Add a Pinch of Murder (Angie & Friends Food & Spirits 2)

by Joanne Pence

  And all such incidents did have explanations. Sort of.

  Bottom line, because of murders and spiritual innuendos, she and Paavo got a fantastic deal on the place. They were able to buy a much more beautiful home in a much more sensational setting than she ever dreamed possible. Number 51 Clover Lane was in one of San Francisco's prime locations, just off Sea Cliff Avenue and overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The down payment came from the sale of Paavo's small home in the Richmond district. Murder-free and ghost-free as it was, it brought an excellent price because of its location and the fact that Google and Twitter employees were flooding San Francisco with so much money that they didn't much care what they bought since they had enough money to do a complete renovation or even a tear-down. Paavo found such a buyer only one day after the house was offered for sale. He built into the negotiations being able to continue to live in the home until the week after the wedding.

  In any event, the kitchen was their new home’s one legitimate problem area. When Angie’s parents offered to buy her a big wedding gift, she knew what to ask for.

  Sal and Serefina had been fairly sure Angie would ask for a big, expensive wedding or a big, expensive honeymoon. But Angie knew that, given the number of relatives she had along with the number of friends and clubs her mother belonged to, the wedding would be huge no matter what she said.

  Also, she and Paavo didn’t want an extravagant or lengthy honeymoon. They had already decided to spend a week at a small, isolated resort in Kauai, Hawaii, and then another week in their new home before Paavo had to return to work.

  The one thing Angie wanted was a new kitchen. She would bring the red Lacanche commercial grade range, which she adored, from her apartment, but she needed other appliances, cabinets, an island, and new countertops.

  The house could use a bit of freshening up as well. It had been sold furnished, and after donating everything to St. Vincent de Paul, she saw that the hardwood floors should be re-sanded and stained, new carpets laid down, and the entire house painted, inside and out.

  Sometimes the thought of getting all that done before the wedding in four months’ time made her break out in a rash, which was not the “look” she wanted as a bride-to-be.

  Now, entering the house, she crossed the empty living room and opened the draw drapery over the sliding glass doors and picture windows that looked out onto the garden, and beyond it to the Pacific Ocean. She always smiled as she did that, scarcely believing she had a garden and lawn and flowers and shrubs all her own, with a great view besides. For an apartment dweller, nice as her apartment was, having her own home felt like a little bit of heaven.

  She scanned the garden for the little white dog that was often lurking about out there. When he saw her in the house, he’d run up to the sliding glass door and sit in front of it until she opened it and let him inside. He would then go straight to the kitchen and look expectantly for her to feed him.

  When she first saw the dog, although he looked well cared for, she wondered if he was a stray or lost. She assumed he must belong to one of her neighbors, but when she asked around no one seemed to know. In fact, none of the others remembered seeing such a dog. He did look hungry, however, so she had bought him some dog food which he gobbled up. She now kept a good supply of canned food for him.

  She was about to step out into the yard to look for him when the contractor arrived. Clyde Pepsico, aka Clyde the Contractor, was the man in charge. They talked about what she wanted to have done, and afterward she gave him the house key and a healthy deposit. Clyde soon left, promising to start in two days. Angie planned to drop in then, and almost daily thereafter, to check on their progress. The last thing she wanted was to have any kind of a delay in the remodel.

  She was about to lock up the house and leave when she noticed the small white dog in the back of the yard near the fence. She slid open the glass door. “Hello, doggie. Are you hungry?”

  He paused just a moment, then headed for the house. He was a West Highland Terrier. When she first saw him, he reminded her of the white dog on the logo of Black and White Scotch, so she thought of him as a “white Scottie.” She since learned the proper term was a “Westie.”

  The couple who had lived in the house and had been murdered in that very yard, Eric and Natalie Fleming, had owned a white terrier. But their murder had taken place over thirty years ago. She told herself it was just a coincidence that a neighbor’s dog happened to be the same breed as the one who used to live here.

  Angie had spent a lot of time learning all about the Flemings and their murder before deciding to buy the house. Included in her reading were news reports talking about how the Westie, his name was Jock, had stayed out in the yard as if mourning the loss of his owners. Neighbors would bring him food and water, but try as they might to get him to live in someone else’s home, he always ran away and came back here to the garden where the deaths had occurred.

  It broke Angie’s heart to think of the dog missing his owners so completely, but dog’s lives were short. There was no way the dog she was seeing was Jock. Of course, he could have been a descendant. But why didn’t any of her neighbors know who he belonged to?

  She had to admit that if she thought too much about him, she got the willies. She told herself it was ridiculous to worry that there anything odd or mysterious or—heaven forbid—in any way ghostly about the little white dog she was seeing and feeding.

  But there were other times …

  The little dog reached the house, entered, and headed straight for the kitchen. Angie dished out some canned dog food for him and got him some fresh water. He was just a friendly little dog, she told herself. That’s all. No stuff and nonsense here.

  While he ate, she went into the living room and sat on the floor in front of the glass door which was warm from the sun. Before long, the white dog came and sat in front of her, just a bit out of reach.

