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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  But hadn't I missed out on enough of her life already? Maybe my showing support was what she needed, even if it wasn't what she wanted.

  Tough toenails, kid. I'm done playing by your rules. I blew out a breath and then squared my shoulders before turning to face Jones. "Yeah, I'll stick around for a bit."

  "Do you want company?" he asked.

  I studied him for a minute, trying to read his expression. Outwardly he looked as calm and cool as always, but there was a restlessness to him, lurking just beneath the surface. "I do, but I get the feeling there's somewhere else you need to be. Did everything go all right with Detective Brown?"

  Jones shrugged one shoulder. "About what I expected. Don't leave town. He'll be in touch. With an additional warning that I should keep out of the investigation."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to ignore that last one?"

  "Because you are both beautiful and clever. Text me if you need me." Jones brushed a quick kiss across my lips and left before I had a chance to ask where he was going. The man always left me wanting more. It was practically his trademark.

  The initial pandemonium of the room had died down. I was surprised to see Kyle reemerge from the interview room. He looked over at Kaylee, hesitated, and then came to stand beside me.

  "I don't know what to do for her," he confessed. "When I heard about it on the radio, all I could think was that I needed to be here for her. Now that I am, I'm afraid to single her out in any way."

  I huffed out a breath. "Believe me—I'm having the same problem. I just tried to get a hold of Barbara, but she didn't pick up."

  Kyle grimaced. "She's out on an emergency call, at least according to her office. No cell service there. They sent someone out to get a hold of her, but she can't be there right away."

  I looked back at Kaylee, who sat alone on the edge of a wooden bench, hair hanging over her face. At least they'd taken the handcuffs off her. "She looks so scared and alone."

  She did, too. While the other kids were surrounded by angry family members, Kaylee's solitary corner remained quiet. She stared down at her pink-and-black sneakers, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

  "It'd go better if you were the one to go over to her," Kyle said.

  "Why do you think that? Because I'm the woman?" I asked.

  "No, because you're her employer, and I'm the sheriff. As much as I want to offer her comfort, I don't want to draw attention to her."

  I swallowed and then nodded. "Wish me luck."

  Kaylee didn't look up as I approached, didn't say anything when I sat beside her on the bench.

  "Can I get you anything?" I asked.

  "I want my mom," she whispered.

  "Kyle's trying to reach her through her office, and I sent her a text message. I'm sure she'll be here as soon as she finds out what's going on."

  Her lip trembled, and she bit it again, trying to keep from crying.

  I huffed out a breath and put my arms around her. Screw the gossip—my kid needed support. And she was my kid, in all her dumbassery. Barbara was her mom, but she was mine too, and it was about time I laid claim to her.

  She didn't even hesitate, just fell against me, sobbing for all she was worth.

  I whispered soothing things and petted her curly dark hair. Told her over and over again that it would be all right, that she'd make it through all of this.

  I lost track of time, when she finally pulled away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snot all over you."

  "Snot isn't a verb," I corrected her and fished a tissue from my pocket.

  That got me an eye roll and a watery laugh. "You know what I meant."

  "I do." Since the ice was officially broken, I decided to jump in with both feet. "Did you know about the gang?"

  She shook her head. "No. There was talk, but kids are just stupid like that, you know? They say all sorts of stuff that isn't true. I thought they were some cool guys hanging out. And they wanted to hang with me. I don't have any friends here."

  I opened my mouth to protest, then realized I was being an idiot. She meant friends her own age. "When did you start to hang out with them?"

  "Just over the weekend."

  I had to ask the next part to know what we were dealing with, even though I was terrified of the answer. "Did you find out they were setting the fires?"

  A tear slid down Kaylee's cheek. "I didn't want to be a rat."

  I groaned inwardly so she wouldn't hear it. "Kid, this is so not cool."

  "But I didn't do anything." There was a half-hysterical note in her voice. "I swear I didn't."

