by Joanne Pence
Everyone agreed that the employees never took part in Rocco’s schemes, and never understood the full extent of his criminality.
After Jerome Ranker fell into the pit, Paavo called in the Italian police, who retrieved and rescued the murderer. Ranker, along with Rocco Piccoletti, would be extradited back to the U.S. to stand trial. The Italian police would handle the goons.
And Father Daniel was going to ask his superiors at the Vatican to allow him to reopen St. Monica’s and become its priest. With a little help from “on high,” plus a generous donation from the Amalfi family in America, he didn’t see how he’d be refused. Also, St. Monica’s now had a newly found religious relic to display to the public. Whether it was authentic or not, no one could ever say for sure. But Father Daniel believed, and that was enough for him.
Angie looked at the time. It was Monday night. “Well,” she said, “so much for my great job with Chef Poulon-Leliellul. I missed my appointment. At least Paavo and I can stay in Rome a couple of days until all the paperwork is finished and the U.S. marshal arrives to take Ranker and Rocco back to San Francisco.” Her hand squeezed Paavo’s. The two had scarcely let each other go for a moment since they’d been reunited.
“Pooh-long lay-you who?” Charles asked, confused.
“Call him Pooh-long-ee-ai-ee-ai-oh,” Cat sang good-naturedly. Then, even more surprising, she reached over and ruffled what little was left of Charles’s hair. “My hero!” she gushed.
He turned twenty shades of red.
“You people are all being so childish about that poor chef’s name,” Angie said indignantly, “I can hardly stand it!”
“When was your appointment?” Paavo asked.
“Noon, Monday,” she replied, chin in hand. “Oh, well. It was a great job while it lasted. Or would have been.”
“With the time difference,” Paavo said, checking his wristwatch, “you have ten minutes until your interview. Why not telephone? I should think he’d understand the reason you aren’t there in person—especially when you explain all the publicity catching some ‘international criminals’ will give you.”
“You’re right!” she exclaimed, eyes bright. “I can try it.”
“Call him now. Your brand-new GSM cell phone will work here.”
She took out the phone and looked around. “I can’t conduct an interview here with all of you watching. I’ll either laugh, or feel self-conscious, or not be able to concentrate enough to answer his questions properly.”
“We’ve got rooms here,” Cat said, “thankfully not together! Go upstairs and call from your room.”
“There’s not time for all that,” Angie said. “The elevator might be slow, and I don’t want to be late. I know—I’ll go into the women’s room. It’s got a beautiful sitting area. No one will bother me, I’m sure. I’ll do it! I’ll be right back.”
“Good luck, Angie!” Charles and Cat called, while Paavo gave her a quick kiss. She gave all a thumbs-up and headed off.
Charles bought everyone another round of drinks, expecting such an important interview to take twenty to thirty minutes, at least.
Instead, before the drinks even got there, Angie came walking back, dejection cloaking her like the Shroud of Turin.
“What is it?” Cat asked.
Paavo took her hand and helped her sit.
“I blew it,” she murmured.
“How?”
“I guess it was because no one I know can pronounce his name properly. . . .”
“But you can,” Paavo said.
“Yes, but the mistakes were on my mind.” She sighed. “Heavily on my mind.”
“Go on,” Cat urged.
“I got through to the secretary on time, and explained all the reasons I was in Rome—the chain of St. Peter, the murder in the Sea Cliff, the entire thing. She understood perfectly, then had me wait as she explained it all to the chef. She came back on the line and said he was willing—for me—to bend his hard and fast rule. He’d allow me to do the interview by phone, and then we’d do a brief follow-up, in person, as soon as I returned to San Francisco. Of course, I agreed.”
“Yes?” the others asked in chorus.
“I held the phone tight against my ear, anticipation high, waiting for him. . . .”
“And . . . ?”
“He came on the line, and in a wonderful French accent, he said, ‘Mademoiselle Amalfi, c’est merveilleux to speak to you!’ And I was completely overwhelmed and wanted to be effusive in my praise of him, so I said, ‘I’ve admired your cooking for more years than I can count, Monsieur Pooh-pooh.’”
