by Joanne Pence
“We’ll get you a drink. Step back now, you and Patsy. You both need to get away from there.”
“I don’t think so.” Martin peered down at the rocky beach below, then at Patsy. “Ironic, isn’t it? So many plans, so much care, only to be done in by someone who thinks she’s a ghost.”
Patsy smiled at him.
“Yes, Susannah, dear. Why not smile? It’s better in your world, isn’t it?” With that, he kissed the back of her hand and let her go. “Go over to that man, Susannah. I’m sure he wants to sign your dance card.”
Paavo grabbed Patsy and pulled her out of Bayman’s reach as soon as Bayman let go of her. Angie started to lead her away from the edge when Patsy broke free and ran into the tunnel toward the house. Angie let her go.
“Your turn, Martin,” Paavo said. “Come on.”
Martin shook his head.
“Give me your hand,” Paavo said, inching toward him.
“No closer, Smith. This is for me to figure out.” Martin arched forward, away from the rocks, straining toward the sea.
“Don’t do it,” Paavo said. “It’s not worth it.”
“Martin, please don’t,” Angie cried. “Think of Bethel.”
Bayman studied the cold Pacific for a moment, and he laughed. “Bethel will understand. I always said I wanted to make a big splash.”
Then he jumped.
31
Angie heard a distant scream, almost like an echo bouncing off the cliffs, and then only the whistling of the wind and the crashing of the waves. She stepped to Paavo’s side and watched in horror as a wave washed in, picked up Martin’s broken body, and carried him out to sea.
Paavo held her tight. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
She nodded, despite the roiling in her stomach, the trembling that threatened to overtake her.
“There’s nothing we can do,” he said gently. “Let’s get away from here.” He helped her walk. She felt drained of all strength, all feeling, all emotion, and every bit as limp as Patsy had been in Martin’s grasp.
They found Patsy sitting in the storage cellar. “Let’s go find Jack,” Angie said. Patsy quietly followed them out of the cellar to the upstairs hallway.
They walked through the inn and out to the front yard. Somehow they’d have to find the others and tell them.
Bethel, Chelsea, and Moira were walking toward the house as Paavo, Angie, and Patsy were coming out.
“You found her,” Bethel said.
“Look!” Chelsea cried.
Danny was running toward them. Moira screamed his name and the boy and his mother ran to each other.
“Where’s Martin?” a worried Bethel asked Paavo. “I thought he was with you.”
“I’m sorry.” Paavo hesitated a moment. “We were at the cliffs.”
“What?” Her face turned ashen. Angie stepped closer.
“It seems he was the one behind the deaths,” Paavo said.
“No,” Bethel cried.
“He couldn’t live with what he’d done.”
She said nothing but stood, stonelike, with unseeing eyes. Then they filled with tears. “Oh, Martin.” She looked suddenly old and weary as she lifted a shaky hand to her face. “I was afraid of this. I didn’t want to believe it could be, but…” She began to cry.
Angie and Chelsea closed around her, reaching out and touching her in sympathy.
The roar of an engine broke into their tight little circle. Angie looked up to see a four-wheel-drive Jeep carrying the sheriff, his deputy, and Quint barrel down the road toward them, stopping with a screech of the brakes. Quint jumped out and hurried to his daughter and grandchild.
The sheriff casually got out of the Jeep.
“Butz,” Paavo said. “How did you get through?”
“After Quint told me Hilda Greer died, and I thought more about it, I decided—what with Finley Tay disappearing and then his cook conveniently dropping dead—well, I figured you people might be in danger, after all. Soon as the rain let up, I got county workers with a bulldozer out here.”
“You’re a little late,” Paavo said.
“Late?”
“Angie figured out that Martin Bayman was behind the murders. Knowing he’d been caught, he jumped off the cliffs. If you’ve got a radio in that Jeep, you ought to call the coast guard.”
“Sparks!” Butz ordered.
“Yes sir,” the deputy replied, “I’ll do it.”
“Any chance he’s still alive?” Butz asked. Paavo shook his head.
“Bayman, huh? The old boozer, right? Why would he hurt anyone?”
“He wasn’t an old boozer.” Tears ran down the grooves of age and weariness that lined Bethel’s face. “He was brilliant. He’d had a brilliant career as a lawyer, but he gave it all up for me. All for me.”
Patsy’s shrill voice cut through the ensuing silence. “He didn’t kill Finley.”
“What?” the sheriff faced her.
“Sheriff, you’ve got to understand,” Angie began, but he put up his hand, stopping her explanation.
“Go on,” he said to Patsy.
“I killed Finley!” Patsy cried, then rubbed her forehead. “I mean…no…not Finley. Who’s Finley? I killed Ezra. He slipped while we were talking after dinner. We were near the ocean. He tried to push me but fell and hit his forehead.”
Paavo touched her arm. “Finley died by a blow to the back of his head, not his forehead. It wasn’t your fault at all.”
Patsy shook her head. “Who could it have been? There was no one here but me, Elise, Jack, and Ezra.”
Angie put her arms around the woman’s waist. “You’ll be all right, Patsy.”
