Murder Al Fresco

by Jennifer L. Hart

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I awoke to angry voices, one familiar, and the other I didn't recognize, though it sounded younger than the first. Pressure in my midsection and all the blood rushing to my head and feet, plus a steady jostling motion, clued me in that someone was carrying me over his shoulder.

  "Why'd you bring her here?" the unfamiliar one said. His voice sounded closer, so I guessed he was the one who carried me.

  "She's our scapegoat. I had to pull her away from the green," the other voice murmured. "Put her in the backseat."

  There was a sound like a heavy, metal door being slid back. I tried to keep my breaths slow and easy and not to flinch, struggle, or do anything that would draw their attention back to me as the person carrying me laid me down on my back onto something soft, but lumpy.

  "But shouldn't she be there?" the one who'd been lugging me panted. "If she really snapped, wouldn't she want to witness the destruction?"

  There was a sigh, and I risked cracking an eyelid. Stu. That was the voice I'd recognized. The events of our last conversation rushed back, him knowing how Mimi had been drugged as only the person who'd drugged her would. I didn't want to move my head and risk getting their attention. As far as I could tell, my only injury was the pounding in my skull, and my hands and feet weren't bound in any way. If they gave me an opportunity, I'd run for help.

  Though that hadn't worked out so well before, had it? The other guy must be a marathon sprinter. Stu never would have caught me on his own. Too little cardio, too many desserts.

  Something clicked when I thought those last words. On his own, but there were two of them. This was the threat that Lacey and Kyle had been worried about.

  "We need to compose a suicide note," Stu said. "Rob, put on some gloves and check her pockets. We can leave it on her phone. Better yet, send it as a text message to her boyfriend."

  Rob? Who was the other guy? I wanted to ask them why they were doing this, but they had me at a serious disadvantage.

  "I still don't get why you picked her and this tiny-ass town to begin with," Rob grumbled as he patted me down. "We could have made much more impact in Charleston or Atlanta."

  "And that's why you're not the brains of this operation." Stu sounded the same way he had when I'd been a line cook in his restaurant, patronizing as hell. "I lined this up over a year ago when I swapped out her dishes on live television. Trust me, that little incident garnered her more recognition than most celebrity chefs receive in a lifetime. And half the population of a town dead will look much more dramatic on the news."

  It took a great deal of effort to keep playing possum at that. Stu had swapped out my linguini and clam sauce, had ruined my reputation? Why?

  "It was supposed to be my dad." Rob had discovered my cell phone in my pocket. "We were supposed to take him down first. You said that telling everyone that he hit my mom and me would end his career."

  His dad? Then something Jones had said to me days ago registered. Chad Tobey's son, Rob, had given him a case of the creeps.

  "Well, he's taken care of now." Stu sounded aggravated, as if he'd explained this point before. "I can't believe you were stupid enough to leave your laptop out for him to find. When he discovered that you were behind Fangirl#1, we had to do something, or he would have ruined everything. Are you sure he didn't tell your mother what he found?"

  "No way. You talk to her more often than he did. She trusts you. She never trusted him—not after she caught him with my football coach. Shouldn't I tie her up or something?"

  I was starting to realize that Rob was a few shovels shy of a tool shed. Along with homicidal.

  "Well, I am trustworthy. Ask anybody." Stu laughed. "I didn't anticipate having her here. Do you have any duct tape?"

  There was no audible response, but Stu's next words indicated that Rob had shaken his head. "There are some cable ties over there. Those will work for now."

  I was shifted onto my side, and my wrists and ankles were bound together. Though I was tempted to panic, I fought the impulse and kept my eyes shut, taking it all in. Slowly but surely, I was getting the picture. Chad Tobey had discovered his son was the blogger spreading all sorts of lies about him and had gone to one of the show's producers with the information, hoping to keep it quiet. Stu had slipped gelatin into Chad's breakfast knowing that the grill-master chef was allergic. Maybe he'd even been there, forcing him to stay put at gunpoint, instead of lunging for his lifesaving EpiPen. I recalled how I hadn't been able to find Stu that morning during the chaos.

