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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

  1 tablespoon butter

  1 cup milk

  Flour to thicken

  Salt and Pepper to taste

  Melt butter in a microwave safe dish. Add 1 tablespoon of flour, whisk until smooth, and then add cold milk. Cook for two minutes on high, whisking after every minute. If the mixture hasn't thickened whisk in a little more flour. Heat for another minute, 30 seconds at a time, so it doesn't boil over, until mixture thickens. Stir in cheese until fully melted then add hot pasta. Microwave an additional two minutes, and serve hot.

  ** Andy's note: Is there any food more comforting than a big steaming bowl of mac-n-cheese? I could have a carbgasm just thinking about it. It's hard to improve on a classic but cellentani, rotini, or any other spiral shaped pasta holds the cheese sauce better than traditional elbow macaroni. The perfect ending to an emotionally taxing day.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jones blinked, clearly surprised. I bet he'd expected me to go into the whole Kyle kerfuffle. But in truth, that was more a symptom of the pain of my mom's death, not the cause of my major malfunction. I held my breath and waited for him to bolt.

  His dark eyebrows drew down. "I'm not sure…" He stopped and shook his head.

  I liked that he was taking his time with his response, that he considered both my feelings and his own.

  "It's okay," I said and even meant it.

  Finally he inhaled and held my gaze. "Will you tell me about it?"

  I frowned. "I thought I just did."

  "That was the headline, not the whole story. I think you lobbed it at me to get a reaction. You do that when you don't want to delve deeper into a topic."

  His eerily accurate perception was a little bit scary. "Okay. Well, first of all I should probably explain that in Beaverton my family is different. Much different, as in one of these things is not like the other, you know apples to garbanzo beans."

  "Interesting analogy," Jones said. "But what do you mean 'doesn't belong'?"

  "You've met Aunt Cecily. Nana was very much like her. Not in personality, but old world Italian is not the norm in a place like Beaverton. Most of the people in our area are of Northern European or African descent—you don't see many Mediterranean families. So that's one difference which is obvious as soon as Aunt Cecily opens her mouth."

  "You don't value your unique heritage?" Jones tilted his head to the side.

  "I do now. It's why I devoted my life to Italian cooking and why I never bothered to take speech lessons and undo the southern accent. I don't know about where you grew up, but around here teenagers just want to be like their friends, not the odd man out."

  "Some things are universal." His smile didn't reach his eyes. A sore spot? I wanted to ask about it, but I had a feeling he wouldn't answer my questions until I answered his.

  "The Italian thing was just one of the differences. We were also Catholics amongst Baptists and ate spaghetti instead of barbeque. There was a big cultural divide. My mom took a lot of flak for it in high school." So did I, before I started dating Kyle.

  "I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with her death."

  I squared my shoulders and dove in, head first. "She hated it here, hightailed it to Atlanta the first chance she got. That's where she met my dad. He was only in her life long enough to empty out her bank account and knock her up. Then he took off, leaving her with the fallout. At that point she didn't have much choice. She had to move back to Beaverton."

  Jones pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Did she blame you for that?"

  I couldn't hold his gaze any longer, so I stared out at the gorge. "How could she not? I ruined her life."

  "You were a helpless child."

  Deep down, I knew that. But when you trained yourself to think one way for your whole life, there's no way to just hit the emergency brake and stop the runaway train in its tracks.

  "Right, so yeah, it was not exactly an ideal way to grow up. But I was lucky because I had Nana and Pops. They were like my real parents, you know?" I glanced back at him over my shoulder.

  Jones nodded but didn't say anything, which encouraged me to keep going.

  "So Mom worked in the pasta shop with Nana and Aunt Cecily, at least until she got sick. The cancer was advanced by the time they caught it. I suppose she didn't have much hope that life would ever get any better for her. She didn't cry, or rage, or do any of the things that you see people do on television when they get a diagnosis like that. There was no making of a bucket list or long soulful talks with me. She just…gave up. I came home from school one day and found her in the bathroom. She'd slit her wrists and bled out in the bathtub."