“I’m Susannah.”
Sheriff Butz made a long, low whistle. “I think we’ll take her back to town with us,” he said softly. “There’s a nice hospital up the road a piece. Oh, by the way, Miss Amalfi, would you come to town with us, too?”
“Me?” Angie glanced from the sheriff to Paavo. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”
“No, but your mother’s called me every day to make sure you were all right. Last I heard, she’d phoned the president of AT&T and demanded he come out here and personally reconnect the phone line so she could contact you directly. I’d say she’s a wee bit upset.”
“My poor mother! Yes, I’ll come right now.”
“I told her Inspector Smith was here with you, but that didn’t seem to help. Not at all. She sure can speak that Italian lingo fast, can’t she?”
“Oh, dear,” Angie groaned. “Maybe it’s good I found those cellars to hide in.”
The morning sun was bright in the octagonal room as Angie put on a dab of Quelques Fleurs perfume, then zipped up her cosmetic case and put it in her luggage bag. “Well, Susannah,” she said to the walls, “it’s all yours again until the next guests arrive. I do hope you treat them better than you did me.”
Paavo walked out of the dressing room with his luggage. He’d spent most of the morning out playing basketball with Danny. “Talking to ghosts now, are you?”
“Why not? Everyone else seems to. At least it was a most lovely room.”
“It was,” Paavo agreed. “Not exactly a vacation I’d recommend, but it had its moments. Are you ready?”
“Am I! Offer me hamburgers, fries, and a shake, and I’d follow you anywhere.”
Paavo grinned as he picked up their bags to carry down to the foyer.
As Angie pulled the door shut, she looked over the room one last time. “Good-bye, Susannah. Pleasant dreams.”
Chelsea and Reginald Vane were already downstairs, their bags packed and side by side.
“So you’re leaving, too?” Angie said.
“Yes,” Chelsea replied. “I’m taking a trip to Canada. I’ve always wanted to see the great Northwest.” She took Reginald’s hand.
“Miss Worthington has accepted my invitation for a visit,” he said, his cheeks and ears tinged with pink.
“I told him he could stay in the room with
me this time.” Chelsea winked.
Reginald blushed furiously, then straightened his bow tie. “It was nice to meet you and the inspector,” he said awkwardly, shaking Angie’s and Paavo’s hands. “Have a safe journey back home.” Then he turned to Moira, who stood quietly in the back of the foyer, almost in the drawing room. “Good-bye, Miss Tay. And good luck.”
“Thank you for continuing to support the inn,” Moira said. “Thank you both.”
As Reginald picked up the suitcases and headed out the door, Chelsea ran over to Angie and grabbed her hands. “Finley was right, you know. He said I’d meet and fall in love with the ghost of Jack Sempler. Well, in a sense I did—Reggie is his only living relative. Isn’t he the dearest man?”
“He’s perfect for you,” Angie said.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Chelsea gave Angie a hug.
“Write to me,” Angie said.
“I will,” Chelsea called as she hurried after Reginald.
Moira stepped forward. “I guess this is good-bye, then.”
The front door banged open and Danny ran into the room, his eyes on Angie. “Grandpa says you’re leaving. Can’t you stay? Mom doesn’t know anything about cooking. She needs help.”
Paavo turned toward Moira. “You’re going to try to make a go of the inn?”
“Yes. I asked Bethel if she’d stay and help until she figures out what to do. And last night, Patsy was apparently starting to remember who she was. She said she’d like to come back here when she’s stronger.”
“That’s good,” Angie said. She couldn’t help but reflect on how silly she had found these people when she first came to the inn, but now she cared about them. “She needs time. They both do. Listen,” her tone brightened, “I’ll send you menus, like I promised Finley, and I’ll put in a number of easy-to-prepare recipes.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Moira said.
“What about the town?” Paavo asked.
“My father talked to the people there while the road was closed,” Moira said. “He thinks if I try to work with them instead of fighting them as Finley did, and if the inn brings tourists to town, they’ll accept us.” She took a deep breath. “It’s scary, though.”
“You can do it, Moira,” he said. “You’ve got the strength. Now you’ll be able to use it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Moira’s eyes filled with tears. “And thank you both for your help. I know this was terrible for you, as it was for all of us. But I’m eternally grateful that you were here.”
“I’m glad we could help,” Angie said.
“One thing I still don’t understand, though,” Moira said to Paavo. “What made you go to the cliffs to find Angie? Why didn’t you go back to the house with Reginald?”
He paled slightly and tugged at his ear without speaking. “Danny told me about the cliffs,” he said evasively.
“Don’t you remember?” Danny asked. “Your head hurt. You couldn’t walk.”
“That explains it,” Moira said. “It was the ghosts. They do things like that sometimes, if they like you. Nudge you in the right direction, so to speak. They’re really very benign ghosts, you see.”
Angie couldn’t help staring at Paavo. Had she heard right? Her logical, practical, cut-to-the-quick detective was communicating with spirits?
“I’m sure that’s not it,” he said, trying to act as if Angie weren’t looking at him as if he’d sprouted two heads.
