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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  It occurred to me that the Bowtie Angel would benefit from having me around. The pasta shop was a natural gathering place, and if I was there, answering questions and allowing myself to be grilled like a side of beef about Zoltan and my discovery, well, it would only draw a larger crowd. I hated being the center of attention, it made me nervous as all get-out, and it wasn't exactly a long term solution, but I had yet to devise a better plan.

  A flash of blue caught my attention as a jogger appeared around the bend. Yanking the leash, I urged Roofus to move to the side, but that didn't stop him from barking and pulling to attack the newcomer. Although I appreciated the effort, I was fairly certain that he would run away and hide, shedding and slobbering, if anyone tried to hurt me. Of course, being a city girl had taught me the value of carrying a can of pepper spray in my jacket pocket, so we didn't have to test that theory.

  As the runner approached, I recognized the newcomer. Rats, I was really hoping to have my act together when Jones and I met again. So far he'd seen me fresh from an accident, wearing the muumuu from hell, and now sweating like a Clydesdale fresh from the Kentucky Derby. Was I destined to always look like day-old road kill in his presence?

  An image of Chef Farnsworth prone on the floor of the pantry put my vanity (or lack thereof) into perspective.

  "Andrea," Jones, not even winded, slowed to a walk and fell into step beside me. Roofus growled low and threatening under his breath.

  I tugged on the leash to get the disgruntled old dog's attention off Jones. "Big faker. Don't worry—he won't bite." I hoped.

  Crouching down, Jones offered Roofus his hand, palm up. The beagle sniffed and then pulled back with a slitty-eyed scowl, as though the man's scent had confirmed his suspicions somehow. "Grrrr…"

  "He doesn't like you," I told Jones. "Animals can sense evil, you know."

  "I also make babies cry," Jones said. "It's a gift from the dark prince no doubt."

  "Don't say that too loud around here, or you'll be dunked in the creek faster than you can say, "Bob's your uncle." Speaking of family… "Hey. How's everything going with your family?" Sheesh, could I sound more ridiculously stupid?

  Jones grinned at me but answered my trite question. "The drama has settled down a little. Both Lizzy and her mother downed some Valium and were still sleeping when I left."

  "Oh. Well that's good, I guess. After the shock and everything." Stupid had settled in to roost. I rolled my eyes. "Sorry, I'm not up to my usual verbal sparring weight today."

  "Understandable," Jones murmured. "Quite the homecoming for us both."

  I desperately wanted to ask him if he'd seen, or maybe even erased the words written in the flour, but couldn't find a casual way to bring it up. Not that I'd been doing a great job with subtle so far. Some people have a gift for gab. I have a gift for blather. "So, I guess you're sticking around here for a little while?"

  Good, that sounded only mildly interested and not like a crazy women cleaving to her last thread of sanity.

  Jones grinned down at me. "At least until after the wedding. It's been a long time since I've spent time with my father and sister, and I promised to photograph for them."

  "They're lucky to have you." Heat crept up my face. To cover I asked, "Do you think the police have any suspects?"

  "Other than me, you mean." His tone was flat.

  Gripping his arm I pulled him to a stop. Roofus cast us both a disgusted look and flopped down for a mid-stroll nap. "It's not about you, other than that they don't know you. You're an outsider and an easy mark. Try not to take it personally."

  "Is there any way to not take personally the fact that half the town thinks I'm guilty of killing a man I'd never laid eyes on before yesterday?"

  "Look, I alibied you out to Detective Brown. I saw you, taking pictures of the crowd—" my words cut off as Jones and I looked at each other. Pictures, as in photographic evidence of who was and was not outside at the time Chef Farnsworth was being stabbed to death.

  "We should probably look at them first, make sure there's something there before disturbing the detective," I reasoned.

  "I'm scheduled to have brunch with my father and a few of his business associates in about an hour. This afternoon perhaps?"

  Great, plenty of time to doll myself up, check on my car, and drop the bomb on Pops and Aunt Cecily, although chances were they already knew about me discovering the body. Plus, I had time to work out exactly how to go about asking Jones if he'd tampered with a police investigation.

