Jones, who sat in front next to her, shook his head. "Better if we don't. Someone might be able to trace the phone records back to Griffin."
"You would think there would be a bigger story somewhere in the world," I grumped. Clayton blew me a raspberry.
"It's all the attention from the Diced competition," Jones said. "That, plus your earlier incident is making headlines. And then there's Chad Tobey's death."
"What about it?" I asked. "I thought Kyle had that under wraps."
"It was on the news earlier," Lizzy added. "Right before your story."
"But we still don't know how he died, do we?"
Jones shifted in his seat. "The ME's report listed extreme anaphylaxis as the cause of death. It seems Mr. Tobey had a severe allergy to marshmallows."
"Marshmallows?" Lizzy and I chorused.
Jones turned to face me. "Technically the allergy is to the protein gelatin. That's what I found this morning but never had a chance to tell you. There were trace amounts of gelatin in his dinner, so the ME is ruling it an accident. But, considering what happened at the pasta shop earlier, I think there's more going on."
I held up a hand. "Wait a minute. You're telling me you think someone intentionally poisoned Chad Tobey with gelatin and then poisoned the entire pasta shop? Why?"
Jones shook his head. "As of right now, all I have is speculation. But it's too much of a coincidence that several people who worked on Al Dente when the mass food poisoning occurred suddenly show up in town, and then there's another incident also targeting you, Andrea."
"But why?" Lizzy asked. "Why go after Andy and the pasta shop over a year later?"
"I don't know." Jones let the words hang, and I knew what had to come next.
I took a deep breath. Though I'd have to be an idiot to miss the connections, I hadn't wanted to think that someone really did have it out for me. Next to me, Clayton breathed deeply, lulled by the steady rhythm of the car into a light doze. There was someone out there with a serious grudge against me, someone crazy enough to hurt a lot of innocent people just to make me look bad. I had to keep the people I loved safe.
"Malcolm—" I swallowed then cleared my throat. "You offered to look into the food poisoning before. Can you still do that?"
"At this point," Jones said, "I don't think we have any other option."
Italian Apple Crumb Cake
You'll need:
Cake:
5-6 medium apples
1 lemon, zested and juiced
7 tablespoons butter
⅓ cup milk
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
⅛ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Crumbs:
¾ cup all-purpose flour
⅓ cup sugar
6 tablespoons shortening
Directions:
Preheat oven to 350° F. Line the bottom of a 9-inch springform pan with parchment paper, and grease and flour the sides. Peel, core, and cut the apples into thin slices. Place in a large bowl, and toss them with the lemon juice to prevent browning. Melt butter in a microwave safe bowl and add the milk.
In another small bowl, sift the flour, salt, baking powder, and cinnamon together.
In a separate, large bowl, on low speed beat the eggs and sugar together until yellow and creamy, 2-3 minutes. Beat in the lemon zest and vanilla. Add in the flour slowly. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, and beat in the butter/milk mixture just until a smooth batter forms; don't overmix. Gently fold in half the apple slices. Spread the batter in the prepared pan, and shake the pan gently to level it.
Arrange the remaining apples slices over the top in a circular pattern with the edges slightly overlapping. Mix flour and sugar for crumbs, and cut in shortening with a pastry blender or two knives used scissor fashion. Evenly distribute over cake mixture.
Bake 1 hour until the cake starts to pull away from the center of the pan and the crumbs are golden. A toothpick from the center should come out with crumbs but no wet batter.
Cool on wire rack for 25-30 minutes then remove the sides from the pan and cool completely.
**Andy's note: Is there anything more comforting than coffee and cake? How about my Americanized version of Italian apple crumb cake, which goes well with a hearty Italian roast. Aunt Cecily does not approve, of course, but what else is new?
CHAPTER NINE
"Wow," Lizzy said as she peered out the windshield at Jacob Griffin's residence. "This place makes Daddy's house look like a McMansion."