  "I believe you. But you should have told someone. Me, Kyle, Aunt Cecily, Pops, your mom, anyone. People died because of what they did, not to mention thousands of dollars' worth of property damage." I stopped myself there before I went all maternal and lectured her. She knew she'd screwed up. Taking out my worry on her wasn't going to help either of us. Instead, I took a deep breath and changed tactics. "Will you tell Kyle what you know about everything? Maybe he can help you."

  "Dalton's gonna hate me." She looked across the room to where Dotty sat with a sullen-faced teenager. The kid was the spitting image of Lance, all shaggy dark hair, high cheekbones, and pouty lips. I was beginning to get a clearer picture of why she'd wanted to hang out with them in the first place.

  Freaking hormones.

  Well, kibitzing over reality wasn't going to help. "He might."

  She glared at me. "Thanks a heap."

  I shrugged. "I'm not about to lie to you. Loyalty is great, but you have to make sure the person you're loyal to is worthy. And you have to look out for yourself first. A real friend gets that and wants to protect you, not put you in danger." Again, I bit off the rant before it could take over. Frothing at the mouth wouldn't win me any points with the cops or Kaylee.

  Her lips parted as if she were about to say something, then pressed shut as she glanced away. A full minute passed. I saw the station house clock on the wall behind her. Then finally, she nodded. "Can we not talk about this anymore?"

  "Whatever you want, kid. You want to sit here in silence, we can do that."

  She smiled, but it faded fast.

  I put my hand on her arm. "Talk to me. Tell me what it is that makes you pull back like that."

  Her eyes were locked on my hand on her arm. "Are you ashamed of me?"

  My mouth dropped open. If she'd picked up the bench and whacked me with it, I couldn't have been more surprised. "What?"

  She shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "You and Kyle. You both insisted I not tell anybody that I'm your daughter. Is that because I embarrass you?"

  "Kaylee, of course not. How could you even think…" Then I thought about it myself and would have slapped my own forehead for being such an idiot. "Honey, no. Believe me when I say we would both love to shout from the rooftops that you're our kid."

  She didn't look as though she believed me. "Then why haven't you? Why does it have to be this big secret?"

  "It doesn't. Not if you don't want it to be. We, as in me, Kyle, and your mom, thought it would be easier for you if no one knew about your relationship to us. Not many people knew I'd even had you, you know? Beaverton is a small town, and once the truth is out, then everyone will know. There'll be all these nosy questions and people wanting to intrude. Are you sure you want that?"

  She looked away, but I caught a flush creeping up her cheeks. "I don't want to cause you any more trouble."

  "Kaylee," I instructed, "look at me."

  She did, and I saw the gleam of hope in her eyes.

  My heart was beating hard as I asked her again. "Do you want me and Kyle to shout from the rooftops that you're our kid?"

  Slowly, she nodded.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed.

  "Who are you calling?" She looked half-horrified at the phone. "The press?"

  "No, nothing like that. Just reinforcements."

  Pops and Aunt Cecily arrived a few minutes later. There was a great
deal of bilingual cussing and several Italian hand gestures that were almost as vulgar. Pops threatened to sue the pants off anyone in shouting distances. Aunt Cecily threatened to put The Eye on the entire gang so all their dangly parts would shrivel "like the raisins." It was loud and dramatic and more than a little humiliating, but by the time Barbara arrived, my kid knew she had a family who cared.

  Certifiable though we all were.

  Kyle pulled me aside. "What's going on here?"

  "Kaylee needs her family around her right now."

  The sheriff glared at me. "So what, you're just coming out with it now? Need I remind you that you were the one who didn't want the entire town to know?"

  "No. You don't. I remember. But what all of us failed to consider was how Kaylee would feel about it. She came here looking for her family, Kyle. And as freaking dysfunctional as we are, we've been pushing her away."

  Kyle shook his head. "This isn't the time. She's in so much trouble already, and if it comes out that she's my kid—"

  "That's the problem though, Kyle. It will come out. One way or another, and if you wait, you'll only dig yourself deeper. This is what she wants. It's what I want, and I know it's what you want. Embrace the zaniness of our family reunion."

