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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "May I walk with you?"

  "If you can still walk after all that food."

  Jones took the carrier and waited while I flipped the sign in front from opened to closed. Mimi, Aunt Cecily, and the van were gone, so I turned out the lights and locked up.

  "What about Lizzy and Kyle?"

  Jones made a face. "That was not going so well."

  "Kyle's a world class groveler. His mother is a harridan of mythic proportions, and she trained him to own up to his mistakes, both real and imagined. Trust me, it will blow over. Though I'm pretty sure your sister's bad opinion of me is here to stay." I glanced up at him out of the corner of my eye. "Does it bother you?"

  "That you and Elizabeth will never get along? No." His tone was matter of fact.

  We made it to the Lutheran Church. "Do you want to come in? After the food orgy Aunt Cecily subjected you to, I doubt I can tempt you with dinner."

  "You tempt me in other ways." His voice was thick and smoky. "But I want to check on my sister."

  "Are you sure that's all it is?"

  "What else would it be?"

  "The people in town still haven't warmed up to you." I toed a crack in the sidewalk.

  "Well, I think the reason for that's obvious isn't it?"

  I stared stupidly up at him. "What reason?"

  "They are all protecting you." He kissed me again and left me there, having gotten in the last word.

  * * *

  Over the next week, I worked from sunup 'til sundown preparing for the Spring Fling and the Bowtie Angel's first ever pasta-eating contest. I'd sent press releases as far south as Atlanta and as far north as Richmond, all the way to the Blue Ridge Mountains on the west and the Atlantic on the East. The early May weather was shaping up to be perfect. Mid-eighties and sunny, and the honeysuckle had started to bloom.

  There were no new developments on Chef Farnsworth's murder, although the story made the newspapers, this time on a national level. My name was mentioned several times, and a quick rehashing of my disastrous debut came up often. The town seemed to shrug it off, and I followed their example the best I could. Being busy kept me from dwelling on past mistakes.

  Jones stopped by the pasta shop every day. He photographed everything, the food, the building and much to my dismay, me.

  "Face it Andrea, you're as much of a draw as the food." He raised the camera and shifted to catch me at another angle.

  "You make me sound like a sideshow freak," I groused as I stirred.

  Click, click. "A beautiful sideshow freak."

  Though I never wore makeup for cooking, I made a mental note to apply a little lip gloss and mascara if Jones was going to be around.

  "What are you making?" He asked as he checked the light again.

  "Gravy."

  He frowned and lowered the lens of his camera to the pot. "It's red."

  "Gravy is what Italians call spaghetti sauce. Marinara is smooth, just red sauce and spice, but gravy is meant to be hearty."

  Aunt Cecily shuffled in. She eyed Jones and his camera and then turned her back on him as she moved to the food processor.

  "You make too much."

  "Pot, this is kettle calling, and I'm sorry to say it, but you're black," I muttered.

  Jones turned away, pretending to check something on his camera. "Who will eat all this?"

  We'd gone through this bit every day, my aunt playing the Devil's Advocate instead of her classic role as Beelzebub. "It's for the Spring Fling booth."

  "It will not be fresh."

  A sharp pain stabbed into my temple. "I'm freezing most of it. We can't make fresh food for the booth and the contest."

  "Porca Madonna, Porco Dio," she uttered and left us to our foolishness.

  "What did she say?"

  "Pig of a holy mother and pig of God."

  "Do all Italian curses involve pigs?"

  "Just the good ones. According to Nana, any lame-brained idiot can swear, but a really inventive cussing conveys derision without the filth. Aunt Cecily is a master of her craft."

  "Derision present and accounted for," Jones said.

  I worried my lower lip and reduced the heat under the gravy. Though I tried not to let Cecily's pessimism get to me, I had my own doubts. Not just about the future of the Bowtie Angel. Based off of Mimi's information, Detective Brown had been questioning all the women who'd attended Lizzy and Kyle's engagement party, myself included. From where I stood he was no closer to catching the killer.

  "Are you all right?" Jones set the camera aside.

