Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1)

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "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.

  Sausage and Fresh Spinach White Lasagna

  What you'll need:

  1 pound Italian sausage (mild or spicy depending on your taste)

  2 1/2 cups Alfredo sauce

  2 cups part-skim ricotta cheese

  1 egg white

  9 cups fresh baby spinach

  1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese

  1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

  1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg or several grinds of grated nutmeg.

  9 lasagna noodles, cooked

  2 1/2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese

  1 1/2 cups shredded provolone cheese

  Crumble and cook the sausage in a large skillet over medium heat until browned. Drain well. Remove from heat, and stir in the sauce. In large mixing bowl, combine the ricotta cheese, egg white, spinach, Parmesan, and pepper.

  Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Spread 1 cup of the sauce mixture into the bottom of a 9 x 13-inch baking dish. Top with 3 noodles. Cover the noodles with 1/2 of the ricotta cheese mixture, 1 cup of mozzarella, and 1 cup of sauce. Repeat the layers one more time. Add the last 3 noodles. Top the lasagna with the remaining sauce and the remaining mozzarella cheese. Sprinkle with mozzarella.

  Cover and bake 45 to 50 minutes. Uncover and bake an additional 5 minutes. Serves 8.

  **Andy's note: You can substitute marinara sauce for the Alfredo to cut calories, but where's the fun in that?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kyle insisted on helping me unload the van. We worked together in an awkward silence thicker than a refrigerated batch of heavy Alfredo. Lizzy hawked us for a while, but when she realized I was unlikely to throw Kyle to the ground and have my wicked way with him, she minced off to terrorize someone else.

  "We saw you on TV," Kyle offered.

  I stumbled over nothing. "Of course you did." I could see it in my mind's eye, Kyle with his boots on the coffee table, the pig whore nestled against his broad chest, both in raptures as my live studio audience hoarked and I stood there like a deer in the headlights, the camera adding ten pounds to my already generous hips. In between wheezes, Lizzy would pat Kyle's arm and say, "You really dodged a bullet on that one."

  A million excuses came to mind, but I just sighed and traipsed back to the van for another armload.

  Kyle started shuffling things around in the kitchen. "I didn't think you would come back here. Not after everything—"

  "I don't want to talk about it," I snapped, dropping the laundered linens where I stood. "I'm here to work, Kyle, and a trip down memory lane is not on my to-do list. Now, congratulations, and please get the hell out of the way so I can cook for you and your bride-to- be."

  I turned back to the van, not wanting to see Kyle's hurt expression. Kyle, the quintessential nice guy, I doubt a sarcastic or mean-spirited word ever left his lips. He'd give anyone in town the shirt off his back if they'd asked. The golden boy, the town's favorite nephew.

  Just looking at him made my eye twitch.

  Ask anyone in a five mile radius about our tempestuous history, and the answer would be the same: Andy Buckland had broken Kyle Landers's heart and then skipped town. My version of the story was a little different, but no one cared to hear it. Not that it mattered, except I didn't want to hurt Kyle anymore. We'd gutted each other enough already.

  So I felt like a first-rate puppy kicker, but honestly, what the hell did he think would happen when I found out he and Lizzy were engaged?

  I refused to cry. Not only would it be unprofessional, but I'd feel like I was eighteen years old again. Getting angry though, that I could do. I kicked the linen bundle, hard. "Damn it all!" That felt so good I drew my foot back for another go.

  "What did those t
ablecloths do to you?"

  "They exist," I snarled at the intruder before my mind registered who had joined me. I lowered my foot in an attempt to look like less of an idiot. "What are you doing here?"

  Jones leaned in the doorway, a camera dangling around his neck. "Official event photographer. They are paying me a disgustingly obscene amount of money to take a few pictures. Are you all right?"

  No, but seeing him again was definitely a step in the right direction. Jones was the ultimate spectacle guaranteed to nab my attention. "My ex-boyfriend is getting married to my archenemy."

  One dark eyebrow went up. "Archenemy?"

  "You know, my personal nemesis, the fly in my ointment, she who must not be named. She hired me just to rub my nose in their engagement. Put me in my place." I gestured around the opulent kitchen.

