Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (6 page)

A trail of billowing sand kicked up from the desert floor as vehicles raced toward the foothills and the ridge where the four waited. Remarkably, Paavo’s cell phone had worked, and he’d called for assistance.

Nearly an hour had passed since Ned’s body was found, an hour of silent shock, anger, and grief.

Doc had tried to hide his tears, but finally gave up and let them fall. Paavo sat with him, his arm around Doc’s shoulders, his head bowed.

Angie had stayed with Paavo until she noticed Joaquin standing alone, shoulders slumped, sniffling and occasionally rubbing his eyes. Her heart ached and she went to him.

Without looking at her, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I watched Ned grow up, Angie. I loved him, too.”

“I know you did.” She reached out and lightly held his arm.

Angie mourned for them all: for Paavo, who had looked forward to reuniting with a boyhood
friend; for Joaquin, who’d been there, side by side with Doc, helping the boy turn into the fine man Doc had described; for Doc, who had clearly become a father to Ned in everything but name; and especially for Ned, as all the hope she’d heard in Doc’s voice about him and his future would never be fulfilled.

Watching their sorrow, her own eyes filled with tears.

In the distance, the vehicles drew ever nearer.

“They’re almost here,” Paavo said, standing at the edge of the ledge. “Two of them.”

“Two?” Doc struggled to his feet. “That means the sheriff is dragging Buster along.”

“Buster?”

“Also known as Wallace Willis, the deputy.”

Below them, the vehicles came to a halt—a Hummer followed by an old Jeep, both with flashing red beacons and long aerials whipping the desert air. From the Hummer emerged Sheriff Hermann, wearing an oversized beige cowboy hat that shielded his face, a bulky jacket, and khaki slacks over surprisingly short legs and very wide hips. A phone, gun, and nightstick hung from a thick belt.

Slightly behind the Hummer, Buster leaped from the open Jeep and began swatting dust from his clothing. He was nearly a head taller than the sheriff, and more muscular. His uniform matched the sheriff’s, though he wore no jacket.

“You all got a body up there?” the sheriff bellowed. His voice, Angie thought, was peculiarly high-pitched.

The four yelled back variations on
“Yes.”

“We’re coming up!” the sheriff shouted back.

With fascination, the four watched the progress of Sheriff Hermann and Buster up the steep ridge. The sheriff gasped, swore, and kept slipping, kicking dust and sand in the deputy’s face. As the climb grew more difficult, Buster sometimes boosted the sheriff along with a two-armed shove of the buttocks. Near the top, Joaquin and Paavo edged themselves down to offer arms to help yank the sheriff to the flat clearing. Buster clambered behind.

When Sheriff Hermann reached the landing, panting and weary, he took off his hat and then his jacket. Angie gaped. “He” was a woman.

She was in her forties or fifties—Angie couldn’t tell—heavyset and solid, with gray-flecked straight brown hair pulled back into a rubber band at the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup, and her face was round, red, and sweaty from the ascent. Her eyes were pale blue, and her lashes and brows so thin they all but disappeared. An upturned, almost pert nose and a tiny mouth were completely at odds with the rest of her build.

Along with the khaki uniform, she wore combat boots and as deep a scowl as Angie had ever seen.

Buster would have been a decent-enough-looking man, mid-thirties with a muscular physique and large blue eyes, if not for his dull expression and protruding lower lip. To Angie’s surprise, the collar and front placket of his shirt were edged with maroon piping, and his hat had a small yellow feather stuck in the band. She couldn’t help but stare.

As soon as he spotted her, he gazed back with equal fascination.

Eyes bulging, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath, the sheriff said, “All right, now, where’s the body?”

The four pointed, and she marched off.

Buster didn’t follow until the sheriff ordered him to. Soon, the sound of vomiting came from behind the bushes. Paavo cringed. Angie knew he was thinking of what the two were doing to the crime scene.

Doc glowered after them. “Our delightful sheriff,” he explained, “is the orneriest cuss west of the Mississippi. She got the job because nobody could match her in being mean and hard-nosed. It’s a toss-up as to which is worse, her temper or Buster’s incompetence.”

Doc’s little speech made Angie stiffen as the sheriff returned. “Damnation, he’s dead,” she said, still huffing, jowls quivering, hands on hips and glowering at them as if one of them had been responsible. “What the hell’s going on around here? I didn’t take this job expecting people to drop like flies!”

