Add a Pinch of Murder Page 8

—Back then, Angie wasn’t yet engaged to Paavo, and she wanted to know all she could about marriage, especially why some worked and some didn’t. It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask why the marriage had turned sour so quickly. With much effort, she restrained herself. Or, at least, that’s how she remembered it.

  “So Richie remembered me when he read about Tiffany?” Connie asked.

  —Actually, he hadn’t until Angie brought it up.

  “Your poor sister,” she said gently, changing the subject.

  Eventually, Connie apparently decided it felt good to talk about all this to someone, even if she was a stranger. Whatever the reason, Angie and Connie worked together to figure out who had killed Tiffany. They had been friends ever since.

  Now, she walked into Everyone’s Fancy to find Connie dealing with a customer. As soon as the woman made the purchase and headed for the door, Angie hurried to Connie who stood behind the counter.

  “You won’t believe who I met,” Angie said.

  “Hello to you, too, Angie.” Connie was smiling. “I never dreamed anyone would want the Dresden ballerina that I loved, and fortunately a woman with good taste walked in here. One hundred twenty-five dollars! It’s made my week, believe me!”

  “Congratulations! I’m happy to hear it,” Angie said. “Now guess who I met!”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “Beyoncé,” Connie said, picking up a feather duster.

  “Very funny. And wrong. I met Madrigal Cambry Blithe,” Angie said with a smile.

  “Who?”

  Somewhat deflated, Angie filled her in on the whole story from the death of Oliver to watching Madrigal’s husband keel over at the museum charity ball.

  “That’s grim,” Connie said with a shudder. “How about some tea?”

  She had a tea and coffee set up in the back room, and since no customers were in the shop, she put on the kettle.

  Angie headed back there, and greeted Connie’s dog, Lily, a medium-size dog with long, silky hair that fell onto her forehead like shaggy bangs around her big brown eyes. She was given to Connie when her elderly owner died, and stayed with Connie every day in the shop, sometimes coming out to greet customers where her gentle ways always won fans and even managed to inspire a few sales.

  Angie then stood in the doorway so she could keep an eye on the entrance while Connie made the tea.

  “Of course, since Paavo was right there when Kevin Blithe’s murder took place, he’s heading up the investigation,” Angie said.

  “I’ll bet he was thrilled by that,” Connie said. “Poor guy tries to go out for a good time and ends up in the middle of a murder.”

  “I’ve decided to help him by looking into the death of Oliver Cambry,” Angie said.

  “You’re going to what? I’m sure I misheard you since you do have a wedding to plan and a house to decorate,” Connie told her. “Oh, and weren’t you planning an audition or some such for Haute Cuisine magazine?”

  Angie ignored all that. “Many people suspect that the man the police said killed Oliver wasn’t really the murderer. They think he was framed. But no one pursued it further. Until me. I’m going to find the real killer.”

  “Why in the world would you want to do such a thing? You’ve got a whole new way of life ahead of you, one that surely doesn’t include murder investigations. And isn’t Paavo a little miffed that you’d act as if the homicide bureau messed up Oliver Cambry’s case?”

  “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  Connie’s mouth wrinkled. “Tell me again how well you know your fiancé.”

  Angie waved away Connie’s concerns. “For one thing, it wasn’t his case,” Angie explained. “It was Rebecca Mayfield’s. You know I don’t care much for her—not with the way she used to moon over Paavo as if he were catnip and she was a cat.”

  “They’re co-workers, Angie, that’s all.”

  “I always suspected she would have liked to be a whole lot more than that.”

  “Rebecca aside, how do you intend to solve this case if the police couldn’t?”

  “We need to look at it with fresh eyes.”

  “We?”

  “Of course. You don’t expect me to do this alone, do you?”

  “Well, I was hoping …”

  “We start with looking at Farlee Cambry, Oliver’s deceased second wife.”

