Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Not wanting to hover, I turned my back on Theo and started peeling the pile of potatoes I'd left out to make gnocchi. Jones had never had my gnocchi before, and I planned on bringing him some, along with an apology for last night. And if that didn't win him over, at least he couldn't curse me out with his mouth full.

  There was a clatter from the walk-in as if Theo had dropped his clipboard. "Is everything all right in there?"

  No answer.

  Frowning, I set my peeler aside and circumnavigated the prep station. The health inspector's hefty back blocked most of the walk-in, and he stood stock still, his posture ramrod straight. "Theo? What's wrong?"

  He pointed, and I looked down. All thoughts of the inspection left my head as I saw the sexy high-heeled black boots sticking out from under a giant sack of flour. Familiar boots.

  I moved around Theo, praying I was wrong. That couldn't be Rochelle in my walk-in. It couldn't, no way.

  It was though. Jones's ex lay sprawled, her wrists bound and a hole gaping in the middle of her frozen forehead.

  Cheesy Gnocchi

  You'll need:

  5 pounds of potatoes

  5 cups all-purpose flour, plus 1 cup for working dough

  1 cup ricotta

  3 cups fresh grated Parmesan

  2 eggs

  1 tablespoon sea salt

  1 teaspoon white pepper

  Prepare potatoes as you would for mashed potatoes. Use a ricer for a more even consistency. Set aside to cool and drain. Pour 5 cups of flour on a clean dry work surface. Make a well in the center, and add the potato mash. Break eggs in a bowl with cheeses and salt, and mix. Add to the center of the potato. Slowly incorporate flour by mounding over potato and egg mixture. Use only what flour is absorbed by the potato mixture. You may have some left over.

  Knead dough, adding flour if necessary to hold its shape. Cut dough into 10 equally sized pieces 4 inches long. Roll each piece, one at a time, into thin rope and cut into 1 1/2-inch pieces with a dough cutter or flat-edged knife. Cook within 45 minutes in salted boiling water for approximately 5 minutes or until gnocchi floats to the top of the pot. Toss, and serve with your favorite sauce.

  **Andy's note: Be sure you don't overwork the dough. Tough dough means tough gnocchi. If you cheat and buy pre-made gnocchi, I promise I won't tell a soul.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kyle was the first to respond to my 9-1-1 call. He was through the door within two minutes, ushering Theo and me out of the kitchen to preserve the integrity of the crime scene.

  Dear sweet baby Jesus, my walk-in was a crime scene! "I feel dizzy," I murmured to no one in particular.

  "Sit down." Kyle urged me into a booth. "Where's Mimi?"

  The question took several moments to register and even longer for me to respond. Rochelle was dead in my walk-in. Dead. I'd talk to her less than forty-eight hours ago, and she was dead. "I let her go early."

  "Anybody else here? Eugene or Cecily?"

  I shook my head.

  "How about Jones?"

  "I haven't seen him since last night." Oh god, the phone call. That had been Rochelle's scream over the phone. There was no way I couldn't tell Kyle about that, not after finding Rochelle's body.

  My final warning.

  The room started to spin. I blinked, then put my head between my knees, trying to slow my racing pulse.

  When I looked up again, more uniformed men and women filled the room, some in khaki and others in blue. The Bowtie Angel was technically within the city limits of Beaverton, so the city police had picked up the case. But between the arsonist and now a murder, Police Chief Leroy Fontaine was probably glad for the assist from the sheriff's office.

  Kyle had turned away to talk to one of the city police officers, and I stared unseeingly out the window. A crowd had gathered in front of the pasta shop for the second time that week, drawn like flies to a cow pie. And that's just what my business was becoming, a cow pie.

  How had it happened? I knew for an absolute fact that Rochelle had not been inside the walk-in that morning. She had to have been dumped there—no, planted there—for me to find. And it had to have been done sometime in the last hour, sometime since Mimi had left. Jones was right—the killer had been watching me, waiting for his chance to deliver the final part of his grisly message.