The others looked completely stricken.
Angie reached for Cat’s drink and downed it in one gulp. “And that’s when he hung up on me.”
Excerpts
From the Kitchen of Angelina Amalfi
ANGIE’S ORANGE-CINNAMON BISCOTTI
4 eggs
1¼ cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
¾ cup canola oil
¼ cup orange juice
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup cinnamon chips (Hershey’s or similar)
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
Heat oven to 350° F. Line baking sheet with parchment or use nonstick spray on it.
In large bowl, add eggs, 1 cup only of the sugar, oil, orange juice, orange peel, and vanilla. Beat at medium, about 2 minutes until blended. In medium bowl, stir together flour, ¼ cup only of the sugar, baking powder, and salt. Then, at low speed, beat flour mixture into egg mixture, a bit at a time, until just blended. Stir in cinnamon chips. (Dough will be sticky.) Refrigerate 30 minutes.
With floured hands, shape dough into four logs, each about 2 inches wide. Place on baking sheet. Bake 25 to 30 minutes until light brown. Remove from oven and let cool slightly.
On small plate, stir together 2 tablespoons of sugar and ground cinnamon. Cut logs into ½-inch pieces, dip both sides into cinnamon mixture. Return to baking sheet. Bake 6 minutes or until light golden brown. Cool completely. Makes about 40 cookies.
PASTA WITH PANCETTA
6 ounces pancetta, diced
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
Dried crushed red pepper flakes to taste
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon fennel seeds
½ teaspoon oregano (dried)
1 (28-ounce) can tomato puree
1 pound linguine
½ cup grated Pecorino Romano
Heat olive oil in heavy skillet. Add the pancetta and onion and sauté until pancetta is golden brown, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic and red pepper flakes. Sauté another minute, then stir in the tomato puree, salt, fennel, and oregano. Simmer uncovered over medium-low heat until the sauce thickens slightly and the flavors blend, about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, boil the linguine in a large pot of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to the bite, stirring occasionally, about 8 minutes. Drain, reserving 1 cup of the cooking liquid.
Toss the linguine into the sauce in the skillet. Mix thoroughly. Add the cheese, mix while the cheese melts. Serve.
ITALIAN-STYLE BREAD PUDDING WITH CHOCOLATE AND AMARETTO SAUCE
Sauce:
½ cup whipping cream
½ cup whole milk
3 tablespoons sugar
¼ cup amaretto liqueur
2 teaspoons cornstarch
Bread Pudding:
1½ pound loaf panettone bread (if none available, use a good white bread or challah) trim crust and cut into 1-inch cubes
1 cup chocolate chips
8 large eggs
1½ cups whipping cream
2½ cups whole milk
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons amaretto liqueur
Sauce: Add cream, milk, and sugar to a heavy small
saucepan. Over medium heat, bring to boil, stirring frequently. Mix amaretto and cornstarch in small bowl, stir to mix and to break cornstarch lumps. Stir into the cream mixture. Simmer over medium-low heat until the sauce thickens, stirring constantly, about 2 minutes. Set aside and keep warm. (If made ahead, store in refrigerator, and warm in microwave before serving.)
Bread pudding: Lightly butter a 13-by-9-by-2-inch baking dish. Put bread cubes evenly in pan, then sprinkle chocolate chips over them, spreading evenly. In a large bowl, add eggs, cream, milk, sugar, and amaretto, then whisk until blended. Pour the custard over the bread cubes and chocolate. Press the bread cubes gently to be sure they’re all submerged. Let stand for at least 30 minutes, occasionally pressing the bread again into the custard mixture. (Can let stand up to 2 hours; but if much over 30 minutes, cover and refrigerate.)
Preheat the oven to 350° F.
Bake until the pudding is set in the center, about 1 hour. Cool slightly. (Best served warm—can be rewarmed in microwave.) Spoon the bread pudding into bowls, drizzle with the warm amaretto sauce, and serve.
