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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "I know I am able. I simply choose not to," he said.

  "Okeydokey." Who was this femme fatale and what had she done with Andy Buckland?

  "You're cute," Jones said in a way that made me feel a little less like an idiot.

  "You're not so bad yourself." I smacked my palm against my forehead, hoping to knock a few brain cells together. "So, what's up?"

  "I was wondering if you would like to go hiking with me tomorrow. There's a waterfall I intend to photograph near the Linville Gorge."

  I worried my lip and considered his invitation. Of course spending more time with him sounded divine, but I'm more of a mall walker than an actual hiker. Air conditioning is my friend. Did I really want Jones to see me sweating bullets so soon in our relationship? Hell, did we even have a relationship?

  "Are you still there?" Jones asked.

  I realized I'd been quiet for an unusually long time. "I was just checking my schedule." Atta girl, make him think you are in demand. The sad truth was that other than dropping Roofus off at the vet to have his teeth cleaned, my calendar was wide open. "Looks like I'm free."

  "So glad you could fit me in," he purred.

  Oh hell-o that was definitely flirting. I used my illegally obtained file to fan my flaming face. Pops was shuffling out the door, and I hurriedly asked, "What time?"

  "It's a bit of a drive, so I'll pick you up around eight."

  "I'll be ready." I hung up in a hurry and scurried to open the door for Pops, who was wearing dark glasses to counteract his dilated pupils. "Everything go all right?"

  Pops grunted as he wedged himself into the car. "Another new prescription. Not that it'll make a difference. I've got old eyes, nothing much they can do about that."

  "Do you really think you ought to be driving?" I asked.

  He didn't say anything, which was answer enough. Pops knew he shouldn't be behind the wheel.

  "I'm not ready," he said hoarsely. "Not ready to be old, to not drive."

  I didn't say anything, couldn't get past the lump in my throat. I hated to do this to him. Pops was so proud. And the logistics about him no longer driving…how would he get around? Beaverton was a small community, but Pops lived on the outskirts of town. Who would take him to the doctor's office, grocery shopping, or to the pasta shop to harass Aunt Cecily?

  The answer I knew should be forthcoming was not one I was ready to live with. After all, Pops had taken me in when I needed it, rearranged his whole life for me. A good granddaughter would bear that mantle stoically.

  But committing to staying in Beaverton scared me to death. It was like admitting that I had given up on making something of myself in the outside world, so I slunk home and hid in my family's pasta shop. I wanted more from life than whatever leftovers I could scrounge up.

  "Don't worry," I told Pops. "We'll figure something out."

  Garlic Parmesan Pasta

  What you'll need:

  1 cup cooked broad egg noodles

  1 cup carrots cut into disks

  1 cup broccoli

  2 cloves of garlic

  1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

  Freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  Steam the broccoli and the carrots until tender. Crush the garlic and sauté it in oil. Add to noodles, toss with veggies and Parmesan while hot to melt the cheese

  **Andy's note: Use fresh Parmesan because, in the words of Aunt Cecily "We're not savages." Amen to that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At quarter to eight the next morning I stood in front of my closet clad only in a towel and considered my limited wardrobe choices. I'd only packed one suitcase and a duffel bag for the sojourn to Beaverton. The weather was unseasonably chilly, and even if I'd brought shorts I wouldn't be wearing them. So that left jeans and yoga pants. The denim was tempting—I was a jean wearer on most days and had a few pairs that cupped my ass in a flattering way. That was important, because Jones might end up walking behind me. On the other hand, the yoga pants were much more comfortable, and I had no idea how arduous our hike would be.

  "Just pick something," I muttered as the clock ticked closer to eight. It was important to my vanity to look terrific in front of Jones for a change, but chafed thighs and sweating buckets probably wasn't the way to go.

  Decided, I slithered into the yoga pants, pulled on a blue sports bra and a racer back tank, topped it with a blue and white hoodie, and yanked my hair back into a ponytail. My sneakers were downstairs. Roofus glared at me from his dog bed, clearly unwilling to go on another walk so soon after our last one.

  "Don't worry—you're not invited," I informed the dog as I snatched a protein bar and a bottle of water from the pantry.

  Roofus put his head back down and sighed.

  "Where are you off to so early?" Pops asked as I poured myself a mug of coffee.

  "I'm going hiking today, but I'll have my cell phone if you need to get in touch with me." I knocked back the coffee, burning my tongue in the process, and dropped a kiss on his weathered cheek on my way out the door. The last thing I wanted was to give him time to ask who I was going with. I shouldn't have worried.

  The doorbell rang just as I finished tying my shoelaces, and I checked my pockets for keys, cash, and my phone before throwing open the door. The smile died an untimely death when I saw not Jones but Kyle on the other side.

  My good mood evaporated like early morning mist under the heat of the sun. "What are you doing here?" He was wearing his uniform, but that didn't mean his visit was official. Besides, the last I knew it was the City of Beaverton police investigating both the murder and the break-in.

  Kyle took a step forward, ignoring my death glare. "I need to talk to you."

  "I've already given my statement about what happened the night Chef Farnsworth died."

  He waved a dismissive hand. "Not about the investigation."

