With my laptop and purse, that was six trips to make the move official. I'd stop by the storage unit and grab a vase and a few other tidbits from the Grove Street house to round it all out tomorrow.
Jones hadn't been home when I'd gone there to pick up my relatives and possessions. Something had torn in my chest when I'd shut and locked the door, leaving my key under the mat. It was over. The best relationship of my life had come to a screeching halt. Part of me couldn't believe it, like it was some kind of dream that I'd wake up from any minute.
"I think it is good." Aunt Cecily nodded with approval. "Woman should not live with a man and give him the pasta for free before they are wed."
I rolled my eyes. Talk about your pot and your kettle scenario.
Aunt Cecily caught the gesture and said, "I was not living with Eugene. We just had the intercourse."
"Ew," I said, pretty sure I never wanted to have "the intercourse" again after that announcement. Now I knew how Kaylee had felt earlier when I'd talked about my love life. Queasy and embarrassed all at once. "And you're still not married."
"We are old, and we are family," Aunt Cecily said as though that made it any better. "Do as I say, not as I do."
Arguing with her was an exercise in futility. I took my sad little box of clothes back to the master bedroom and locked the door.
The room was dark and cool but not frigidly cold. I put down my box and opened the lid. It took all of two minutes to hang every article of clothing I owned on a hanger. Thirtysomething and moving in with my grandfather and great-aunt. A daughter who disdained me. Incapable of an adult relationship with a man, and not like I had many prospects for future dates either. Between my crazy work hours and being banned from the only decent bar in the county, my future dating life looked dimmer than a burnt-out light bulb. The dating pool of Beaverton was remarkably shallow, especially with two of my ex's lurking around every corner.
I sat down on the bed, blinking back tears. Well, didn't this just bite the big ol' hairy Italian sausage? I didn't want to date anyone but Jones, and he'd gone and screwed that all up. The big sexy jerk.
Someone tapped on my window, and I let out a startled shriek.
"Psst, Andy!" a female voice called from the azalea bushes.
What the hell? I rose and moved over to the window. The shade had been down, and I had to tug it several times to get it to retract. It snapped up with a thwack, and I stared down at Lizzy Tillman's half-frozen form.
I opened the window. "What are you doing here?" After my last conversation with Jones, I'd forgotten all about her and her wild theory.
She was in full ski regalia. Powder-blue jacket and ivory mittens, with a matching ear band. Skintight black ski pants. Hastily removed baby-blue poles and skis stuck out of the bush almost obscenely. "I didn't want anyone else to see me. Will you let me in? It's colder than a witch's britches out here."
I bit back the retort that if she didn't want anyone to see, her she shouldn't have skied over the pastel rainbow to get here. All in favor of shutting the window again as soon as possible, I held out a hand and hoisted her up. "You could have come to the door, you know. It's just Pops and Aunt Cecily here, and trust me, they know how to keep a secret."
Lizzy whipped the cover off the bed and swaddled herself in it. Her pale face was almost translucent. I could see the blue of veins snaking beneath the surface of her skin, but her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from more than windburn. "I don't want anyone to know I was here."
I frowned. "I just moved in. How did you know I'd be here?"
"The whole town is talking about your breakup with my brother."
"They are?" I blinked. Even for Beaverton, that was some fast work.
Lizzy nodded. "I made a few calls and found out which house had been rented today."
Cursed small town. "Is this about your dad?" I asked.
She nodded. "You know that little shack in the woods where he goes to imbibe?"
"Sort of." If imbibe meant getting out-of-control plastered. Lizzy had to learn to call a spade a spade. The man had pulled a shotgun on Jones and me when we'd been looking for a Christmas tree, for crying out loud. "What about it?"
Lizzy shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. "After he left for his business trip, I went there, looking for clues. And you'll never guess what I found there."
I was in no mood to guess and told her so.
"Gasoline cans." Lizzy's expression was grim. "Lots of them."
