The difficult old curmudgeon stayed true to his colors. "No, you go on up to bed. I can fend for myself."
He shuffled off into the living room, and after a brief pause the late night news blared from the television. Roofus, Pop's ancient beagle, snored from his dog bed in the hall. No more damage for me to do tonight. I climbed the stairs, weary, bleary, and stiff as all get-out.
Though exhaustion cloaked me, I didn't fall asleep right away. Moonlight filtered through the wood slats, casting lasagna-shaped shadows on the ceiling. Turning to my side, I forced myself to focus on something other than work. An image of Jones popped into my head, and I relived our run-in. I wondered what had brought him to Beaverton.
My dreams were filled with handsome men and fast cars.
Pesto Sauce
Combine 2 cups of basil with 1/2 cup pine nuts. Pulse a few times in a food processor. (Because if you don't have a food processor and you try this by hand, your arms will fall off before you're done. Seriously splurge on the food processor.) Add 3 cloves of minced garlic, and pulse a few more times.
Slowly add 1/2 cup garlic infused extra virgin olive oil in a constant stream while the food processor is on. Stop to scrape down the sides of the food processor with a rubber spatula. Add 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese and pulse again until blended. Add a pinch of sea salt. Serve over pasta, fish, chicken, toasted Italian bread, almost anything!
**Andy's note: You can substitute walnuts for pine nuts, but just make sure you chop them well before adding the basil! I find that rotini holds this sauce best.
CHAPTER THREE
Rain tapped against my window, and a groan born from the pit of my soul passed my lips. Aw hell. The soreness from the accident had multiplied like a couple of horny bunnies as the aches and pains spread throughout my body. It took me three tries to get up, and I prayed hot water waited for me in the bathroom.
No such luck. The one of the old Victorian's quirks was that the ancient water heater was temperamental about delivering hot water to the upper floors. It had never bothered Nana and Pops, whose bathroom was downstairs, and since they didn't have money to replace the stupid thing, I had learned to live with it. Shivering and aching after my shower, I desperately wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week. But the last thing I needed right now was for Lizzy Tillman to spread the word that I didn't meet my obligations.
Again, I offered to cook for Pops, and again he refused. I downed a bowl of cereal, let Roofus into the backyard and dried his fur on return, and headed out to the Town Car.
"My poor Mustang Sally." Making a mental note to call Mike's Garage and check on when I might expect to get my car back, I navigated into town.
The gunmetal gray sky matched my mood, and the wiper blades could hardly keep up with the downpour. No one else was in sight. They all had more sense than to be out cruising around in the rain. The lights in the pasta shop blazed, so Aunt Cecily had to be already puttering around. We had tons to do, and as I darted under the awning, I made a mental list of all I needed to accomplish.
"Good, you are here." Aunt Cecily stirred a huge pot of marinara. "Your uniform is upstairs."
"My uniform?" I hung my rain jacket on the back of the door. "What uniform?"
"You must wear for the job."
Warily, I crept up the stairs to Aunt Cecily's spic-n-span studio apartment. There, laid out on the bed, was my uniform. Yards of black satin and lace, enough to make a nice dining room table for the Addams family reunion, sprawled across the twin bed.
"She can't be serious," I breathed staring down at the black muumuu. "It's a frickin' tent!"
"You try on. See if it needs hemming!" Aunt Cecily called from the bottom of the stairs.
What it needed was some accelerant and a blowtorch. "Aunt Cecily, I can't work in this!" What if I tripped and stumbled into the lake? Cement underpants wouldn't drag my ass down faster. Crap, what was I going to do?
"Does it fit?" Aunt Cecily hollered up. The creak of her slight weight on the stairs sent the fleeting thought of saying "no" scurrying back into the dark recesses of my mind. No one with a lick of sense would defy her. She might use The Eye and hex them.
