"Your face is all squinty and scrunched up," Kaylee said. "Are you having a stroke or something?"
I blew out a breath. "I was trying to find a way to gracefully bow out. Grace isn't my strong suit."
"Please will you come? They have a really nice house and an in-ground pool and everything. We could go swimming. We never do anything together but cook."
"Oh, slather on the guilt why don't you?" I grumbled.
She grinned. "Just think about it. With Jones out of town, you won't have anything to do at night."
"I do stuff." I put my hands on my hips and lifted my chin.
Kaylee raised a brow. "Like what?"
"Grown-up stuff." I smirked. "I'll tell you when you're older."
"Oh, ew." She wrinkled her nose. "That's okay, I don't wanna know."
The landline rang, and I snapped a dishtowel at her as I moved to answer. "Get going, brat. I'll see you tomorrow."
Kaylee waved, and I turned my attention to the phone. "Good afternoon, Bowtie Angel. This is Andy."
"Andy," The male voice on the other end of the line greeted me in a hearty baritone. "It's Stu Fogerty."
"Hey, Stu," I said cautiously. Stewart Fogerty had been a mentor of sorts when I'd first graduated from the CIA. He'd been the head chef in the restaurant where I'd first landed a job. Stu was a real hard-ass chef to work under but overall a pretty decent guy. After a few months he'd moved out of the kitchen and onto the Iron Chef circuit. He hadn't contacted me since my televised debacle though, so hearing his voice was unexpected. "What can I do for you?"
"It's what I can do for you. I'm one of the producers for Diced, and I was nominated to give you the news. Congratulations, you've been selected to participate in the Diced Showdown!"
For a second I forgot how to breathe. "Really?"
"Of course! You trained under the best. And you're notorious, which doesn't hurt your case." He laughed.
"But I just sent my application in yesterday. I thought it would take weeks to even hear anything." I leaned against the counter for support. Man, that positive attitude thing worked quick!
"The network wanted to bump up the timeline since ratings always fall off during the summer months. Problem with that is we need a new venue that can match our dates. Do you think your town would be willing to host the event?"
I blinked. "You want to hold the competition in Beaverton? Why?" It wasn't like we were a huge tourist draw, too far from the coast or the mountains to really be anything more than an out-of-the-way stop.
"I told you—we need a venue. Small, quaint towns film exceptionally well and drive better ratings than a studio set. And if we hold it there, you'll have the home-court advantage. So do you think you can help me make this happen?"
The chamber of commerce would be thrilled with the publicity. I had no doubt about it. And Beaverton did come off as particularly picturesque in the summer. Still, I hesitated, sensing something wasn't on the up and up. Pops had a saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Good for the town, good for my career—it would be idiotic not to jump at the chance.
Call my cynical but about Stu's offer seemed a little too good to be true. "What aren't you telling me?"
He sighed. "I never could get anything past you. I told them that. All right, but I want your word that this is going to stay between the two of us and that PI boyfriend of yours."
I frowned. "Jones? What does he have to do with anything?"
"Everything. The other producers and I want to hire him. Someone on our staff is leaking celebrity chef gossip to an online blogger who has it in for us."
I shrugged. "That's not unusual. There are always rumors surrounding anyone even mildly famous."
"Yeah, but this is real nasty stuff about personal medical information and relationships. The latest says that Chad Tobey hits his wife and his seventeen-year-old son. That's the kind of garbage publicity that could ruin a career."
Chad Tobey was a regular Diced judge and grill master from Texas. I'd never met him in person, though, I'd watched the show enough that I felt I had a personal connection. The man totally knew how to treat a side of beef.
"Is he?" I bristled, not willing to become part of covering up domestic abuse.
"No. They're going through a nasty divorce, and the wife is making it all up so that she gets sole custody and takes him to the cleaners financially. We don't know who the leak is, but it's making the entire network look bad. Some of us suspect that the blogger actually works on the show. That's the real reason we're moving the date up. We need to unmask this person. Will Jones take the case?"
