by Joanne Pence
THE
DA VINCI
COOK
AN ANGIE AMALFI MYSTERY
JOANNE
PENCE
Epigraph
“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.”
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
Acknowledgments
For their help with some of the details of this story I’d like to give special thanks to my sister, realtor Loretta Barra, and to author and Italian translator, Elizabeth Jennings.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Excerpts
From the Kitchen of Angelina Amalfi
Enter the Delicious World of Joanne Pence’s Angie Amalfi Series
Praise
Angie Amalfi Mysteries by Joanne Pence
Copyright
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Four marble gargoyles glared down from the roof of the stately home in San Francisco’s Sea Cliff district. A for sale sign had been stabbed into the small patch of lawn beside the driveway.
No one was home. She’d just called, using her cell phone.
A crisp ocean breeze whipped against her thin summer suit, causing her usually perfectly coiffed pale blond hair to fly askew as she opened the lockbox hanging from the doorknob with a Supra key, a computerized entry device. It would leave a record that she’d been there, but at this point that hardly mattered.
Inside the box was the house key, and she used it to enter.
She knew the house well, with its overabundance of electronics gear, its lack of flowers and houseplants, and its need for colorful luxurious towels and a few candles to soften the bathrooms—all easy-to-remedy problems. The large living room looked untouched. Expensive gold and marble objets were exactly where she’d last seen them.
In the bedroom, the safe was located behind a Warhol print. Not very original, but easy to get at. Any good burglar could find a wall safe no matter where it was hidden, anyway. She swung the picture aside and punched in the combination.
The distinctive flat black leather box was gone.
Her heart sank. How could she prove—
An ear-splitting crack, like a gunshot, echoed through the house.
She started, holding her breath.
It was a car backfiring, nothing more.
But even as she thought that, she was struck with an eerie feeling about the house and felt an overwhelming need to get out of there.
On rubbery legs, she headed toward the entry, when she heard a door slam. The sound came from the far side of the house, from the kitchen.
She forced herself to stop, to be rational. The earlier sound couldn’t have been a gunshot, not in this neighborhood. Her imagination had run away with her, that’s all. The home owner must have just returned. Now, she could confront him, force him to explain everything.
She hurried to the kitchen.
Sprawled out on the floor before her lay the body of a man, facedown. A gaping, bloody hole covered the base of his head, blood oozing all around him.
No one could survive that, she thought. She turned cold, deathly cold, as she crept closer. Is it . . . ?
Relief coursed through her. She couldn’t see his face, but his black hair was streaked with gray. He was older than the man she’d feared he might be.
Still, the world began to spin at the sight, and she immediately looked away, stumbling backward and gripping a countertop.
Through the kitchen window, she saw the shadowy figure of a man dash from the house. Behind this home and its neighbors was an alleyway for garbage trucks, service deliveries, and the like. There, the man got into an older, black Volvo. She only saw him from behind, and he wore a flat gray cap with a small visor—very European looking.
In his hand was a black box. The color and shape were like that of the container she’d expected to find in the safe.
The one she’d been looking for . . .
He was taking it . . . getting away!
And at her feet lay a dead man.
Then, completely unlike the normally composed, contained, self-controlled businesswoman that she was, Caterina Amalfi Swenson let out a string of curses.
Angelina Amalfi hung up the phone and cha-cha-cha’ed her way around the living room of her Russian Hill penthouse apartment. Life was good. She was engaged; she’d lost the six pounds she’d gained vacationing in Arizona—well, half; and now . . . now! . . . she could scarcely breathe she was so excited.
Internationally known chef Jacques Poulon-Leliellul was going to be in San Francisco next Monday, and he wanted to meet with her, Angie Amalfi, to talk about assisting him in the writing of his next cookbook. Recipes from his restaurant in the city, which apparently wasn’t doing very well, would be featured, and he wanted a local food writer to be involved. He’d heard about her from a friend of a friend, and had his secretary phone to make an appointment if she was interested.
Was she ever! “Mr. Poulon-Leliellul is a creator of food, not sentences,” his secretary explained.
“I understand completely,” Angie said, bursting with enthusiasm for the project. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You’d be his ghostwriter,” the secretary added.
Angie thought a moment—ghostwriters were called “ghosts” because they were unseen; their names weren’t given. Could she get around that? She was sure she’d do such a fantastic job that not only could she convince the chef to include her name on the cover, he’d positively demand it. “I understand.”
“Just one more thing,” the secretary warned. “Be sure you pronounce his name correctly. Americans tend to do really horrible things to French names.”
“Of course—Monsieur Leliellul.” Angie spoke clearly and distinctly.
