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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Jacob frowned at us. "Rochelle never mentioned that in her reports."

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he knew about Kaylee, but I bit it back. Careful, I had to be careful and not do anything to endanger my daughter.

  "Why would you pay a PI for information?" Jones probed. "Why not just approach Andrea yourself?"

  Griffin cleared his throat and looked away. My grip on Jones tightened as I waited for him to answer.

  He exhaled and then looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Because of your mother."

  "What about her?" I whispered. It was all well and good to tell myself that I was going to maintain some distance, but I'd craved answers about my parents my entire life.

  Griffin's chin lifted, and he squared his shoulders, looking me right in the eye. "I felt guilty for abandoning you to her care. I knew she suffered from depression, and it only got worse after you were born. I left her, but I should have taken you with me. It's a choice I've had to live with every day of my life, one that I've regretted. I had to know that you were all right, but at the same time, I didn't feel as if I had any right to insert myself into your life."

  At his words, my heart seized up and flash froze inside my chest. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His honesty floored me.

  "Andrea," Jones spoke, but it sounded like it was coming from a great distance. "Are you all right?"

  "I have to go." Stumbling from the booth, I lurched through the coffee shop, ignoring everything else while Griffin's words circled and dove down like pecking buzzards, shredding me.

  If not for Jones, I probably would have walked right into traffic. A strong arm went around me, and he guided me across the street to his SUV. He half lifted me to deposit me in the seat. Through a veil of tears, I could still see Jacob Griffin sitting in the coffee shop window.

  Our eyes met.

  "Drive," I whispered to Jones. "Please. I need to not be near him."

  Bless the man—he drove. But the distance changed nothing. "We're exactly the same," I croaked.

  "What?" Jones cast me a worried look. "What do you mean?"

  "What I did to Kyle, to Kaylee. That's exactly what he did to me. He left me to go live his own life. I'm no better than he is. We're exactly the same."

  "You're not." Jones hit the gas and sped through to make the green light. He changed lanes without looking. Behind us a car horn blared as he cut off a Monte Carlo. Jones didn't so much as flinch as he maneuvered the giant vehicle into a parking garage. He snagged the nearest available space, threw the mammoth gas-guzzler into park, and then unfastened my seat belt.

  "You're not," he repeated as he pulled me across the parking break and onto his lap. "You're nothing like him. You did what was best for Kaylee as well as yourself. You didn't leave her with a deranged woman. You made sure she would have better than what you could have given her. Andrea, do you hear me? You are nothing like him."

  I clung to him and his words, wishing that they were true, fearing that they weren't.

  * * *

  I slept during the entire trip back to Beaverton and still felt both physically and emotionally exhausted by the time we got back to Jones's house.

  Lizzy's Audi was parked in the driveway, and something smelled good when Jones opened the door. "I ordered takeout from Lacey's," Jones's sister said.

  A day earlier I would have refused to eat anything Lacey L'Amour had prepared, but cast in the light of the day's revelation, our feud seemed both juvenile and pointless.

  "Did she know it was for me?" I opened the Styrofoam take-out dish. Filet mignon and ratatouille, and it both looked and smelled good enough to eat.

  "Not unless she's psychic." Lizzy shrugged. "Why?"

  "Good, then she probably didn't spit in it." Too tired to care either way, I grabbed a fork from the island and dug in.

  "For the record, I didn't either," Lizzy murmured. "But I thought about it."

  "We both appreciate your restraint." Jones gave his sister a one-armed hug. His gaze drifted back to me, his expression worried. "Any news?"

  Lizzy shook her head. "Town's been quiet for a change. Daddy's back home."

  "Did you ever find out what he was doing with all those gasoline cans?" Jones asked.

  Lizzy made a face. "Apparently, he's joined a survivalist's club. He claimed the gas was for after the Apocalypse hit. He's been squirreling canned goods in the basement along with bottled water, but he didn't want to keep the gas on the property. I really don't know if this is better or worse than if he was an arsonist. That's why I've been hiding here for the day."

