"It's already notarized. I convinced Alfred Hennessey to do it in exchange for a bottle of whiskey and fixing his DUI." Randal shrugged. "There's nothing they can do, regardless of what they believe."
I shook my head, stalling for time. My only hope was that Jones would realize I was no longer in the house and come looking for me. Once I signed the papers, I was as good as dead. "Why though? Why is it so important to have all this land turned over to the town? What are you going to do with it?"
He blinked as though I'd startled him. "Why, franchise it all, of course."
"Franchise? This is all for a Starbucks?"
"Starbucks, McDonald's, Subway, Pizza Hut, you name it. Beaverton proper open to the highest bidder."
"But how can you? I thought the chamber of commerce denied the franchises."
"The old chamber of commerce did. The motion lost by three votes." He held up his hand and started to tick names off. "Inga Bradford, Freddy Harris, Cecily Rossetti, and Lacey, L'Amour."
"Lacey? She just moved to town. What does she have to do with any of this?" It dawned on me exactly where I was. "Oh my god, this is Lacey's restaurant. You're going to torch it?"
Randal shrugged as though it couldn't be helped. "I tried to talk her to my side of things. Tell her we all stand to gain from opening the town to franchises. No one wants to drive thirty miles for fast food. But she was as obstinate as you usually are. Besides, I think you setting fire to your rival's restaurant fits right in with your character."
Considering the source, the slight didn't faze me. "So you've destroyed all the businesses who opposed you? And what about the innocent people who've died? Those kids you manipulated, who've destroyed their futures? Don't they matter at all?"
"Not especially." His tone was flat. No hint of regret or remorse. A lunatic. Our mayor was a complete sociopathic lunatic.
He cleared his throat and then continued as if I wasn't already pants-peeing terrified. "Both the florist and the assisted living facility were severely underinsured. The pasta shop is different. If the kids had burned it down, you would have just rebuilt. Your family is as stubborn as they come, and you've been a thorn in my side from day one."
There was no hate or malice in his eyes, and that scared me more than everything else. He didn't see us as people, only obstacles to be overcome by whatever means necessary. Destruction of property, fraud, murder—he'd do anything to have his way. This wasn't personal. It was business to him.
"What if…" I searched frantically through my mental hard drive, looking for anything I could say that would convince him not to kill me. "What if I just closed the pasta shop? What if we all just moved away?"
He smiled at me, but there was no amusement in it. If not for the sweat soaking his underarms and glistening on his face, I would have guessed he was a cyborg. "Come now, Andy. You don't kid a kidder. Your family would never move away from Beaverton. And even if they agreed, it's not like I can let you live after telling you all this."
My voice shook only a little as I asked the next question. He hadn't asked me to sign the paper again, and I needed to stall as long as I could. We were in the heart of town. Someone had to come by eventually. God alone understood why that paper was important to him. It's not like psychopaths had supervisors. After arson and murder, forgery should be no biggie. "I still don't understand why, though. Why is it so important to you to have franchises all over town?"
For the first time, his expression changed with genuine emotion. Rage. His tone was deadly quiet as he hissed, "Do you know what it's like to have a family legacy hanging over your head?"
"I do," I said, before thinking better of it.
He sent me a sharp glare, and I pressed my lips together. Apparently, he didn't want me relating to his angst. "You have no idea. The Randals were a founding family. We've been part of Beaverton since before the Revolutionary War. Each generation is expected to be instrumental in bettering the town. So don't tell me you understand my position. You, who got to leave this town and then were foolish enough to return. You had freedom there for the taking, and you turned your back on it."
"You don't have to stay here," I insisted. "Eli, you don't have to be mayor anymore if you don't want to be. There's nothing holding you to it. Go out and find your bliss."
He rose from the chair and straightened his shirt over his doughy frame. "I never shirk my responsibilities. I am doing what I must for Beaverton. It's my destiny. Now, let's be done with this. Sign the paper, Andy."
"No." Though it took effort, I lifted my chin and stared him straight in the eye. "I will never sign that."
