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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "Did you find anything else?" Jones asked, focusing Kyle's attention back on the random pool of blood.

  Kyle squared his shoulders and tugged at his uniform top. "I can't discuss an ongoing investigation. Don't leave town, any of you." He slid his sunglasses back into place and went inside.

  Donna shifted her weight anxiously. "But the blood…?"

  "It could be anything," Jones told her. "A workman who cut himself and rushed off to the hospital. Maybe a prank. Most likely, they'll run tests to determine if it's human or animal blood. If they'd found a body in there, they'd need more men."

  "A prank," I repeated. That's what the police had said about the other property that had been broken into. I believed it about as much now as I had then.

  "I hate to do this to you guys, but I really need to get going," Donna said.

  "It's fine, Donna. We can walk back to Grove Street on the nature trail."

  "Call me if you find out anything else." Donna gave me a quick hug, managed a small smile for Jones, and then zipped off.

  I cast one last look at the house. The door stood open ominously, and I couldn't suppress a shiver. "I hope she's all right."

  "We don't even know she was there," Jones said.

  "Right. We better get going." I eyed him up and down. "Are you sure you're okay to walk?"

  "It'll do me some good to move, work the stiffness out." Jones nodded crisply and tucked his arm though mine. Though I couldn't see him, I knew Kyle was watching us from inside the house."

  "He still has feelings for you." Jones's tone was mild.

  I wasn't sure how to respond and settled on, "It's more a sense of obligation. You might have noticed Kyle's the hero type, even if your sister does have him wrapped around her little finger. Our situation is…complicated by our history."

  He waited, letting me have just enough rope to string up all my secrets and hang them out like fresh pasta. To trust or not to trust? That was the question. He had to give me something first. "Tell me how much information you dug up on me."

  He shrugged. "Basic background check, list of previous employment, credit history, that sort of thing. That's pretty standard stuff. I didn't have time to go any deeper before Zoltan Farnsworth's murder."

  That didn't sound too invasive. "So, that's when Flavor TV pulled the plug?"

  He nodded. "Right. I was here in town, and they'd asked for surveillance on you, which I was prepared to turn down."

  Right, he said that. "Did you consider telling me what they were doing?"

  His expression was pained, and I couldn't tell if it was from my line of inquiry or his injuries. "That would have been a breach of confidentiality. Any PI worth his salt knows discretion comes with the territory."

  I stopped on the trail and turned to face him. "You just dodged the question."

  Blue eyes locked on mine. "Yes, Andrea, I considered it. Does that help my case or hurt it?"

  Oh, it helped, probably more than it should have. Though I knew very little about him, I sensed that Malcolm Jones was a man of integrity. That he'd even considered telling me he'd been hired to tail me meant his loyalty had been divided. That I was a sticking point with him and made him consider doing idiotic things. Good to know it was a two way street. The thought warmed my insides, but we had other things to discuss.

  "Why would the network care what I was doing now?"

  "I didn't ask," Jones's, gaze remained steady on my face. "It was just a job, Andrea. One I didn't feel right continuing even before Farnsworth showed up dead."

  I thought of my guilt over the file Donna had given me on Jones. Most of the stuff in there was much more personal than the snippets he'd accumulated on me. "Were you tempted to keep looking into my background?"

  "Tempted, yes. Ask me if I did though."

  Slowly, I shook my head. "You didn't. I'm not sure why, but you didn't."

  "Because," he said, "I knew if I did this conversation wouldn't go nearly as well as it's going now."

  It did feel as though we were heading in the right direction as we continued down the nature trail. The day was warming up considerably as the sun ascended, and with all the blooming flowers perfuming the air, the pollen count must be obscene. Little green worms hung from some of the trees on silken threads, blowing in the slight breeze. In spite of the pool of blood and my worry for Mimi, the walk seemed almost…intimate.

