Red Hot Murder: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (5 page)

“He absolutely does,” Angie said, touching Paavo’s hand with love.

Doc nodded, happy to hear it, and then continued. “Ned worked hard, started his own business. It was rough going at first, but recently, it’s been doing well. He’s got a good heart, and that’s an important thing in a man,” Doc added. “Maybe, when all’s said and done, it’s what’s most important.”

“We met Teresa Flores yesterday,” Paavo said, giving a brief description of the encounter. “It sounds like there’s something going on between her and Ned.”

Doc put down his fork. “I wish that were the
case. Ned’s loved her since high school. Teresa, though … she’s always wanted more than Jackpot can offer. She cares about Ned, and that’s part of the problem. For a while, I thought she’d changed her mind about him, then it ended. He’d be better off, I think, if he could forget about her and find someone else.”

“When did it end?” Paavo asked. From the way Teresa looked the day before, their relationship might not be over.

“It was also around winter. Lupe, that’s Teresa’s mother, invited us over for Christmas dinner, and all was fine. But then, a few weeks later, I remember Ned making some bitter remark that he wouldn’t be getting—or giving—any valentines this year.”

Doc glanced over at the too-silent phone, as all wondered, yet again, why Ned didn’t call. Doc silently finished the last few bites of his breakfast.

Angie tried to lighten the mood by asking Doc about Ghost Hollow’s lost stagecoach and passengers, but he dismissed the story as wildly exaggerated.

Doc suspected that no one cared much about the story at all until Hal Edwards realized it might be a way to attract a few more tourists to his resort. Nothing like a mystery to get the curious to visit.

Angie had to agree with him on that. In fact, first chance she got, she was going to find out all she could about the missing stagecoach and its passengers—especially the missing Waldorf chef.

Jackpot probably wasn’t large enough for its own museum, but it should at least have a library.

After breakfast, Doc made several phone calls trying to locate Ned, but no one had seen him. His house was empty, his business door closed, and his motorcycle gone. He hadn’t been arrested or hospitalized.

Doc wondered if Ned’s latest argument with Teresa wasn’t the problem. He wished he knew what was causing their difficulty, and that they’d either break it off completely or resolve their differences. Ned needed to get married and settle down, and frankly, Doc added, so did Teresa.

Doc’s fretfulness eased a bit when an older man arrived at the house. Paavo recognized him. Joaquin Oldwater was about five-eight, with broad shoulders and a square build. His hair was nearly white, pulled back and tied with a black thong, and his face was shiny and dark with strong, high cheekbones that gave evidence of his Indian heritage. His jeans, red plaid shirt, leather vest, and battered brown boots looked as old as he did.

Paavo stood. “Remember me, Joaquin?”

As the two men shook hands, Joaquin’s creased visage crinkled into a semblance of a smile. “Sure do. Taught you to ride. Taught you to shoot. You were a good kid. How come you don’t come down anymore?”

“I got involved in my work—too involved, perhaps,” Paavo admitted, then introduced the curious Angie.

She rose and they shook hands.

Oldwater studied Angie a long moment, then Paavo, then nodded at them both before turning again to Doc. Paavo noticed Angie’s expression
brighten, as if she realized she’d gained Joaquin’s approval.

“Hear from Ned yet?” Joaquin asked Doc.

“No. If he’s not back this afternoon, I’m calling the sheriff.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do,” Joaquin muttered with a shake of the head. “Are we still going?”

“Yes,” Doc said, then to Paavo. “I’ve asked Joaquin to lead us to the cave where he found Hal Edwards’s body. In fact, it’s in the area I was telling Angie about before breakfast—near where the stagecoach disappeared. I’d forgotten about that old story.”

“The scene of the crime, in other words,” Paavo said.

Doc nodded. “You’ve got it. Something’s going on, Paavo, and I can’t figure out what. Joaquin’s here—he’ll vouch for what I’m saying. I’m executor of Hal’s estate. Last week, there were two break-ins—one here, one in my files in Jackpot’s medical clinic.”

“You’re thinking someone wants to know what’s in his will?” Paavo asked.

“But there is no will,” Doc said. “And that’s not what’s worrying me—it’s Teresa.”

“Teresa’s in danger?” Angie asked. Her face expressed her concern. She and Paavo had talked about how peculiar the meeting with her had been. Something had seemed “off,” but they had no idea what it was or why.

Doc said, “Last winter, after Hal’s sudden visit then departure, I heard that strange things had happened around her, like her car losing its
brakes, a fire in her bedroom, and attempted break-ins to the Flores home. Then, as quickly as they started, they ended. Were they accidents, or on purpose?”

“Ned knew all this, of course?” Paavo asked.

