangs, stallions—and plenty of other large, intimidating four-legged beasts might well be in her future.
No matter. The trip was a way to learn more about her taciturn fiancé. And if she just happened to find an interesting and unique wedding locale at the same time … well, who ever said killing two birds with one stone was a bad thing?
Just getting there had been an adventure. They’d flown from SFO to Palm Springs, California, and rented a car. Paavo had wanted a four-wheel-drive truck, she wanted a Beemer. When they found a four-wheel-drive Mercedes SUV, they’d compromised. The drive to Jackpot took over three hours.
Angie had to admit, though, to being impressed. The sky was a brilliant turquoise and the desert stretched out like a butternut sea of rolling sand and gravel, dotted with saguaro, barrel cac
tus, sage, and scrub. Precariously balanced red and granite rock piles, high crags, and jagged ridges of low-lying hills touched the horizon.
She’d never been deep into the desert before and found the land harsh in its emptiness, yet it held a quiet, naked beauty that intrigued and mystified her.
Turning off the interstate, they’d edged the river, driving along a two-lane road until a small, dusty town appeared in the flatness.
“There it is,” Paavo said, and Angie felt anticipation bubble up inside.
Paavo had explained that Jackpot, Arizona, a town of 912 permanent residents, quadrupled in size in winter when the “snow birds” arrived to get away from harsh northern climates. Each spring they’d leave, complaining that the land was too hot and dry and spindly, and Jackpot would once again become as lonely as the desert surrounding it.
Now that the warm days of spring were rapidly hurtling toward a fiery summer, the town should be quiet.
She knew that going back to a place he’d spent time in as a child was bringing back lots of memories to Paavo. Some happy, others not.
She reached over and grasped his arm, giving him a smile of support. He lightly patted her hand, glancing at her briefly before his eyes returned to the road, letting her know he appreciated her understanding.
When Paavo was very young, his father had died, and for reasons he’d only recently came to
understand, his mother had abandoned him. A Finnish friend of his parents, Aulis Kokkonen, raised him.
Years ago Aulis became good friends with a Dr. Loomis Griggs who was in San Francisco studying at the University of California Medical Center. Now Doc Griggs lived just outside Jackpot, where, prior to his retirement, he’d been the town’s doctor as well as the doctor at the nearby Colorado River Indian Reservation. When Paavo was young, Doc invited Aulis and Paavo to spend time with him on his ranch. Paavo had gone there three times, at ages seven, nine, and twelve. They were three of his most memorable summers. After that, being a teenager in a big city, he thought himself much too “cool” to go on a vacation to a small town and ranch with his guardian. And, as Aulis grew older and Doc busier, their visits also stopped.
Still, the two men kept in touch. Last week, Aulis received a phone call from him. Doc said some troubling things had happened in the town surrounding the death of a former patient, a man in his seventies, named Hal Edwards. But Doc wasn’t one to fret unnecessarily.
Still, Aulis had sensed some real worry beneath Doc’s jovial and garrulous manner. Sensing Aulis’s concern after speaking with him, Paavo phoned Dr. Griggs. Just hearing the familiar gravelly voice brought back many fond memories. Doc tried to blow off Paavo’s and Aulis’s concerns, declaring he was just a foolish retiree with too much time on his hands. But he protested too much, and the
more Doc said nothing was wrong, the more Paavo sensed just the opposite.
He also realized how much he’d loved that old man as a boy, and how much he’d missed seeing him. It was time to remedy that. Paavo’s workdays were spent investigating suspicious deaths. He’d make sure nothing was amiss or if something was, that the perpetrator got caught. He could surely spend a week’s vacation doing the same thing for a dear old friend.
He told Angie all this, and they decided to go to Jackpot as tourists, to nose around and ask questions. Most likely, a simple explanation would be found for whatever was troubling Doc.
Angie knew this trip was important to Paavo for a variety of reasons, and was glad he’d asked her to be a part of it.
As she prepared for her week in Jackpot, the realization that it might make a perfect “destination wedding locale” was simply an added bonus.
Merritt’s Café was an established institution in Jackpot. LaVerne Merritt had run the coffee shop for twenty-four years. “Chief cook and bottle washer,” she called herself. Although she employed a cook, she did much of the “special” cooking—sauces, gravies, roasts, stews and the like—and nearly all the baking. But most of all, she enjoyed being with her customers. She knew everyone in town and every bit of gossip about each of them. Heaven forbid she miss out on a good story because she was standing over a hot stove.
With the shop being dead center in the middle of Main Street—all five blocks of it—while working the counter and waiting tables, she had a perfect view of everyone’s comings and goings. Or, at least, those few who came or went anywhere during this time of year. Tourist season was over. For the most part, the only ones who came to town now were either lost or illegals who had snuck across the border, and there weren’t that many these days.
LaVerne was pouring coffee when she spotted a strange-looking vehicle approaching. She would have poured the cup to overflowing if Junior Whitney hadn’t cried out.
Pot in hand, she stepped closer to an apple-and-grape café-curtained window. Her small, sharp face was scrunched into a scowl, her mouth forming an upside-down
U
as she adjusted thick bifocals. One eyelid drooped lazily. Her short dyed blond hair was faded and showed too much gray, and was so brittle it stood on end like miniature lightning bolts.
