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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "Hey, you put up with my crazy family. The least I can do is return the favor—" My lips clamped together as the massive oak door swung open. Shoot, me and my big mouth.

  Lizzy's mother stood in the doorway, wearing a sleek gray dress that accentuated her narrow waist. It was cut conservatively with a boatneck collar, unlike my own conspicuous cleavage. She nodded at Jones, though her expression was a little strained, and then turned to me.

  "Andy, so good to see you." She greeted me with a hug.

  "Nice to see you again, Mrs. Tillman."

  "Irene, I told you. We're in the parlor, doing our formal thing this evening. I warn you, it can be a little tedious, but at least the food is top notch." Mrs. Tillman looped her arm through mine and winked, surprising the hell out of me.

  "Oh, okay." I glanced back at Jones over my shoulder. He shrugged and mouthed go with it. Her actions were an obvious ploy to leave him out, but he didn't appear to care, more interested in keeping the peace than staking a claim.

  "Thank you so much for that list of recommendations, by the way."

  "Have you found a new pastry chef?" I asked out of curiosity.

  She smiled, uncaring that the display of happiness would leave lines around her eyes and mouth. She was the most laid back socialite I'd ever met. Not that I met many, but still. All her hype was obviously based in reality. "Not as of yet, but I'm confident one will turn up."

  Inspiration struck. "You know, Mimi, Chef Farnsworth's former assistant, is working at the Bowtie Angel now. She's a talented pastry chef in her own right, and I'm sure she'd be available."

  "That's a marvelous idea," Lizzy's mother said. "Send her up tomorrow morning first thing so we can make it official."

  "Uh, sure." Damn it, I'd just shot myself in the foot. The Spring Fling was tomorrow, and I needed Mimi by my side to pull it all off.

  "Mimi is helping with the Bowtie Angel's booth and the pasta-eating contest tomorrow." Jones said.

  As much as I appreciated his loyalty, Mimi wanted to work as a pastry chef, and I couldn't stand in the way of that, no matter how much I needed her.

  Mrs. Tillman blinked, even as she patted my arm. "Don't worry dear, I won't keep her long. You'll have her back in no time."

  We entered the parlor, where Mrs. Tillman excused herself to speak to Kyle's mother. I turned and gave the woman a wide berth. The last time we'd been in each other's company she'd accused me of trapping her son into marriage. Lizzy and Kyle were nowhere in sight. Maybe they were skipping this little impromptu event.

  Jones introduced me to his dad, who offered me a dirty martini. I accepted gladly. He asked politely about the Bowtie Angel, and I made sure to point out how much help his son had been.

  He snorted. "What a waste. Did you know Malcolm went to Oxford?"

  "Just for a year. Traditional education wasn't for me," Jones murmured. His tone wasn't defensive, and he had the posture of a man who was used to other people condemning his choices and didn't much care.

  "All that potential, and what do you do? Follow cheating spouses for a living." His father snorted in derision.

  "He also takes beautiful photographs," I put in. Jones may not need someone to defend him, but I couldn't let this browbeating go on unchallenged.

  "A hobby, nothing more." Thankfully, Mr. Tillman's cell phone rang, and he excused himself to take it.

  Lizzy and Kyle had arrived, and both of them were glaring at the two of us.

  "You know," Jones said mildly, "if you bottled all the disdain in this room you could power a third world country."

  "You would know, Mr. Oxford."

  He laughed low. "What will it take for you to forget that?"

  I drained my martini. "About four more of those."

  "At least hell is stocked with top shelf booze," he said as he fixed me another drink. "But I'm cutting you off after this."

  "Spoilsport. You think I'm sharp-tongued normally, you should hear me with a snoot full. I'd make verbal mincemeat of all of them."

  "Dinner is ready," a small woman, in her early twenties said with a hint of a brogue. She looked uncomfortable in her shapeless black dress that was standard uniform for domestic staff in the Tillman household. Maybe she was new. God knew I was uncomfortable in the midst of such opulence, and I hadn't been given the cold shoulder the way Jones had.