  The trail had looped back around to the cul-de-sac. "This is my stop. I'll see you later then?"

  "I'll pick you up at the pasta shop."

  "Don't look at those pictures without me," I called to his retreating form.

  "Bossy!" Jones turned and winked at me. "I like that."

  Pops and his Lincoln were gone by the time Roofus and I got back to the house. After doling out a hearty scoop of Kibbles and Bits for the dog, I darted upstairs and dove into the shower. The ancient pipes rattled, and I hopped around under the icy spray.

  "Ah, oo, eeee!" To the casual observer I might have been speaking in tongues, but this vowel sound-off was par for the course when showering at Pop's house. Though his day job was mild mannered accountant, Pops was tight with a buck when it came to what he called "new-fangled technology." My mom had fondly referred to living with Nana and Pops as camping indoors.

  Of course the alternative was living with Aunt Cecily above the Bowtie Angel, so I'd learned to keep my trap shut.

  I'd just finished zipping my jeans, which seemed a little tight these days, when the doorbell rang. Roofus's nails clicked on the hardwood, and he let out a single mournful bay in greeting.

  Ditching the towel turban, I rushed downstairs, wondering if Jones had a last minute change of heart and was as eager to examine the pictures as I was.

  The smile vanished when I saw my visitor.

  Pasta Primavera

  What you'll need:

  1 zucchini peeled and cut into matchsticks

  1 yellow squash peeled and cut into matchsticks

  3 large fresh carrots cut into medallions.

  1/2 yellow pepper cut into strips

  1/2 red bell pepper cut into strips.

  1 red onion halved, then cut into thin wedges

  1 clove diced garlic 1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  1 teaspoon fresh rosemary

  1 teaspoon dried basil

  1 teaspoon dried oregano

  1 teaspoon fresh Italian parsley

  1 pound rotini

  1/3 cup grated Parmesan

  Preheat the oven to 450.

  On a large heavy baking sheet, toss all of the vegetables with the oil, salt, pepper, and dried herbs to coat. Transfer half of the vegetable mixture to another heavy large baking sheet and arrange evenly over the baking sheets. Bake until vegetables begin to brown, stirring after the first 10 minutes, about 20 minutes total.

  Meanwhile, cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until al dente, tender but still firm to the bite, about 8 to 10 minutes. Drain, reserving 1 cup of the cooking liquid.

  Toss the pasta with the vegetable mixtures in a large bowl to combine. Toss with enough reserved cooking liquid to moisten. Season the pasta with salt and pepper, to taste. Sprinkle with the Parmesan and serve immediately.

  **Andy's note: The trick to truly excellent Pasta Primavera is fresh ingredients. Think seasonally, zucchini, summer squash, vine ripened tomatoes, pea pods, carrots, whatever will add the most color and texture to your dish. I also like to add fresh grated Romano and garlic-infused extra virgin olive oil for a little pizzazz.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Kyle, what the hell are you doing here?" Seeing Kyle was always a chore for me because the man never changed. Honestly, it was a little freaky how he retained his golden boy good looks, his jeans faded perfectly and the bomber jacket he wore seemingly aged to perfection. Stetson hat in hand, he s
tared at me with the same cowboy hero façade that had stolen my heart at seventeen, but at thirty two, just made me feel like a shabby worn out boot.

  He smiled sheepishly, that vapid, poor-little-rich-boy smile that had bamboozled me right out of my knickers many times. It shamed me that I used to be such a gullible sap, so easy. I'd become extra difficult as an adult to make up for it. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared him down. Compared to some of the chefs I'd trained under, Kyle was a lightweight.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, seemingly unsettled that I didn't fall at his feet. "I need to talk to you."

  "Lizzy paid upfront for the catering so we're all set." Whatever had brought him to my doorstep, I was fairly certain it had nothing to do with pasta, but we had nothing else to talk about.