“That’s Ned! Show some respect!” Doc snapped, and Paavo put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Don’t you think I know who it is,” she sneered.

“Listen here, Merry Belle—” Doc took a step forward, but Paavo had hold of him. He bit back a curse, and looked away, eyes brimming with tears.

Merry Belle?
Surely Angie hadn’t heard right.

“Don’t you yell none at the sheriff,” a green-looking Buster said, patting his mouth with a
monogrammed handkerchief—WW in royal purple script lettering. “You okay, Aunt Merry Belle?”

Yes, she’d heard right …

“Of course I’m okay!” Merry Belle swatted the deputy in the chest with the back of her hand. “Better than you! Now, make yourself useful and go back down there and radio the county for the coroner and see if we can’t get a helicopter from Yuma to fetch the body. Probably can’t land, but it could hover and drop a line.”

She then cast a sheepishly guilty look at Doc. “Cool off, Doc. I’m sorry about Ned, I really am. But I don’t know what the hell’s going on around here! Must have been an accident … but up here …”

Doc shook his head and walked away.

Slowly, as the sheriff looked around trying to determine how the accident might have happened, she revolved in the direction of her deputy, who had remained rooted to the spot. Her face darkened.

“I still see you,” Merry Belle barked.

Buster was staring at Angie.

“Have your legs failed you, boy?” the sheriff bellowed. “Or do I have to shoot?”

“I’m going,” Buster mumbled. “But who’s that woman?”

“I’ll do my investigation once you’re on your way,” Merry Belle yelled, ever more exasperated.

“I do like her red hat, though,” Buster mumbled, then went off to begin his downhill slide.

Much later that day, Angie found herself back at the guest ranch, alone. She’d taken the SUV and returned, while Paavo did some investigating on his own.

He clearly had no confidence that the sheriff would investigate properly or soon—it was all he could do to stop her and Buster from completely destroying the crime scene. He told Merry Belle he was a homicide inspector in San Francisco and offered to help. She bristled at the suggestion. Neither did she buy that he was vacationing in Jackpot “just by chance.”

When Paavo found out Doc had an extra set of Ned’s house and business keys, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Angie expected she’d only be in the way. She decided to leave, let those who knew Ned mourn his loss together in their own way.

She stood in the shade of the little porch in front of the door to her cabin, hunting in her purse for the key.

“Junior!” Clarissa called suddenly. “Junior Whitney, come here right now!”

Angie turned to see what was going on.

Clarissa was on the veranda outside the common room. “Junior” as the man had been called, had been walking toward the stables. Angie wondered if he could be another relative.

As Junior slinked near, Angie saw that his hair was long and unkempt, and his clothes had never known an iron. He seemed to be in his fifties, tall, skinny and blond, with painfully bloodshot eyes and puffy skin.

His jeans and boots were covered with dust, his hands and face grimy.

“Where have you been?” Clarissa demanded, marching to the middle of the plaza. “I haven’t seen you in two days! Lionel has some work for you to do.”

“Now?” he whined. “I been workin’ up at Hal’s cattle ranch, an’ I’m tired.”

“Now!”

Junior spun on his heel and Angie was sure she heard murmurs of “too damned cheap to hire enough help” as he headed toward Lionel’s trailer. For some reason, he looked vaguely familiar.

Clarissa looked up to see Angie watching her. “I’m afraid you see, now, what I have to deal with.” Clarissa’s lips tightened. “Help is so egregious these days! And, by the way, I haven’t heard what you plan to prepare for the cookout.”

Clarissa sounded as if Angie were nothing more than untrustworthy help herself. She curbed the
impulse to stick her tongue out at the woman and felt a sudden sympathy for Junior Whitney.

Suddenly, a memory came back to her. She’d seen Junior in LaVerne’s diner the day she and Paavo arrived in Jackpot. And he’d seemed to sneak out as soon as Teresa entered.

Gazing back unflinchingly at Clarissa, Angie stated, “I’ve been busy.”

“Well, pardon me!” Clarissa harrumphed and marched back into the common room.

With a disgusted shake of the head, Angie went into the cabin. The sadness of the morning had cast a pall over her mood, and even the cabin seemed overly quiet and dreary.

