Add a Pinch of Murder

by Joanne Pence

  “Well, I did like him more than I like Madrigal, for what that’s worth. I don’t understand what you see in the woman.” She paused before just having to add, “I’ve always found her creepy.”

  Stick to the subject, Angie told herself. “Any thoughts on who might have wanted Kevin dead?”

  Frannie and Seth eyed each other, then Frannie said, “I can’t imagine.”

  Angie had had it with those two. She’d been positive for some time that that they only stayed together because no one else would have either one of them. “Okay. Well, I’d better see how Paavo is doing.”

  She went over to Paavo.

  “Harlan Yarborough is here,” he said. He pointed out a man standing alone, watching everyone. Yarborough’s face was twisted into a smirk. After a while, he went over to Madrigal. She stood greeting people in a receiving line, her attorney at her side. But rather than giving his condolences and moving on the way everyone else had, Yarborough took a spot beside her. Angie was surprised. From Madrigal’s words on the phone earlier that day, the two weren’t at all close.

  Angie also noticed that Vera Carson, Kevin’s stepmother, was in a corner with a few women her age. It seemed no one particularly noticed or cared that she was there.

  “I think it’s time to greet Madrigal,” Angie said to Paavo.

  “Let’s go,” Paavo said.

  They got in the line and when they reached Madrigal, she took Angie’s hands. “You didn’t need to get in that line,” she said. “You’re my friend, not Kevin’s.”

  “That’s very kind,” Angie smiled at her, withdrawing from Madrigal’s grasp. “But we did want to give you our condolences. Also, I don’t think we’ve met your friend.”

  “Who?” Madrigal said until she noticed Angie looking at Harlan still by her side. “Oh, yes. You don’t know him, do you? This is Harlan Yarborough. Harlan, Angie Amalfi and her fiancé, Inspector Paavo Smith. Inspector Smith is in charge of the investigation of Kevin’s death.”

  “Oh, I see.” He shook hands with the couple. “I’m happy to meet you. Best of luck with that investigation, Inspector. We’ll all be happy to learn you’ve caught the culprit. I, for one, know I’ll sleep a lot more soundly knowing the fiend was caught.”

  “Yes, well, we’re getting closer every minute,” Paavo said.

  “Good, good. Excuse me, Madrigal, my dear,” Harlan said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I really can’t stay for the service. Just wanted to wish you the best, dear. I’ll call you very soon.”

  Madrigal tightened her lips. “Sure.”

  Harlan hurried out the door.

  Paavo gave Angie a look that told her he was going to follow, while Angie took Harlan’s place beside Madrigal.

  “I hope we didn’t chase Harlan away,” Angie whispered.

  “Good riddance,” Madrigal whispered back with a sly smile.

  “Does he really think you’d want his attention the day you’re burying your husband?”

  “His charms are known only to him,” Madrigal said. “They’re lost on me. And I know any interest is because of my money. The whole thing is tedious. I want nothing to do with him or anyone else.”

  Paavo soon came back into the funeral home. When Yarborough went to his car, Yosh took over following him while Paavo would keep an eye on how others in the crowd acted. Yarborough’s actions were odd, he had to admit.

  But with this crowd, it was tough to tell exactly what was strange behavior. Chic phoniness had its own standards and rules.

  o0o

  That night, Paavo brought Angie to one of their favorite Greek restaurants.

  “After our conversation about Farlee Cambry,” Paavo said between bites of moussaka. “I contacted the Santa Barbara Police Department and asked for information about her disappearance and presumed death.”

  Angie was enjoying the spanakopita. “Good,” she said, although she was surprised to learn he had found time away from Ted Redmund and Kevin Blithe’s murders to do it.

