"Her and me both." I sighed and leaned my head back against the couch cushion.
"You all right, Andy girl?"
"Just tired, I think. The last few days have been an emotional roller coaster. Want me to grill a steak for dinner?"
Pops smacked his lips. "Sounds right tasty."
I got up and retrieved a steak from the freezer. Normally speaking, I would marinate a steak for a few days to infuse flavors, but I'd just got a new gadget that vacuum sealed the meat and spices to supposedly the same effect. Aunt Cecily considered most modern gizmos the work of the devil, so I'd been waiting until she was otherwise occupied to use it.
After setting the meat to defrost in the microwave, I took my grill pan out from under the stove and turned on the left burners. The meat dinged, and I transferred it along with a few cloves of peeled garlic, Worcestershire sauce, Kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper. I'd just hit the vacuum sealer and started peeling potatoes when my phone rang. Distracted by the promise of dinner, I didn't bother to look at the number. "Hello?"
Silence.
I repeated my greeting, wondering if it was one of those stupid automatic phone solicitations that had a delayed start. Still nothing, though I thought I heard someone breathing. Not a cyborg wondering about my personal purchasing power then. Probably a teenager crank calling me.
"Last chance, and then I'm hanging up." I didn't have time for adolescent pranks.
"Andy?" It was a woman's voice, though not one I recognized right away. She didn't sound right, a little reedy as though she stood a distance from the phone.
"Yeah? Who is this?"
"No!" Her voice was filled with panic. "Please, don't—"
A shot boomed across the line. I dropped my vacuum-sealed steak.
"This will be your only warning." It was a digitized voice. "Back off now, or you're next."
"Who are you?" I whispered, clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip.
The only response was a sudden click as the line went dead.
Steak Pizzaiola
You'll need:
4 tablespoons olive oil, plus more if needed
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 large tomatoes, peeled and chopped
3 sprigs plus 1/2 teaspoon chopped fresh oregano
3/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 pounds sirloin steak, about 1 inch thick
In a large saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil over medium heat. Add the garlic, and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the tomatoes, oregano sprigs, 1/2 teaspoon of the salt, and 1/4 teaspoon of the pepper. Reduce the heat, and simmer partially covered until the sauce thickens, about 15 minutes.
In a large frying pan, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons oil over moderate heat. Season the steak with the remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Cook the steak for 5 minutes. Turn, and cook until done to your taste, about 5 minutes longer for medium rare. Remove the steak, and let rest in a warm spot for 5 minutes. Cut the steak diagonally into thin slices, and top with the warm tomato sauce and the chopped fresh oregano.
**Andy's note: For a juicy steak, be sure to let red meat rest to finish cooking before you slice into it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I don't know who she was," I repeated for the third time to Jones. "I didn't recognize her voice."
Bless the man—he'd rushed over the second I'd called him. A good thing too, as I was barely hanging on to my sanity. Pops hovered over the two of us like an anxious bumblebee, but he let Jones do all the talking.
"You're sure it was a gunshot you heard?" Jones said.
I shook my head. "I have no idea, but that's what it sounded like."
Though he hid it well, I could sense his frustration. "Love, you need to give me something more to go on. Start from the beginning."
"I was in the kitchen when my cell rang. I said 'hello' twice, then threatened to hang up. That's when I heard the woman say my name."
"Did she have an accent?" he asked.
I shook my head. "She didn't say much, and it wasn't a strong accent if she did. Not like you or Pops or Aunt Cecily."
"Did she sound young or old?" he probed.
"She just sounded scared. Malcolm, she was terrified. And he just…" My throat clogged with tears, and I chocked on a sob. "He killed her."
"Shouldn't we call the police or something?" Pops asked. "Death threats are illegal, ain't they? Never mind committing a murder."
Jones shook his head. "He told Andy to back off, but the threat was nonspecific. He didn't clarify what he wanted. For all we know, they're watching the house to see how Andy reacts. The best thing we can do now is try to identify either the victim or the murderer and decide how to proceed from there."
