Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (26 page)

The bedroom had also been torn apart and the mattress slashed. This was far, far more frightening than what had happened to her own apartment. There was anger here, perhaps hatred.

“What is going on?” she cried. “Why would anyone destroy your things?”

“It looks like a search, followed by frustration.”

As she wandered through the little house, she realized he was right. It wasn’t random destruction as she had first thought, but where the search of her apartment had appeared slow and meticulous, here it was hurried and frenzied.

“Hercules!” he called. “Herc? Come on, boy, are you all right?”

Angie was beside herself. She’d been called to go to a house to discuss baking cakes for a party of twenty, and yet no one was there when she arrived. This was the second time that had happened to her. Was someone playing tricks, or were people really so careless as to make appointments and then not keep them?

She really didn’t have time for this. But at least she was getting smart. She’d brought a cake with her that had to be delivered to a horse’s birthday party not far from her appointment. She never thought she’d be baking cakes for a horse, but Heidi was being boarded some forty miles outside the city, and the owner visited her on weekends only. That was why the owner wanted a Comical Cake of the mare.

Angie couldn’t imagine eating something that looked
like a beloved pet or animal. She was meeting real ding-a-lings in this line of work.

Still muttering to herself about the thoughtlessness of the public, she got into her new car. A vaguely familiar yet disquieting smell hit her. A stain smeared the bottom of the cake box. She peered closer. The smell was stronger, and the bottom of the box was wet.

She opened the driver’s side door, ready to jump out of the car as her hand slowly reached for the box top. Thoughts of flies and toads pounded her. What now?

She flipped back the lid and shrank away from it.

Nothing moved. Nothing jumped out.

Poor Heidi was now a bright-red color, but it wasn’t frosting. The familiar smell was blood, and it had been poured on her cake. Shifting the box, she saw that it had seeped through onto the leather seat and was dripping to the floor mat.

“Here’s some salad and bread, Miss Connie,” Earl said. “I don’t t’ink you need to starve just ’cause some jerk-off is late showin’ up for your date.”

“Thanks, Earl,” she murmured. “But right now, I’m not even hungry.” Okay, it was a lie, but she was too humiliated to eat.

“It’s on da house.” He left a green salad with Roquefort dressing, Connie’s favorite, and walked away. The aroma of the French bread wafted up to her. She touched it. Warm. Firm crust. Soft center. Perfect for spreading butter which, unfortunately, was loaded with empty, straight-to-the-hips calories …

She checked her watch again. 7:30. Why bother with a guy who couldn’t tell time? She kicked off her shoes
and took a big bite of buttered, crusty bread. Heaven!

Just then, like magic, the restaurant’s front door opened and a man alone entered. Connie’s breath caught, causing her to nearly choke on the bread. She swallowed it in a scarcely chewed lump.

It quickly became obvious that the man who walked in was no football player.

Now the cast was being reassembled for a ten-year reunion show, a Christmas reunion, and she, Angelina Rosaria Maria Amalfi, had been asked to be a part of it.

A major part, if she said so herself. She was so anxious to get to Eagle Crest, it was all she could do to stick to the speed limit.

Her father had phoned the day before. He’d gotten a call from his old friend Dr. Waterfield: the woman who was to prepare the important centerpiece meal of the show had broken her leg. Dr. Waterfield wanted to know if Angie could handle it.

Could she ever!

Stan headed for the water, enjoying the dark, chilled air that so well matched his mood. A number of boats were moored, all rocking slightly from the tide. His peaceful solitude was broken, however, by the sound of raised but muffled voices.

His waiter berated a woman who sat on a rough-hewn, backless wooden bench at the water’s edge. His face was hard, his expression intense, and she was shaking her head, not looking at him, but staring out at the water as if it hurt to hear his words. Her feet were propped up on a railroad tie. A hooded rain parka, the cheap kind that was basically a sheet of heavy green plastic worn by slipping it over the head, covered her
hair. The way she sat scrunched on the bench, the parka draped her body like a tent.

The waiter bent close, grabbed her shoulder, and said something straight into her face. She turned her head away from him and the hood slipped down. The waiter then straightened and strode away. She reached out her hand toward him, but he didn’t turn back. She raised her chin, apparently struggling to hold her emotions in check.