Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1)

by Jennifer L. Hart

  * * * * *

  Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases!

  Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!

  * * * * *

  What critics are saying about

  Jennifer L. Hart's books:

  "Who Needs A Hero is a wonderful story of two people who made their share of mistakes during their lifetime but seem to complete each other."

  —Sizzling Hot Book Reviews

  "Ms. Hart writes all genres with ease and I enjoy her books but my heart will always be with Neil and Maggie because I am a total sucker for the Happily Ever After."

  —The Reading Reviewer

  "A must read for all people who love a good mystery and a jolly good laugh...laugh out loud funny."

  —Black Orchid, Cocktail Reviews

  "A wonderfully fun whodunit"

  —ParaNormal Romance.org

  "Laugh out loud funny, realistic characters, snappy true to life dialog, and a sufficiently difficult mystery; all the required elements for an excellent read."

  —Manic Readers

  "I would not hesitate to pick up another of Ms. Hart's works as she definitely made me with one book a lifelong fan."

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  "Jennifer L. Hart gives readers a contemporary love story constructed by two achingly real main characters."

  —Coffee Time Romance

  * * * * *

  MURDER AL DENTE

  by

  JENNIFER L. HART

  * * * * *

  Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer L. Hart

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY JENNIFER L. HART

  SNEAK PEEK

  Dedication:

  To my critique partner-in-crime, Saranna DeWylde,

  who read every stinking version of this book until it was a book worth reading,

  all because she believed it could be so.

  Love you, doll.

  * * * * *

  PROLOGUE

  "Five minutes, Ms. Buckland." Mimi, Chef Zoltan Farnsworth's assistant, poked her head into the closet I'd been given to use as a dressing room.

  I grinned at her. "Thanks. He has you herding the entire studio, now, huh? Why do you put up with him, Mimi?" She was a talented pastry chef in her own right, but Zoltan Farnsworth treated her like dirt. Not that that was unusual for him. Farnsworth treated everyone like dirt. It was practically his brand.

  "He is not so bad." She paused, seemed to consider, and said in her careful Asian accent, "Well, he is bad."

  "Hey, when I'm Flavor TV's next big thing, I'll hire you right out from under his mustache." I took a deep breath, checked my appearance one last time in the chipped mirror, and pasted on a smile. "First I have to go out there and blow their doors off."

  "You will do very well, I am sure." Mimi offered me a smile, dipped her head, and bustled off.

  I made my way to Studio C where a live audience was already tasting samples of the culinary concoction I'd whipped up. Much to my relief, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. My cell buzzed, and I checked the display. A text from Donna Muller, my best friend since high school, and I grinned at her message.

  Knock 'em dead!

  Donna knew better than pretty much anyone else how hard I'd worked for this moment. After being raised by my very Italian grandmother and great aunt who ran the small town's pasta shop, it was possible I had marinara instead of blood.

  One of the techs signaled me, and I quickly stowed my phone, lifted my arms, and let him attach my microphone. We did a sound check, and I was good to go.

  "All set?" The producer, Stacy DeAngelo scurried over, tablet in hand. She didn't wait for a response but gave me a light shove in the direction of the stage.

  My nerves got the best of me when I saw what appeared to be a sea of faces, all of whom looked at me expectantly. Oh no. I'd told everyone I knew about this. My grandfather, Pops, was tuned in along with my great aunt Cecily. The entire population of Beaverton, N.C, all 21,086 of them, were probably watching the Atlanta based television station.

  Kyle was watching. No, no he wasn't. The sheriff had more important things to do on a weekday afternoon than watch his ex-girlfriend make an idiot out of herself on live television.

  Then, my canned music started and my feet unfroze. "Is it just me or does pasta get a bad rap?" I asked the audience. Mostly smiles, but a few nods. "Let me tell you, there is not a more versatile food in the world. It can be light or heavy, served as a side dish or the main course, or even dessert."

  I lowered my voice to a hush, which of course the microphone projected. "Just don't tell my great aunt Cecily I said that. She's a purist."

  Several chuckles. My confidence grew, and I returned to my normal easygoing drawl. "Today, I'm going to show you linguini's true potential when served with fresh clams in a white wine sauce. So, here's what you'll need." I'd been over the spiel at least a thousand times in my head, and as I spoke, I moved around my "kitchen," which was really a set that had been made to look like a cozy country kitchen. Nothing too ostentatious. Flavor was a relatively new cable channel, and I was supposed to be a girl-next-door kind of cook. Al Dente, my brand spanking new cooking show, focused on the ins and outs of pasta, not high end appliances. But the new countertops practically sparkled, and I could see my face in the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator as I extracted the clams.