  I pushed off the unease. "Yeah."

  "What do you have for me to try tonight?" Jones asked.

  We'd fallen into a pattern. He'd pick me up after the pasta shop closed and bring me home where I'd shamelessly use him as my guinea pig on new pasta recipes. Then later I'd use him in other ways.

  It scared me a little, how used to his company I was after such a short time. We focused on the short term, revolving around our immediate goals. Lord knew there was enough to do to occupy our hands and minds. But one of these days we'd have to discuss the future.

  I planned to stall that conversation as long as possible. After all, how could I commit to a future when my present was so unstable?

  Refocusing on the present I cleared my throat and removed the gravy from the heat. "I'm fresh out of ideas. Anyway, I was thinking of staying with Pops tonight. Would you like to come over for dinner?"

  "Is it safe?" One jet eyebrow went up.

  Though Jones had Aunt Cecily's stamp of approval, Pops was a little more hesitant and much more suspicious.

  "He's an accountant, not a wise guy. Besides he has no room to judge—I'm a grown woman. How I spend my nights is my own business."

  "You're his granddaughter," he pointed out. "It's different."

  "All the more reason you should meet him formally."

  "I'll come on one condition."

  I stilled where I'd been transferring my gravy to the Tupperware, one ladle full at a time. "Name it."

  "You return the favor. Come meet my family."

  I blinked, then frowned. "I've know the Tillmans for years."

  "Not as my significant other."

  Heat from more than just the sauce colored my cheeks. "Is that anything like a girlfriend?"

  He moved closer. His voice had picked up that suggestive edge that made all my feminine parts sit up and take notice. "It's exactly like a girlfriend, only more…significant."

  "I swear, with that accent of yours you could talk me into anything."

  "Good to know," Jones said, and I knew we'd be late to dinner.

  Spaghetti Pie

  What you'll need:

  12 ounces spaghetti

  1/3 cup extra virgin basil-infused olive oil

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  1 medium onion, chopped

  1 yellow bell pepper, chopped

  1 orange bell pepper, chopped

  1 tablespoon fresh basil, chopped

  1 teaspoon dried oregano

  6 cups red sauce

  1/2 pound cooked Italian sausage, sliced

  1/2 pound ground beef, crumbled

  2 cups mozzarella cheese

  1 cup grated Parmesan cheese

  Preheat oven to 350. Cook pasta al dente. Drain, cover, and set aside. Heat oil in large skillet on medium. Add garlic, onion, peppers, oregano, and basil. Sauté for 3 minutes then add sauce and sausage and simmer for 5 minutes. Spread 1 cup of sauce mixture in the bottom of a 13x9-inch baking dish. Layer half the pasta, half of remaining sauce mixture, 1 cup mozzarella, and 1/2 cup Parmesan, then repeat layering with remaining ingredients. Bake 15 to 20 minutes or until cheese bubbles. Let stand 10 minutes then serve.

  **Andy's note: Green peppers have a strong flavor. Try red, yellow, or orange bell peppers for a milder tasting dish.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  "What do you wear to be introduced to people you've already met?" I studied my tenth outfit in the mirror and made a face. The
ankle-length white skirt with eyelet lace was asking for trouble. It screamed "trying too damn hard" and came equipped with a whole host of problematic hypotheticals. What if it rained? What if I spilled red wine? Or heaven forbid, my monthly showed up at the exact wrong moment? No matter what, I couldn't envision a happy ending to this evening.

  "Considering it's Lizzy's mother and father, plus Kyle's harridan mother, I'd recommend a big red scarlet A. At least that way it's already out there," Donna said. She and Mimi sat on the bench outside the dressing room watching my nervous breakdown slowly unfold.

  "Jones wore black when he came to your family's home," Mimi offered.

  "Jones always wears black. I don't want to look like we're trying to match, that's just creepy. Besides, black washes me out."

  "Think in terms of statements. What is it you want your outfit to say?"