  Kyle sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "When my parents hear about this…"

  But then he stopped complaining, squared his shoulders, and went to claim his daughter fully.

  "Sheriff?" Detective Brown called. "I need to talk to you."

  I put a hand on Darryl's arm. "Give him a second. He's bonding with his daughter."

  "His what now?" The detective did a double take as he looked at me.

  "It's a long story."

  "Does it have anything to do with my murder investigation?"

  I winced. "Maybe?"

  Darryl gripped my arm. "You and your boyfriend are gonna be the death of me. I swear you are."

  Resigned to another long interview, I could only hope that wasn't how this would all play out.

  Italian Chicken And Sausage Sauté

  You'll need:

  6 chicken breasts, skinned and boned, salt and pepper

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 Italian sausage link—crumbled and cooked

  1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

  3/4 cup chicken broth

  1/2 cup flour

  2 medium zucchinis, sliced 1/2 inch thick

  1 tablespoon margarine

  3/4 cup dry white wine

  2 large cloves garlic, minced

  1 (7 oz) jar roasted red peppers, drained and sliced

  1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped

  1 teaspoon dried oregano, crushed

  Cut chicken into bite-size chunks. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roll in flour to coat. Set aside.

  In a 12-inch skillet, heat oil. Add zucchini; cook and stir over medium-high heat for1 to 2 minutes or until slightly browned. Remove zucchini with a slotted spoon, and set aside. Add margarine to skillet, and melt. Add cayenne pepper. Add chicken, and cook until no longer pink. Add wine, and heat to boiling. Boil uncovered 2 minutes. Add Italian sausage, red peppers, garlic, oregano, and basil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes. Add zucchini, and simmer 2 minutes more. Serve over pasta; garnish with parsley to serve.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "Malcolm?" I called out as I let myself into Jones's place.

  "Be up in a minute." His voice floated up from the basement.

  "I'm hitting your wine rack with a vengeance," I replied. He didn't respond, so I assumed he was cool with my plan. And if not, well, too bad.

  I moved around the kitchen with a familiar ease, extracting the electric corkscrew gizmo from its charger and picking out my vintage. It seemed to be a merlot kind of day, and I checked the pantry to see if he had any food in stock that would go with my selection.

  "Now this is nice," Jones said a few minutes later when he found me sautéing sausage and onion, "to find you back here, cooking for me."

  "Don't get too excited—it's nothing fancy. Your fridge is severely understocked, and I'm beat, so we're having a whatever-you've-got breakfast casserole to help sop up the insane amounts of alcohol I intend to consume. Would you dice those peppers, please?"

  He did, but not before giving me a searing kiss.

  We prepared the meal in a companionable silence. Tucked away from the rest of the craziness and insulated from the disasters, it was easy to see how I'd fallen into such a comforting pattern. Jones was easy to be with, regardless of the baggage he brought to the table.

  "Penny for your thoughts?" Jones asked as I put the casserole in the oven to bake.

  "I was thinking how effortless it would be to just be here with you all the time. I've been more relaxed here in your kitchen than I have anywhere else in the past few weeks. Why do we let other things overcomplicate us?"

  Jones set my wineglass down and took my hands in his. "It would be rather remarkable to insulate ourselves from the rest of the town."

  "Don't stop at the town. The whole world's gone nuts. A gang in Beaverton, I never thought I'd see the day. Those kids caused a lot of trouble and hurt a lot of people."

  "Will Kaylee be all right?" Jones asked.

  "I think so. Kyle said the DA is making noise about trying some of the older boys as adults. That'll mean hard time, especially if they are charged with manslaughter or even murder in the second degree. Kaylee is too young, and she has an alibi for both of the arsons, so the most they can charge her with is conspiracy. That'll probably mean some fines and community service. And of course Aunt Cecily will be keeping a very close eye on her from now on, which is a whole different level of punishment." I shook my head. "Why do smart girls get stupid over boys?"