  "Thank you, Marguerite. We'll be right in." Mrs. Tillman smiled reassuringly at the girl.

  "Something to look forward to next time," Jones said and escorted me in to dinner.

  Tomato Basil Pasta

  What you'll need:

  2 1/2 tablespoons basil-infused extra virgin olive oil

  1 pound of cooked pasta

  1/4 pound cooked, chopped pancetta

  2 pints grape tomatoes

  3/4 teaspoon sea salt

  1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

  1 cup fresh baby spinach

  1/2 cups torn fresh basil leaves, loosely packed

  1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  1/4 cup pine nuts

  Boil the water, and add the pasta. Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the tomatoes and cook until they burst and release their juices, about 5 minutes. Season with the salt and pepper, and then add the garlic. Reduce heat to medium-low, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until the pasta is done. Just before draining the pasta, add the basil to the tomatoes and stir.

  Remove pan from heat. In separate skillet sauté pine nuts in a drizzle of basil-infused olive oil. Drain the pasta and place it in a serving dish. Spoon the tomato mixture over the top; sprinkle with the Parmesan and pancetta, and serve with roasted pine nuts.

  **Andy's note: Do yourself a favor and loosely cover the skillet when not stirring. Tilt the lid enough to vent steam, but keep it covered to prevent a mess so you don't end up scraping tomato off your range hood for the next few hours.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  "So what happened after that?" Donna asked as she helped me set up the stage for the pasta-eating contest.

  "More of the same. Lizzy and Kyle's mom ignored me and talked only to Jones. Mrs. Tillman and Kyle ignored Jones and focused on me. Mr. Tillman drank and uttered asinine proclamations about his offspring and was generally ignored. Jones did cut him off when he started in on Lizzy. He's very protective of her."

  Donna started unfolding the chairs. "What did he say about Lizzy?"

  "That she's pretty much arm candy and she should have set her sights higher than the local sheriff. But then he thinks Jones is wallowing in the gutter with me, so at least he wasn't playing favorites." I made a rude noise in the back of my throat as I hung the sponsor pendants from the tables. "At least something good came out of it. Mimi might get back into pastry instead of pasta."

  "I thought you liked having her work with you?"

  "I love it. She does the work of ten people, and it's nice to work with someone other than Aunt Cecily and her nay-saying. But she wants to be a pastry chef, and she can't do that from the Bowtie Angel's kitchen. Do you know where the power strip is? I have several crock pots and hot plates that need to be plugged in."

  "I'll go look in the van."

  The early morning mist had evaporated under the relentless sunshine, and all around me I heard people setting up their booths on the town green. Donna had agreed to help me man ours until Mimi returned from her interview.

  Regardless of how little I thought personally of Mr. Tillman for being a philandering jackass, I had to admit that making Lizzy and Kyle's wedding cake would be a big break for Mimi. She'd admitted to me that she had enough money saved up to start up a small bakery of her own, but lacked the reputation and, thanks to Zoltan Farnsworth, the confidence. After surviving the persnickety chef and Aunt Cecily, I felt sure Mimi could handle Lizzy.

  I was less sure of my own success today. Paranoid after my last public cooking fiasco, I'd checked and rechecked the food
more times than I could count. The local board of health inspector, John Cranston had called me overzealous in my compulsive behavior. I had five professional eaters coming in, and if one of them threw up, the pasta shop was doomed and I'd become a crazy old spinster, just like Aunt Cecily.

  Except, even Aunt Cecily wasn't a maiden aunt anymore. She and Pops were moving in together. And I had Jones, if we both decided to stay.

  Exhausted after the emotional battering at dinner and anxious about the day ahead, I had asked for a rain check on the "servicing." He sent me off with a kiss and a swat on the backside, promising to show up bright and early. My official event photographer.

  Donna and I worked tirelessly, staging everything as cars flooded the town. Soon, every available park space was taken, and several news vans were double parked along Main Street.

  Since there wasn't much call for pasta before ten in the morning, I left Donna alone to man the booth and introduced myself to the news crews. "Hi, I'm Andy Buckland."

  "Regina Montenegro, Channel 13. Did you put all this together, Ms. Buckland?"

