Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (3 page)

After testing the bed’s comfort—an important thing to check out in a new hotel or motel room, or even in a cabin in the middle of the desert—then showering and changing from the wrinkled linen dress to a Marc Jacobs scoop-neck top and flared striped pants with gold high-heeled Via Spiga slides, Angie was ready to face the guest ranch’s happy hour.

She and Paavo were crossing the plaza hand-in-hand when she spotted several more ostriches pecking at the rocky ground. The wind was blowing and a gamey bird smell wafted her way. Angie’s nose wrinkled. She wondered why there weren’t any males among them.

One of the birds—the one with the cowlick—lifted her head and stared in their direction. The ostrich waddled closer, and Angie swore that the bird’s whole expression seemed to soften and her eyes turn all moony as she gazed at Paavo.

He never even noticed.

Angie kept looking over her shoulder at the
bizarre beast as she and Paavo continued toward the common room.

The room was huge with a kiva-style fireplace dominating a corner. To the left, a full-size billiards table stood before a wall filled with bookshelves, and to the right was an area with overstuffed chairs and sofas. In the corner opposite the fireplace was a modest bar. Double doors led to the dining room.

A freshly shaved and clean-shirted Lionel stood behind the bar; otherwise, the room was empty.

“Greetings!” he called, waving his half-filled glass. “Join me. It’s said I pour with a heavy, generous hand.”

“Do you have any white wine?” Angie asked as she reached the bar.

“I do now that Hell-on-Wheels is here,” Lionel grumbled.

Ah, yes, she thought. The ex-wife.

Before she could respond, she heard voices at the door. Lionel’s expression filled with disgust.

Entering were an older woman and a man who bore a slight resemblance to her. Angie watched them with interest.

The woman didn’t merely walk, she swept across the room. She was probably in her seventies, yet still striking. Tall and thin, she wore simple but elegant beige linen slacks and a billowing silk top adorned with enormous pieces of turquoise and silver jewelry. What demanded attention, however, was her angular but perfectly proportioned face. Swept-back, stiffly lacquered pale blond hair emphasized a full and determined
mouth, a long and slightly sharp nose, and most of all, cold but incisive sapphire eyes.

That’s trouble, thought Angie before turning her gaze toward the man as he reached the bar and sat.

He was also tall and thin, but where the woman stood straight and commanding, he was stoop-shouldered. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt and brown slacks. To Angie’s surprise, he also wore fancy, albeit scuffed, cowboy boots with intricately tooled patterns and silver tips protecting the leather on the toes and one heel. The second heel tip was missing.

Unlike the woman, his chin was lowered rather than proudly raised, his mouth a sullen mass, his brown hair could have used a washing, and his eyes betrayed a life of resentment. He was probably no older than Paavo, but he carried himself like a beaten down old man.

“Who are these people, Lionel?” the woman, still standing, asked in a voice that said no answer would be satisfactory.

Angie stepped toward her. “We’re guests. I’m Angelina Amalfi and with me is my fiancé, Paavo Smith.”

“Oh, yes, the guests Ned Paulson imposed on us.” She sniffed.

“He said this was a nice place to stay,” Paavo countered. “Was he wrong?”

Instead of answering, the woman gave Lionel an icy stare.

“This here’s Clarissa Edwards,” Lionel said by way of introduction as Clarissa condescended to
shake Angie’s and then Paavo’s hands. “And that’s Joey, Hal’s son.”

“His name is Joseph,” Clarissa reminded Lionel.

Hell-on-Wheels herself, Angie thought, suddenly sympathizing with Lionel’s characterization. She reached over to shake Joey’s soft, moist hand.

“The family came here to wait for the will to be read,” Lionel continued unfazed. His smirk only broadened when Clarissa cast him a withering glare.

“That’s hardly of interest to outsiders, Lionel,” she said through gritted teeth, then turned toward Angie and Paavo with a stiff smile. “This is the week for the ranch’s annual cookout, an event that the entire town looks forward to. We’re here to assure that, despite Joseph’s father’s unfortunate demise, this year’s event will be bigger and better than ever. Isn’t that right, Joseph?”