  Jones smiled. "Are you talking about Kaylee or yourself?"

  I shrugged "Six of one, half dozen of the other. That child is her mother's daughter."

  "Well at least you know one good thing that came out of all this. Your theory about the arsons being unrelated to Rochelle's death was correct."

  I hopped up onto the island counter. "What happened during your interview with Detective Brown, by the way?"

  Jones pushed some hair out of my face, then sighed. "Nothing much. I haven't been cleared as a suspect yet. I don't have an alibi for the time of death, but since I proved I filed for an annulment earlier in the week, that takes motive off the table."

  "Rats, so we're back to square one?"

  "Not exactly. How long have we got until that casserole's done?"

  I peeked in the oven. "About another fifteen minutes. Why?"

  "I want to show you something." Jones took my hand and led me downstairs.

  His laptop screen saver was up, a black-and-white picture of me from last Thanksgiving. I cringed every time I saw it. I was so not-photogenic. Charisma didn't usually come across in stills. That particular shot wasn't too hideous. He'd captured me in profile, a glass of wine in my hand and a soft smile tugging up my lips. I wondered what I'd been thinking about in the shot.

  Him most likely, or Kaylee, from before I'd actually had her in my life again. Then again, it might have been contemplation of dinner—I did go a little gaga over eggplant parm.

  Jones tapped the screen, and a document appeared. I frowned as I sat in the desk chair, Jones standing behind me. Dates and times, names, the occasional "see attached" file. "What's this?"

  "The police have Rochelle's computer, but I got to thinking about it. What do you do when you're done transcribing recipes?"

  "Save them," I responded immediately.

  One dark eyebrow went up. "To where?"

  "The cloud." Then it hit me, and I looked back at the screen. "Oh? So this stuff was in Rochelle's cloud drive?"

  Jones nodded. "I still had access to it, since our investigative company e-mail address was linked with a free-mail account. And most of those come with cloud storage anymore. Rochelle was horrible about passwords. She never changed them. Claimed she couldn't remember
the new ones."

  "Did you tell Detective Brown about that?" I asked, settling myself in the desk chair.

  Jones shook his head. "Not about the cloud. I didn't know until now that she even used it."

  I worried my lower lip. "But if the police find out you're accessing this stuff…"

  His hands landed on my shoulders, thumbs kneading the knots in my neck. "Relax, Andrea. I know how to cover my tracks."

  The massage felt good but didn't do much for my anxiety. "You like living dangerously, don't you? Tempting fate at every opportunity."

  His hands stilled. "Don't fret, love. I don't do anything illegal."

  "But the cops won't be happy—"

  His hand covered my mouth as he leaned down to whisper in my ear. "It's not my job to make them happy. It's my job to uncover the truth."

  The warmth of his breath made me shiver. "Just promise me you'll be careful. It's not just the cops. If whatever information Rochelle was killed over is in these files, and whoever wants it hidden knows you have them, you could be putting a big old bull's-eye on your back."

  Jones turned the chair until I faced him. "Better me than you. I know how to handle myself."

  I huffed out a breath. Stubborn man. "Okay, let's do dinner, and then we'll get to work."

  "We?" Jones asked, both eyebrows going up.

  I nodded. "Yes, we. If you insist on doing something not quiet illegal but foolhardy, you need someone watching your back. Rochelle didn't have that, and I'll be damned if I let you try to handle all this on your own."

  "What about the pasta shop?"

  I shook my head. "I can't think about that right now. Once this killer is unmasked, then I can focus on getting my business back on track."

  Upstairs, the timer went off, and I pushed up from the chair, heading for the kitchen.

  A hand snagged my arm. Jones wore a pained expression. "Andrea. It's your dream. You've been working so hard on that new menu. What about the other restaurants you were talking about? You need to keep making forward progress. Besides, you said you were exhausted."