He sighed as if I'd disappointed him, then shrugged. "Fine then, I'll force your daughter to do it."
My eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."
He raised an eyebrow, as if I dared him.
"Leave her alone. Kaylee has nothing to do with this."
"The way I understand it, she has everything to do with it. When your Aunt Cecily turned the Bowtie Angel over to you, there was a clause that if anything should happen to you, the pasta shop will go to your next of kin. And the whole town knows that's Kaylee. Sign the papers, Andy, or I'm going after her."
I signed the papers.
* * *
Eli left me chained to the refrigerator. The key to my handcuffs sat on the metal workstation that he had nudged about six inches beyond my reach. "To make it look like you put it down and then kicked the bench away so you couldn't back out at the last minute."
The man had covered his tracks well.
He'd set the fire in the storeroom, the innermost part of the building. No one passing by on the street would see it before it was too late. The small space was packed with plenty of flammable materials like oils and grease, which would make the fire burn harder and be that much more difficult to put out. Smoke had started to seep out from underneath the storeroom door. An insidious trickle at first, it was growing into a bigger cloud by the minute. Soon the entire door would be consumed by flames, and then the choking smoke would billow forth, suffocating me well before the fire got to me.
I coughed. Then stretched for the key again. I had to get out of here. For Pops and Aunt Cecily, for Kaylee, and Jones.
"Damn you, Malcolm Jones," I wheezed. My wrist was raw where the skin along the cuff had scraped away. "Where the hell are you when I need you?"
The smoke was growing thicker. I coughed again and stretched, reaching for the key. I wanted to live, damn it. I wanted to live. To bring Mayor Randal down, but also so I could know my daughter and spend the rest of my life with the man I loved. I couldn't stand the thought that my loved ones would believe I'd offed myself. It would destroy Aunt Cecily and Pops, good Catholics that they were. They believed suicide was a mortal sin, and the grief over not just losing me but envisioning me in hell might kill one or both of them.
Kaylee would be scarred for life and might be in danger if she questioned what Randal was doing.
And Jones. Would he be blamed for Rochelle's murder in the end? Worse, would he think I didn't love him enough to fight for my life? For our lives? I couldn't let that happen.
I gave another vicious yank, driven by desperation. The refrigerator budged. Gripping the handle, I yanked again with all my strength.
The fridge groaned and then toppled forward. I yelped and tried to get out of the way, but it crashed down onto my tethered arm. Pain exploded, pain unlike any I'd ever known.
I was stuck with one arm pinned under the monstrous appliance. Worse, the metal workstation had been knocked over, and the key was nowhere in sight. The air was only slightly cleaner down below, and I sucked in as much oxygen as I could.
"Help!" I shrieked, then coughed again. The pain had darkness wavering in my periphery, but I mustered enough strength to shout again. "Help me! Somebody!"
There was no answer. I could hear the fire now, see the flames licking through the closed door as the blaze consumed it. I tried to shift, to struggle, but the pain in my arm almost made me pass out.
Maybe unconsciousness would be a mercy. But that would mean I'd given up. And I couldn't—I could not—give up, no matter what.
"Anybody!" I screamed again, coughing, gagging on the acrid tang of smoke. "Help me!"
The swing door to the kitchen burst open, and a man's shape stood silhouetted by the lights from the other room. At first I thought it was Eli Randal, come back to stuff a gag in my mouth. But the shape was too tall to be the mayor.
"Andrea," the man said. "Where are you?"
"Jones?" I gasped.
But as he drew nearer, I saw that it wasn't Jones, but the only other man who used my full name.
"Dear God," Jacob Griffin said. "Andrea, what—"
"Handcuffed. Key fell. Over there." I pointed to where the workstation had gone down.
Griffin immediately crawled to where I indicated. There was a clanging, barely audible over the roar of the fire. Then he was back, key in hand. "We've got to get this off you."
I tried to tell him that I was handcuffed to the fridge, but could manage nothing but a cough. Griffin put his shoulder into the side of the massive appliance and shoved.