  "I have a date." Damn it, where the hell was Jones? If he drove like a normal person instead of a little old lady on her way to Bingo, he could have rescued me from Kyle.

  "Andy…" Kyle shifted his weight, telegraphing exactly how ill at ease he was here.

  "Kyle…" The devil in me suggested we invite him in and then Pops could tear another strip off his hide like he'd done so many years ago. Instead, I stepped outside with him and shut the door, unwilling to upset Pops over something as trivial as Kyle. "How's Lizzy?"

  "Distraught," he muttered. "It's not every day your chef is murdered in your home."

  "He was just the pastry chef," I corrected. Why that seemed an important distinction, I had no idea.

  Kyle shifted again. "About the baby."

  I held up a hand. "We're not going there."

  "We need to talk about it. About her."

  "No, we really don't." Tears stung the corners of my eyes. Damn him, why did he have to bring that up now?

  "Lizzy thinks I still have feelings for you."

  Though Lizzy had alluded to that the day before, I couldn't get my head around it. . "What?"

  "I don't," he hurried to explain. "Nothing beyond friendship and history, but she won't hear it. Having you back in town is tough on her. And then the murder, and you're getting close to her brother—"

  As if summoned, Jones's SUV turned onto the street.

  Relief flooded through me that this horribly awkward conversation was almost over. "Kyle, our personal history is just that—history. Now I'm sorry Lizzy is having a tough time, but it's got nothing to do with me."

  Kyle's face fell. "Andy, I'm sorry, I wasn't—"

  Jones pulled to a stop in front of the house, and I made a slicing motion with my hand. "No Kyle, just no. Not now, not ever."

  "Good morning, Sheriff." Jones's accent was as crisp as the autumn morning. "Andrea," he said to me and offered me his arm.

  It was a courteous, old world sort of gesture which should have seemed ridiculous with me sporting yoga pants and him in jeans—knew I picked wrong!—but Jones had the courtly mien to pull it off.

  He escorted m
e to the SUV and held my door for me while Kyle stared at us. I didn't want to know what he thought about Jones picking me up, so I didn't look back at him.

  Jones circled the vehicle and slid behind the wheel. He gave Kyle a jaunty wave before driving off.

  "That was excellent," I told him. "Your timing is impeccable."

  He made a face. "I don't understand his appeal to you or my sister. He's so…." He trailed off, searching for a suitable description.

  "Malleable," I supplied and Jones snapped and pointed at me.

  "Exactly. It's like he's all façade and no depth. Every single photograph I took of him was like a mannequin. Perfect, posed, and plastic."

  "Honestly, after the way your dad treated her mother, are you really surprised Lizzy would choose someone she could control?"

  Jones's gaze darted to me. "How did you know about that?"

  Shit. I'm not with him two minutes before my immoral snooping pops up to bite me on the ass. Would I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?

  Trapped, I leaned on the time-honored tradition of blame shifting. "Small town. You know how gossip goes around."

  Jones wasn't satisfied with my explanation. "Were you checking into me, Andrea?

  Busted. Another woman might have played her interest off as a mild flirtation, but my feminine wiles were sorely lacking. Okay self, don't panic and stick as close to the truth as possible so you don't have to remember a boatload of lies.

  "I felt bad about not realizing your connection with Lizzy, so I asked around. Can you blame me?"

  He glanced at me sideways. "Not at all. Especially with a recent murder."

  I shivered, the same way I'd been doing every time I flashed back to the unfortunate discovery. "Jones, did you see the message written in the flour?"

  Because I was watching for it, I saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel even as he asked, "What message?"

  He had—I was almost certain of it. "When we discovered the body there was a bag of flour broken on the pantry floor, and someone had written the words 'welcome home.' I mentioned it to the detective in charge, but it had been erased. Are you sure you didn't see it?"

  I knew Jones wasn't the killer. I was his alibi for crying out loud. But I was convinced he knew more than he let on.

  Taking a calculated risk, I turned to face him. "You erased it, didn't you?"

  "Andrea," he started and then pulled off the side of the road.

  I didn't know whether to hit him or scramble from the car and slam the door in his face. "Of all the boneheaded things to do! That's tampering with a crime scene. You could be charged with something, like accessory after the fact. Why would you do that?"

  "Because it was meant for me," Jones said quietly.

  That stopped me cold. "What?"

  "Welcome home, the first time I'm in my father's house. Do you really think that was a coincidence?"

  My mouth opened, but no sound came out so I shut it again.

  "Who else could it have been meant for?" He'd turned to face me, his gaze locked on mine.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. "Me?" I suggested.

  His eyebrows drew down. "You?"

  "Well yeah, since I knew Chef Farnsworth and I'd just come back to town."

  Jones frowned. "But he was killed in my family's home."

  "In the kitchen, during an event I was catering," I parried.

  He turned and stared out of the window. "So the message might have been intended for either of us."

  "Or both." That didn't change the fact he'd tampered with the evidence. "We need to tell the police that you erased the message."

  He turned the SUV back on. "What good will that do?"

  "It'll help them focus the investigation."

  "On the two of us, instead of on the real killer" he insisted.