“He did. He wanted to think they were accidents—we all did—but, then, after Hal’s body was found two weeks ago, the strange happenings started up again—all around Teresa. Lupe, her mother, is worried sick about her. Teresa tries to say all is fine, but I can see that she’s worried. Ned is, too.”

“That’s what you meant when you said to Aulis that strange things were going on?” Paavo asked.

“Yes. And there’s one more thing—though it might not be connected at all. There was a break-in at the church.”

“The church? Was anything stolen?” Paavo asked.

“Not that Father Armand could tell. He found the doors to the sacristy and records area open. None of the chalices or anything of value was taken, but there’s no index or even a very good system to tell if anything else is gone, and since Father Armand is fairly new here, he just doesn’t know. For all he knows, the break-in might have been simply vagrants, illegals, even some old prospector looking for food or warm shelter for the night.”

“But you don’t think so,” Paavo said, realizing the break-in sounded somewhat similar to what Doc had experienced with his records.

“No.” Doc shook his head. “I don’t.”

Paavo nodded, then said, “You’ve told me no
one knows the cause of Hal’s death—that the body was too decomposed to find decent forensic evidence—but what’s the official explanation?”

“Hal had a history of strokes, so the sheriff took the easy way out and said the death was from ‘natural causes.’”

Paavo asked the question uppermost in his mind. “Do you think Hal was murdered?”

Doc and Joaquin traded glances. “Yes,” Doc said, “I do. Don’t ask who or why. I’ve given it a lot of thought, but I just don’t know.”

“Enough talk,” Joaquin’s low voice growled. “Ready to ride?”

“Guess so,” Doc said as he took a gun and holster from his desk and slid them onto his belt. Something told Paavo it wasn’t four-legged danger that worried Doc.

Doc’s gaze fell on Angie. “Can you ride, Angie?” he asked.

A long pause followed. “I’ve ridden,” she replied, lifting her chin.

Uh-oh.
Paavo knew that look. “Probably pony rides when she was a girl. I don’t know about this.”

“That’s not true, Paavo,” she protested. “I’ll be just fine.”

“You never told me you knew how to ride,” he said. And she’d told him almost everything … except about old boyfriends, which she kept a deep, dark secret. He always wondered why.

She shrugged. “The subject never came up.”

He was ready to argue that that had never stopped her before, when Doc said, “I’ve got a mare up in years—like me. She’s gentle and for
giving. We could take my pickup, but it’s tougher to drive over that terrain than it is to ride.”

“Believe me,” Angie said, smoothing her colorful designer’s idea-of-Western-garb outfit. “I know all about riding horses.”

Doc and Joaquin glanced at each other.

Paavo knew what they were thinking: clothes like Angie’s shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred feet of a horse. He hated to think of how her fashionable boots were going to look after a simple jaunt to the stables. “The lady says she can ride.” He looked at the men and nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Oh—wait!” Angie cried. “I’d better get my cowboy hat. It’s still in the car.”

Soon, three tall, beautiful horses stood saddled and ready to go. The fourth, an old roan mare with a gray muzzle and bald patches, was much smaller than the others. The mare’s hooves splayed outward—the opposite of pigeon-toed—and one ear stood upright while the other was bent forward.

“This is Ophelia,” Doc told Angie, patting the mare’s neck. “You two should get along swell.”

Angie wasn’t sure how to take that statement. Wasn’t Ophelia Hamlet’s crazy girlfriend who drowned herself? As she approached, the horse gazed at her as if assessing her skills.

She’d reassured the men she could ride. She didn’t tell them that her only experience consisted of two lessons, English saddle. Eyeing the mare nervously, she plunked a Ralph Lauren Western-style straw hat, dyed a rich red color, onto her head. Just the thought of how difficult it had been to find that hat in San Francisco made her appreciate it all the more.

The mare now wore an expression of complete amusement.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She wasn’t about to miss this ride out into the desert. Not if she could help it.

On the other hand, the idea of pleading the need to return to Ghost Hollow in order to help Clarissa with the cookout had a definite appeal. Angie would much rather be cooking than riding.

At least Ophelia had no way of knowing that once, as a kid, Angie had stupidly tasted some canned dog food—not until years later did she learn it was horsemeat.

With one foot in the stirrup, her hands around the saddle horn, she tried to pull herself into the saddle when Ophelia decided to stroll. Hanging on, Angie found herself suddenly taking impromptu hops around the yard. Seeing her dilemma and trying to keep his face straight, Paavo held the mare still and boosted her up.

Once seated high off the ground on the massive beast, all the reasons she’d quit after only two lessons hit her like a sledgehammer. But she’d been about nine years old at the time. She was an adult now; she could handle this.

