Authors: Joanne Pence
“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.
Between her latest “sure-fire” foray into the food industry—video restaurant reviews—and her concern over Paavo’s depressed state, Angie’s plate is full to overflowing. Paavo has never come to terms with the fact that his mother abandoned him when he was four, leaving behind only a mysterious present. But when the token disappears in TO CATCH A COOK, Angie discovers a lethal goulash of intrigue, betrayal, and mayhem that may spell disaster for her and Paavo.
The bedroom had also been torn apart and the mattress slashed. This was far, far more frightening than what had happened to her own apartment. There was anger here, perhaps hatred.
“What is going on?” she cried. “Why would anyone destroy your things?”
“It looks like a search, followed by frustration.”
As she wandered through the little house, she realized he was right. It wasn’t random destruction as she had first thought, but where the search of her apartment had appeared slow and meticulous, here it was hurried and frenzied.
“Hercules!” he called. “Herc? Come on, boy, are you all right?”
For once Angie’s newest culinary venture, “Comical Cakes,” seems to be a roaring success! But in BELL, COOK, AND CANDLE, there’s nothing funny about her boyfriend Paavo’s latest case—a series of baffling murders that may be rooted in satanic ritual. And it gets harder to focus on pastry alone when strange “accidents” and desecrations to her baked creations begin occurring with frightening regularity—leaving Angie to wonder whether she may end up as devil’s food of a different kind.
Angie was beside herself. She’d been called to go to a house to discuss baking cakes for a party of twenty, and yet no one was there when she arrived. This was the second time that had happened to her. Was someone playing tricks, or were people really so careless as to make appointments and then not keep them?
She really didn’t have time for this. But at least she was getting smart. She’d brought a cake with her that had to be delivered to a horse’s birthday party not far from her appointment. She never thought she’d be baking cakes for a horse, but Heidi was being boarded some forty miles outside the city, and the owner visited her on weekends only. That was why the owner wanted a Comical Cake of the mare.
Angie couldn’t imagine eating something that looked like a beloved pet or animal. She was meeting real ding-a-lings in this line of work.
Still muttering to herself about the thoughtlessness of the public, she got into her new car. A vaguely familiar yet disquieting smell hit her. A stain smeared the bottom of the cake box. She peered closer. The smell was stronger, and the bottom of the box was wet.
She opened the driver’s side door, ready to jump out of the car as her hand slowly reached for the box top. Thoughts of flies and toads pounded her. What now?
She flipped back the lid and shrank away from it.
Nothing moved. Nothing jumped out.
Poor Heidi was now a bright-red color, but it wasn’t frosting. The familiar smell was blood, and it had been poured on her cake. Shifting the box, she saw that it had seeped through onto the leather seat and was dripping to the floor mat.
In IF COOKS COULD KILL, Angie Amalfi’s culinary adventures always seem to fall flat, so now she’s decided to cook up something different: love. But her earnest attempts at matchmaking don’t go so well—her friend Connie is stood up by a no-show jock. Now Connie’s fallen for a tarnished loner, and soon finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation. Angie’s determined to find the real killer, but when the trail leads to the kitchen of her favorite restaurant, she fears she’s about to discover a family recipe that dishes out disaster . . . and murder!
“Here’s some salad and bread, Miss Connie,” Earl said. “I don’t t’ink you need to starve just ’cause some jerkoff is late showin’ up for your date.”
“Thanks, Earl,” she murmured. “But right now, I’m not even hungry.” Okay, it was a lie, but she was too humiliated to eat.
“It’s on da house.” He left a green salad with Roquefort dressing, Connie’s favorite, and walked away. The aroma of the French bread wafted up to her. She touched it. Warm. Firm crust. Soft center. Perfect for spreading butter, which, unfortunately, was loaded with empty, straight-to-the-hips calories . . .
She checked her watch again: seven-thirty. Why bother with a guy who couldn’t tell time? She kicked off her shoes and took a big bite of buttered, crusty bread. Heaven!
Just then, like magic, the restaurant’s front door opened and a man entered, alone. Connie’s breath caught, causing her to nearly choke on the bread. She swallowed it in a scarcely chewed lump.
