"Yeah, just don't go spreading this around town. And tell Donna I said the same thing. Preliminary evidence indicates it wasn't an accident. Further inspection is needed, but by the looks of things, it was arson. Someone meant to burn the florist shop to the ground."
Mushroom Risotto
You'll need:
1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
1 pint baby bella mushrooms, chopped small
1 quart chicken broth
1/2 cup white wine
1 medium shallot, diced
3 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1/4 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese
Heat the stock and mushrooms to a boil to cook the mushrooms, and then lower the heat so that the stock stays hot. In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, heat the oil and 1 tablespoon of butter over medium heat. When the butter has melted, add the diced shallot. Sauté for 2 to 3 minutes or until it is slightly translucent.
Add the rice to the pot, and stir it briskly with a wooden spoon so that the grains are coated with the oil and melted butter. Sauté for another minute, but don't let the rice turn brown. Add the wine, and cook while stirring, until the liquid is fully absorbed.
Add a ladle of hot chicken broth to the rice, and stir until the liquid is fully absorbed. When the rice appears almost dry, add another ladle of stock, and repeat the process. Continue adding ladles of hot stock and stirring the rice while the liquid is absorbed.
Continue adding stock, a ladle at a time, for 20 to 30 minutes or until the grains are tender but still firm to the bite, without being crunchy. If you run out of stock and the risotto still isn't done, you can finish the cooking using hot water. Just add the water as you did with the stock, a ladle at a time, stirring while it's absorbed.
Stir in the remaining 2 tablespoons butter and the Parmesan cheese, and season to taste with sea salt.
**Andy's note: It's important to stir constantly, especially while the hot stock gets absorbed, to prevent scorching. Add the next ladle as soon as the rice is almost dry. As it cooks, you'll see that the rice will take on a creamy consistency as it begins to release its natural starches.
CHAPTER THREE
"Arson?" Pops scowled as he repeated the word. He was in the small office in the Bowtie Angel, having stopped in to do the bookkeeping for the week. "But why would anyone want to burn down a florist's shop?"
I'd asked Donna's husband the same thing. "The most likely reason is for insurance purposes. You did the books for Mrs. Bradford, right?"
My grandfather's expression turned even darker. "Now hold on just a minute there, Andy girl. Are you saying that Mrs. B would burn down her own business, putting our place and everyone on the street at risk?"
"No, I'm just asking a question. Don't get your dander up, Pops." The southern colloquialisms flowed after I spent any time talking with Pops, who couldn't seem to speak without an aphorism or two tossed in like radishes in a salad.
He harrumphed at me and folded his arms over his flannel-covered chest. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, Pops wore flannel, even changed into it after Mass on Sundays. What was it with men and the limited wardrobe? "So, what was the question again?"
Even though the office door was closed and there was no way anyone out front could hear us, I lowered my voice. "Was the florist shop struggling financially?"
Pops shook his head. "No, in fact Mrs. B is one of the savviest businesswomen this town has ever seen. She got on board with online ordering before most of the townsfolk had computers, and she does steady business. She wasn't getting rich off the place, but she turned a tidy profit every year."
"Was she getting ready to retire?"
"Nah, she's like your Aunt Cecily and me. She'll work 'til she's dead."
I drummed my fingers against the desk. "Well, I'm out of ideas. It doesn't look like anyone profited from that fire. So who set it and why?"
Pops shrugged. "Maybe just a vagrant passing through."
I barely stifled an eye roll. "There aren't any vagrants in Beaverton, Pops. We don't even have a seedy part of town. Beaverton—don't blink, or you'll miss it."
"Not if Mayor Randal has his way. You know he had the gall to propose we open up to franchises again at last night's meeting? His daddy is rolling in his grave at the thought of a Starbucks in this town."
If it had been anybody else, I would have told him to stop talking dirty, but since it was my grandfather, I just said, "Starbucks are good, Pops. Great coffee, fast."