"How can we though?" I asked. "I'm telling you, I really wasn't paying attention, and everything happened so fast. How can we find out anything with so little to go on?"
"Where's your phone?"
I pointed. "In the kitchen."
Jones got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen. He came back holding my phone out to me. "Did you recognize the number? Or even the area code?"
I shrank away from the thing as though it were poisonous. "It was blocked."
Jones pocketed the cell and then handed me his phone. "Let me hang on to it. I have a friend who might be able to trace the call. Use mine for the time being." He headed for the door.
"Wait," I said, the numbness finally wearing off. "You're leaving?"
His gaze went from me to Pops and then back. "Yes."
That threw me. I thought for sure he'd want to guard me like a Rottweiler, not leaving my side until the creep had been brought to justice. But now he was just walking away as though it were any other night and I hadn't just been ear witness to a possible murder.
I moved closer, tripping over the afghan I'd tossed to the floor. "You can't just leave me."
Pops cleared his throat. "I better wake Cecily. Tell her what's amiss."
"Come outside with me," Jones whispered.
The idea of leaving the sanctuary of the house terrified me, but I wanted to understand why he felt the need to leave. I grabbed my parka off the coat tree and, not bothering to zip it, followed him out into the cool night.
I'd expected to have it out with him on the front stoop, that if he had some grisly detail to divulge, he didn't want to bring up in front of Pops. Instead, he led me to his SUV and opened the door for me.
I blinked in surprise. "You're not planning to abduct me, are you?"
He shook his head. "No, I simply want you to be warm while we talk."
Okay then. I climbed in the vehicle and waited while he circumnavigated it and started the engine. He turned to me and then said, "All right. I need to know what you've been keeping from me."
I frowned. "Who says there's just one thing?"
He gave me a level stare. "Andrea, I know you. Even your feud with Lacey L'Amour isn't going to end in bloodshed. And while I respect the fact that it's not your secret to tell, I do need to know everything if I'm going to be of any use. So start with the reason why you and my sister went to see Rochelle yesterday."
I swallowed hard. On the one hand, I didn't want to break my promise to Lizzy. We'd established a weird sort of truce, and though I would never admit it out loud, I kind of liked having her on my side for a change. But if I didn't tell Jones and he ended up hurt or worse because I hadn't been up-front with him, I'd never forgive myself.
Decided, I blew out a sigh. "All right, but you have got to promise me that you aren't going to let on to anyone you know this. To anyone, Malcolm."
"If it helps me catch the killer, I'll need to use the information," he warned. "Whatever it is."
I stared at him a moment. "Fine then. But at least promise me that if you do find out who made that phone call, you'll take it to the police. To Kyle."
That, apparently, he could live with, because he nodded. "I promise."
&n
bsp; There was no good way to phrase it, so I just came out with the blunt truth. "Lizzy thinks your dad might be the arsonist. We went to Rochelle and hired her to investigate the fires, hoping to prove it wasn't him."
Jones didn't even twitch. "Why would she suspect our father was behind the fires?"
"She said she found gasoline containers at his place in the woods. You know, where he goes to get loaded? And both of the buildings where the fires occurred were owned by jury members in her mother's trial."
Jones looked away. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Did you tell Rochelle about what she discovered?"
I shifted in my seat. "No. I convinced Lizzy not to. She didn't want it to be him, so we figured if Rochelle started from square one, maybe she could find something else."
His gaze remained locked on the small A-frame, but something about the way he was staring at the house made me think he wasn't seeing it. "And why didn't you come to me? Or tell Kyle?"
I shifted, uncomfortable with his tense manner. "Well, we didn't tell Kyle, because then he'd have to do something about it. You know, all publically and whatnot. Lizzy didn't want to bring that down on her father's head."
Jones nodded, seemingly lost in thought. "I could have looked into it discreetly. That had to be better than bringing in an outsider."