She gripped the saddle horn rather than the reins and tried to remember how to steer. She and Paavo both gaped in amazement as Ophelia made backward figure eights. What was she, the figure skater of horses?

This time, Joaquin came to the rescue and gave her a quick lesson, assuring her that Ophelia would follow Doc’s horse, Achilles, and Angie would be fine.

She doubted it, but nodded.

The others mounted up, and they were off. Angie lagged at the rear until she got the hang of it. Eventually, she began to relax enough to realize how hard the saddle was, and how much she ached.

The four riders headed across the open desert in the direction of the foothills. Since it was spring, there were a few delicate but bright orange and yellow flowers nestled among the scrub, creosote, and jojoba. Higher on the hills were tall saguaro cactus, unique to the Sonoran desert, with L-shaped arms extending upward from the main trunk. Not a tree was seen. In the sand, Angie saw long wavy lines. Joaquin explained that snakes had left them and she should be on the lookout for rattlers.

Rattlesnakes?
Angie’s head instantly took on the action of a Ping-Pong ball.

Occasionally, lizards, large and small, scurried past. In the far distance, a roadrunner raced on long spindly legs. The sky was high and bright blue, the land quiet with the watery flicker of elusive mirages always just ahead.

Doc and Joaquin looked determined and purposeful, while Paavo, handsome in a black Stetson Doc had lent him, appeared relaxed and calm. Angie was surprised at how comfortable he was on horseback—that was something newly learned about him.

For her, however, the ride was slow torture.

Caught up in the lore of the Old West while preparing for this trip to Jackpot, she’d briefly considered a truly Western wedding theme—maybe even a rodeo. No more! A coach would be
as rustic as she’d get, perhaps pulled by beautiful Clydesdales like on TV beer commercials.

As she daydreamed about her wedding, she paid no attention to where the little group was heading until the shifting play of light and shadow across nearby rock formations attracted her notice, and brought her back to the present.

The land was eerily beautiful, but it could be deadly. She couldn’t help but contemplate the stagecoach lost in this barrenness, and the terror a Dutch chef must have felt to be stranded out here with his few fellow passengers. A cold chill, almost a premonition, rippled through her as she thought of another who was also missing—Paavo’s boyhood friend Ned.

As Joaquin, Paavo, and Doc reached the shadows of a rock wall, they stopped, and Joaquin pointed toward some rises. Angie caught up to them in time to hear Paavo say, “… watching us now?”

She didn’t like the sound of that, and looked along the direction of Joaquin’s finger. She saw nothing.

“We’ve been watched all day,” Joaquin answered calmly. “I spotted the shine of maybe binoculars, maybe a rifle, while we were still on the desert floor.”

Paavo and Doc looked around; Doc anxious, Paavo with cool calculation. She felt exposed and suddenly vulnerable. The watcher could be anywhere in the rugged hills around them.

“You won’t spot him,” Joaquin said after a while. “But he’s there. I feel him.”

“I’ve had this feeling before,” Doc said, brows locked.

“Are we in danger?” Angie asked softly.

“I don’t think so,” Paavo replied. “We’ve been well exposed for a long time.”

“I hope you’re right.” She tried to move closer to Paavo, but Ophelia was more interested in nibbling at a prickly bush. As the silence and emptiness around her went from beautiful to ominous, the thought struck:
What’s a city girl like me doing in a place like this?

“The watcher is a watcher, nothing more,” Joaquin said. “He’s no shooter—at least, not today.”

Everyone dismounted at the bottom of the rocky incline, all too conscious of the secret observer. “There are several caves in this area, but only one big one.” Joaquin pointed about six feet up where, behind a scrub brush, the rocks seemed to form a narrow crevice.

That was the cave? Angie thought. No way was she going inside that tiny slit in the rocks.

Joaquin retrieved two flashlights from his saddlebags, handed one to Paavo, and led them up the rough ground. Up close, the crevice opening was larger than it had appeared from below. Joaquin flicked on his light, then bent slightly to enter. Paavo and Doc followed.

Curiosity overcame Angie, and she did the same, her eyes round and straining as she searched for spiders or snakes in her path. Thankfully, there were none.

The walls of the cave were wide and oddly smooth; the cave larger than she’d expected. Even Paavo could stand upright, though the ceiling lowered near the rear.

It was a blessing that Angie wasn’t claustrophobic, but the knowledge that this cave had been a tomb or possibly a murder site had her hoping their stay would be a brief one. The smell of death and decay still seemed to linger there, just past the edge of perception.

“Why would Hal have come here?” Paavo asked.

“That’s the question,” Doc replied.

“Maybe to hide something,” Joaquin suggested. “But I don’t know what.”

