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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "We're not done with this discussion," I told her as I pushed through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the small dining area. "May I help—?"

  The last word died in my throat when I saw him, battered and bruised and looking just as worn out as I felt.

  "Andrea." Jones smiled at me, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a relieved grin. The lump where he'd hit his head on the steering wheel was a rainbow of green, blue, and purple ugliness, but he looked at me with a burning intensity that made me weak in the knees.

  How did he lie with his eyes so well? If I didn't know better I would have thought he was relieved to see me, happy even. But I did know better, knew he'd feigned interest in me only to ferret out my secrets. When I thought of everything I'd confessed to him, the parts of myself I hadn't shared with any man since Kyle, I wanted to vomit. Instead, I folded my arms over my chest and lifted my chin. "What are you doing here?"

  "You didn't return my calls so I thought…" He blinked, as though my response surprised him. His smile guttered like an extinguished candle. "I wanted to see you."

  The words sounded, genuine, heartfelt even. Damn he was good. "You should go. It's almost lunch, and I need to focus."

  "Andrea?" The smile disappeared entirely, replaced by concern. "Is something wrong?"

  Everything. Everything was wrong. I wanted to shout at him, but this wasn't the time or the place to have it out. No more big public scenes for Andy Buckland. Instead, I reached for the bottle of glass cleaner and the roll of paper towels and turned my back on him to spritz down the empty display case. "Just leave me alone, Malcom."

  "Signor Jones," Aunt Cecily bustled out of the kitchen, offering him a wide grin. "My niece told me of your accident. I make something special for you. Come, sit, eat." She commanded him like a dog and set down a steaming bowl of minestrone.

  So that was why she'd made the soup. I rolled my eyes at her. "Aunt Cecily…"

  But she ignored me and hovered over Jones like a tiny Italian phantom, waiting for him to sample her soup.

  Jones looked from the soup, to Cecily, to me. I turned around and spritzed the glass casing. As I wiped it down, I watched him smile gratefully up at my aunt and bring the spoon to his lips.

  "Eccellentissimo," he said with a credible Italian accent.

  Cecily nodded crisply, her thin lips pursed in approval. "Good, good. I name it for you. Picture Perfect Minestrone for the pictures you take, yes?"

  It was a good thing I was facing the other direction so they couldn't see my jaw drop open. She was naming a menu item for him? That was a serious step in Aunt Cecily's world, like going steady or even an engagement ring. She only named menu items for family. Damn it, maybe I should have told her about what he was and why he'd been interested in me. But the thought of admitting that I'd been so gullible, even to my maiden aunt, stung my already battered pride.

  But this, seeing her treating Jones like he was already a member of the family, I couldn't let this go on. "Aunt Cecily, there's something you need to know about him."

  She cast me a black look. "Don't be rude, girl." Then, turning back to Jones she patted his hand. "Pay her no mind. She is young and hot blooded. She sometimes loses her head."

  I folded my arms under my breasts. "He's not who you think he is."

  She looked at him. "See, hot-tempered Italian women. They are an acquired taste."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Jones looked at me. "Could we have some privacy to hash things out, Cecily?"

  Oh that was it. Nobody had the gall to ask Aunt Cecily to leave the room in her own pasta shop. She was going to put The Eye on him. I wondered what the results would be. Anything from halitosis to gonorrhea was possible when The Eye was involved.

  "Sweep the floor when you're done," she told me and shuffled off.

  I stared at the swinging door to the kitchen, utterly stunned. Had that really just happened? Jones had basically told my scary great aunt to take a hike, and she'd done it, no questions asked.

  Strong hands landed on my arms and spun me to face him.

  "Now will you tell me what's the matter with you today?"

  I flinched at the feel of his warm hands on me. "Don't touch me,"

  "You liked when I touched you yesterday," his accented voice was low, and promised all sorts of wicked delights.

  "That was yesterday."

  "And what's changed between then and now?"

