by Joanne Pence
Joanne Pence
Two Cooks A-Killing
An Angie Amalfi Mystery
Dedication
This book is dedicated to
Aaron and Zach
With acknowledgments for her Napa Valley and winery advice (the changes and omissions are mine) to my old college roommate, Dinah Duffy–Martini, Ph.D., and with thanks for their support, ideas, and encouragement, to my agent, Sue Yuen, and my editor, Sarah Durand.
Epigraph
“What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer…If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”
Dickens, “A Christmas Carol”
Eagle Crest
Cast of Major Characters and Actors
CHARACTER
ACTOR
Cliff Roxbury
Primary owner of Eagle Crest Winery
Bart Farrell
Natalie Parker Roxbury
Cliff’s second wife, former Ice Follies queen
Rhonda Mulholland
Adrian Roxbury
Cliff’s half-brother, formerly sole owner of the winery
Kyle O’Rourke
Leona Roxbury
Adrian’s wife, and Cliff’s stepdaughter from his first marriage
Gwen Hagen
Julia Parker
Natalie’s sex-kitten niece
Brittany Keegan
Directed by Emery Tarleton
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Eagle Crest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
From the Kitchen of Angelina Amalfi
Enter the Delicious World of Joanne Pence’s Angie Amalfi Series
About the Author
Praise
Other Angie Amalfi Mysteries by Joanne Pence
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
California State Highway 29 cuts through the heart of the Napa Valley, linking wineries and towns. On weekends, traffic stops almost completely as people jam cars, vans, and tour buses to “wine taste” from one establishment to the next. At the center is St. Helena, home to a number of the most famous wineries in the state—Beringer Brothers, Charles Krug, St. Clement, Sutter Home, and Louis Martini.
Just past the town, Angie Amalfi turned off the highway and drove for another twenty minutes along narrow, winding roads. She was a small woman with wavy brown hair with red highlights, big brown eyes, and long silk-wrapped fingernails in her current favorite shade, coconut cream. The color complemented and drew attention to her hard-won, long-in-coming engagement ring. She drove with one eye on the road, the other on the diamond, as she neared the Waterfield estate.
Winery ownership was the sideline of choice for California’s nouveau riche such as Dr. Sterling Waterfield, plastic surgeon to the stars, with offices in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In Angie’s opinion, Waterfield wines were worse than mediocre, with a bouquet of rancid oil that caused the tongue to shrivel and the mouth to pucker.
The estate had once been known for its grandeur and beauty, but all that was overshadowed when Waterfield allowed the producers of the most popular evening soap opera of all time, Eagle Crest, to use it as the estate of the Roxbury family of wine magnates. Their overwrought lives, loves, and wheeling-and-dealing provided weekly proof that money and power couldn’t elevate the disreputable to anything other than glitzy sleaze. Viewers loved them.
As a young teen, Angie had watched the show devotedly, not only every episode, but also reruns during the summer months. The early years, which she had been too young to follow when they were first aired, were shown repeatedly on cable networks. She had faithfully watched them several times over. She loved the program and knew several of the episodes by heart.
Eagle Crest had ended ten years earlier after a run of eight years when its two main stars, Bart Farrell and Rhonda Manning, who played Cliff Roxbury and his wife, Natalie, quit out of fear of being typecast. Unfortunately for them, they hadn’t quit soon enough. Never again did either have a part quite so dominating or so challenging (or so much to type, according to Hollywood gossip) as that of a member of the Roxbury dynasty.
Rhonda “Natalie” Manning retired from public life, while Bart “Cliff” Farrell made infrequent and ill-tempered appearances to talk to Eagle Crest fans about his starring role. The fans remembered every iota of information ever put on the screen—throwaway lines, jokes, even story angles that didn’t work and were dropped. Farrell’s inability to remember, let alone explain, such minutiae usually triggered those outbursts of grumpiness.
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!
She made sure her fiancé, San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, had no problem with her going away for a few days. Dr. Waterfield was a widower who lived with his two sons, Junior and Silver. Junior had once dated Angie’s sister, Frannie, but things hadn’t worked out between them.
Paavo had encouraged her to take the job if she wanted it. If? Was he joking? She’d crawl through ground-up Christmas ornaments for this job.
Actually, she couldn’t help but suspect he was glad to have her think about something other than their wedding plans. Not to mention engagement parties, bridal showers, and everything that went with them, from dresses to music to napkin rings. They were already making her a little crazy.
Her thoughts sprang back to the Christmas reunion show. The thought that she would be the first true-blue fan to find out what the next step would be in the lives of the cast gave her goosebumps.