The secretary sounded relieved. “You have a lovely accent, but keep in mind that he prefers Poulon-Leliellul.”
“I’ll remember,” Angie promised.
The conversation ended with another word of caution. “Noon on Monday. Be prompt. Chef Poulon-Leliellul demands punctuality.”
“No problem,” Angie said, before lavishing thanks and a good-bye. As it was only Tuesday, she had an entire week to study his recipes, his culinary philosophy, and anything else she could learn about the
man. That was plenty of time since the only other thing she had to do was to finalize her wedding plans. She still had a few decisions to make: what kind of wedding, where to have it, and when. Matter of fact, the only thing she’d nailed down was who.
She was just about to phone that “who”—her tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed fiancé, San Francisco Homicide inspector Paavo Smith—with the exciting news when the phone rang again.
She hoped it wasn’t Chef Poulon-Leliellul’s secretary calling back to say the whole thing was off.
“Angie, it’s Cat. Get Paavo! I need him right now.”
The voice belonged to her sister Caterina, who these days preferred to be called Cat, and her asking for Paavo was not a good thing. Cat rarely had anything to do with her, let alone her fiancé. “Where are you?” Angie asked.
“I’m on Nineteenth Avenue, heading south to 280. Write down this license number.”
Angie did as told. “What’s going on? Did you call 911?”
“Of course, but they don’t understand. They think it’s road rage! Heaven forbid they deal with two problems at once—a theft and a murder. That’s why I need Paavo!”
“A murder? Cat, slow down,” Angie insisted.
The words came out in a bulletlike rush. “I was at the house of a client, Marcello Piccoletti. You remember the Piccoletti family, don’t you? Anyway, one man’s dead, the other is in the black Volvo I’m following. Tell Paavo to get some cops here to take over for me!”
Angie gasped. “You’re following the killer?” When had her sister become brave enough to chase down a murderer?
“Of course not! I think it’s my client. I suspect he’s a witness.”
“Don’t lose him, Cat!” Angie shouted encouragement. “You’re doing great.”
But the cell must have hit a dead spot, because the call was suddenly disconnected.
Chapter 2
Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith studied the scene before him.
The kitchen had been remodeled with high-end dark gray granite countertops, cherry-wood cabinets, stainless appliances, and a monstrous Sub-Zero refrigerator. Copper pots hung from a rack over the central island cooktop. The flooring was tile.
Murder victims weren’t usually found in kitchens like this.
Paavo squatted down to get a better look at the body. Blue pullover, black trousers, gold chain around his neck, large onyx pinky ring, expensive Italian leather shoes, and graying black hair now matted with blood from the gaping hole at the base of his skull. He lay facedown. As Paavo lifted the victim’s shoulder to look at his face, he had a fair idea of what he would see. It was as he’d suspected.
The bullet had entered from behind and exited through the face, destroying the nose and shattering the eye sockets. Death must have been instantaneous or close to it.
Carefully, he lay the man back down.
“Has the neighbor who called, or anyone else, seen this man?” Paavo asked the rookie who had been the first to arrive at the crime scene. Officer Justin Leong looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified to be at what was very likely his first murder. Paavo knew the feeling. He’d had it once himself some years ago.
“No.” Leong stood so close he felt like an appendage. “Audrey Moss is elderly, a widow. She didn’t enter the house.”
“Do you have the name of the home owner?” Paavo asked.
“Mrs. Moss wrote it down for me. It’s a really long name. Lots of vowels.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Mahr-sel-loh Pee-koh-let-ti.”
Paavo took the paper and read the name for himself. “It’s pronounced Mahr-chail-lo,” he said. He’d learned something from Angie about pronouncing Italian. A little, anyway.
“Okay, Mar-chail-lo”—Leong rolled the r; show-off, Paavo thought—“Piccoletti. Forties. Lived here alone after divorcing his wife. Mrs. Moss said he’s out of the country. In Italy.”
“When did he leave?”
“Yesterday.”
“So who’s the dead man? Did she have any idea?”
“No. She insisted Piccoletti lives alone.”
Paavo began to pat the victim for some ID. In a back pocket he found a wallet and pulled it out. The Florida driver’s license showed Marcello Piccoletti, age forty-one. The picture was old, as the license had been automatically renewed by mail. The height, weight, and thick head of hair matched that of the victim.
A couple of credit cards were the only other things in the wallet, along with about two hundred dollars in cash.
“Looks like the neighbor was wrong about Piccoletti being out of the country,” Paavo said. “Also, there was another caller, minutes before the neighbor. She didn’t identify herself. Has anyone come forward?”