  "Malcolm Jones," Kyle said to a deputy I didn't recognize. She was stall and stocky with close-cropped blonde hair and an expression that looked as though she ate nails for breakfast. She nodded as Kyle uttered, "Find him."

  "I'm on it." The blonde bruiser nodded and turned away.

  Good, I wanted Jones here with me, to feel his strong arms around me, his heat seeping into me, especially because I couldn't shake off the chill of the walk-in.

  The phone in my pocket started vibrating like it meant business. I ignored it, staring back out the window, trying desperately to make sense of it all.

  Who had killed Rochelle? Had it been the arsonist? Or was more than one sociopath lurking around Beaverton?

  "Come with me." Kyle put a hand under my elbow and urged me to my feet.

  "Where are we going?" I asked, still dazed.

  "To my office."

  "I thought you were getting Jones? Shouldn't we wait for him here?" The phone went off again.

  Kyle gave me a patient look. "Andy, that's his ex in there."

  "Yeah, and…"

  "Most homicides involving women are committed by their husbands or boyfriends. Jones is wanted for questioning."

  I blinked as reality snapped back into focus with a vengeance. "You can't be serious."

  But he was—I could see it from the set of his jaw. "Let me put you out in the car."

  Like I was an unruly dog? "Don't forget to crack a window," I snapped.

  He ignored my venom, ushering me out the front door. I heard people calling my name, but the roar of voices was too much for me to process.

  Kyle opened the rear door of his official vehicle, a tan-and-black mini-SUV. It was much less roomy than Jones's luxury model, but it had been equipped with the standard mesh cage separating the backseat from the front. I got in without any further protesting, resolved to give him an earful once we had a little more privacy. He shut the door and then circled around to the front.

  "Hey!" I heard one voice call out. My heart deflated as I saw Kaylee push her way through the crowd. I didn't want her to witness her father carting her mother off to the station, even if it was only to answer questions.

  Kyle pulled our daughter aside, pulling her close so their conversation wasn't overheard. I could see the thin, mousy form of her adoptive mother right behind her, big brown eyes filled with worry. Dear god, her adoptive mother was probably mentally packing up their rental, preparing to take Kaylee away from Beaverton as quickly as possible. I wouldn't blame her if she did.

  The phone buzzed for the third time. Whoever was calling me was insistent. Though it took something resembling an amateur contortionist's act, I managed to get the phone out of my back pocket. It wasn't until I was looking down at the unfamiliar display that I remembered. Jones had my phone, and I had his.

  My thoughts were moving at the speed of light. Should I give the phone to Kyle? Well, I had to. They would trace it eventually and find out that I had it. But I didn't have to tell them that Jones had my cell.

  Though it might be interfering with a police investigation or obstruction of justice, I made up my mind then and there that—no, I would not help Kyle haul Jones in for questioning, at least not yet. Kyle had an agenda when it came to my boyfriend, and he couldn't be trusted as an unbiased investigator. I'd promised to buy Jones time to look into the phone call, and so help me, that was exactly what I intended to do.

  Outside the vehicle, Kaylee's expression hardened. She cast a look of disgust at Kyle and then at the car, presumably at me. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her everything would be all right, the way Nana had done for me after my mother's death.

  Kyle said something
else and turned away. Kaylee rolled her eyes, and I smiled a little in spite of the circumstances. That was such a "me" gesture, especially when dealing with Kyle.

  The sheriff climbed behind the wheel.

  "Hey, I forgot to mention, Jones doesn't have his phone. I have it."

  "What?" Kyle had turned the engine over, but he twisted in his seat to look at me. "Why do you have his phone?"

  "He left it at the house last night. We had a bit of a falling out, and he took off without it." That was almost the truth, if one didn't look too closely at it. Or ask any follow-up questions.

  Lucky for me, Kyle didn't. He swore and then reached for the radio. I kept my yap shut as he related what I'd told him to someone at the other end. Operation protect Jones was officially underway.

  Now I had to figure out exactly what I could and couldn't say to Kyle that would skirt the line between messing with a murder investigation and protecting the man I loved.