  While the water came to a boil, I added a little background to my instructions. "In Italian, al dente means 'to the tooth.' The perfect al dente pasta will have a little resistance when you bite into it. Nothing ruins a meal like overcooked noodles. Cooking times will vary depending on the shape of pasta and thickness. For instance, vermicelli or angel hair will take less time to cook to al dente perfection than
fettuccini or shells."

  The first segment of the show seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, I was being signaled that it was time for our three minute intermission.

  "You're doing great." Stacy looked up from her iPad, her expression approving. She'd gone to bat for me with the network execs when I'd pitched her the concept for the show. She said she'd seen something in me, and she'd fought hard to get me this chance. I wanted to prove her right. "By this time tomorrow you'll have a ton of sponsors."

  I beamed. "I can't believe it, but at one point I actually forgot I was on camera."

  "That's how it goes. We're back in ten seconds."

  My return to the stage-slash-kitchen was much smoother this time, and I talked about pairing wines with different dishes. Before I knew it, the meal was assembled. "Smells great. Just the right combination of garlic and wine really brings the pasta and clams together in perfect harmony. Don't take my word for it though, what does our audience think?"

  Thunderous clapping accompanied by a few wolf whistles. Perfect.

  "And we have a special treat for you. Chef Zoltan Farnsworth is here to join me for the tasting." It hadn't been my idea, but the network insisted a guest spot by their number one cooking show host would help boost my numbers.

  From the sound of the audience clapping to greet the pastry chef, they were right.

  Farnsworth strutted like a peacock and did a little faux air kiss thing in greeting. "It smells…pungent in here," he said with a smug smile.

  Jeez, not exactly a compliment. He couldn't have gone for aromatic or fragrant? I made my tone light as I said, "Garlic will do that. One of my favorite scents in the world."

  After dishing out a serving for Chef Farnsworth, I sat down to mock eat my own serving of pasta. "How is it?"

  "Excellent," Farnsworth said, surprising me. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy. "Though a bit more salt wouldn't hurt."

  I didn't roll my eyes, but it was a struggle. "Well—" The sound of retching came from the audience, and my head whipped around so fast I bumped my microphone. Was I being heckled?

  Then again, from another section. Definitely vomiting this time, and my heart stumbled in my chest. "What's going on?"

  Frantic movement caught my attention, and I turned in my seat to see Stacy, her eyes huge, her face pale. She was mouthing something to me.

  Something that looked like bad clams.

  I was on my feet in an instant. "Don't eat it!" I shouted at the audience.

  Some people looked startled, others angry.

  My phone buzzed again, but I ignored it. Multiple people were bent over, obviously sick. Oh dear sweet Lord, I'd given my audience food poisoning on live television. Zoltan was on his feet, hands in the air, ranting about incompetent cooks. About me.

  "Call 911," I said to Mimi, who was hovering by Stacy's side. "We need to get these people medical treatment, now."

  "We'll take care of it." Stacy said, not unkindly. "You'd better go, Andy."

  "But—"

  She shoved me again, this time in the direction of the exit. "Go."

  I went, stunned by what had just happened.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Three months later….

  "Pops? It's Andy. If you're there pick up. Pretty please with spaghetti on top?" My hands- free device was on the fritz, and I had my cell cradled between my ear and my shoulder, praying my grandfather would hear my voice and pick up the damn phone.

  My thumbs drummed impatiently against the leather steering wheel as I waited for the jerk driving in the mammoth SUV in front of me to accelerate to the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit. Tree branches extended over the back road like gnarled fingers, reaching out to squeeze the life out of me. Or maybe that was just my internal panic mode hitting DEFCON 2 at Pop's lack of response. After what had happened on my very short-lived cooking show, I didn't have any trouble imagining the worst case scenario.

  "Okay, well, just so you know, I'm on my way into town for a visit. Should be there in about forty minutes. Love you."

  Disconnecting the call, I swallowed and prayed Aunt Cecily had been exaggerating about Pop's being depressed. Sure, he'd had a rough time adjusting ever since Nana passed on, but that didn't mean he was ready to roll over and die. We Bucklands were a tough bunch of nuts to crack.

  Nuts being the operative word.

  What was the SUV driver's damage? Apparently it wasn't enough for him to cut me off at the city limits, but he also felt the need to meander along like a constipated mule. Skippy.

