Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  Her heart sank. This was what she was afraid of. All she had wanted out of this trip was to be alone with Paavo, to have him all to herself for once. Damn Finley Tay and his disappearing act, anyway! “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” she said finally. Never mind that Paavo was the most coldly logical person she’d ever met. “Finley will be here soon. It’s not a problem.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Paavo said. “For now, I’ll take a quick shower and go back downstairs and see what the sheriff has to say before he leaves.”

  “Okay. I’ll take one next. It should be dinnertime soon.”

  He disappeared into the dressing room. She got off the bed and stood where she could watch him. Maybe Finley would show up soon and she could get on with her plans for Paavo.

  She watched him take a clean shirt from his bag, then lift out a pair of Levi’s and some underwear. She watched him set his shaving things out on a shelf in the bathroom. She would have watched him take his shower, but she didn’t want to seem pushy.

  As she sat on the bed listening to the water running in the bathroom, she ran her fingers over the satiny duvet, the lace on the pillow coverings, the indentation where Paavo’s head had lain. Here she was, miles from home, her boss was missing, the house was supposed to be haunted, and all she could think about was that the bed in this room seemed to be about the size of the Queen Mary. And she was ready to pull up anchor.

  She was ninety-nine point nine percent certain that she was head over heels in love with this man and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. This time together would make or break their relationship, of that she was certain.

  As such, this might be the most important week of her entire life, deciding her whole future.

  She could handle it.

  Then why were her palms perspiring?

  Outside lights illuminated the driveway well enough that Paavo could see Butz standing beside his car talking with a stiff-looking middle-aged man. As soon as Deputy Sparks started the car’s engine, the man gave a bow and turned back to the inn. Butz reached for the car door handle.

  “Sheriff,” Paavo called. Hurrying toward the sheriff, Paavo registered the stranger’s slicked-back brown hair, black suit, black bow tie, and white shirt as they passed. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Sure.” Butz rested his elbow on the top of the car. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you found out anything about Tay’s whereabouts.”

  The sheriff shrugged, his eyes slowly going over Paavo. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “The more I look at it, the more convinced I am that the fellow just took off.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, one of these people here said they saw him talking with the hot tub boys by their car.”

  Paavo was surprised. “Who was that?”

  “It was that big blond guy. The one with the muscles. Jeffers, his name was.”

  “Jeffers.” Paavo wondered why this Jeffers hadn’t mentioned that fact to Moira or Angie earlier.

  The sheriff leaned his backside against the door of the car. Sparks shut off the engine. “In fact,” Butz said, “Deputy Sparks thought he saw Finley Tay riding through town this very morning. Ain’t that right, Sparks?”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  This was a new one, Paavo thought. “He’s sure of that?”

  “Let’s say he saw a skinny guy with long brown hair worn in a ponytail.”

  Paavo nodded, then spoke quietly, stating the obvious to Butz, but not letting his own suspicions show. “This area is a mecca for aging, displaced hippies. How many of them fit that description?”

  “Plenty.” Butz pulled out a Tiparillo and lit it. “That’s why marijuana’s the second biggest crop in the area. Right after lumber. Hell, these days with what’s happened to the timber industry, maybe it’s the first biggest crop. But that’s exactly why the folks in this town wouldn’t care what happened to someone like Tay. We don’t want his type here. These dope-smokers killed our livelihood, and with the spikes they put in trees, they’ve even killed some of our neighbors when their saws hit the spikes. They say earth first. We say home and family first.”

  “That’s why you’re not doing anything to find Tay,” Paavo said.

  “Well, goddamn, Inspector, I resent that. I do. Does this look like I ain’t doing anything?” Butz spread his arms wide, taking in the whole of Hill Haven Inn and the promontory it stood on. “I spent damn near an hour here. Only to learn that even these so-called investors—like that gray-haired boozer—don’t think Tay’s hurt at all. All he talked about was Tay’s money troubles.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Bayman, I think. Martin Bayman. In fact, he said he lent Tay a lot of money for the inn, and he’ll lose it if the inn doesn’t open. He wondered if Tay might have taken them all for a ride.”

