He looked so lost, so completely out of his depth, that I reached for his hand. "You've been sidestepping any talk about what happens next."
He ran a hand through his hair and then down his stubble-covered chin. "Because I don't know, Andrea. I don't know what comes next. And I don't know what topics are open for discussion."
"What do you mean?"
He gave me an exasperated look. "You get upset when I talk about Lizzy or when I talk about my father or my ex. You've been high strung ever since Christmas."
I read between the lines. "You mean since Kaylee came to town."
He didn't nod. He didn't need to, because all of a sudden, the picture clicked into focus.
If my head didn't hurt like the devil, I would have thunked it against the quartz countertop. "You haven't wanted to upset me, so you've been keeping it all to yourself."
He smiled faintly. "I'm no better at this relationship business than you are, Andrea."
I'd forgotten that. The only real long-term relationship he'd had before me was with Rochelle, and that had been a soul-shredding disaster. So here comes Andy and her big old bag of crazy triggers. The poor man must feel like he was walking on eggshells with me. I blew out an enormous sigh, mingled with regret and relief. "Jones, I'm one-quarter Italian. I get as worked up over a hangnail as I do the quarterly reports. Passion and showmanship—it's the Rossetti way. I thought you liked that about me."
"I do," he insisted, and his eyes were intense. "I love that I always know what you're feeling. I simply don't want to overload you when you're already wound so tightly."
I squeezed his hand. He had such beautifully masculine hands, strength and elegance all at once. "See, that's one of the benefits of having a passionate nature. I have these mini-eruptions all the time, so I'm not gonna pull a Krakatoa on you. I can handle more stress than your average crazypants. What I can't handle is you dodging me or keeping things from me for my own good. Got it?"
He smiled, then reached out to steady me as I listed too far to the right. "You're about to fall off that stool. How about I promise we talk after you're fully recovered?"
I made a face, partly from my throbbing cranium and partly from his avoidance. "Malcolm…"
His hands were warm on my arm. "I'm not dodging—I'm choosing my moment."
Okay, well, I was in pain and having a hard time holding a thought. Still, one side of my family tree was Scotts-Irish ornery, and the other was related to Aunt Cecily. I didn't know the meaning of the word quit. "I can handle it now."
Jones grinned down at me. "I know you can, but I can't. Let me tend to you. Twenty-four hours, and then we'll talk. "
I gave him my best Evil-Eye glare, which only made his grin spread. I really must have looked as though I was about to face-plant onto Lizzy's gorgeous tile floor. "Have it your way, then."
Jones escorted me to the couch, helped ease me into the most comfortable position I could manage, and then covered me with a black-and-white blanket.
"Thank you," he said softly, as though allowing him to care for me was a huge inconvenience on my part.
"Anytime," I mumbled as I drifted into a light doze.
* * *
It was a miserable twenty-four hours. The headache proved relentless, and every time I managed to escape into sleep, someone was shaking me awake. Jones took the first eight hours, but his hovering drove me nuts, so after I insisted I was well looked after, he left to follow up on one of his cases. I worried about him driving, as he was operating on zero sleep, but he promised he wasn't going far.
At the fourteen-hour mark I gave up on the mini-naps and escaped into the master bath for a long soak in the tub and almost drowned when I fell asleep, cocooned in warm water. I surfaced, sputtering and swearing, completely waterlogged and as uppity as a wet cat.
"Everything all right, Andy girl?" Pops knocked on the bathroom door.
"Yes," I called, sounding testy even in monosyllables.
"Do you need me to get you anything?" Pops was still there, obviously not taking the hint. "Or maybe do anything for you?"
"No, thank you," I called. The light hurt my eyes, and I covered them with my hands, blocking out the gleaming white bathroom.
A pause and then, "You sure 'bout that?"
I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of garlic and oregano drifting under the crack in the door to mix with the aroma of lavender bubble bath. Aunt Cecily had taken over the kitchen. As much as I loved her cooking, at the moment with my head splitting like a ripe melon, the thought of food made me want to gag. I closed my eyes, feeling that drowning sensation all over again, only this time I was suffocating from the crush of well-meaning relations.