Angie began pulling off her dusty clothes. They no longer looked new and designer stiff, but instead seemed nearly as worn and earthy as Joaquin Oldwater’s. She used a bootjack to remove her Justins, and even seeing how scuffed-up they’d gotten, had to admit she was glad to have been wearing them to ride horseback and climb rocky hillsides.
What a day!

What a sad day.

As she headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, she thought she saw something move by the bedroom door—something small, almost like a mote in the eye. A shiver ran down her back as she slowly walked into the living room.

Nothing was there. The room looked untouched. Just her imagination, she told herself.

After a very quick shower, she put on loose and casual Juicy Couture drawstring Capris and a hoodie. Barefoot, she curled up on the sofa with a notepad and pen.

Last evening, speaking with Clarissa, Angie had pointed out that since a lot of meat would be available at the barbecue, her main dish should be something different. She suggested serving a seared cracked black pepper salmon roulade with white leeks and covered with a cucumber sauce.

Clarissa approved, and Angie said she would come up with interesting accompaniments to it.

Now was the time to do just that so Clarissa wouldn’t have reason to annoy her anymore—although something told her Clarissa was the type who’d find a reason, no matter what.

Slowly, she began to relax. Her breathing calmed, she yawned, and realized she was tired after getting up so early, the horseback ride, climb, and even the fresh air and sunshine. Between that and the day’s emotion, she felt drained. Still, although she tried to think of food, her mind kept replaying the scene on the mountain ledge. Doc’s sadness, the conspicuous sheriff, the deputy who gawked at her …

She shut her eyes to drive those thoughts away. Food, she told herself, think of food! Something sumptuous. Something she’d find at an elegant seafood restaurant in San Francisco …

Something tickled her foot. No. Impossible.

Suddenly, the sensation of feathers brushing against her ankle struck. She opened her eyes. Whatever it was crept higher, onto her calf.

She sat up with a jolt. Alarmed, she looked down at her leg, and saw a slight ripple under the loose material.

Petrified, she gripped the slacks tight around her thigh with one hand to stop the creature’s
upward journey, while with the other she slowly gathered the pants leg, lifting it higher and higher.

When she saw the three-inch wide, black hairy spider on her knee, she stared at it and it stared at her, both frozen with fright. Everything inside her went still. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The spider found its bearings first and ran down her leg, across the sofa, and onto the floor.

That broke the dam, and the sound Angie held came out loud and long at the same time as she sprang up so that she stood on the sofa. Immediately, she doubled over to inspect her skin for a bite, and then rubbed her hand hard over her leg to brush away the “feel” of the spider.

The spider, meanwhile, scurried across the living room to run behind a rolling TV stand.

Without even thinking about what she was doing, Angie grabbed the thick, heavy Phoenix telephone book, shoved the TV stand out of the way, and dropped the book on top of the cowering spider. Then she ran out the door, smack into Lionel.

“There’s a spider in my room!” she cried. “A huge, black hairy one.”

“I thought I heard some screeching. Hairy, you said? Sounds like a tarantula.” He held her shoulders, trying to stop her shaking as he looked her in the eye. “They’re real dangerous, and once they get inside a home, it’s often hard to find them. If you want to leave now, I unnerstand it. Won’t even charge you none extra.”

“Leave?” As she looked at him, a suspicion
crept over her. “No, I don’t want to leave. I think I killed it.”

He went inside to check. And, in fact, she had.

Paavo stood on the dock peering out at Ned’s rental fleet. The dam-created lake was of good size, though not nearly as large as he remembered it. As a boy, he’d imagined it to be the size of San Francisco Bay. It didn’t come close.

Foolishly, he found himself scanning the water for Ned. Many times as a child he had run to the lake to see a tanned, towhead boy out there waving skinny arms and telling him to “Come on in, the water’s warm!” And it was. They’d splash around in it for hours of fun and laughter.

Paavo turned away.

It was easy to see why this business had occupied so much of Ned’s free time. His house, a double-wide trailer, was right behind the shop where the boat rentals were made.

The doors to both were locked, and the shop had a sign in the window that simply said
CLOSED
. A truck was in the driveway and a couple of dogs ran around and barked, but other than that, all was quiet.

Joaquin confirmed that Ned’s motorcycle was gone.