  “Deceased? Is that what you said? Do you plan to hold another séance at your new house?” Connie laughed. “Or maybe, since you’ve got ghosts living there, you should get them to ask dead Farlee if she killed her husband?”

  “Very funny. I do not have ghosts in my new house!” Angie’s eyes shot daggers at Connie, which only made Connie laugh harder. “Anyway, I’ve got a much easier way to find out about Farlee.”

  “What? Tarot? A crystal ball?”

  Angie folded her arms and scowled as she said, “No. We visit my mother.”

  o0o

  As soon as the shop’s closing time came, Connie and Angie were out the door. Connie brought Lily back to her apartment, which was only a couple of blocks from the gift shop, then rode with Angie to her parents’ home in the exclusive town of Hillsborough on the San Francisco peninsula.

  Angie’s father, Salvatore, was in the family room reading a newspaper with the TV on as well as a radio. He was thin and frail due to a heart condition. Angie and Connie greeted him, and then joined her mother in the kitchen.

  Serefina invited Angie and Connie to stay for dinner. She employed a full-time housekeeper, but at least three times a week she did the cooking. She didn’t like most people’s cooking as well as her own. Even Angie, at times, fell short in her estimation. Today she was making beef ragu to serve over pappardelle, a large, flat noodle. She simply added a few more noodles to the boiling water to have enough for four instead of two for dinner. Serefina still tended to prepare large meals having gotten used to cooking for five growing daughters. She complained that even when she tried to cook for two, she still ended up with plenty of leftovers. Angie knew why. She may have cut the recipes in half or more, but her father tended to eat much less than in the past due to his illness. And Serefina, being overweight, was constantly dieting. She would eat a small dinner, but then she would get hungry and ate ‘just a little of this and a little of that’—particularly sweets and desserts.

  Angie and Connie set the table, and Angie helped dish out the food. Serefina and Sal were thrilled to have their company, and Connie was more than happy to take part in one of Serefina’s meals instead of her own, basically boring, cooking. All agreed the food was delicious.

  Not until dessert, an Italian cheese pie, did Angie bring up the Cambry family. “You knew Oliver and Farlee Cambry, didn’t you Mamma?” Angie asked.

  “If you’re going to gossip about the dead,” Sal said, “I’m going to watch TV.”

  After Sal left, Serefina said, “Why are you asking about the Cambrys, God rest their souls?”

  “I just met Madrigal.” Angie quickly filled Serefina in on all that was happening. “I was told her stepmother, Farlee, died some six months ago, right?”

  “Sí, I heard that she and Oliver were out on his yacht and she fell off. They never found her body. Madonna mia! There are sharks out in that part of the Pacific. I hate to think about it.”

  “They never found her?” Angie asked.

  “No.”

  “Are they sure she fell?”

  “Who knows? She was with Oliver, and I don’t think anybody believes he wanted to hurt her. She was a trophy wife. She was young, pretty, and everyone thought he was lucky that she married him. He wasn’t handsome, and troppo grasso.”

  “What’s that?” Connie asked.

  “Too fat,” Angie told her, then faced her mother. “What did you think of Farlee?”

  Serefina took a bite of cheese pie before answering. “She was too posy. You know the type—showing off her clothes, her body—so much fake!—and how she kept herself in good shape.
I didn’t like her.”

  “Did you like Oliver?” Angie asked.

  “I don’t know. After his first wife died … something went wrong,” Serefina said. “Did you know he believed in ghosts and spirits? He was maybe insane. Do you think that could be the case, Connie?”

  Connie looked as if she had been watching a tennis match between the two women, and the ball had been suddenly thrust her way. “It is strange, that’s for sure.”

  They were all quiet for a moment, until Serefina added, “When I heard he’d died, I thought he might have taken his own life, but I couldn’t believe that anyone would kill him. I can’t imagine anyone wanting him dead.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Paavo got home that evening he found Angie sitting on the sofa looking at House Beautiful magazine, and with his big yellow tabby, Hercules, curled up asleep by her side. “What’s this?”