  “A con?” Paavo asked.

  “Could be. Anyway,” the sheriff continued, “when I get back to the office, I’ll contact his bank and credit card companies. If anyone tries to get at any of his accounts, we’ll learn about it right away, then track him down.”

  “What about doing a search out here in the meantime?” Paavo asked.

  Butz’s eyes narrowed. “After forty-eight hours someone can file a missing person report if they want. Even then, I’d have to get some of the townspeople to help search an area this size. Right now, I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t think I’d be able to get three men to join me. If Finley Tay’s disappeared, the last thing anyone in this town would want to do is to find him. Second to last is to help anyone connected with this wacko group. If you’re smart, you and your lady will get into that fancy car of yours and go right back home. Like I’m doing. Big Pacific storm’s headed this way, and I want to get off this damn hill before the rains hit. That’s when this whole hilltop turns into one big water slide. Why else would a nobody like Finley Tay be able to afford this place?”

  “He wasn’t very helpful, was he?” Moira Tay was waiting in the foyer when Paavo entered the inn. The way her hands were clasped in front of her, her voice so serene and slow, and with her all-black, floor-length clothing, she reminded him of a nun. But then, when he lifted his gaze to hers, the image was shattered by the bold, knowing look she gave him. A look much like that of the woman he’d known many years ago.

  The wind had kicked up to almost gale force, and the storm the sheriff had talked about was sure to strike soon.

  “He thinks Finley took off,” Paavo said.

  “I don’t know what to think.” Moira’s only sign of agitation was the twisting together of her long fingers with their short, unpolished nails. “Dinner’s ready. Won’t you join us? Everyone’s in the dining room.”

  Good, Paavo thought. He’d finally get to meet the mysterious investors. Just then a lightning bolt shot across the sky, followed almost immediately by a loud peal of thunder.

  “Let me see if Angie’s ready. We’ll be right there.”

  It must have been the sound of their footsteps on the hardwood floors that caused all eyes to turn toward the doorway, Paavo thought, as he and Angie stepped into the dining room.

  “Hello, Angie,” a plump young woman called. “I saved a place for you and your friend right next to me.”

  “Thank you, Chelsea,” Angie said. Paavo’s hand stayed at her back as they crossed the room to the table.

  Woodpaneling covered the lower half of the walls, topped by redflocked wallpaper and a series of small seascapes. An enormous crystal chandelier hung over the massive mahogany dining table, and smaller tables along the walls bore colorful vases of dried wildflowers. But by far the dominant feature was a portrait of an old man with muttonchop sideburns, hung so it was seen as soon as one entered the room. One of the original owners of the house, Paavo suspected.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Angie said. Paavo held her chair out for her as she sat. “This is Paavo Smith. He’s also from San Francisco.”


  The investors murmured their hellos. Paavo sat next to Angie and beside him, seated at the head of the table, was Moira.

  She nodded at him in greeting.

  “You look pretty tonight, Angie,” said Chelsea, seated next to her.

  Pretty was an understatement, Paavo thought. Angie had blown him away in her red silk jumpsuit and matching high, spiky heels. Dangling diamond earrings flashed big bucks with each saucy turn of her head. That she’d gone to such trouble just for him made her even more beautiful in his book.

  “It’s nice to have someone to dress for,” Angie replied to Chelsea’s compliment, with a smile in Paavo’s direction. He rested his wrists on the table, and she reached over to place her small, smooth hand atop his large, rough one. The heat from her touch seared all the way to his toes.

  “Yes,” Chelsea murmured, “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Paavo tried not to let his skepticism show as he took in Angie’s new friend. She reminded him of an upside-down turnip. Her purple sweatpants amply filled the seat of her chair, while her purple sweatshirt rose to narrow, pinched shoulders. Heavy, unkempt red hair sprawled over her shoulders, springing from a head way too small for the rest of her.

  She leaned forward to better see around Angie and smiled at him. “I’m Chelsea Worthington,” she said. “From Malibu.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he replied.

