Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé

by Jennifer L. Hart

  After hanging up my coat in the kitchen, I peered out the window beside the back door. Lizzy pulled back into traffic—then Mrs. Jaeger's gold Lexus went by. No sign of an SUV.

  I pulled the business card Lizzy had given me earlier from my back pocket, wondering why she always seemed to have one to hand out. It was a plain white card with her name and number etched in silver calligraphy. There was no job title, since being a buttinsky wasn't an actual profession. Maybe they were like social cards. I'd have to ask Jones.

  Then I winced and remembered I wasn't in any position to ask Jones anything. Shoot, when was that going to sink in? He'd become such an ingrained part of my life that coming to terms with never seeing him again was getting harder, not easier. If Rochelle discovered that Mr. Tillman was indeed behind the arsons, would Jones leave town? What if I never saw him again?

  "Eye on the prize, Andy," I muttered to myself. Lizzy. I had to text Lizzy and let her know the SUV had stayed with me. My fingers were stiff, aching from the cold, and I dropped the phone. It slid under the workstation. "Frick."

  "Is everything all right, Andy?" Mimi pushed her way in from the front room. We'd delayed opening again because of the funerals, but since Mimi lived over the pasta shop, she'd offered to get things going. The air was spiced with tomatoes, garlic, and oregano.

  "Yeah, just dropped my stupid cell."

  She gave me a puzzled look. "You sure? You look a little pale."

  I pasted on a bright smile. "Just thinking about the new menu. Are you looking forward to getting back to pastries again?"

  Mimi grinned. "I can't wait. When are we going to launch it?"

  Changing up a long-standing menu wasn't something that happened overnight. There were supply issues, cook-time issues, freezer-space issues. Some current menu items had to be chopped or changed, and I was having trouble picking which ones to cull. They were all classics, dishes Aunt Cecily and my grandmother had implemented with love and care over decades. Deciding what to leave behind was like Sophie's Choice, the pasta edition.

  Essentially we were launching a new restaurant at the same time as we tried to run the old one. Tough stuff, but if I was going to compete with Lacey L'Amour across the freaking street, I had to make some damn decisions already.

  "I'm thinking Valentine's Day. You up for that?"

  Mimi nodded. "Of course. Oh, and Malcolm Jones called."

  I blinked. "Today? He called today?"

  She nodded. "This morning. Did you hurt your hands?"

  I'd been distracted, wondering why Jones would have called the pasta shop instead of just phoning my cell, and answered absently, "No, why?"

  "You keep rubbing them."

  "It's just the cold. Makes me feel kind of stiff all over. Did Jones leave a message?"

  "He said he'd call back."

  Curiouser and curiouser. "Okay then. Do you need any help up here before I make the rounds out front?"

  Mimi shook her head. "I've got it. And we have a group waiting at the door."

  "I'll go open up." After checking my cell one more time, I slid it into my back pocket and pasted on my game face. There were several people waiting outside. Some had come to the funerals, others just stopping in for a to-go container of spaghetti and meatballs on their lunch hour. I served for almost an hour. As owner and head chef, I had to ensure that everyone who walked through the door of the Bowtie Angel would have the best dining experience possible and hopefully let us feed them again.

  "Where's Eugene?" Ursula Mulvaney asked as I dropped off her bowtie chicken and pesto. "I thought sure he would be here after the funeral."

  "Oh, he and Aunt Cecily offered to help host the gathering at the seniors' center this afternoon."

  Ursula looked down at her plate and then fluffed her frosted gray hair. "Can I get this to go?"

  "Sure." I whisked the plate over to the counter where our Styrofoam take-out containers were stacked, smiling to myself. Ursula had the hots for my grandfather and conveniently forgot that he was taken. And she wasn't the only one. Eligible bachelors weren't exactly thick on the ground for the seniors in Beaverton, and there were a lot of lonely hearts hoping that because Pops and Aunt Cecily hadn't made anything official yet, there was still hope my grandfather was up for grabs.

