Free Cooking Spirits: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (Angie Amalfi Mysteries) by Joanne Pence Page A

Talk to them and
mist them daily, that’s the trick.” He leaned back against the banister
surrounding the deck and looked at the house. “Pleasant house, this.”
    “That’s what I told you.”
    “A good deal, you said?”
    “An excellent deal.”
    “Well, if you don’t want it, let me know,” Stan said, his
expression a portrait of sorrow. “My apartment won’t be the same without you
living across the hall. And if you’re still there after you’re married, it’ll
mean I’ve got that big cop watching my every step.” He reached out and took her
hand. “I know he’s jealous of me because of our relationship, Angie. For that
reason, I know I won’t be comfortable staying there.”
    She could scarcely believe she heard right. Paavo, jealous of Stan? He was even more delusional than she
imagined. She pulled her hand free and then patted his shoulder. “Stan, don’t
be ridiculous. If I leave, I’ll make sure to tell my father to only rent to
someone who’s a good cook.”
    “You’re mocking me now.” He turned around to face the water
and, bending at the waist, rested his forearms on the railing as he stared out
at the ocean. “I can’t imagine living there without you nearby. I’ll have to
move. If you don’t take this house, I may have to buy it.”
    “Now you’re being melodramatic!” Angie mimicked his pose,
enjoying the ocean view herself. “Did I tell you there’s something strange
about this place? That many people have attempted to buy it, but the deal
always fell through?”
    “You never mentioned that. What’s the problem with it?”
    “It might be…” Angie paused a beat,
and then hit him with: “because there was a murder.”
    “A what?” His eyes widened and he
stood up straight.
    Angie relayed all she had learned from Paavo.
    “That story gives me goose bumps. I think I’ve just changed
my mind about wanting to live here,” Stan said.
    “Good, because I’ve decided I don’t care,” Angie announced.
“I like this house, in fact, I love it! I mean, it’s not as if their ghosts are
haunting the place.”
    Just then, they heard a crash from the living room.
    They gawked at each other, and then rushed inside. The vase
that had been on the small round table now lay broken on the hardwood floor,
its silk flowers spread around it. The vase was the one that seemed to
re-center itself on the table the last time Angie visited.
    “What happened?” Stan asked, his eyes bulging.
    “Why don’t you shut the bedroom’s sliding glass door?” Angie
said uneasily. “It must have caused some sort of a draft.”
      “A damned strong draft!” Stan
muttered as he stepped into the bedroom to shut the door.
    Angie picked up the pieces of the white porcelain vase and
the silk flowers. “I guess I’ll be looking for a replacement.”
     “That gave me a bit of a start.” Stan chuckled. Back
in the living room, he sat on the green and gold sofa, his hands clasped behind
his head, elbows out, feet crossed on the coffee table as he studied the room,
the view, the setting. “This house is definitely not right for you and Paavo.
He works with murders. Living here would be too much like work for him.
Besides, you’d have to completely redecorate it. Get rid of all the frou-frou,
use sleeker lines in the furniture to open the place up. Add color to the
walls. I think my interior decorator friend, Ernesto, would either laugh
himself to death or die of shock if he saw this place.”
    The candy dish Angie had just replaced rose up off the
coffee table. Stan watched it in horror. “What?”
    He jumped to his feet. Angie froze. The two stared
slack-jawed as the dish hovered, then moved back from Stan a moment before it
rocketed towards him as if hurled from a sling-shot. Stan ducked just in time.
The dish sailed past him and hit a wall.
    Stan let out a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream, and ran
behind Angie. A book slid out of the bookshelf and now it too floated in mid-air:
Umberto