  Jones nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I see. You want to mend fences, but your man is taken."

  "No!" God forbid he believed I wanted Kyle back. If I wanted anyone it was Jones and could have kicked myself for blurting out the truth. I couldn't tell if the idea of me going after Kyle bothered him or not. Maybe I was imagining the spark between us. "I'd rather put a lit cigarette out in my eye."

  "You Americans are so dramatic." Jones smiled, softening his words. "Still, I don't see how abusing the linens will get you anywhere. You might want to rethink your strategy."

  My hands landed on my hips. "What do you suggest I do instead?"

  Jones shrugged. "Ignore them. Do your job and cater this event and the one after that. Success is the best revenge."

  "Spoken like a man who knows firsthand." I knew sage advice when it fell into my lap. I bent down, retrieved the largest pot I could find, and filled the sucker with water.

  "You look beautiful, by the way."

  I blushed to the roots of my hair. Since the lacy muumuu wasn't in the cards, I'd donned a simple black blouse and black slacks with sensible flats, hoping to blend into the background so no one would notice me. Obviously, my disguise hadn't worked on Jones. "Thanks."

  Jones snapped a picture of me before I could protest. "Good girl. I'll check in on you later."

  "Promise?" The word popped out before I thought it through.

  Jones winked and disappeared.

  Be still my heart.

  The kitchen looked much different than it did a few minutes ago. Brighter and full of potential. Or maybe that was just my perspective. So what if Kyle was marrying Satan's spoiled stepdaughter? I should take pity on him, not worry about them laughing at my foibles. Even people who hadn't seen the live broadcast of my short-lived show had probably watched the YouTube clip. It was attached to my name and was the reason I'd had to come home and work in the family pasta shop, because even McDonald's wouldn't return my calls.

  Instead of lamenting the awkwardness of my circumstances, I should be glad Lizzy was such a vindictive witch. I'd work my tail off to put on the best pasta bar spread Beaverton had ever seen. The Bowtie Angel would become the place to be, lunch and dinner. We'd book our catering gigs months in advance. Hire more staff for Aunt Cecily to frighten into submission. We'd call them distant relations. The thought made me laugh out loud.

  Jones was right—success was the best revenge.

  The water had reached a rapid boil. I threw the angel hair in a boiling pot of salted water and prepped the oven for the final bake on my signature dessert pasta, Noodle Kugel. I'd had to prepare the mixture for the Kugel when Aunt Cecily was in the bathroom. She did not approve of pasta being used for dessert. Lizzy hadn't ordered it, but she was getting it all the same. And I was charging her for it, too!

  Once set in the familiar routine of cooking, I fell into an easy rhythm. A few hired hands set out the tables under the largest tent so I could arrange the linen napkins, china plates, silver, and wine goblets. No Chinet for Lizzy and Kyle. This shindig would yield one hell of a cleanup detail and luckily, I wasn't on it. Once the food had been set out, my work was done.

  The last baked spaghetti had just gone into the oven, the rest of the hot food warming in the portable warming racks, the cold dishes overloading Lizzy's mammoth refrigerator, when the hostess entered into the room, lavender skirts swishing about her ankles. "Where's Kyle?"

  I almost said it wasn't my turn to watch him, but held my tongue at the last second. This was business, and no matter how much I disliked her, I needed to curb my sharp replies. "Haven't seen him for hours, not since he helped me unload the van."

  "We're supposed to be having our pictures taken in the atrium with my father and brother and his parents. I thought he might be in here."

  I wondered why her mother wasn't going to be in the portrait but didn't ask. None of my business. "You might want to check the freezer just to be sure, but there's no Kyle here." I gestured around the room.

  Lizzy glanced around at the serving bowls and platters lined up and ready for use and frowned. "Where's the cake?"

  Cake? "I didn't do a cake."

  "I hired Chef Zoltan Farnsworth to make a three-tiered masterpiece, a miniature version of the one he's designed for the wedding."

  "Of course you did," I muttered, mostly to myself. "How do you even know him?"

  "He's an old friend of the family. My mother was one of his first sponsors."

