Murder Al Fresco

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Pops rolled his eyes at me. "If you think that, you don't know nothing, Andy girl." He sighed. "Looks like I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight."

  I cringed at the thought of my grandfather resting his sore body on that lumpy couch. He might not be able to get up in the morning. "You can sleep in my bed. I was going back to Jones's place anyhow. I just wanted to drop off the soup."

  My grandfather's thin lips thinned even further. He liked Jones. More than liked him, but Pops was old fashioned, and he didn't approve of premarital, coed sleepovers. "He's in New York for the weekend, remember?"

  His expression cleared. "All right then. Is that wedding soup I smell?"

  I mentally ran down the list of ingredients then sagged in relief. "Naturally nightshade-free, and there's fresh Italian bread to go with it. And wine—you can still have wine, right? See, it's not so bad. Want me to fix you a bowl?"

  Pops patted my hand. "What would I do without you?"

  I leaned in a little. "I'll talk to Aunt Cecily too. Don't feel bad about this, okay? Lots of people have special dietary requirements…"

  "Andy?" Pops asked as I stared off into space.

  I grinned at him. "You've just helped me solve a problem, Pops, so I'm glad the cat got out of the bag."

  He shook his head then looked back to the bedroom door. "Glad somebody's happy."

  * * *

  Nightshade-free Italian cooking. I grinned as I drove back to Jones's house. That was enough of a challenge that I could really show my culinary mad skills and possibly take home the prize. I hadn't told Pops about the cooking competition yet. He had enough on his plate, and I wanted to share the news when Aunt Cecily's dark mood wasn't looming over us all.

  As the evening wind whipped through my hair, I contemplated my cooking challenge, in addition to the more personal investigation. I really needed to have a conversation with Jones since the burden of the sleuthing would fall to him. Donna was right. I did feel kind of guilty for volunteering his services without consulting him first. But Jones knew how much restoring my reputation meant to me. And I felt sure he'd want me to do everything in my power to get my career back on track.

  At least I really hoped he would. If not…

  I dismissed the doubt from my thoughts. As Nana used to say, don't go borrowing trouble. Positive attitude—had to remember that.

  Jones's place was dark when I pulled up. I left Mustang Sally's headlights on so that I could unlock the front door and flick on some interior lights. That done, I drove around to the carport and parked my ride before making my way back to the house. Why had I never realized how isolated this house was from town?

  Without Jones, the place was almost eerily silent. I checked to make sure all the doors and windows were locked. We should get a security system. Lizzy could afford it, and I'd pay her back as long as Jones and I lived under the roof. It wasn't safe for a woman living alone. I snagged my open laptop and headed into the bedroom, locking that door also for good measure.

  Once comfortably situated on the bed, I pulled up my email and saw a message from Stu. There was an attachment with work history files for all the Flavor-TV-turned-Diced employees. Because Diced was owned by a major network and only aired during the summer months, literally hundreds of people were part of production staff. The Flavor TV people were the best place to start. The file was massive, so I went into the bathroom to shower while it downloaded to my hard drive. I'd just exited in my pajamas when I heard a crash from the living room, followed by a curse.

  Someone was in here with me.

  My heart thrummed like a manic butterfly. Who was it? My gaze slid to the laptop and for one insane second I wondered if I'd made myself a target for a maniac. Swearing under my breath, I scanned the room, looking for a weapon. Nothing. No standing lamps, no baseball bats or hockey sticks to beat back an intruder. There was no phone in the bedroom. I cursed my foolishness at leaving my purse—which contained both pepper spray and my cell—on the front hall table.

  For the second time that night I considered climbing out a window. That thought made me cringe. Without my keys, also located in my bag, I'd be sans vehicle, and fleeing across the darkened landscape barefoot wasn't a stellar option.

  And then my heart stopped as I heard a sound that was distinctive. A sound I hadn't heard in years. A sound that changed everything.

  The unmistakable wail of a small child.

  Stunned, I threw caution to the wind and opened the door to the living room.

