Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (9 page)

Paavo glanced up at the painting over the mirror that ran the length of the bar. Then he looked again.

The bartender noticed and couldn’t help but chuckle as she walked over to his table. In her sixties, she was a big woman with big hair, one side clipped with a silver medallion holding a spray of turkey feathers. She wore jeans, a fringed cowgirl shirt, bolo tie with a turquoise slide, and boots. Her holster held a cap gun that had
Hopalong Cassidy
inscribed on the handle. “What’s the matter, cowboy?” she said to Paavo. “Never seen a picture like that before?”

“Never,” he admitted.

She had a husky chuckle. “That’s what happens when you let a gal like me own the town’s only saloon. The name’s Jewel, by the way.”

“Paavo Smith. Glad to meet you.”

Her warm greeting to Attorney Jack O’Connell and her sympathy and affection toward Doc confirmed to Paavo that these representatives of the legal and medical professions were frequent, val
ued, and preferred customers. He alone was asked what he was drinking.

The Stagecoach Saloon fulfilled every city slicker’s idea of a Western bar, with sawdust on the floor, wagon wheels on the walls, and a gallery of John Ford classic movie posters. The bar itself was old and made of dark, rich wood. Along the bottom of it stretched a long brass rail. Behind it was a wall mirror with shelves for liquor bottles.

And over it was the aforementioned painting.

Forget the buxom beauties that usually graced bars, this was a portrait of a man lying on hay, buck naked except for a cowboy hat, boots, spurs, and a thickly coiled rope covering his privates. The only other thing he wore was a large and knowing grin.

With a shake of the head, Paavo shifted in his chair to face Doc and the attorney. “Let’s begin with money,” he said. “Who stands to profit from Hal’s death?”

“Good question, Inspector,” Jack O’Connell said, “and I’m damned if I know. His property is valuable, and he had a substantial amount of cash and stock market investments, but he was so bitter about Clarissa taking away the Halmart stores, he didn’t want her or Joey to get any of it. Still, he couldn’t decide who to give it to. His only other surviving family, Lionel, is pretty worthless. Hal would write himself a will, then tear it up before I filed it.”

Just then, the two fishermen Paavo had seen at Merritt’s the day he arrived in Jackpot entered the saloon. They glanced in his direction, and took seats at the bar.

Jewel’s greeting was friendly, but strictly businesslike.

Paavo’s thoughts turned to LaVerne’s comments about them, and he wondered if she might not have been right. They dressed like a couple of vacationers interested in fishing, but lurked around watching and listening.

He kept a surreptitious eye on them, and couldn’t help but suspect that it’d soon be time for a talk. His attention returned to the attorney. “With no will, does that mean Joey inherits everything?”

“Not so fast,” O’Connell replied. “I said I never filed a will, but that doesn’t mean Hal didn’t have one. With him having been gone so long and the paranoid state he was in, for all I know, he could have created a dozen wills—each one designating a different heir.”

“Is that why there’s been no settling of the estate yet?” Paavo asked.

“You got it.” Doc answered instead of the lawyer. “As executor, I want to give anyone who might know about a will a chance to get back to me. Like Hal, I’d hate to see that disloyal son of his get a damn thing. I told Clarissa and Joey that they were just going to have to wait until after the cookout to find out what, if anything, they’ll inherit. I swear, if Hal doesn’t have a will, before I give all his property to Joey, I’ll be tempted to write one up myself!”

“Hello, Miss Angie.”

Angie nearly jumped out of her skin and spun around.

Once again on her way to the library, she’d been
so preoccupied thinking about Teresa that she hadn’t heard the deputy, Buster, come up behind her. His uniform was starched and pressed so well the creases on his trousers looked sharp as knives, and today the feather on his cowboy-style hat was red rather than yellow.

“You surely do look pretty this morning,” Buster said with a smile. Smiling, he didn’t look quite as witless as usual. “Prettiest thing to come to Jackpot since like forever. Is that what you call a designer outfit?”

Angie wasn’t sure which surprised her more, his compliment or his question. She glanced down at the multicolored pastel zigzag striped sundress she was wearing. “It’s a Missoni.”

“I’ve heard of that.” He pointed at her four-inch lime green wedgies with ankle straps. “What about your shoes?”

Angie’s eyebrows rose. “Manolo Blahnik. Why?”

“Why? Why she asks!” he said with a chuckle. “Do you realize how awful people would look if it weren’t for clothes?”

