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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  His eyes were closed, not staring sightlessly the way I'd feared. There was no blood, but I saw a red spot on his forehead where his head leaned against the steering wheel. It would probably turn into a giant bruise.

  If he lived that long.

  "Jones," I shouted, afraid to touch him but scared out of my wits.

  A car pulled up on the road behind us, and a female voice called out, "Is anyone hurt?"

  I barely gave her a glance. "I'm not sure. He's unconscious, and I think he hit his head." Worry made my voice tight. I promised that if Jones would make it through this, I'd never tease him about his driving again. He'd saved my life—I could only hope he'd managed to save his own.

  "You're bleeding," the woman said, and I looked down to find that she was right. One of my precious little glass bottles had shattered, and a shard had inserted itself in my left calf. I felt nothing, but the sight made me dizzy.

  "Do you have a phone? Mine's out of juice and we need an ambulance here." I remembered reading that you should never just pull the glass out of a cut. I didn't think it had nicked anything that would cause me to bleed out, but it wasn't worth the gamble. "Stupid yoga pants, this wouldn't have happened if I'd been wearing jeans."

  "Andrea," Jones murmured.

  My heart beat faster, and I moved in closer. "I'm here. Don't move, you hit your head."

  He grumbled something that sounded like behind you.

  "You're not making any sense. Lie still until help comes."

  "Andy," a soft voice said from behind me.

  I turned, surprised that the other driver knew my name. Shock tore through me at the familiar face. "Mimi? What are you doing here?" Then a ripple of fear shook me to my core. She'd disappeared right before Chef Farnsworth's body had been discovered. "Where have you been?"

  "I called 911," she said, right before she bolted for her car.

  "Wait a minute!" I stumbled after her, wincing as the glass embedded in my leg made itself known. "The police want to talk to you. They've been looking for you since Chef Farnsworth was murdered. Where have you been?"

  " I can't—" She looked like a cornered animal..

  "Did you kill him?" I asked before she could slam her car door and shut me out.

  "No!"

  "Did he do something to my samples? Did he make the audience sick?"

  She scowled. "I'm not sure. I have to go. I'll contact you soon."

  More cars were slowing, rubbernecking at the accident. Mimi was a scared rabbit, ready to bolt for cover, and I had no way of detaining her. I had to believe she was good on her word. So I hobbled back to Jones's side.

  It wasn't long before the ambulance arrived. This time Jones got to wear the dog collar. I had trouble getting into the ambulance with my bum leg, which the EMT told me would need stitches. We rode to the county hospital, and I sat anxiously in a curtained-off waiting room for what felt like half an eon but realistically was no more than an hour.

  All that waiting gave me time to think. I knew enough about automotive innards to know that brake fluid was necessary for the brakes to work. But just cutting the line would keep the brakes from working at all. So a car with cut brake lines that shifted from park to drive would roll immediately. Then the driver could shift back to park, no harm no foul.

  It was possible that the brake failure had been an accident. Sharp stones kicked up by the tires could cause pinprick size holes in the hose that the fluid would slowly leak from. But what were the chances that would happen and the exact moment the brakes would go was when we were on a steep incline with no way to stop? And only days after Chef Zoltan Farnsworth was brutally murdered and Jones and I discovered his body?

  No, my intuition told me that someone had messed with Jones's ride. Someone who knew where we were and what route we'd most likely take to get home. Someone with automotive knowledge who knew how to locate the brake lines and the best way to sabotage them. Someone who obviously didn't care if one or both of us died. Someone who perhaps wanted that exact outcome.

  The question was, who?

  Mimi? It was possible. I knew for a fact that she knew where we were, and she had been hiding since her former employer was murdered. Maybe she had cut the brakes and followed us to make sure her plan played out. But why then would she have called 911? Add to that, I couldn't picture her messing around under Jones's vehicle in broad daylight. She was too timid, even if she'd had the automotive knowledge.