  There, looking more disheveled than I'd ever seen him, was Jones. His hair went every which way, and his chin was covered with dark stubble, eyes red-rimmed. His black shirt was wrinkled, his jeans marked with some sort of stain. I had a hard time believing I'd only seen him twelve hours ago. The change in his appearance was so drastic.

  And in his arms was a small boy. He had a shock of red hair, and his face was scrunched up in indignant fury, small arms and legs flailing as Jones held onto him for dear life with a wild look in his eyes. Fear.

  "Malcolm?" I took a hesitant step forward. "What's going on? Why are you back here?"

  "Andrea," he rasped. "I didn't think you'd be here."

  "Well, I am," I muttered rather stupidly. "Whose kid is that?"

  But I knew. The guilt and unhappiness in his face told me all I needed to know even before he uttered the one word destined to change everything.

  "Mine."

  Italian Wedding Soup for the Soul

  You'll need:

  Meatballs:

  1 small onion, minced

  ⅔ cup chopped fresh parsley

  2 large eggs

  1 teaspoon garlic, minced

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 cup plain bread crumbs

  1 cup grated Parmesan

  1 pound ground pork or turkey

  Freshly ground black pepper to taste

  Broth:

  12 cups chicken broth

  ½ a head of cabbage, coarsely chopped

  2 carrots, chopped

  1 large egg

  2 tablespoon freshly grated Parmesan, plus extra for garnish

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

  Directions:

  Stir the first 6 ingredients in a large bowl to blend. Stir in the cheese and meat. Shape the meat mixture into 1-inch diameter meatballs and place on a baking sheet.

  Bring the broth to a boil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the meatballs and cabbage, and simmer until the meatballs are cooked through and the cabbage and carrot is tender, about 10 minutes. Whisk the egg and cheese in a medium bowl to blend. Stir the soup in a circular motion. Gradually drizzle the egg mixture into the moving broth, stirring gently with a fork to form thin strands of egg—about 1 minute. Season the soup to taste with salt and pepper.

  Ladle the soup into bowls and serve. Finish soup with Parmesan cheese, if desired.

  **Andy's note: The term wedding soup isn't talking about the union of people so much as the excellent combination of green vegetables and meat, staples of most diets. For a heartier soup as a main dish, add some sausage, lentils, or a cup of uncooked orzo. Perfect pick me up for a dreary day!

  CHAPTER THREE

  He had Jones's eyes. Feeling as though I was wandering through a fog, I held the small boy as he drank from a bottle, vivid blue eyes burrowing down to my soul. Jones paced in front of me, his restless energy filling the living room from the rafters to the floor.

  A million questions filled my head, my fatigue and exhaustion obliterated by this shocking new development. I looked back to the boy, who looked to be around a year-and-a-half old. Not that I was any judge. I'd never even seen my own child at the same age, so how could I know for sure? I took a breath to ask but stopped before the words could escape. Jones looked ready to jump out of his skin.

  He stopped mid-stride and glared at me. "Why aren't you leaving?"

  "What?" Again with the moronic question. I'd heard him but didn't comprehend. "Do you want me to go?"
r />   "No!" he practically shouted, and the boy in my arms jumped.

  "Sssh," I said as I jiggled him the way I'd seen Donna do when her twins were smaller. "It's okay, little guy. We're all going to stay nice and calm." Careful to keep the bottle in place, I scowled at Jones.

  He scowled back. "Did you know?"

  Although it took an effort, I kept a smile in place as I ground my words through clenched teeth. "Malcolm, I get that you're freaking out here, but think for a minute, and try not to be an ass. How in the hell could I have known you had a son?"

  "You were friendly with Rochelle," he said and began his useless pacing again. I rolled my eyes. As if that explained anything. "And you're taking this all so well."

  I shot him a poisonous glare. "You go to New York for a photography exhibit and come back with a baby boy. Trust me, if I didn't have an innocent kid in my arms you would see exactly how upset I am."

  He sagged onto the chair next to me. "I'm sorry. I'm being foolish. This is all so incredibly frustrating."

