Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (10 page)

Hal Edwards’s cattle ranch was northeast of town, where the land rose high and could be used as pasture. Miles from the caves, Paavo understood Doc’s surprise that Ned’s horse had ended up way out there.

Apparently, the horse hadn’t traveled that far on his own. The foreman found him on the desert flats just east of the cattle ranch, hungry and thirsty. The saddle and bridle were gone. The horse was tame, so he loaded him onto a horse trailer and brought him to the stables. After hearing about Ned, he called the sheriff.

Paavo wondered about the missing saddle and bridle. Ned’s cell phone was also missing, and the odds were good that it was in the saddlebag. The horse had no cuts or gashes that would indicate the harnesses had been torn from its body, so someone must have removed them.

Paavo wanted to find that saddlebag. The question was how?

“Want to see what you’ll ride on at the cookout?” Lionel called out. Angie had left Clarissa and was now sitting on a rocking chair in front of her bungalow, thinking about what to serve with salmon roulade and waiting for Paavo to return.

“What do you mean by ‘ride on’?” she asked skeptically.

“Didn’t nobody tell you? The cooks come riding out onto the plaza with the chuck wagon filled with food just like in the old West. It’s a,
uh,
a tradition.” He smiled as if glad to have found the word.

He led her to a huge garage. Inside were a truck, tractor, some farm equipment, and an old chuck wagon that looked like something out of a movie set. She stared at the rickety wagon with its high bench seat. “It looks ancient.”

“That’s ’cause it is. A genuine antique from cattle drives that used to go through this area. Chuck box and all. ’Course, it could be dangerous.”

He steered her to the rear of the wagon. The back consisted of a hinged lid that dropped down to serve as a work surface. When opened, it revealed the chuck box. Large, square, and wooden, it contained a number of shelves and drawers to hold whatever the cook might need. Dutch ovens were in the boot of the wagon, and a water barrel was attached to the side, along with an assortment of tools and boxes, hooks, brackets, and a coffee grinder. Numerous side drawers stored even more supplies.

Angie was impressed with the compact and utilitarian setup.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said running her hand
over the weathered wood. The wagon was living history, as was much of Jackpot. She felt as if she’d stepped back in time. It reminded her of the missing stagecoach and the caves—and Willem van Beerstraeden’s journal. “This chuck wagon is like history come to life—like the missing stagecoach you talk about. As a matter of fact, I’d love to learn more about the stagecoach. I’ve heard some belongings from it were found around here.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s true.” He scratched his belly. “Some at the creek, but mostly up at the caves where Uncle Hal died. You can go up there anytime, you know. Might find something interesting yourself.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Why not?” Lionel gazed at her with a definite twinkle in his eye. “Just be careful you don’t get to liking treasure hunting too much. If gold fever gets hold of you, Miss Angie, you’ll soon be wandering around these hills like some old withered prospector with nothing but a donkey, pickax, and shovel.”

“I know why I’m here!” Angie cried the minute Paavo walked into their cabin. She threw her arms around his neck, got up on tiptoe, and kissed him.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“I couldn’t wait to tell you!” She spun away and was all but dancing around the living room. “It all came to me at the library. Paavo, I can
feel
it. This time, finally, I’ve discovered the thing that’s going to make my name in the culinary world!”

“Angie—”

“Don’t Angie me in that tone! I know what
you’re thinking, but I’m telling you, it’s going to happen.”

He sat down on the sofa. “Okay.”

She sat on the arm beside him. “It all has to do with Oscar Tschirky!”

“Who?” He looked completely befuddled.

She gave him a quick history, explaining that Oscar was one of William Waldorf Astor’s first employees when the Waldorf Hotel opened in March 1893.

Later, in 1897, cousin John Jacob Astor IV erected the Astoria next door, and the hotels combined to become the Waldorf-Astoria. In 1929, the original hotels were demolished to make way for the Empire State Building, but reopened at the current site in 1931. Throughout all that time, Oscar Tschirky was the maître d’hotel, renowned for his fabulous gourmet concoctions.

All this bit of history did was to make Paavo look at her with something akin to deep concern.

She then told him about Chef van Beerstraeden and the missing journal of recipes, pointing out that van Beerstraeden disappeared in the summer of 1893—the same year that the Waldorf opened. “I started thinking about this coincidence,” she concluded. “Oscar Tschirky, you see, wasn’t a chef, he was a maître d’hotel. So why would he be so interested in someone else’s recipes?”

Paavo had no answer.

Angie’s voice turned conspiratorial. “Everyone had marveled that Oscar was so good at creating tasty delights when he wasn’t a cook. Yet, his most famous creations were developed in the early
years of his reign at the Waldorf, shortly after he’d been working with Willem van Beerstraeden … shortly after a real chef disappeared!”