My teeth sank into my lower lip as I studied the grand abode. McMansion was overstating things a bit. While her family's palatial estate looked like a medieval castle complete with gargoyles, Jacob Griffin's house was a sprawling antebellum mansion. Lights blazed through every sparklingly clean window, and many of the upper floors sported their own private balconies. Virginia creeper grew around massive white pillars, and a large, wraparound porch spilled out onto the immaculate green lawn like a true belle's skirt. It looked as though the place was offering us a curtsy of welcome.
We sat there for a moment, taking it in. The house was lovely, but more than that, it gave off a sense of history and permanence, the roots burrowing as deep as the hundred-year-old oaks that lined the white gravel drive. Though it was petty, the fact that Jacob and Lacey, newcomers to Beaverton, were playing happy homestead in such a place irked me.
A hand landed on top of mine, startling me away from my thoughts. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Jones asked, his accented voice soft.
I looked from him down to Clayton. No, I didn't want to go traipsing up to my deadbeat dad's house and ask him to take us in, but I didn't see a better option until I managed to untangle my business and save my reputation. Or until the press caught the aroma of a juicier story and took a hike. I flashed him a smile that I didn't feel and popped the rear door. "No time like the present."
Lizzy followed me while Jones plucked Clayton from his car seat. Considering he'd been doing this daddy thing for less than a week, I was impressed by how quickly he managed the baby gizmos.
Walking up the grand staircase felt much more monumental than I'd expected. I told myself this wasn't for me. Given my druthers, I never would have set foot on this property. My knocking on Jacob Griffin's front door and asking him to take me in wasn't some pathetic childhood fantasy coming to fruition. It was practical, need-based, not some cockamamy version of a happily ever after with my dad.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I held up one hand—no, it wasn't trembling, damn it—and pressed the bell. Through the double doors I could hear dulcet tones echoing through the house, more melodic than any doorbell had the right to be.
A dog barked, a loud, thunderous woof, which made me jump. Luckily Jones stood right behind me, and he put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. He knew what this was like, knew how it was to approach someone who was blood but still a stranger. And his touch indicated that he had my back, that he wasn't going anywhere.
The doors opened, and there stood Lacey in a pink polka dot bikini that was not exactly covered by a sheer, flowing wrap. Open-toed kitten heels completed the ensemble, showing her off as every inch the trophy wife.
She blinked when she saw us, unable to hide her surprise. Her gaze went from Jones to Lizzy before focusing on me. "Andee?"
"We were invited." I cleared my throat and did my best to look as though this wasn't a huge deal. Jacob would have told her about my outright refusal—my nerves went into overdrive. And that wasn't even considering my now-tattered reputation. She'd be well within her rights to shut the door in my face. Would she call me out about the latest mishap or even ask us to leave?
I didn't have a plan B.
Luckily she stepped back and gestured. "Of course. Please, do come in, s'il vous plaît."
"Thanks," I sa
id, meaning it. So we were over the threshold. She eyed our overnight bags with interest but didn't comment.
"You know Malcolm Jones, and this is his sister, Lizzy Tillman."
"But of course." Lacey took Lizzy by the shoulders and kissed her on each cheek. "The sheriff, he will be happy to see you, no?"
"No," Lizzy agreed, heat staining her cheeks. "Is Kyle here?"
"Not as of yet, but I expect him soon." Lacey's attention had shifted to the sleepy child in Jones's arms. "And this is your son?"
"That's right." Jones shifted Clayton, who turned his face toward Lacey.
She moved in closer, one perfectly manicured finger stroking the small, flushed cheek. "Le bébé est parfait!" She cooed a flurry of adoring French. "Jacob will be thrilled. Are you here to stay?"
She posed the question casually, giving me an easy out. I cleared my throat. "If it's not too much trouble."
"Jacob and Kaylee are in the pool. If you will come with me, I will show you to the guest wing. You can change before you go out to meet them." She eyed my stained jeans and blue, scooped-neck T-shirt critically.
"Sure," I said easily, ignoring the unspoken jab.