  "Don't play dumb with me, Malcolm Jones. I know you're a PI and that you were hired by Flavor TV to investigate me." Tears clogged my throat, but I swallowed them down. "The jig is up."

  "I never understood that expression. What does it even mean?" To his credit he didn't deny the accusation. "I'm sorry you found out that way. I was going to tell you."

  I snorted.

  "I was," he insisted. "I just hadn't figured out how. And the investigation on you was over the minute Chef Zoltan Farnsworth showed up dead. No one suspects you of that. What you told me yesterday isn't going into a report. You can trust me, Andrea."

  My teeth sank into my lower lip. I wanted to believe him, badly. But he'd lied to me. "So that's it? No excuses or further explanations?"

  Slowly he shook his head. "It was a job, a convenient one, since I was coming here anyway. But my feelings for you are real and have nothing to do with the job."

  "You ask me to trust you after you lied to me…"

  "I would have told you, eventually. But you're so…."

  I waited for him to finish imagining all the adjectives he could use to describe me. Fragile, emotionally closed off, broken.

  "Unique," he said, surprising me. "I wanted to time it right, to make sure you understood because I didn't want to lose the gift I'd just found."

  I blinked, the only movement I was capable of since everything else had frozen to the spot. I wanted to believe him. But could I take such a risk?

  His hand cupped my cheek, thumb skimming along the line of my jaw. "I'll give you some time to think. Just remember I am truly sorry that I hurt you. It was never my intention."

  He kissed my forehead and walked away, the bowl of minestrone steaming beside me.

  Picture Perfect Minestrone

  What you'll need:

  2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  1 large onion, diced

  4 cloves garlic, crushed

  2 stalks celery, diced

  1 small carrot, diced

  1 small parsnip diced (looks like a white, milder tasting carrot.)

  1/3 pound green beans, trimmed and cut into 1/2-inch pieces (about 1 1/2 cups)

  1 teaspoon dried oregano

  1 teaspoon dried basil

  Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

  42 ounce fresh tomatoes, half diced half crushed

  6 cups water

  5 chicken bullion cubes

  1 15-ounce can kidney beans, drained and rinsed

  1 cup elbow pasta, uncooked

  1/3 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil

  Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the onion and cook until translucent, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 30 seconds. Add the celery and carrot and cook until they begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Stir in the green beans, dried oregano and basil, 3/4 teaspoon salt, and pepper to taste; cook 3 more minutes.

  Add the diced and crushed tomatoes, water, and chicken bouillon cubes to the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium low and simmer 10 minutes. Stir in the kidney beans and pasta and cook until the pasta and vegetables are tender, about 10 minutes. Season with salt. Ladle into bowls and top with the Parmesan and chopped basil.

  **Andy's note: The reason for the two different preparation styles for the tomatoes is textural. I like to use garden fresh tomatoes whenever possible for a milder flavor. You may need to strain out some seeds before adding it to the broth so your soup isn't swimming in seeds.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "You ca
n't be serious," Donna said, the ultimate voice of reason. Drat her.

  Part of me agreed with her, probably the smart part. "He seemed sincerely contrite. I believe him when he said he didn't want to hurt me." I pushed a plate of Fettuccini Carbonara in front of her and sat down next to her with my own steaming plate.

  Aunt Cecily had disappeared upstairs for a nap, and I was in charge of the Bowtie Angel. And while I'd been given strict instructions to "Make the pasta," I was stalling like a bad engine. We had more than enough to feed half the town, provided the town wanted to eat it.

  Donna stared at the carbs in dismay. "You're evil incarnate, undermining my diet like this."

  "Sorry, the only other option was the soup." Jones's soup. It smelled wonderful, and I couldn't even look at it, much like the man himself. "You remember what Nana used to say, that it's better to eat a small portion of fresh, natural food than all the highly processed diet garbage."