I leaned against the wall. "He's away for the weekend, so I couldn't promise you anything until I talk to him. Why don't you hire another PI to find out who the blogger is?"
"We want to keep this in-house as much as possible. And we don't expect either of you to work for free."
He named a staggering amount, and I slid down the wall until my butt hit the floor. With that kind of money, Jones and I could pay for our wedding and build our own house whether I won the competition or not. As nice as Jones's current abode was, I never forgot that it was still Lizzy's place.
"So what do you say, Andy? Can we count on you?"
Part of me wanted to say yes, absolutely. Another part—probably the smarter part—had been burned before and was wary. "Let me think about it."
"There's one other thing," Stu said, and the hairs rose on the back of my neck. "Several members of our staff used to work for Flavor TV and some of them worked on Al Dente. I've heard that several of them think your pilot was deliberately sabotaged. You come work for us, and you might just find out who threw you under the bus and be able to clear your name once and for all."
Scaloppini and Orzo
You'll need:
1 pound boneless chicken breast
3 tablespoons flour
½ cup white wine
½ fresh lemon, juiced
3 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon each fresh basil, parsley, salt, and black pepper
1 ½ cups water
1 cup uncooked orzo pasta
Directions:
Mix flour, salt, and pepper. Coat chicken with flour mixture.
Heat oil in large, nonstick skillet on medium heat. Cook half of the chicken pieces 3 minutes per side or until golden brown. Remove from skillet. Repeat with remaining chicken.
Add water, wine, herbs, and lemon juice to the skillet. Bring to a boil, stirring to release browned bits at bottom of skillet. Stir in orzo. Place chicken over orzo. Reduce heat to medium-low.
Cover with lid, and cook 10 minutes or until liquid is absorbed and orzo is tender.
**Andy's note: Chicken and rice, Italian style. Fresh herbs give this dish plenty of seasoning without leaning on nightshades.
CHAPTER TWO
"How could I say no?" I asked Donna as we sat in her backyard later that night. Her twin girls darted around with butterfly nets trying to catch fireflies, but I was too hyped up to enjoy the domestic scene. "Not only could I publicly redeem myself, if I took it on, it'd pay for the wedding, and we could build our dream home. It's too much temptation."
Donna handed me a wine cooler and then twisted the cap off her own. "I hear you. But you didn't even talk to Jones about this first, just signed him up to work under their terms. He might not be okay with that."
She was right, but I'd worked up a good amount of indignation and wasn't ready to admit that I'd screwed up. "He knows how much restoring my reputation means to me. I'm sure he'll be onboard. Besides, I'm mad at him. The big jerk hasn't called me once since he left. I feel like I'm in high school again, sitting by the phone like a loser. Lizzy was the one who texted me to let me know they arrived safely, for crying out loud."
"He's probably just waiting until he actually has a chance to talk to you in private. Don't go all insecure. You know the man would sacrifice a limb for you." Donna sipped her wine cooler and then called
out, "Pippa, there are plenty of lightning bugs. Don't steal your sister's."
A mosquito landed on my arm, and I smacked it before the little bugger had a chance to bite. "I know. I'm just used to being the center of his world. I really wish I'd gone with him."
Donna shook her head. "You've got it bad."
I grinned. "Yeah. But can you blame me?"
She held her wine cooler to her forehead. "Not even a little bit. That accent alone is enough to make a woman spontaneously combust."
"Mommy?" Pippa rushed over, a butterfly net over her head.
I laughed as Donna helped her daughter free her pigtails from the mesh. "I should get going. I still need to break the news to Pops and Aunt Cecily."
"Did you decide what kind of dietary theme you're going to do?" Donna asked as she freed her struggling imp.
I shook my head. "I keep thinking it should be something personal. I still have a little while to decide, so I'm sure I'll come up with something."
"Come on guys. I'm getting eaten alive here!" Donna gestured to her offspring. "I can't wait for Steven to finish the screened-in porch. Every time I come out here this time of year, I feel like live bait. Do you know what the other competitors will be doing?"
