If Cooks Could Kill Part 31

"Cut the comedy, Yos.h.i.+wara." Hollins stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth and chewed. "This case is number one for you both, got it?"

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 w.i.l.l.y 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 bouchees, exotic fudges, and b.u.t.ter 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p.

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?

He got out of bed and hurried to the sitting area. Empty. The bathroom door was open. Empty.

The wall bed was down. What was that supposed to mean? Had she tried sleeping on it? Had she grown so out of sorts with him that she didn't want to sleep with him anymore? Things had seemed okay between them last night. He remembered her talking...she was talking about writing a cookbook again...and he remembered getting more and more sleepy...he must have...oh, h.e.l.l.

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 5'10", 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 sh.e.l.l.

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 to her apartment had appeared slow and meticulous, here it was hurried and frenzied.

"Hercules!" he called. "Herc? Come on, boy, are you all right?"

Angie's breath caught. His cat...He loved that cat.

"Do you see him?" she asked, standing in the bedroom doorway.

"No. They better not have hurt my cat," he muttered, his jaw clenched. They looked under the bed, in the closets, and throughout the backyard.

She was afraid-and for Hercules, more afraid that they'd find the cat than that they wouldn't. If he had run and was hiding, scared, he should return home eventually, but if he was nearby, and unable to come when called...

They couldn't find him.

Finally, back in the living room, Paavo bleakly took in the damage, the ugliness before him. "Who's doing this, Angie, and why?

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. s.h.i.+fting the box, she saw that it had seeped through onto the leather seat and was dripping to the floor mat.

About the Author.

JOANNE PENCE was born and raised in San Francisco, the setting for her Angie Amalfi mystery series. A graduate of U.C. Berkeley with a master's degree in journalism and a Phi Beta Kappa key, Joanne has taught school in j.a.pan, written for magazines, and worked as an operations a.n.a.lyst. Her background, as well as her Italian and Spanish heritage, is reflected in her series. She lives in Idaho with her husband, sons, and a mult.i.tude of pets.

For information about Joanne, her books, and some great recipes, visit Joanne's website at www.joannepence.com. She would love to hear from you via e-mail at , or by writing to PO Box 64, Eagle, ID 83616-0064.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Praise for Joanne Pence's.

Angie Amalfi Mysteries.

"A winner...Angie is a character unlike any other found in the genre."

Santa Rosa Press Democrat.

"Deliciously wicked...Don't miss one tasty bite."

Jacqueline Girder "High energy and a high fun factor...Joanne Pence has an amazing knack for building fascinating characters and compelling plotlines."

Romantic Times "[Pence] t.i.tillates the sense, provides a satisfying read, and arouses a hunger for yet another book in this great series."

Crescent Blues Reviews.

"If you love books by Diane Mott Davidson or Denise Dietz, you will love this series. It's as refres.h.i.+ng as lemon sherbet and just as delicious."

Under the Covers.

"Pence's tongue-in-cheek humor keeps us grinning."

San Francisco Chronicle.

Other Angie Amalfi Mysteries by Joanne Pence.

BELL, COOK, AND CANDLE.

TO CATCH A COOK.

A COOK IN TIME.

COOKS OVERBOARD.

COOK'S NIGHT OUT COOKING MOST DEADLY.

COOKING UP TROUBLE.

TOO MANY COOKS.

SOMETHING'S COOKING.

end.