The story had begun with Cliff Roxbury. Married and living in Australia, one day he was struck by lightning. He ended up with amnesia, in California. There, he met Ice Follies queen Natalie Parker, who was engaged to winery owner Adrian Roxbury.
Cliff fell wildly in lust with Natalie and her ice skates, stole her from Adrian, and married her. He then swindled Adrian out of half the winery. Adrian was about to shoot Cliff, when—lo and behold!—the two discovered they had the same last name because they had the same father.
From Austral
ia, Cliff’s older first wife sent her daughter, Leona, to find her missing husband. Because of his amnesia, Cliff didn’t recognize her.
Seeing a chance for wealth, Leona married the still rich but emotionally wrecked Adrian.
Into the mix came Natalie’s niece, the wild and man-hungry Julia Parker.
The catfights between Julia and Leona had garnered some of the highest TV ratings on record and set the standards for primetime soap fights. Angie recalled one such remarkable fight which included several tons of grapes, broken vats of aging wine, and evening gowns that left little to the imagination when soaked in wine.
Angie sighed. Yes, those were the days of real television before the invasion of talk shows, reality specials, and Court TV.
Her mind swirled thinking about what might come next. Would Cliff’s memory return? Would his first wife come to America? Was Leona’s baby her husband’s or (gasp) stepfather Cliff’s? And would the killer of Natalie’s sex-kitten niece, Julia, ever be found?
The storyline had been hastily rewritten after Brittany Keegan, the young actress who’d played Julia Parker, was killed in an accident.
As a young teen, hearing about the death, Angie couldn’t believe it. It was the first time she’d experienced the demise of a beloved celebrity. The memory of what she’d been doing when she heard the news—going to gym class—would always be with her.
She’d cried for days and worn nothing but black, head to toe. She’d pored over her Seventeen magazines, reading and rereading stories about the pretty, vivacious Brittany, and she even bought a copy of Newsweek when it ran a tiny article and photo of the funeral.
Angie had been one distraught kid.
The thought of now meeting the remaining Roxbury clan brought back all the emotions she’d held about them over the years. Cliff Roxbury was her favorite, even though he was devilish and sneaky. Despite his errant ways, deep, deep down, she knew he loved his family. He simply hadn’t learned it yet.
She liked Natalie, too, and understood why she was a neurotic basket case with a husband like Cliff. Leona, she hated; and Adrian was a wuss—albeit a handsome and charming one.
The thought of being with them made her tingle with anticipation. She’d have to do a little work, of course, but for her, the so-called work would be more play than anything.
She reached the entrance to the Waterfield estate. In the center of the massive gate was a cast-iron eagle. Even the owner must have succumbed to its being known as “Eagle Crest” by one and all.
The gate stood open, beckoning. As if in a dream, she entered. The driveway led through vineyards for nearly a quarter mile before it reached the mansion. She stopped the car and simply stared at it a moment.
Eagle Crest, aglow in a winter wonderland…
The land around the mansion was covered with snow, even though it almost never snowed in the Napa Valley. The twelve-thousand-square-foot home was outlined with lights, from its Sonoma red rock foundation and first floor, to the rustic wooden French chalet design of the upper two stories. Lights lined the rooftop, the four rock chimneys, the eaves, the windows, the roof of the veranda, and the columns surrounding the front door. Even the separate twelve-car garage was lit. Lighted deer pranced on the snow-covered lawn. Floodlights illuminated a snowman. A decorated tree glowed golden on the edge of the large, graceful walk-around front porch. So many lights had been used that they seemed to brighten the sky on this overcast spring day.
On television, it had looked like a fine house. Here, it was so awesome the hairs on her arms stood on end.
Ignoring the huge array of cars, trucks, trailers, and equipment parked in front of the house, she imagined the long gravel driveway filled with limos, Cadillacs, custom-painted Porsches, and the Roxbury family and their friends, dressed in the latest Parisian fashions…
A horn broke her reverie. A delivery truck was stuck behind her car, the driver scowling.
She drove on and pulled into a space between a Chevy Suburban and a Honda Civic. Lots of people were rushing about, faces scowling and serious, materials in hand, as if they knew exactly what they were doing.
A twinge of self-doubt struck her. Although her father had assured her that Dr. Waterfield had been given the task of finding a gourmet cook to prepare the Christmas dinner, what if the director didn’t like her style of cooking? Or didn’t like her? Or choked on one of her meals?