It quickly became obvious that the man who walked in was no football player.
Angie hates to leave the side of her hunky fiancé, Paavo, but in TWO COOKS A-KILLING, she gets an offer she can’t refuse. She’ll be preparing the banquet for her favorite soap opera’s reunion special, on the estate where the show was originally filmed! But when a corpse turns up in the mansion’s cellar, and Angie starts snooping around to investigate a past on-set death, she discovers that real-life events may be even more theatrical than the soap’s on-screen drama.
Now the cast was being reassembled for a ten-year reunion show, a Christmas reunion, and she, Angelina Rosaria Maria Amalfi, had been asked to be a part of it.
A major part, if she said so herself. She was so anxious to get to Eagle Crest, it was all she could do to stick to the speed limit.
Her father had phoned the day before. He’d gotten a call from his old friend Dr. Waterfield: the woman who was to prepare the important centerpiece meal of the show had broken her leg. Dr. Waterfield wanted to know if Angie could handle it.
Could she ever!
Against her instinct, Angie agrees to let her control-freak mother plan her engagement party—she’s just too busy to do it herself. And in COURTING DISASTER, Angie’s even more swamped when murder enters the picture. Now she must follow the trail of a mysterious pregnant kitchen helper at a nearby Greek eatery—a woman who her friendly neighbor Stan is infatuated with. And when Angie gets a little too close to the action, it looks like her fiancé Paavo may end up celebrating solo, after the untimely d.o.a. of his hapless fiancée!
Stan headed for the water, enjoying the dark, chilled air that so well matched his mood. A number of boats were moored, all rocking slightly from the tide. His peaceful solitude was broken, however, by the sound of raised but muffled voices.
His waiter berated a woman who sat on a rough-hewn, backless wooden bench at the water’s edge. His face was hard, his expression intense, and she was shaking her head, not looking at him, but staring out at the water as if it hurt to hear his words. Her feet were propped up on a railroad tie. A hooded rain parka, the cheap kind that was basically a sheet of heavy green plastic worn by slipping it over the head, covered her hair. The way she sat scrunched on the bench, the parka draped her body like a tent.
The waiter bent close, grabbed her shoulder, and said something straight into her face. She turned her head away from him and the hood slipped down. The waiter then straightened and strode away. She reached out her hand toward him, but he didn’t turn back. She raised her chin, apparently struggling to hold her emotions in check.
Angie and Paavo have had enough familial input regarding their upcoming wedding to last a lifetime. So, in RED HOT MURDER, Angie leaps at the chance to spend some time with her fiancé in a sun-drenched Arizona town. But when a wealthy local is murdered, uncovering a hotbed of deadly town secrets, Angie’s getaway with her lover is starting to look more and more like her final meal.
Angie glanced toward the door, but Paavo was already down the walk near the SUV. “What other stories?”
Rheumy eyes met hers. “This place is called Ghost Hollow, you know.”
A chill rippled along her spine. “And I’ll bet you’re going to tell me why.”
“It’s because of the stagecoach.” Lionel folded skinny arms as he watched her, then continued without prompting. “Years back, a stagecoach and its passengers all disappeared. The coach was carrying a shitload—I mean—a lot of money. Cash. Local folks said their ghosts could be seen out here at night, near the caves, still searching for the lost stage and their money.”
“I see.” A slight quiver sounded in her voice. Not that she believed in ghosts, of course.
Praise for
JOANNE PENCE’S
ANGIE AMALFI MYSTERIES
“First-rate mystery.”
Romantic Times
“Pence’s tongue-in-cheek humor keeps us grinning.”
San Francisco Chronicle
“A rollicking good time . . . murder, mayhem, food, and fashion . . . Joanne Pence serves it all up.”
Butler County Post
“Joanne Pence just gets better and better.”
Mystery News
“A winner . . . Angie is a character unlike any other found in the genre.”
Santa Rosa Press Democrat
“[A] great series . . . [Pence] titillates the sense, provides a satisfying read.”
Crescent Blues Reviews
“If you love books by Diane Mott Davidson or Denise Dietz, you will love this series. It’s as refreshing as lemon sherbet and just as delicious.”