  Although we'd been together for over a year, I had never seen Malcolm Jones rattled, and that upset me as much as everything else. I reached across the end table and gripped his hand. "Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

  "I went to the lawyer's first thing. Rochelle's parents were there. And they brought him."

  Jones shook his head as though still reeling from being blindsided. "His grandfather is having surgery, and the grandmother isn't able to look after both of them at once, so they turned him over to me because Rochelle told them he was mine."

  "Of course he's yours," I snapped. One look at the boy would clear any confusion right up. "But why didn't she ever tell you that you had a son?"

  "I've been thinking about nothing else since I got on the plane." His gaze met mine. "That and if you'd leave me when you found out about him."

  "Don't be stupid," I said, my tone harsh enough to make the baby jump. Poor mite, he'd been just on the edge of sleep too. I jiggled him and made soothing noises, hoping to reassure him. "Sorry, sweetie."

  "You're so good with him. He screamed the entire trip back." Jones sounded in awe, and his hand scrubbed over his stubble-covered chin. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

  "Trust me, I'm winging it here. And you got him back here in one piece, so that's a good start. A little warning would have been nice."

  Jones grimaced. "Like I said, I was worried about your reaction, and I didn't expect you to be here. I was still trying to figure out how to tell you."

  "Well, that's one less worry. I know about him now." The boy's eyes drifted shut, and I pulled the bottle from his mouth. "Isn't he a little big for a bottle?"

  Jones shot me an exasperated look. "How should I know?"

  I gave him a pissy look. "Don't get touchy with me, Malcolm Jones. I'm just a little concerned. He's big, and I've never seen a child this old drink from a bottle. Does he have any health problems?"

  Jones's eyes went wider, and to forestall another freak out, I held up a hand. "We'll take him to the doctor, get him checked out as soon as possible." I stared down at the sweet, sleeping face.

  The bright-red hair was the exact same shade that I remembered Rochelle's being, although his was straight and damp from sweat. Pudgy cheeks still clung to baby fat, obscuring his bone structure, but the straight nose and the tiny, dimpled chin were all Malcolm Jones in miniature. It dawned on me that I didn't know what to call him. "What's his name?"

  "Clayton. Clay for short." Jones smiled a little as he looked down at the sleeping child.

  "Clay," I repeated, stunned and overwhelmed as the responsibility crash-landed on top of me. We needed somewhere for him to sleep, to get him checked out by a doctor. We had to feed him and play with him and never, ever go off gallivanting and leave him alone. My stomach twisted with dread of all the bad things that could happen to mini-Jones.

  As though he sensed my terror, Jones put a hand on my shoulder. "It's only for a month, until after the grandfather's surgery. They said they'd take him back."

  "Take him back?" I repeated. "To New York?"

  Jones nodded. "That's the arrangement."

  I bit my lip, not wanting to argue with him over this. At least not right now. "We need to get a crib or something. He's so little, and he could just roll out of bed."

  "It's being taken care of." The doorbell rang, and Jones pushed up out of the chair to open the door. Lizzy, loaded down like a pack mule, was huddled on the other side. She struggled through the door and huffed out a breath.

  "I got everything I had in storage. Most of it was stuff I bought for cousin Lulu's kids, but they outgrew it before they ever came to visit. There's more in the trunk."

  "I'll get it." Jones dashed out the door, clearly relieved to have something to do other than stand around and fret.

  Lizzy rolled her eyes as she began unpacking what looked to be a playpen. "He's been freaked since he found out, mostly because he was convinced you'd hit the roof and drop him like a bad habit when you found out. He didn't even want to stay for his show."

  "Why?" I didn't understand. "I have a kid, a teenager for crying out loud, and he didn't leave me when he found out about her."

  "Kaylee doesn't live with you." Lizzy's hands moved with an easy grace, almost as though she'd performed this task a dozen times before. "You give her back when you're done playing mommy."