Enter the Delicious World of Joanne Pence’s Angie Amalfi Series
From the kitchen to the deck of a cruise ship, Joanne Pence’s mysteries are always a delight. Starring career-challenged Angie Amalfi and her handsome homicide-detective boyfriend Paavo Smith, Joanne Pence serves up a mystery feast complete with humor, a dead body or two, and delicious recipes.
Enjoy the pages that follow, which give a glimpse into Angie and Paavo’s world.
For sassy and single food writer Angie Amalfi, life’s a banquet—until the man who’s been contributing unusual recipes for her food column is found dead. But in SOMETHING’S COOKING, Angie is hardly one to simper in fear—so instead she simmers over the delectable homicide detective assigned to the case.
A while passed before she looked up again. When she did, she saw a dark-haired man standing in the doorway to her apartment, surveying the scene. Tall and broad-shouldered, his stance was aloof and forceful as he made a cold assessment of all that he saw.
If you’re going to gawk, she thought, come in with the rest of the busybodies.
He looked directly at her, and her grip tightened on the chair. His expression was hard, his pale blue eyes icy. He was a stranger, of that she was certain. His wasn’t the type of face or demeanor she’d easily forget. And someone, it seemed, had just sent her a bomb. Who? Why? What if this stranger . . .
In TOO MANY COOKS, Angie’s talked her way into a job on a pompous, third-rate chef’s radio call-in show. But when a successful and much envied restaurateur is poisoned, Angie finds the case far more interesting than trying to make her pretentious boss sound good.
Angie glanced up from the monitor. She’d been debating whether or not to try to take the next call, if and when one came in, when her attention was caught by the caller’s strange voice. It was oddly muffled. Angie couldn’t tell if the caller was a man or a woman.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Henry said.
“Pat.”
Angie’s eyebrows rose. A neuter-sounding Pat? What was this, a Saturday Night Live routine?
“Well, Pat, what can I do for you?”
“I was concerned about the restaurant killer in your city.”
Henry’s eye caught Angie’s. “Thank you. I’m sure the police will capture the person responsible in no time.”
“I’m glad you think so, because—you’re next.”
Henry jumped up and slapped the disconnect button. “And now,” he said, his voice quivering, “a word from our sponsor.”
Angie Amalfi’s latest job, developing the menu for a new inn, sounds enticing—especially since it means spending a week in scenic Northern California with her homicide-detective boyfriend. But once she arrives at the soon-to-be-opened Hill Haven Inn, she’s not so sure anymore. In COOKING UP TROUBLE, the added ingredients of an ominous threat, a missing person, and a woman making eyes at her man leave Angie convinced that the only recipe in this inn’s kitchen is one for disaster.
She placed her hand over his large strong one, scarcely able to believe that they were here, in this strange yet lovely room, alone. “But I am real, Paavo.”
“Are you?” He bent to kiss her lightly, his eyes intent, his hand moving from her chin to the back of her head to intertwine with the curls of her hair. The mystical aura of the room, the patter of the rain, the solitude of the setting, stole over him and made him think of things he didn’t want to ponder—things like being together with Angie forever, like never being alone again. He tried to mentally break the spell. He needed time—cold, logical time. “There’s no way a woman like you should be in my life,” he said finally. “Sometimes I think you can’t be any more real than the Sempler ghosts. That I’ll close my eyes and you’ll disappear. Or that I’m just imagining you.”
Food columnist Angie Amalfi has it all. But in COOKING MOST DEADLY, while she’s wondering if it’s time to cut the wedding cake with her boyfriend, Paavo, he becomes obsessed with a grisly homicide that has claimed two female victims.
“You’ve got to keep City Hall out of this case. As far as the press knows, she was a typist. Nothing more. Mumble when you say where she worked.” Lieutenant Hollins got up from behind his desk, walked around to the front of it, and leaned against the edge. Paavo and Yosh sat facing him. They’d just completed briefing him on the Tiffany Rogers investigation. Hollins made it a point not to get involved in his men’s investigations unless political heat was turned on. In this case, the heat was on high.
