"I'm sure Mimi just misplaced it," Jones said.
I wasn't nearly so sanguine. "She only just let Mimi see it for the first time last month, when she was down with the flu and we had that big Black Friday rush. Judging from Mimi's reaction this afternoon, she knew the significance of that. I'm sort of afraid she had it too close to a burner or something."
Jones wiped his bowl with one of the fresh rolls I'd brought home from the pasta shop and then leaned back in his chair. "Well, the next step is clear."
I nodded, our minds syncing up in total agreement. "We have to talk to Mimi."
Jones nodded. Then he rose and held out his hand, eyes sparkling. "First thing tomorrow."
Oh, how I loved this man.
CHAPTER TWO
Jones and I let ourselves into the pasta shop first thing the next morning. True to form, Mimi was already up and chopping veggies. Her eyes were red from crying.
"Give me a few with her first," I whispered to Jones.
He nodded. "I'll run across the street and get us coffee."
I waited until the door shut behind him before I approached our sous-chef. Mimi was beautiful and fragile looking, almost like a Japanese animation character brought to life, except she was Chinese and was a tireless worker. Eventually she wanted to be a pastry chef, but for now she worked for us to keep her visa legal.
"Good morning." I approached her cautiously, like I would a wounded animal.
"Andy, I am so, so sorry," she sniffled.
Instead of setting into work, I pulled her over to a stool and sat down beside her. "Tell me what happened. Did the book get destroyed somehow?"
Her eyes rounded. "No, nothing like that."
Thank the powers that be. "Okay, so what exactly happened?"
She ducked her head until she was staring at her shoes. "I left it in the restaurant."
"Here?" Yeesh, Aunt Cecily wouldn't like it that Mimi had taken the book out of the kitchen, never mind out into public view. No wonder she'd been scared.
She nodded. "Yes, and then the phone rang up in my apartment. I was waiting for Cho to call."
Cho was her significant other, a handsome young chef she'd met online. "Okay, so this was after hours?"
"Yesterday morning, before we opened," she confirmed. "When I came back, the book had disappeared."
"What time?" I asked her.
"About ten to seven. I always get up early and study the recipes. I used to sit in the kitchen, but the booths are so much more comfortable, and I thought since the restaurant was closed it would be all right."
I hadn't known that she studied the recipes. Mimi had a work ethic that made me look like a layabout. "Okay, did anyone else know you got up that early? Did you leave either of the doors unlocked?"
Mimi lived in the small attic apartment over the pasta shop. Her brow crinkled as she thought about it. "No one knew. I'm not sure about the doors. I usually unlock the back door for you, but the front was locked, and the sign flipped to Closed."
"Right, and there isn't a huge rush for garlic parmesan pasta at seven a.m. Okay. So how long were you on the phone with Cho?"
"About ten minutes. He had an early day, too."
I bit my lip. Ten minutes wasn't much time for someone to just happen by, see a dusty old book lying on a table, decide to break in, and steal it. It wasn't valuable, other than sentimentally at least. Other than one or two unique recipes, most of the dishes we made were variations on recipes that could be found online.
Jones pushed through the back door, black jacket and wet hair clinging to him attractively. I rose and plucked a dish towel from the clean drawer, snagging the cardboard container of to-go coffee cups. "My hero."
Mimi smiled and accepted a cup, but her face slid back into worry mode much too soon. "I'm so sorry, Andy."
I patted her hand. "Hey, have a little faith. It is the season for miracles after all. Now we better get to work before Aunt Cecily comes in and finds us lounging around."
Mimi nodded and took her cup back to her work station. I rose, and Jones followed me over to the pantry door.
"Crap," I said and then relayed what Mimi had told me.
Jones nodded thoughtfully. "It doesn't sound like a crime of opportunity, more like someone knew Mimi's schedule and waited for their chance."
In a previous life, Jones had been a private investigator, though he'd mostly given that up to focus on his professional photography.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose to relieve the tension headache building. "Why though? The book isn't valuable outside of the family."
