Cooking Up Trouble by Joanne Pence Page B

Angie had told everyone about the dead rat the night before.
    Paavo turned to Moira. “Is your phone working yet? We need to get the sheriff up here right away.”
    “The sheriff?” Moira said with a half laugh, half cry. “No, the phone’s still dead. Someone would have to try to go down the mountainside in the rain. The roads are slick, though. And it’s dark. It would be too dangerous. That’s why Miss Greer stayed. She’d been afraid to drive home, and now—”
    “What about a four-wheel drive?” Paavo asked. “Does anyone up here have one?”
    “Quint does. My gardener.”
    “Any chance he might make it?” Paavo asked.
    “If anyone could, it’d be him. But Miss Greer had a heart condition. The doctors warned her something like this might happen when she refused to let them operate. It was just a matter of time.”
    Paavo had seen heart attack and stroke victims, natural deaths of all kinds. One look at the corpse when he walked into the kitchen this evening and he knew this was no natural death. Her face was a bloodless gray, her lifeless eyes a fiery red from broken blood vessels. There were no signs of a struggle near the body. Instead, she was lying there neatly. Too neatly. She was on her back, her arms at her sides, legs straight and together. Even the top button of her blouse had been fastened, and her collar rode high, completely covering her neck.
    “Even if it was a natural death—” Paavo began.
    “If?” Running Spirit bellowed.
    “If it was, we would still need to get the sheriff up here. He needs to find out what killed her.”
    “What do you think did?” Angie asked.
    He glanced at Moira. “Miss Tay said she had a bad heart.” He counted the investors—Jeffers, the Baymans, Chelsea. “Where’s your wife, Jeffers?” he asked.
    “Asleep, I guess. I was out on the porch meditating.”
    Paavo nodded. “What about Vane? Has anyone seen him this evening?”
    “His room is the only one on the third floor,” Moira said slowly. “Perhaps he didn’t hear anything.”
    “He takes some kind of strong medicine for migraines,” Chelsea said.
    “Can you see about getting the sheriff?” Paavo asked Moira. “If the storm continues, it might be even more difficult to get help tomorrow.”
    “I’ll go to Quint’s cottage,” she replied. “I just have to get my raincoat and hat. There are a number of rain slickers in the closet just off the foyer for anyone else who might want to use them.”
    “Terrific,” Martin Bayman said drily. “Isn’t this an appetizing kitchen? Such a cozy inn we have here.”
    “He’s right, you know,” Angie said to Paavo. “Can’t we move her to a bed or something? This seems so heartless.”
    “I should think California has laws against dead bodies in public kitchens,” Bethel said.
    “Why don’t you ask your Eskimo friend?” Running Spirit said. “Doesn’t he know everything?”
    “Won’t the two of you show respect for the dead and stop bickering?” Angie said, exasperated.
    “It’s her kitchen now,” Martin said. “You two better listen to her or you might be next. I overheard you arguing with Miss Greer, Angie.”
    “Me?” She couldn’t believe what he’d just implied. “So what?”
    Martin shrugged. “Let’s go, Bethel.”
    Bethel glared at Running Spirit, lifted her nose in the air, and flounced off, Martin behind her.
    “I’ll find Moira and go with her,” Running Spirit said, then he, too, left.
    “Do you know where they keep their sheets?” Paavo asked Angie.
    “Sheets?” As understanding struck, she blanched. “Oh, yes, I’ll find you one. A big one.”
    Chelsea looked around and saw that no one remained in the kitchen but the hard-looking detective and the corpse. “I’ll come and help, Angie,” she called, and ran from the room.
     
    Outside, the wind howled and hard-driven rain lashed the house. Inside, candles instead of electric lights illuminated the library, casting an eerie glow over the somber