  So Chad's nearest and dearest had stone-cold alibis at the time of his death. But I still didn't understand why Stu was doing all this. He was a world-renowned chef, for the love of Pete. Why would he possibly want to make people sick?

  After leaving me abandoned on the lumpy seat, Rob had moved away, and he and Stu were conversing. We must be in Stu's production van. That's where he'd been leading me when he heard about my plan to out the blogger at the town function. So my wrists were bound behind my back, ankles tethered together. How are you going to get out of this one, Andy Buckland?

  I shifted a little to test the strength of the cable ties, and something sharp jabbed me in the hip. Cracking one eyelid, I risked a quick glance around. The seat I was on was old and ripped up. The thing poking me was probably a spring that had protruded from the fabric. Could I use its sharp edge to rip the cable ties and free myself?

  "No," Stu snapped, voice growing louder. "You can't use the cell to post. Jones has the number, and they'll try to trace it to us if you power it up. In fact, dump it in the lake outside of town after you drop off the delivery."

  The delivery. Was he talking about whatever was supposed to kill half the town's population? I had to stop him, whatever it took. As gradually as I could, I rolled to make it seem like I was shifting naturally in my sleep while my body blocked the loose spring.

  "What about her phone?" Rob asked. "Can't they just trace it to her?"

  "By the time they realize she's missing from the preshow interviews, it'll be too late. Now, what sounds more believable? I can't live with the shame, or no one understands?" Stu asked.

  Neither, I thought. I could live with the shame, even when it wasn't my fault, and Jones understood. I shifted lower, placing my bound wrists against the sharp metal. It wasn't a spring but a piece of the seat that had come through the padding. Slowly, steadily, I began to make a sawing motion, praying Stu and Rob kept their focus right where it was.

  "Just stick to the classic, good-bye cruel world," Rob snorted. "She seems like a drama queen."

  I was really starting to dislike that little punk. What kind of a kid slanders his father's reputation and then endorses someone else killing him? My upset caused the jagged metal to cut into my wrist instead of the cable tie. Holy macaroni, that stung. Now I was going to need a tetanus shot. Stu and his little cohort would pay for this.

  "Now get going, and no more screw ups," Stu snapped. "Not like when you forgot to leave the mushrooms behind."

  "I fixed that, didn't I?" Rob whined.

  "No, I fixed it because I was the one who made the copy of her key while she was out. And it was my idea to stage the break-in so that you could plant the mushrooms. Like I said, people trust me, even when they shouldn't. Now move. That delivery truck isn't going to drop itself off."

  The large metal door slid open again, just as the binding on my wrists snapped. The sound of gravel under boot heels indicated that Rob was doing as instructed. Even with my ankles still bound, I had a chance against Stu. The Napoleon of the culinary world wasn't strong or fast and had a good two decades on me. I just had to choose my moment very carefully. And I had to do it soon because whatever was in that food truck was bad news for Beaverton.

  "I know you're awake," Stu said. "You're probably the worst fake sleeper I've ever seen."

  If the jig was up then I might as well get the answers I needed while stalling for time. Careful to keep my freed wrists out of his line of sight, I struggled t
o a sitting position. "Tell me why. Why are you doing this?"

  I expected anger or laughter, something, but his smug countenance stayed firmly in place. "Why? Andy, do you realize you sound like a whiny five-year-old who doesn't want to go to bed?"

  "You must have a reason," I insisted, surreptitiously planting my feet on the floor. I'd have one shot at standing and lunging for him. If I was off by so much as a fraction of an inch, I'd fall on my face and lose my shot. "It's too much trouble to deal with that kid for no reason. You have money and fame, what more could you want?"

  Stu's lips twitched, and I got an up-close and personal look at the evil inside. "Power. Just the simple power of life and death."

  Well, that certainly fit in with his megalomaniacal tendencies. "So why hire me to discover the blogger then? Why get me involved with your plan at all? What did I ever do to you?"

