A Cook in Time: An Angie Amalfi Mystery

by Joanne Pence

Overview

In this 7th delightful culinary mystery from Joanne Pence, dilettante chef Angie Amalfi gets entangled with a group of UFO–chasers and government conspiracy nuts, while trying to get her new business off the ground.

Always thinking of new and better business ideas, culinary queen Angie Amalfi is sure she's got a winner with "Fantasy Dinners," one–of–a–kind thematic feasts specifically created to suit a client's unique tastes. Unfortunately no one's biting except the Prometheus Group, a crackpot cadre of UFO–chasers and conspiracy geeks. Still, even a wacko customer's better than none, and designing an otherworldly repast should keep Angie busy while her overworked policeman beau Paavo investigates a series of bizarre murders.

But the more time she spends dealing with these alien abduction enthusiasts, the more Angie believes that maybe there is some kind of conspiracy afoot and that the Prometheans and Paavo's cases are somehow connected––which is inspiring just the kind of unhealthy curiosity that could end up launching Angie out of this world...for good!

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780062191106
Publisher:	HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:	12/27/2011
Series:	Angie Amalfi Series , #7
Sold by:	HARPERCOLLINS
Format:	eBook
Pages:	352
Sales rank:	29,972
File size:	319 KB

About the Author

Joanne Pence was born and raised in San Francisco. A graduate of U.C. Berkeley with a master's degree in journalism, Joanne has taught school in Japan, written for magazines, and worked for the federal government. She now lives in Idaho with her family, which includes a multitude of pets.

Read an Excerpt

Patrol cars blocked the main entrance to Sigmund Stern Grove, their red and blue flashing lights harsh and garish against the gray December sky. The nearly ceaseless rains that caused the residents of San Francisco to believe they'd been transported eight hundred miles north to Seattle had stopped for the moment, but several police and park inspectors still wore yellow rain-slickers, giving them the appearance of marching street lamps leading the way to the early morning crime scene.
Two men followed a narrow path through stands of eucalyptus and pine. Since the rains had washed away the gravel, their oxfords sank deep into the drenched mud creating suction they had to fight against, as if the earth itself wanted to hold them back. Heavy, damp air filled their lungs, and a subtle tension grew with each deliberate step. Neither spoke.
Slightly in the lead was a tall, husky Japanese-American in his late thirties with short-cropped black hair, and a thick, muscular neck. His clothes were casual—light wool Eddie Bauer overcoat, plaid shirt, brown Dockers and brown tie. The man behind and to his left was an inch or so taller with a lean, narrow-hipped build. He was conservatively dressed in a gray Nordstrom sports coat and black slacks, a striped gray tie, and a plain white shirt. His hair was dark brown, and his angular face as unreadable as his icy blue eyes.
Under the broad umbrella-like expanse of a weeping willow, hovered a small crowd of morning joggers and dog-walkers. Their expressions were hollow and fearful, different from the curious, excited looks usually worn by crime-scene witnesses. Just off the path, a police officer bent low over the bushes. One hand wasjammed against a tree trunk, and a harsh gagging sound erupted from his throat.
Up ahead, yellow crime scene tape stretched from tree to tree in a fifteen-foot radius manned by uniformed officers. The two men showed their badges and signed the Crime Scene Attendance Log. A police sergeant strode toward them and lifted the tape. He looked shaken, not like a veteran who had seen a multitude of horror during years of police work. "The coroner hasn't arrived yet," the sergeant said, breathing deeply. "Neither has the CSU."
They proceeded to the center of the closed-off area. A patrolman stood guard over the body covered by a thin plastic tarp. The wet ground around the body was a mire of running shoe patterns and dog footprints. There was no blood, no flattened or torn grass or bushes, no sign that a death struggle had taken place here.
At the sergeant's nod, the patrolman reached down and gripped the edges of the tarp. His jaws tightened as, slowly and carefully, he drew away the covering. The two men stared down at the corpse.
"Good Christ." Homicide Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara whispered under his breath. He turned his head.
His partner, Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, impassive and efficient, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then stepped closer to study the victim.
The nude body was that of a male Caucasian, early forties or so, about five-foot-ten, one hundred sixty 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 post-mortem 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 shell.
The man's hair was neatly razor cut; his hands free of calluses or stains, the skin soft, the nails manicured; toenails short, square-cut, no bunions or other effects of ill-fitting shoes. In short, all signs of a comfortable life. Until now.
A wide band of skin in the shape of the number seven had been removed from the pasty chest. Around the neck was a long, black nylon strap attached to a bulky device that appeared to be a combination of binoculars and goggles. Made of black metal, the apparatus was as thick as a Nikon 35-mm camera, with something that looked like binoculars attached to one end and, on the other, a harness to hold them in place against the eyes.
Smith glanced over at Yoshiwara.
Yoshiwara's eyes betrayed no emotion. He shifted them to the sergeant. "Make sure your men get names and addresses from the crowd. Don't let anyone leave until we give the okay."
Smith stepped over to his partner. "Have you ever seen goggles like those?"
Yoshiwara studied them a moment before answering. "Never. The metal looks tarnished and old—like something out of World War Two maybe."
"They were left as a message," Smith said.
Yoshiwara's gaze traveled over the mutilated corpse. "A message from a madman."

On a cliff facing the Pacific Ocean, nestled between the Presidio to the east and Lincoln Park on the west lay one of San Francisco's most exclusive enclaves. Angelina Amalfi parked her white Ferrari Testarossa in front of a stately gray mansion at number 50 Sea Cliff Avenue, on the ocean front side of the street. After checking the address again, she gazed at the house. Then smiled.
Whistling "I'm In The Money" under her breath, she walked to the white double entry doors and rang the bell. Christmas wreaths with holly, pine cones and large red bows hung on the doors. After waiting, checking her silk-wrapped raspberry ice manicure, smoothing her Anne Klein gray and raspberry suit, and waiting a while more, she rang again.
Finally, an older woman with perfectly coifed dyed blond hair opened the door. She was short and plump, and wore billowing slacks of blue silk, a matching over-blouse, and several rows of gold chains in a variety of weaves and sizes. Heavy gold rings with diamonds and pearls graced nearly every finger.
With one such bejeweled finger she fluffed her bangs as her mascara-ringed eyes surveyed Angie from head to toe. "Yeah?"

Editorial Reviews

A Cook in Time again utilizes all the humor, suspense and romance that Ms. Pence has made her trademark.
— Romantic Times

Jill M. Smith

Tasty and tempting reading.

Romantic Times BOOKclub

"Tasty and tempting reading."

Romantic TimesBOOKclub