  “It turned out,” Paavo explained, “what happened that night wasn’t quite the way Madrigal and everyone seemed to think. Farlee and Oliver weren’t far out in the ocean when she fell overboard. They had, in fact, dropped anchor not far from Santa Barbara’s harbor, a couple miles out at most. Apparently, a lot of yacht owners dock only a little ways out so they can drink, do drugs, whatever they want because the Coast Guard can’t board and search them without cause. And they make sure they do nothing that should give anyone cause. They weren’t completely alone out there, either. A few of other boats were in the area.”

  “The plot thickens,” Angie said.

  Paavo told her about tracking down the names of the owners of those other boats. “I looked at the write-ups from those other boat owners, and all of them claimed they heard and saw nothing until the Coast Guard showed up in the morning and began to search for Farlee. They never found her.”

  “Does her being fairly close to the land make it less likely that her body would be lost?” Angie asked.

  “Much less likely. She should have washed up.”

  “What about the other boat owners?” Angie asked.

  “There was another yacht owner much like Oliver—a wealthy man docked out there with friends. And there were a couple of fishing boats. All were questioned.”

  “And?”

  “The Santa Barbara police found nothing.”

  “Do you have the names of all those boat owners?” Angie asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Is there any reason I can’t see them?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Back in Homicide the next day, Paavo and Yosh were making progress with Ted Redding’s fatal stabbing. That morning, the Medical Examiner sent Paavo a set of Redding’s fingerprints, and Paavo ran them through the FBI’s NGI database which stored all criminal and civil fingerprint records. He got a hit.

  Theodore Peter Redding was actually Theodore Patrick Redmund. He spent most of his life in Chicago where he became a hired killer. It earned him thirty years in an Illinois maximum security prison. He was let out after serving about twenty years by turning state’s evidence and naming the people who had hired him.

  That was ten years ago. Now, he was here in San Francisco with a new identity. Unfortunately, it also looked like he had also gone back to his old tricks as a hired killer.

  “It would explain the way he’d suddenly bring in a lot of money,” Paavo said to Yosh as the two went over the latest information about their victim.

  “Twenty grand to kill someone,” Yosh murmured. “That’s sick.”

  “Since he turned state’s evidence, some very pissed off people might have put a bounty out on him. I’m not surprised he changed his name and got a new identity.”

  “I wonder if that’s why he was killed,” Yosh said.

  “Could be, although ten years is a long time to keep a bounty on someone. And his old pals usually don’t do stabbings. Too messy in too many ways.”

  “Yeah, so if that isn’t what happened, it means someone new learned to hate him.”

  “That makes more sense,” Paavo said. “More than likely, we’ve got one criminal who decided to kill another criminal—and Ted Redmund was the loser.”

  Yosh shook his head. “Given that Redmund was a hired killer, when we find the guy who offed him, do we jail him or give him a medal?”

  o0o

  Angie was nothing if not persistent, and after working the internet all morning, she turned up an amazing amount of public information on the two fishing boats and one yacht in the area at the time of Farlee’s disappearance. One reason she did this was because she hadn’t yet gotten a call from Clyde the contractor. When she last spoke to him, he said he was working on finding a new crew to help with her kitchen. He had one lined up, but they had to finish the job they were currently doing. He promised they’d be out at her house in the next day or two.

  Angie concentrated all her frustration in working on Farlee’s disappearance. She was gla
d to have something to take her mind off her house, the possibility that it was haunted, and trying to make sure it was ready for her and Paavo before their wedding.

  It wasn’t easy.

  In any case, she found that the “other” yacht that had been near the Cambry yacht had headed back to Laguna Beach the next day. The owner lived there. It seemed to be a dead end. The fishing boats, however, were another story.

  Angie was able to track down the fishermen and where they lived just by going through county license records. One of them had made no change in his life whatsoever. The other, Manny Carville, suddenly paid off high balances on credit cards, balances he’d had for years, as well as to do major repairs on his boat, including rebuilding its engine. Angie wondered where he got so much money.