  I smiled and served and listened to about as much gossip as I could handle. Several people offered me condolences about Jones, as though it had been his funeral earlier that morning. My happy face was starting to crack around the edges. Though I'd trained myself to deal with being in the limelight, it didn't come naturally to me. I was an introvert by nature and had to overcome my own personality quirks to be a successful business owner. But add on the looks of pity that I was single yet again, and I was on the ragged edge.

  "Hey, Little Bit," Mike Jefferies of Mike's Garage called out.

  He sat with a group of guys we'd both known since high school. Mike knew full well I despised that nickname. He was just needling me. It proved how far I'd come that I was still smiling instead of handing him his man parts on a platter. "How's your mom doing?"

  "She can complain and does. Mostly as how I'm a good-for-nothin' son who won't settle down and give her grandkids already. How's the 'Stang?"

  "Snug as a bug in a rug and garaged for the winter." I sighed, missing my vintage wheels. The town car got me where I needed to go, but every time I parked, it was like docking an ocean liner.

  "Heard about you moving out on Jones," Derek Gibbs said. "Tough break. Does that mean you're back on the market?"

  "Nope. I'm focusing on my career." Something Derek wouldn't know about, since he'd been on unemployment since high school.

  "Will your career keep you warm at night?" Derek slung an arm around my waist and pulled me in close. He smelled like a combination distillery and locker room.

  I tried to pry myself loose, my temper rising. We didn't serve alcohol in the Bowtie Angel, but that didn't stop idiots from coming in drunk and causing trouble. "I've got a dog. Let go of me."

  Mike looked worried, and he reached across the table, trying to help free me. "Come on, man. Let her go."

  Derek opened his mouth to slur some other nonsense, when he was yanked up by the collar. He was so startled that he let go of me, and I backed away quickly.

  Oh no. I thought. No, no, no, no-no. "Malcolm…" I began.

  Jones wasn't listening. His eyes glittered with deadly intent as he dragged Derek out of the booth. The tables had all gone quiet—all conversation ground to a halt. "Apologize to the lady."

  "She ain't no lady." Derek obviously had less sense than I thought. "Getcher hands offa me."

  "The lady is with me." Jones's tone was low and deadly.

  "That ain't what I heard." Either Derek was too drunk or too stupid to recognize the threat.

  "From now on, you treat her with respect, or you find somewhere else to eat." He let go of Derek, who slumped to the floor.

  Jones turned to face me, gripping me by the arm. "Come with me."

  He looked terrible, beard stubble coating his usually perfectly shaven jaw, blue eyes ringed with dark circles as though he hadn't slept, the whites bloodshot. He was a man on the ragged edge, and a pang went through me as I realized I'd helped put him there.

  Still, I wasn't about to let him push me around in my own place of business, in front of half the town. "Let go of me this instant, Malcolm Jones."

  To his credit, he did, but not before a bullhorn blared. All heads whipped toward the plate-glass window.

  Outside the window, lights flashed. Cripes, was that the entire Beaverton police force out there?

  "Malcolm Jones." Kyle spoke through the bullhorn, decked out in full sheriff's regalia. "Come out with your hands up. You are under arrest."

  Baked Cauliflower

  You'll need:

  1 head of cauliflower, cut into equal-sized florets

  1 1/2 cups Panko bread crumbs

  1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

  1 teaspoon dried oregano<
br />
  Pinch of red pepper flakes

  salt and pepper

  3 eggs, beaten

  Preheat oven to 400 degrees, and baste a foil-lined baking sheet with olive oil.

  In a shallow bowl, toss together the crumbs, cheese, oregano, pepper flakes, salt and pepper.

  Place the eggs in another bowl, and first dip the florets in the egg mixture, then roll in the crumb mixture until coated.

  Place the cauliflower pieces on the prepared baking sheet, and continue until all of the pieces are breaded. Baste the top of the cauliflower florets with some olive oil, then bake for about 40 minutes or until golden brown and tender-crisp.