  "Okay, so you want to know about me and Kyle. Well, I told you about what it was like for me here. After my mom's death it was worse. I never thought I'd miss the teasing. After word got out that I'd been the one to find her, no one talked to me. Other than Donna. Until Kyle."

  "Ah," Jones muttered. "So he was your hero, is that right?"

  "Yes. You'll have to ask him why he took an interest in me all of a sudden. I'm still not sure."

  "How old were you then?"

  "Just turned sixteen."

  "I think the answer's fairly obvious." His tone was dry. "Hormones."

  I bit my lip. "That was probably part of it, but it wasn't just attraction. He was…protective of me."

  Jones quirked an eyebrow. "Protective or possessive?"

  "Definitely protective." I drew in a deep breath to fortify my courage. "Especially after he got me pregnant."

  * * *

  "What happened?" Jones asked as he sat at Pop's kitchen table. It was the first thing he'd said to me since I'd dropped my little bombshell back on the path. Damn it, I knew that had been a mistake, but I didn't know how to fix it. And it was the first time I'd ever told anyone about that time in my life.

  Pops was out in the Town Car, and as worried as I was for the pedestrian traffic of Beaverton, I was glad this awkward discussion wouldn't have a witness.

  "Andrea," he said my name the way he always did, but this time there was a note of pleading. "Did you have the baby?"

  "I'm Catholic. Maybe not the best Catholic this side of the Vatican, but certain things are ingrained."

  He was doing that thing again, that quiet waiting thing of his that drove me nuts. Had I really once told Donna I wanted to be involved with a man of mystery? That'd teach me to be careful what I wished for.

  I braced my hands on the counter and hung my head. "Yes, Jones, I had the baby."

  The coffee finished dripping into the pot, and I poured us each a steaming mug full.

  "Do you need to get to the Bowtie Angel?" Jones took the mug I offered him but waved off the offer of cream.

  "So I can 'make ze pasta?' " I mimicked Aunt Cecily's thick accent, and Jones snorted. "Not until later. We have enough to feed the entire town for a week."

  I didn't mention I was also avoiding my aunt, the Vintage Sicilian Hussy, because the image of her in bed with Pops was emblazoned on my gray matter. My gaze slid to the liquor cabinet, and I had to fight the urge to spike my coffee.

  "May I ask where she is?"

  I stirred some sugar and cream into my own coffee. "Tennessee. Her adoptive parents own a horse farm there."

  "What's her name?"

  "Kaylee."

  "In honor of Kyle?"

  I nodded.

  "Tell me about it," he said simply.

  I blew out a sigh. "My grandparents were shocked, of course. Pops threatened multiple times to string Kyle up by his entrails if he didn't 'do right by me.' Not that accountants normally do that sort of thing, but I'm pretty sure he meant it."

  "He wanted you to get married at sixteen?"

  "Different generation, different times. Kyle was actually on board with the plan, which made everything worse."

  "He was willing to spend his life with you? I'm starting to understand why my sister has a bee in her bonnet about you."

  I smiled at the colloquialism which sounded odd in his crisp accent. "Yeah. Some people try to let go of their grudges, but Lizzy coddles hers, nurtures them even. She'd always wanted Kyle and resented me because I had him. I'm pretty sure she was the one who let the cat out of the bag to the Rotary Club about my pregnancy.
From there it went to the Honor Society. Those kids told their parents, and before you knew it my secret was all over town. The whole town was whispering that I was trying to trap him into marriage."

  "I'm starting to understand the animosity you have for gossips."

  "To be fair, I've always given them cause, me and all my zany antics." Though I was trying to make light of it, the memories stung like a fresh cut.

  "So you decided to leave?"

  "And never look back." My coffee had gone cold. I rose and prepared to dump it out. "It was the right choice, for me and for Kaylee especially. Hell, I didn't have a clue how to be a parent, not after the example I was given. I wanted my little girl to have a happily ever after, and with a sixteen-year-old mother, that wasn't in the cards."

  "You made the right choice," Jones said. "The difficult choice, but the right one."