  Jones made a disgusted noise. "Better, though everything is relative. Especially with relatives."

  A sort of half-hysterical noise escaped my throat, and both Jones and Lizzy whipped their gazes to me. I waved them away and slid off the stool and approached the fridge. Several bottles of water stood in anal-retentive rows, and I moved them around, just to give myself a minute to recover.

  "A bunch of people stopped by—Bee from the post office, Freddy Harris, Mrs. Bradford, and Mayor Randal."

  "Here?" Jones raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

  I could answer that one. "It's the gossip committee. Everyone is looking for the scoop now that word is out about Kaylee being my and Kyle's long-lost daughter."

  Lizzy shifted on her barstool. "And Kyle and I broke up."

  No one said anything for a minute. I opened a bottle of water and took a swig.

  "I'm sorry," Jones murmured, placing a hand on Lizzy's.

  "Not as sorry as Kyle," I said.

  Lizzy frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

  "The man is stupid for you," I told her. "I mean, come on. Fake flirting with my arch enemy to get me to fink him out. That falls neatly into the it's just so darn crazy it might work category. He was never like that with me or with anyone else. You brought forth his special streak of idiot."

  Jones cast me a what the blazes do you think you are doing? kind of look, but Lizzy's lips actually twitched as if she was holding in a smile. "It was ridiculous."

  "Like romantic comedy sort of ridiculous. A full-blown boom box over the head playing our song in the middle of the night kind of ridiculous." I nudged her a little. "The kind where the audience roots for the guy to get the girl because they know he'll never be truly happy without her."

  But Lizzy was shaking her head. "I can't—"

  "Don't make any decisions right now." Though Jones was speaking to Lizzy, his gaze locked on me. "If it's right, it will all work out."

  Lizzy opened her mouth and then shook her head as though she'd changed her mind. "I'd better head home."

  Jones walked her to the door. I finished my dinner—it was better than I'd ever have thought possible from Lacey, though I'd never say so aloud—and then checked my phone messages. The first was from Detective Brown, letting me know the investigators were done with the Bowtie Angel and I was free to come and go as I pleased. Well, that was sort of good news. That meant Mimi could move back into her apartment. She'd been staying with Pops and Aunt Cecily at the A-frame. I almost called her to let her know, but the idea of her being alone in the pasta shop after a body had been dumped there bothered me.

  Jones returned and sat down next to me. "You're frowning," he observed.

  I forced a smile. "We can get back into the pasta shop."

  "Do you want to go now?" Jones asked.

  I sort of did, but he looked exhausted. "Yeah. You need to rest though."

  He shook his head, but I rolled over the top of him. "Malcolm, go lie down before you fall down. I promise I won't leave the house without waking you."

  He studied me a moment, then nodded. "You swear on Mimi's cannoli cake?"

  "Cross my heart and hope to die."

  He made a face at my inappropriate word choice and then pushed back from the island. "Can I convince you to lie down with me?"

  "If I do, you won't get any sleep."

  He grinned. "You speak the truth, my lady." He brought my hand
s to his lips and kissed them before heading into the bedroom.

  I tidied the kitchen and wiped down the counters. Thought about opening some wine but decided against it. Sleeping was out of the question, and there was nothing decent on television. I found myself downstairs, poking through Rochelle's files again.

  Though we hadn't officially cleared Jacob Griffin—it was easier for me to still refer to him as Jacob Griffin than in terms of any personal connection—of the murder, neither Jones nor I got the sense that he had anything to gain from Rochelle's death. If the gang had been behind the arsons, then they hadn't killed Rochelle either. That was the first thing Detective Brown had done—find out if any of the gang members had alibis for the time of Rochelle's death. And across the board, they'd all had solid ones.

  So who'd killed her and why? Could it be personal? Some other case that had gone horribly wrong? If so, why had the killer called to warn me off? Why not just leave Rochelle's body at the lumberyard instead of moving it to my walk-in?