She blinked a couple of times.

“I mean, what if all these people were running around in just their underwear, or god forbid, with nothing on at all? How ridiculous would that be?” Angie glanced at the few rather scruffy people wandering around Jackpot. She wouldn’t argue. He continued, “So, since we need clothes, why not make them as beautiful as possible?”

Her sentiments exactly, she had to admit.

“Do you know how rare it is to find good fashion in Jackpot, Arizona?” he asked. “Or anywhere
in Arizona for that matter, though I did see some nice things in Scottsdale once.” His brow scrunched as if he were thinking hard. “You know, Clarissa Edwards wears some really good clothes now and then. No matter, though. I still do all I can to keep away from her. Can I walk you someplace?”

Her head was spinning. “I’m just going to the library.”

He smiled, falling into step beside her. “My pleasure.”

As they walked, Angie said, “That’s a very nice maroon trim on your uniform.”

“Thanks.” Preening, he patted his collar. “I did it myself. I even have a checkered maroon handkerchief that matches. I used to wear it tucked in my chest pocket, just like they do in
Gentlemen’s Quarterly,
but Aunt Merry Belle didn’t like it. Too fancy for a uniform, she said.”

“You sew?” Angie couldn’t hide her amazement.

“Sure. I got a Singer Quantum XL-6000 for only two grand on eBay. It does everything. That’s why I like looking at good clothes. Gives me ideas. Unfortunately, Aunt Merry Belle doesn’t like me fussing with her outfits—not that she has many. And the few times I’ve had girlfriends, they never liked it that my clothes were so much more stylish than theirs were.”

It took Angie a few seconds to wrap her mind around that tidbit of information. She opted to change the subject. “Speaking of friends, did you know Ned very well?”

“Not really. We were in school together. Not the
same class. I was held back a couple times, and Ned kept going.”

“What do you think happened to him?” she asked.

“Damned if I know. The only person I ever saw him fighting with was Teresa Flores,” Buster said, then stopped walking. “Here’s the library. Guess I’ll have to say good-bye. Going inside with all those books gives me the willies.”

“I’d like to find out about the stagecoach that disappeared in the 1890s,” Angie said after introducing herself to the librarian, Doris Flynn.

The public library was very small, but charming, and situated in a back bedroom of a private home that had been converted into Jackpot’s City Hall. The library walls had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and several freestanding ones crowded the middle of the floor. Books that couldn’t fit on shelves were stacked against them.

“I’ve got a wonderful collection about it.” Mrs. Flynn led her to a bookshelf in the far corner. “This is the best collection in the state. There were a lot of newspaper articles at the time because one of the passengers was very famous.”

Angie thought back to the booklet she’d read. “That’s right, there was an actress on the coach.”

“Actress?” The librarian chuckled and shook her head. Her voice dropped as she said, “I believe that was simply a euphemism for what she really was.”

Angie got the picture. “Then, it must have been the chef from the Waldorf Hotel in New York City.”

“The Waldorf? Nobody out here had any idea about a place like that. No, it was Hoot Dalton. And with good reason. The Dalton Gang had robbed a bank in Coffeyville, Kansas, in October 1892 and all were killed except Emmett, who was captured and imprisoned. He was later released, by the way, and went to California. People say their cousin, Hoot, gathered up all the money after the gang ended and tried to run off with it.”

As Doris spoke, she pulled out two oversized volumes filled with newspaper and magazine articles from the time of the disappearance, and put them on the one free table in the room. “The most likely explanation for the coach’s disappearance is that the drivers realized who Dalton was, believed that he had the gang’s cash, and turned on their own passengers, robbing them and running off with the money.”

“Why is there any doubt?” Angie asked. She sat and began to leaf through the scrapbooks.

“Because the drivers never contacted any of their family, or anyone else, and they both had large families. Maybe the drivers also died, or killed each other, over the money. Nobody knows for sure. All that’s known is no one who was on the stagecoach was ever heard from again.”

“Could the stage have been lost by natural causes? I’ve heard flash floods, when they hit, can be deadly in the desert. And what about Indians?”

“No. We had treaties with the Indians by then, and if there was a flood, something would have been found when the water receded.”

Angie inhaled sharply. “And nothing at all was found?”

“Just a few pieces of clothing and odds and ends out by Ghost Hollow. A few things were found near the creek, others up in some caves in that area.”

“The caves? Where Hal Edwards’ body was found?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Those caves are said to be haunted.”