  As much as I wanted to blame Lizzy I seriously doubted she was a credible suspect. It had been her event that had been upstaged by the pastry chef's death, her wedding cake that was ruined. And as much as I doubted she'd spit on me if I was on fire, I felt sure she wouldn't endanger Jones. And I seriously doubted she knew a brake line from her bra strap.

  Kyle? I shuddered at the possibility but had to admit it made a sick sort of sense. Maybe he was all broken and gnarly under his golden boy exterior. He kept trying to talk to me about ancient history, and he had disappeared during the engagement party for a time. But he had no motive for killing the pastry chef, other than to frame either me or Jones for it, and if that was the case, why would he try to kill us instead of just arresting us?

  I had theories but they were all too full of holes, and my thinking was too fuzzy to sort through it all. Then the doctor, who looked about twelve, came in to remove the glass. Mercifully I passed out.

  * * *

  Since Aunt Cecily didn't drive and Pops shouldn't be on the roads at all, Donna came to pick me up. The hospital wanted to keep Jones overnight for observation. He had a concussion and some hideous bruising, but his prognosis was good.

  "I can stay if you want," I told him. My offer was genuine, even though I had nowhere to sleep except the uncomfortable looking chair beside his hospital bed.

  "You'll be more comfortable at home. Go, I'll be fine."

  We weren't at the kiss goodbye stage yet, so I squeezed his hand and limped after Donna, who'd parked somewhere in the next county.

  "You scared ten years off my life," she groused at me.

  "I didn't do anything," I protested.

  Her hands landed on her hips, and she gave me her best Mama-don't-buy-it look. "People don't try to kill you for no reason."

  "Maybe they weren't trying to kill me. It wasn't my car—it was Jones's car. And it could have been an accident."

  But Donna shook her head. "Steve called the office of the sheriff who was on the scene. They'd had a mechanic take a look and were told the holes in the line were too uniform to be accidental damage."

  I hadn't held out too much hope, but hearing my suspicions confirmed had ice forming in my veins. "Mimi showed up."

  Donna's brakes were in good working order, which she proved by slamming the pedal to the floor. "Chef Farnsworth's assistant? Where? When? Why?"

  "Pick a question, any question," I beseeched her. "I'm too muddled to answer all twenty of them."

  "Let's go with where."

  "On the road behind us, right after the accident."

  "Do you think she could have done it? Messed with the brakes?"

  I shook my head, then regretted it when a pounding started in my temples. "I really don't think so. I mean, yeah she had the opportunity, but it's not like Jones and I were looking for her or anything."

  Never mind that I had considered looking for her earlier.

  Donna made a choking sound.

  "What?" I asked her. "I know that noise. You make it whenever you're dying to tell me something and afraid to tell me at the same time."

  "Well, remember how there was a big gap of missing time in Jones's personal history?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, he was…um…I'm not sure how to say this."

  If I'd been less exhausted, I might have imagined all the possible bombs she was about to drop. He was a male prostitute, had been abducted by aliens, or had undergone a sex change operation. "Just spit it out already."

  "Fine, he was working as a PI in New York."

 
"Oh. That's not so bad."

  Donna cast me a pitying look. "Andy. He's here on a case."

  "No he isn't." Even though it hurt, I shook my head, stubbornly. "He's here for Lizzy's wedding. Are you telling me he's not her brother?"

  "No he is, but that's not why he showed up here, now."

  "But he can't be here because of the Zoltan thing. He was already in town before the murder took place…"

  I trailed off as the light bulb finally went on, highlighting my stupidity in all its splendid glory. No, crap, no. "Who hired him?"

  "Andy, you've been through a lot. I shouldn't have told you."

  "Donna, who in hell hired him?"

  She sighed. "Flavor TV He's here to investigate you, Andy."

  Greek Pasta and Meatballs

  What you'll need:

  2 cups hot cooked orzo *

  1/3 cup plain dry breadcrumbs (*you can change to Ritz/club cracker crumbs. Also, you could use cooked rice. If you do that above, too, it's gluten free! )

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg

  1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  1 pound lean ground lamb

  1 garlic clove, crushed

  3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, divided

  2 large egg whites

  1 1/2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil

  2 cups marinara sauce

  3/4 cup (3 ounces) crumbled feta cheese

  Preheat oven to 375°. Cook orzo, drain, and keep warm.