For the car not to be a pickup was odd enough, but that it wasn’t even an American sedan or a “normal” SUV like a Jeep Cherokee or Ford Explorer, made it stick out like a hammered thumb. The glare from the bright desert sun bounced off the dust-covered windshield and prevented her from making out who was inside. The car slowed nearly to a stop, and she leaned so close to the window that her nose flattened against it as the scowl on her lined face deepened.
The thought struck that it might have been some out-of-state reporter, or maybe some officious
alphabet-soup-named law enforcement officer—the FBI, Arizona State Police, or possibly someone who came all the way from Phoenix. As word of Hal Edwards’s death got out, she’d been expecting more of them to come snooping around—either conducting an investigation, or at least fishing for a lurid story. They wouldn’t have to fish too deeply in these waters.
The silver car parked vertically in front of the diner and she was able to clearly see the hood ornament. She gawked. It was a Mercedes. A Mercedes SUV here in Jackpot, Arizona? It had to be some lost Californians, she thought, shaking her head dismissively. Still, she watched.
A tall, trim, and fit man got out from the driver’s side. He was very good-looking, LaVerne noted, with dark brown hair and aviator-style sunglasses. He wore jeans and a green plaid shirt, and was probably in his mid-thirties or so.
He walked around to the passenger door and opened it. The door blocked most of LaVerne’s view.
High-heeled yellow sandals, with only a thin strap holding them on the toes, touched the street. The driver held out his hand.
LaVerne’s eyebrows twitched as a slim, petite woman got out of the car and stood by the man. She wore a yellow-and-white dress, and wraparound lavender-tinted sunglasses. Her thick, wavy hair was brown with gold highlights, chin-length and worn loosely swept back like some Hollywood starlet.
LaVerne grimaced as she watched the too-stylish-for-words woman run her fingers through
shiny hair, then smooth her outfit while teetering on those ridiculous high-heeled shoes.
The two looked up and down the street, then began to approach the café. As the woman stepped onto the wooden sidewalk, however, her skinny heel wedged between the slats.
LaVerne chuckled to herself. Definitely a lost Californian. They’d be on their way soon. Nothing for them in this town, that was for sure.
She scurried behind the counter, leaving an imprint of the tip of her nose on the window.
Angie balanced against Paavo’s arm as she pulled her Prada mule heel free. She didn’t know any real towns still had boards for sidewalks, but thought they were only used in ghost towns refurbished as tourist traps.
“This is all so authentic!” she cried, wriggling her toes back in place.
“It’s the real thing,” Paavo agreed.
“It reminds me of Disney’s Frontierland when I was a kid.”
He did a double take, but didn’t say a word.
The late afternoon sun was muted and cast Jackpot in a golden glow. Along the highway were various automotive, gun, hardware, and feedstores. On one end of Main Street stood a gas station and a Circle K; on the other, a Halmart Store. Angie reread the sign. It was an
H,
not a
W.
A couple of weary-looking motels flashed neon vacancy signs. Behind the stores stretched dusty streets lined with small homes.
The two walked into what appeared to be the only coffee shop in town, a small place with
booths, wooden tables, and chairs, plus a long white counter. One scruffy, long-haired man sat at the counter, while two who were dressed for fishing were at a far table.
“Sit where you please,” the middle-aged woman behind the counter called while grabbing mugs, menus, and a coffeepot.
As the woman poured, she glanced dismissively at Angie, but studied Paavo. “You FBI?” she asked suddenly.
He looked surprised. “No.”
“You look FBI.” She wrinkled her mouth. “More than some.” Through the bifocals, magnified eyes darted toward the two fishermen. “Can’t fool me. I know these things.”
With a sniff in Angie’s direction, she walked away.
“That was weird,” Angie murmured, then added, “I take it Ned’s not here.”
“Not yet,” Paavo replied.
Ned Paulson and Paavo used to play together as kids. His mother had been Doc Griggs’s secretary. Ned was a little younger than Paavo, a nice kid who knew the desert well. Paavo had called Ned and told him he was coming. Ned had sounded both surprised and vaguely troubled, but added that he understood Doc’s concerns. He wanted to talk to Paavo in person about it and suggested that they meet at Merritt’s the afternoon Paavo arrived.
The conversation had only added to Paavo’s conviction that there was good reason for Doc’s uneasiness.
Now they waited.
When Angie had first heard that Ned ran a boat
rental on a marina in the middle of the desert, she’d thought it was a joke. It wasn’t. As they rode along the Colorado River, she’d seen the lake. It had been formed by a dam, one of many that reduced the once rushing river to no more than a trickle.
The lake was the main draw for the area—stocked with fish, and ringed with inexpensive cabin and trailer rentals.
“This area hasn’t changed much at all since I last visited nearly twenty-five years ago,” Paavo said.
“If Ned has a customer, I can understand his being late.” Angie looked out the window. “The town seems too small to get many visitors at all.” A gas station and the small convenience store attached to it seemed to be the liveliest places in town.