“So I’ve heard,” Angie murmured.

“Let’s see.” The librarian flipped to the back of one volume where letters to the sheriff and mayor of Jackpot had been filed between clear plastic sheets. “These are all inquiries that came here from friends and relatives seeking information.” She turned the pages. “Most are from relatives of the drivers, as you can see. None are for Hoot Dalton or the so-called actress. Ah, look here”—she pointed at a page—“these were for the chef you mentioned.”

Angie stared, awestruck, as all her student-of-culinary-history juices stirred. The letters were from the famous Oscar Tschirky, himself. Handwritten, no less. And signed. Her heart pounded at the sight.

The first, dated September 1893, was a short inquiry as to the state of the investigation. On the second line, it was written that if Mr. Willem van Beerstraeden’s journal or recipe notebook were located, they should be sent to Tschirky immediately, in care of the Waldorf Hotel.

“Look at that!” Angie cried. “My God! Oscar Tschirky!”

“Who?”

“The recipe notebook mentioned in this letter,” Angie said, “was it ever found?”

“I don’t believe so,” Doris replied. “You’ll see more inquiries, but then I suppose the letter writer gave up.”

Angie paled. “Thank you.”

Doris knew when she was no longer needed and wandered away.

Angie read through the three remaining letters from the famous Oscar Tschirky. Each became increasingly desperate to find the recipe book, saying things like “the family name and honor” were at stake, and that “it should not get into the wrong hands.”

What must those recipes be like to cause such a reaction? The family name and honor …

Her mind raced. What could he possibly have meant about “wrong hands”?

How she’d love to see that notebook! This part of Arizona was a desert. Things could be preserved forever in this type of climate. Look at the Dead Sea scrolls, for example. Original recipes from one of the first chefs of the Waldorf Hotel … recipes that Oscar-of-the-Waldorf himself wanted … might still be buried there somewhere!

She read the letters again, word by word. Then she read them a third time.

With painstaking care, she closed the album and sat back in the chair. A thought struck her. A completely jarring, earth-shattering, mouth-dropping-in-amazement thought.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her stomach flut
tered. And suddenly, it all came to her like a bolt of lightning.

Eyes shining, face flushed, she smiled until she couldn’t stretch her face any farther.

After the meeting at the Stagecoach, Paavo and a feeling-no-pain Doc Griggs went to the library and found Angie pouring over the Internet where she was apparently reading about some New York City chef. It made no sense to Paavo, which was nothing new where Angie was concerned.

As they headed for the rented Mercedes, Angie was just about to explain some discovery she’d made, when Sheriff Merry Belle Hermann came marching toward them.

“Hold on, you all!” the sheriff thundered. Her cell phone, nightstick, holster with gun, mace canister, and whatever else she managed to attach onto her belt flounced like a tutu as her short legs and wide hips gave her a waddling gait. Buster trailed behind.

“What’s the problem?” Paavo asked.

“I got some info for Doc,” she said with a scowl.

Buster moved next to Angie. “Say, did you bring any other designer clothes, or just that Missoni?”

Paavo stared at Buster. Had he just said what Paavo thought he said?

“Shut up, Buster!” Merry Belle ordered. “I got business.”

“What’s your news?” Doc asked.

“Ned’s horse turned up out at Hal’s cattle ranch. The foreman out there gave me a call.”

Buster walked around Angie, taking in her dress and shoes from all sides while Merry Belle talked. Paavo put an arm around Angie and glared in Buster’s direction.

The deputy never even noticed.

Doc said to Paavo, “This is mighty odd.”

“What do you mean?” Paavo asked.

“It doesn’t figure the horse would show up way out there. It’s all wrong.”

“Mind talking to me?” the sheriff growled. “I’m the law around here.”

“Don’t trouble your blood pressure, M.B.,” Doc said. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“If you’ve got questions, ask me,” Merry Belle insisted.

“Try this, then. The cattle ranch is some twenty miles away from where Ned was murdered. Most of those miles are high, rough ground. It would have made more sense for the horse to cross the flatland.”

“You think like a horse now?” she jeered.

Doc glared at her. “That’s more than you can do!”

Paavo decided to interrupt before this got out of hand. “Sounds to me like Doc has a point, Sheriff.”

At the sheriff’s derisive stare, Angie chirped up with a loud, “That’s right!”

Merry Belle’s small eyes seemed even smaller as she folded heavy arms across her bosom. “So, you two city folks are experts on horses, too? What an outbreak of experts I got on my hands!”

