Cooking Up Trouble (12 page)

“
I don’t want to even think
about selling the inn, Mr. Bayman,” Moira said.

Angie stopped at the kitchen door, so irritated she didn’t know if she should go in or just turn around and leave. When she awoke that morning—long after she was supposed to have awakened—she discovered that Paavo had left.

Last night he’d made her feel like everything was all right; then before the sheets had even cooled, he was gone.

She knew she was being unreasonable. She knew he was right in going off to search for Patsy. Nevertheless, she would have enjoyed it, even liked it, if once, just once, during their so-called wonderful week together, she could wake up with him beside her
in
the bed. Not on top of the covers. Not telling her to get up to help Moira in the kitchen. But in it. Next to her. Ready to make love to her. Was that too much to ask?

Now she’d come down to help Moira, and instead of a
quiet Norman Rockwell country-kitchen breakfast scene, she found Moira and Martin Bayman in a face-off.

“Why not sell?” Martin asked. “It’s the most natural thing in the world. You tell me Finley died intestate. As his only relative, you’re the one who’ll get all his property. Keep in mind that you’ll have to go through probate, so there’ll be court and attorney fees—no inheritance taxes if we can keep the value of this property low enough—but even so, there’ll be lots of other bills to pay. You’ll need cash—”

“I just lost my brother. This isn’t the time—”

“You have to face it, Moira. Now. I’ll help you.”

Moira shook her head. “There are complications.”

“Nothing that can’t be worked out.” Martin was beginning to sound like a used car salesman. “Trust me.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I used to be a lawyer. I’ve still got a few connections, and—”

“A lawyer? And you gave it up?”

He looked sheepish. “Well, a few years back…more than a few…Bethel was doing quite well. Her fame was spreading. We figured she was a shoo-in to become the next Jeane Dixon.” He shrugged. “Somehow, it all went to hell.”

“But you still have connections who tell you private things about people?”

“They don’t tell me a thing. Let’s say I know where to look. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s true, and that you’re a young, beautiful woman. Vulnerable. Helpless. You don’t want to stay in such a remote area alone. It’s too dangerous. For all you know, the next person who walks through the front door to take a room could be the moral equivalent of Jack the Ripper. The world’s a crazy place.”

“People attracted to an inn like this are not Jack-the-Ripper types, and I’m far from helpless.”

“Oh? Well, I hope you’re right. Anyway, I’m offering a solution so that you’ll never have to worry about it one way or the other. You can live where you want, with whomever you want. However you want.”

“That’s true,” Moira said thoughtfully as she turned away from Martin. “Perhaps for the first time I—oh!” She stared at Angie. “You startled me.”

“I’m sorry,” Angie said. “I see I missed helping you with breakfast. I wanted to apologize.”

“No problem. It was a simple meal of fruit, oat bran muffins, and granola.”

“What, no wheat germ?” Angie couldn’t help asking.

“I helped her,” Martin said.

“I didn’t know you cooked, Martin.”

“I’ve had to learn to do a lot of things, living with a channeler. When something needed to be done around the house and Allakazam was with me instead of Bethel, I’d do it myself. Four-hundred-year-old Eskimos are useless for doing anything that doesn’t involve blubber. So I learned to be a whiz with a steam iron, I can sew on a button faster than a ghost can materialize, and I know how to cook breakfast. I’d make someone a damn good wife.”

Angie looked from one to the other. She knew when she wasn’t needed or wanted. Not by them. Not by Paavo.

She was ready to make herself a pair of water skis and glide right off this damn mountain all by herself.

“See you later,” she said, and walked out of the kitchen. As she left, she heard Martin say, “I can offer you a good price besides…”

About ten that morning, Paavo and Running Spirit came back to the house looking defeated. Running Spirit sat in a chair in the living room without saying a word. Aware that they’d returned, Angie, Chelsea, Moira, Bethel, Martin, and Reginald Vane, their faces pale, their eyes wide and fearful, huddled in the entry to the drawing room.

“Jeffers found some cloth that he said was from a blouse of hers,” Paavo said to the group. “It was snagged on a bush a little way down on a cliff. If a person had jumped, some clothing might have become caught that way. The only thing that surprises me is that we didn’t spot it there before.”