Then I recalled the tragedy of the retirement home fire. Tending to me was a good distraction for my older relatives, even if they were driving me up the freaking wall. "Be out in a few, Pops," I called.
"I'm gonna walk Roofus. Call Cecily if you need anything."
I breathed a sigh of relief as his footsteps shuffled off to go pester the dog. Roofus was only getting lazier as he aged, and he detested the cold, so Pops had his work cut out for him. After climbing from the tub, I dried off and swathed myself in Jones's black fleece robe. I pulled the stopper on the tub and then opened the window to let the arctic air break up the cloying scents in the room.
"Come on, boy," I heard Pops say from the other side of the house. He clapped then whistled. "Don't you want to go out?"
I wondered how Roofus would have responded if he could talk. "Kiss off, old timer," maybe. Or more succinct, "No thanks, but if you want to, go nuts." Or maybe if, like me, he would have endured it because that's what you did for family
I stood there as long as I could stand it, concussed and feeling both sick and grateful at the same time. Grateful that I had family who cared enough to smother me with devotion. If I had real people clothes on, I would have slithered right out of the window and run screaming into the purpling twilight.
The flash of headlights as a vehicle crested the hill burned into my brain like acid. I hissed like a vampire caught by a random shaft of sunlight and ducked back into the shadows. Who the heck was that? My heart leapt as I thought of the arsonist. Would he toss a Molotov cocktail through the window?
Breaks sounded, and then a car door slammed. My heart raced, and I stood frozen to the spot.
"Hey there, Miz Lizzy," Pops called out in greeting, and I breathed a sigh of relief, cursing my overactive imagination.
"Hi there, Mr. Buckland." Jones's sister was sweet as cannoli filling to pretty much anyone who wasn't me. Her saccharine tone made my eye twitch, which made my head hurt all the more. "I'm so sorry to hear about what happened at your building."
Since I'd recently sworn off eavesdropping, I shut the window and shuffled into the bedroom. Aunt Cecily had made up the bed with precise hospital corners, the kind that were nice to look at but made sleep impossible, unless you were used to being swaddled in a straitjacket.
Jones still hadn't returned from his latest job. I hoped Lizzy wouldn't stick around too long waiting for him, as I didn't want to be trapped in the bedroom all night.
"Of frigging course she showed up," I grumbled to myself. Because I was already feeling like crap, Lizzy had to come rub my nose in it. Not that she was actively doing anything to me at the moment, but then again, her presence had a habit of getting my dander up, as Nana used to say.
"You girls have always rubbed each other the wrong way," Nana had told me one day when I'd been complaining to her about how Lizzy had superglued my locker shut. "Some people are oil and water together and just shouldn't mix."
"Like Pops and Aunt Cecily," I'd said.
Nana had rolled her eyes heavenward. "Those two are a whole different kettle of fish."
I smiled at the memory, then frowned as I wondered if Nana had seen the spark between her older sister and her husband of forty years even then. I sure as hell hadn't known their bickering was anything other than two stubborn people w
ho were forced together on a regular basis. In reality, their sniping had been based in their mutual attraction, a thought that still made my lip curl up in revulsion.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door. "Andy?"
"Yeah?" I called out, then frowned when Lizzy pushed open the door. Technically this was her bedroom, the one she would share with my baby daddy whenever the hell they got around to tying the knot. The fact that I was hanging out in my bathrobe only added another level of awkwardness to the mix.
Lizzy entered the room and shut the door behind her, though she didn't come any closer. "How are you feeling?"
"Like crap on toast," I griped. Pulling punches wasn't my style. "What's up?"
"I wanted to talk to you about my dad."
"Oh?" I said, surprised. "Why?"
She shook her head and lowered her voice until it was barely audible. "Not here. Will you be at the pasta shop tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I said slowly. Was she trying to set me up for something? Damn it, I couldn't think. My thoughts were too insubstantial. We were adults now, and the childhood pranks and resentment were behind us. Well, mostly. "Lizzy, is everything all right? With your dad, I mean?"