“But isn’t that what you said earlier, Aunt Merry Belle?” Buster asked.

“Shut up!” Then, to the others she added, “Let’s say I don’t know. The killing spooked the horse, damn it, and it ran off without consulting you all.”

“Or was taken away,” Doc offered.

“Who’s to know?”

“It may be worth looking into,” Paavo suggested.

She squinted at Paavo. “I’ll give the horse the third degree.”

“I wish you could,” he said coolly.

Her jowls quivered. “The investigation is progressing thoroughly and professionally, Inspector. Pleasure to talk to you all.” She turned away, then halted and shouted, “Buster!”

He reluctantly left Angie’s side and followed.

Angie took the SUV and returned to the guest ranch while Paavo went with Doc out to the cattle ranch to retrieve Ned’s horse. As she hunted for the key to unlock the door to the bungalow she thought of how ecstatic Paavo was going to be when she told him her wonderful discovery about Oscar Tschirky. What luck! What—

“Well, speak of the devil!” Clarissa said, coming out of the common room and spying Angie. “You didn’t give me a single detail about finding
Ned Paulson’s body! I had to hear about it from LaVerne Merritt.”

“There wasn’t much to tell,” she said.

“That’s not what I was told.” Clarissa made an about-face to stand in the shade of the veranda. “The whole town is buzzing.”

This town was even smaller than Angie thought. “Yes, I—”

“Such a pity. He was a young man, too, I understand. Oh, well, such is life. Now, we’ve got a cookout to plan. Have you done anything at all?”

“I’ve given the meal quite a bit of thought, actually,” Angie stated. “And, I just learned that at the turn of the century a famous chef from New York’s Waldorf Hotel was lost near here and—”

“Turn of the century? I take it you’re talking about the prior century, not the twentieth. That doesn’t sound very modern or exciting. Oh, well, if you can’t come up with anything better than that, LaVerne Merritt will help you.”

Angie blinked a moment. “The woman from the coffee shop?”

“That’s right. She told me that she’s a gourmet cook herself, even though, for the restaurant, her cooking is rather dull. Not that I’ve ever eaten in a cheap diner, of course. Anyway, she’s quite chatty and friendly, you know, so I told her about your background, and she’d be thrilled to work with you. She’s also agreed to prepare some special dishes for me.”

“You want Laverne Merritt to help me? The woman who makes poisonous cactus cakes?” Angie was sure steam was coming from her ears.
“That’s not necessary. As I was saying about the Waldorf’s chef and Oscar Tschirky—”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the man,” Clarissa insisted. “Perhaps he doesn’t frequent my friends.”

“He’s dead!”

“That explains it, then.” Clearly exasperated, Clarissa stood. “Let me show you the kitchen. Maybe it will help inspire you.”

Angie gave up and followed. They walked around the main house and across a small herb and vegetable garden to a wooden building that Clarissa called the cookhouse. The outside looked plain and uninteresting, but inside was a kitchen with professional appliances and a storeroom stocked with food. It appeared to be a pleasant place to work.

“Teresa Flores did a wonderful job here.” Angie ran her hand over a granite countertop as she remembered that Teresa told her she’d worked on updating it.

“Teresa Flores?” Clarissa asked.

“Hal’s manager,” Angie said.

“I vaguely remember her—her grandmother runs the little Mexican restaurant.” Clarissa patted her hair as if to make sure every lacquered, golden strand was still in place. “I don’t believe she was ever a manager. A housekeeper is more like it.”

A middle-aged woman appeared at the entrance carrying a bag of groceries. As soon as she noticed Clarissa, she froze, bowed, and bobbed a couple of times and looked ready to back right outside again.

Angie quickly introduced herself.

The woman appeared surprised, then greeted her warmly and put down the grocery sack. Clarissa didn’t say a word.

Dolores Huerta was of medium height, with a broad build, muscular arms, and square, competent hands. Her black hair, with a few gray strands, was short and curly, giving her face a pleasant, but serious demeanor.

Clarissa explained to Angie that Dolores, with some kitchen helpers, would be preparing the traditional fare for the cookout. Angie found Dolores to be a pleasant woman, and she was sure they could share the kitchen with no problem.

With a baleful look at Clarissa, Dolores hurried from the room, leaving Clarissa to show Angie where the supplies were kept, and to demonstrate her woeful ignorance about everything that went on in the kitchen.