An uneasy feeling took root in my gut. "That doesn't prove he's the arsonist. There could be any number of reasons he's got a bunch of gas cans. Besides, he doesn't have a motive."
"Yes, he does," Lizzy insisted. She withdrew something from her coat pocket. "You see there? That's the jury list from my mom's lawyer. Both Mrs. Bradford and Freddy Harris sat on the jury during her trial last fall. I bet he blames them for her conviction."
I took the paper from her and stared down at it. "Freddy Harris?"
"Owns the assisted living home," Lizzy said. "Or what's left of it."
Dread snaked inside me. "Lizzy, this is serious. You have to tell Kyle."
"I can't," she hissed. "Don't you get it? People died in the last fire. If I tell Kyle and he finds evidence to tie my dad to the arsons, he'll have no choice but to arrest him."
I threw my hands in the air. "Well, what do you expect me to do about it? If he is going after people who are behind your mother's conviction, he's not going to want to talk reasonably to me. And if he is doing this? You can't let him just keep it up."
"I know." She looked down at the floor. "It's just…well, there's got to be something I can do to help. I don't want to lose my father too. "
I watched her struggle with her emotions for a minute and, despite myself, felt sympathy toward her. Through no fault of her own, her entire life had been turned upside down over the last year. I could so relate, something I never thought possible with the high-strung, devious diva version of Lizzy Tillman I'd known in high school
I made a face as realization hit of what had to happen next. "Okay, so no involving Kyle. And you still don't want to tell Jones?"
Lizzy bit her lip. "I'm afraid he'll leave if I do." She frowned. "Did your moving out have anything to do with this?"
"No," I told her, unwilling to elaborate. "So no Kyle and no Jones. There's only one person left for us to call."
Lizzy frowned. "Who?"
I let out a breath. This was going to suck. "Your bigamist sister-in-law."
Caprese Salad
You'll need:
1 (8 oz) ball buffalo mozzarella
1 pint fresh grape tomatoes
9 whole basil leaves
1 tablespoon basil-infused extra virgin olive oil
Wash and drain tomatoes, and set aside to dry. Cube mozzarella, and add to a bowl. Tear basil leaves, and add to bowl. Add tomatoes, and toss with oil.
**Andy's note: Fresh ingredients are the key to this simple and fast recipe, so don't skimp on quality.
CHAPTER NINE
Rochelle Harrison was a total knockout. She possessed an effortless kind of beauty, the sort of woman who looked gorgeous with no makeup and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was tall and lean, with supermodel-esque cheekbones, and her white sweater and black slacks combo fit her like a second skin. Without even trying, she made every other female around her aware of the snag in her own black sweater, and the cheap fabric of her black broomstick skirt, and the fact that her black snow boots were neither designer nor fashionable. At least I hadn't spilled spaghetti sauce on myself yet that day, but only because I'd just come from a funeral.
The three elderly people who had died in the last fire were all put to rest, even though their killer hadn't been brought to justice. With any luck, our visit here would help change that.
If Rochelle was surprised to find Lizzy and me at her door, she hid it under a terrific poker face. "Ms. Buckland. Ms. Tillman. What can I do for you?"
&nbs
p; "We want to hire you," Lizzy announced point-blank. "To find the arsonist."
My unlikely companion also wore black, some designer label that allowed her to look good while in mourning. Maybe it was the monochrome dress code, but this was the first time I'd seen a real resemblance between her and her half brother. Something in her eyes, combined with a determined set of her chin. I had no idea she could be that ornery. She'd even given me a run for my money when we'd argued in the car.
Lizzy had agreed that if Rochelle unearthed solid evidence to prove her father was setting fire to buildings all around town, she'd turn whatever we found over to the proper authorities. Of course she must be hoping Rochelle Harrison would discover that someone else was the firebug so her father could be let off the hook. Personally, I didn't really care who was behind it. I just wanted the fiend brought to justice.