  I refused to close my eyes because the image, that horrific image lurked there like a monster, ready to drag me back into the darkness. Sometimes days, even weeks, would pass, and I would go about my life and not think about it. But the cold feeling never fully abandoned me.

  A hand rested on my shoulder and gave a light squeeze, a gentle reminder that I wasn't alone. "I'm so sorry, Andrea."

  I turned back to face him. "Finding Chef Farnsworth's body brought it all back. It feels so personal to me, like someone wanted to hurt me as well as him," I snorted. "That sounds both psychotic and conceited."

  "Maybe to someone else," Jones said. "Not to me."

  I blinked. He wouldn't have stunned me more if he'd asked is that the best you got?

  "So, that's my sob story. I'm surprised no one told you about it. It's common fodder for the gossips."

  "Even if I weren't a stranger in a strange land, I'm not much for gossip. Are you ready to head back?"

  I was reluctant to leave but followed him back to the nature trail. "Your sister isn't exactly my biggest fan."

  Jones cast me an amused look. "Contrary to what you might believe, we don't spend a great deal of time discussing you, Andrea."

  Well, that took me down a peg. "Of course you don't…I mean…why would you? You have so much other stuff to talk about. Important non-Andy stuff." My mouth was out of control. It just kept on spewing the verbal diarrhea though I desperately wanted it to stop.

  I was so busy trying to reign in my runaway babble that I tripped on an exposed root and stumbled into his back. Luckily Jones caught himself, and by proxy, me, against a tree.

  "Sorry," I mumbled, red to the roots of my hair.

  He glanced over his shoulder at me, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "You keep slamming into me."

  "I just can't help myself." I backed up so he could turn around.

  "Am I moving too slowly for you?"

  "I'm good with it. But I'm driving home."

  As we headed back to the parking lot, I decided I liked the pace he'd set. If not for his disgruntled sister, my wardrobe, and the dead pastry chef, it would have been a meet-cute enough to tell the grandkids.

  * * *

  Of course Jones didn't let me drive. He clung doggedly to his belief that I was a menace on the roads.

  "I should let you drive with Pops sometime. You'd sell your soul to have me behind the wheel."

  "Do you need to be back right away? I thought we could take the Blue Ridge Parkway for a while. There are some great places to stop and take photographs."

  "I'm all yours," I said, then winced internally at how that came out. "What I mean is I'm available."

  Slick, Andy. Real subtle-like. "Maybe we could even swing past Boone. There's a market there I absolutely love."

  "What's the name?"

  "Earth Fare. It's a chain started in North Carolina, though it's expanded into several states. All local, natural, and organic foods. I wish we had one nearer to Beaverton. That's the way I like to cook, the way Nana always cooked. Fresh foods from Pop's garden were constantly on the menu at the Bowtie Angel."

  Jones pulled over into an empty overlook. I expected him to grab his camera and hop out, but he turned to face me instead. "You have fond memories of the pasta shop. So why didn't you take over there?"

&
nbsp; "It's…complicated." I blew out a sigh because I seemed to be saying that a lot lately. "Besides, now no one would eat there if I was the main cook because I'm the Death Chef."

  "You didn't kill any one, right?"

  "No," I said slowly. "But my reputation is ruined, and the pasta shop is hemorrhaging money. How could two wrongs possibly make a right?"

  "You're known as a local celebrity." He reached behind my seat and pulled out his camera. His scent enveloped me and fogged my thoughts.

  "A notorious local celebrity." He had just a few strands of silver in his dark hair, only noticeable from up close. I wanted to run my fingers through the thick mass, explore the silky texture. Somehow, I refrained. What were we talking about again? Oh, my tattered brand.

  "Can you believe I still don't know what went wrong with that recipe? For a while I thought—" I cut myself off before I aired my paranoid suspicions.

  "You thought what?" Jones prodded.

  "You'll think I'm Looney Tunes."

  "What?" He gave me that adorably baffled expression when I used a pop culture reference he was unfamiliar with.