“Oh?”

“Don’t you get it?”

“No,” he admitted.

She leaned closer, practically nose to nose, her hands gripping his shoulders. “What if, for example, veal Oscar wasn’t created by Oscar of the Waldorf, but by another man—a man who disappeared on a stagecoach in the middle of the Sonoran desert in the 1890s? Do you realize what a tremendous stir that would cause?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

She looked at him as if he was crazy. “Of course not! And if I’m the one to discover that the culinary world has been wrong about Oscar Tschirky all this time, it’ll make me famous.”

He had no comment.

“On top of that,” she continued, “if I find his recipes, I can publish them myself! I can see it now—a bestseller. Oprah might start talking about cookbooks on her show. Or Letterman. I’d love to do Letterman. What are the top ten reasons for buying Angie Amalfi’s cookbook?”

Paavo gaped. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. But I’ll come up with them. First, though, I’ve got to find that recipe book. Lionel told me people still find things from the missing stagecoach out near the creek or in the caves.” She glanced at Paavo’s expression. “What, you think I’m joking?”

“No, not at all.” He shifted her onto his lap.
“Matter of fact, I think it’s a great idea. You should pursue it,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.

She frowned. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Just make sure you’re careful out there in the desert. Take Lionel or someone with you.”

She frowned at this sudden turnaround. “What am I missing?”

“Missing?” He tried to look innocent, but failed. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

They headed for the dining room with Angie practically dancing with excitement and shooing ostriches out of the way. She went from one plan to another on how to retrieve the lost cookbook. Paavo had to smile at her enthusiasm, secretly thankful that it just might keep her occupied while he tried to find out who killed Ned and Hal.

As soon as they reached the common room, she dropped the subject. Not that it mattered—no one was there to overhear it.

Dolores served T-bone steaks, baked potatoes, squash, and a green salad for dinner with pinot noir to wash it down. As Paavo ate the thick, tender steak, he had no doubt this was cattle country.

Clarissa and Joey had again asked for dinner in their rooms, and Lionel was eating, as he usually did, in the kitchen with Dolores and Junior Whitney.

Right before dessert, however, Lionel and Junior ventured into the dining room. Junior looked even more like he’d been rolling in cow manure than when Angie first met him.

The two men regarded Angie and Paavo almost
shyly. Their eyes lit up, though, when Dolores brought in a cheesecake covered with huckleberry preserves.

“Are we all going to have dessert together?” Angie asked.

“Sure,” Lionel said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But our guests always go first. This is a treat. It was sent over by LaVerne from Merritt’s Café. She’s quite the gourmet cook, you know.”

Angie frowned. “So I’ve been told.”

Paavo wasn’t sure what was going on.

Dolores cut the cake, put two pieces on dishes for Angie and Paavo, and then she joined the men watching them. He noticed Junior, who’d clearly been drinking, give Dolores an appreciative glance and move over next to her. She, however, shifted away.

Paavo bent near the cheesecake, then pushed his plate away. The strong odor of goat cheese was unmistakable. What in the world was LaVerne thinking?

Angie, to his surprise, took a bite.

“How interesting. Cheesecake
au chèvre
.” She smiled at the three who were now gawking at her with amazement. “This cheese is wonderful in
bûchette charcuterie
, you know, an appetizer made by wrapping pancetta around a small piece of cheese and chives, then sautéing it. It’s also delicious in tarts.”

Lionel and Junior stared, open-mouthed, their eyebrows high, as if they didn’t know whether to believe her or not. She took another bite, and murmured,
“Ummm.”

Lionel licked his bottom lip.

Junior began to drool.

“Marvelous!” Angie cooed. “Too bad I’m too full after that T-bone to enjoy it.”

“Cheesecake-oh-shever?” Lionel asked.

“It’s all the rage in San Francisco,” Angie replied, putting down her fork.

“Hey, I’ll try some,” Junior said.

“Me too,” Lionel added, as Dolores cut three big slices, obviously deciding to join in herself.

As Angie whisked Paavo from the room, he noticed the others taking big forkfuls of LaVerne’s specialty. Immediately, their mouths wrinkled in disgust. Dolores gagged the food down while Lionel and Junior spit it into their hands.

And then Paavo heard Angie’s soft cackle.

The last customers had gone home, and Teresa Flores stepped onto the dark, empty parking lot that surrounded Maritza’s restaurant. She had visited the restaurant that evening just to get out of the house, to see people who were untroubled enough to want to relax over a good meal.

She’d been that way once herself, an eternity ago.