  "Hardly. I'm just taking shameless advantage of the town's annual festival to save my family's pasta shop."

  "Do you have time for an interview?"

  "Of course." I led her toward the Bowtie Angel, rattling off the history of the building and my family's legacy.

  Aunt Cecily must have sensed a disturbance in the force because she shuffled out front. "Who are you?"

  I made the introductions, and to my surprise, Aunt Cecily offered to let her see the kitchen. Would wonders never cease?

  Ms. Montenegro and her camera crew caught sight of the professional eaters but promised to come back. "Maybe we could interview you both?"

  "Yes, you will interview the Rossettis and save our pasta," Aunt Cecily nodded.

  "Thank you," I said to her when the reporter was gone.

  "You are a good girl." She patted my cheek and shuffled back inside.

  "Andy?" Donna came running over. "Is there any more Spring Fling Pasta? We're running low."

  "What?" I gaped at her. "I made a metric ton of it."

  "People are hungry."

  The best thing about the signature dish I'd made for this event, it took little time to whip up a new batch, because you could use precooked pasta in the dish. And we had precooked pasta. "Give me ten minutes."

  Aunt Cecily cursed the mess I made in her kitchen and called me a "worthless daughter of a pig" as I scrambled back out to the booth with a fresh batch ready to distribute.

  I lost track of time as I ladled out bowls full of pasta and handed out copies of our menu and the glossy rack cards with information on our catering services. I was stunned to realize it was time for the pasta-eating contest, and yet there was no sign of Mimi or Jones.

  I called him first, but there was no answer. Mimi didn't have a cell phone, so I scrolled through my contacts list until I found the Tillman's number.

  "Hello?" said a small, mousey voice that could only belong to the brow-beaten Marguerite.

  "This is Andy Buckland. I'm looking for Mimi. She was supposed to be meeting with Mrs. Tillman this morning?"

  "I'm sorry," the housekeeper whispered. "Mrs. Tillman left for Raleigh about an hour ago."

  Then where the hell was Mimi? "Thanks. If you see her, just let her know I'm looking for her."

  I tried Jones again—still no answer. Across the green, people were gathering in front of the stage to watch the professional eaters in all their gluttonous glory. I had to go up there and say something, but a bad feeling had settled in my stomach.

  "What's wrong?" Kyle appeared at my elbow in full uniform. On the other side of the green a K-9 demonstration was in full swing. "You look like you're going to be sick."

  "Is Lizzy with you?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "No, she went to Raleigh with her mother."

  I blew out a breath. "Mimi was supposed to help me out, and neither she nor Jones are here."

  The second I said the words I wished I could call them back. It was obvious from the look on Kyle's face that he suspected the worst of his soon to be brother-in-law.

  "Get that look off your face right this second, Sheriff Landers," I hissed. "Jones did not hurt Mimi."

  "Have you forgotten there was a murder in town and that your friend was the only ear-witness?"

  My hands flew to my hips. "Have you forgotten she said she heard a woman talking to Chef Farnsworth?"

  "That doesn't mean the woman killed him."

  "It doesn't mean Jones did, either!" This argument would get us nowhere fast. "Kyle, look, I'm worried about her, all right? Can you just, I don't know, spread the word that she's missing?"

  "North Carolina doesn't have a waiting period for filing a missing person's report. If it was anyone else I might say wait and see if she shows up, but her involvement in an open murder case worries me," Kyle said. "I'll have the office put out a BOLO on her and Jones."

  "He didn't do it, Kyle." But he was already moving toward his official vehicle and didn't hear me.

  Pops waved me over by the stage. "It's time."

  Kyle's suggestions about Mimi's involvement with the case had me feeling queasy. "Can you help Donna at the booth while I announce the contest?"

  "Sure thing, Andy-girl."

  As he moved away a little girl ran up to me with a folded note. "This is for you."

  "What?" I took the note, unfolded it, and wavered on my feet. "Who gave this to you?"

  But the child had disappeared back into the crowd.

  I stared down at the simple message, which had been written in Mimi's neat handwriting on a sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper.