Pops's spidery eyebrows drew together. "We make a perfectly good pot of coffee at home, and it don't cost us no four dollars, neither. What's wrong about that?"
I sighed. There was no use trying to drag Pops into the twenty-first century. He was part of the old guard, and if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for the likes of everyone else.
"I have to get back to the kitchen. Kaylee will be here soon."
Pops grinned at the mention of his great-granddaughter. "She sure is a pip. Last night at dinner she told the funniest story about her old house and how it was supposedly haunted by a cross-dressing ghost. Had us all in stitches. She reminds me of her mama at that same age."
I bit my lip. When I'd been Kaylee's age, my own mother had been on the verge of committing suicide. It had been a dark and twisted point in my life, knowing something wasn't right but not sure what to do about it. Even before her death, my mother had a way of making me feel as though I constantly disappointed her. I'm sure Dr. Phil would have a field day with my issues, but all I said to Pops was, "Glad you had fun."
I returned to the kitchen, where Mimi was taking the test batch of risotto balls from the pan. I moved over to inspect them. "Looking good."
Aunt Cecily stood at the stovetop, heating a batch of red sauce. Her brows drew together, but she said nothing about our latest endeavor. Much like Pops, Aunt Cecily had to be dragged kicking and screaming into anything she considered progressive. If she had her way, we'd have a herd of goats tethered out back for making our own cheese.
I moved toward the sink to tackle the mound of dishes that had piled up. Dishwashing would help me compose myself before my daughter arrived. Kaylee had opened up to Pops and Aunt Cecily better than she had to either Kyle or me yet. It made sense, as they were also her family, but they hadn't been responsible for her being put up for adoption.
After a great deal of discussion, Kaylee's mom, Kyle, and I had decided to keep her relationship to us under wraps. She'd lost her adoptive father a few months ago and would have a hard enough time transitioning to a brand new life in Beaverton. Outside of our inner circles, which included Lizzy, Jones, Kyle's parents, Donna, and Mimi, no one else knew that she was our biological daughter. I hadn't wanted town gossip to upset her or interfere with the very delicate getting to know each other stage. I'd asked her to work in the pasta shop after school since it was such a big part of my life and the perfect cover for our ruse.
Though she'd seemed relieved that not everyone would know the sordid details of her life, she'd been a little cold with me the last two times I'd seen her. I thought she liked spending time with me, but she clammed up if I asked anything too personal. I'd spoken to her mother, wondering if Kaylee resented my choices or blamed Kyle for not coming after her. All she'd said was that Kaylee kept her own council about it, that she'd always been private, and there was nothing that would move her to open up until she was good and ready.
Chip off the old Rossetti block. All the women in my grandmother's family had two things in common—a massive stubborn streak and a penchant for Italian cooking. I was hoping the latter would help break the ice that had formed between us and help counteract the stalemate.
The back door opened and Kaylee came in, pink-and-black zebra-striped backpack slung over one shoulder. I smiled in greeting and reached for a dish towel. "Hey, I'm glad you're here."
She nodded, accepting my words and looked around the cluttered work space. "What should I do?"
"Le
t's stow your backpack and coat in the office, and then I'll show you around. Do you like Italian food?" Oddly, I hadn't thought to ask that ahead of time.
She shrugged. "It's okay."
Not a promising start. To my surprise, she went right to Aunt Cecily and kissed her on the cheek. Aunt Cecily's customary scowl lifted, and she nodded in approval as she murmured a greeting in Italian.
The office was empty, so I figured Pops must have gone out through the front. Though he'd spent years working a desk, the man didn't sit still for very long, and it wasn't unusual for him to shoot the breeze with whoever stopped in for a bite. "You can leave your stuff in here."
Kaylee nodded and obediently set her bag down. "Kind of small."
"It serves its purpose. Pops doesn't need much room to do the books. Half the time he takes the paperwork home with him."