  I was just about to let loose with a whole string of un-ladylike words when I finally caught a break. The double yellow line on the side nearest me split into little slashes. The SUV was so big and black it blotted out the entire road, but this close to my destination, I knew the traffic flow was typically light. With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I moved into the left-hand lane and punched my foot down on the accelerator.

  So did the SUV.

  Just not as quickly.

  The sickening crunch of metal drowned out my scream. My seat belt pulled taut, and my head whipped forward and back in a motion I hope never to repeat as my well-honed driving instinct took over and my foot slammed down on the brake hard enough to keep my head from being lodged up the other driver's sphincter.

  My heart pounded against my ribcage like it wanted out. I pushed hair out of my face and sucked in a steadying breath. After a quick survey, which consisted of wiggling my fingers and toes to make sure everything that was supposed to be attached still was, I unbuckled my seat belt.

  Just as someone else yanked open the driver's side door.

  "Stay still," a male voice ordered in a manner way too brisk to be a native to this region of the country. A warm palm rested on top of my hair, gently, but firmly holding my head in place. "You might have damaged your spine."

  I looked up into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Wow. A girl could drown in those eyes and die with a smile on her face. I tried to blink myself back to reality. What had he said? Spinal damage, right. "Wouldn't I feel something like that?"

  "Not necessarily." His gaze ranged over me in an assessing manner. And not in a hey baby, what's your sign approach. More like the way I studied the engine of my car, Mustang Sally, when something acted hinky. "Any blurred vision?"

  I loved his accent, though I couldn't place it. It lacked the nasal quality of someone from the North or the soft drawl of the South. Possibly he was from somewhere in the Midwest, where they called soda "pop," but I doubted it. The lilting tones reminded me more of the Australian couple whose wedding I'd catered last fall, but there was a crisp briskness around his every syllable that was a shade off.

  "No, I can see just fine." See that you are a sexy beast.

  Down, girl.

  He didn't stare back. "Can you tell me your name?"

  Was he hitting on me? Hell of a time for it. "Why do you want to know?"

  He smirked at me—at least I thought it was a smirk. The man didn't make big grandiose gestures but moved with a smooth and graceful economy. "Just checking to make sure your mental faculties are all in working order."

  "Are you a doctor?" I asked.

  "I've had some medical training. Your name?" he prompted.

  "Andrea Sofia Buckland."

  "Andrea—" The way he said it rounded and smoothed the vowels like they tasted good in his mouth and made something inside me go all gushy. Like a marshmallow roasted over a campfire.

  "I go by Andy," I said, but he'd glanced away as a siren pierced the early evening.

  His gaze swung back to me. "Andy then. May I ask why you were tailgating me?"

  My molars ground together, and all thoughts of vivid blue eyes fled. I'd been condescended to enough in my lifetime. "Listen here, pal, you were going like five miles an hour. Some of us have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon then just noodle along."

  He quirked a jet black eyebrow at me. "The tractor in front of me was responsible for the 'noodling.' I was attemp
ting to pass it when you decided to play demolition derby."

  A likely story. "I didn't see any tractor. Your gargantuan gas guzzler was the only other vehicle on the road."

  "Perhaps because you rammed your car up my tailpipe?" The way he said it sounded suggestive as all get-out, and I shivered despite my vow to ignore the effect of his bedroom eyes.

  Nuh-uh. No way was he going to blame the whole thing on me. "I wouldn't have if you hadn't pulled out right in front of me. Not another vehicle on the road for miles—"

  "Except for the tractor," he delivered in a flat tone. God help me, even that was blood-boilingly sexy. He smelled of wood smoke, and his long-sleeved black T-shirt clung to his well-developed chest muscles, and just the faintest hint of stubble coated his perfect chin. I was a total sucker for the scruffy look. My heart rate kicked up a notch. Arguing with him at this close range was hazardous to my thirty-something hormones.

  To hide my physical response I said, "The tractor is a figment of your imagination."

  He opened his mouth, probably ready to deliver another acerbic retort, but the emergency personnel swarmed over us at that moment like termites on a rotten stump. He shot out a bunch of terse updates to them while one of the paramedics examined him. All of his comments pertained to my wellbeing and made me feel like a big old bitch for hounding him about his driving.

  An EMT wrapped one of those horrid collars around my neck. "This really isn't necessary," I told the young woman who attended me. "I feel fine."

  "That's what they all say." She flashed me a quick grin with her even, white teeth. "Sometimes they keel right over dead, and others go on their merry way. Wouldn't you rather be safe than sorry?"

  I bit my lip and thought about showing up in the pasta shop wearing this thing. The town would never let me live it down. "What are my odds?"