  **Andy's note: This dish is even more engaging if you use orange or purple cauliflower. A delicious and colorful surprise. Some surprises are better than others.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "What are the charges?" I pounced when Kyle finally entered his office. He'd been puffed up with his arrest and had put a decent amount of distance between the two of us, knowing I'd deflate his ego faster than he could spit. I'd left the Bowtie Angel and driven down to the station only to be ushered into his office to wait for news on Jones. I had been twiddling my thumbs for over an hour and was fit to be tied by the time he walked in. "You can't arrest him just because you don't like him."

  Kyle narrowed his gaze on me. "Give me a little credit, Andy. I would have thought you were glad to have him out of your hair. I heard the two of you broke up finally. The whole town is speculating that you found out what Jones had been up to, and that's why you moved out."

  "This town needs a hobby," I grumped. "And just because we broke up doesn't mean I want to see him behind bars."

  "Did you know that he was the one following you?" Kyle asked. "That's stalking, in my book."

  "Um, no." I blinked. Lizzy really was a car idiot. She'd said the SUV that had been tailing us looked like Jones's SUV, not that it was Jones's SUV. "Besides, it's not stalking unless Lizzy or I press charges. I haven't. Are you going to sit there with a straight face and tell me that Lizzy's pressing charges against her brother?"

  I really hoped that wasn't the case anyway. Which Kyle confirmed when he grunted noncommittally.

  Time to pull out the big guns. "Are you going to answer my question, or am I going to have to get a lawyer on your case?"

  "Bigamy," he said. "It's a criminal offense in North Carolina."

  I frowned. "Jones isn't a bigamist. It was his wife that committed bigamy."

  "I can't get the wife—she's not a resident of the state. Conspiracy to commit bigamy then."

  I huffed out a breath. "What the hell is your major malfunction, Kyle? You may be a moron, but you've always been a good cop."

  "Gee, thanks." His tone was dry. Then he glared. "Why do you think I'm a moron?"

  I stood and leaned over his desk. "I saw you sniffing around Lacey L'Amour. And I'll have you know that's a double betrayal, to Lizzy and to me."

  Kyle scowled. "To you?"

  I thumped a hand against my breastbone. "In case it's slipped your mind, I'm the mother of your child. You cannot flirt with my professional competition in full view of the town, including our daughter, and expect me to be okay with that. Especially on the day said competition has sabotaged my business in front of a health inspector. Do you know how much it'll cost me for a new freezer door? I should take it out of her hide. So, is a little flipping loyalty too much to ask you for?"

  Kyle blinked. "Are you saying I can't eat at the new restaurant?"

  "Oh, you can," I said, my tone deceptively mild. "But who knows what'll happen if you do."

  Kyle stared at me. "That's threatening an officer of the law, Ms. Buckland."

  "No threats, Sheriff. She's a gawd-awful cook. She'll probably give the whole town salmonella."

  Kyle's eyebrows went up. "Women who live in glass houses…"

  I gave him my best squinty-eyed death glare. "We've gotten off the subject. You need to drop the charges against Jones. You and I both know he hasn't done anything wrong."

  "Nothing that you know of," he said. "That doesn't mean he's not a criminal. Even you have to admit that things have been crazy around here since he showed up."

  I stared at him, unable to believe his dislike of Jones would go so far. "Kyle, I swear, you better release him or…" I stumbled, at a loss as to what to say next.

  "Or what?" he taunted.

  At that moment, I resolved to say anything that would wipe that smug look off his puss. "Or I'll go to the district attorney. I'm sure she'll be very interested to know how you're using your authority. They may even try you on abuse of power."

  He scanned me head to toe, as if wondering if I was serious. I wasn't, but he didn't need to know that.

  "Fine, I'll release Jones. As long as he gets an annulment in the next thirty days. Otherwise, I'm coming after him again."

  I rose, slinging my purse over my shoulder. "And you owe Jones an apology. You humiliated him in front of half of Beaverton."

  "Don't hold your breath on that one, Little Bit."

  I bared my teeth in his general direction. It wasn't a smile.

  "Want to tell me what happened between the two of you?"

  "We broke up. I moved out." The Reader's Digest version of events was all he was getting out of me.

  Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Witnesses said he was causing a ruckus in the pasta shop."