  "That I'm crazy," I rephrased.

  "Andrea," he said, making me shiver. "Be brave."

  It was easy for him to sit there and tell me to be brave. He hadn't endured the censure and public humiliation I'd lived through. I didn't bite his head off though because he only wanted to help. "Okay, I know this sounds nuts, but there was a moment where I thought maybe Chef Farnsworth had tampered with my recipe. I mean, I'd made it that morning, tasted it myself, and I didn't get sick. I made sure it was carefully stored. The preppers just had to heat and serve. But anyone could have monkeyed with it, and Zoltan Farnsworth was there early for his guest spot. I saw his assistant, Mimi, right before I went on."

  Instead of looking at me like I was a shovel shy of a tool shed, Jones nodded once. "Why would he do something like that?"

  "You mean submarine me? Well, the business is cutthroat, and it's a well-known fact in the culinary community that Zoltan didn't like sharing the spotlight with anyone. He was Flavor TV's big star, and before my debut there was buzz that I was going to be the next Rachael Ray. Do you know who that is at least?"

  To my surprise, Jones nodded. "I can see it. So, you believe Chef Farnsworth would have deliberately sabotaged you because you encroached on his territory?"

  I loved the way he phrased things. "It sounds really out there, like deep, deep space kind of out there. Plus, I have no way to prove any of it. It's just a gut feeling."

  "Did you tell anyone about your suspicion?"

  "Just Donna, but she wouldn't have shared it with anyone. Why?"

  "Because," Jones said, "it would give you motive to kill him. He ruined your life so you ended his."

  I drew back, slightly horrified. "You don't really think that I'd—"

  Jones shook his head quickly. "No, I don't. What I'm saying is that the killer might have known about your history with Farnsworth and planned to use you as a scapegoat. Let me get these shots, and then we'll go to your market."

  The view from the scenic overlook was stunning, but it barely registered. Had Zoltan Farnsworth been insecure enough to sabotage my debut? Had he been mentally unstable enough to risk the lives of dozens of strangers, just to knock me out of the running?

  There was one person who might know.

  "We have to find Mimi," I told Jones when he climbed back in the car. "Chef Farnsworth's assistant. If he did mess with my sample dishes, she might know about it."

  "Do you know how to get in touch with her?" he asked.

  "She disappeared the night of the engagement party." I had a theory about that though.

  Jones pulled back out onto the parkway. "It's sounding more and more like this murder has to do with your world and not so much with mine."

  "Not to be all 'I told you so,' but I told you so."

  He laughed. "You win. Are you happy?"

  Closer to it than I had been since I'd tanked on the air. "I'm glad we did this."

  He cast me a sidelong glance that was filled with intimate promise. "Does that mean you'll venture out with me again?"

  "Only if you let me drive," I teased.

  Eventually, we made it into the mountain town of Boone and parked in the Earth Fare lot. Jones opened my door for me, and I couldn't help but compare his old world manners to my grandfather's. Maybe he drove because like Pops, he thought the man should drive so the woman didn't have to. Okay, I was probably reaching, but Pops had driven Nana to the Bowtie Angel every single day. I'd always imagined myself having a grand love affair like theirs, built on years of sweet little gestures and devotion. And when Pops was no longer able to drive was just one more way his life was different than it had been before she died.

  Pushing the depressing thought aside, I focused on selecting the freshest of the fresh produce, prime cuts of meat, and the choicest herbs.

  "Would you cook for me sometime?" Jones asked while I decided between garlic and basil-infused extra virgin olive oil.

  "You'd be taking your life in your hands." The heck with it—I put both bottles in the basket he held. It was close to overflowing.

  He threaded the fingers of his free hand through mine. "I'll risk it."

  I had to grab another basket before I was done, and my moth-filled wallet didn't thank me for the financial hits, but I left the store with a smile on my face, planning which culinary delight I would make for the man beside me.

  The higher elevation was colder by almost twenty degrees, and I shivered.