"Not specifically. If I were to guess, all sorts of things. Farm to table, snout to tail, gluten free, sugar free, low carb, low sodium, paleo, you name it and someone's got it in their wheelhouse. I was trying the vegan thing, but my efforts come out more like grout than gourmet. I'm just not feeling it, you know?"
The competition would involve several qualifying rounds with the winner of each round securing a spot in the final. Stu had told me I would be part of the celebrity chef round, which was the last qualifying round before the final competition. Each competitor would be given a budget for each meal, and the ones that made the best tasting dishes that suited their dietary requirements would advance from breakfast to lunch to dinner and then start all over again in the final round. The winner would receive a cash prize as well as the championship title.
"Well, you have to make pasta or, at the very least, Italian. It's your shtick," Donna told me as she scratched at a bite.
I huffed out a breath. "I can cook other things you know."
"Of course you can. I'm just saying you flamed out while making a pasta dish, you should ride to victory on one."
I set my still-full wine cooler on the kitchen counter. "I definitely like that idea. I'll see you tomorrow?"
Donna nodded. "Do yourself and everybody else a favor, and just call Jones if you want to talk to him. Men are idiots about phone etiquette until you break them in. I'm still training Steven."
I winked at her. "I make no promises."
"Stubborn," she muttered and shook her head.
I trotted down the steps and out to Mustang Sally. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and I was thrilled to ride with the top down all the way back to the rental house I shared with my grandfather and his sugar mama, aka my Aunt Cecily. What at first had been an uncomfortable relationship for me to witness had become almost funny. In truth, I was glad they had each other, even if they did bicker constantly. Pops had needed someone after my grandmother died, and Aunt Cecily was the type of woman who saw it as her duty to take care of her sister's husband. Rosetti women did for family—even after death.
The lights were still on outside, and Pop's ancient town car was nowhere in sight, a clear indication that they weren't home yet. It was poker night at the senior center, and no one could bluff Aunt Cecily. I carried the cooler I'd brought home from work, filled with Italian wedding soup, out of the backseat and unlocked the door. Dropping my keys, I kicked off my shoes and padded inside.
Roofus didn't get off his dog bed to greet me, which was usual for the lazy beagle.
I'd just transferred the soup to a pot on the stove when my cell rang. I didn't recognize the number, but it was local, so not Jones. Although I was tempted to let it go to voicemail, I picked up anyway. "Hello?"
"Andy, how are you?"
I froze, wincing when I recognized the male voice. "Fine, Jacob."
"Good. How's the arm doing?"
"Better. Thanks for asking." I cleared my throat.
"And business is good at the pasta shop?"
"Yup." Look up the word awkward in the dictionary and there would be a transcript of this conversation.
There was a pause, but if dear old dad thought I was going to reciprocate and inquire after his health and business, he had another think coming. I didn't want to encourage him in any way because I really didn't have room for him in my life.
Jacob coughed. "Well, the reason I'm calling is that Kaylee's coming over tomorrow, and we wanted to extend the invitation to you. Malcolm is welcome too, of course."
"He's out of town," I said flatly, not touching the invitation portion at all.
"I see." Jacob did sound disappointed, probably because Jones was the calm and reasonable member of our dynamic duo.
More silence. "Well, Kaylee will be here and Kyle, and we thought it would be nice to have dinner together as a family."
Enough already. "Look, Jacob. I appreciate the thought, but the truth is that we aren't a family. My family is Pops and Aunt Cecily, Kaylee, and Jones. Kyle knocked me up in high school, and his parents hate me. So this little vision of a nuclear family with you as the patriarch isn't going to happen. If you wanted that, you should have thought about it before you bailed on my mother." Bitterness coated my every word.
Jacob sighed. "I see you're not ready to hear my side of it. Okay, I'll give you time."
He hung up before I told him that time wasn't the issue, and more of it wouldn't make a difference. So much for my positive attitude.
