Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (8 page)

Paavo was glad to walk in the brisk morning air to the sheriff’s station after dropping off Doc and Angie at the mortuary to arrange for Ned’s funeral. He was thankful Angie had offered to accompany Doc through the process.

Last night and again this morning, they’d searched the cabin for more tarantulas. There were none. Still, he probably shouldn’t have given in to her wanting to remain here. The thought of dealing with this without Angie, though, was difficult. Selfishly, he wanted her with him—her smiles, her cheerfulness, and her optimism about an otherwise dismal world.

Now, walking the quiet streets of this old town, it was hard to imagine that any danger lurked here. It amazed him how little it had changed since his boyhood. The town had a few more cars, and definitely more pavement. Some of the motels and trailer parks out at the lake were new, but for the most part, it was a place where time had stood still.

All of which made it that much more unsettling
to be here without Ned. Even seeing how Doc’s once thick brown hair had turned completely gray had given him a jolt.

Last evening, before returning to the guest ranch, they’d used their cell phones to call home. Angie talked to her mother, her friend Connie Rogers, plus a sister or two, while he’d phoned Aulis. They’d spoken at length, and Aulis reminded him that he’d met Teresa years ago. She was a shy little girl who hardly left her mother’s skirts, but at the same time was quite intrigued by the visitors from the big city. Aulis’s words brought back more of Paavo’s memories of summers in Jackpot, memories he was glad were awakened.

Up ahead, the sheriff’s station looked like something straight out of
Mayberry RFD.
It was a pale yellow wooden building, smaller than he expected.

In San Francisco, the sheriff’s department served mainly as bailiffs for the city jail. In this area, with no police force, the sheriff was the law. He needed to know what Merry Belle Hermann—could she have had a more unsuitable name?—had learned in the investigation of Hal Edwards’s death as well as how she planned to investigate Ned’s.

Inside, the in-need-of-fresh-paint sea green walls gave the room a utilitarian look, as did the gray metal desk where Wallace “Buster” Willis sat. A bottom drawer was pulled out, and his feet were resting on it as if it were an ottoman. Except for a phone and a 3-by-5 notepad, his desk was spotless. One corner of the room, where three plastic chairs formed a waiting area, had a TV angled so that Buster could watch. Paavo did a double take at the screen—a rerun of the soap opera
Eagle
Crest
was playing. He remembered those actors from a past case he’d handled.

Behind the waiting room was an office with the door open. Glancing down the hallway, he could see a jail cell. It was empty.

“Is the sheriff in?” Paavo asked.

“Yup.” Buster tore his eyes from the TV and slowly stood, but made no motion to contact the sheriff. “What happened to your fiancée? She go back home already?”

“She’s in town. I’d like to speak to—”

“Sit back down, Deputy!” Sheriff Hermann bellowed from the doorway to her office. As pinprick-sized blue eyes glared at Paavo, a deep flush colored her heavy, round cheeks. Her voice turned cold. “Come in to my office, Inspector. I want a word with you.”

The office was furnished with two wooden stiff-back guest chairs facing a massive oak desk and a large padded leather swivel chair. She shut the door, pointed to a wooden chair for Paavo, and then walked behind her desk. She looked as if she’d slept in her uniform. Her thin, unwashed hair was pulled back tight, twisted in a circle, and held with a barrette; and the skin around her eyes was puffy. Neither of them sat. She was so angry, her voice quivered. “You interfered with my investigation. I’m considering putting in a complaint to your superiors.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said calmly.

She leaned forward, palms on the desktop. She had surprisingly tiny hands and wrists compared to the thickness of her arms. “You sure as hell do!
You went out to Ned’s house and his business. You looked at his things, touched them, talked to his neighbors, even the stables where he kept his horse. That’s my job!”

“I know what I’m doing around a crime scene, Sheriff,” Paavo said.

“That’s not the point!”

“I went through no crime scene tape; no deputy was posted to keep us out. Doc had a key to Ned’s place and he gave me permission to use it. You and I can pool our findings and work together, or we can debate legalities and jurisdiction.”

Her jaw worked as she grabbed the arms of her swivel chair and lowered her heavy body into it. A long moment passed before she said, “I haven’t gotten out there yet.”

Paavo was stunned. “You haven’t?”

Her thin lips nearly disappeared as she pursed them hard while straightening papers on her desk. “I’ve had other things to deal with first. Ned’s house and office aren’t going anywhere.”