Grimacing, I tried it on. It smelled of moth balls. I held my breath and tugged it on over the top of my jeans and T-shirt. The dress hung like a curtain. In fact I think I'd seen curtains like this once, in a haunted house carnival ride. The only tight parts were the sleeves, but the rest was cut to preserve traditional Italian peasant-girl modesty. Or perhaps keep a family of four warm at night.
My reflection in the antique mirror told me that I looked like a bloated, unwrinkled version of Aunt Cecily. The grape to her raisin. My stiffness from the car accident caused me to move like someone suffering from rheumatism. I squinted my eyes and tried to look like someone who could put the evil eye on her enemies. The fellas would be lining up at the exits to get away from me. Or rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically.
Andy Buckland, what a catch.
"Come down so I see what needs to be done."
This was the low point of my life. Behold my future as an unwed, bitter, and old Italian harpy. I had to bunch great fistfuls of fabric at my waist to maneuver down the stairs. The kitchen was empty. "Aunt Cecily?"
"Out here!"
Great, she had to go out into the front of the pasta shop, where everyone could see me through the windows. Just peachy. At least it was raining and too early for the lunch rush no one would be out, and I could skulk back up to change before anyone—
That thought died an early death as I pushed through the door and came face-to-face with Malcolm Jones.
To his credit, he didn't laugh, at least on the outside. His eyes danced with mirth as he surveyed the oceans of fabric that seemed to be growing by the minute.
"Andrea," his lips twitched in greeting.
"Of frigging course." My shoulders slumped.
Aunt Cecily elbowed me in the ribs. "Language!"
"I dropped by to see how you are feeling."
"Smothered," I said, and he laughed.
Aunt Cecily nodded in approval. "This is good. I do not have to put the eye on you."
"The eye?" Jones's eyebrows arched up.
I shifted my weight, which took even more effort while draped in the death shroud. "The evil eye. It's an Italian thing."
Jones nodded. "I'm relieved."
"I must see to my sauce. You will talk with this man, Niece." With that pronouncement, she left.
"She's a bit scary," Jones said.
"Why the hell do you think I'm wearing this get-up? At least until I can find a reasonable excuse to get out of it."
"Is it flame retardant?"
"She'd kill me if I lit it on fire." Though the thought had crossed my mind.
"No, I mean, it's unsafe to wear such a…robust garment when you're working around an open flame, correct?"
"Oh, thank God." This time I sagged from more than the weight of a bale of velvet. "You're my hero."
"Anything for a damsel in distress." The line was hokey, but delivered in his crisp accent it made my girl parts tingle.
We exchanged a look, loaded with undercurrents of sexual tension. I licked my lips, and his gaze fell to my mouth and then darted away. Maybe my future wasn't quite as bleak as it had seemed a few minutes ago.
"This is an interesting place." Jones took in the décor. "I don't believe I've ever been to a shop specializing in pasta quite like this before."
"It's a family business. Used to be just Nana and Aunt Cecily. They opened it together with their inheritance. I asked Nana once why a pasta shop and not a restaurant, and she told me it was because she wanted to make pasta, but not necessarily serve it all the time. A restaurant would require more staffing, a wider menu. She and Aunt Cecily like things as they are, simple, traditional." Clamping my lips together, I cut off the incessant babble. Jones didn't care about the ins and outs of the pasta shop and my family lunacy.
"Traditional can be refreshing," he co
untered.
"Except when it comes to fashion." I spread out the skirt of my muumuu to illustrate.
Aunt Cecily pushed back through the kitchen door. "Here, you take this." She handed Jones a takeout container of what looked like the white sausage and spinach lasagna I'd made last night for Lizzy's pasta bar buffet.
Jones accepted the container. "Thank you very much, Ms. Buckland."
"It is Rossetti." She corrected him without her usual add-on of you are a stranger so you know nothing.
I bit my lip. Aunt Cecily must have taken a shine to Jones. She never offered free food to anyone outside the family.
"You will come back again," Aunt Cecily informed him.