Angie’s ears had perked up at the word
cookout
and she was eager to hear more. “Joseph,” however, was too busy looking at the liquor bottles to pay any attention. “Uh-huh,” he murmured after too much time had passed.

Clarissa’s lips tightened. “Pour some wine, Lionel. The Domaines Schlumberger Gewürztraminer.”

Lionel muttered as he put a glass on the bar. Clarissa immediately lifted and inspected it as if expecting dirt, lipstick stains, or at least water spots.

His jaw gyrated as he found the white wine, opened the bottle and poured a little. Clarissa tasted, nodded, and he filled her glass. “You may serve Joseph and our guests also,” she said.

Joey was handed a glass of wine. He drained it in a single gulp.

As Angie sipped hers, she thought that while Clarissa seemed to be a terror, she knew wine.

Clarissa glared at Joey when he asked that a bottle of pinot noir be opened.

“This is very good,” Angie said.

Clarissa eyed her. “It should be. It’s more expensive than Gallo, to put it mildly.”

It was one thing for Hell-on-Wheels to look down her nose at her son and Lionel, but Angie wasn’t about to put up with it. “It isn’t often one finds a dry, crisp Gewürztraminer,” she began, then swirled and sniffed the glass. “It’s got a wonderfully spicy bouquet as well. Too often, they’re sweet and flabby. This is even better than a late-harvest Riesling, which are often overly praised, in my opinion. Do you agree?” She quickly glanced at Paavo, who seemed much amused by her little speech.

Clarissa arched her thin eyebrows. “How amazing to find someone in this area who knows wines.”

“I’ve learned from some of the world’s best sommeliers,” Angie replied.

“Hmm, interesting. I’ve learned from my own palate.”

Angie’s jaw tightened. “You were talking about the annual cookout. When will it be held?”

“On Saturday. Will you be staying?”

Paavo answered. “Yes, we plan to spend the week and leave Sunday night.”

“What’s the cookout like?” Angie asked, trying to hold in the excitement she was feeling. Paavo
wanted to learn about Hal Edwards’s death—what better way than for her to somehow insinuate herself in with the kitchen staff? “Have you always been involved in it?”

“In fact, I’ve done my best to avoid it.” Clarissa lightly patted her hair. “Hal ran it after the snow birds all went back to wherever they came from as a thank-you to the town and its people for another profitable winter. When he left the ranch for a few years, Lionel somehow managed to keep it going, to everyone’s amazement. This year, Joseph will preside as host.”

Joey, looking pained, gulped the pinot noir.

“It sounds like a wonderful tradition,” Angie said.

“If you like beer, beans, and barbecue.” Clarissa shuddered. “I’ve asked several people from town to come over and help, including the women from the Mexican restaurant, but I’m not counting on much.”

“I see.” She couldn’t have asked for more. Now was the time. Angie glanced at Paavo, a question in her eyes. He caught her meaning and nodded. She cleared her throat. “Well, if you’re interested in some other food, I wouldn’t mind helping out.”

Clarissa looked appalled. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris,” Angie said. “I’ve been a restaurant critic in San Francisco, and I’ve worked on television and radio. I know good food.”

Clarissa’s eyes narrowed. “You’re serious?”

“Of course. I’d enjoy it.”

For the first time, Angie saw a hint of a genuine
smile on Clarissa’s face. “Ah!
Très bien!
My prayers have been answered! To have a competent food person involved would be such a novel change. Personally, I can’t abide barbecue. That’s such a fine offer, Ms. Amalfi!”

“Call me Angie.”

Clarissa didn’t call her anything; instead, she seemed to be digesting the news. “You will have the entire kitchen staff to help you. And Lionel, of course. Just tell him what you need. I might even be able to invite a few of my friends from Bel Air. They have very refined taste. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

Angie couldn’t help but smile at this heaven-sent opportunity. She knew that the kitchen was often where the truth about a place was learned, be it a restaurant, a home, or even a guest ranch. In a day or two, she was sure she’d find out whatever Paavo needed to know, he’d be assured that nothing untoward had caused Hal Edwards’s death, and they could get on with enjoying Jackpot and their vacation.

“It should be great fun,” she enthused.