  I found her. Meet me at Jones's house.

  * * *

  There was a barricade up, blocking off the road to Jones's place. A placard stating men at work stood in front of it. I stopped and got out, shading my eyes to see what was going on. That was weird—the road had been clear the night before. Through the dense trees I could see a massive backhoe, though it didn't appear to be in use.

  Since I'd just gotten Mustang Sally back, I wasn't about to take any chances driving through a construction zone, so I decided to park at the Tillman's place and walk over to meet Mimi.

  Again I cursed her timing. Why did she have to go and solve a murder at that exact moment for the love of Pete? I wasn't even sure what I'd said to introduce the pasta-eating contest. All that work, and I couldn't enjoy the moment of triumph.

  I'd looked for Kyle before I'd left, to tell him he could call off the dogs in the Mimi hunt and that she knew who the woman was that had spoken to Chef Farnsworth before he'd been murdered. But I hadn't spotted him and didn't want to take the time to track him down.

  I parked my 'stang and was all set to sprint across the hills to Jones's place when I heard someone call my name.

  "So close," I grumbled as Lizzy's mother climbed from her Lexus.

  "Andy," she waved cheerily. "What are you doing here?"

  Other than trespassing? "How are you, Mrs. Tillman?"

  "Please dear, call me Irene. Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?"

  No, but I didn't want to rouse her suspicions about what I was doing either. Mimi had gone to a great deal of trouble to contact me discreetly, and I had to believe Jones was helping her. It was easier to accept the tea than to make up a story as to why I was there.

  "That would be great, thank you." I followed her and her shopping bags into the house.

  "Marguerite?" Mrs. Tillman—Irene—called out. The vast house was silent, no sounds of footsteps or doors being opened or closed. She frowned, obviously displeased that her housekeeper didn't hop to her summons. "Where on Earth is she?"

  "I don't need tea," I began, glad of the excuse, but Irene waved me off.

  "Oh, it's all right. I may be a society wife, but I do know how to make tea, dear. Why don't you wait in the drawing room?"

  Skippy. I pasted a small smile on my face and went as direc
ted. From the big picture window I caught a better look at the backhoe and the enormous hole it had dug. Mounded up dirt obscured the view of Jones's house, and I wondered if that might not be intentional.

  "Here we are." Lizzy's mother carried a tea tray. Bone china cups with actual saucers and a matching yellow pot. I'd never used a saucer in my life but thanked her when she handed me the cup.

  "Do you know what the construction is all about?" I asked her, indicating the backhoe.

  She pulled a face, as though smelling something foul. "Just some septic maintenance. It does spoil the view, doesn't it? Then again I haven't enjoyed the view of late." Her eyes looked so sad.

  I sipped my tea and tried to decide what to say next.

  She forced a bright smile. "You like him very much." It wasn't a question, and I knew who she was talking about.

  "I do" I said simply. "Very much."

  She stared out the window, and I got the odd sense that she was lonely. "The irony of it is, if he weren't my husband's bastard son, I would like him, too. He's a talented artist, I can admit that much. It was so much simpler when he lived half a world away. But Lizzy adores him, and for her sake I do my best to tolerate him, though I'm not a forgiving sort of woman."

  I had no idea why she'd opened up to me, of all people. She shook her head as though remembering herself.

  "So, are things serious with the two of you?"

  "We're just starting to get to know each other." But what I knew of him, I liked.

  She set her empty teacup aside. "You're a smart girl. Many young women rush right into relationships and expect too much, too soon."

  I wondered if she was talking about Lizzy and Kyle but didn't feel right asking. Instead I drained my tea and rose. "I didn't mean to interrupt your day. I should get going."

  "Are you going to visit him now? It's such a beautiful day, and I could do with a bit of a walk." Irene got up, too.

  Shoot, shoot, shoot. Some inventive Italian curses came to mind, but I couldn't think of a thing to say to dissuade her without making her suspicious. I forced my emotions down. She disliked Jones, and she wouldn't come with me all the way to his house. She was just a lonely woman looking for a reprieve from her own company.