"It seems more of a vengeance thing. Does your aunt have any enemies?"
I snorted. "You mean other than everyone who's ever met her?"
"I'm serious, Andrea."
"So am I! She's the terror of Beaverton and has been since she landed here. She threatened to give the whole town the Evil Eye. I'd say that speaks to motive."
"Yes, but that was after the book went missing. She may be a little unorthodox, but people hold her in great esteem. She's been feeding them for more than fifty years and is an active member of her church."
He had a point. I collected the containers housing the fresh pasta and carried them to the counter. "Okay, so I really can't think of anyone…" I trailed off as a thought occurred to me. "Mavis Humphries."
"Who?" Jones asked.
"She's an old busybody, works for the post office. She had her sights set on Pops before he and Aunt Cecily went public with their relationship. I overheard her saying some pretty rude stuff at the last town meeting about our family. You know, a few incest allusions, crap like that. Never mind that they aren't related by blood."
"What about opportunity?" Jones asked.
"I know for a fact she and her gaggle of crones go power walking through town early in the morning. I almost ran over her jaywalking hide last week. If she'd seen Mimi sitting in the restaurant she might have figured out what she had and then waited for her chance."
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Jones quoted, his expression grim. "That doesn't bode well for the book's survival."
"We need to go talk to her. If we leave now I bet we can catch them on Green Street." I was halfway to the door when Jones caught my arm.
"Let me go. You have work to do here."
He was right. We were catering a big holiday extravaganza that night at the community center. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "I'll get the truth out of her."
"Just don't get arrested," I warned him. "I spent all my money on your Christmas present, so there's nothing left over for bail."
"I'll keep that in mind." His tone was dry, but he gave me a sweet kiss before he left on his mission.
* * *
Between our regular workload and the party, Mimi and I spent the morning working our butts off. Aunt Cecily didn't show up, which was highly unusual for her. Fearing she might have confronted Mavis herself and was currently sitting in county lockup, I bit the bullet and moseyed over to Kyle's lunch table. In addition to being my dreaded ex, he was also the local sheriff, which placed him squarely in the category of necessary evil.
"Hey, little bit!" Kyle's lunch companion, Billy Ray Denton greeted me.
"Billy Ray, you know I hate that nickname."
"Why?" Billy Ray asked, visibly surprised.
I rolled my eyes. "Because your accent is so thick, and it sounds like you're calling me 'little shit.'"
Both he and Kyle laughed, and I sighed, accepting that you couldn't teach an old hound dog new verbiage.
"The place looks great, Andy." Kyle waved to the frosty Christmas cling-ons I'd pasted inside the glass cases and on the clear roof of the pasta bar. Twinkle lights were strung from the ceiling in big scallops and wrapped around the poles. Even the ugly ceramic angel flying over our front door had a festive red bow in her spaghetti yellow hair.
"Thanks. Business has been good, what with Aunt Cecily no longer in charge of public relations."
Both
the guys laughed, and Billy Bob excused himself to go back for round two on the buffet line.
"So Andy, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about." Kyle waved at Billy's vacated side of the table.
I'd been collecting the dishes, but the expression on Kyle's face had me setting them back down. "Uh-oh."
"It's not bad."
"Kyle," I said, not uncaringly. "Everything we ever discuss is bad. I don't like Lizzy, and you can't appreciate Jones. I think your parents suck, they hate me, and you're scared witless of my grandfather."
"He pulled a shotgun on me!"
"You gave him every reason to, what with the knocking up his granddaughter and all."
Kyle leaned back against the booth and closed his eyes. "This isn't going well. Nothing ever goes the way I plan with you."
"And now you see why I turned down your marriage proposal. We would have killed each other." I studied the face of the man I'd once loved, looking for whatever it had been that had made my heart pound and made me ignore my typically stellar judgment. He was still good-looking, with sandy blond hair and blue-green eyes. Kind, compassionate eyes. But there was no spark between us anymore. All I saw was a handsome and tired looking-man who happened to be the father of my child. All my romantic feelings were firmly settled on Malcolm Jones.