  "Yeah, and she was all of ninety pounds, soaking wet." With a defeated and somewhat euphoric sigh, Donna dove into her plate of steaming carbo-loaded goodness

  "Back to the matter at hand," I said taking a sip from my water bottle. "Did you find anything out about Chef Farnsworth?"

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. "This is really good. Sexy even."

  "I'll be sure to tell Aunt Cecily you said so. Focus, Donna."

  Reluctantly, she set her fork down. "Steve caught me in the act and password protected his laptop. The man was not happy. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to be hunting through the police database like a robin searching for a worm. It could get him into trouble if anyone found out."

  Shoot. "Are you guys okay?" The last thing I wanted to be was the cause of their marital discontent. Bad enough my own love life was a fifteen car pile-up and that even that metaphor made me think about intense blue eyes.

  Donna waved it off. "No worries, we'll be fine. Steve knew what he was getting into when he married me. Mind if I get a diet soda?"

  "Knock yourself out." I sat at the booth, stewing over what came next. Now that Donna's all-access pass had been snagged, I had two ins to help me with my Zoltan Farnsworth background hunt. Both options were messy. Kyle was the Sheriff and had probably already done the research I needed. Would he give it to me though out of guilt? Plus I didn't trust him to stay on topic. Kyle and I had too much history, history he seemed compelled to sort through for God alone knows what reason. Calling him might send the wrong sort of message to him, and to Lizzy.

  Then there was Malcolm Jones, who owed me, big-time. Who I was trying—and failing—to not dwell on. A private investigator right in my backyard.

  Don't even think about it, I told myself sternly. No way could I hire Jones. I never wanted to see him again, never mind work with him, even if he had a big fat file on the deceased. He'd lied to me, freaking played me like a fiddle. No, I wouldn't under any circumstances ask for his help.

  "Damn it all," I muttered.

  "I know that look," Donna said. "It's the same look you had on your face when you went to Kyle's mom's birthday dinner. The, I'd rather stab my own hand with a fork than do this, but I have no other choice look."

  "That pretty much sums it up. I need Jones to dig up the dirt on Farnsworth."

  "Andy," Donna said. "Do you really think that's smart?"

  "No, but I promise I won't do anything stupid." Like open my heart to the black-hearted bastard. "I swear, I'm just going to use him for his resources and skedaddle."

  "Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?"

  "Maybe both, but I won't be all gullible this time. I'll be on my guard every second I'm with him." To put off any further discussion I steered the conversations to other concerns. "I have a theory about Mimi."

  Donna's mouth was full once more, but she gestured in a way that clearly stated go ahead.

  "We know she's been hanging around town, hoping to talk to me, and she needed someplace to stay, someplace no one could find her. I think she might have been the one to break into that house you were showing."

  Pushing her empty plate aside, Donna wiped her mouth delicately and leaned back in her chair. "It makes sense. Beaverton doesn't have a huge criminal element. I was half convinced it was a couple of kids who'd broken in, but kids don't usually clean up after themselves after pulling a stunt like that. We had one house last year where they partied, and the floor was littered with cheap beer cans and condom wrappers."

  Ew. I set my elbows on the table and leaned forward. "If Mimi did it once, she might try it again. She said she would find me, but I don't want to wait for answers. Could you get a list of all the vacant houses in the area so maybe we could check them out and see if we can find her first?"

  "Absolutely," Donna beamed. Then her face fell. "Are you really going to hire Jones after what he did?"

  "Not immediately." I wanted to see what information I could unearth on my own first. Because it was just the two of us, I could admit the truth. "I really liked him Donna. More than any guy I've dated since Kyle. And you know me."

  "Forgiveness is for quitters," Donna finished along with me, then rolled her eyes, this time in exasperation. "Look, normally I'd say your stance was too harsh, but he was paid to make you look bad, to smear whatever was left of your good name. Is that really someone you should waste one iota of your dwindling supply of trust on?"

  "No, but I reiterate, this isn't personal. It's for information purposes only. No matter if he smolders at me. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I'm an idiot."