Her heels clicked on what I could only suppose was Italian marble as she led us up a winding staircase. We followed her down the hall, which was roughly the size of an airport runway. Guest wing, she'd said—as in a wing reserved just for people who didn't live here. Unbelievable.
"Take your pick of ze rooms here, though ze suite on the end has an adjoining door to ze room next door. The pool is down ze second staircase and out ze patio doors. I must see to le repas."
The meal, huh? I'd be worried about burns, wearing such a revealing outfit while cooking. "Can I give you a hand?"
She flinched but recovered quickly. "Non. You are our guests, here to enjoy yourselves. I won't allow it."
Was she just being hospitable, or was there a deeper reason why she didn't want me in the kitchen? I didn't show any teeth when I smiled. "Whatever you want."
Lizzy disappeared into one of the bedrooms on the left side of the hall, leaving Jones and me to explore ze suite Lacey had mentioned. It was tastefully decorated in wood paneling with deep-green accents. White sheers covered the French doors that opened out onto a balcony.
Jones wandered into the room, Clayton starting to fuss in his arms. I set down the bags and shut the hallway door. "I'm just going to say it and get it over with. Holy frigging crap."
"You weren't expecting this?" Jones glanced around the room.
"Why would I?" Then it dawned on me. "Wait, you knew they had money, didn't you?"
"I did a little digging," he admitted. "Ouch."
That last part was for Clayton, who flailed in his arms and smacked him on the nose.
"Well, I wished you'd given me a heads up," I said tartly and took Clayton from him. "It seems even more ridiculous that he's working at the pasta shop. Was working."
I put Clayton down and snagged a fresh diaper out of his bag.
"Andrea," Jones said as I caught up to the little guy.
"What?" I snapped but instantly regretted my tone. "Sorry. It's not your fault, and I shouldn't take my bad mood out on you."
Jones sat on the bed and rubbed a hand over his stubble. "Isn't it?"
Clayton squirmed like a live eel, trying to get away from the inevitable. "What do you mean?"
"If I hadn't brought Clayton to town," Jones murmured, "none of this would have happened."
Diaper finally in place, I glanced around the room to see if there was anything Clayton could get into. There didn't seem to be much danger, so I set him back down to explore, giving his father my full attention. "What do you mean? What else could you have done?"
Jones watched his son for a moment. "Kept him in New York."
"You couldn't have done that. Hell, I couldn't get away for the weekend, never mind the month."
He just looked at me.
"Oh," I said softly as the full meaning dawned on me. "Now I get it. What you meant was that you would have made up some BS story and hidden him away from me in New York. Right?"
Clayton was heading for a lamp cord, and I darted over to redirect him, ignoring the burning sting in my eyes.
"Andrea," he began, but for once the way he caressed my full name didn't make me shiver. "I—"
"No," I interrupted, picking Clayton up before whirling to face him head on. "If you for one single second think that our relationship could endure another monumental secret, you're a freaking idiot, Malcolm Jones. You asked me how I've been handling Clayton's arrival so well? It's because you did bring him home and gave me the chance to get to know him. So don't you dare blame this poor little guy, who lost his mother and never knew his dad, for a single stupid thing.
"You want to know the truth? I'm glad he's here, because I would seriously be losing my mind right now, thinking that my career is over and the pasta shop is on the verge of extinction, and my freaking father is right the hell downstairs to witness my fall. I would have lost it already if I didn't have him to focus on, so stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself."
Jones looked away.
Sensing my mood, Clayton started to fuss in my arms.
"Come on, little guy. Let's get you something to eat." I stalked to the diaper bag, scooped it up in my free hand and headed out the door without a backward glance.
* * *
Luckily Kaylee met me at the bottom of the stairs before I could detonate on anyone else. Even though I'd seen her only hours earlier, she gave me a big squeeze. "It'll be all right."
"Sure it will." I wouldn't have been able to pull off the sun-will-come-out-tomorrow routine for anyone else.
