Murder Al Fresco

by Jennifer L. Hart

  He looked at me for a minute. I lifted my chin, unwilling to back down.

  "The ex-wife," Jones finally admitted. "She has the most to gain from his death, and nine times out of ten, it's the significant other. If you can tie her to the blogger, it'll be the smoking gun."

  "But you said she was still back in Texas, right?" Clayton made another sound, and I moved to pick him up before he could roll out of bed, but Jones caught my arm.

  "Allow me." The man never looked sexier than he did holding his son. My teeth sank into my lower lip as I watched him lift Clayton off the mattress. The little guy fussed before blinking open his big blue eyes.

  Jones tensed visibly. I held my breath, praying Clayton wouldn't freak out.

  "Diggy diggy," Clayton mumbled sleepily, eyelids drifting down.

  I let out a breath and then turned toward my bag. Now as long as Jones didn't freak out, we'd be in good shape. "The wife?" I prompted.

  "From what I can tell, she was home at the time of the murder, though she flew in after his death was made public to talk to the police. I'm not saying she did the deed herself, but she had motive. Have you ever met her?"

  I plucked out a pair of gray capri pants and a blue, boat neck top and began dressing. "No. And before you ask, she would have no reason to ruin my reputation either. I was still in culinary school when Chad Tobey last worked for Flavor TV. There's no connection there."

  "What about your other friend?" Jones fished a fresh diaper from Clayton's bag but seemed to be averting his gaze. "The bloke with the accent."

  "Other friend?" Picking up my brush, I pretended to be focused on twisting my hair into a bun, but I was really studying him from the mirror. "You mean Rodrigo?"

  He finished changing Clayton and set the little guy on the floor. "Do you think he had anything to do with the food poisoning?"

  Hair secured, I set the brush down. "What would he possibly have to gain from that?"

  Jones rubbed the back of his neck. "You're his competition, Andrea. The prize money alone might be worth discrediting you."

  "Rodrigo makes more than that in a month in endorsements alone. He has his own line of marinades, for the love of Pete." I stepped into the adjoining bathroom and picked up my toothbrush.

  "So maybe it's the title he's after." Jones was like a dog with a bone, unwilling to shake his wild theory. He moved to the bathroom door and turned sideways, keeping one eye on Clayton, the other on my back. "You said he wanted to cook for you tonight."

  "Is there any particular reason you're looking to blame Rodrigo?" I took time to rinse my mouth before turning to face him. "Other than your jealousy, that is."

  "Jealous? I'm not—"

  "Malcolm," I stepped closer to him, caressing his stubbly cheek. "Don't lie to me. Or to yourself. Steam comes out your ears every time I talk to the man."

  He sighed just as Clayton made a play for the nearest electrical outlet. Jones dashed across the room and scooped him up. "He's interested in you, Andrea."

  I moved to his side and put a hand on his arm. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about. There's only one bloke with an accent in my life, and that's the way I want it. Now let me take the little guy downstairs for breakfast so that you can get dressed."

  Jones handed his squirming armful over, though his eyes were locked on my face. "Maybe I am jealous."

  That admission shouldn't have excited me, yet it did. This was still new territory for me, having a man who thought of me as his. I couldn't help the small feminine thrill, but I knew better than to let it go too far. "You trust me, right?"

  He nodded slowly but didn't say anything, and if not for Clayton's frantic struggling, I would have stayed there staring into his eyes for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of my life.

  Finally Jones turned away. "Go on. I'll meet you downstairs."

  Hefting Clayton in one arm and his diaper bag of doom over the other, I made my way to the glorious kitchen. Jacob was nowhere in sight, thank God, but Lacey was scrambling eggs over by the stove.

  "Andee," she greeted me. "Would you care for some eggs?"

  "Maybe after Clay eats." There was no way to sit through a peaceful breakfast with a hungry toddler on the loose.

  Lacey nodded and dished out two plates of eggs. "Jacob and I usually eat in ze dining room. We'd be glad to have you join us."