  How could I get through to him? Convince him that it was important. "Listen, I don't know your whole story, but here's what I do know. Beaverton is a hotbed of gossip. The longer the case goes unsolved, the harder it will be on both of us and our families."

  He stared at me for a beat, dark blue eyes assessing. "Let me think about it."

  Feeling brave, I reached out and touched his arm. "I don't want you to go to jail for interfering with a police investigation. Who would catch me when I'm at my worst?"

  He smiled then, a real, sincere smile, but it faded quickly. "Lizzy told me about your history with the good sheriff."

  I snatched my hand back as though it had been burned. "Of frigging course she did." A lump formed in my throat. Would he think the worst of me now, too?

  Because I'd shut my eyes, I started when he threaded his fingers through mine. "There were some…discrepancies in her version."

  "Discrepancies?"

  "Things that don't add up based on what I know about your character. Much like I'm sure your research into my background wasn't entirely complete. I'd like to hear your side of things."

  "You show me yours, and I'll show you mine?" I asked with a raised brow.

  "Think about it," Jones said and then pulled back out onto the road.

  * * *

  I did think about it, about opening up to the interesting, unique man I followed down the hiking path to Linville Falls. Spring was the best time to see the falls as the snow melt and recent rainfall swelled them until they seethed with barely leashed power. I stood back while Jones set up his camera angles.

  "What's this for, anyway?" I asked as he checked the light.

  "A calendar. Would you mind?" He gestured to a spot in front of the railing, right in the camera's line of sight.

  "Me?"

  "It helps me focus if I have a person as a subject."

  "I'm really not that photogenic," I protested, but Jones wouldn't hear it, and all too soon, he had me posed, looking out at the roaring water of the Linville River where it spilled down into the falls. He took more shots than I could count, some on a tripod and others freehand. There were a few other people milling about, teenagers taking selfies to post on Facebook and Instagram, a few senior citizens, but they kept to themselves.

  I walked over the rocks and looked down at the water cutting a swath downhill to the next portion of the falls. Color burst all around us from the green of hemlock trees, to the various colors of wildflowers nestled along the path. "It's pretty here."

  "There's a better view if you're up for a bit of a hike."

  "You've been here before?" I asked, surprised.

  "A long time ago." He smiled and offered me his hand. It was warm and solid as he pulled me up the steep dugout steps to the next portion of our adventure.

  He wasn't kidding about the hike. It was a trek, almost entirely uphill, and I was sweating and panting by the time we reached the overlook that gave us a magnificent vista of the gorge below. The falls appeared much farther away than the distance we'd climbed warranted.

  "Come here and look." He pulled me close to him and pointed out the chimneys of rock below, the stark gray of the rock contrasting with the white foam of the water and the lush green of the evergreens.

  "Wow," I said and cast Jones a grateful smile when he passed me an aluminum water bottle. Despite the fact that he'd been carrying all his camera equipment plus a pack of supplies he still smelled delicious, like dark spices and nature. He appeared just as in his element here as he had at Lizzy's party or even in the pasta shop. "You just blend well, no matter where you are, don't you?"

  He looked down at me. "It's the black clothes—keeps me neutral."

  Though I knew he was teasing I shook my head. "It's more than that. It's you, your personality. You're just so…?" I waved a hand, unsure of how to finish.

  "So…?" he prompted with a raised eyebrow.

  There were several descriptions that fit. Handsome, intriguing, sexy, decent. But it was more than a physical thing. Finally I went with, "Comfortable in your own skin."

  "What an interesting way to put it. That says more about you rather than me."

  "Like what?
" I drained the water bottle and stared out at the view.

  "That you're observant." He smiled. "And that you feel that way too."

  "I'm not so sure about that," I said.

  "I am." And he kissed me.

  Alone on the high overlook, without the worry of family or customers interrupting, we indulged in each other for the first time. His lips were soft and firm at the same time, his hands on me tight and possessive. Almost as possessive as mine were on him. Something seemed to click into place, like a puzzle piece that had been lost for so long I didn't even realize it was missing. The knowledge shook me to my core.

  We came up for air, and I saw the knowledge in his eyes, too. He lightly caressed the side of my face, and murmured. "Andrea, you can trust me."

  I wanted to, I really did. He was temptation incarnate, and the way he looked at me, as though he could not only see my inner workings but liked what he saw, was addictive. I'd been burned before though, and my heart wasn't easy access the way it had once been. I looked away. "I really really like you, Malcolm Jones. So much so that I feel like I should warn you about myself before this goes any further. Because there's baggage, and then there's baggage, you know?"

  "I've traveled all over the world. I know about baggage. You don't scare me. Go ahead— hit me with your best shot, and see if I run away."

  It was a challenge, and I knew it. He'd offered to vault any hurdle I pointed to and maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to see him do it, to land on his feet, facing me, unscathed and ready for more.

  So what was the biggest grenade I had to launch? What snippet of history held the most potential for mass destruction?

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled the pin and let it fly, praying that I was doing the right thing. "Okay, well when I was in high school, my mother committed suicide."

  Mac and Cheese

  What you'll need:

  3 cups cooked cellentani or corkscrew pasta