Paavo found her thoughtlessness intolerable. “No, but they could easily have had clues that led to a killer who just
might
go somewhere!”

“But they didn’t, did they?” She glowered at him. “I know what I’m doing, Inspector.”

Do you?
he wondered, even as he warned himself it served no purpose to argue with her. She was clearly in over her head, whether she’d admit it or not. He suspected it was why she was so defensive. Ned’s murder couldn’t be dismissed as an accident the way Hal Edwards’s had been.

This was a sleepy town except when tourists
showed up in winter, and most of them were retirees, not the kind of people who went on rampages or killed each other. “I’m only trying to help,” he said. “This is the kind of work I do every day.”

“All right, San Francisco”—the name was a sneer—“tell me what you saw.”

He gritted his teeth before beginning. “Ned’s fascination with Hal Edwards’s death was one thing, as was”—he hesitated, remembering Joaquin Oldwater’s odd reaction—“a strange black charm, a wolf carving, that I was told was some sort of tourist charm. I’ve never seen one before.”

Merry Belle interrupted. “Everyone in Jackpot is fascinated by Hal Edwards’s life and death both. We all knew that. As for the charm …” She shrugged. “We don’t care about tourist junk in this office, Inspector.”

He used all his control to remain impassive, even as the cop in him mulled over Merry Belle’s words. She knew more than she was telling. “When is the autopsy scheduled?”

“It’s already been done.” She folded her arms. “It’s not like our coroner has a waiting list.”

“Cause of death?”

“Trauma to the brain. Ned’s head was bashed in, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Time of death?”

“Two days ago.” Her eyes narrowed. “The day you arrived in town asking about him, as a matter of fact.”

Paavo ignored both the sarcasm and ridiculous implication. “Do you have any suspects?” he asked. “Know of anyone who fought with Ned?
Threatened him? Doc and Teresa both say there was no one.”

“I ask the questions around here, Inspector!” Her response gave him his answer.

“I’ve heard rumors of some kind of trouble between Hal and Ned,” he said. “Have you heard the same, or looked into it?”

“Why?” She sneered. “Do you think Hal’s ghost rose up and killed Ned from the grave? Is that the way you investigate crimes in San Francisco?”

“Let’s talk, then, about Hal Edwards,” Paavo said, holding his ground.

“Forget it.” She marched to the door and opened it. “I’ve wasted enough time with you. Stay out of my investigation!”

He casually hooked his thumbs to the front pockets of his jeans and strolled toward the door. “Since you’re a public officer, Sheriff, much of the work you do is open to the public. I’d like to see Hal Edwards’s case file.”

“That is not public information!”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Sheriff. I can get an attorney to quote you chapter and verse, if you’d like. Or we can cut out the middleman, and you show me now. And, while you’re at it, I’d also like to see Ned Paulson’s autopsy report.”

Black rage filled her eyes. “Deputy!” she shrieked. Buster nearly fell off his chair. “Give this man the Edwards and Paulson folders. They’re in the file cabinet. Don’t let him make any copies or take anything out of here.” She spun toward Paavo. “You”—her finger was inches from his face—“stay the hell out of my office.”

She slammed the door behind him.

Buster handed over two surprisingly thin folders, then sat near the TV, his eyes practically glued to Rhonda Mulholland’s sexy body. Paavo used the now empty desk.

Ned Paulson’s report held no surprises, and was just as Merry Belle had said.

The autopsy report on Hal Edwards stated the death had occurred some eighty to ninety days before the body was discovered. Cause of death was uncertain due to the body’s decomposed and desiccated condition when found. A nick on the rib cavity was consistent with what a knife might have done as opposed to the animal teeth marks found elsewhere. If so, Edwards might have been stabbed through the heart by someone who was facing him.

It took a lot of strength to stab someone to death that way. The killer had to be strong or very, very angry.

Apparently, the sheriff had done nothing with that finding.

Little information was gleaned from interviews with the staff of the Ghost Hollow Guest Ranch—Dolores Huerta, the cook-housekeeper; Sherman Whitney, Jr., ranch worker; Ralph Dittersley, foreman of Hal’s cattle ranch some thirty miles east of town; plus maintenance men, gardeners, and several women who assisted Dolores with housekeeping and cooking, all of whom were on call when needed.

The sheriff had interviewed a number of others from town as well as those at the guest ranch. Only Lionel and Doc admitted to having had brief discussions with Hal during the short period be
tween his return from five years absence and his subsequent disappearance and death.