  Our conversation turned to the Spring Fling, specifically how we could do the impossible, get Aunt Cecily on board with the publicity.

  "I hate to say it, but it'll take more than one small town event to stave off bankruptcy," I said. "Everyone in Beaverton already knows we're here. What we really need is to bring in some people from the surrounding areas, maybe even get a billboard on the highway.

  "Did you have something in mind?"

  "What about a pasta-eating contest? We could see about bringing in some professional tasters as a draw but leave it open for locals to come too. Offer like a five year supply of pasta or something."

  Donna tapped her chin thoughtfully. "We could get a press release together, get some exposure in Raleigh and Charlotte. Make it regional news, especially if you announce you're staging a comeback. You are staging a comeback, right?"

  "The Death Chef returns," I muttered. "Using my notoriety would make sure word spreads."

  "There's no such thing as bad publicity," Donna agreed. Then her eyes fixed on the floor above us. "Will she go for it?"

  There was a creaking upstairs, and I leapt up and started stacking dishes. "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, right? Besides, she wants to see people eating her food. This is the only way I can ensure it happens."

  Donna rose and gave me a quick hug. "I've gotta jet if I'm gonna pick up the kids in time for karate. Hey, we going to Emma's party tomorrow night?"

  With everything else on my plate I'd all but forgotten about Emma's invitation. "I have to be there anyway—I'm catering."

  "Then I'll come too, for moral support."

  I grinned at her. "No you won't—you'll come because you're dying to see how her kitchen remodel turned out."

  "All the mystery is gone from this relationship. I'll email you the listings for unoccupied houses as soon as I get home." Donna gave one more wave and left.

  Aunt Cecily scowled at me as I came into the kitchen. "You are very stubborn woman."

  If that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black I didn't know what was. "Thank you, Aunt Cecily. And don't you look pretty today."

  Her eyes narrowed. "All right. We will do the spring festival."

  My jaw dropped. I wouldn't have been more stunned if she'd hit me over the head with her Dutch oven.

  Cecily patted my cheek with her withered hands. "Don't stand there catching flies. Come, we make the pasta."

  * * *

  Putti
ng off a difficult situation never made it any easier. And I needed Jones to help me find out more about Chef Zoltan Farnsworth. So after the pasta shop was buttoned up for the night, I dropped Aunt Cecily at home to cook dinner for Pops. I'd tried to insist that she should just bring him leftovers so she didn't have to cook again, but she'd given me the evil eye. Whatever blew up her skirt. I had bigger issues to tackle. Resigned to my fate, I headed out to see Malcolm Jones.

  The trees opened into a clearing, and the Town Car bumped along uphill at a sharp angle until I topped the crest and plateaued on a massive circular drive with a few leafless trees clustered in the center. Behind where the driveway ended a house sprawled, an L shaped ranch marvel of cedar and glass that stood sentinel over the valley below. The late afternoon sun sparkled on the glassy surface of a small lake. Despite the dormant state of the grass, I could easily envision what it looked like when everything was in full bloom. The Garden of Eden, hidden deep inside the Inferno.

  As the crow flew, Jones's residence was only a mile or so from his family's enormous monstrosity. It loomed in the distance, though it would be at least five miles along the road, which circumnavigated the lake.

  I'd wondered who owned this house, if it was part of the Tillman estate or if Jones had bought it for himself so he could be close to his family but still keep his distance. The local grapevine had born fruit and told me this was where Jones was staying. Was it his choice or his father's that he remain at arm's reach? One would think reconciliations and family reunions would be better off if all the parties lived under the same roof. Then again, after being back under Pop's roof and working side by side with Aunt Cecily, I craved a little room to breathe.

  Before I thought better of it, I texted Donna with the address and asked her to look into who owned the place. Just simple curiosity and having a little more information on my side wouldn't hurt. I wasn't personally interested, just looking to level the playing field. There was no immediate reply so I stowed my phone, sucked in a fortifying breath, and marched over to knock on the front door.