“Of course it is,” Moira insisted. “Especially Susannah—she probably wanted to make sure you helped Patsy. I’m sure Susannah was quite flattered by Patsy’s attention.”
Paavo looked stricken.
“There’s another explanation,” Angie said with growing enthusiasm. “It’s that we’re so close there’s a psychic bond, an ESP, between us. That we’re so in tune we scarcely need words to communicate.”
“Sounds a little far-fetched to me,” Moira offered, frowning.
Talk about the proverbial pot calling the kettle black, Angie thought. “It makes more sense than egomaniac ghosts.”
“But you and Paavo? I understand him bet—”
“I think it’s time to go,” Paavo interrupted, seeing the murderous look grow in Angie’s eyes. The last thing he wanted was two women arguing about what he was thinking, for God’s sake. He lifted one of Angie’s suitcases, but as he reached for his duffel bag, Moira beat him to it. She picked it up and held it out to him. His hand joined hers on the handle, not quite touching.
An eternity seemed to pass as Angie watched.
“You’re welcome here anytime,” Moira said softly.
He nodded. Finally, she let go of the bag.
Angie let go of the breath she’d been holding, then reached for her second suitcase. Danny picked up her third.
“Will you write to me?” Danny asked her as he walked by her side out the door, Paavo following.
“I most certainly will. Just be sure you write back, okay?”
“I will.”
She kissed his cheek. He turned twenty shades of red, then smiled, turned, and ran the rest of the way to the car. He put the bag down and hurried back to the house.
Angie noticed Paavo watching him. She glanced back to see Moira, Danny, and Quint standing together at the door. A ready-made family, his for the asking.
Angie’s throat felt dry as she studied the pensive look on his face. “Will you ever come back, do you think, Paavo?”
He turned toward her, and slowly a slight, Paavo kind of smile played against his lips. “No. Some ghosts are best dead and buried. And left in the past where they belong.”
“Maybe,” she said as she gazed at the old house, “all ghosts are best treated that way.”
He chuckled as he squeezed her luggage into the tight cargo space in the Ferrari.
This vacation had worked out, at least as far as their relationship went, a lot better than she had thought it was going to.
They’d spent a week together, day and night…for the most part. They didn’t fight much. Or at least, not too much. And they had lots to talk about. She generally listened to what he had to say, and he generally shared his thoughts with her…sort of. But most of all, she saw a side of him with Moira, Patsy, and especially with Danny, that she liked and admired. She hadn’t given serious thought before to what he’d be like as a father, but now she saw, firsthand, how tender yet strong he could be.
Maybe he wasn’t the onion head she’d imagined, but getting to know him seemed like peeling an onion. There were layers upons layers hiding his core. If only she could learn tarot, with all the deep delving Moira had talked about….
No, that wasn’t what she wanted from him. This week told her precisely what she wanted. The M word.
“That’s a very enigmatic smile,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He held the passenger door open for her. “Not going to tell?”
She shook her head. “Not after what I said to Moira about our psychic communication.”
As he walked around the car to the driver’s side, his empty stomach growled and he suddenly remembered her words in the bedroom. “Got it,” he said as he climbed in beside her.
“I knew you would, Paavo.” The words all but gushed from her as he started the car and pulled away from the inn.
She smiled at him.
He grinned back at her.
Marriage.
McDonald’s.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks go to Roberta Grant Flynn and Doris Berdahl for their help and support, to all the SCRIBEs, and to everyone at Book Passage for so warmly and generously putting up with us.
About the Author
San Francisco native JOANNE PENCE grew up amidst the rich cultural diversity and culinary excellence of that city. A graduate of U.C. Berkeley with a master’s degree in journalism and a Phi Beta Kappa key, she has taught school in Japan, written for magazines, and worked as an operations analysis manager. Fiction writing, however, always
has been her first love. Her background, as well as her Italian and Spanish heritage, are reflected in her critically acclaimed, award-winning mystery series.
Joanne Pence now lives north of San Francisco with her husband, two teenage sons, three cats and a golden retriever.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Praise for JOANNE PENCE
and
COOKING MOST DEADLY
“Charmingly detailed…Pence’s tongue-in-cheek humor keeps us grinning.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Another delightful adventure…Joanne Pence provides laughter, love, and cold chills.”
—Carolyn Hart
“This series just keeps getting better and better.”
—Literary Times
COOKING UP TROUBLE
“A tasty treat for all mystery and suspense lovers who like food for thought, murder, and a stab at romance. This is Pence’s best mystery yet. So settle yourself on a nice comfortable chair, put your feet up, enjoy a dinner without calories, and a terrific read.”
—The Armchair Detective
“Soybeans have never been so dangerous, or so funny, as in Joanne Pence’s Cooking Up Trouble. A deliciously wicked read. Don’t miss one tasty bite.”
—Jacqueline Girder
Other Angie Amalfi Mysteries by Joanne Pence
Something’s Cooking
Too Many Cooks
Cooking Up Trouble
Cooking Most Deadly
Cook’s Night Out
Cooks Overboard
A Cook in Time
To Catch a Cook
Bell, Cook, and Candle
If Cooks Could Kill
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.