“Her friends and coworkers are at City Hall, and there’s a good chance the guy she’s been seeing is there as well,” Paavo said.
“It’s our only lead, Chief,” Yosh added. “So far, the CSI unit can’t even find a suspicious fingerprint to lift. The crime scene is clean as a whistle. She always met her boyfriend away from her apartment. We aren’t sure where yet. We’ve got a few leads we’re still checking.”
“So you’ve got nothing except for a dead woman lying in her own blood on the floor of her own living room!” Hollins added.
In COOK’S NIGHT OUT, Angie has decided to make her culinary name by creating the perfect chocolate confection: angelinas. Donating her delicious rejects to a local mission, Angie soon finds that the mission harbors more than the needy, and to save not only her life, but Paavo’s as well, she’s going to have to discover the truth faster than you can beat egg whites to a peak.
Angelina Amalfi flung open the window over the kitchen sink. After two days of cooking with chocolate, the mouthwatering, luscious, inviting smell of it made her sick.
That was the price one must pay, she supposed, to become a famous chocolatier.
She found an old fan in the closet, put it on the kitchen table, and turned the dial to high. The comforting aroma of home cooking wafting out from a kitchen was one thing, but the smell of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory was quite another.
She’d been trying out intricate, elegant recipes for chocolate candies, searching for the perfect confection on which to build a business to call her own. Her kitchen was filled with truffles, nut bouchées, exotic fudges, and butter creams.
So far, she’d divulged her business plans only to Paavo, the man for whom she had plans of a very different nature. She was going to have to let someone else know soon, though, or she wouldn’t have any room left in the kitchen to cook. She didn’t want to start eating the calorie-oozing, waistline-expanding chocolates out of sheer enjoyment—her taste tests were another thing altogether and totally justifiable, she reasoned—and throwing the chocolates away had to be sinful.
Angie Amalfi’s long-awaited vacation with her detective boyfriend has all the ingredients of a romantic getaway—a sail to Acapulco aboard a freighter, no crowds, no Homicide Department worries, and a red bikini. But in COOKS OVERBOARD, it isn’t long before Angie’s Love Boat fantasies are headed for stormy seas—the cook tries to jump off the ship, Paavo is acting mighty strange, and someone�
��s added murder to the menu . . .
Paavo became aware, in a semi-asleep state, that the storm was much worse than anyone had expected it would be. The best thing to do was to try to sleep through it, to ignore the roar of the sea, the banging of rain against the windows, the almost human cry of the wind through the ship.
He reached out to Angie. She wasn’t there. She must have gotten up to use the bathroom. Maybe her getting up was what had awakened him. He rolled over to go back to sleep.
When he awoke again, the sun was peeking over the horizon. He turned over to check on Angie, but she still wasn’t beside him. Was she up already? That wasn’t like her. He remembered a terrible storm last night. He sat up, suddenly wide-awake. Where was Angie?
Angie Amalfi has a way with food and people, but her newest business idea is turning out to be shakier than a fruit-filled gelatin mold. In A COOK IN TIME, her first—and only—clients for “Fantasy Dinners” are none other than a group of UFO chasers and government conspiracy fanatics. But when it seems that the group has a hidden agenda greater than anything on the X-Files, Angie’s determined to find out the truth before it takes her out of this world—for good.
The nude body was that of a male Caucasian, early forties or so, about five-ten, 160 pounds. The skin was an opaque white. Lips, nose, and ears had been removed, and the entire area from approximately the pubis to the sigmoid colon had been cored out, leaving a clean, bloodless cavity. No postmortem lividity appeared on the part of the body pressed against the ground. The whole thing had a tidy, almost surreal appearance. No blood spattered the area. No blood was anywhere; apparently, not even in the victim. A gutted, empty shell.
The man’s hair was neatly razor-cut; his hands were free of calluses or stains, the skin soft, the nails manicured; his toenails were short and square-cut, and his feet without bunions or other effects of ill-fitting shoes. In short, all signs of a comfortable life. Until now.