Rochelle opened the door to her motel room wider and gestured for us to come in. I felt her eyes on me, curiosity coming off of her in waves. I had a pretty solid grip on what was going through her head, because the same sort of gale-force thoughts gusted through mine. Technically, it hadn't been necessary for me to come with Lizzy to hire Rochelle, but I'd insisted. Though I told myself I only wanted to find out who was paying her to keep tabs on me, really I just wanted a look at the woman Malcolm Jones had loved enough to marry. And who'd broken his heart.
Funny, she didn't look like demon spawn.
"So you want me to find an arsonist?" she asked, gesturing toward the clunky vinyl chairs. There were only two, so she sat on the hideous floral bedspread. The woman was way too elegant for her shabby surroundings. Unfortunately for her, Beaverton didn't have another lodging facility. Most people who came to town stayed with their relations or bought a house and settled down. Long-term guests were rare and, I'd often thought, gluttons for punishment.
I nodded. "My grandfather and great-aunt were residents in the assisted living facility that burned down. Three of their friends died. We just came from their funeral."
"I'm sorry." Rochelle's dark eyebrows drew down. "But why come to me? You have your own licensed PI at the ready."
Lizzy cleared her throat and lifted her pointed chin. "Jones is busy with his photography." We had a heated debate over telling her the things we'd found out about Lizzy's father. I'd wanted to tell her everything and give her a place to start, while Lizzy refused to divulge any of the information she'd dug up on her dad. In the end, we'd opted to let the PI start from scratch and see what she discovered on her own. If she cleared Mr. Tillman, so much the better, and Jones never needed to know we were here.
"I see," Rochelle murmured, her expression neutral. She frowned, looked down my less-than-svelte figure, and then shook it off. "Okay." She rubbed her hands over her thighs. "If this has anything to do with your wanting to keep me off of your case, I can assure you that I'm done with my investigation. I've already booked my flight back to New York."
I liked that she assumed Jones had been honest with me. Clearly she knew his character. Though she was beautiful, there really wasn't anything overtly seductive about her. She wasn't an obvious sort of ho-bag like Lacey L'Amour. Rochelle maintained a reserved demeanor. I couldn't tell if that was for my benefit or Lizzy's, or if that was just her natural state.
Unfortunately, my overly active imagination could easily picture her with Jones. The two of them cool and polished, attractive like marble statues. His black knight to her white queen, like yin-yang bookends, each the perfect match for the other.
So why the hell had he been into a hot mess like me? I felt sort of itchy and uncomfortable all over, like I'd been rolling around in wet sand.
"So will you take the job?" Lizzy asked.
Rochelle's topaz eyes fixed on me. "As much as I'd like to help, I can't mix cases. There's a severe conflict of interest here."
"One thing has nothing to do with the other," I said. Unless the arsonist was also the person who was digging into my past and threatening Kaylee. Maybe if I got lucky, it would turn out to be Lacey, and that would be three birds with one stone.
But Rochelle shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."
One thing about Lizzy, she wasn't above using emotional blackmail to get her way. "Look, Rochelle. I don't like you. You broke my brother's heart. So believe me when I say that if I had any other option, I'd take my business elsewhere. But I don't. You owe this to me, to Malcolm, and to our family for what you did."
Rochelle looked away, but not before I saw the regret on her face. Was that because she was sorry she'd hurt the Tillman family or because she missed Jones? Did she want him back even now? Was that why she'd decided to dig up some dirt on me, maybe to edge me out and get back under his skin? If so, her plan was working, but somehow I didn't think so. She didn't look at me as though I was the competition, the way Lacey did, or with obvious dislike, the way Lizzy always had. Rochelle looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy.
No, I decided in that moment, she hadn't come to win Jones back. My gut told me that although she still had affection for him, she wasn't here to seduce my man. I relaxed a little as relief coursed through me. Then I recalled that he was no longer my man, and flinched. Rochelle wasn't the only woman in the room who'd hurt Jones.