“No, Inspector,” Leong replied. “The people who live around here don’t seem to be very forthcoming. I don’t think they want to get involved.”
True enough, Paavo thought. The number of neighbors showing up to help or watch police dropped geometrically as the income level rose. In this area it was surprising anyone at all was outside watching the proceedings.
The remaining pockets were empty. As Paavo observed the body from a different angle, he noticed some cloth under it.
He reached down and pulled. It was an ivory-colored satin handkerchief with an embroidered monogram—C.A.S.
Where are the cops?
Cat couldn’t believe the way her day had gone, or that she was now stuck in traffic trying to follow a thief—who was also stuck in traffic—and waiting for her idiot little sister’s idiot cop boyfriend to get off the stick and help her here!
Did she have to do absolutely everything herself?
She wasn’t sure which had her more upset, having that know-nothing slime of an office manager, Meredith Woring, dare to attempt to fire her for no good reason, or finding a dead body in her client’s kitchen.
No one, ever, fired Cat Amalfi Swenson. That’s the sort of thing that happened to Angie, not her.
And maybe it happened because Angie couldn’t follow simple instructions like getting the police to help her own sister!
Cat’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Somehow, she would straighten out this mess, and when she did, Meredith Woring would live to regret it.
Her thoughts reverted back to Marcello’s kitchen, to the dead body—whoever he was—to the huge puddle of dark red blood-soaked saltillo tiles . . . and the smell. She’d hardly noticed it at the time, but now she couldn’t get it out of her nostrils. Her stomach roiled.
She vaguely remembered getting into her car to drive away. It seemed she’d passed a priest standing near Marcello’s house, watching her. No, it couldn’t have been. It had to be her imagination conjuring an eerie image because of that body. It was the most gruesome sight. . . .
The traffic lanes painted on the pavement began to quiver and shake, and she gripped the wheel even harder, taking deep breaths and forcing herself to focus.
She wondered if the cops were at the house yet, if they’d found out who the dead man was.
From the lockbox records they’d know she’d been in the house when the gun went off. What if they questioned why she was there?
She was Marcello’s realtor, and his house was up for sale. Why shouldn’t she be there?
What if they spoke to Meredith Woring? What was that two-faced bitch going to tell them?
What if they investigated further? What if they found out about her and Marcello?
Where in the hell is Paavo?
Directly across the street from the murder scene was an imposing brown-shingled house with white cross beams. Immaculately kept rosebushes circled the home.
A woman with lacquered bluish-white hair opened the front door. Mrs. Audrey Moss was fairly short, a little overweight, and wore a pale green dress with matching medium heels, both clearly of excellent quality. Blue eyes darted from Paavo to Officer Leong. She smiled with familiarity at Leong as she invited them in.
The living room was furnished in gold a
nd white designer perfection. Only a pair of binoculars on the drum table at the front windows was out of place. Leong started to follow Paavo into the room, but Paavo shot him a look that said otherwise. The rookie wisely parked himself by the door.
“What can I do for you?” Mrs. Moss asked as she sat down on a brocade chair.
Paavo took a seat on a many-cushioned gold velvet sofa. “Please tell me what you saw or heard this afternoon.”
“Certainly, although I’ve already told that nice young man everything once.” She smiled again at Leong. Paavo cast him a frown. Leong studied the ceiling. “But I expect you need to hear it directly from me.”
“That’s right,” Paavo said with a nod.
She’d been in the kitchen preparing dinner when she heard a loud crack. She tried to dismiss it, but curiosity won and she looked out the window. “At first, all was quiet,” she said. “I waited a moment, just to be sure, and then I saw that woman come running out of Mr. Piccoletti’s house. She got into her car and drove off quickly. Dangerously quickly.”
Paavo took a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Do you know who she was?”
“No, but I’ve seen her there before. She’s visited Marcello a number of times.” Her lips pursed with disapproval. “Quite a number of times.”
Her message about the relationship couldn’t have been clearer. “Can you describe her?”
“Most definitely.” She sat up tall. “She’s about five-two or so. Very thin. She likes Chanel and Armani style suits—although from this distance I can’t tell if they’re real or reproductions. She’s probably in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair is somewhat bouffant and tapers at the neck. She wears it tucked behind her ears to show off gold and sometimes diamond earrings. And her eyes are brown.”
Paavo was impressed. The binoculars were obviously used for a lot more than bird watching. “Hair color?”
“How could I forget? It’s dyed the color of . . . well, of my guest bathroom. The toilet, sink, and Jacuzzi are in a color I believe is called biscuit. Looks dreadfully fake.”