Paavo was surprised Doc hadn’t mentioned seeing Hal last winter, but judging from what he’d told the sheriff, there was nothing about the meeting worth recounting.

The file contained no interviews with Clarissa or Joseph Edwards. Nor was there any indication that either of them were in Arizona at the time of Hal’s death.

No forensic evidence was gathered. No investigation of the home was made.

Paavo imagined the sheriff and Buster walking around bellowing at people. When no one confessed to foul play, they left, thinking they’d done a proper investigation.

Clearly, since Hal Edwards had been murdered, they were wrong.

Angie was used to mortuaries. As a little girl, when walking through North Beach with her mother, Serefina would often drop into one or two to see if any of the Italians she knew had gone to their great reward and somehow she’d missed it. When Serefina would find someone she knew vaguely (she’d already know about the death of anyone she knew well, as well as their relatives and friends), she’d cry out,
“Poverino”
or
“Poverina”
as appropriate, and sign the guest book.

Probably, Angie thought, you had to be Italian to understand.

Because of those visits, mortuaries didn’t creep her out the way they did some. Still, she was glad to leave it, and thrilled to see Paavo waiting when she and Doc stepped into the bright sunlight.

Since Doc remained convinced that everything that had happened somehow revolved around Hal Edwards, he wanted to meet with Hal’s attorney next.

Angie bowed out. She could handle dead bod
ies, but not lawyers. She asked Doc to point her in the direction of Jackpot’s library. She was curious about the missing stagecoach and the Waldorf Hotel’s chef, and this gave her an opportunity to look into them.

While following the route Doc had given her, Angie heard a voice call her name. She turned to see Teresa Flores.

“Hi! I saw you as I left the restaurant,” Teresa said. “I was wondering if you have time for a cup of coffee?”

Angie wouldn’t have turned that offer down for the world.

LaVerne Merritt’s face lit up like someone who’d won the lottery when the two women entered her café. As they settled in a corner booth, she grabbed a coffeepot and headed their way so quickly, Angie thought she would leap over tables like a hurdler in an Olympic’s race. “I heard your man is a cop from San Francisco,” she said as she poured Angie a cup.

“News travels fast,” Angie said.

“It’s a small town; nothing gets by anyone here.” LaVerne sucked in her cheeks, her gaze darting toward Teresa before she added, “Except murder.”

“LaVerne—” Teresa began.

“Don’t try to stop me,” she ordered. “I’ve been quiet too long about this.”

Teresa’s eyes rolled upward, as if LaVerne had been anything but quiet.

LaVerne bent forward and stabbed the table with a bony finger to emphasize her words as she said to Angie, “Your man needs to find out why there was no inquiry into Hal Edwards’s disap
pearances. The man was famous! Rich! I’m supposed to believe he just took off and left that worthless Lionel to run things? I don’t think so! And then, he came back ready to operate an ostrich farm and next thing you know, he’s gone again! Hah! If the sheriff was doing her job, somebody would have been looking for him. Instead, he’s dead. There’s a reason for that!”

“LaVerne,” Teresa interrupted, impatient. “Hal died of natural causes.”

Angie’s attention bounced from one woman to the other.

“Sure.” LaVerne straightened, her shoulders square. “And I’ve got beachfront property to sell you.” With a grimace in Teresa’s direction, she turned back to Angie, her lazy eyelid bowing low. “If that’s all there was to it, then why is the FBI lurking around? Or maybe the DEA, or INS, or Homeland Security? Hell, I’m not sure who’s who anymore these days. We’re not far from the border.” She leaned close again and dropped her voice. “Terrorists can sneak across all hours of the day and night, you know. A lot of men were showing up here last winter. They looked like illegals, but after Hal disappeared, so did they. I think they were terrorists disguised as illegals. I think they captured Hal, and then killed him when he wouldn’t pay up!”

Angie pushed back from the table. “My goodness.” The woman’s wild imagination astounded her. “Terrorists? I thought I only had to worry about tarantulas.”

“You can joke,” LaVerne sneered, “but somebody had better find them fast. First Hal, next
Ned. For all we know, we’ll all be killed in our beds! And Merry Belle Hermann will say it was due to ’natural causes.’ Natural causes, my eye!” With that, LaVerne marched toward the kitchen, leaving Angie gaping.

Teresa waited until LaVerne was out of earshot, then whispered, “She’s crazy. Don’t listen to her.”

“She certainly has a different outlook.”