  He shook his head. "Don't take it personally, Andy. You were just a piece on a chess board. And what better way to keep apprised of an investigation than to hire my own investigator? Your information allowed me to stay one step ahead of you, my sacrificial lamb. The entire time you didn't realize I was leading you to the slaughter. Poetic, don't you think?"

  Smug bastard. "Poison is a coward's weapon." The dizziness was clearing, and I could see that Stu blocked the closed door to his production van. There was plenty of equipment, but nothing large enough to use as a weapon that wasn't bolted to the floorboards. But there was a length of wound-up cable on the floor between us.

  He was busy typing away on my phone but looked up at that. "I have to disagree. Anything can be used as a poison. It all depends on the dosage. Too much water causes a man to drown. Simple household cleaners like ammonia and bleach combined can create toxic fumes. Both apples and stone fruits contain cyanide. If you think about it, the world around us is really trying to kill us off. I'm just helping Mother Nature."

  I struggled to sit up. "So what's the plan then? Mass food poisoning? Chemical weapon?"

  "Sadly, no, this is just a bomb that Rob will load into the trunk of your car. You really shouldn't leave your keys lying around, Andy. Far too trusting." He laughed and shook his head before turning back to the phone.

  "You're insane," I breathed, hoping my reaction covered my feet creeping forward. The toe of my sandal snagged the coil, and I amped up the drama to cover the movement. "To do this to your own show, people you've known and worked with for years?"

  He shrugged, shrugged, as if it didn't matter one bit. "We all have to go sometime." He turned away to check something on his headset. Over his shoulder, I could see the town green on camera. He was filming the entire thing.

  I had more questions, but time was running out. He wasn't watching me, wasn't expecting me to try anything. The man was that confident that his plan would go off without a hitch.

  Leaning forward, I scooped the cable in my right hand and, using my left for balance, launched myself directly at him. Stu squawked in alarm, and my bound feet had me listing to the side, but I managed to wrap my weapon around his throat. His hands flew up, immediately trying to relieve the pressure I'd put on his esophagus. "You know what I really freaking hate, Stu? Being underestimated by arrogant tools like you. I'm a scapegoat, a sacrificial lamb being led to the slaughter, am I? You didn't even pull a gun on me. You're threatening to destroy my town. Of course I'm going to fight back."

  He was turning purple, struggling for air, fighting me for all he was worth. His flailing sent us both off-balance, and we crashed to the floor, but I didn't release my hold. If he hadn't spent the last ten minutes stroking his own ego and subsequently pissing me off, I might not have had the strength to do this.

  Suddenly he slumped, going completely limp, head lolling to the side. I didn't relent, in case he was trying to fake me out. I had no intention of killing him, but a couple minutes without air would see that he was completely out of the way until the cops came to pick his sorry carcass up.

  As soon as I was sure he was unconscious, I rolled toward my fallen cell phone and dialed Lacey's cell. She picked it up on the first ring. "Andee, where have you been?"

  "There's a bomb being put in the trunk of my Mustang. Rob Tobey has it."

  The French accent fell away as she clipped, "I'm on it."

  My next call was to Jones.

  "Andrea? I've been looking for you every—"

  "I'm back by the elementary school, in Stu's van. It was him, but he had help. Get Pops and Aunt Cecily and Kaylee and Clayton and anyone else you can away from the green now." I refrained from saying the word bomb and causing a panicked stampede.

  "What's going on?" he asked.

  "Just do as I say." I stared down at Stu's unconscious form, debating whether or not I should kick him. "I'll explain everything later."

  * * *

  I only had to wait a few minutes before Kyle slid open the door to the van. I spent the entire time sitting on top of the criminal mastermind, in case he decided to wake up before he was safely in handcuffs.

  "What's happening here?" Kyle asked.

  "Not much. Do you have your Swiss Army knife?"

  He extracted it from his back pocket and cut loose the binding on my ankle. I held out a hand, and he helped me up. "Stu was behind everything, with the help of Chad Tobey's son, Rob."

  "We've got the son, red-handed." Kyle pulled Stu's hands behind his back. "You have the right to remain unconscious. I'll read you the rest later."

