by Joanne Pence
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
From the Kitchen of Angie Amalfi ...
Plus ...
About the Author
Copyright
ADD A PINCH OF MURDER
An Angie & Company
Food & Spirits Mystery
Joanne Pence
Quail Hill Publishing
CHAPTER ONE
The strangest claim to fame, if one could call it that, for San Francisco’s Palace Hotel was that President Warren G. Harding died there while visiting the city back in 1923. Many people believed he was poisoned, an allegation the hotel steadfastly denied.
That history was the last thing on Angelina Amalfi’s mind as she and her fiancé, San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, entered the Palace ballroom to attend a private reception to support the SoMa Arts Center, a small museum in the South of Market area.
A band played, a few people danced, but most of the city’s wealthiest denizens milled about talking and partaking of extravagant hors d’oeuvres and expensive French champagne.
Angie held Paavo’s arm as they faced the crowd. He stopped, his whole body stiff. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered. “I’ll talk to the Haute Cuisine editor, we’ll have a dance or two, and then leave.”
“Good.” His voice was a low grumble.
She ignored his scowl.
They were there because Angie had learned that Haute Cuisine magazine was planning to record some ads for the internet—the type of annoying ads that show up in sidebars or smack in the middle of something you’re trying to read online. Angie found the ones with sound especially irritating. Nonetheless, as soon as she heard that the magazine would hold auditions for such ads, she was sure she’d be perfect for the job. She had a lot of experience in both the food industry and the media. None for very long, she had to admit, but she had been on radio, helped produce a TV soap opera special, and once even auditioned for her own cable TV show. Maybe she hadn’t been particularly successful in any of that, but no one could accuse her of not trying. She was sure that her experience together with her ability to cook in front of an audience would make her a shoo-in.
She applied to give an audition. The rejection bounced back so quickly she could scarcely believe it.
In fact, the more she thought about it, she was sure some lowly assistant had rejected her without bothering to consult with anyone higher up. Then, two days earlier while Angie talked with her sister, Frannie, she bemoaned this latest setback to her search for a job.
“You need to talk to Kaydence Dillingham, the magazine’s editor-in-chief,” Frannie said.
“I would if I could,” Angie lamented.
Frannie happened know that Ms. Dillingham was a big supporter of the SoMa Art Center, and always attended its yearly fund-raiser gala such as would be taking place that coming Saturday night. Since Frannie and her husband, Seth, were having one of their perpetual fights and decided not to attend, she offered their tickets to Angie.
Angie couldn’t say “yes” fast enough. Her only problem was convincing her fiancé to wear a tuxedo to the elegant black-tie party. But she’d done it, and now they were here.
“This is strange,” Angie said as Paavo escorted her around the ballroom. “I don’t see Kaydence anywhere. I wonder if she’s late.”
“Or she changed her mind.” Paavo tugged at the sleeves of his rented tuxedo. “In which case, I wouldn’t blame her. Not. One. Bit.”
Angie couldn’t help but smile at her tall, handsome detective’s complaints at the fancy festivities. She expected he’d rather be off investigating some gruesome murder, but there was a time and place for everything. And right now, the opportunity for Angie to meet an important editor at an event dear to the woman’s heart could be a very good career move. One Angie could use. In fact, she could use any career move at all. “I know we’ll find her,” Angie said. “I cut her photo out of the magazine to be sure to recognize her. She can’t hide from us for long.”
They were offered flutes of champagne and each took one as they continued through the crowd. They circled the ballroom and still hadn’t seen her.
“Maybe we’ll be able to spot her from the dance floor,” Paavo suggested as he put their empty glasses on a table.
Angie noticed a red-head in a slinky blue dress eying Paavo. She placed a possessive hand on his shoulder. “What a wonderful idea.”
As they slow danced, Angie viewed the guests from a new angle. “Oh, look over to the right, Paavo. Do you see that tall woman, black hair, wearing a purple dress?”
“Yes. Is she the editor?”
“No. That’s Madrigal Cambry Blithe. She’s the sponsor of this reception. Filthy rich, as you can imagine.”
Angie studied the Cambry Blithe woman. Her black hair was worn in a straight blunt cut with thick bangs that reached her eyebrows. Angie was sure her floor-length vibrant purple dress was expensive, but it had so many flounces and layers, it was all but overwhelming. Her skin was pale, her eyes dark, and her lipstick matched the color of the dress, not exactly a flattering look for her.
A well-dressed but otherwise unremarkable man stood beside her saying nothing.
“Do you know her?” Paavo asked.
“Never met her. My parents knew her father, Oliver Cambry. For years, he sponsored this and other art events throughout the city. But a few months back, he died.”
“Oliver Cambry … interesting,” Paavo murmured.
“Interesting? Why?”
“I remember hearing his name mentioned in Homicide,” Paavo said. “It wasn’t my case, but it was resolved quickly, and the whole thing was kept very quiet.”
“Really? The papers gave no hint of anything amiss. Not that I saw, anyway,” Angie recalled. “I guess that’s what’s happens when the person involved is one of the city’s richest men.”