She took a deep breath and got out of the car. This was nothing to get worked up about, she told herself, as she checked her black Oscar de la Renta suit for lint and smoothed its wrinkles. She also wore black Ferragamo pumps and carried a black Coach briefcase. For color, she’d added a teal blue Hermès scarf. Dressing like this, as if she were going to a funeral rather than a job interview, meant the director should be assured of how seriously she took the opportunity to display her cooking skills to Hollywood. Maybe Julia Child had begun this way.
She’d already decided on a scrumptious gourmet meal that would look fabulous under bright television lights on the Roxbury Christmas table.
She’d begin with an array of colorful, interesting appetizers such as sautéed trout meunière with pecan sauce, a salad of duck confit with Stilton cheese, arugula and raspberry-shallot vinaigrette, wild mushroom soup with spinach and ginger broth, smoked quail with black truffle sauce, a beautifully presented pistachio-crusted rack of lamb, goat cheese-and-garlic potatoes with an Espagnole sauce, and a side of eggplant and portabello ratatouille. She’d fill a table with desserts, from pears poached in Cabernet Sauvignon (not Waterfield Cabernet, since she wanted one that would taste good) to a simple strawberry flambé. If the fire was a problem on the set, she’d make a St. Honoré cake. A cake named for a saint would be appropriate for Christmas, she should think.
She could hardly wait to start. She was going to make her papà proud of her, proud that his friend sought his daughter’s help and that she cooked a meal more pleasing, eye-catching, and mouth-watering than anyone could have imagined.
None of the people bustling about seemed the least interested in who she was or in helping with her luggage. This wasn’t a hotel, she reminded herself; she was here to work. And work she would, beginning with her suitcases. She’d probably overpacked for a four-or at most, five-day visit, but she’d had no idea if the dress here would be casual or business attire.
She tugged the Pullman out of the trunk, set it on its wheels, and slid out the handle, then hefted the carryall onto her shoulder and tossed the garment bag over her arm. She grabbed the make-up case with one hand, the Pullman’s handle with the other, and somehow managed to wheel, reel, and lurch her way toward the front door.
The walkway looked wet and had a few snowflakes on it, while the lawn was white. She stepped gingerly, afraid the walk was icy. It wasn’t.
She bent over and picked up a snowflake. It was plastic.
Despite her struggle to lift the luggage up three steps to the wide veranda, the realization that it was Eagle Crest’s veranda made her almost giddy. The double doors had lush wreaths with bows and pinecones and had been draped with ornament-covered fir garlands. Beside them, planter boxes of star jasmine twinkled with Christmas lights. She felt as if she’d just been given a giant Christmas present eight months early.
She knocked on the door. After waiting and knocking a couple more times, she tried the handle. The door opened.
She pushed it wide, and before her stretched the elegant Roxbury entryway. The floor was marble, the walls white, the staircase graceful and gently curved. She knew it every bit as well as her own parents’ home. To think she was actually here!
Thick garlands of silver and gold cascaded along the banister and edged the ceiling. Festive wreaths hung on the walls, and a tiny silver tree rotated, playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as it turned. A small table was covered with candles, boxwood plants, and a three-tiered stand of sugared fruit, nuts, and candy. Heavy cables and wires crisscrossed the floor.
She was awestruck.
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sp; “Come on in,” a young woman called out as she bounded down the stairs to the foyer, rounded the banister, and headed down the hallway to the back of the house. Her yellow shift stopped at mid-thigh and she wore Birkenstock sandals. Angie stared after her. With oversized horn-rimmed glasses—the kind nobody wore anymore except as a prop on a TV show—and brown hair with fluffy bangs pulled into pigtails low on the sides of her head, she looked like a character out of The Beverly Hillbillies.
“Wait! Can you tell me where…” Angie stopped. No sense wasting her breath. The foyer was empty. To the right, just as on the television show, was the living room with white walls, a white fireplace and mantel, and ecru and ruby red furniture. Before her was the very sofa on which Cliff had seduced his stepdaughter Leona, right after her wedding to his brother Adrian! Angie’s heart palpitated. The scene had been so hot that if her TV had spontaneously combusted she wouldn’t have been surprised.
In front of the windows stood a fourteen-foot-tall fake Douglas fir covered with white and silver ornaments, angels, and starbursts. The ornaments were hand-blown and painted, fragile, and expensive. Colorfully wrapped presents were stacked under the tree, and bowls of fruits, nuts, and flowers adorned the table. A pear-green and yellow garland of hypericum sprigs lined the mantel, with scalloped embroidered Christmas stockings. The only jarring spot was the mound of television equipment piled against a wall.