“How horrible,” Angie said with a glance at Running Spirit. “She might have fallen. There’s no way she could have jumped—is there?”

Paavo recognized her hesitancy. “Jeffers and I talked about it already. When women do kill themselves, it’s usually neat—like sleeping pills. Rarely a gun, and almost never by hurling themselves onto sharp rocks.”

“Maybe she used Elise Sempler as her model?” Chelsea suggested. “Patsy talked about her a lot. And we all know that the night before she disappeared she was all upset about…you know.” Realizing both Moira and Running Spirit were there, she didn’t say more, but everyone knew exactly what she’d left unspoken.

The rain continued to fall in uncompromising sheets, and the wind blew strongly.

“The phone still isn’t working,” Moira said.

“And we can’t get through to town to ask for help,” Chelsea added.

Bethel rarely bothered to straighten her turban anymore, as the strain of these last few days wore on her. “If someone here was as good with OBEs as he says he is, he’d have been flitting about already, getting into places where no normal body could go, and would have found her by now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Running Spirit jumped to his feet.

“God,” Bethel played with her star-burst rhinestone earring. “He’s even dumber than he looks!”

“Listen, you dirt-mouthed hag, I just lost my wife. You can have a little respect.”

“I have respect—for her. It’s the living I’m contemptuous of.”

“Anyway,” Running Spirit said, circling around her, “if you’re such a know-it-all, why don’t you ask Allakaket where she is? I think I now understand why your own husband speaks of your channeling with such contempt!”

“See here, R.S.,” Martin cut in, “she’s my wife, and if I want to joke about her little frozen buddy, that’s my business, not yours.”

“If you’re all through bickering,” Paavo said, his voice icy, “let’s get into some dry clothes and get back out there.”

Angie went upstairs with Paavo. She didn’t mind watching as he changed clothes. One thing about his being a cop—he kept up a strict regimen of exercise. Where other men she knew grew soft and flabby in their office jobs, Paavo was solid muscle. Beautiful, solid muscle.

“So, what do you think?” she asked. “Is the material from Patsy’s blouse?”

He quickly shucked his wet slacks, shoes, and socks. His shirt had stayed dry except for the collar and cuffs, but he took it off as well. “He says it is. But I don’t know how we could have missed it yesterday.”

“You think it was a plant?”

He reached for a heavy gray pullover and put it on. “Could be.”

“By whom?”

He picked up a fresh pair of socks. “That’s the question, Angie. Who wants us to think Patsy killed herself? It’s got to be one of these people.”

“Unless it’s Patsy herself,” Angie suggested. “What if she’s not dead, but hiding? What if she killed Finley and is now hiding so that she can make her escape once the rains let up?”

Jeans went on next. “True, but we can’t even be sure about Quint. What if he didn’t go to get the sheriff at all, but is hiding out there?”

She moved closer to him. “It could be any one of them. And the murderer’s planning to kill us off, one by one, in the most gruesome sorts of ways.”

He gave her a steady stare. “I think I saw that movie, Angie.
Ten Little Indians
, was it?”

“Which version? There’ve been at least three. The original,
And Then There Were None
, was my favorite.”

Last, dry shoes. “If you’re talking movies, remember all the ones where the butler did it,” Paavo said as he brushed his hair.

“The butler! Of course, Reginald Vane. Who could look more guilty than a man who wears a bow tie all the time?”

Dressed and ready to be on his way once more, Paavo stepped in front of her and smoothed her hair back off her face. “You can joke about it, Angie, but the fact is, there’s a very dangerous person on this hill with us. Two people are dead, and one missing—”

“But Patsy could still be alive,” Angie insisted.

“That’s why we’re going back out to look for her. But you’ve got to be careful and not trust any of these people. The only ones I’m fairly sure you’re safe with are Chelsea and Moira. And even with them I’m not positive.”

“Moira! Why? She’s my prime suspect!”

He kissed her, then grinned. “I don’t think that has anything to do with murder, Miss Amalfi.”

She frowned. “Of course it does. First, when Finley was missing, she waited nearly twenty-four hours before telling anyone but her gardener there might be a problem. What could be more suspicious than that? Then, his death scarcely bothered her, and now the inn is hers. Opportunity and motive, Inspector. What else is there?”