  She put in a call to Rico who was already on duty at the Cambry house. He expected Madrigal to arrive some time that evening. Angie knew his boss, Nicky Hallston, had access to a lot of specialized information about the public—information used by private eyes. Hallston had discovered that before putting his employees on a job to protecting someone, he had to make sure the client was on the up and up. Using his security team to protect a crook wasn’t the best way to stay in business.

  Rico knew how to log onto the system and he used it to look at Manny Carville’s bank records. They found that he did not make any large deposit to his bank account around the time he paid bills and made purchases which meant he must have been using money he’d made off the grid of his fishing business, using cash or cashier’s checks.

  Angie called Paavo and filled him in on all she’d learned.

  “How in the world did you find all that out?” he asked.

  “You didn’t ask me that question,” she answered.

  “Great, Angie. That’s great.”

  “It is—and it’s good information besides.”

  o0o

  Paavo contacted the Santa Barbara Police Department and spoke to the detective who had been in charge of investigating Farlee Cambry’s disappearance. The detective wasn’t at all pleased to learn that shortly after the woman had been declared dead due to an accident, one of his prime informants about what had happened on the fatal night suddenly had over $50,000 to spend.

  Detective Rios was going to get right on it and then report back to Paavo all he learned. He also promised to fax the photos and dental records he’d been given of Farlee Cambry to help identify her in case her body washed up.

  To Paavo’s surprise, only a couple of hours later, the detective called back. “I haven’t tracked down Manny Carville yet,” he said. “But I did look into his movements and thought I should get back to you. The day after the disappearance, Carville took his fishing boat down to Mexico. The coast around the border is pretty well regulated, or as well as such waters can be. Anyway, I contacted Mexico’s Navy and they had information that he arrived in Ensenada a day later, docked there overnight, and left the next day. Now I’m not saying it means anything, but he never mentioned that he was heading down to Mexico when I talked to him. I thought you might find that interesting.”

  “Thank you,” Paavo said. “I certainly do.”

  “On the other hand, this could be a drug smuggler getting his paycheck.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So do I.” Rios paused. “We got ourselves a real mess.”

  “And I think it’s going to get messier.”

  “Good luck.”

  Paavo immediately put in a call to the US consulate in Tijuana, Mexico. It was only about sixty miles from Ensenada, and he figured he’d have better luck talking to someone recommended by the consulate in his hunt for a wayward American rather than cold-calling the Ensenada constabulary.

  He was given the name of a couple of detectives in Tijuana who should be able to help him. He called, explained what was going on and gave a description of Farlee Cambry, saying it sounded as if she was dropped off in Ensenada six months earlier by an American fishing boat. Since she was American and extremely wealthy, he was hoping she might have stood out from the usual tourists. It was a long shot, but at the moment, the only chance he had.

  “You know,” Detective Lopez said with a Southwestern American drawl, “I’ve actually been waiting for someone to call about her.”

  “You have?”

  “A woman’s body washed up south of Ensenada, about half way to Cabos as a matter of fact, some months ago. It had been badly damaged, in the water for a couple of weeks, at least. But something about the teeth told us she’d been rich. We put out information about her, lots in the press, as far north as San Diego and down to Los Cabos, but we didn’t hear from anyone.”

  “You mentioned the teeth. Why?”

  “They were all capped. Perfect, very white, very polished. The kind that would have cost a fortune to have made.”

  Paavo had just seen dental records with a mouthful of capped, very perfect teeth. “Do you have photos?”

  “I do. Teeth and body. I’ll scan and email them to you.”

  When the scans came in, Paavo brought them to the Medical Examiner along with the faxes from Santa Barbara of Farlee Cambry.

  She looked over both sets of photos. “But based on what I’m seeing here,” Dr. Ramirez told him, “I’d say there’s a ninety-five percent, or better, chance that Farlee Cambry is the person who washed up on the Mexican beach.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Angie was still fuming about her kitchen remodelers when she heard a knock on the door.

  Stan walked in with a tripod and light stand that he’d borrowed from a photographer friend. “Did you find your video camera?” he asked.