  She put down the book and ran to greet him with a kiss and then a long hug.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “Did you go to see the contractors? How are they doing?”

  “They’re fine. Just fine. The manager, Clyde, promised they’d finish on time.” She was speaking too fast, which he knew was a bad sign.

  “You should feel good about that,” he said as he gave Herc a head rub in greeting. “Are you hungry, guy?”

  “I fed him when I came in,” Angie said.

  Paavo nodded. “Good. Thanks.” He studied her. Something seemed a little off.

  “Anyway, with remodeling worries to one side,” she said, “I hope I can concentrate on our wedding plans. And you should, as well.”

  He didn’t want to get into that subject at the moment. It never ended well. “Uh, yes, good,” he said. “I will, soon as this investigation is over.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Anyway, after I left, I went to see Connie. We had dinner with my parents, and my mother sent me home with a platter for you. I’ll warm it up if you haven’t eaten yet.”

  “I haven’t. That sounds great. ”

  Paavo changed into jeans and a pullover sweater as Angie reheated the food. It was on the table with wine when he joined her in the kitchen. His house was no more than a cottage with a living room, bedroom, and an old-fashioned kitchen—the type that was large enough to fit a table and chairs for a good-size family.

  “The food smells delicious,” Paavo said as he sat.

  Angie sat across from him with a glass of wine.

  “What have you been up to?” he asked.

  She said nothing for a long time, and then smiled brightly. “You won’t believe what I learned today.”

  Something definitely was wrong. “Is it about the magazine article you’re thinking about writing?”

  “No. I realized that’ll be a balancing act between writing about some chefs I know and respect, but also telling what people really think of the ‘extreme fusion’ foods,” she said. “I’ve learned that few go back a second time, and I don’t want the write-up to be a hit piece. If it is, I may never find a good job in the food industry in this town. So I’m not doing it. I thought of a new idea, and Stan convinced me we could do it.”

  “Stan? Your neighbor?” If she’s taking advice from Stan Bonnette, something was seriously amiss.

  “Of course my neighbor. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet. What I learned is what my mother had to say about Farlee Cambry.”

  Paavo’s head was spinning now. At least the dinner was fantastic. “Farlee? Your mother knew the Cambrys?”

  “That’s right. Did you know they never found Farlee’s body?”

  He frowned. “I had heard, but it’s not surprising. She did fall off a yacht somewhere out in the Pacific.”

  “Yes, but what were the circumstances?”

  Paavo put down his fork. “You’re serious?”

  “What if Joey and Rico were right? What if she’s not dead?”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Paavo said. “I know Rico and Joey say Oliver never believed Farlee had died when she disappeared from the yacht, and the two wonder if she didn’t come back here and killed Oliver, but from what I’ve seen in police reports, nothing indicates she’s still alive. Now, I haven’t dug into her disappearance and assumed death, but I think going that route is quite a stretch.”

  Paavo went back to eating, despite Angie looking more than a little disappointed by his lack of interest in her findings.

  His phone rang. “It’s Dispatch,” he said. “I’d better take it.”

  She waited as he took the call.

  “This is strange,” he said after hanging up. “First, all this has come up with Joey and Rico, a blast from the past when we first met, and now I’m being sent to a crime scene in the same area as happened back then—the park near your apartment.”

  Angie looked as surprised as Paavo. “Is history repeating itself?” she asked.

  “Let’s hope not. As I recall, things got a little dicey for both of us. You weren’t near that park were you?” he asked.

  “Not lately. In fact, I did all I could to avoid going near it for quite some time.”

  “Good. As long as you aren’t involved in any of my cases, I’m happy.”

  She swallowed hard before saying, “I’m sure, then, you can be quite happy about everything.”

  o0o

  As Paavo stood at the strange and unique crime scene, he couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of deja vu.