  Try as I might, I couldn't see Lacey as the killer. For one thing, she'd been busy opening her restaurant. I knew firsthand just how time consuming that could be. And secondly, she had nothing to gain from Rochelle's death.

  I clicked open the file folder Rochelle had marked Beaverton. Inside there were two subfolders, one marked Griffin and the other marked Arson. I clicked on the Griffin folder first and began to read.

  Within the first few paragraphs, it became clear that Rochelle had kept plenty of information about me to herself. My relationship with Jones, Kaylee's birth certificate listing me as her mother, and that she'd moved to Beaverton. The document mostly focused on my career, something that it sounded as though Griffin already knew about. She'd done her best to protect both Jones and Kaylee from an unknown. Whatever her reasons, I was grateful to her for that.

  I opened the arson folder and began to read. At first the document made little sense. There was a lot of legalese as well as names and dates like in the earlier transcripts. She hadn't gotten far enough to do a summary report and translate her findings into normal people speech.

  I was about ready to throw in the towel when a name caught my eye. I blinked and then read the sentence again.

  "No way," I breathed.

  "I'm afraid so," a male voice said from behind me. It wasn't Jones's smooth New Zealand accent but a Southern twang I recognized all too well.

  I spun on the chair, but something crashed down on my head. The force sent me to my hands and knees. Starbursts of light exploded behind my eyes as waves of pain rolled through me.

  "It's you," I gasped a second before the next blow knocked me out cold.

  Orzo Casserole

  You'll need:

  1 cup orzo

  3 oz prosciutto

  1 medium onion, chopped

  3 garlic cloves, chopped

  1 bell pepper, chopped

  Six baby bella mushrooms, washed and sliced thin

  Drizzle of extra virgin olive oil

  Pinch salt

  Pinch black pepper

  2 tablespoons flour

  2 cups chicken broth

  1/4 cup milk

  2 1/2 cups Parmesan cheese

  1/2 cup Panko bread crumbs

  3 tablespoons melted butter

  1/2 teaspoon paprika

  1/2 teaspoon chili powder

  Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pour orzo in 9 x 9 baking dish.

  Heat a sauté pan over medium-high with a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add the onions, mushrooms, and pepper, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until translucent. Add the garlic. Season with salt, and cook until fragrant.

  Sprinkle with flour, and stir to coat onions, pepper, and garlic. Cook for 1 minute to toast flour. Whisk in the chicken stock, and cook for 3 to 4 minutes or until the mixture thickens slightly.

  Add milk and 2 cups of cheese, and stir together. Adjust seasoning to taste. Pour over the orzo.

  In a medium bowl, combine the remaining ingredients, and stir. Sprinkle over the baking dish. Bake for 30 minutes until bread crumbs are golden. Serve warm.

  **Andy's note: A great dish to make ahead and store in the fridge, perfect for a packed-to-the-brim sort of day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Considering the way my head throbbed even before I opened my eyes, I was fairly sure I had another concussion. My thoughts were thin and slippery, like overcooked angel hair soaked in olive oil, as I tried to recall what had happened. Bits and pieces stuck together, mostly images and feelings. Jones kissing me before turning in, me leafing through Rochelle's files and finding…

  My eyes flew open, and I stared up at the profile of Mayor Eli Randal the Second.

  He hadn't noticed I was awake yet. Maybe I could use that to my advantage. Maybe there was some suitable weapon nearby, something that would help me turn the tables. I didn't think he had a handgun, but there was no way to be sure.

  The room around me was dark, but I recognized right away that I was no longer in Jones's darkroom. I was half sitting, half leaning against something hard. A desk maybe, or a cabinet. Though there wasn't much light, I could make out sleek tile beneath my feet and the press of cool metal against my back. A refrigerator. I was in somebody's kitchen. Not mine or Jones's or even the Bowtie Angel's.

  "Where?" The word came out as a croak, and even that made my pulse pound in my temple. And then I realized I'd ruined my chance to take him unawares.