  Crash. The back door banged open, and there he stood, Zoltan Farnsworth, a red kerchief tied around his beefy throat, a chef's hat poised on his balding head, mustache push-broom straight. He was dressed in a white overcoat and white and black checked pants and red high tops that matched his neck sash.

  "I have arrived," he announced to the room at large. Somehow I held my applause.

  Lizzy rushed forward. "Chef Farnsworth, thank goodness. I was beginning to worry. Where is my cake?"

  "In the car. My assistant is guarding it. Some person left a giant unsightly vehicle in the way, and we dare not try to carry the creation too far."

  "Andy, move your van," Lizzy hissed.

  "What's the magic word?" I asked. These two deserved each other. No one paid any attention to me, so I went outside to re-park the van. Dollars to doughnuts Chef Farnsworth didn't have to travel up the back roads to deliver the precious cake.

  I waved to Mimi, who was guarding "the creation."

  Mimi waved back. She had dark circles under her eyes and a frazzled look in them. Poor thing. Yes, the economy was rough, but I think I'd rather scrub out public toilets than be bossed around by that arrogant tool.

  With the van resituated out of the way, I dashed back into the kitchen. The baked spaghetti would be up soon. Lizzy was gone, but Zoltan stood in front of the oven.

  He dismissed me with a wave of his sausage shaped fingers. "You, go help with the cake."

  "Excuse me. I'm not one of your sous chefs."

  He sniffed arrogantly. "Of course not. I do not work with incompetent people."

  One mistake. A girl makes one mistake and has to live with it for the rest of her life. "I have to get something out of the oven first." No need to tell him I had no intention of doing anything for him.

  He stood his ground. "First the cake. My time is very valuable, and you are wasting it."

  Left with no other choice, I hip-checked him. Be damned if Zoltan messed up my timetable. He had brought one thing while I prepared dozens of dishes. He could wait his turn. The other chef squawked like a bird on the receiving end of an enema but moved just enough so that I could open the oven door.

  "How dare you!" he seethed, but I was already scooting around the island with the hot dish in my hands.

  "Coming through with hot soup!" Okay, it wasn't soup, but it got the path before me cleared. "Sooner I get my dishes set up the sooner I'll be out of your hair." What was left of it.

  Zoltan eyeballed me for a minute before whirling on his heel and storming outside.

  Do I know how to clear a room or what?

  * * *

  The sun sank beyond the tree line, and the twinkle lights illuminated the purpling night like fi
reflies. It was chilly up here on the mountain, but the rain held off. I set the last serving spoon in the Italian meatball dish and surveyed my work. Every dish had been prepared and presented with the utmost care and stood lined up like good little soldiers along the buffet table. Platters were covered with silver lids, and burners flickered, keeping the hot dishes at serving temperatures. The guests had arrived, and a live band played a low jazzy melody in the background. Kyle and Lizzy were nowhere in sight.

  All the guests were wearing jackets, but because I'd been hustling between the kitchen and the banquet table carrying dish after dish I stood there, coatless. I should leave. Though going home was all I'd thought about since arriving, suddenly I found I wanted to let the magic of the night sweep me away.

  Jones waved to me from across the dance floor and beckoned me over. Other than the large camera in his hands, he was dressed as well as any of the guests. A black cashmere sweater black leather duster and black slacks held up by—you guessed it— a black belt. Even his tie followed the monochromatic dress code. "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" I said as I approached him.

  Those dark slashes he called eyebrows drew together. "Pardon?"

  I gestured at his ensemble. "Your Regis Philbin impression?"

  Jones shook his head, snapping another candid. "I don't know who that is."

  My jaw dropped. "Regis, of Regis and Kelly, formerly Regis and Kathy Lee? Has spent more time in front of a camera than any other American in history?"

  Jones raised the camera and took a few more shots. "I prefer to spend my time behind the camera."

  "Oh," I rolled my eyes. Way to show off that impressive mastery of the English language, Andy, you weenie.

  Jones let the camera hang from the strap around his neck while he shucked his coat. "Here, put this on before you freeze to death."

  "Thanks," The warm leather and male spice scent enveloped me, and I instantly felt better. "Aren't you cold?"

  Jones moved a few feet to the left and lifted his camera. Click, click-click. "Where I grew up this is warm enough for short sleeves."