  Maybe it was just me, but her offer sounded forced. Did she resent having me in her home? Or had Jacob told her about the not-so-subtle message I'd given him last night.

  "Thanks, but I'm good here," I said, shifting Clayton to my other hip so that I could use my right hand to dig out his cereal. "Clay can be a messy eater. Wouldn't want the little terror to ruin your rugs."

  She gave me a small smile, but I didn't miss the flash of relief. "See you later then?"

  I nodded, pressing my lips together to keep from saying anything stupid. My cell phone rang, but between juggling Clayton and mixing up his cereal, I had no way to answer it.

  Jones strode into the kitchen a few minutes later smelling shower fresh and sexy as all get-out. "I can take it from here."

  "Wipe his hands and face first. I think he likes wearing his food better than eating it."

  He wet a paper towel and cleaned some of the cereal from the little guy's flailing fists. We switched places, Jones taking over the feeding and me standing to dig out my cell phone.

  The missed call came from the Bowtie Angel. Aside from myself and Aunt Cecily, there was only one other person with a set of keys to the building.

  "Mimi's back," I said to Jones, waiting for my automated menu choices. It floored me that so much had happened in the three days since my sous chef had taken off. "Bright side about the whole no-customers thing—I'll have plenty of time to bring her up to speed."

  "What happened to thinking positively?" Jones murmured.

  "That was positive," I said but then broke off as the message began to play.

  "Andy," Mimi's soft voice came on the line. "Someone broke into the pasta shop last night."

  Awesome Meatballs

  You'll need:

  ½ pound lean ground beef

  ½ pound ground pork

  ½ cup Italian bread crumbs

  ¼ cup milk

  1 teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon ground black pepper

  2 teaspoons onion powder

  1 egg, beaten

  Directions:

  Preheat oven to 400°F. Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Roll mixture into 18 meatballs. Cook time is 22-24 minutes or until nicely browned. However, if you make smaller meatballs, the cook time may be shorter.

  **Andy's note: For gluten-free meatballs, substitute quick oats for the bread crumbs. Stuff the center of each with a ¼-inch cube of fresh mozzarella for an extra tasty surprise.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jacob insisted on driving me into town, and since I wanted to be there as soon as humanly possible, I accepted. Riding with him in his sleek BMW, complete with leather seats and new-car smell, was awkward, and we kept the conversation to a minimum.

  "Does Mimi have any idea who it was?" he asked as he stopped for a red light at the edge of town.

  "No, but she said the front room has been vandalized." My tone was grim, imagining the worst. "And be warned, there's press out front. I'm news after yesterday."

  "You'll get through it." Jacob glanced at me, my face reflected in his sunglasses. "You're tougher than you think."

  "Thanks." I was surprised by how much the compliment bolstered me. It was exactly what I needed to hear.

  He pulled into the municipal lot across the green and parked, then looked over at me. "Ready?"

  From our vantage point I could see members of the press milling about. Squad cars from the Beaverton PD were parked directly in front of the Bowtie Angel, clearing a perimeter, and a crowd had gathered out front to keep tabs on the latest. Was our mysterious blogger here, waiting to go live with the latest disaster from the Death Chef?

  "Go a
round back," I hissed to Jacob as we approached the crowd.

  "Why?" He frowned at me.

  "Because if they see us walking in together, they'll start speculating on a connection. Right now your house is a safe haven for Jones and Clayton. I don't want these vultures anywhere near it."

  Jacob looked impressed. "You know, you'd have an excellent future in public relations, if you wanted one. You really consider all the angles."

  "I've done this before." My tone was dry as stale bread. "See you inside."

  Jacob veered toward the alley just as the first reporter caught sight of me. There was a flurry of activity, and I ducked and darted for the front door under a barrage of invasive questions. Mimi had been on the lookout, and she pushed it open to me and then locked it.

  "Thanks." I pulled her into a hug. Over the past year Mimi had become like a member of the family, and having her back to face this with me gave me strength.