  Kyle's face fell at my brisk dismissal. Honestly what did he expect? "It's got nothing to do with the food. I wanted to explain about Lizzy and me—"

  Squaring my shoulders, I waved away his account. "Nothing needs to be explained, all right? Lizzy set her cap for you a long time ago, and you've finally fallen for her. Good for you Kyle—it's just what you always wanted, and I'm happy for you both." That actually sounded somewhat sincere, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for fibbing like a grown up.

  "That's…good then, that we can all be adults about this." Kyle's expression landed somewhere around befuddled field mouse drop-kicked into city center.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to head over to the pasta shop." I started to close the door, but he put a hand out, before I closed it all the way.

  "I didn't see your car. It's still at Mike's right? Let me give you a ride. It's the least I can do."

  Cripes! The last thing I wanted was to extend this misery any longer than absolutely necessary. Kyle, nice guy that he really was, would insist on reliving the good old days and playing a few rounds of do you remember when, inadvertently tearing open old wounds. Lady Luck was on my side though because I spied Donna's garage door trundling up.

  "Thanks Kyle, but Donna already said she would drive me."

  Kyle nodded, backing away from the door so I could slip out. Roofus bayed again, a sad, soulful sound as though his heart was breaking at my departure. I knew it was just an act—he'd go lie in his basket and sleep away the hours until Pops came home to feed him.

  Kyle's gaze bore into my back as I trotted across the cul-de-sac to Donna's pretty little colonial. Crossing my fingers that she wouldn't expose my fib, I called out to her.

  Donna was a pretty, earth mother sort of woman with long auburn hair and laughing green eyes. Today she was dressed to the nines in a swirling black skirt and emerald blouse with a Mandarin collar. "Andy! Why didn't you tell me you were back in town? I was just heading out to show a house."

  I glanced over my shoulder but Kyle hadn't heard.

  "Do me a favor and keep your voice down. Not to sound like a bored five-year-old, but could you please take me with you? I'll buy you lunch at the pasta shop afterward, and we can catch up."

  Her lips tilted up, and she glanced over my shoulder. "Who are you dodging?"

  "Kyle. If he gives me a ride and Lizzy finds out, her head will explode. And as much fun as that would be, I've had my fill of drama."

  Donna grinned. "Don't waste any time, do you? Hop in and catch me up."

  Donna's aging Subaru was littered with kiddie flotsam. A couple of matching booster seats, a few rogue pink barrettes, and discarded happy meal toy still in the plastic wrapper. Pleasantly cluttered, though a far cry from the pristinely Armoralled interior of Mustang Sally. I made sure to toss Kyle a jaunty wave as we rolled down the street.

  "You are totally my hero."

  "Yeah yeah, so catch me up. Are you moving back here now?" her eyes filled with hope.

  "I'm not moving back."

  She frowned. "Then, why are you here?"

  "To see if I can help the business and to make some sort of a comeback plan. Besides, someone has to keep Pops and Aunt Cecily from murdering each other. As soon as everything goes back to normal, I'll be heading back to Atlanta." Or as close to normal as my family ever got.

  Donna braked for a stop sign. "Speaking of murder, Steve told me that someone died last night, up at the Tillman's place. Know anything about that?"

  Donna's husband was ten years her junior, a factoid that always gave me hope. Her first husband had been hit by a car while she was in labor with her now teenaged son. Busy as a single mom and grieving widow, Donna had no time for dating, even if she'd felt the urge. But then Steve had come along. Bright and shiny as a new penny, he'd run down a mugger who'd stolen her purse. The Bowtie Angel had catered their wedding, and Donna's twin girls were born exactly nine months later.

  "I was there, and it was Chef Zoltan Farnsworth."

  "You've got to be kidding." Her eyes went wide. "Are you like, a suspect?"

  "Jeez, Donna, don't sound so excited by the prospect. I don't think so. The cops seemed more interested in Lizzy's half-brother. But that's mostly because he's new in town."

  "Any idea who might have wanted him dead?"

  "Anyone who met him?" I quipped, then felt bad. "Honestly, no, not really. We didn't exactly run in the same circles, since he was a pastry chef."

  Donna pulled up in front of a white Tudor with periwinkle blue shutters and a for sale sign staked into the front lawn.