“So his daughter took over for him,” Paavo said as he too, studied the woman.
“She was his only child. I think her mother’s dead, too.”
Angie watched as the fellow who had been standing with Madrigal walked away, leaving the heiress alone and clearly ill at ease.
As much as Angie scanned the crowd for the magazine editor, her gaze kept returning to Madrigal. Something about the woman interested her as she watched several people approach and talk to her but then quickly move away. Angie couldn’t tell if it was because Madrigal was unfriendly or simply shy. Her looks were off-putting from the ashen skin tone to the heavy purple lipstick, but even beyond that she seemed out of her element—as if, except for her money, she didn’t belong here. It was as if that money was a magnet that caused people to talk to her because of what she represented and not for who she was.
Angie became especially interested as she watched Nona Farraday walk up to Madrigal with a small group of women. Nona was Angie’s nemesis. Tall and blond, the two had been “frenemies” for years. Whatever Angie
did, Nona tried to do her one better and often succeeded to Angie’s consternation. But a number of times Angie had managed to best her. All in all, they were running about even, which was totally unacceptable to Angie. Also, Nona was a staff writer for Haute Cuisine magazine which meant Kaydence Dillingham was her boss.
Then, almost as quickly as it began, Nona’s tête-a-tête with Madrigal ended and she and her friends moved on. At the same time, the dance ended.
“Maybe I’d better say hello to Nona,” Angie said.
“Nona Farraday’s here?” Paavo looked stricken. “I think I’ll walk around a bit, maybe find a nice empty corner.”
He dashed off in another direction before he even walked Angie off the dance floor. Poor man, she thought. He’d been stuck between her and Nona a couple of times, and clearly didn’t like ending up in the crossfire.
Angie made her way to Nona’s side.
“Whatever did you say to him?” Nona said instead of hello, one hand on her hip. “I’ve rarely seen a man take off in such haste.”
“Only that I noticed you were here,” Angie answered with a cloying smile.
“Charming as ever, Angelina. By the way, I like your dress.”
“Thank you,” Angie said. “You look great tonight yourself.” Nona’s dress was black and extremely slimming, causing Angie to wonder if her own ivory Carolina Herrera dress with an intricate lace pattern over satin made her look fat. Damn.
“Thanks,” Nona said. “Do you come to this every year?”
“No, first time,” Angie said. “Actually, I was hoping to meet your boss. I was told Kaydence always attends.”
“She usually does, but she’s home tonight with a horrendous head cold. She gave me and another writer her tickets. My ‘date’ tonight is a co-worker. That’s the only reason I’m not here with the handsome fellow I’m currently dating.”
Sure it is, Angie thought. “That’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her about auditioning for the internet ads Haute Cuisine will be running.”
“Don’t bother. They’ll be using photos of food with a voice over, not anyone who knows beans about cooking.”
“Darn,” Angie said. “That’s too bad.”
Nona studied her a moment. “If you’re interested, I can tell you what the editors are actually looking for.”
“I’m interested!”
Nona ran a finger over one eyebrow. “An article on the latest trend in a number of our best restaurants, what we call ‘extreme fusion’ cooking.”
“You’re serious?” Angie asked even though, despite their differences, Angie knew Nona wouldn’t lie about this.
Nona ticked off dishes with her fingers. “Green curry sauce over spaghetti, lamb cooked in a red sauce with soba noodles, sushi covered with Yorkshire pudding or some other goop. You know the type.”
Angie did her best not to curl her lips at the mere thought of such concoctions. “Well, I do know a couple of the chefs who are featuring dishes of that kind on their menus.”
“Pretty hideous, aren’t they?” Nona said with an evil grin.
Angie grinned as well. “I’m glad you said that.”
“I can’t promise, but I’m pretty certain if you give us an article, it’ll get printed. Having to eat that stuff as research deserves some kind of reward besides Maalox. But you should throw in some customer interviews—reactions from people who aren’t ‘foodies.’”
“I might give it a try. How bad can it be, right?” Angie said with a shiver. “By the way, I saw you talking to Madrigal Cambry Blithe. Is she a friend?”
“No. I let her know why Kaydence isn’t here. But also, I was curious about her. She’s had a rough time lately.”
“Really? Is that why she looks kind of …”
“Scary?”
“You could say that,” Angie said.
“Her father’s second wife, a much younger woman, drowned out in the ocean some months back,” Nona said. “I heard she fell off the family yacht. And if that wasn’t bad enough, her father recently died of a heart attack.”
“So I’d heard,” Angie said, knowing she shouldn’t mention anything Paavo had said regarding Homicide. “Is that blond fellow who’d been with her earlier her husband?”
Nona looked where Angie indicated. “Yes, that’s Kevin,” Nona said. “I can introduce you to Madrigal if you’d like.”
“That would be great,” Angie said. “I’ll let her know I’m here in place of my sister Frannie.”
Since no one else was around Madrigal, Angie and Nona walked right up to her.