I hoped Mr. Tillman hadn't received any bad news. God, how would Jones cope if his estranged father had been diagnosed with a terminal illness? My former nemesis looked more discomposed than I'd ever seen her, her eyes darting to the window, back literally against the wall. Either she was a great actress, or she was seriously freaked out. Not a good sign.
"No." She spoke softly, and her eyes filled. "I think my dad might be the arsonist."
Parmesan Pasta Salad
You'll need:
8 oz corkscrew pasta, cooked until al dente
10 oz fresh spinach, washed, dried, and torn into small pieces
8 oz mozzarella cheese, cubed
8 oz ham, cubed
4 oz green chilies, chopped and drained
For the Parmesan dressing:
1 egg
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon pepper
1/4 teaspoon cloves
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
1 teaspoon salt
2 minced garlic cloves
Place egg in blender, and blend 5 seconds.
With blender running slowly, add extra virgin olive oil until thickened. Add and blend until smooth. Mix with remaining dressing ingredients, then toss with salad and chill. Sprinkle with additional Parmesan cheese, and serve.
**Andy's note: A friend of mine from culinary school grew up with this dish in her family's restaurant, and it's a crowd pleaser. For the record, she didn't like Lacey L'Amour either.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Lizzy thinks her father might be setting the fires?" Donna screeched.
"Sssh," I shushed her, glad I'd had the forethought to talk to her in the car, where we couldn't be overheard. My head still hurt, though it didn't feel about to split open like an overripe melon as much as it had the day before. The incredulous note in her voice was like a fork scraping over bone china though. "Yes, and you can't tell Steven. Lizzy doesn't want anyone to know."
"Are you sure she isn't just messing with you?" Donna raised a brow. "I mean, why tell you and not tell her fiancé or her brother, who could, you know, do something about it?"
I'd asked Lizzy the very same questions and repeated what she'd told me to Donna. "Kyle's the sheriff. He'd investigate, and if he found something linking Mr. Tillman to the fires, he'd have to act on it. Just like if you told Steven something of a criminal nature, especially if people died because of it."
Donna nodded as though accepting the inherent wisdom in that reasoning. "She still could have told her brother though."
I shifted in my seat to look at her more closely. "When I mentioned that to her, she shut me down quick. I've been mulling over the why of it all night. The only thing I could come up with was that she doesn't want to turn Jones against his father for good. If he found out his father was an arsonist, he just might turn his back on the man forever."
Donna shook her head. "It still doesn't make sense though, Andy. Lizzy doesn't even like you, so why would she trust you with such a huge secret?"
"There's no one else. She doesn't have any friends she could trust with this sort of thing—they'd all go blabbing it around town. Even though Lizzy and I aren't besties, she knows me. I would do anything to protect Jones. If news that his father is a suspected arsonist spreads around town, it'll ruin the whole family's reputation."
"Not like it could take another blow," Donna agreed. "So is that the only reason?"
"Well that, and she knows I'd believe her."
Donna raised a brow. "And do you?"
I considered it for a moment. "It makes sense. I told you about how we found him in the woods at Christmas, right? All drunk and crazy, wielding a shotgun. I barely recognized him. He was a far cry from a respectable business man."
Donna snorted. "Sounds like half the population of the town, if you ask me."
"This is serious. What if he really is setting these fires? What do I do?"
"Does she have any proof?" Donna drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.
"Not that she mentioned, but Pops and Aunt Cecily were loitering outside the door, so she didn't really get into it. She's coming by the pasta shop in a little bit to talk to me."
Donna's even, white teeth sank into her lower lip. "If she asks you to do something crazy, promise you'll call me first."
I rolled my eyes and then wished I hadn't. "So you can do it with me? Seriously, Donna, we're turning into Beaverton's own modern-day Lucy and Ethel."
She pointed an accusing pink-polished fingernail at me. "Don't look at me—you're the one who started a bar fight."