Kaylee's blue-eyed gaze roved the small space. "So this is really a family business?"
I nodded, proud of our legacy. "Three generations. Well, four, now that you're here."
She looked at me directly for the first time. "Where's your mom?"
"She died." Things were too uneasy between us to dig up the unpleasant details.
She looked away. "Like my dad."
Her adoptive father had been killed in a car accident a few months ago. From the little I'd been able to piece together, he'd been the parent closest to Kaylee. "I'm sorry about that. He was a good guy."
Emotion flashed across her face, and I took half a step back at the anger she put on full display. "You didn't know him."
Crap, I hadn't wanted to upset her. "You're right. I didn't."
She looked at her boots. "He wasn't my real dad anyway."
I wanted to tell her that biology didn't change anything. I was sure the father she'd known had loved her, but her mood was so volatile, and I was afraid of overbalancing the applecart. Instead of addressing her comment, I cleared my throat and took a page from Aunt Cecily's book. "Time to make the pasta."
* * *
"You look all done in, Andrea," Jones said when he came into the pasta shop a few hours later. "Is something amiss?"
"Nothing Shakespeare couldn't turn into a stellar play." I sighed and put the last of the uncooked pasta into a Tupperware container.
"Kaylee?" my insightful boyfriend asked.
"Yeah." I sighed. The few hours she'd been at the Bowtie Angel had been productive, at least in terms of business. The town had congregated to talk about the fire and to come see the new girl. After I was sure she could handle it, I left her out front to talk with the ladies from the Rotary Club and clear tables. My presence had grated on her though, so I'd sent Mimi out front to help her.
"What can I do?" Jones asked now.
Instinctively, I knew he wasn't talking about scrubbing the sink full of pots. "I don't think there's anything to be done right now. She's wary around me, and her emotions are all over the place."
"She's a teenage girl," Jones pointed out.
"She's good at it." I sighed and went to the sink. "It'll come in time. Hopefully."
"How did the risotto balls do?"
That was the one bright spot to the afternoon. Though I couldn't bring in already made food to sell in the restaurant, I'd sent some home as free samples with a few family friends. "Really well, actually. Even Aunt Cecily liked them. And you know she doesn't like anything."
"That's overstating things a bit." Jones grinned. "Are there any left?"
"The bag on the counter is for you."
Jones peeked inside. "Smells divine. You're truly a visionary, Andrea."
"Comments like that will definitely get you laid tonight," I said just as his sister pushed open the door from the kitchen.
"Andy," she said to me in a cool voice.
"Lizzy," I answered in what someone who didn't know me might have considered a mild tone. Though I wanted to tell her that this area was for employees only, I was trying to get along with her, for Jones's sake. Not to mention as Kyle's significant other, she had every opportunity to badmouth me to Kaylee if she was so inclined. The last thing the relationship between Kaylee and me needed was an assist from my high school nemesis. So I took out my irritation on a particularly stubborn pot instead.
Lizzy turned away, pretending I didn't exist. "Malcolm, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Let's go out back." There was a small patio behind the pasta shop, which Aunt Cecily had used as her private garden when she lived here.
I waited to the count of ten, trying to convince myself that I should give them their privacy. Jones would tell me anything important, right?
Maybe, but if I could leave it to chance, I wouldn't be a Rossetti.
So I sneaked into the ladies' room, crept into the handicapped stall, put one foot on the toilet seat, the other on the bar, cracked open the window, and shamelessly eavesdropped.
At first I couldn't hear much over my own pounding heartbeat. They weren't directly below the window and spoke in normal conversational tones, which didn't carry well. I was about to give up, when a familiar name froze me to the spot.
"When I saw Rochelle earlier…" Jones said, the rest too low for me to pick up.
He had? Where? And when? And how the hell come he hadn't told me he was going to see his ex, the woman he'd loved enough to marry?