"I wanted to, believe me. I did. But Lizzy was afraid it would put the final nail in the coffin of your relationship with your dad. I agreed because I didn't want to hurt you."
He rounded on me so fast I actually leaned back. His temper flared to life. I'd thought him cold and distant before. Keeping to the theme of the week, I was wrong again. He wasn't cold. He was enraged, and it took all of his control to subdue that emotion. It burst from him like an exploding firework. "So instead, you involve my ex in my family affairs and yourself and my sister in an arson case. You're both in needless danger. Do you really think that's a better option, Andrea?"
I flinched. "Malcolm—"
But he'd turned away again.
"I really am sorry," I whispered. The words were hollow and changed nothing.
He simply nodded. "Is there anything else?"
Even though he sat right next to me, it felt as if we were miles apart. "No."
"I'll call you when I find out anything about the phone call." He spoke low and calmly, but I'd seen under the mask. I knew how his rage seethed.
Though I wanted to say something, words wouldn't fix this. He needed time to wrap his head around the idea that maybe his father was an arsonist-murderer. And that his girlfriend was in a killer's crosshairs.
Again.
"I'm going to fix this." I repeated the same words to him that he'd spoken to me when I'd shut him down. "I promise, Malcolm. I'll do whatever it takes to make this right."
He nodded. Feeling like utter garbage, I slithered out of the SUV and stood back, watching him drive off.
* * *
The following day, Aunt Cecily and Pops invited themselves to the pasta shop. Aunt Cecily had been as maternal as I'd ever seen her, making me tea and not calling either me or Pops any unfortunate names. She'd cooked my steak, forced me to sit at the table and eat. If my vacuum-sealing gizmo added additional flavor, I couldn't tell, as everything tasted like rubber. Though it'd been a struggle, I'd forced myself to swallow a few bites before retiring to my room with Jones's cell phone to call every woman I knew and make sure she was still breathing.
I'd called Kaylee's mom first, to check on her and my daughter, and been able to take my first deep breath when I heard their voices. Donna had been fine, although she'd wanted to come over the second I told her what had happened. I'd begged off, having been smothered enough for one night, and proceeded down the list. Mimi hadn't picked up, which had sent me into a near panic, until she texted me a few seconds later to tell me she was out of minutes for the month. I'd cursed a blue streak at cellular providers worldwide and then made the hardest call of all.
The good news was that no one had shot Lizzy. The bad news was that after she'd heard that I'd spilled the beans to Jones, Lizzy wanted to shoot me. So much for forward progress in our relationship. Both physically and emotionally spent, I told her to get in line, turned the phone off, and crawled into bed.
Lacey glared at me from her front stoop. I gave her a subtle one-fingered salute and checked her name off possible victims of a homicidal firebug. She sucked canal water backward, but I wasn't about to wish that fate on her.
Mimi greeted us as we tromped in the door. "The new delivery service called," she whispered to me as Pops helped Aunt Cecily with her coat. "They'll be here at nine."
Either my priorities had been straightened out or I didn't have enough energy to get worked up over Aunt Cecily finding out about the new menu items, because I just nodded.
"Is everything all right, Andy?" Mimi asked.
I shook my head. "Honestly, no, but I really don't want to get into it."
Aunt Cecily overheard this last statement and added, "She is fighting with her man again. Young people are foolish and hot tempered. They get mad—they get glad. They get married, then they learn a thing or two about fighting."
Mimi's eyes were the size of duck eggs.
I made a face at the Sicilian Dr. Ruth and her tough love and then trudged off to the kitchen. Actually, I felt grateful that Aunt Cecily had intervened. The last thing I wanted was to make Mimi feel unsafe at the pasta shop. And until Jones got back to me with whatever he'd found out about my disturbing phone call, I wouldn't know if the threat to my life was real.