  "Andy, I am so sorry." Mimi had a bad habit of apologizing for things that weren't her fault.

  "I'm just glad you're all right. Were you here when the break in occurred?"

  She nodded. "I was upstairs. I had a headache after the long drive, so I went to bed early. The sound of breaking glass woke me up."

  The source of the noise was clear. My front window had been shattered. Pieces of it glinted on the ground outside.

  "Excuse me." Donna's husband, Steven, came over to us. "Andy, Detective Brown wanted to ask you a few questions, if you're up to it?"

  "Yeah," I said, still taking in the carnage. Besides the window, the booth seats had been ripped open and the stuffing strewn every which way. The shelf that held the clean dishes had been tipped over and though the display case we used for the pasta was still intact, someone had spray-painted a few nasty messages on the clear glass. "Sure."

  I was glad it was Steven and not one of the other uniforms who escorted me into the kitchen. Any of the other beat cops would have chattered or probed for information because, police or not, this was Beaverton, and the town ran on gossip. Steven just put a hand on my back and ushered me through the swinging door.

  Detective Darryl Brown stood by the center island, issuing orders to some of the other officers. Jacob was also there, having ducked through the alley like I'd suggested. He sent me a brief nod and then chucked his thumb toward the office, indicating he'd wait there and speak to me when the police were through.

  "Andy's here, Detective," Steven said then gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  I forced a smile for his sake and murmured, "Thanks, Steven. Tell Donna I'll call her as soon as I get the chance."

  "Will do. Hang tough, Little Bit."

  "Don't call me that." I grimaced at the awful nickname. It was only marginally better than Death Chef.

  Steven and the other officers exited, leaving me to face Darryl. He was tall, built like a football player, and his cream-colored suit accentuated perfect mocha skin. Because he was a no-nonsense kinda guy, Darryl cut right to the chase. "Any idea who would want to trash the place?"

  "Anyone who ate here yesterday," I grumbled. "Didn't you hear the entire restaurant came down with food poisoning?"

  "I heard. My Aunt Henrietta was here." Darryl did deadpan like no one else.

  "Of course she was," I grimaced. "Sorry."

  The detective didn't as much as blink. If my crass comment affected him, he didn't show it. "Anybody else?"

  I gaped. Half the town was in here at one point, hoping to hobnob with a celebrity. "Isn't that enough?"

  "How many of them had a set of keys?" Darryl continued.

  My eyebrows went up as my lips parted in shock. "Keys? But the window…"

  "The window was broken from the inside, just a few minutes before Mimi's 9-1-1 call. Whoever did the damage broke the front window on their way out, not in. I checked the locks, and neither show signs they were tampered with. So that leaves someone who had access."

  I needed a minute to digest that.

  Darryl was a man on a mission though. "So who has keys?"

  It was a short list. "I do, of course. Mimi because she lives here. Plus Pops and Aunt Cecily have a set."

  "That's it? You're sure there isn't a spare set floating around out there somewhere?" Darryl prompted.

  "I'm sure. Maybe Mimi left one of the doors unlocked? She told me she was tired." I felt bad blaming her, but it would have been a poorly timed accident, and I wasn't about to give her any grief over it.

  "I already asked, and she swore she locked it." The detective dismissed that possibility. "Considering she lives upstairs, I'm confident she's telling the truth."

  Needing to sit, I pulled out one of the wooden stools and lowered myself onto it. "Even if I'd wanted to open today, I can't. Not now."

  Though there was a second stool, Darryl remained standing. "I need you to look around, make sure nothing was taken. Though this appears to be vandalism, there might be something we've missed."

  "I don't keep valuables here," I told him. "At least nothing that would be worth much money and easy to transport."

  Darryl crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Humor me."

  I nodded. "It'll probably take a while."

  Though I had his number programmed into my cell phone, Darryl slid me one of his business cards. "There are a few things I need to check up on, but call me if you think of anything else."

  After promising I would, I saw him out then went to the office.