Nona greeted her warmly and then said, “I’d like you to meet my friend, a fellow restaurant critic, and wonderful gourmet cook, Angie Amalfi. Angie, this is Madrigal Cambry Blithe.”
As the two shook hands, Madrigal stiffly smiled and said, “Hello.”
“It’s lovely to meet you.” Angie spoke exuberantly as she explained how she and her fiancé were there in place of her sister and her sister’s husband, but that she was equally dedicated to benefiting the SoMa museum.
“Thank you,” Madrigal murmured as her gaze shifted to the dance floor.
Angie waited an uncomfortable moment before saying, “Your dress is lovely.”
Madrigal slowly faced her again, and then her gaze slid over Angie’s outfit as if she hadn’t bothered to notice it up to that point. “So is yours.”
“This is a nice party,” Angie added quickly. “A great benefit.”
Madrigal’s head made a slight nod. “It is.”
“The museum should be very happy with the turn out.”
Madrigal sighed. “So it should.”
Angie gaped, not knowing what to do to get the woman to say more. She realized Nona had left her alone, and no one else was anywhere near. Not even Madrigal’s husband. And Paavo was doing his best to keep away from this sparkling conversation as well.
She looked at Madrigal and when the woman caught her eye, Angie smiled.
Madrigal stiffly smiled back, but then again faced the dancers as if she was finding them fascinating. Angie could tell she wasn’t.
“I’m guessing this isn’t exactly where you want to be right now, is it?” Angie asked.
One eyebrow lifted in surprise and for the first time Madrigal showed some interest. “What was that?”
“All this.” Angie gestured at the crowd. “Not quite your cup of tea.”
Madrigal glared at her, then smoothed a ruffle on her dress before tightening her lips and murmuring, “It’s fine.”
Angie’s curiosity about the strange woman continued to grow. “Have you always had to come to these receptions?”
“Yes, my father loved them.” Then Madrigal bit her bottom lip. “I meant to say—”
“Don’t worry,” Angie said. “I won’t tell. And I don’t blame you. I have four sisters. Two love getting dressed up and going to benefits and other big events, two hate it, and I’m neutral—except for the dressing up part which I do like. But after a while, I enjoy real conversation more than quick hellos to scads of people you might never see again unless you go to the next big event.”
Madrigal gave her a small smile. “Yes.”
“Does your husband enjoy these parties?” Angie asked.
The smile vanished. “He does. He’s the one who put all this together, who made it happen now that my father is … gone.”
“Oh, I thought it was your event,” Angie said.
Madrigal’s lips pursed. “I write the checks.”
Angie tried not to gulp at her faux pax. “Well, I guess it’s good that one of you enjoys all these festivities. My fiancé doesn’t, but he’s willing to come along with me to things I need to attend. We’ll stay for a while for my sake, but then leave early for his.” She smiled. “Compromise is a good thing for a marriage, isn’t it?”
Madrigal’s chin lifted slightly. “As long as you don’t end up doing things that make both of you unhappy.” The words were surprisingly harsh.
Whoa. Angie wasn�
�t ready for that. She looked around, and still, no one was coming forward to take her place at Madrigal’s side. “I guess I should let you go back to mixing with your guests. I don’t mean to monopolize your time.”
“You’re not,” Madrigal said, then turned brown eyes on her in a frank perusal. “You seem nice enough.”
Enough for what? Angie was taken aback. “Thank you. So do you.”
“I doubt it,” Madrigal said softly.
Angie was struck by all the sad comment revealed. “Why do you say that?”
Madrigal quickly pulled herself together. “It was just a bad joke. Excuse me.”
With that, she walked to a window and look out. As Angie watched, she saw Madrigal’s husband, Kevin Blithe, approach and speak to her. The woman seemed to stiffen, her shoulders square and she scarcely looked his way. Blithe’s mouth was tight as he swiveled from side to side eying the crowd. It was almost as if he was wondering what was wrong with his wife and why she wasn’t mixing with others. Just then, a waiter came by offering champagne. Madrigal shook her head, but Kevin took a glass and popped a puffy hors d’oeuvre into his mouth. After swallowing, Blithe said something to Madrigal, his face hard, but she still didn’t move. With a frustrated spin of the heel, he marched off to join a group of men and women. He said something, gave a quick shake of the head, and they all chuckled.
Angie watched Madrigal’s eyes fill with hurt and sadness as they followed her husband. Madrigal then turned to face the windows once more. Again, Angie found herself feeling sorry for the woman. She had rarely seen a person so alone in a room filled with people.
“How are you doing?” Paavo said, coming to her side. He put his hand on her waist and drew her close. “You and Madrigal seemed to have a long conversation.”
“She’s so unhappy,” Angie murmured, than shook away the thought. “In any case, it turns out Kaydence Dillingham is home with a bad cold. And the whole audition thing isn’t going to work out anyway. How about we leave?”
“Music to my ears,” Paavo said, taking her arm to lead her to the door.
Just then, a group of voices began shouting for a doctor and for someone to call 9-1-1.