  I leaned back against the seat and shut my eyes. Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.

  * * *

  "Kyle, what were you doing in town today?"

  "What?" Kyle sat across from me in his office. He'd paused to draw breath between his rapid-fire questions, most of which I hadn't really answered. My inquiry wasn't just a stall tactic however. At the time I'd been too distracted after finding Rochelle's body and whatnot, but he had shown up fast.

  "You arrived at the pasta shop only a few minutes after I made the call. It takes fifteen minutes to drive from here to Main Street, and that's the way I drive. So you must have already been in town. What were you doing there?"

  It wasn't just my imagination—the good sheriff looked distinctly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and then drawled, "I'm the one asking the questions here, Andy."

  "Did you have court?" I pressed. How long would it take the city police to show up here looking for the witness who'd found the body?

  Well, another body.

  "Yes, that was it. I had court." Kyle nodded and cleared his throat again. Classic nervous tell.

  Liar, liar, badge on fire. But why bother lying? If he was patrolling or having lunch with members of the city council, he would have just said so. The fact that he felt the need to lie only proved he was doing something sneaky. Something he didn't want me to know about.

  It clicked into place. "For the love of grief, Kyle, please tell me you weren't with Lacey L'Amour again."

  A hot flush crept up from his collar. "That isn't relevant to—"

  I slammed my hands down on the metal desk. "You were, you rat. Are you screwing around on Lizzy?"

  "Keep your voice down," he hissed, gaze sliding to the closed door.

  "That isn't a no, Sheriff Landers. What the hell is wrong with you, sniffing around that tramp?"

  My powers of deduction had thrown him completely for a loop. "You don't even like Lizzy."

  "Well, I don't dislike her as much as I used to. And besides, it isn't about me. It's about you."

  "You don't know me," Kyle said. "Not anymore."

  "Bull. I know you better than you want to admit. You haven't changed that much, no matter that you wear a badge now instead of a letterman jacket. Some guys are like that, but you've always been the Dudley Do-Right type."

  He made a face at that, obviously insulted. "Dudley Do-Right? Really?"

  "You aren't a cheater, so what the hell is your game?"

  He glanced down. "You don't understand."

  I reached out and touched his hand. "Then tell me the truth. Why are you hanging around that faux French slag?"

  "Because you don't like her."

  That made about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine. "What?"

  Kyle rubbed a hand over his face. "Lizzy has been distant lately. She's distracted, never wants to talk about anything with me or go out to dinner. Half the time, she doesn't return my calls or text messages. I know the past year has been hard on her, what with her mother and then Kaylee showing up. She's gone through some major life changes. I thought if I gave her some space to deal, she'd get used to everything. It's getting worse though, not better. Sometimes I go days without seeing her. It's almost like she's avoiding me."

  Because she had been avoiding him, and I knew exactly why. Lizzy was worried her father might be the arsonist, and she didn't want to reveal her suspicions to Kyle. But Lizzy didn't multitask well, so her solution was to shut Kyle out while waiting for the news.

  "I'm sorry for you guys."

  Kyle gave me a level look.

  I huffed out a breath. "Well, I am, whether you believe me or not. But still, what does that have to do with me despising Lacey?"

  "Promise not to laugh?" he asked.

  "I don't make promises I can't keep," I told him.

  He leaned back in his chair. "Fine then. I knew you were the only one in town who'd tell Lizzy about me being with another woman."

  "Kyle, this is Beaverton we're talking about. Gossip is an accepted form of currency."

  "People talk," he agreed. "But they don't want to get involved. You though, you'd meddle."

  "I don't meddle," I huffed. Then after thinking about it for another moment, I corrected, "Well, I don't always meddle."

  "Only when it matters to you. I knew you'd take the news back to Lizzy, but I had to make sure you noticed first. Any other woman in town I was polite too wouldn't even register, but you've been watching that woman like a hawk. I knew if I spent some time talking to her, you'd tell Lizzy, or at least tell Jones, and he would tell Lizzy."