  "What's the best way back to Beaverton from here?" Jones asked as he backed out of the lot.

  I pulled up the GPS app on my phone, praying it would actually work, which it only did about a third of the time in the mountains. "Follow Route 321 through Blowing Rock."

  He pulled out onto the four lane highway that ran through the scenic mountain town of Blowing Rock and down to the Piedmont.

  Traffic was light heading out of town, and we lucked out with green lights. In spite of my teasing, Jones was a good driver, sure and confident without being overly aggressive, and I felt safe riding with him.

  "Any word on your car?" he asked as we started the decent down.

  "Not any nice words. You know anyone who wants a kidney? I'll probably have to sell one to cover the repairs."

  "What about your insurance?"

  "They want to scrap her. The bent frame means she's not worth fixing." My throat was a little tight. "I restored her myself."

  "I'm sorry." He took my hand again, and I let him. But he pulled away almost instantly, both hands going to the wheel.

  "What's wrong?" My attention had been on him, but I saw we were riding up close on the Nissan in front of us. Too close. The road wound down through the mountainous terrain at a sharp angle with steep drop offs on either side. This was not the time for him to practice being more aggressive. "Malcolm?"

  Sweat beaded his forehead, and his knuckles had turned white. He swerved out over the double yellow line into the opposite lane to avoid rear-ending the Nissan. Then back to avoid a head-on collision with a pick up.

  "Andrea," he said without looking at me. "The brakes aren't working."

  Cold Peanut Noodles

  What you'll need:

  1 pound spaghetti or angel hair pasta

  4 tablespoons sesame oil, divided

  4 garlic cloves, peeled

  2 inches ginger root, peeled, cut into 1/4 inch slices

  1/4 cup soy sauce

  1/2 cup creamy, unsweetened natural peanut butter

  1/4 cups rice vinegar

  1/4 cup chicken stock

  1 teaspoon lime juice

  1 tablespoons Chinese chile oil

  2 tablespoons brown sugar

  1 pound baby carrots chopped

  1 pound sugar snap pea pods

  1 lime halved then cut into 4 wedges

  Scant handful of fresh, chopped cilantro leaves

  Prepare the pasta acco
rding to package directions; drain and rinse with cold water. Transfer to a large bowl and toss with 2 tablespoons sesame oil, coating evenly. Mince the garlic and ginger in a food processor or blender. Add 2 tablespoons sesame oil, soy sauce, peanut butter, vinegar, chicken stock, chile oil, lime juice, and brown sugar, and puree until smooth. Pour mixture over noodles, toss well with cilantro, and chill. Serve cold with lime garnish.

  **Andy's note: This unusual appetizer puts the proof in the pudding about how versatile pasta can be. Word of advice from the celebrity Death Chef—make sure none of your guests have peanut allergies before you put it on the menu!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "There." I pointed to a ditch up ahead on the right hand side of the road. "Aim for the ditch."

  "We'll crash," Jones grit out through clenched molars.

  "We're going to anyway. Better to control it here than slam into another car or drive off a switchback."

  He didn't argue, and I prayed, hoping Nana was looking out for me as the loose gravel flew under spinning tires. The SUV went into the ditch nose first, and I jerked hard against my seat belt at the sudden stop. The contents of my grocery bags scattered everywhere. The sudden stop rebruised my recent seat belt injuries, and my heart pounded so fast I thought I was going to pass out.

  "Jones?" I asked weakly. "Are you okay?"

  No response. He was slumped over the steering wheel, his head turned away.

  "Malcolm," I said, using his first name for the second time in as many minutes while struggling to free my seat belt, "can you hear me?"

  The seat belt finally let go, and I crawled over the armrest to check him. What had he been worried about with me? Spinal damage. I had no idea how to check for that, but the fact that he was unconscious wasn't a good sign.

  Steam hissed from the crumpled hood. I couldn't just stay in here and hope he woke up. I opened my door and slithered to the ground on legs that felt like overcooked spaghetti. Taking one wobbly step at a time I made my way over to the driver's side.