The next day was Ned’s funeral.

Just the thought of it made tears form once again. She fought them back, tucking her long black hair behind her ear, squaring her shoulders as she hurried to her car. But Ned’s face shimmered before her, especially his intense blue eyes, and the way they’d followed her with a sad mixture of desire and hopelessness. If only she had been able to love him the way he did her, if only
the way she’d wanted to live her life was different … if, if, if … would he still be alive?

Would she no longer feel this oppressive guilt whenever she thought of Ned … or of Hal?

Would everything, still, be her fault?

She took long-legged strides, forcing herself to hurry. The lot seemed somehow darker and quieter than normal. The lights from the restaurant burned bright as the kitchen helpers cleaned up for the next day’s business and her mother took care of the day’s receipts. She wondered if she should have waited for them so that they all could have left together.

No, that was silly. She knew the restaurant and this parking lot as well as she did her own home. She continued toward the back of the lot where she always parked in order to leave the prime spaces for customers.

She was halfway across when something told her to go no farther—to hurry back to the restaurant.

She fought it. She didn’t believe in “intuition,” in “second sight,” in any of that ESP-type nonsense her mother and grandmother placed such store in. It was all superstition.

Her heartbeat quickened, and suddenly she was running. She didn’t know why, couldn’t think, all she knew was that she needed to hurry back to the restaurant.

At that moment, behind her, a truck engine roared. Its headlights were off, but even in the darkness she could see the truck, like an enormous black monster, bearing down on her.

She ran faster, reaching the restaurant’s back
steps, grabbing the metal handrail, and pulling herself up off the parking lot and high onto the staircase just as the truck sped by.

Hand to her chest, hoping to still her pounding heart, she stared into the darkness. Had it come as close, and was it going as fast, as she’d thought? Or was it, once again, only her imagination?

Angie and Paavo were alone in the dining room, drinking coffee and eating waffles from the breakfast buffet when Lionel entered. He took one look at them and started to back out.

“Join us,” Paavo called, his tone making it more an order than a request.

Lionel hesitated, but then poured himself coffee and sat at their table.

“Sounds like your fishing plans fell apart.” His eyes shifted warily. “Guess you folks are gonna be leaving us soon.”

“No, we’ll stay.” Paavo’s voice was low, the words firm.

“It’s nice here,” Angie said to Lionel, trying to lighten the mood. “Despite all the ostriches, and even hairy spiders. I found out tarantulas aren’t nearly as dangerous as you said.”

“Really? I been bit once. Hurt to high heaven.” He glanced at Paavo. “I just didn’t think you’d stick around after finding a dead body. Sort of a busman’s holiday, seems to me.”

Paavo grimaced. “What I’d like to know is why Ned was out at those caves,” he said. “Do you have any ideas?”

Lionel looked surprised. “Me? Hell, no.”

“Funny,” Paavo said, “that Ned was found near the place your Uncle Hal died. Did Ned ever talk to you about Hal?”

“Ned and me didn’t talk about nothing.” Lionel loudly sipped his hot coffee. “He was kinda uppity, having his own business and all. Guess I wasn’t his sort.”

“Weren’t Ned and Hal friends?” Paavo pressed.

“Ned and Hal?” Lionel chuckled. “Hell, Hal couldn’t stand the guy!”

“Really?” Paavo wanted to hear Lionel’s take on the relationship. “Why not?”

Lionel shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Did they see each other when Hal returned?” Paavo asked.

Lionel lifted an eyebrow, then dropped his voice. “I’m surprised no one’s asked me that afore now, but then ol’ Mighty Butt didn’t ask much at all.”

“Mighty Butt?” Angie repeated.

“M.B. The sheriff,” Lionel explained with a scowl. “Anyway, I saw Ned and Hal having it out right out there on the veranda.” He nodded toward the windows. “Come to think of it, though, that don’t mean a hell of a lot. Hal always argued with folk.”

“Ned was here?” Paavo asked, then his eyes hardened. “What about Teresa Flores? Did she come out here, too?”

Lionel grimaced and nodded. “I ’spect she was here trying to get her old job back. I think my un
cle had had it with her, though. She weren’t nothing but a gold digger. It took him a while, but Hal finally figured it out. He run her off.”

That was new information, Angie thought.

“When did he run her off?” Paavo asked.

“Round about a day or two afore he took off for Mexico, some five years ago.” Lionel scratched his chin a moment, shifting nervously in the chair, as if thinking he might have said too much. Suddenly, he told them he had work to do, drained his coffee cup, and left.

“If Lionel was telling the truth,” Paavo said, once he and Angie were alone, “it means Teresa lied to us. And Ned must have lied to Doc, or I’m sure Doc would have told us that Ned and Hal had had words.”

