Cooking Up Trouble by Joanne Pence Page A

intertwine with the curls of her hair. The mystical aura of the room, the patter of the rain, the solitude of the setting stole over him and made him think of things he didn’t want to ponder—things like being together with Angie forever, like never being alone again. He tried to mentally break the spell. He needed time—cold, logical time. “There’s no way a woman like you should be in my life,” he said finally. “Sometimes I think you can’t be any more real than the Sempler ghosts. That I’ll close my eyes and you’ll disappear. Or that I’m just imagining you.”
    “Inspector,” she said, returning his kiss with one that seared, “there’s no way you could imagine me.”
    Cold logic melted in the midst of her fire, and all his careful resolve went with it. His heart filled, and the solemnity of his expression broke. “I know,” he said softly, “and that’s the best part.”
    As his lips met hers a bolt of lightning lit their room for just a moment. Then a scream filled the darkness.
     
    Paavo was out of Angie’s arms and through the door before the scream ended.
    “Stay in the room,” he shouted as he ran down the hall to the stairs.
    She darted after him. “No way I’m staying here alone.” She hadn’t gotten the first word out, though, before he’d disappeared.
    Chelsea, whose room was between Angie’s and the gallery, stuck her head out the door. “What was that?”
    “Come on,” Angie said. “Follow that cop.”
    Chelsea ran into the hall wearing a long, thick flannel nightgown with huge orange pansies on a bright yellow background. “What cop?” she asked, looking down the now empty hall. “Do you think that was Elise Sempler? They say she cries at night.”
    “Cries?” Angie stopped halfway down the stairs and looked back at Chelsea. Luckily, Chelsea wasn’t close enough to barrel into her or she might have pitched Angie right over the bannister. “Elise cries?”
    “Yes.”
    Angie shivered at the memory of the strange crying sound she had heard last night. No, she told herself, couldn’t be. “That was a scream,” she said. “And far too human.”
    As she reached the bottom step, she saw Running Spirit stepping into the living room through the French patio doors. “What’s the ruckus?” he shouted.
    “This way,” Angie called without slowing down. She stopped abruptly, however, at the entrance to the kitchen.
    Paavo and Moira were bending at the waist, facing each other. Stretched out between them was a yellowcheckered tablecloth. They let it go, and Angie watched it drop down over a body and cover it from the knees up. Still showing were support-stocking-covered legs leading to black round-toed, square-heeled sensible shoes. Angie knew those shoes.
    Running Spirit pushed past her. “Stay back,” Paavo said.
    Moira pressed her hands to her mouth as she slowly backed away. Running Spirit’s hands clenched and unclenched. He was cearly torn between offering her comfort and obeying Paavo.
    Chelsea grabbed Angie’s arm. “Who is it?”
    “The cook, Miss Greer,” Paavo said. “Don’t come any closer, and don’t touch anything.”
    Angie, Chelsea, and Running Spirit nodded.
    “What happened to her?” Angie asked.
    “We’re not sure yet,” Paavo answered.
    “I came in here to make sure everything was turned off for the night,” Moira cried, “and found her lying there. I didn’t even have to touch her to know—”
    “What’s going on here?” Bethel’s voice rang out as she and Martin appeared in the doorway. “A party? Without us?” As she pushed her way past Chelsea and Angie into the room, she gasped and stopped short, Martin right behind her.
    “Who is that?” Bethel demanded.
    “Miss Greer,” Angie said.
    “Who?”
    “The cook.”
    “Hey,” Martin said, “the old witch must have eaten some of her own cooking—Rat Delight.”
    “Martin!” Bethel said.
    Martin’s statement, Angie knew, was on all their minds—especially after