  "So when you snuck into the Bowtie Angel and asked me to butt out, you really wanted me to butt in some more? How'd you know it would work?"

  Kyle raised a brow. "Because you're the most contrary woman alive. I tell you it's day, you'd tell me it was night."

  "That is the most ridiculous plan I've ever heard." I paused and then asked, "So did it work? Did you make Lizzy jealous?"

  He shook his head slowly. "Not jealous enough. She was rip-roaring mad after you called her, but then she went right back into hibernation. What should I do, Andy?"

  My plan had worked better than I'd hoped. Kyle was so focused on his romantic disaster that he'd completely forgotten about the murder investigation or the fact that Jones was wanted for questioning.

  I took a deep breath and then said, "Tell her how you feel?"

  Kyle's blond eyebrows drew together in a sandy line of confusion. "What?"

  "Don't keep secrets from her. Come clean, and tell her exactly what you've been doing and why."

  He went pale beneath his tan. "Um, she'll kill me."

  "I can't believe I'm saying this, but give her some credit. You're right. She's had a lot of stuff to deal with over the past year. How is she about you spending time with Kaylee?"

  "She's been better than I could have hoped, actually. Very understanding, even though the two of them don't really get along. Kaylee's too much like you. She told Lizzy that she ought to pull the stick out of her ass. She has your smart mouth."

  I grinned. "I love that girl. I really do."

  "I was worried it was Kaylee coming between us," Kyle said. "That maybe she couldn't handle being a stepmother. I don't think that's it though. It doesn't make any sense."

  "And I repeat, talk to her. And promise me, no more shenanigans."

  "Because that's your department?" he quipped.

  "Exactly. And for the love of grief, stay away from Lacey L'Amour. The chick is bad news swathed in Prada."

  "She's not the one with a dead body in her freezer." He scowled, looking ready to ask another question, but the door opened, and Detective Darryl Brown strode in. "Sheriff, I'll take it from here. Has she spoken to anyone else?"

  Kyle shook his head. "Just me. Have you found Malcolm Jones yet?"

  "No." The detective gripped the door handle reflexively.

  Though they spoke cordially enough, Darryl wasn't Kyle's biggest fan. I think it had something to do with Kyle's silver-spoon background. D
arryl had to earn the football scholarship that had sent him to Notre Dame and then the degree that made him a detective. I was glad to see him on the case. He was a no-nonsense sort of guy. He'd find out who'd killed Rochelle without letting personal bias fog the investigation.

  "May I use your office, Sheriff? Since you brought Miz Buckland here instead of to the city police department?"

  Kyle nodded. "Of course."

  The men locked eyes, Brown obviously expecting Kyle to leave. Kyle folded his arms over his chest, clearly having no intention of moving.

  So not good. I'd thought the city police would remove me from the sheriff's station. Brown looked as though he wanted to and was torn between wasting time transporting me to his turf and catching a killer as soon as possible.

  I looked back and forth between their silent standoff and then piped up. "I want a lawyer."

  Both men swiveled their heads to stare down at me.

  "What?" Brown asked as Kyle sputtered, "Why?"

  "I want a lawyer. I refuse to say another word until one gets here." I folded my arms and stared at the battered desk. It was a Hail Mary stall tactic, but at least a lawyer could tell me whether or not Kyle must be present while I talked to the detective.

  "Miz Buckland—" The detective was interrupted from shouts in the other room.

  Kyle stood and rounded the desk.

  "What is it?" Brown asked, following Kyle out.

  Kyle barked out, "Andy, stay here," and then shut the door.

  I didn't wait, just circled Kyle's desk, picked up his landline, and then dialed my own cell number. Since I had Kyle's number programmed into my phone, Jones would know who was calling.

  Jones answered on the first ring. "I'm sorry, Sheriff. Andrea isn't here—"

  "It's me," I breathed, turning away from the door. Hearing his voice gave me something to cling to. "I don't have a lot of time."

  "What's wrong?"

  "It's Rochelle." I took a deep breath. "Malcolm, I'm sorry, but she's dead."