  I thought about his unusual upbringing, a party girl mom, a father he barely knew. I almost slipped and asked him if he thought he would have been better off if his mother had given him up for adoption, but I reined in the question. He wasn't supposed to know that I knew. What a mess, and I wasn't referring only to the clutter of the breakfast dishes heaped in the sink. I attacked them, grateful to have something to do with my hands. "I know. But sometimes I wonder, what if it had all been different, you know?"

  Jones got up and turned me to face him. "I do."

  His lips pressed against mine, and I melted into him, opened to him. My hands were wet from the tap water, but he didn't seem to care. We were hungry for each other, starving for one more taste of the delicacy we'd sampled together before, eager for another sensual feast.

  There was a loud crash from the root cellar.

  We parted, both out of breath, and turned to look at the door off the kitchen.

  "It might be the dog," I murmured even as I heard Roofus's rumbling snore coming from the living room.

  "I'd better check, just to be safe. Do you have a flashlight?"

  I shuffled through one of several junk drawers until I finally came up with a flashlight, sans batteries. "Shoot, it'll take me twice as long to find working C cells to fit this," I grumbled and dove back into the drawer.

  Meanwhile, Jones had opened the door to the root cellar.

  "Malcolm," I hissed, my heart thundering in my ears. I didn't want him to go down there, to the root cellar that smelled of mildew. Not when we'd already found a random pool of blood that morning and there was a killer running around town. "Wait!"

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Take your phone and go outside. Call the police if I'm not back out in five minutes."

  I swallowed, but forced myself to follow him. This was my family's house, my mess, and he'd already been hurt once this week. "We'll go together."

  Pasta with Zucchini and Summer Squash

  What you'll need:

  1 lb your favorite pasta, cooked and drained

  1 red onion sliced thin

  2 zucchini, halved and sliced thin

  1 yellow summer squash, halved and sliced thin

  1 tablespoon dried basil

  3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

  Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in pan. Add veggies and cook until tender. Spice with basil, and toss with hot pasta.

  **Andy's note: This recipe is the exception to the fresh herbs rule. For some reason it doesn't taste the same with fresh basil as with the dried spice. Go figure. Add some cubed chicken for protein and a way to stretch out the meal when company stops by unexpectedly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jones cast me a warning look but was already halfway down the cellar stairs and didn't argue. Most houses in the South aren't constructed with full size basements, but Pops had dug a root cellar to the side of the kitchen for Nana's canning. The door opened into the overgrown garden. Last I'd checked, the door had been padlocked, but that was months ago.

  The stench of mildew and dust filled my nostrils as we crept through the dim space.

  The cellar didn't have any windows, so I used my cell phone to cast a little light. Dust had gathered on top of Nana's canning equipment, mason jars, and giant pots which stood to the side of the battered old butcher block, forlornly waiting to be put to use. Cobwebs gathered in the corners. The door to the garden was closed tight, which ruled out the possibility of a non-human intruder, since raccoons didn't typically lock up behind themselves.

  "Do you see anything?" I hissed at Jones. With one hand pressed to his back, the feel of him was warm and reassuring, but because he sported his typical black I could barely make out his shape in the shadows.

  "Andy?" That wasn't Jones's voice I heard—the pitch was too high. Definitely feminine and familiar.

  I let out a sigh of relief. "Mimi? Is that you?"

  "Yes," her voice was soft, barely a whisper. She sounded small and frightened, nothing like the energetic young woman I'd met months ago.

  "I was so worried about you. What are you doing here?"

  My eyes had taken their sweet time adjusting to the cellar, but finally I could make out a small shape huddled in the far corner, behind the canning table on an old camp bed. I moved closer, hoping I wouldn't find a gaping wound in her side. "Are you all right?"

  She squinted past me. "Who's with you?"

  "Malcolm Jones. You can trust him." The words fell out automatically, and I didn't stop to consider what they meant in the grand scheme of things.