  “You know, little dog,” she said, “when we have the kitchen remodel finished, this house is going to be perfect. I’m so glad I didn’t let rumors of the house being haunted stand in the way of Paavo and me buying it. There are no spirits hanging around. What a silly thing for me to have thought. It’s a lovely house. I can’t wait to move my things into it.”

  The dog cocked his head.

  She was imagining how nice everything was going to look as she spoke to the dog. “I’ll buy some new furniture, of course. But I’ll also take a few favorite pieces. One is my yellow Hepplewhite chair. It’s not museum quality because someone with less sense than a banana slug re-covered and re-stained it. Nonetheless, it’s a gorgeous chair. Of course, I’ll have to put it somewhere no one will actually try to sit on it.”

  She began to chuckle. “I will never forget the first time I met Paavo. I told him to sit down while I got him a cup of coffee, and where did he sit, but on the Hepplewhite. It squealed so badly under his weight, I was afraid it was going to splinter like a cheap wooden box. Our relationship did not have a good start.”

  The dog now lay down on his belly, head high and front paws crossed, looking as if he were not only listening but understanding her every word.

  “You’re a sweet little guy, aren’t you?” she said with a smile. She rested her head back against the glass, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight shining in on her.

  “I met Paavo,” she explained, “when he came to my apartment because someone seemed to want me dead, and the attack on me was connected to one of his murder investigations.” She shut her eyes. “I’ll never forget his sour expression when he saw my apartment and I couldn’t easily explain where I got the money to afford it. Of course, I did get a good deal on it from my father. But that’s another issue. And I do oversee his twelve-story apartment building, so he does get some benefit from me living there.”

  The dog gave a small whine and then put his head down atop his paws.

  Angie frowned. “What does that mean? I’m trying to find a decent job so I can pay my own way. But it’s not easy. When I met Paavo I
had a little food column in The Bay Area Shopper. Unfortunately, my job vanished along with the Shopper. My job-hunting is still on-going and filled with ups and downs. Mostly downs. But such is life.”

  She sighed, and the little white dog continued to stare at her. “Okay, so I haven’t found a good job yet. Maybe I should write the magazine article Nona suggested.”

  The dog suddenly dropped his chin to the floor and shoved his snout between his paws as if trying to hide his eyes. Why was he doing that? Was the magazine article such a bad idea? It wasn’t a “job” job, but still …

  “I can do other things, you know. For example, I was going to audition for online ads talking about cooking, or actually doing a demonstration.” As she looked at the dog, an idea struck. “You know, doggie, why should I audition? I’ve got experience—some—and I know how to cook. I can do my own videocast. I can easily make one after the other showing people how to cook great Italian and French dishes.” She paused a moment to think about what she was saying. It actually wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe it just took a strange little dog to help her see that. She’d heard that some people even made money from YouTube and other videos if enough people viewed them. She wondered if she might be one such person. “You know, doggie, I may have to look into this.”

  The Westie suddenly jumped up, ran to the sliding glass door, and tapped it with his paw.

  “It’s not that bad of an idea!” Angie said as she got up and opened the door. The little dog ran to the shrubs in the back of the yard and disappeared.

  Angie shook her head. Why was she telling all that to someone else’s dog? Surely it was time to go home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That evening, Paavo showed up at Angie’s apartment in time for dinner. In the days before he became engaged, whenever he had a murder to investigate, he’d work pretty much around the clock. Other inspectors took time off to eat, to sleep, and live normal lives. He didn’t; not until Angie convinced him that everyone—including him—needed food to keep up strength and needed sleep to think properly. Eventually, he realized she was mostly right.

  Some murders, however, were emotional spur-of-the-moment tragedies where one person killed another without thought or planning and then ran. In such cases the killer was usually scared and acting so erratically he or she would make mistakes. Investing as much time and personnel as possible in the first twenty-four hours was crucial. Paavo had found such killers hiding in alleyways near the crime scene, in cellars, in their mother’s houses, and even under their own beds.

  But intricately planned murders required a different tactic. The immediate crime scenes were often abnormally clean or complicated—such as the Kevin Blithe crime scene which involved nearly two hundred people as both witnesses and suspects. In such cases, the murderer usually was careful to do nothing abnormal or suspicious for several days after the killing. Sometimes not for several weeks. But eventually, he or she would make a mistake. Whatever the motive for the murder might have been, in time the killer would act on that motive, be it money, drugs, or an object of love.

  And that was when the police would pounce.

  So when Angie had called that afternoon after getting back from her meeting with the kitchen remodelers to say she was making a simple cassoulet for dinner that night and hoped he could join her, he agreed.

  He knew two things: first, that Angie’s “simple cassoulet,” a delicious French stew made with white beans and a mix of tender pork chunks and sausage, would have taken her a long time and a lot of work to prepare. Second, that after she went through all that work, he needed a damn good excuse not to join her, especially since it was the type of meal she could keep warm until he could get away from his desk.

  Besides that, he felt bad that her hopes for last night—meeting an important editor as well as having a romantic, festive evening out—had been ruined. He had to send her home in a taxi while he stayed working the murder scene. He knew how disappointed she had been, and he always tried his best to keep her disappointments to a minimum.