White hot pain, so intense I was sure a part of me had caught fire, enveloped me, robbing me of consciousness. The last thing I heard was my father's voice. "Don't worry. I'm going to get you out of here."
"Please," I gasped, struggling not to lose consciousness, afraid I'd never wake again.
Another male voice came from somewhere nearby. "Andrea!"
Jones. I couldn't call to him. I was coughing almost nonstop, every jarring making my arm ache even worse. Unable to look at it, I turned my face into Griffin's jacket.
"I've got her." Griffin was huffing for breath. Between carrying me and the smoke, his lungs must've been burning, but he still managed to call out. "There's a fire. We're coming out!"
Then cold January night air licked my skin, and familiar hands touched my face. "Andrea, what happened?"
Between coughs, I managed to gasp, "Mayor."
"We need to get her to the hospital." Jones's hands moved over me as he assessed the damage. "She might need surgery on that arm."
"There's an ambulance on the way." I recognized Kyle's voice. "Did she say the mayor did this?"
I gave a weak nod, but it was too much. Relief filled me as I sank into the blackness
once more.
Vegetarian Lasagna
You'll need:
8 lasagna noodles
1 14 oz can tomatoes
1 cup celery, chopped
1 cup green pepper, chopped
2 bay leaves
1 egg, beaten
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese
1 10 oz package frozen chopped broccoli
1 15 oz can tomato sauce
1 cup of red onion, chopped
1 1/2 teaspoon dried basil
1 clove garlic, minced
2 cups low-fat ricotta cheese or cottage cheese
1 cup mozzarella cheese, shredded
Cook lasagna noodles and broccoli separately according to their package directions; drain well, and set aside.
For sauce, cut up canned tomatoes. In a large saucepan, stir together chopped, undrained tomatoes, tomato sauce, celery, onion, green pepper, basil, bay leaf, and garlic. Bring to boil. Reduce heat, and simmer uncovered for 20 to 25 minutes, or until sauce is thick. Stir occasionally. Remove bay leaf.
Meanwhile, in a bowl stir together egg, ricotta cheese, Parmesan cheese, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Stir in broccoli. Spread 1/2 cup sauce in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan. Top with half of the noodles, half of the cheese-broccoli mixture, and half of the remaining sauce. Repeat layers, ending with sauce.
Bake uncovered at 350 for 25 minutes. Sprinkle with mozzarella and bake 5 minutes more or until cheese melts. Let stand 10 minutes.
**Andy's note: Perfect for freezing and reheating for those crazy-busy days.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Every part of me hurt. From my head to my mangled arm and down to my smoke-damaged lungs, there wasn't much left of me that was undamaged.
Secretly, I was glad for the pain. It meant I was still alive. Though it made it a bear to get any rest that wasn't hopped up on whatever clear liquid was running through my IV.
Jones sat asleep in the chair next to me. He was scruffy as hell, having refused to leave my side since my surgery in case I needed anything. I was dying for a drink of water but loathe to wake him. Maybe I could reach the cup myself. I glanced at the plaster cast on my arm—it went from shoulder to palm, with only my fingers peeking out—and decided not to chance it. The giant refrigerator had all but crushed the bone, and I didn't want to undo the orthopedist's careful reconstruction.
A familiar face peered around the corner. I smiled at Donna and gritted my teeth as I tried to sit up a little.
In an instant, Jones was awake and by my side. "What do you need?"
"Help me sit up. And some water would be great."
He adjusted the bed and then aimed the straw at my lips. I sucked gratefully until the cup was empty, but waved away his offer for more.
Donna put her hand on Jones's shoulder. "Malcolm, go home."
His gaze slid to me, and he started to shake his head, but in typical Donna fashion, she steamrolled him. "I'm saying this as a friend. You stink, literally. The hospital staff has considered a health and comfort quarantine. Go have a shower and a hot meal. I've got the day shift, and Eugene and Cecily will stop in for lunch. Andy will be fine for a few hours. Go."