As Paavo unlocked the door to the shop and entered, regret flooded him—regret for all the times he’d thought about picking up the phone and calling Ned, but didn’t. Regret for not continuing to join Aulis on visits as Paavo grew older; regret for not finding time to visit after he left the army, or even while he was a cop.

Ned had been an important, joy-filled part of his childhood. But he knew nothing of the man his friend had become, and that was the worst regret of all.

The shop was orderly and surprisingly neat for a place that dealt with boat rentals, repairs, and parts. That was typical of Ned. Even as a boy, he’d preferred taking apart appliances and rebuilding them over playing with toys. A memory of Ned taking apart one of Doc’s radios swirled in slow-motion in Paavo’s mind: Ned sitting on the floor with pieces spread all around him; Doc standing over him exasperated. In the end, Ned had put the radio back perfectly.

But no more.

Everything at the shop appeared strictly business-related, and Paavo moved to the house.

It was sterile. Furniture by Levitz and goods by Target were inexpensive and practical, nothing more. “Every penny Ned made went into his business,” Joaquin said, as if reading Paavo’s thoughts. “He wanted it to become big and important—to make some money for …” Joaquin suddenly stopped speaking.

“For Teresa?” Paavo asked.

Joaquin said nothing, but gave a quick nod.

The trailer consisted of one large living, dining, and kitchen combination in front, and two bedrooms and a bathroom in the back. One of the bedrooms had been made into a den. Paavo tried the telephones first. Stored incoming numbers and last-number redial were boons to homicide inspectors. Unfortunately, neither of the phones in Ned’s house had those features.

The answering machine was full of messages from Doc, Paavo, Teresa, and even LaVerne from the coffee shop. Teresa was apologetic and tearful.

There was also a call from Sanderman Stables hoping everything was okay, and surprised Ned hadn’t return Lightning last evening.

Lightning, Joaquin explained, was Ned’s horse. Paavo expected they would find the missing motorcycle at Sanderman’s. That answered another question—how Ned had gotten to the caves.

Paavo searched for Ned’s cell phone. At the crime scene, he’d convinced the sheriff to check Ned’s pockets for anything that might give some clue as to why he was there. His cell phone wasn’t on him.

“You knew Ned well,” Paavo said to Joaquin. “What do you think happened to him?”

Joaquin stared out the window at the lake a moment before saying, “He was troubled about Teresa, but he wouldn’t say why. When asked, he’d just clam up, and say he’d take care of it. It wasn’t like him. Ned was usually open, friendly. He liked to help people. Maybe too much.”

Joaquin had nothing more to add, and Paavo continued going through Ned’s belongings. In a lamp table drawer he found a small obsidian rock carved in a dog or wolf form.

Paavo held it closer to the light. “Do you know what this is?”

Joaquin stared at the carving then shook his head and looked away. “Just a charm. Tourists like them. You see that sort of thing a lot around here. It’s worthless.”

Paavo gave the older man a sharp glance. Why was Joaquin suddenly lying? The carving was
crude. He placed it back into the drawer.

The den had a number of photos—Teresa alone, Teresa and Ned together in happy times, several of Doc and Ned, and even an old one of Ned, Paavo, Doc, and Aulis, all young and smiling at some long-forgotten photographer.

Paavo felt a pang at the last one. He’d tried as much as possible to treat this like any other murder case; he handled them at work all the time. The photograph, though, was a reminder that this case was different. Ned had been a friend.

Paavo was going through Ned’s computer and e-mails when Joaquin gave a shout.

In the bedroom Joaquin sat on the floor by the open closet door. Before him was a box filled with newspaper clippings about the discovery of Hal Edwards’s body.

“I heard things last winter, in those few days that Hal was in town,” Joaquin said as Paavo looked through the papers. “There was a rumor that Ned hated him; wished he was dead. I couldn’t understand it. Why would Ned feel one way or the other about Hal? Their paths hardly crossed. Then, Hal was gone, and the rumors ended. I never told Doc what I’d heard. I doubt anyone else would have either.”

“Yet, for some reason,” Paavo said, “Ned went out to the place where Hal’s body was found, and that’s where he was murdered.” Paavo flipped through the stack of articles from newspapers around the state. “We need to find out why he saved these, and what he was looking for, because whatever it was”—Paavo lifted his eyes to Joaquin—“I think it killed him.”