  "Everyone's okay?" I asked to make sure.

  "They don't even know anything was happening. Nice work."

  "So go ahead," I said, hands on hips. "Read me the riot act. It was my fault he brought his wagonload of crazy to town. Blah blah blah."

  "No," Kyle's eyes were wide. "I mean it. You did good, Andy. How were you supposed to know they were planning something like this?"

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "If you think that you being nice to me all of a sudden will get you off the hook for all the crap you pulled, you have got another think coming, pal."

  "It's okay. I decided that I'm done with law enforcement, and I wasn't going to run for reelection. Might as well just step down a few months early. This job's given me gas."

  "Thanks for sharing," I laughed.

  Kyle shrugged. "Lizzy doesn't want to be married to a cop. And if I'm honest, I've had my fill of protecting and serving. Darryl Brown is running against me, and honestly, he's the better man for the job. You should have that looked at." He gestured to my wrist.

  "Yeah." I scowled down at the man who'd ruined my career, dangled redemption in my face before snatching it away, and now forced me to go get a tetanus shot. "Is it okay if I kick him now that my legs are free?"

  "Technically that would be assault. But what the sheriff doesn't see, the sheriff can't enforce." He turned his back, and I drew my foot back, before walloping Stu in the gut.

  "Okay, now you can take me to the doctor."

  A few hours later, I let myself into the A-frame. It seemed half the town was crammed into the rental, and they all called my name at once.

  "Back up there, folks," Kyle called out. "Give the hero some space."

  "Stop calling me that," I hissed at him. "I'm no hero."

  "Andrea." Jones was by my side in an instant, his gaze assessing. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine. I've been medically cleared for doing nothing." I scanned the room. "What's everybody doing here?"

  "You told me to clear the green, so I did." Jones sounded apologetic. "What happened to the Diced Showdown?"

  "There were some production issues." I'd tell him later, when half of Beaverton wasn't hovering. "Is Kaylee here?"

  "She's out back with your grandfather and Clayton."

  Donna pushed her way to the front, followed by Steven. Her eyes widened at the huge bandage on my wrist and the giant knot on my forehead. "Andy, my God. You look like hell. What happened?"

  "Nothing a really good Italian meal can't cure." I grinned.

  "I will go help Ce
cily," Mimi said. "She's cooking for everyone."

  Well, since they were all here anyway, I might as well speak my piece. "Help me over to the coffee table, Malcolm. I have an announcement to make."

  I stood on the sturdy piece of furniture and called out, "Hey, everybody, can I get your attention for a minute?"

  When they quieted, I continued, "I want to clear the air about something. I, Andy Buckland, have never given anyone a case of food poisoning."

  There were grumbles, but I patted the air to shush them. "Now I know you all saw what happened on Al Dente. But that wasn't me. It was the power-crazy villain who wanted to play God that I used to work for."

  "Whatever you say, Little Bit," someone called from the back of the room. Laughter and then people began talking again.

  I stared uncomprehendingly down at Jones. "They don't believe me. I finally know what happened, and no one believes me."

  Jones helped me down off the table. "Andrea, all these people showed up in town today to support you. They came here when I asked them to because you said that's what we needed to do. So does it really matter what they believe?"

  Yes, damn it. I sighed. "I've been trying to improve my reputation in Beaverton for as long as I remember."

  "Phooey on your reputation," Mavis Humphries said from behind me. "You don't need to go putting on airs with us. We know you. You're one of our own. Ain't nobody in this town ever gonna turn their backs on you."

  There were several murmurs of agreement.

  "But it's the truth," I griped, looking up at Jones. "You believe me, right?"

  "I always have," he said and lifted my undamaged hand to his lips. "And I always will."

  "Everyone," a familiar Sicilian voice called out. The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea for Moses. "The food is ready."

  This evoked a much stronger reaction as the crush of people surged toward the dining room table.

  "I guess," I said, looking around at the happy faces that had stood by me through thick and thin, "that things could be worse."