Angie met his gaze. “The questions are, why was Ned lying then? And why is Teresa now?”

“I think I’ll go pay a visit to the sheriff,” Paavo said, standing. “Do you want to stay here, or head into town?”

“I should finish up the menu for the cookout,” Angie said. “And maybe afterward, I’ll take a little walk down to the creek.”

“Be careful,” Paavo warned.

“Don’t worry about me,” Angie said with a grin. “Around Mighty Butt, you’re the one in danger!”

“There’s no evidence of squat,” Merry Belle said a bit later as Paavo sat across her desk going through the information she’d gathered. At her side was an enormous cup of caffé mocha with a whipped cream topping. Not that Jackpot had a
Starbucks or that Merritt’s had become creative. Merry Belle had bought herself a Saeco espresso machine and made it there in her office.

Saecos were expensive, Paavo thought, as were Hummers. It made him wonder how Jackpot’s sheriff could afford them.

He read over the forensic reports on the finger-prints, blood, hair, and fibers from Ned’s home and office, the cave, and the rocky ledge. They’d picked up all kinds of samples, and all of them came back with no match. Paavo was puzzled until he learned that Buster was the one using the crime scene investigator kits for analysis.

If there ever had been any good evidence, it was gone now.

“You should have sent the samples to Phoenix and had them analyzed in the laboratories,” he said, unable to hide his disgust at the mess.

“Is that so, San Francisco? And have them say what? That we can’t figure out how to use the kits they spent good money to send us?” The sheriff sipped some coffee, then wiped whipped cream off her upper lip. “We used the kits just fine. It’s simply that all the spots had plenty of activity with people coming and going.”

“The skill comes in knowing how to separate out the usual activity from the crime. For example”—he pointed at fingerprint samples—“looks like you’ve got a couple hundred, but they aren’t even marked as to where they’re from. Do you know?”

Merry Belle stuffed them back into a folder. Out of sight, out of mind. She glowered at Paavo, daring him to say more.

Paavo suppressed a sigh. Accusations after the fact were not going to help anyone. “Have you requested Ned’s phone records?”

“Oh … his phone records.” She went to the door. “Buster, did you get Ned’s phone records?”

“No, Aunt Merry Belle.”

“Well, why not? Do it!”

“You didn’t tell me nothing about getting no phone rec—”

“Be quiet, Buster! Do your job.” She slammed the door shut. “Satisfied now, San Francisco?”

Paavo took a large swallow of his plain black coffee. It was going to be another long day.

Angie went to the cookhouse to look over the supplies and spices. She was pleased with the menu she’d come up with.

Along with the salmon, she planned an appetizer of
fois gras
with poached apples, and two salads—one of beet, orange, walnut and arugula, and the other of shaved fennel, mushroom, and parmesan. For vegetables, she’d have butternut squash timbales, and orange dal made by crushing lentils with ginger and garlic. She still had to check with Clarissa to find out if she should prepare a dessert or not.

Now, she needed to see what items to ask Lionel to buy. Some ingredients, like the fois gras, arugula, and fresh fennel might require a trip to a town a bit larger than Jackpot.

A very sheepish Dolores was in there cleaning up the breakfast dishes. “I’m sorry,
senorita,
about last night’s cake. Lionel, he said it would be a good joke. But the joke was on us.”

“It’s all right,” Angie said. “I guess LaVerne tries.”

“She is very trying,” Dolores added, and both women laughed.

As Angie made her list, she chatted with the head cook and housekeeper. Dolores had worked on the ranch for over twenty years. She’d never married, and lived in rooms in the cabin behind the hacienda. Back when Hal Edwards ran the guest ranch, there were many cooks and housekeepers, and all had rooms there. Now, she was the only one left. She would hire kitchen helpers and housemaids as needed when more guests than she could handle arrived, which wasn’t very often anymore. Right now, she had a girl come in to clean and change linens in the guest cabins each day, but she alone prepared the food.

“Does Junior Whitney live in one of the rooms the way you do?” Angie asked.

“No. He has an old RV, and mostly lives in it—thank goodness,” Dolores said with a shudder.

Angie couldn’t help but agree. “You don’t mind being alone?”

Dolores shook her head. “After the way I lived so crowded with my family when I was growing up in Mexico, I like it.”

Just then, Clarissa walked in and Dolores pressed her lips firmly shut.

“I’ve just returned from my morning ride,” Clarissa said, getting herself a bottle of Perrier, eyeing Angie and ignoring Dolores. “I heard you were in here. Have you been able to come up with any more ideas at all for the cookout?”