  I flinched at the barb. Lizzy always knew how to wound me, but I didn't offer excuses or go on the defensive. My relationship with Kaylee was none of her freaking business. "Is that why he said he'd give Clay's grandparents' custody?"

  She stood the fully assembled crib up and then looked at me. "Honestly? I think it's because he's scared he'll screw the kid up. I offered to keep Clay up at our house, but I think the idea of our father being around him freaked him out even more."

  I cringed at the idea of Mr. Tillman, whose hobbies included drinking, playing with firearms, and verbally abusing his son, anywhere near Clayton.

  "That's pretty much the same look he had on his face," Lizzy said. "Where do you want this?"

  I had no idea. The house had been custom-built with one bedroom and a giant basement, which was Jones's private workspace. The little guy would probably be super freaked out to wake in a strange place, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. "The bedroom, I guess."

  Lizzy moved to pick it up, but Jones rushed in behind her, dropped the various bags he'd been carrying, and took the crib from her. "I'll do it."

  I exchanged glances with Lizzy, and though we didn't share a mutual liking, I could see in her eyes that we both agreed on one thing. Jones needed us to be the stable force to help him through the next month with Clay.

  God help us all.

  * * *

  It was a rough night, and more than once I regretted my decision not to sleep on the couch at the rental. Clay did wake up terrified and screamed and flailed anytime Jones picked him up. He only calmed when I retrieved him and brought him into the bed with us. We'd wait until he dozed off, but the second Jones transported him back to the crib, he woke in terror, and the pattern began again. Finally I convinced Jones we should just keep him in the bed until we got him a more comfortable place to sleep.

  Bleary-eyed and wild-haired, I eased myself out of bed, using a mountain of pillows to cover my place. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I made my way out to the coffee pot. I'd just set the sucker brewing an extra-strong batch of java when my cell phone rang, the sound piercing the early morning like a javelin. I dove for my purse and wrestled it out before it woke Jones and Clay.

  "Hello?"

  "Andy girl? What's this I hear about your man having a kid?"

  A groan escaped. That was Beaverton for you. Clay had been in town less than twelve hours, and the grapevine already had a stranglehold on the news. I slipped out the back door and headed for the hammock under the copse of evergreens. "Who told you?"

  "Jody Fentwick, when I saw him at the gas station. He said his brother Carl saw Jone
s and Lizzy stop at the supermarket one town over last night and that the kid was a dead ringer for Jones. I told him there musta been a mistake, that there was no way we wouldn't have known, and that he'd better not let his tongue go wagging all over town. What in the Sam Hill's going on?"

  The lulling sway of the hammock soothed my frazzled nerves. "Do you think Jody and Carl will keep it under their hats?"

  "They will now, but who knows how many people they told before they saw me. Are you sayin' it's true? The kid really does belong to Jones?"

  "He just found out yesterday. Rochelle didn't tell him." The rocking of my hammock ceased, and I hung one leg over the side to push off with my toe. "I promise I will tell you everything later, but right now Jones needs help. He's still adjusting to the news."

  "I'll keep the vultures at bay. Do you want Cecily and me to cover the Bowtie Angel?"

  "That would be terrific." Bless Pops and his willingness to step up to the plate. I really hadn't wanted to leave Jones with Clay, and no way could I entertain a toddler in the pasta shop. Sharp things, hot things, strangers everywhere—it would be a disaster in the making.

  "Don't you worry about nothin', Andy girl. Cecily and I will keep the vultures at bay."

  I didn't doubt it for an instant. "Thank you, Pops."

  He hesitated another moment then said, "Should I tell Kaylee?"

  Shoot, I hadn't thought about that yet. Deep down I knew Kaylee, of all people, would be hurt if she found out about Clayton from anyone but me. "She isn't due in until lunch. I'll call her before that."

  I hung up the phone and nearly dumped myself out of the hammock when crying split the still morning air. I rushed inside, bare feet poked and scraped from the gravel driveway. Jones and Clayton were in the kitchen, Clayton screaming his lungs out and pushing against his father's face while Jones tried to fix his bottle—eyes a little wild.