  "It wasn't him. It was your good buddy Derek who showed up drunk for the third time this month. Jones was only—" I clamped my lips together.

  "Only what?" Kyle asked.

  I shook my head fervently. No way was I handing Kyle any more ammo. I'd deal with Jones and his outburst myself.

  He blew out a sigh. "Have it your way. But I'm telling you, Andy, he is up to something."

  I waited in the parking lot for Jones to be released. No doubt tongues were wagging all over town that my ex-boyfriend had been arrested in my pasta shop by my other ex-boyfriend. I rubbed my stiff hands together. I really hoped I could talk Rochelle into burying what she found out about Kaylee. The poor kid didn't need the crazy that came with her parents and their significant others.

  It was almost an hour later when Jones left the police station. As I was driving Pops's town car, he didn't spot me until I opened the door and rose.

  "Andrea." He said my name in the way that made me melt.

  "Get in. I'll give you a ride back to your car."

  He climbed in. I backed carefully out of the parking lot, not saying a word.

  "Where are we going?" Jones frowned as I drove past the Bowtie Angel and took Main Street out of town.

  "Somewhere where we can talk."

  He raised an eyebrow. "You mean somewhere you can dump my body if you don't like what I have to say?"

  The man knew me so well it was scary.

  I took the highway about five miles out of town, to the big meadow by the manmade lake. In mild weather, there would be health nuts walking the nature trail during the day and teenagers necking by the lake at night. But the frigid cold turned the great outdoors into a ghost town. In essence, it was the best place I could think of to have some privacy for the upcoming conversation.

  I debated leaving the car running so we'd have heat but opted to shut it off instead before turning to Jones. The biting cold would help me keep my anger on a razor's edge as warmth and Jones in close proximity made me logy.

  "I can explain—" he began, but I cut him off.

  "You'll get your chance. First, I want to know how long you've been tailing me." It galled me a little that Lizzy had picked up the tail before I had. Of course, she'd been driving, but I was irritated that I hadn't spotted him myself.

  "Just since the motel. And for the record, it wasn't you I was watching."

  Damn it—that meant I'd overlooked him in the parking lot too. "So you were staking out Rochelle? Why?"

  He gave me a look of pure exasperation. "I told you yesterday. I intend to find out who she's meeting with so we could fi
nd out why they want information on you."

  I frowned. "So why follow me and Lizzy and not Rochelle?"

  He swallowed and looked away. "I wanted to make sure you were safe. There's an arsonist running around town. I knew you were at the funeral this morning and that you'd be safe enough there. But when you showed up at the motel, I had a bad feeling."

  So he'd followed me to make sure I was safe. How could I not love this half-crazy man?

  "You look terrible, by the way. Almost as bad as I feel."

  His gaze turned assessing. "Are you all right, Andrea?"

  I hadn't slept the night before from missing him, but no way would I tell him that. "There's been a lot going on, and I'm not thinking clearly."

  His eyes narrowed, and my temper snapped. "Get that look off your face right now, Malcolm Jones, or so help me, I'll—"

  He kissed me. The bastard just leaned right over the seat and kissed the stuffing out of me. It was a good thing I'd shut the heat off, because I would have melted to a puddle of Italian spiced goo under the onslaught.

  His hands worked on my jacket while mine were busy working the fastening on his black pants.

  "This doesn't get you off the hook," I gasped as he kissed his way down the side of my neck. "I'm still furious with you."

  "I know," he mumbled as he dragged me over the gearshift and onto his lap. "Take it out on me."

  "As long as we've got that straight," I breathed before giving myself up to the moment.

  * * *

  "I hope there aren't any cameras around here." I sighed, totally blissed out and uncaring if we had been caught on film in flagrante delicto.

  Jones had his face buried in my hair. I heard him mumble something incomprehensible and asked, "What was that?"

  "I hope there are cameras so there's proof that this really happened." He brushed my hair out of my face. "Andrea, I'm sorry about earlier."

  I pushed against his chest, so I could look him in the eye. "Which part? When you made a scene in my place of business, or when you got yourself arrested for bigamy, and I had to go blackmail Kyle out of pressing charges."