"Well, you're the one who took me out drinking. You know I'm banned from Judy's for life? What kind of an example is that to set for my kid?" Never mind where would I go when I needed a stiff drink?
"Do as I say, not as I do," Donna quipped. "Seriously though, don't let Lizzy get you in over your head."
I nodded and then regretted it when the residual ache in my cranium gave a noticeable pang. "Trust me, Donna. I've got it handled. I'll call you later."
I slid out of her car and waved as she drove off. The morning was clear and crisp. Across the street I saw Lacey L'Amour fussing with a grand-opening banner in her front window. When she saw me, she stuck her pert little nose in the air and flounced away. I shrugged and headed into my own restaurant, trusting that the people of Beaverton would see right through all her phony glitz and she'd be out of business in a month.
"Good morning, Andy." Mimi greeted me with a huge smile and a stack of receipts. "Would you like to go over the sales from yesterday?"
"A little later. Thanks for handling the place all alone yesterday. I hope it wasn't too much for you."
"Not a problem. Business was sort of slow." Mimi's smile was a little too bright. It was the kind of expression someone wore when she had bad news and thought delivering it in a positive way would lessen the impact. For the record, that never worked.
I blew out a sigh. "Okay, Mimi, you might as well tell me what happened."
She cringed. "The health inspector stopped in."
"Theo?" Theodor Randolph, our county health inspector, was as old as the hills. "Did he give us a score? What was it?"
She winced. "An 89.9."
My eyes rounded in horror. "He gave us a B? The Bowtie Angel has never once gotten a B. Not in fifty-two years." When word of this got out, I'd be the subject of gossip for months. Never mind what Aunt Cecily would do. Not even a month into running the pasta shop on my own, and I'd already tarnished her pristine sanitation record. "What went wrong?"
Mimi wrung her hands. "I'm sorry. He caught me at a bad moment. The walk-in was open, and the temperature was up too high. Not dangerous or anything. We didn't lose any inventory. I don't know what happened. I swear I'd shut and latched it, but
the latch was broken, and it was hanging open. I had to prop a chair against it to keep it shut. Plus, the trash bag broke when I took it out of the can, so I was in the middle of cleaning up garbage when he showed up. He said he understood, that those things happened, but he still penalized us for it."
"That's a lot of crappy luck all at once." I hung up my coat and purse and sidled back to the walk-in refrigerator and bent down to examine the handle. It looked fine to me, just as it had the last time I'd used it. I moved the ladder-back chair Mimi had propped against it, and sure enough, the door swung open. "Son of a gun, it's busted, all right. I'll run to the hardware store and get a padlock to keep in place until we can get it repaired. No idea how that could have happened?"
Mimi shook her head. "It was fine in the morning, caught and held as always."
"And no one else was back here? Did we get any deliveries?" I swore on my best spaghetti pot that if Druggie Don had brought over tomatoes while he was high and busted my walk-in without saying anything, I'd take it out of his hash-smoking hide.
Mimi's forehead creased as she thought back. "No deliveries. Kaylee came in after school and did some dishes. Oh, and that French lady stopped by."
I'd been reaching for my apron but froze midmotion. "French lady?"
Mimi smiled. "Yes, Lacey L'Amour. She offered me a job in her restaurant, as a pastry chef. I declined of course." She said this last in a rush and stared worriedly at me.
Damn, damn, damn. Bypassing Mimi, I strode for the pantry, took down the box of garbage bags, and took the next one out. "That sabotaging, sous-chef-stealing skank."
"What?" Mimi had followed me in. "What's wrong."
I showed her the small slit someone had cut in the next trash bag, and the one after that. "Mimi, did you leave her alone back here? Tell me everything that she said and did, word for word."
"No." Then Mimi scowled, the expression so dark on her delicate features. "She said she wanted to make sure your grandfather and aunt were all right after the fire. I told her that yes, they were fine and staying with you for now. I had to bring some fresh pasta out front, and she said she'd let herself out."
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 6