  Chelsea’s dumpiness was in counterpoint to the flamboyance of the older woman seated across the table from her. The woman’s turquoise caftan, dotted with silver starbursts, was topped by a turquoise turban with a large crystal in the center of it. A short fringe of wiry gray hair crinkled out from under the turban, framing a face that had clearly been tanned once too often. Her cheeks had the look of dried, minutely cracked leather.

  She stared intensely at Paavo, her gaze almost as charged as her hair. Then, to his surprise, she stood and raised her arms, a little like the pope giving a benediction. “I am Bethel Bayman. And this,” she indicated the man at her side, “is my husband, Martin.”

  She sat down, and they exchanged hellos. Paavo remembered Moira telling the sheriff a famous channeler was in the group. So that was she.

  “Cheers.” The fifty-something man beside Bethel lifted his water glass in his left hand as if he were toasting them, while at the same time standing and reaching across the table with his right hand to shake Paavo’s. Paavo, too, stood.

  Seated again, Bayman took a sip from his glass and put it down with a look of disgust. Water was for fish, not for Martin Bayman. It was clear he’d drunk lots more than water already. With his heather-colored houndstooth jacket, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and dark blue cravat, he gave off a sophisticated, slightly degenerate air.

  Thunder boomed, and the lights flickered. The people at the table shifted uncomfortably while exchanging quick glances.

  Paavo glanced down the opposite side of the table. Beside Martin, another place sat empty. Then, directly across from him, was a younger man.

  “My name,” the man declared in a deep, sonorous voice, “was once Greg Jeffers, but since my enlightenment I call myself Running Spirit. My home is Earth.” Obviously pleased with this announcement, Jeffers smiled as he and Paavo half stood to shake hands. The fingers of Jeffers’s right hand were heavily encrusted with slightly tarnished silver rings. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said with an indifferent toss of his shoulder-length blond hair. “My wife, Patsy, is sick tonight.”

  That explained the one empty place setting. Another, at the foot of the table across from Moira, must have been Finley’s seat. That left one more, on the far side of Chelsea. It must belong to the stiff-looking fellow with the bow tie whom Paavo had seen talking to the sheriff earlier. Paavo raced through the names of the investors—the Jefferses, the Baymans, Chelsea Worthington, and Reginald Vane. Okay, so Vane was missing.

  “Angie’s friend,” Moira said to the others, “is an inspector of some sort. He knows our local sheriff. Tell us, Mr. Smith, what it is you do?”

  She faced him fully, and with her large eyes set in that pale, ethereal face, a sense of deja-vu rocked him. He stared at her, perhaps a little too long. “I work for the San Francisco Police Department.”

  “How interesting,” Bethel said from the far end of the table. “What do you inspect?”

  Paavo glanced at Angie, then back at Bethel. “Homicides.”

  Bethel opened her mouth, but no sound came out for a moment. Then she said, “Oh,” and leaned back in her chair.

  “Since Finley can’t be with us tonight,” Running Spirit said, “I will take it upon myself to lead our little group in thanks for this meal.”

  “You?” Martin asked. He glanced at the others. “Who gave Running Mouth the right to lead anything?”

  “Let us all join hands,” Running Spirit intoned, ignoring Martin. “We need to form a circle and use our energy to bring Finley back to us safely.”

  Moira took Jeffers’s hand. Eyes shut and heads bowed, they sat with their free hands outstretched, dangling in the air, waiting for the others to grasp them. The others glanced about uneasily. Martin folded his arms.

  Angie could have gladly knocked all their heads together. Here she was, trying to convince Paavo this was a fine place to stay for the week, and this group, previously a little strange, had now totally weirded out on her.

  “We must join hands,” Running Spirit repeated solemnly, “so we will be cleansed and purified. Mind, spirit, body. We will use the pure and nutritious food we are about to receive to renew and energize ourselves. To cleanse our minds, our stomachs, and our bowels.”

  I’m not hearing this, Angie thought. Was Running Mouth—she liked that—saying grace or lecturing them on laxatives?