  He crouched by my side and addressed Mimi. "Are you injured?"

  Her eyes were huge in her thin face. It may have only been the weak light, but she looked unnaturally pale. "No, I'm okay."

  That was still up for debate. "May I check your pulse?"

  She waved him off. "I'm fine. Really."

  "What are you doing down here?" For the first time, I took in her set up. A small battery powered lantern sat beside the camp bed. Stacks of prepackaged food and bottles of water were lined up neatly. Judging by the smell emanating from the five gallon paint bucket, she'd been using it as a makeshift toilet. "Have you been living down here?"

  She nodded, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go."

  Jeez-a-lou. "Well, come on upstairs. We can definitely do better than this."

  She shook her head, her manner almost frantic, "What if someone sees me?"

  "No one's here except us. The drapes are all drawn in front."

  She worried her lower lip. "What about your grandfather?"

  "Pops won't mind." I didn't mention she couldn't hide in the Grove Street house forever, regardless of where she slept. Mimi was a person of interest in Chef Farnsworth's murder. Sooner or later she'd have to talk to the police.

  Eventually, we coaxed Mimi up the stairs. She squinted at the light from the kitchen. Though her clothes were grubby and wrinkled, her skin and hair appeared relatively clean. "How long have you been down there?"

  "Since it happened. I came up here when the house was empty to shower and get food. I promise I will pay you back."

  "Oh, honey, don't worry about it. Come on—I'll find you something to wear. Are you hungry?"

  "I could eat," she said in a small voice.

  Jones met my gaze over the top of Mimi's head. So, she hadn't been the one breaking into the houses that were up for sale. Maybe it really had been teenagers.

  I led her to the bathroom and set her up with fresh towels and clean clothes.

  "I promise to clean up everything," she said again, as though fearing I'd toss her to the wolves if she didn't.

  "I'm more worried about you than any mess in an abandoned room. Take your time. If you've been showering here you know the hot water heater is temperamental. I'll fix you some food, and we'll talk after you get out, okay?"

  She nodded, and I saw a gleam in her frightened eyes. "Thank you, Andy."

  I returned to the kitchen and to Jones. "Looks like my theory was wrong. Judging by the look of the place, she's been literally under my nose the entire time."

&nb
sp; "I still want to look her over, to make sure she doesn't need medical care."

  "Even if she does, I doubt she'd go to a doctor, but I'll wear her down." I checked the continents of the freezer and retrieved a tray of stuffed shells and a small container of marinara. Bless Aunt Cecily's compulsive cooking. "The poor thing is terrified."

  "Do you think she saw the murder?" Jones asked.

  "What else could make a young woman live in a stranger's spider-infested root cellar?"

  "I don't know. But I have a feeling she'll be more willing to open up to you if I'm not around. That is, as long as you feel safe with her."

  "If she wanted to hurt me she would have done it days ago while I was sleeping," I pointed out. I popped the sauce into the microwave and preheated the oven. "Will you stay for lunch at least?"

  He shook his head. "Wish I could, but I'm supposed to meet with Lizzy regarding the photography session for the wedding. Speaking of which, would you like to go with me?"

  I fumbled the tray of shells. "You want me to be your date to Lizzy and Kyle's wedding?"

  His blue eyes were sincere and guileless. "That's right. After all, half the town has probably heard that we intend to move in together."

  "That's different. It was just our cover story. Going to the wedding is a statement, a very public statement."

  One dark eyebrow went up. "Is it different because the story is pretend?"

  Drat him for reading my insecurities like they came with CliffsNotes and a free Pez dispenser. I was unsure, not just about showing up to watch the father of my daughter marry another woman but about appearing in public on Jones's arm. That was like saying we were officially together and the gossips would descend on us like buzzards on fresh road kill. Was I ready for that?

  Jones shifted, visibly unsettled by my lack of response. "I understand the situation is a little…unusual. If you don't think you can handle it, I understand."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."