“I’ve been thinking about making an Italian dish,
strozzapreti alla puttanesca,”
Angie said. “How does that strike you?”

Dolores looked quizzically at Angie, then quietly asked, “Is that anything like
puta
in Spanish?”

Angie smiled. It was an uncomplimentary term for a woman. “You’ve got it,” she whispered back.

Dolores glanced at Clarissa and nodded.

“Whatever,” Clarissa said, drinking some water. “Give Lionel your list. Let’s go have some chilled wine. It’s very warm today.” She left the bottle on the kitchen counter, and headed for the common room.

Angie waved good-bye to Dolores.

The sun was bright, and the day already warm. Angie wondered if she’d ever before seen a sky as high and blue as that in Arizona. Even the rather smelly ostriches looked magnificent against the horizon.

“Do you ride often?” Angie asked, marveling that at Clarissa’s age she still rode at all.

“I try to do so every day when I’m here,” she replied.

“You seem quite at home,” Angie added.

“I should! I lived here for twenty-five years. Even though I can’t stand this backwater, to turn it into an ostrich farm is beyond appalling! If somebody hadn’t beaten me to it, I might have killed Hal myself.”

Angie was astonished to hear anyone finally being honest about what happened to Hal Edwards.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get the house,” Angie
said. “Most of the time, it seems, that goes to the wife, especially when there’s a child involved.”

“I wanted to return to California. Instead of the house, I took the business.”

“That’s even more surprising.”

They reached the common room and Clarissa made a beeline for the bar. She began going through bottles in the wine cooler.

“Why? After his stroke, Hal couldn’t run it anyway,” Clarissa called. A moment later, she stood with a bottle of chardonnay in hand. “He couldn’t walk, could hardly speak. What he needed was a home, which I allowed him to have. I thought getting the business was a good deal. Was I ever fooled! The business should have provided Joseph and me with a fabulous income for years. But Joseph is having trouble. The manager he hired couldn’t run a shoebox. We fired him, but the damage was done. Other grocery chains began moving into Arizona, and we’ve lost more stores than I can count.”

Like a pro, Clarissa uncorked the wine and poured.

“How terrible,” Angie said.

“It is.” Clarissa handed her a glass. “It makes me furious! I’ve taken care of myself with investments, but I worry about Joseph. Unless he turns it around, Halmart stores are looking at bankruptcy.”

“What will it take to reverse course?” Angie asked. She wasn’t a fan of chardonnay, but this one was exceptional.

“Hmm, very nice.” Clarissa topped off her glass before answering. “From what Joseph tells me, the stores need an infusion of money. That’s why I
wish we’d get this silly reading of the will—if there is one—over with. Hal had lots of money. Look at all those stupid ostriches. They’re expensive! And I understand he planned to buy a few males, which are even more expensive, to breed with them! God, the man makes me sick!”

“I take it your divorce was acrimonious,” Angie said.

“Acrimonious.” Clarissa gave a dry, mirthless laugh, then gulped down her wine and poured more before heading out to the veranda to sit in the shade. “It was so ‘acrimonious’ we didn’t simply divorce, he had the Catholic Church annul the marriage! Can you imagine?”

They took seats at a wicker table. “How could he do that?” Angie asked. “You have a child.”

“When we married, I was a divorced woman.”

“I see.” Herself a Catholic, Angie guessed Hal had argued that he never had a legitimate marriage to Clarissa. Even in such cases, though, when children were involved, church annulments were extraordinarily difficult to get. She didn’t understand why Hal would go through all that. “Was Mr. Edwards very religious?”

Clarissa’s laugh was loud and harsh. “God, no! What a funny image! No, Hal used his Catholicism the way he used people—when it suited his own selfish purposes. He was quite the character, Hal was.”

“I’m sorry,” Angie said, fingering her engagement ring. “I’m sorry to hear you were unlucky in your marriages.”

“My first marriage was a mistake,” Clarissa said. “Nothing more. A college romance.” She
swirled the wine in her glass. “He was just a poor boy, on scholarship. Of course, my parents objected and convinced me to leave him. They took care of the divorce. I transferred to another college … and never saw him again.”

“Did you ever wond—”

“No!” Clarissa snapped. “Of course not.”

“But then you met Hal,” Angie said.

The distant brown mountains were sharply etched against the sky. “A cowboy from Arizona,” Clarissa’s voice was soft. “My family found out how rich he was and suddenly decided cowboys were quaint and colorful. What better reason to marry, right?”

Angie couldn’t find any words. How strange that this harridan, who so carelessly bossed other people, had herself been pushed into making life-altering changes—and had spent her life paying the consequences.