  Jacob sat behind the tiny desk but rose when I opened the door. "Well?"

  Ignoring how comfortable he looked at the helm of my sinking ship, I said, "The police are done, at least for now. I'm supposed to look around to see if anything's missing."

  Jacob nodded. "Standard procedure. I'll get someone to see about boarding up that window. The last thing you need is prying eyes."

  "Thanks," I replied sans snark. It meant a lot to me that not only was he sticking around to help but that he took the initiative when he saw something that needed to be done.

  After he'd left, I glanced around the small office. Nothing was disturbed, and the ancient desktop computer was still there. I stared at the phone for a long moment. Three sets of keys. Mine were in my pocket, and Mimi claimed to have hers. Though this wasn't how I wanted to approach them, I had to ask.

  Picking up the receiver, I dialed the familiar number. It was picked up on the third ring.

  "Hello?" the gruff male voice answered.

  "Pops?" I asked, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice. "Did you hear about the break-in?"

  "I heard," his reply was terse, and my insides flipped over at the coldness in his voice. He didn't ask if I was all right, if anything had been taken. It was like talking to a stranger.

  Swallowing my hurt, I cleared my throat. "I need to know, do you and Aunt Cecily have your keys?"

  There was a pause, and I heard the sound of a drawer sliding open. "They're here."

  "You're sure?" Because I had to be.

  "I ain't senile," he snapped.

  "Of course not," I agreed. "Pops, about yesterday—"

  "I gotta go." There was a click and then a pause before the dial tone.

  "Well, that could have gone better," I grumbled.

  So three sets of keys all accounted for. I vividly remembered Jones locking the door when we left yesterday, and Mimi swore she had locked up too. Detective Brown said the locks hadn't been tampered with.

  So how had the vandal gotten in?

  * * *

  "If it's all right with you, I'll bring the crew back today to finish up the patio area. Otherwise they're between jobs and aren't getting paid," Jacob told me an hour later.

  "It might take me longer to pay you back for the renovations." I rose, glancing around at what was left of my front room. Jacob had had his construction guys board up all the windows, not just the broken one. It made the space look sad and small. I sighed. "A lot longer."

  "No rush." His tone was light, as if he really didn't care w
hether I ever coughed up the money or not. "Actually, I was thinking about your situation and wondering if you would mind keeping the doors closed a little while longer than you first planned."

  Satisfied that the floor was glass free, I rose to tackle the graffiti on my display case. "Why?"

  "Maybe what you need to do is a re-launch of the Bowtie Angel. I know it sounds like a gimmick, but if you announce it right away, it'll give the press something to chew on other than the food poisoning incident or the break-in."

  "A re-launch sounds a little glitzy for Beaverton." I tried to picture Irma Getz and Mavis Humphries standing in line wearing evening gowns for pasta. Never mind what Pops and Aunt Cecily would think of the stunt. If they ever spoke to me again. "We're not exactly talking Manhattan elite here."

  Jacob grabbed a rag and polished the other side of the display case. "Just consider it. I'm happy to help, and so is Lacey."

  "I'm surprised Lacey isn't planning her own re-launch."

  Jacob shrugged. "She enjoys her days by the pool more than she ever did cooking for the masses. If you want to go ahead with the re-launch, just let me know. It would be a good time to strike, after your performance on Diced."

  "As long as I don't kill one of the judges," I grumbled under my breath. We were already down one, and I wondered who Stu would get to replace Chad or if he and the rest of the producers would consider this on-location episode cursed. I still had to proceed with the investigation, find out who had been threatening Chad Tobey, and cook the best dishes of my life. My head began throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Too many questions and not enough answers.

  "I think she's a goner," I whispered, looking down at the battered ice cream case. It was original to the building, a fixture from the time before my family opened a pasta shop. For over sixty years my family had been here, making pasta for the community. The thought of opening the doors and having no one show up to eat was too depressing, not to mention overwhelming on top of everything else. "Do you really think a re-launch would help save the pasta shop?"