  “Hello,” he called as he entered the apartment.

  “I’m so glad you could get away.” She hurried out of the kitchen and kissed him.

  It was still a joy for him to enter her apartment—he had a key—and to see such a beautiful, accomplished woman so obviously happy to see him. Although they would be married soon, he hoped going home to Angie was something he would never take for granted.

  “Dinner smells delicious,” he said.

  “I’m letting it simmer until we’re ready to eat,” she said. “And I have homemade ciabatta to go with it. Would you like a beer first?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He sat down in the living room to relax before eating.

  She curled up next to him on the sofa. “So, do you have any idea yet who poisoned Kevin Blithe?”

  “Not yet,” he replied, putting an arm around her. “We spent the day looking into Kevin Blithe’s background and talking to mainly old friends of his, plus some other people who were at the reception, hoping one of them saw something important. No such luck. We learned that only Kevin Blithe’s glass had cyanide which means one of the guests or staff at the reception slipped him the poison. Also, whoever did it might have left the event before Kevin took his first sip of the laced champagne, so he or she might not even be on our contact list. Because of that, we have the joy of going through the entire guest list. It’s a mess.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But I learned something interesting about Oliver Cambry’s death.” He told her Rebecca’s story about discovering Oliver Cambry had been poisoned by a jewel thief for reasons unknown—and that the thief had died of a drug overdose. “The two bodyguards who were taking care of him at the time were, of all people, Joey and Rico.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “My old bodyguards?”

  “That’s right. And one of them was there when Cambry died. While he was being poisoned and robbed, the bodyguard thought he was asleep in bed.”

  “Oh my God. I expect this was a black mark on their records.”

  “It’s no recommendation, that’s for sure.”

  “I wonder what their side of the story is,” Angie mused.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I certainly do!” she said.

  “They told Rebecca they thought Cambry’s dead wife killed him.”

  “Is that a joke?” Angie asked.

  “You know Rebecca doesn’t joke.”

  Angie chuckled at the thought of Joey and Rico trying to explain such a thing to the serious Rebecca Mayfield.

  “I don’t know who I feel sorrier for,” Paavo said, also grinning, “Rebecca or the bodyguards.”

  “At the same time,” Angie said, serious now, “those guys might not be the brightest bulbs in the chandelier, but they’re good at their jobs. And Nicky Hallston, who’s a friend of my father’s, recommended them to me. He wouldn’t have steered me wrong. I’d want to hear their side of the story.”

  o0o

  The bodyguards, Joey and Rico, were definitely not the stuff of dreams but that didn’t stop them from filling Angie’s thoughts as she tried to sleep that night. Some time ago when she first met Paavo, after a couple of attempts on her life she decided to hire the bodyguards. Those days had been horrifying, but the worst part of that whole period had been that Paavo’s best friend and long-time partner, Inspector Matt Kowalski, had been killed during the course of the investigation.

  It was the first time she had come face-to-face with sudden, violent death. She would never forget how, although Paavo scarcely knew her back then, she was the one he went to for help in dealing with his loss. She was sure he would deny that he had sought comfort—she thought of him as ‘the Great Stoneface’ back then—but instinctively she knew he needed her. Over time, she got him to admit that not only did he need her, but he loved her and wanted to spend his life with her. It had been so worth the effort.

  She owed Joey and Rico a lot. They ha
d been there to support her, protect her, and help her face the terrors surrounding her. If they were being unfairly blamed for the Cambry murder, she would do what she could to help prove they did nothing wrong.

  It didn’t take her long to find Rico’s business card. She gave him a call and invited him and Joey over for lunch, suggesting they pick a day when they were both free.

  “We’re free today, Miss Angie,” Rico said to her complete surprise. “And I know Joey and me would love to eat your cooking instead of another Jumbo Jack.”

  She said she’d see them at noon. As soon as she hung up, she rushed into the kitchen and flung open her refrigerator. The bodyguards were big men—really big—with equally big appetites. She saw a chicken in the refrigerator that she was going to make into a cacciatore for her and Paavo.

  A big batch of Southern fried chicken along with a platter of buttermilk waffles should fill their bellies. And besides, the “fusion” of waffles and fried chicken was surprisingly popular these days. It reminded her of the magazine article she’d been encouraged to write. Maybe this was a sign.

  A few minutes after twelve, her intercom buzzed.

  “It’s Joey.”

  “And Rico.”

  “Come on in,” she replied, hitting the button that opened the door to them. She stood at the apartment door excitedly waiting for the elevator to bring them up twelve floors to her penthouse.

  The elevator bonged, the doors opened, and broad smiles ensued all around. The two hadn’t changed at all unless they were a bit wider than when she’d last seen them.

  Rico was the older with short gray hair, brown eyes, and a body shaped like an oil-drum. A huge oil drum. His head resembled an upside-down cork—small and flat on top, and much wider around the jowls. Rico was married with one child.

  Joey was a younger version of Rico except that he was unmarried. As she thought of the way he used to lie around on her sofa for hours in a sweat shirt and sweat pants, eating junk food and watching sports and soap operas on TV, she imagined he still was.