  "She didn't have to sell a kidney to buy me." The chances of that were slim, though as all the items in this small boutique were ludicrously expensive. The spring line cost as much as the repairs on Mustang Sally, which thankfully were almost finished. I'd pick her up this afternoon.

  I'd never been a fashion plate. Accessories and color schemes intimidated me. I had two sedate dresses for mass and a classic little black dress for professional cocktail parties, but all were back at my apartment in Atlanta. Even if I'd had time to make the trip, nothing I owned was right.

  "Okay, so you want to look like a million bucks on a shoestring budget. No white, black, or red," Donna said.

  "And no big dopey flower patterns either," I said as I stepped into the dressing room. "I can't pull off that über girly vibe without looking like a loser."

  "What am I, a miracle worker?" Donna groused and left to comb through racks.

  I stood in my camisole and panties and wondered just what the hell I was thinking when I agreed to this dinner. It would be an act of divine intervention if Lizzy didn't go for my throat, and I'd already had enough glares from Kyle's mother to last two lifetimes.

  But Jones had been such a trouper as Pops interrogated him about his intentions toward me and Aunt Cecily stuffed him full of tortellini salad and informed him we should get busy with the next generation of Rossetti women so she could retire. If nothing else, I owed him a knockout level dress just for that.

  A tentative knock sounded on the door. "Donna?"

  "No." It was Mimi's soft voice. "I found a dress."

  She was so quiet that it was easy to forget she was there. I was surprised when she asked to come with us to dress shop, but happy to include her.

  I opened the door a crack and accepted the proffered garment. "Oh, Mimi, this is beautiful."

  It was a cobalt blue silk wrap dress that cinched in at the waist and tied on the right side. I hung it on the back of the door and just ran my hands over the silk. This might cost me an internal organ, but it was probably worth it.

  Maybe it wouldn't fit. Carefully, I took it off the hanger and swathed myself in the decadent fabric. I made sure the inner latch that secured it from mishap was in place before tying the knot in the fabric belt.

  "Hot damn." Donna whistled as I emerged. "That dress was made for you. Nice work, Mimi."

  Always hypercritical of my appearance, I turned to face my reflection in the three angled mirrors. I hunted for a long time, but the drape of the dress camouflaged a world of carb-induced sins, while accentuating my curves to their full advantage.

  "It's perfect," I whispered, imagining the full effect with my hair up and hoops dangling from my ears. I even had a pair of opened-toes sling backs that would go perfectly with it. "Okay, my mind is made up. Now, the real question will it kill my credit card?"

  "If I may," Mimi spoke up, "I would buy for you."

  "What?" I frowned, sure we were suffering from a language barrier. "You want to buy me this dress?"

  To my surprise, Mimi nodded. "To say thank you for your help. Without you I would be sent away."

  I was touched by her generous offer. "Mimi, that's very sweet of you, but I really didn't do anything special."

  "It was special to me," she said. Her chin rose, and I recognized her mulish look, one she'd adopted from Aunt Cecily.

  Donna and I exchanged a glance. She shrugged. "If it makes her happy, why not?"

  Mimi and I rode back to the Bowtie Angel in Mustang Sally. Mimi went to the kitchen to help clean up from the lunch rush, and I took my new purchase back to the office where Pops was tallying the weekly receipts.

  "Sales have gone up already," he said cheerfully. "Looks like your hard work is paying off."

  "You can thank Jones for most of it." His Facebook and Instagram behind-the-pasta photo campaign was an overnight success. The day before, #SavetheDeathChef had trended on twitter.

  "It was your idea," Pops pointed out. "We're not in the black yet, but we are way up from the last few months."

  "That's good." I turned to head back to the kitchen, but Pops called out, "Andy, honey I wanted to talk to you about something."

  "Okay." The small office space was crowded, but I squeezed my generous backside into the office chair at the other side of the table. "What's up, Pops?"

  I said it like Bugs Bunny asked "What's up, Doc." It was something I'd done since I'd been little. He smiled, though it looked a little forced. Worry spiked inside me, but I tamped it down, determined to hear him out before I flew off the handle.