  “I don’t want my mind clean,” Martin said lecherously. “I like it just the way it is.”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. Bethel adjusted her turban, which had a tendency to list toward her left ear. Moira kept her eyes shut, and Angie snickered, then clasped her hand against her mouth, pretending to clear her throat.

  “Let us pray,” Running Spirit said.

  Had she heard right? Running Spirit didn’t look like he prayed to anything but the god of Nautilus equipment. On this cold February evening he had come to dinner practically bare-chested, wearing only a white leather vest. The man had the kind of sculptured, muscular build achieved only by months of workouts in front of a mirror.

  Still, despite this brazen display of narcissism, Angie couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Even egomaniacs could be good-looking, and that scantily covered bronzed chest didn’t hurt. What was funny about him, though, was that he seemed oddly familiar, with his small eyes, huge jaw, long blond hair, and rugged good looks. She must have seen a picture of someone who resembled him. Some pirate movie, maybe? She just couldn’t remember.

  “Where’s Reginald?” Angie asked. “Shouldn’t he be with us?”

  “He’s got another migraine,” Chelsea said. “He’s very sensitive to stress.”

  Martin snorted. “His bow tie’s probably too tight.”

  “Will you shut up, Martin, and take our hands?” Bethel said shortly. “I’d like to eat tonight.” She grabbed his hand. With an exaggerated shudder, he reached across the missing Mrs. Jeffers’s place and took Running Spirit’s hand.

  Bethel reached across Finley’s unused place setting, offering her hand to Chelsea who in turn took Angie’s.

  Everyone’s hands were linked except Paavo’s. Angie turned to him.

  Paavo could see the consternation on her face. She knew he hated things like this. He took her hand and saw a flash of relief light her eyes. Next, he reached over to Moira. Her eyes opened at his touch. Her mouth upturned ever so slightly in a smile, and she moved her hand so that their fingers entwined. She closed her eyes again.

  He didn’t shut his eyes and didn’t bow his head, nor did he look at Angie. He was certain she had taken in Moira’s smile with some interest. Angie didn’t miss much where he w
as concerned. Across the table, he was surprised to catch Running Spirit’s glare of obvious anger.

  “Breathe deeply,” Running Spirit bellowed, averting his gaze from Paavo’s. “Think pure thoughts of being cleansed and refreshed.”

  “I smell something strange,” Bethel cried, her eyes still squeezed shut. “I hope it’s not perfume. I’m allergic to such smells. I thought everyone knew that.”

  Angie couldn’t imagine anyone being allergic to her dab of Quelques Fleurs.

  Running Spirit, barely hiding his irritation at the interruption, tried again. “Let us thank the Supreme Oneness that is all, with whom we communicate with our every action, for bringing us together today to share this meal. We ask for his or her help in keeping Finley safe.”

  They observed a moment of silence, then began to release hands and relax. “Excellent,” Running Spirit loudly proclaimed.

  Paavo kept Angie’s hand in his.

  “Yes, yes.” Bethel’s voice was fervent, tinged with a hint of hysteria as she raised her eyes to the chandelier and lifted her arms. “I felt your energy, Allakaket, directed at me to keep Finley safe and well.”

  “What are you talking about, Bethel?” Running Spirit snapped.

  “You want him safe, don’t you? To return to us?” Bethel shut her eyes and clasped her hands. “Allakaket said—as I channeled him earlier today—that he and I will lead the way for Finley to come home.”

  Running Spirit snorted. “A four-hundred-year-old Eskimo knows where Finley Tay is?”

  “The proper name is Inuit, not Eskimo,” Bethel retorted.

  “Inuit or idiot, you need to start smoking better quality stuff. Your Eskimo boy’s wires are crossed.”

  “They are not.” She smacked her turban back in place. “I channel him perfectly.”

  “Lady, you’re off the dial. If there ever was an Allakaket and he had any sense, he wouldn’t talk to the likes of you.”

  Paavo tugged on Angie’s hand. She nearly burst out laughing. Whatever those two were talking about hardly sounded like English.