  He was on Vallejo Street, near the top of Russian Hill and just a couple of blocks from Angie’s apartment. Here, the hill was too steep for cars to drive on. Where normally there would be pavement, the ground was left natural, with dirt, flowers, and many bushes. Barriers had been placed at the top and bottom of the street to block any driver who was paying no attention whatsoever and failed to stop. Homes lined the sides of the “street,” but instead of usual sidewalks in front of them, these sidewalks had steps formed from concrete to make it easier for people to walk.

  A patrol officer had secured the crime scene—a shrub-filled area in the middle of the block. He waved Paavo and Yosh down to where he stood.

  Few street lamps lit the area, so Paavo used his flashlight to view the body of an older man under a large bush. The crime scene photographer was right behind him and began taking photos from every angle possible. The body would have to be moved for the medical examiner, and photos would be the only evidence of how it had been originally found.

  The photographer was just finishing up when Dr. Evelyn Ramirez, the medical examiner, arrived with her staff.

  Her assistants spread out plastic and then lifted the body onto it, doing their best to disturb as little evidence as possible. With the body in the open, it was clear the man had been stabbed multiple times through the heart and lungs.

  Paavo looked through the man’s pockets. He had all kinds of identification, from a driver’s license to a Medicare card. His name was Theodore Peter Redding, age 68.

  But his apartment was miles away.

  So why, Paavo wondered, was he killed in this spot? He didn’t want to think it had anything to do with its proximity to Angie’s apartment, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next afternoon, home from shopping for groceries, Angie stepped out of the elevator to see an object on the floor by her apartment door. It was about a foot high, a foot wide, and covered with what appeared to be a white dishcloth.

  Who would have left such a thing? Not Paavo. If he’d brought something this far, he’d have entered the apartment and put it inside. Besides, he was engrossed in the investigation of a man who had been stabbed to death not far from her apartment. She hated hearing about a violent death so close to her home. She hoped that once she was in the Sea Cliff neighborhood, such worries would be a thing of the past.

  Of course, there she had a different issue … an extremely different issue.

  In any case, between
Paavo’s newest case, and him not getting any breaks in working Kevin Blithe’s murder, she knew he had little free time on his hands.

  So if the whatever-it-was hadn’t been left by Paavo, who had brought it to her?

  She stood over it. She should just take the damned cloth off and see what it was, right?

  Of course, maybe it was actually something for Stan and had been left in front of her door by mistake. Maybe she should just knock on his door and tell him about it.

  Or, even more likely, it was a box filled with dishes that belonged to her that he’d walked off with while eating leftovers from her kitchen.

  Or, there might be something disgusting under the cloth.

  She couldn’t forget how she’d once been sent a dead pigeon. Fortunately, Joey—or had it been Rico?—had opened the box and found it. He kept it mostly hidden from her.

  How paranoid was she? Was she willing to lift off a simple little dishcloth or not?

  “Of course I am!” she thought.

  She bent over the object and reached out her hand.

  “On second thought …”

  She knocked on Stan’s door, hoping he could easily solve the conundrum. He wasn’t home.

  She opened her apartment door and slowly, carefully, went inside. Everything seemed as she had left it. She took out her phone and called Joey. “Can you come over?” she asked.

  “Sure. What’s happening?”

  “It’s something weird. I’d like you to be here, just in case,” she said before adding, “Can a dishcloth be rigged to blow up if you touch it?”

  There was a long pause, and then he said, “I’ll be right there. Don’t touch anything.”

  In thirty minutes, her doorbell sounded and she buzzed Joey into the building.

  She waited in the hall until the elevator doors opened and he stepped onto her floor.

  “It’s right there.” She pointed toward the dishcloth. “I have no idea what it is, and I’m wondering how we should approach it.”

  He studied the cloth-covered object a moment. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but do you have some kitchen tongs?” he asked. “Long ones.”