  "I've been thinking," he continued, as though the words were being ripped slowly from him, "that it might be time to sell the house."

  "Oh." I leaned back in the chair, surprised. I thought my grandfather would die in that creeky old Victorian, much of which he'd built with his own two hands.

  "It's just too much house for me, honey. It's been wonderful having you and Mimi there, but it's so far from town. We both know I shouldn't drive anymore. I'm going to talk to Donna after the Spring Fling, see what she thinks."

  Tears welled as I imagined someone else living in the Grove Street house where all the major milestones in my life had occurred. I braced myself, expecting tears, a sense of loss, anything, but all I felt was relief that he'd been the one to suggest it. "So, where will you go?"

  "There's a new apartment complex for senior citizens right down the road from the church. It's not a retirement home, more like assisted living. They have water aerobics and hobby classes, all sorts of interesting things. Myrna Langtree moved in there after Alfie died, and she was telling me all about it."

  "It sounds great, Pops."

  "There's one other thing," he began, cleared his throat, then continued. "Your Aunt Cecily will be coming with me."

  * * *

  "Andrea," Jones said when he opened the door to Lizzy's house and took in my outfit. "You look incredible."

  "That," I said, "is exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

  Jones pulled me inside and made the little finger twirling motion indicating he wanted me to turn around. My grin went from ear to ear. If I was just here to have dinner with him instead of slogging over to Lizzy's current residence, it would have been perfect.

  "I see you've been shopping." He gave me another hot once-over, then shook his head as though to clear it. "Anything else interesting happen today?"

  "Only that my grandfather is moving in with his wife's sister." In spite of the latest wrinkle—pun definitely intended—in the Pops-Aunt Cecily love affair, I was genuinely happy for them. "I guess at their age they don't want to waste any time."

  "Understandable," Jones said. "May I offer you a glass of wine before we go?"

  I doubted one would be enough to get me through the ordeal ahead, and I told him so.

  "You'll be fine." He kissed me on the forehead in a reassuring way. "I never met a woman more capable of taking care of herself. You're like a warrior, an Amazon with a pasta fork."

  A snort escaped. "Yeah, right."

  One jet-black eyebrow rose in a challenge. "You don't believe me?"

  "I gave a live studio audience food po
isoning! That's hardly the act of a warrior. Unless she's an assassin."

  He studied me a moment but then glanced at his watch. "We need to go. We'll finish this conversation when we get back."

  I planted my hands on my hips. "Who said I was coming back here with you?"

  "I did. Even a warrior needs to be…serviced."

  My blush was still in place when he led me out the door.

  In the interest of arriving before the second coming, I drove Mustang Sally down the steep and rutted drive and followed Jones's directions to the Tillman residence. I was so nervous, but I listened intently as Jones talked about his father.

  "He's about as straight-laced as they come, a bank executive, third generation. We don't exactly see eye-to-eye on most things, even when he is around, which I've gathered isn't too often."

  "Do you and Lizzy's mother get along?" I asked.

  From what I knew about the Tillman family, Mr. Tillman lived in Charlotte most of the time and only showed up in Beaverton once in a blue moon. Mrs. Tillman lived an almost entirely separate lifestyle from her husband, volunteering at the soup kitchen and organizing a fundraiser for the hospital's pediatric wing. She didn't just throw her vast amounts of money at a problem—she rolled up her sleeves and got her hands dirty. But even a saint like Mrs. Tillman might have a hard time opening her home and her heart to her husband's illegitimate son.

  "We've reached an understanding, I think. She's obviously uncomfortable around me, but she's welcomed me for Lizzy's sake.

  "Ah." Okay, so not exactly the warm Italian family full of grand hand gestures and laughter. "She's always been decent to me." I relayed our conversation from the week before.

  "It's an awkward situation. I give her credit for trying."

  I pulled up in front of the house. Jones got out then circled the car to open my door, which I was perfectly capable of opening myself, though I appreciated the gesture.

  "Nervous?" he asked before we ascended the stairs.

  "I've never been in through the front before."

  He squeezed my hand. "Thank you for doing this."