  “I did. It’s on the kitchen counter.”

  He walked to the kitchen and looked around. She had a typical apartment-size kitchen—compact. “Hmm. Since you don’t have an island,” he said, “where are you going to stand so I can record you and see what you’re doing?”

  “Between the refrigerator and the range. My beautiful French commercial-grade range. It should impress everyone, I think.”

  “But—”

  “The more I thought about this,” Angie said, “the more excited about it I am. And you’re right, we do it well, and some good money could roll in.”

  “Today, YouTube. Tomorrow the world!” Stan flung his arms up like a quarterback after a touchdown.

  “That’s the spirit,” Angie said with a laugh.

  “I think I should eat something first, though.” Stan opened up the refrigerator door. “I’m a little hungry.”

  “Maybe just some wine, cheese, and crackers.” Angie reached around Stan, took out a wedge of brie, then nearly caught Stan’s head in the refrigerator as she shut the door. “There’ll be plenty of time for more food later.”

  Angie put the cheese and crackers on plates. As Stan began to eat, she poured them both a glass of white wine to toast their new venture. Wine glass in hand, she studied her kitchen a moment. “Maybe I should stand to the side of the counter, and from time to time you can zoom in on what I’m doing.”

  “But then I’ll get your back for most of the recording.”

  “That’s true,” she murmured. “Okay, why don’t you stand at the end of the counter, and film me from the side. How’s that? I’ll do my best to face you.”

  “Well, it would be better if you had an island and I could simply set up the camera on one side of it while you face me on the other—”

  “Stan, stop. I’m not getting an island.”

  “I’ve got the solution!” Stan said. “I have a serving cart on wheels. It’s counter height. Back in the day when I used to have parties—my college days in other words—I used it as a bar. It’s in my den. Just a minute and I’ll go get it.” He took a chunk of brie, slathered it on a cracker, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth as he headed back to his apartment.

  Angie studied her recipe and double-checked the food she already had prepared. She once auditioned for a television cooking show and learned that they didn’t a
ll sit around waiting until the foods cooked. Instead, they had duplicates ready to go – one ready to go into the oven, another sitting inside the oven ready to come out of it, and so on. She did the same thing.

  Stan came back in no time at all, wheeling a fairly high cart into the kitchen. It rolled easily across the vinyl floor. “Here you go,” he said.

  She looked at it with some dismay. It was black and stainless and in need of a good scrubbing. She covered it with a white table cloth and then placed a wooden cutting board on top of that.

  They wheeled the cart around the kitchen until they found a spot that would look good when recorded and would also be easy for Angie to demonstrate her cooking. They settled on a location in front of her red stove. At least she would have something professional looking in the video, she thought.

  Stan put the video camera on the tripod, aimed it at her, and then plugged in the light stand. He knew the overhead lights in the kitchen wouldn’t be bright enough. But then he saw that the light stand caused shadows to form, so he had to move the stand around until he came up with a place that created the maximum light and the minimum shadow. He had to stretch the cord to do it, but luckily, it worked.

  While Stan set up, Angie put on an apron and a puffy white chef’s hat. She ran into the bathroom to check the mirror to be sure her hair looked good peeking out under the cap, and her gold loop earrings didn’t look out of place. She pulled a couple of tresses onto her forehead as wispy bangs.

  “Okay, Angie,” Stan called.

  She hurried behind the cart and smoothed her white apron. “Ready.”

  His forefinger hovered over the start button. “Three, two, one. Go!” He pushed the button. A red light showed the camera was recording.

  “Hello, everyone,” Angie said as she smiled into the camera. “Welcome to Angie’s Kitchen. That’s the name of my videocasts, and it’s also where we are.” She stepped to the side, waving her arm so that people could see the stove and cabinets behind her. She felt the cord from the light stand hit her leg, so she didn’t take the second side step that she had planned. Disaster averted! Her smile broadened with relief.