"As much fun as this has been, I should get back to work." I made to slide out of the booth, but Kyle gripped my arm.
His gaze focused on me, intent in a way I'd never seen them. "I want to meet her."
Every cell in my body froze. I didn't need to ask what he was talking about. I knew, and an oil slick of remorse coated my insides. "You can't."
"I'm her father, Andy."
"It was a closed adoption, Kyle. You can't approach Kaylee unless her parents approach you first."
Kyle shook his head, his signature stubbornness rising to the fore. "I never signed away my rights."
We were getting looks from every other patron in the pasta shop. As much as I didn't want to have this conversation, I really didn't want to have it in public. It would be all over town before I could say Nutcracker. "Come on."
Taking Kyle by the hand, I led him into the kitchen. "Mimi, can you go clear the front room, please?"
Mimi nodded and set down the paring knife before pushing back into the main room.
"Kyle, listen to me. I found her the best home a girl could hope for. Great parents, a terrific start to her future. If she comes looking for you that's one thing, but you can't just swoop in and screw her up. She might not even know she's adopted."
He put his hands on the counter and leaned toward me. "You sound like Lizzy."
"Well color me shocked, but for once Lizzy and I agree."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You didn't give me a say in any of it. I wanted her, Andy. I wanted you too, and you just left."
Why was he dragging all this ancient history out of the muck now? It must be the holidays, when normal easygoing people turned maudlin. "I know. I'm not sorry for it, Kyle. As much as I wronged you, as much as I wanted to have her to myself, I am not sorry I gave her up. Don't you want her to be happy?"
"Of course I do. More than anything."
"Okay. Well, if she's anything like me, she won't be happy here. Not when everyone is gossiping about her, and about us. Being a teenager is tough enough, but having everyone whisper about you—the looks, the little snide comments—it's unbearable at times. Trust me on this. "
He didn't say anything, just pushed his way out of the kitchen.
Angry and frustrated, I banged pots and pans with a vengeance. The racket drowned out Bing's bass baritone singing "White Christmas" but not my own thoughts. When Mimi tentatively suggested I take a break, I snagged my coat and exited through the back door.
Dozens of potted poinsettias were on display at the florists, and candy canes and snowmen hung from every lamppost. The rain had subsided into a drizzle, but a cold wind kept pushing my hood back from my face. Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself, I turned off of Main Street and onto Oak Summit Drive, past the elementary school, to the playground behind it. I sat on a swing and stared at all of the snowflake doily art projects covered in glue and glitter, proudly displayed. School was closed for the holidays, all the kids at home driving their parents up a freaking wall with their pre-Santa jitters. I wondered what my daughter wanted for Christmas.
A tear slid down my cheek. Damn Kyle straight to hell. Why did he have to go poking at this old wound? A wound that never healed more than a little and was still tender and raw and oh, so painful. A wound I kept covered, hidden.
The tears fell, mixing with the light drizzle.
An unknown amount of time later I heard gravel crunch under tires. Without looking up, I knew it was Jones. His super Spidey senses must have alerted him to a female in peril, and here he was all in black and ready to save the day.
"Kyle wants to find her." I wiped my eyes as I spoke. "I don't know what to say to him, to convince him that he's making a mistake."
Jones didn't say anything else, just pulled me into his embrace. The fact that I let him showed just how comfortable I'd become with him. I didn't make a habit of leaning on other people, especially not men.
"Do you think I'm wrong?" I asked Jones.
He pushed my damp hair out of my eyes and smiled down at me. "I think I know better than to ever tell a woman she's wrong. Especially about something that matters to her."
"He's driving me nuts with this. I'm terrified he's going to screw up Kaylee's life." I shook my head hard, as though I could free the swirling vortex of thoughts. "I can't think about this anymore. Let's talk about something else. Anything else."
"In the SUV. The rain is picking up again. And you're already soaked to your skin."