“Well, why don’t we refresh our glasses?” Clarissa said. “And sit down out on the veranda to discuss it further.”

Even with Angie and Clarissa and their cookout discussion out of the way, conversation between the men refused to develop. Weather, politics, baseball spring training, and the latest block-buster movies failed to spark any prolonged discussion. Lionel was drinking himself into a probable paralysis and Joey was sullenly down
ing too much wine, away from Clarissa’s watchful eye. Paavo waited for his chance to move the conversation to Hal Edwards, sure that, given enough time and alcohol, something of interest would be said.

He had to agree with Angie’s observation that the way everyone seemed to know one another in this small town, finding out if there was anything suspicious about Hal’s death might not be as difficult as he’d first imagined.

Joey’s glass was empty and when Lionel didn’t notice, he grabbed the wine bottle and poured it himself. Great globs of pinot noir splashed over the rim of the glass onto the floor.

Paavo saw that the toe of one of Joey’s boots had gotten a few drops. “The wine will stain,” he said. “Better wipe your boots.”

Joey didn’t make a move. “Who cares? These are already ruined.”

“Damn it!” Lionel grabbed a washrag and hurried around the bar to wipe up the floor. “Can’t you take care of your own messes? You don’t own this place yet, Joey,” Lionel said. He got down on one knee to wipe up the floor. “Maybe never will,” he mumbled.

Joey stuck out his foot. “Since you’re down there …”

“Like hell!” Lionel walked back to his side of the bar.

Joey stared unhappily at his boots. They were cognac brown, with hand-tooled shafts and lizard skin toes. They looked dressy and expensive. He turned back to his glass.

“This terrain is rough on boots,” Paavo said.

“You a shoe salesman or just have a fetish?” Joey asked.

Lionel chuckled.

It was all Paavo could do to civilly change the subject. “You visit here often?” he asked.

Joey stared hard at Lionel until the bartender, this time, refilled his glass. “From time to time,” Joey answered.

“He comes down pretty often,” Lionel interrupted. “Joey likes it here, don’t you?”

“That makes sense to me.” Paavo’s tone was indifferent. “Must be great to have a family resort in Arizona, especially in the winter.”

“He’s turned into a regular little snow bird.” Lionel agreed, but his words had a cutting tone. “Especially since he hopes a certain miss will start acting a bit more friendly.”

Paavo sensed troubling undercurrents.

“Lionel,” Joey said glaring. “I doubt if this stranger is interested in my itinerary.”

“Just making conversation, cousin,” Lionel said.

Joey looked slightly sick as he turned his shoulder to the bartender, then directed his attention to Paavo. “What do you do for a living?”

“I work for the city of San Francisco.”

“How interesting,” he remarked, as if the answer was anything but. “Doing what?”

“My agency deals with social and behavioral problems.”

“Oh, a social worker.” Joey was dismissive. “No offense, but do-good work sounds really boring.”

“I suppose.” Paavo tried to act friendly. “Say, do I understand that your father took off for five years and no one knew where he was?”

“Yes, you do.” Joey looked bored.

“I’m surprised no one worried about him, or thought he might be dead or kidnapped.”

“Hell,” Lionel interrupted. “First thing Clarissa did was try to get her lawyers to declare him dead so she and Joey could take over the ranch.”

“Obviously, it didn’t work out,” Paavo said.

“Everybody knew Hal was crazy—and he said he was going, so there was no reason to think he was dead. After a couple of years, he started withdrawing money from his account, so we knew he was alive somewhere.” Lionel poured himself more Southern Comfort.

“Curious old coot,” Joey said, looking into his wine. “He had a severe stroke when he was in his fifties. Took him years of rehab before he could walk and talk again. My mother took over the business—then, got a divorce and took it away from him. All this left my dad a little strange. Or, maybe it was the divorce that did it. Who knows?” When Joey lifted his gaze to Paavo’s his expression was surprisingly sad, almost sympathetic. “Hal had to turn our home into a guest ranch just to pay taxes, then, one day, he split. Guess he couldn’t handle all that had gone wrong in his life.” He downed the wine. “Maybe it runs in the family.”