"It would be my pleasure. Good day, ladies." Jones ducked out into the pouring rain and disappeared into his SUV.
"You will marry that one," Aunt Cecily pronounced.
I turned as Jones's taillights disappeared into the gloom. "Why do you say that?"
Aunt Cecily squinted at my midsection. "I know. He will give you many fat babies. Come now. We make the pasta."
* * *
The rain stopped just as I carried the last load out to the van. Figured.
"Aunt Cecily, we're ready to go!"
My aunt came to the door. We stared at each other for a beat. I glanced at my watch. "Um, are you coming?"
"No." She disappeared back inside. I watched the sign flick from open to closed. Okay, I guess it was my show. Though I tried to tell myself that she was demonstrating faith in me, it was more likely I'd been assigned all the undesirable grunt work, like slaving over a pot of boiling water to feed Lizzy and her rich friends.
Or maybe I was just bitter. The Tillmans lived five miles outside of town, up on a hill that cloaked itself in fog every morning. The road turned to hard-packed dirt, and I bumped along, cursing the shitty suspension on the van. I ascended slowly, wondering if I'd gotten lost. I double-checked the directions Lizzy had scrawled down on her order, then consulted my GPS app on my phone. Not that there was anyone I could ask or even anyplace to turn around. Thick forest and sheer drop offs scratched that possibility off the list. I could call Lizzy's house and ask for directions, but dying from exposure seemed like a better option than admitting I'd gotten lost in my hometown.
Finally the road evened out, and I peered through the windshield at large wrought-iron gates and the mammoth stone edifice beyond. I could even see a gargoyle perched on the roof. Wow, very "off with their heads." No wonder Lizzy was such a pill. She had an entire estate worth of people to boss around.
I saw no way around the gate but a little button below a speaker. I climbed from the van and pushed the button.
"Hi, I'm with Bowtie Angel pasta shop, here to cater for the…er…event." Shoot, I really should have asked so I knew what was going on up here.
An androgynous voice crackled over the intercom. "Drive around to the south entrance. The kitchen is in the right wing."
There was another way in. Of frigging course there was. "Where's the south entrance?"
"Circle around to the left."
Muttering, I backed out and drove around to the south entrance. The road had been freshly paved here and led serenely down the hill. Next time I saw Lizzy I was gonna tell her she had a big ugly pimple on the tip of her nose for payback.
I was third in line behind a refrigerated truck and a furniture truck. Table and chair rentals probably. On the other side of the hedge maze—I kid you not—a flurry of activity took place on the sloping front lawn. Tents were being set up, and strands of twinkle lights decorated the lower limbs of giant conifers. Fairyland in the making.
I parked the van behind the right wing and scrambled out. The ground squished beneath my sneakers, but it wasn't completely sodden. No doubt Lizzy had men with hairdryers on standby to remove any unwanted moisture from the guest's shoes.
Rapping three times on the back door, I squared my shoulders and donned my most professional demeanor. Okay, so I was the hired help, but it was good to show my face and let the townspeople know how much I'd grown and changed. Andy Buckland, the consummate professional. What a class act.
The back door opened, and the smile slid right off my face. "Kyle?"
My ex was just as surprised to see me. "Andy? What are you doing here?"
Dag-nabbit, I'd been doing a really good job not thinking about Kyle. Okay, maybe he'd crept in to the periphery of my thoughts once or twice, but still, he wasn't the center of my world anymore. If I could only get my mouth to spit those exact words out.
"Kyle? Who's there?" Lizzy appeared behind him. When she saw me on the steps with my mouth hanging open like a freshly caught bass she tucked her arm through Kyle's elbow. A flash of reflected light caught my attention, and I gaped at the rock on her finger. My gaze flew to Kyle's, and he looked away. Add it all up, the rock, the proprietary way she clung to him, his discomfort at seeing me, the party.
The party. Oh cripes, I was catering their engagement party.
MURDER AL DENTE
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Pies & Peril Page 23