I let him lead me to the idling vehicle. The interior smelled of leather and Jones. "Do you need to get back to work?"
I checked the time on the dash. "The lunch rush will be over by now. I have a few before I need to get back for the catering gig tonight. Why?"
Jones backed out of the elementary school parking lot and onto Oak Summit. "I thought we could do a little sleuthing."
CHAPTER THREE
Mavis Humphries was a widow who lived with her adult son, Peter. Peter was something of a recluse, though the Beaverton gossip mill speculated that he was some sort of internet start-up guru and he had more money than the New York Yankees squirreled away in offshore accounts. On the drive to Cherry Blossom Ave., I filled Jones in.
"We both know how off the mark gossip can be," he said.
"Right. Plus, the way I figure it, any man with money would not choose to live with Mavis the Mouth. You could hire a cook and housekeeper for a lot less grief than she gives anyone she can corner."
After the death of Peter's father, Mavis had bought one of the newer cookie cutter houses in one of the subdivisions that had sprung up during the peak of the real estate boom. Since North Carolina failed to deliver on the promises of being the new Florida, many of the prefabs were back on the market and even up for rent. I knew because Donna bitched about it constantly.
Mavis's ranch home was blue with red shutters and sat at the mouth of a quiet cul-de-sac. It was the only house on the street adorned with Christmas decorations. A giant Frosty lay deflated on the postage stamp size front yard, looking like the victim of a heinous crime. The house was covered from chimney to foundation in strands of lights which probably looked terrific at night but miserable in the middle of the day. Her nativity scene was the worst, plastic and bleached out by the strong Carolina sun with an obvious crack running right through the head of the baby Jesus. Jones parked under a leafless dogwood across the street, and we stared at the sad little structure.
"It looks like the place where Christmas goes to die," I muttered. "I'd bet this stuff has been sitting out since last year."
"So how do we get in to look for signs of the book?" he asked.
"Let's try knocking." I hopped down to the gr
ound and strode across the street.
I vaguely recalled Peter from several years ago. He was painfully shy, though he'd come into the pasta shop a time or two, always alone. I'd done my best to strike up a conversation with him, but the minute Kyle and I had gone public with our relationship, I'd only had eyes for him.
Jones cast me a sidelong glance and then rang the doorbell. "I hope you know what you're doing, Andrea."
"That would be a nice change of pace," I mumbled, just as the red door opened about an inch. Through the crack I saw a bloodshot eyeball and several days' worth of beard growth. Peter was doing his level best to live up to the crazy recluse stereotype.
"Hi, Peter," I said as cheerfully as I could manage. Cheery didn't come naturally to me, but considering it was the season, I made a stab at it. "Andy Buckland. Do you remember me?"
"Ya huh." The eye stayed fixed on me. "I saw you kill all those people on TV."
Jones made a strangled sound even as my faux smile flash-froze on my face. "It was mild food poisoning. No one died." Had everyone in town seen my disastrous television debut?
"That's not what my mom said." Peter's attention shifted to Jones. "Who is he?"
"Malcolm Jones. He's Lizzy Tillman's brother."
"I'm actually thinking of buying the house across the street." Jones pointed. "Andrea asked your mother if we could look around your house, get a feel for the neighborhood. Do you mind if we come in?"
The eye flitted from Jones to me and back again. Obviously Peter did mind, only he didn't know how to refuse us if his mother had granted her permission. "Just for a minute."
The door shut, and we heard the distinct sound of a chain being unlatched. Then it opened again, just wide enough to admit us.
"Oh, holy macaroni," I breathed. The house was stockpiled full of stuff. Junk as far as the eye could see. A plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner, but instead of ornaments and garland, it was festooned with socks and underwear and topped with what looked like a girdle. Clothes baskets overflowed with magazines, newspapers, and mail. The floor was littered with prepackaged food wrappers, string, rubber bands, and various other flotsam I couldn't identify.
Christmas Al Dente Page 2