Maybe I could make it up to him by getting Rochelle on board to investigate the arsons and, with any luck, clear his father. Though I had no hope it would bring us back together, it felt like the right thing to do.
"If it helps," I said to Rochelle, "you're not really working for me. You'll be working for Lizzy. I'm really not involved at all, only here for moral support."
That did seem to help, because Rochelle nodded slowly. "Okay then, I'll see what I can do."
Though I could tell it galled her, Lizzy shook Rochelle's hand and then slid her a business card with her name and cell phone number. "Call me the second you find anything."
Rochelle looked down at the card and murmured, "I will."
Satisfied she's gotten her way, Lizzy exited the room without a backward glance, assuming I'd be trailing her like a water skier in her wake. I wasn't nearly so sanguine.
Rochelle raised one elegant eyebrow in my direction. "Is there something else?"
Was there? I cleared my throat, unsure of what to say but knowing I had to say something. "Did you love him?"
She held my gaze for a moment and then uttered a quiet, "Yes."
I believed her. "Then why didn't you tell him you were married? Why not get divorced?"
She would have been well within her rights to tell me to mind my own beeswax. That's probably what I would have done in her situation. Rochelle took a different approach. "If you want the whole story, I'll give it to you. I've been trying to tell him for a week now, but he doesn't want to hear it. But I have a meeting I need to get to. Meet me later, say for dinner?"
Was I really going to have dinner with my ex-boyfriend's former wife? The woman who was probably on her way to hand over all the gory details that would ruin my daughter's newfound stability?
Though I'd only just met Rochelle, I thought I understood her. She did her job to the best of her ability and took pride in her work, the same way I did, the same way Jones did. Plus, curiosity gnawed a giant hole through me. Besides, it wasn't like I had anything better scheduled.
"Okay. But not in Beaverton." The last thing I wanted was for it to get around town that I was hanging out with Rochelle. I doubted Kaylee would ever forgive me if she found out I'd talked to the PI who might be helping some unknown person to ruin her life.
"There's a diner two towns over. You know it?"
I did. Their main food was a total grease fest, but they had excellent Kentucky pie. "What time?"
"Any time after six."
"Make it seven." Pops and Aunt Cecily would be busy until late, sharing food and stories with their friends. They wouldn't even notice if I had other plans for dinner
I nodded and then took my leave, wondering if I'd lost my last marble.
&nb
sp; * * *
After the funeral, I'd decided to leave Pops's town car at the Bowtie Angel and ride with Lizzy, a fact I'd been sorely regretting. She'd grilled me over what I'd said to Rochelle in private, and she drove so slowly I could have walked back to the pasta shop faster. "I told you—it wasn't about the case."
"Was it about Malcolm?" she peppered me.
I cast her a level look. "What do you think?"
She glanced into the rearview mirror and then frowned. "I think we're being followed."
When someone announces that you are being followed, the natural impulse is to turn around and see who or what is doing the following. I checked the urge and asked her, "What kind of car is it?"
"I'm not a car person," she griped.
I didn't bother to stop my eye roll. "What color is it? Is it an SUV or sedan?"
"It looks like Jones's car," she said. "All big and dark."
An SUV then. "Can you see the driver?"
"The windows are tinted." Lizzy turned off onto Main Street. "What should I do?"
I thought about it for a second. "Drop me off at the Bowtie Angel."
"What will that do?" She braked for an upcoming turn.
"We'll see if they follow you or me. If they stick with you, drive right to the sheriff's office and make like you were heading to visit Kyle anyway. If they park, circle the block and try to get the license plate. Then call Kyle and tell him what's going on. He'll find out who it is."
She gave me a look of grudging respect. "You're kinda good at this."
I shrugged. "I've picked up a few things from your brother."
Lizzy pulled up in front of the Bowtie Angel. I shivered as a gust of wind hit me, yanking the door out of my grip. I'd be so glad when this damn cold finally let up. My entire body was sore. I felt like a partially frozen piece of meat, as though I could never get warm all the way through.
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 8