It had occurred to me sometime over my mostly sleepless night that the entire phone call could have been staged to do exactly what it was doing—scare the wits out of me. Maybe there had been no murder at all, and it was just an elaborate prank. After all, wouldn't a real killer have been more specific about what exactly he wanted me to back off from? Jones and I had both assumed the arson investigation, but it could very well have been something else entirely. And if it was a hoax, I'd bet my best wooden spoon that Lacey L'Amour had something to do with it.
The morning passed in a flurry of hectic activity. Aunt Cecily's eyes narrowed when she spotted the new delivery guy, but at least she didn't curse him in rapid-fire Italian. She and Pops left around noon to run errands and check on some of their friends who were staying with family in town while the assisted living apartments were rebuilt.
The lunch rush kept us hopping until about two thirty. As the midafternoon lull set in, I turned to Mimi. "You can take off early again if you want."
"You sure?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm waiting for Jones." And hoped to get in a private moment if he did show up. Though I still didn't know what to say, the last thing we needed was an audience.
Mimi untied her apron. "All right. There's a new market a few towns over that I wanted to try. Do you want anything?"
"See if they sell sanity. I misplaced my supply."
Mimi grinned. "I'll see what I can do."
She left, and I wiped down the kitchen, did the few lingering dishes, and then headed out front to clean up. I'd just finished wiping down the tables when Theodore Randolph arrived. Theo Randolph was a large lumbering man with a shiny pink scalp, which he covered with an old-fashioned straw boater's hat. He was paler than I was in the dead of winter, and his polyester checked suit did nothing to flatter his rotund stature. His piggy black eyes roamed across the room, checking for hidden grime.
"Andy." The health inspector extended his beefy hand, and I shook it. Theo was something of an old-fashioned dandy. He had soft, almost effeminate skin, as white and puffy as a marshmallow. The contact never failed to make my own flesh crawl.
I discreetly wiped my palm on the seat of my jeans and forced a genial expression onto my face. "Thank you so much for coming back, Theo. I think you'll see we have everything in A-plus order this time." Mimi and I had scrubbed like madwomen every chance we got.
Theo tut-tutted me. "I must say, I was very surprised, Andy. First B for the Bowtie
Angel in the twenty-odd years since I took over as county health inspector."
"It was really just bad timing. I had a concussion." I rubbed my forehead, hoping for a little sympathy.
Compassion wasn't on his to-do list. "Yes." He drawled the word in a disapproving tone. "From starting a bar fight, I heard. Really, Andy, what would your grandmother say?"
I bared my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile. "It's been a rough month. Would you like to see the kitchen?"
I held open the door so he could see the gleaming pots and pans and the brand new door to the walk-in tightly shut.
"Hmmm." Still not overtly impressed, Theo extracted a digital thermometer that looked more like a radar speedometer gun. He pointed it at a vat of bubbling sauce, then a platter of raw veggies. He looked like a wannabe vegetable cop determined to meet this quarter's quotas of tickets. Take that, eggplant!
Though he gave it his all, all my food was refrigerated well within the health code temperature standards. He narrowed his eyes on me as he poked at a jar of pickled tomato relish. "Who made this?"
"I did." Under his watchful gaze, I washed my hands and put on a pair of gloves for good measure.
"Did you sterilize the jars?" he asked.
"Of course." Only because I made it with Nana a few years before she'd died. The relish wasn't for sale. I just kept it around because it reminded me of her. Admittedly, it was a weird sort of tribute, but better than Pops's suggestion of putting her cremated remains next to the flour and salt on the shelf.
Theo checked my grease traps and then did a bacteria meter swab on the tops and undersides of our food prep station. I glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the 0.0 reading.
"Well, everything seems on the up-and-up." The health inspector sniffed delicately. "I'll just check the walk-in and be on my way."
No, atta girl, Andy, good job, or any other indication that I was rocking the culinary casbah. That was fine. I didn't need his praise. What I needed was the A-plus score to bring my B to an A-minus so I could maintain the family legacy. And so Aunt Cecily wouldn't put The Eye on me.
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 13