Cripes, it was true what they said about eavesdropping—you never heard anything you wanted to hear.
"Are you in here, Andy?" Mimi's voice called from the bathroom door. I made to get down, and my sneakered foot went right into the toilet.
Much cussing ensued, but I did it quietly so as not to alert Jones and Lizzy. "Be out in a second," I called to Mimi.
If she wondered what the splashing was about, she didn't comment. Smart woman. I sighed as I looked at my soggy pants leg and dripping sneaker. Put a whole new spin on the term "I put my foot in it this time."
Holding my leg under the power dryer, I did the best I could to de-saturate myself, wondering the entire time if Jones was planning to tell me about the meeting with his ex. It must have been accidental. Like he bumped into her at the grocery store or something. Except he never went to the grocery store without me. Post office maybe? Nah, if he had, someone would have mentioned it to me. Had she gone to the house? My molars ground together at the thought of Rochelle at our house, even if Lizzy's name was on the deed. If she had been in our living space, he damn well better tell me.
Another possibility occurred, one I didn't want to consider but wouldn't leave my mind. What if he'd sought her out? Went to her office or met her at a café? Not in Beaverton, because after almost a year in town, everyone would recognize him on sight and there would have been a stampede on Main Street as the gossipmongers fought to be the first to tell me that Jones was out with another woman. No, he was too smart for that.
Why was she here? Maybe she wanted to hire Jones as a PI? Or it could be there was some unfinished business from their relationship, some joint bank account or distribution of furniture. Custody of a dog, some simple explanation. But if that was the case, why wouldn't he tell me?
You're being unreasonable, I told myself. What could he have to say to her anyway? Every time her name came up, he looked away, obviously ashamed of the way she'd fooled him. I frowned, a wad of paper towels clutched in my fist. At least, that had been my impression of why he'd never let me see his face. A horrible possibility crossed my mind, one that actually caused me physical pain.
What if Malcolm Jones was still in love with his ex? And what if she wanted him back?
Fried Risotto Balls
You'll need:
1 batch your favorite risotto, cooled overnight
4 oz fontina cheese, grated
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs
3 cups Italian-style bread crumbs
Vegetable oil for frying
Take pinches of the cheese, and shape into small balls for the filling. Beat eggs with a tablespoon of milk and set aside.
Take a small handful of rice, and shape into a shallow cup in the palm of your hand. Place one of the cheese balls in the center of the rice, then enclose the rice around the cheese, and roll into round balls. Set out three shallow bowls, one with flour, one with the egg mixture, and one with the bread crumbs.
First roll the balls in the flour, then coat with the egg mixture before rolling in bread crumbs. Set the coated rice balls on a baking sheet when they are completed.
Heat the oil in a large pot or deep skillet.
Carefully slip 3 to 4 balls into the hot oil at a time, and fry until golden brown. Drain on absorbent towels, and keep warm until you are ready to serve.
Top with a fresh basil and tomato sauce and serve hot.
**Andy's note: Hands down one of my all-time favorite appetizers. It's a decent amount of work, then again, everything worth doing usually is.
CHAPTER FOUR
I'm not in the habit of hiding my emotions. Some women can continue to function when something's on their minds, but I don't happen to be one of them. Anxiety and frustration leaks into almost everything I do and spills over into every other aspect of my life until it consumes me. Maybe it's my family heritage or just my own unique emotional flavor profile, but when I'm upset, everyone knows it.
Which was why, when Jones abandoned me for his darkroom yet again after we got home, I flipped through the television channels with an untouched glass of wine, wondering what the best way was to bring up his seeing his ex.
Roofus rolled to his side with a heartfelt groan, and I reached down to scratch his lumpy head. "I hear you, buddy. It's just been one of those days."
I channel surfed for half an hour, but nothing held my interest. Damn it, why wasn't Jones sitting next to me on the couch, rubbing my feet and professing his undying love? Why didn't he know I was upset?
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 3