After a moment Paavo asked, “How did you find him?”

“These caves are on Hal Edwards’s property—it goes on for miles. I was passing through and saw Lionel nearby. I was curious about why. A few days later, I came back and noticed tracks leading to the caves. I found the body.”

“Did anyone ask Lionel what he was doing out here?” Paavo asked.

“The sheriff did,” Doc said. “Lionel claimed he was being a good manager—checking the property. He said he never went inside the caves. The sheriff believed him.”

Joaquin’s light illuminated a spot near the far wall. “That’s where Hal was. I recognized his ring and belt buckle.”

At the realization as to
why
the ring and belt buckle were all that Joaquin could use to identify
an old friend, Angie shuddered and backpedaled toward the entrance.

As the three men bent forward like fortune-tellers reading tea leaves to scrutinize the ground where a dead body had lain rotting, the walls closed in on Angie. Lionel’s use of the word
skeleton
made visions of bones dance in her head like something from a macabre Halloween celebration.

The cave was dark, chilly, and had far too many nooks and crannies to suit her. She hurried outside, needing air and sunshine.

The sun was warm, almost hot. Above the cave, the hill rose steeply to a ledge. The ledge seemed to be wide and flat; and some distance beyond it, the hill rose up again.

Buzzards circled high overhead. She wondered what they’d found.
You don’t want to know,
she told herself.

She studied the landscape, searching for any sign of the watcher. She didn’t like it here, not one bit, and could see why people thought the area was haunted. The warmth of the sun left her untouched.

A little ways up from where she stood, a large boulder was shaped like a chair. It seemed almost warm and inviting compared to the cave. She climbed up to the rocky bench and sat. The only good thing about this area was that it had no ostriches to bother her.

She again watched the buzzards, and wished Paavo and the others would finish up.

“What are you doing up there?” Paavo called a
short while later, one hand shading his eyes from the sun’s glare.

“I’m guarding you!” she shouted, standing. “Like a sentry. If that watcher showed up, I’d have spotted him.”

“Did you see anything?” he asked.

“Luckily, not a thing.” She started down to them.

“Did you fall?” Joaquin asked, his gaze jumping from her to the ground near her ledge.

“Me?” Angie stopped, surprised at his question. “No.”

“Something happened there.” Still studying the soil, Joaquin hurried up to where she stood, then his gaze lifted and he went a little higher.

Something in his expression made the hair on the back of Angie’s neck stand up.

Joaquin half walked, half climbed up the steep, dusty slope, following a trail only he could discern. Paavo and Doc glanced meaningfully at each other and climbed up the hill to Angie’s side.

She was beginning to get a real bad feeling about this. “Be careful!” she yelled.

Joaquin kept going.

“He’s part mountain goat, Angie,” Doc said, but looked decidedly worried himself.

Paavo’s mouth set in a grim line as he continued to follow Joaquin’s progress. Joaquin climbed on steadily and without hesitation. Their relief when he stopped on more level ground was short-lived. Joaquin walked back and forth, halting and kneeling, and then disappeared.

“Joaquin?” Doc called. No answer.

“I’m going up,” Paavo said.

Angie looked at the steep slope, the buzzards, then back at the cave. Something was terribly wrong. “I’m going with you.”

“Me too,” Doc said. “Lead the way.”

The climb was much rougher than Joaquin had made it appear. The sun beat down relentlessly. Sand and gravel were stirred by their scrambling, and Angie gulped in mouthfuls of dust kicked up by Paavo just ahead of her. Earth and sweat formed a film on her exposed skin and over her new clothes. Behind her, she could hear Doc coughing, cursing, and sliding.

Finally Paavo, then Angie, reached the level ground of the ledge. They turned to Doc as he struggled the final yards to them. He was red-faced and wheezing as he lurched and fell on his way up. Paavo took his hand and pulled him the last few feet.

They all moved forward, deeper into the mountain. She saw Joaquin at the same time as the others. He was kneeling by some rocks, his head bowed with grief.

Suddenly, all her instincts told her what had happened. Why he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t called out. Still, she prayed that it wasn’t what she feared.

Paavo told her to wait there.
He knows as well.
Even as her heart begged that she was wrong.

Doc froze. Dread shadowed his suddenly pale and haggard face.

Paavo stepped closer to Joaquin, then stopped. His body stiffened. When he turned, the pain and sorrow in his blue eyes confirmed their worst fears. Angie’s hope died.

Doc’s head bowed as he moved slowly and mechanically forward, like a man in a trance.

Down below, the horses continued to calmly eat sprigs of tender brush near the cave. The hot sun still beat relentlessly on the hillside. But here, Angie felt nothing except the coldness of death.