“Inheriting a mortgage as large as this one is hardly a motive, Miss Amalfi.”

“What about insurance?”

“Tay didn’t carry any. He was relatively young, healthy, and couldn’t afford it.”

“I still say she’s guilty as sin. You’re being duped.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Forget Moira. I want you to stay with one of the women at all times when I’m not here. If I could, I’d get you off this hill right now, but we’re all stuck in this together. Am I clear?”

“Quite.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he commanded, his tone harsh, his eyes like flint.

“Yes, sir!” she said.

He looked at her proud little chin, her upturned mouth, the sparkle in her eyes, and something inside him melted. “And don’t be so goddamn sassy.” He gave her a kiss, hard and possessive, before he turned and walked out of the room.

Angie jiggled the phone’s receiver in the kitchen. It didn’t do any good. She hadn’t expected it would, but then Moira had said the phone company would fix the phones soon. Why didn’t they? She could have screamed in frustration…but she really did hate screaming women, despite what this place was doing to her.

If there was a killer here at Hill Haven, and the thought seemed more plausible with each passing hour, who would be in danger from him or her? Wouldn’t the killer be anxious to get rid of a homicide inspector, someone trained to spot mistakes, to apprehend criminals? Hadn’t she, then, in thinking she was bringing Paavo to an idyllic spot, actually brought him somewhere that his life was more in danger than ever?

Whoever this was had already killed two people, and if Patsy was dead, that made three. Facing capture, the killer might do anything at all to get away. What was another dead body to a fiend like that?

But who?
Who
? Much as she didn’t want to admit it, not even Moira seemed capable of such action. No one seemed evil enough.

It had to be someone from the town. Someone who snuck up onto this promontory, killed, and then snuck back down off it again. Living here all their lives, people from town surely knew a way here and back despite the rain and the roads being washed out.

That was the only logical answer.

She tried the phone again. The rain was steady, and she knew that there was still no way to leave the hilltop.

People were searching all over. All over…

Except, perhaps, for one spot.

But there was no way she’d go alone.

She ran up to Chelsea’s room.

“No. I’m not going down there,” Chelsea said, folding her arms after Angie had explained.

“Everyone is out looking around for her except you, me, and Bethel, and Bethel has the excuse of being arthritic. We don’t.” Angie stepped into Chelsea’s closet, found a jacket, and handed it to her. “We can’t let the men do all the searching.”

“I can.”

“Where’s your feminist spirit?”

“Gone.”

“This house probably does have too many spirits already, but we can’t let that stop us.”

“I only care about one spirit. And he’s got to be the most shy ghost who ever walked the Earth. Or didn’t walk it.”

“Maybe he’ll protect you. Now let’s go.” She guided Chelsea through the doorway.

Following Moira’s instructions from yesterday morning, Angie and Chelsea trudged across the garden in the back of the house and kept going until they reached a small knoll. The wind was howling, the rain pelting them. Angie didn’t understand how Paavo could spend so much time out in such horrible weather searching for Patsy. He hardly knew the woman. She guessed that was what dedication was all about.

“Help me,” Angie said as she lifted the bar that held shut the small door fitted into the slanting hillside.

“Is it safe?” Chelsea asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t think this is such a good idea, Angie.”

Angie grabbed the door handle and pulled. “But it’s the only place they haven’t looked. Or at least they haven’t said so if they did look here. But what if Patsy came down for something and fell? She could be hurt. It’s worth a try. I’m not sure the others even know this house has a root cellar back here.” The wind began to roar, and the rain fell more heavily. The two struggled to open the door against the galelike winds.

“In my pocket,” Angie said, “I’ve got a candle and some matches. Take them.”

“No, you go ahead. Any door that size was
not
made for
a person my size to go through. It’s fate,” Chelsea said. “I’ll hold the door open or it’ll blow shut in this wind.”

“Don’t be silly. Let’s open the door as far as it’ll go. It’s heavy. It’ll stay,” Angie said. They pushed the door all the way open and peered through the munchkin-size doorway to steps that led down into the root cellar.