I dropped the phone on the counter and braced my hands on either side of it. Rage made my whole body tremble. Anger was good. It kept me from feeling sad or hurt or any of those other gooshy emotions that changed nothing and caused me to want to curl into a ball and weep like a weenie. I was related to Aunt Cecily, who had lost her entire family, except for her youngest sister, to illness and immigrated from Sicily to America when she was only sixteen. Compared to that, my daddy issues were small potatoes.
Headlights shone through the front windows, and Roofus rose, stretched, and waddled to the door. Only for Pops would that dog bother to get up and move voluntarily.
I could hear Aunt Cecily muttering in Italian through the open kitchen window and Pops making soothing noises.
"Lui è così sciocco!" she barked, and I wondered who the fool was who'd crossed her and if he knew he was essentially doomed.
"Easy," Pops said. "It's not that big a deal."
Aunt Cecily made a phlegmy sound, and I was fairly certain she spit. At least it was outside. More Italian broke the stillness of the night, too fast for me to even pick up. My eyebrows were practically to my hairline. Typically Aunt Cecily spoke in fractured English, seasoning her speech with enough of her native tongue to flavor the conversation. The fact that she was literally spitting mad and only speaking Italian meant we were at DEFCON 2 and war was imminent.
My gaze drifted down the hall, and I briefly considered dashing to my bedroom and perhaps climbing out the window. This wasn't going to end well, and I would rather not be in the vicinity of the fallout.
Then the front door crashed opened, and my tiny and furious aunt stormed in. She dropped her purse, which was roughly the same size as the overnight bag Jones had packed for New York, and it hit the wood dining table with a thunk.
I didn't dare speak to her as she marched past me, not wanting to draw her attention. Her clipped footsteps struck like death knells down the hall. For a woman who was maybe ninety pounds fully dressed and sopping wet, she could sure make her presence known.
Pops shuffled up beside me, and a moment later there was a slam along with the distinctive snick of a lock clicking.
I turned to Pops. "Okay, so who's the dead man?"
Pops grimaced. "My doctor. He said I need to change
my diet."
I studied my grandfather. Even though he was in his eighties, Eugene Buckland appeared healthier than many men half his age. He looked just as robust as he had this morning and a wave of dread washed over me. "Why? Are you all right?"
"It's the darned arthritis." He held up his hands for inspection. The fingers were curling in toward the palms, the knuckles knobby and protruding through his thinning skin. "The hands are the worst, but my back is bad too. Remember when I had that spasm during the winter?"
I nodded. "He put you on medication though. Doesn't that make it better?"
"It helps the pain, but it's not a fix." Pops pulled out one of the ladder-backed chairs and gingerly lowered himself into it, the motion full of barely suppressed agony. "He suggested I change my diet to a nightshade-free one."
"Nightshade-free?" I sat in the chair across from him. "If I remember my first year CIA studies correctly, that's potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers." Some of his favorites.
Pops nodded. "Right. Doc says there've been studies done about people who've gone off those things doing better than with just the medication alone. He told me about it when I went in the winter, and when he showed up at poker tonight and saw what a tough time I was having, he reminded me about it in front of Cecily. That's why she's fit to be tied. I wasn't gonna try it anyways."
I frowned. "Why not, if it will make you feel better?"
Pops shot me an exasperated look then his gaze shifted to the still closed bedroom door. That's when I got it. "You didn't want to make things more difficult for Aunt Cecily, right? Oh, Pops." Classic Eugene Buckland—not wanting to cause a fuss and suffering in silence so as not to upset his family.
"Not just her. It's you too, Andy girl. You spend all day cooking, and I can't be asking you to make something special just for me."
I reached across the expanse of table and covered his gnarled hand with my own. "Of course you can. You think I wouldn't be thrilled to do something to help you feel better, especially if it's with food? And even though she's not reacting well to the news, I'm sure once she calms down Aunt Cecily will be happy to make some changes."
Murder Al Fresco Page 2