His smile was rueful. "I am rather ripe, aren't I? All right. But I'll be back later on." Reaching down, he stroked my face. His anxiety at the thought of having me out of his sight was palpable. He'd told me how afraid he's been when he'd discovered I was gone, vanished without a trace. He'd called Kyle directly, and the entire sheriff's office had been out hunting. But it wasn't until Lacey L'Amour's security monitoring company had reported the fire that anyone had thought to look there. If not for Jacob Griffin arriving in town in the dead of night, I might not have made it out.
"I'll be fine," I reassured him. "Go on, stinky man. I'll see you in a bit."
He caressed my cheek tenderly, then gave me a soul-shattering kiss before turning to go.
Donna took Jones's chair. She wore a black workout outfit with hot pink and electric-blue stripes, and her face was sans makeup.
"Going casual today?"
She shrugged. "No sense getting all dolled up and making you feel worse about the hospital stay than you already do. Besides, I figured you'd need a chance to vent, as every time you complain, Jones hops up like he needs to do something about it ASAP. So go ahead—let loose."
"The food here is the pits," I grumbled. "And the wardrobe leaves much to be desired."
Donna raised an eyebrow. "That's the best you've got?"
I settled back as best I could against the pillows. "Give me time to warm up at least. I might pull something if I go into full-throttle bitchfest."
Donna's lips quirked. "We wouldn't want that. Okay, so what do you know, and what can I fill you in on from the outside?"
"I know the mayor's been arrested." A shiver racked me, which in turn only made my broken arm throb. "Detective Brown stopped by yesterday. He said they found the handgun that had killed Rochelle and the burner phone Randal used to call me in his potting shed. There was also DNA evidence that Rochelle had been in his SUV. No jury in the world will let him walk."
Donna nodded. "And Kyle said that the mayor's nephew admitted that Eli had suggested the initiation ritual and had pointed out which buildings they should torch. Since Joey was supposed to be the leader, none of the others knew about the mayor's involvement or his intentions. That might get a few of the older kids a reduced sentence at least. And Kaylee is just getting community service. And her juvenile file will be sealed."
I sagged in relief. "Good. I was worried. Any news on the pasta shop?"
Donna grinned. "Cecily is handling it. You could almost feel sorry fo
r the board of health."
I smiled back, but then had to ask, "What about Lacey's restaurant?"
She shook her head. "I haven't heard a word about it. The fire and damage was extensive though, at least according to Steve. She won't be able to reopen anytime soon."
"This may sound nuts, but I feel sort of bad for her."
A knock sounded on the door, and I looked up to see Jacob Griffin standing in the doorway. He looked from me to Donna and back again. "If this is a bad time, I can come back."
I wasn't sure what to say to him. The man had saved my life. Hell, he'd given me life. Yet he was a total stranger. I opened my mouth, but Donna rose smoothly. "Actually, I was on my way to go grab a cup of coffee. You want anything?"
Griffin pulled a face. "Not from here."
My friend laughed, then turned to face me. Soundlessly, she mouthed, "Be nice," and then slipped past him.
Griffin moved further into the room but didn't sit down. I shifted, though considering the catheter and the IV, I couldn't go far. An awkward pause ensued.
He went with the obvious. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay, all things considered."
"When do you get out of the hospital?"
"I don't know. A few more days." Any longer than that and I very well might chew my own arm off.
"Good. That's…good."
More uncomfortable pauses.
"Thanks," I said to him finally. "For saving me, I mean."
He frowned. "You shouldn't have to thank me for that. It's what any decent person would do."
"Not the guy who put me there."
"I said decent," he growled. "How the hell did that maniac get elected in the first place?"
I tried to shrug and instantly regretted the motion, hissing in pain, shutting my eyes reflexively. It was kind of a stupid reflex, because without any sight, all I could focus on was the searing agony.
Griffin moved by my side and put his hand on my good arm. "Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone?"
The wave of nausea abated, and I cracked an eyelid. "No, I just need to be still for a bit."
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 20