  Combine breadcrumbs and next 6 ingredients (through garlic) in a medium bowl. Stir in 1 1/2 tablespoons parsley. Add egg whites, stirring mixture until just combined. Shape mixture into 12 1-inch meatballs. Cover and chill meatballs 5 minutes.

  Heat oil in a large ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat. Add meatballs to pan, and cook 8 minutes, turning to brown on all sides. Drain well. Wipe the pan clean with paper towels then return meatballs to the pan. Spoon marinara sauce over meatballs; sprinkle with cheese. Bake at 375° for 11 minutes or until meatballs are done. Sprinkle with remaining 1 1/2 teaspoons parsley. Serve over orzo.

  **Andy's note: Go ahead and make up the meatballs ahead of time. Just pop them on a cookie sheet to freeze and store them in a freezer bag for a great quick an easy dish after a monumentally rough day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "You're not looking so hot, Andy girl." Pops tilted his head to study me more closely. "Are you limping?"

  "It's nothing, Pops. Don't worry about it." I made an effort to regulate my stride as I made my way to the coffee pot.

  "How was your date yesterday?"

  I took my time adding coffee creamer and sugar to Pop's industrial grade java, both so it wouldn't corrode my stomach lining and to come up with a neutral answer. The problem was I wasn't anywhere in the realm of neutral when it came to Malcolm Jones.

  That rat bastard.

  Jones hadn't been winning me over because he liked me, because he was attracted to me and wanted to do the horizontal mambo. Oh no, he'd been digging up dirt on me for Flavor TV's legal, presumably anything that could shift the liability for the mass food poising from the station squarely onto my shoulders.

  I was so mad I could spit, preferably on Jones, who'd duped me like a big old needy moron.

  "Fine," I said to Pops. "I don't think it'll amount to anything though, so don't go getting your hopes up."

  My grandfather, who took his coffee black as a new moon midnight, frowned. "I'm surprised to hear you say that. Cecily said you two were made for each other."

  "Even Aunt Cecily can be wrong from time to time."

  "I'd pay cash money to hear you say that to her," Pops drawled and poured himself another cup. "You want some breakfast?"

  "Nah, I should be getting to the pasta shop." I hesitated, rinsing my cup and setting it in the sink. He wasn't going to like what I had to say next. "Pops, I think we need to talk about you driving."

  He sighed and sat at the table. "Not right now, all right? Let's get the Bowtie Angel squared away, and then we'll figure something out."

  "Any prospective buyers?" My stomach lurched as I thought about some stranger taking over the pasta shop. We'd probably have to find a new place for Aunt Cecily to live, too. I doubted the new owner would want to keep a bat in his belfry, and the thought of telling Cecily that she'd have to now pay rent for the apartment she'd lived in for more than thirty years made my blood run cold. But what was the alternative?

  Why don't you take over there? Jones had asked me not even twenty four hours earlier. His eyes had been filled with promise, encouragement, and all sorts of things I was starved to see. To feel.

  Damn him.

  I dismissed the memory and hobbled off to retrieve my purse. I had no doubt that word of the accident would spread. Gossip was an established pastime, but if everyone saw me out and taking care of business, hopefully they'd chalk it up to over-exaggerated rumor. The last thing I needed now was to be poor Andy Buckland. Again.

  Thank the stars for Donna's snooping. I could only imagine what it would have looked like to the town when the truth about Jones came out if I'd continued to see him, ignoring his relationship with Lizzy and the strange coincidence of Zoltan Farnsworth's death the day after we both showed up.

  Speaking of Farnsworth, I wondered if Donna had done the research I'd asked on the not- so-good pastry chef. The fact that Flavor was having me investigated wasn't a good sign. No one had tried to sue me (yet), but other than Mustang Sally and a pitifully small bank account my net worth hovered somewhere between impoverished college student and starving artist. The network had much deeper pockets, but I didn't want to be responsible for their demise any more than I wanted to take the blame in the chef's death.