Teresa gazed out the window as if needing to calm herself after LaVerne’s comments, but at the same time, she was carefully studying the people walking by as well as passing cars, her expression wary. Angie wondered—and worried—about her.

“How are you doing today?” Angie asked gently.

“I’m all right.” Sad eyes met hers. “I don’t know why people give me so much attention. It’s not as if Ned and I were … were engaged or anything. He was just a friend.”

“A friend?” Angie hesitated. “I thought he was much more.”

Teresa’s eyes welled up, but immediately she caught herself, and soon was again composed. “I tried to discourage him, Angie. Since he was close to Doc, my mother would invite him to our home regularly—along with Doc, of course. That’s all.”

“That doesn’t sound like the way he saw it,” Angie said.

Teresa rubbed her forehead. “It’s … complicated. I never told him I loved him. Never.”

“But did you?”

“What does it matter?” she asked in return. “Love isn’t enough. All I have to do is look at my own family, and I see that love isn’t enough.”

Angie thought Teresa must have been referring to her father, whoever and wherever he was. She wanted to ask about him, as well as to say that love did happen, and that it was more than enough. But the set of Teresa’s face told her any such advice would be unwelcome.

Angie opened her mouth to speak when she noticed LaVerne approaching. LaVerne placed a plate with a wedge of something resembling fruit-cake in front of each woman.

“I heard you’re a gourmet cook,” she said to Angie with a broad smile, as if their recent conversation never happened.

“Yes,” Angie murmured. For once, she didn’t want to go into a litany of her cooking experience; she wanted to go back to talking with Teresa, whose attitude about love and life was troublesome.

“I’m a bit of a gourmet myself,” LaVerne announced proudly. “Not in the diner, of course. People don’t come here for fancy food, but when the occasion calls for it, I always make something extra special. This comes from an old family recipe.” She pointed at the cake. “I had it in the freezer and zapped it in the microwave to defrost. Don’t worry, it’s not hurt none. Eat up.”

Teresa sat without moving.

Angie simply wanted to get rid of LaVerne, so she cut into the cake with her fork and placed a large bite into her mouth and chewed.

In an instant the food seemed to turn into a giant sucking machine that drained all the liquid from her mouth. Her cheeks were pulled inward,
while her tongue stuck against her palate. Her mouth wouldn’t open.

“Mmmurf,”
she cried.

“Ah, she loves it!” LaVerne cooed. “Listen to her
mmm
s of joy.”

“Mmurf, mmmurff!”
Angie said again.

Teresa gawked at her.

“Her eyes are even starting to tear up with joy.” LaVerne’s hands were clasped near her heart. “I never dreamed a big city gourmet cook would find something I made so delicious.”

Angie reached for her water, and somehow managed to pry her lips open wide enough to gulp it down. Chewing and drinking, she swallowed the cake, then gasped in much needed air.

She looked at LaVerne with something akin to horror. “What in the world was in that?”

LaVerne stood tall, head high and proud. “You don’t eat something like that every day, do you? Kind of makes your mouth tingle, doesn’t it?”

Angie finished her water. Her lips and tongue felt numb, and she hoped the “cake” wasn’t doing to her stomach what it had done to her mouth. “It’s unique, all right.”

“It’s cactus,” LaVerne whispered, as if giving away a state secret.

Angie glared at the offending slice. “You mean like prickly pear fruit?”

“No, no. I mean boring a hole in a saguaro and pulling out the inside pulp, then mashing it up good and mixing it with pinyon nuts and figs—all good desert food. I call it my Desert Surprise Cake.”

“It certainly is,” Angie said, her throat and mouth now feeling like they’d been stuffed with cotton. “I think I’ll just take the rest with me. Better to enjoy it when I’m not so full.”

Smacking her still deadened lips, she was reaching for a napkin when Lupe Flores burst into the coffee shop. “Teresa! What are you doing? You said you were going home!”

“It’s just a cup of coffee,” Teresa said, standing.

“Go!” her mother ordered. “We’ll use my car.” She glanced at LaVerne and Angie and, as she rushed Teresa out the door, murmured, “Excuse us.”

“What was that about?” Angie asked before gulping down Teresa’s untouched water.

“Who knows?” LaVerne cried. “It’s always been a weird family. All I care about”—her hips began to sway as she pumped both fists in the air causing Angie to consider a fast dive under the table to get away from the madwoman—“is that I have a winner with that recipe! I’m gonna enter it in the Pillsbury Bake-off.”