"Can I hold him?" she asked, tickling Clayton's bare toes.
I was reluctant to give him up, somehow feeling less like having a nervous breakdown while I held his warm weight. "I think he's hungry. Let's take him to the kitchen so that I can set up his meal."
"Where's Jones?" Kaylee looked up the stairs as though expecting him to appear.
"Brooding," I muttered. "Where's the kitchen?"
"This way." She indicated a corridor to the left of the entry hall. "I'm so glad you decided to come. And you brought Lizzy. Kyle's gonna be thrilled."
I wasn't so sure about that, but she looked so happy that I kept my opinion to myself.
The kitchen took my breath away. That fabulous marble continued down a few wide steps and across the floor of the vast space. The counters were butcher block interspersed with granite and all the appliances top-of-the-line stainless steel. The cabinetry was white with wrought iron knobs, though the doors were all glass fronted. No crumbs or clutter in those cabinets. Skylights had been built into the ceiling, casting warm light across the entire space and creating an open and airy look.
"Holy meatball macaroni," I breathed.
"Isn't it great?" Kaylee said. "Where should we feed him?"
There was a bump-out bay window with a built-in booth on the far side of the kitchen. "Here. We didn't bring his highchair, so one of us will have to hold him while the other feeds him. Which job do you want?"
"I'll hold him," she said immediately.
"He's a wiggle worm," I warned her. "And you'll probably get messy."
"I'm in my bathing suit, so I can go clean up in the pool after." She slid into the booth and held out her arms.
"Behave, little guy," I told Clayton before depositing him on her lap.
Clayton immediately stuck his fingers in his mouth, drooling a little as he stared up at her in a calm and fascinated way. I was beginning to think he wasn't that wary of strangers at all but that he sensed Jones's unease, and his reaction to his father stemmed from that.
"He really does look like a mini-Jones." Kaylee caressed his cheek.
"Yup." I turned and deposited the bag on the nearest countertop. "Eats like him too."
Kaylee giggled, as I'd intended.
I took a few of the jars of baby food from the bag, studying the cont
ents. "This stuff is freaking disgusting."
"My mom said she made all my baby food for me." Kaylee bounced Clayton on her knee a little. "She said all she needed was a knife, a pot, and a blender."
Mental forehead smack. Now why hadn't I, the chef, thought of that? "That sounds like a good idea, but I doubt he'll wait for dinner while I experiment. This kid is more set in his ways than Pops and Aunt Cecily combined."
"I don't think that's even possible." Kaylee looked up at me, her eyes big and worried. "Are they mad at me?"
"Why would they be?" The pureed meat looked too foul for words, so I decided on the creamed spinach and vanilla pudding to accompany his bottle.
"Because it was my fault we left the pasta shop this morning. If I hadn't wanted to meet Clayton—"
"Kaylee." I held up a hand. "It is not your fault. I'm the adult, and I shouldn't have left the pasta shop unattended."
"And you wouldn't have, if I hadn't insisted," she pressed. Clayton was picking up on her mood and starting to wriggle in a bid for freedom.
I found a couple of microwave-safe bowls—the transparent cabinets were exceptionally useful to a newcomer—and set Clayton's dinner to heat on low before turning to my daughter. "Maybe not, but I have been crazy distracted lately and spreading myself too thin. I'm to blame, not you, okay?"
"But—" She broke off when Jacob entered the room. He wore swim trunks and a T-shirt, so much less formal than his usual suit attire that it took me a minute to recognize him. "Andy, glad you came."
I gave him a tight-lipped smile and was saved by the ping of the microwave. "Just heating up Clay's dinner."
I'd expected Jacob, like Jones, would be standoffish with the little guy, but much to my surprise, he went right over and knelt down. "Well how do you do, young man?"
"Diggy diggy doo," Clayton replied with all seriousness.
"You don't say. I bet you'll enjoy the pool. After your mommy says it's all right."
Murder Al Fresco Page 10