  I was convinced Farnsworth had something to do with the debacle of my television debut, though I couldn't prove it. The police had already questioned my working relationship with Zoltan Farnsworth, hinting that his condescending attitude toward me on live television had angered me enough to want to kill him. No one had attributed a motive to me outright, but if Farnsworth had deliberately sabotaged me, I was sure I'd be right back into the hot seat.

  I had two immediate goals. Find out if Chef Farnsworth had tampered with my recipe and who else would want him dead. I needed more information on the dead man, something more than speculation, something that would tell me who would want him dead. For that I needed Donna's husband's resources.

  What I really needed was to find Mimi again and get some questions answered. But I had no idea where to start looking. Hopefully she'd find me like she'd promised.

  I wondered if I should go to the police and tell them everything I knew. If I was still in Atlanta, I would have been, hands down, protected by the relative anonymity of big city life. No one on the outside would pay attention to where I went and whom I talked to when I was there. But life in Beaverton was infinitely more complicated. If I went to see Kyle, or even Detective Brown, the news of my visit would be all over town by sundown. And if I even hinted about Jones tampering with evidence, well, they just might chase him out of town with torches and pitchforks.

  Isn't that what you want? A condescending inner voice prodded. He played you. You owe him nothing, not even loyalty.

  Undecided, I drove into town and parked behind the pasta shop. Mrs. Bradford, who owned the florist shop next door, waved cheerily at me. "Andy! Come over here a minute, will you?"

  Though my leg protested the extra exercise, I slowly made my way across the alley to where the elderly woman stood. Mrs. Bradford was a jolly soul with a plump round face and crooked teeth that she flashed to anyone she knew. She'd been the librarian at the high school while I was growing up and had bought the flower shop a few years back.

  "Hi, Mrs. B. How are you?" I asked.

  "Just fine dear, just fine. Listen I'm glad I caught you. I'm on the Spring Fling committee, and I was wondering if you could convince your great aunt to participate in the festivities."

  Inward
groan. Aunt Cecily was a creature of habit and didn't move outside her comfort zone very often. Of course, if it was a choice between the pasta shop going bankrupt and putting up a few springtime decorations and sponsoring a booth during the festivities, she might see reason. If she squinted really, really, really hard. "I'll see what I can do."

  "Fantastic dear—that's wonderful. Also, would you consider being our celebrity speaker?"

  I blinked, sure I'd heard wrong. "Me?"

  "I'm sorry it's so last minute, but the celebrity we had fell through. Of course if we'd known you'd be in town, we would have asked you first," she tagged on quickly as if not to offend me for being B team.

  "You saw the show, right? Saw what happened?" I had to be sure.

  Mrs. Bradford waved that off as if mass food poisoning wasn't worth the mention. "Pish. You've been cooking in that pasta shop's kitchen since you were knee high to a grasshopper. Everybody around these parts knows you're a terrific cook. This town believes in you."

  I didn't know what to say, so I stood there, eyes misting up.

  "There, there. It'll be all right." Mrs. B handed me a tissue. "Just think about it."

  * * *

  "No," Aunt Cecily said.

  It had been a busy morning, first with inventory, and then the produce man had arrived with our latest order. Aunt Cecily was fussing with a batch of minestrone and seemed to be in a good mood. Well, "good" for her anyway. Figuring the timing was as perfect as it would get, I finished slicing the bell peppers for roasting and casually suggested the Bowtie Angel sponsor a booth at the Spring Fling.

  "Now come, we must make the pasta."

  She turned to walk away, but I grabbed hold of her bony arm, gently, but firmly. "Aunt Cecily, listen to me. We don't need any more pasta, we need customers. The business is failing. We need all the publicity we can get."

  "Publicity," she spat. "What you need is good food."

  "And people to eat it. Please just consider it. This might be our only chance to—"

  The bell above the front door jingled, and Cecily scowled at me. "People, here for the pasta. We don't need publicity."