  "Pretty house. Looks brand new."

  "It is new. A real steal, too. The family that lived here walked away, and the bank has it up for sale at a fraction of the original price. Know anyone in the market?"

  "Not in Beaverton, no." What a shame about the family. Though North Carolina hadn't been as hard hit as some other areas of the country, recession recovery was still dragging like a government job. "Can I peek inside?"

  Donna nodded, and we walked up the flagstone path. "It's a three bedroom, two and a half bath, 2100 square feet. Bonus room over the two-car garage and a fantastic view of the lake."

  She continued her Realtor's spiel, talking up the perks of the house as she punched in her code and withdrew the keys. The front door opened into a two-story entryway, living room on the right, dining room to the left, stairs to the second floor dead ahead. All clean, smooth, and efficient lines, not a bazillion nooks filled to overflowing with stuff like at Pop's house. Donna's high heels clicked on the hardwood floors, echoing through the empty space. "Come check out the kitchen."

  I followed, taking it all in. The newness screamed potential, the cream colored walls very bland, urging me to slap some jewel-toned paint up there and make the space my own. Of course I couldn't afford a house like this. I'd be lucky if I had enough in my account to cover the deductible on Mustang Sally.

  The kitchen was a work of art. Gray soapstone counters, a country style sink with a swan neck faucet, and two built-in wall ovens. A center island held—be still my heart—a gas range top. Copper bottom pots and pans hung from a ceiling bracket, practically begging me to whip something up. "Wow, I'd love to own a house like this."

  Donna grinned. "Isn't it amazing? Honestly, I was tempted to buy it myself, but I don't cook. This kitchen makes me want to learn though."

  I could easily picture it. Me, standing at the sink, filling a pot of water for linguini. My fresh herbs growing in pots on the windowsill, the smell of fresh rosemary bread and the tang of tomato sauce simmering on the stove, spicing the air with garlic. A little Norah Jones crooning from my iPod dock while another Jones leaned against the counter, offering me a sip from his wine glass…

  Donna touched my shoulder, popping my delicious fantasy bubble. "Go ahead and prowl around. I'm going to wait outside for the potential buyers. If they ask, you're in the market too."

  If only. Shaking off the last traces of my daydream, I headed upstairs to scope out the bedroom situation. My preoccupation with Malcolm Jones had crossed the line from distraction and was now bordering on ridiculously obsessive. I barely knew anything about the man, other than that he drove lik
e a little old lady, had a yummy accent, took pictures, and had picked up some medical training. And that he was related to my nemesis. Yet he kept creeping into my thoughts as though he belonged there, a permanent fixture in Andy's mental slideshow.

  The master suite was just as glorious as the kitchen, with a half-moon window letting in the late morning sunlight. Side by side sinks in the master bath, along with a garden tub and corner unit glassed-in shower. The doors were wet, as though someone had just stepped out of the shower. How strange. Donna said no one was living here, and the rest of the house was empty other than a few staged Realtor pieces.

  Curious now, I scanned for other signs of life. The white duvet on the California king bed had been neatly made. No other furniture. The master bedroom closet sat empty. Same with the two smaller bedrooms.

  Gripping the knob, I tried to open the door to the bonus room. Locked. The hair on my arms stood straight up, and my heart rate increased. "Donna?" I called down the stairs.

  No answer. Since I wasn't the kicking down the door type, I scuttled downstairs. Donna's potential buyers were parked curbside, a stocky man with huge shoulders helping his pregnant companion from the car.

  "Pssssst, Donna," I hissed under my breath, not wanting to scare the nice couple away. "I think someone is living in the house."

  The smile froze on her face. "What?"

  "The shower in the master bath was wet, and the door to the bonus room is locked."

  Donna cussed, a potent string of expletives that had my eyebrows creeping for my hairline, then dug in her bag. "Take my cell phone and call the police. There might be a squatter in there."

  Taking the phone, I glanced nervously at the house. "Does that happen a lot?"

  "Often enough. Now I have to go tell these nice people that they aren't going to view their dream house today. Fricking economy."