  Randal turned to face me, his soft doughy face as amiable as always. "Good, you're awake. I need you to sign something for me."

  Was he nuts? "So you hit me on the head? That's not the way you get votes, Mayor."

  He made a tsking sound, the kind I heard him make to some of the children who cut across his home on Oak Summit Drive after school let out. "Now, Andy, you've made more than enough trouble for me already. You and your boyfriend and that private investigator you hired."

  It all came back in a rush. Rochelle's notes about the business that had been torched, and the line in the town law about any property in the town limits that had not been developed in a set amount of time after a catastrophic incident would revert back to the town to auction off.

  And her notice that both the owners of the flower shop and the assisted living facility had been members of the Beaverton Chamber of Commerce. The group of business owners who were always chaired by the mayor, who knew the town bylaws like the back of his hand.

  Rochelle had suspected that Mayor Randal was behind the arsons, though she'd lacked any real evidence to support her theory.

  The fact that he'd conked me on the head was pretty damning though.

  "Sign this." Eli thrust a clipboard at me. Though I had no intention of doing what he said, I wanted a closer look at the paper. I lifted my right hand, but it stopped about halfway to the clipboard. There was a clank behind me, and I looked up to see the metallic glint of a handcuff linking my arm to the refrigerator.

  Maybe I hadn't lost my chance at escape, only because I'd never really had one.

  "Use the other hand." Randal was starting to sweat like a cheese that had been left out on a hot day. "It doesn't need to be perfect, just legible."

  "How did you even get into Jones's house?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "That was simple enough. I just asked to use the facilities and unbolted the door to the cellar from the inside. Lizzy was so inundated with company, she didn't even notice I slipped downstairs. Never underestimate the power of misdirection."

  Using my left hand, I brought the clipboard down to eye level. It read, Last Will and Testament, and my full name was typed in the space below.

  "A will?"

  Randal nodded. "To make it legal that upon your death, the Bowtie Angel reverts to the town."

  This was all a real estate scam? When had I stumbled into an episode of Scooby-Doo?

  Then his words registered. "Upon my death," he'd said. I wasn't supposed to make it out of this mystery kitchen alive.

  "I've already left a suic
ide note on your boyfriend's computer," Randal muttered, mostly to himself.

  "You're out of your mind if you think Jones would ever believe I committed suicide. He won't stop looking, and he'll expose you."

  Randal perched on a black chair, looking like an overfed Atlas as he stared down at me. "I disagree. He knows how unstable you are. You broke up with him over nothing, moved out on a whim, started a bar fight, and got yourself thrown in jail by your ex-boyfriend. Combined with the fact that the health department has shut your pasta shop down and that your daughter will be tried for destruction of private property, I think he'd believe you cracked under the pressure. And even if he doesn't, I have other plans for him."

  The words sent a cold chill through me, and the shaking only made my headache worse.

  "What about Rochelle? The entire town knows she was murdered."

  "And found on your property. There's some serious nepotism in the police department— you should have been arrested already." A line formed between his eyebrows. "I should look into that."

  "But they already found the crime scene. Sooner or later Detective Brown will link it back to you."

  Randal blinked as if I'd interrupted him mid-thought. "Of course they won't. When you're found dead, everyone will assume you and Jones killed Rochelle together, but you cracked under the strain of it all. With no more murders or arsons to contend with, the good people of Beaverton will have no reason to ask questions."

  "So you're okay letting your nephew and his friends take the rap for the fires? Was there ever really a gang?"

  His fishy lips twitched. "Not in the strictest interpretation of the word. My nephew actually believes he concocted the idea on his own, and my brother has already hired some of the best lawyers in the state to represent him. He'll get off with a slap on the wrist while his peers take the brunt of the blame. Sign the paper, Andy."

  "This will never hold up in court," I said. "Aunt Cecily and Pops know I would never leave the pasta shop to the town over my own flesh and blood."