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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  * * *

  Donna and I waited while a pair of police officers searched the house. Though I didn't recognize either of them, they both knew Donna.

  "Whoever it was is gone." The statuesque female said. "The window in the bonus room is broken, which is probably how they got in. Was anything missing?"

  Donna shook her head. "Except for a few large pieces of furniture, the place was empty. No electronics or anything of real value."

  "So someone scaled the side of the house, broke a window, took a shower and left?" I asked. "Doesn't that seem a little coincidental?"

  The thin male policeman scowled as though I'd spit on his shiny shoe. "Coincidental with what?"

  "The murder last night? What if this is where the killer was staying? The Tillman's live less than a mile away. Right across the lake, for crying out loud."

  "Crime happens, Ma'am. One is not necessarily related to another, even in a small community like this."

  Though he had a valid point, it seemed foolish to me that they wouldn't even consider the possibility. "You could at least dust for fingerprints."

  "Andy, we had an open house here last weekend. Dozens of people came through the house, not to mention bank officials, carpenters, cleaning service employees, and the housing inspectors." Donna said.

  "DNA samples then. How many of them took a shower?" I stubbornly insisted.

  "We'll check into it." The woman spoke in a dismissive tone. Obviously tossing me a bone to get me to shut up and go away.

  Donna locked up the house and drove me over to the Bowtie Angel. We sat in the car for a minute. "What a headache." She pinched her forehead between thumb and forefinger. "Now I have to call the bank and notify them and arrange for someone to fix that window. Why did I think selling real estate would be easy?"

  I had no answers for her, so I leaned on my upbringing for the right response. When in doubt, feed them. "How about a bowl of pasta?"

  "Thanks, but my appetite has disappeared. Rain check, though."

  "I'll hold you to it." I opened my door, just as Jones's SUV slid into the space next to us.

  "Oh my God," Donna breathed as Jones emerged from the driver's side. "Who is that?"

  "Lizzy Tillman's half-brother."

  Donna's eyes had grown to the size of duck eggs. "He looks like a fallen angel."

  He did at that, with that wavy dark hair that crept down over one eye, seriously sharp cheekbones, and a five o'clock shadow before noon. The accent was just a cherry on top. Was it any wonder he took up so much space in my brain, even with a killer on the loose?

  "Good afternoon, ladies." Jones said in his fantastic accent. I swear I heard Donna sigh.

  "Malcolm Jones, meet Donna Muller."

  The two shook hands.

  "You know what, I changed my mind. I'm totally in the mood for some pasta." Donna scrambled from her Subaru.

  Jones beat us to the door of the Bowtie Angel and held it open for us. "Wonder what changed your mind," I teased Donna. It was reassuring to see another woman as smitten with Jones, since I made an ass out of myself in front of him on a regular basis.

  "I'm married, not dead. Dear sweet Lord, Andy, that accent. Maybe if we're lucky he'll read the menu to us."

  Jones had other plans. Digging into his bag, he withdrew a laptop. "As per your instructions Andrea, I have not looked over the photos from last night." He added a wink to assure me he was teasing.

  "What pictures?" Donna asked.

  "Malcolm was photographing the event." A pebble lodged in my throat at the word engagement party. Jones's gaze lifted to mine but he didn't say anything.

  "Where have you been?" Aunt Cecily had snuck up on me and her sharp no nonsense voice nearly startled me out of my skin. "You must make the pasta. It is your destiny."

  Skippy. Not to have a child, or star in a movie, or save the rain forests. Making pasta at the Bowtie Angel was my destiny. If this was fate's grand design, somebody goofed. "Aunt Cecily, I told you I can't—"

  She waved a wooden spoon under my nose. "This is your home, your heritage. You must make the pasta."

  "Let's compromise," I said instead. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Aunt Cecily never backed down, and in her book, compromise was a dirty word. "I will help out where and when I can, but I'm not going to be primary chef. It would be the final nail in the shop's coffin."

  She looked ready to argue, but Pops emerged from the back office, and sensing a fresh carcass to pick, she swooped down on him in all her Italian wrath. "You talk some sense into your granddaughter before she disgraces the family name."

  "Back off, you old battle-ax. She saw a dead body last night."

  "She will be seeing another one if you do not fix that radiator in my apartment. Do you want me to freeze to death?"

  "Is that a trick question?" Pops mumbled, as he dutifully followed her up the stairs.

  "And I thought my family was dysfunctional," Jones whispered.

  "Hey, they function just fine, if a bit…colorfully. It's not easy, being an Italian living in the land of the good ol' boy and the Southern Belle. Nana and Aunt Cecily had to carve out their niche with a stick of dynamite. Pops is used to it, and he gives as good as he gets."

  "I didn't mean any offense."

  I winked at him. "None taken. I knew we probably seem like a bunch of hokey screwballs to you."

  He stared into my eyes and murmured, "Not at all."

  I got lost in his gaze and the small smile tugging up the corner of his lips. Donna cleared her throat, and the moment ended.

  "So, how about we take a look at those pictures?" I asked.

  Jones pulled a memory card from his camera and booted up his laptop. Donna's cell phone bleated out the theme from Desperate Housewives. She looked down at the display. "Uh-oh, it's the daycare. I'll take this outside."

  Jones scooted over in the booth. "Would you care to sit down?"

  Sitting next to him, I snuck a few looks at his computer screen as he clicked with his wireless mouse. I was filled with nervous energy, my knee bouncing manically as I waited for Donna to return, for Aunt Cecily or Pops to reappear and start sniping at one another again. Anything to end this tense and awful silence.

  What the hell was wrong with me? Last night, Jones and I had danced, flirted, and talked like normal people, yet now I couldn't look him in the eye, or say anything halfway intelligent. Perhaps because he was Lizzy's half-brother, or maybe it was the fact that he'd been with me when I found Zoltan Farnsworth's dead body that made me feel as though I was wearing a wool bodysuit in one hundred degree heat.

  His hand, warm and smooth, covered mine, and I yelped. "Andrea, relax."

  "Sorry, I guess I'm still a bit squirrely."

  "It's understandable," he said, "after last night."

  I really didn't want to cop to the fact that it was his presence making me so edgy, not the dead pastry chef. That seemed a little heartless and self-centered. The door opened, and Donna reentered. "Listen, I have to go. Pippa hit her head, and I have to take her to the doctor to make sure she doesn't have a concussion."

  "Hold on a sec." I leapt up and scuttled back to the kitchen. Tossing together a carry out meal for five complete with garlic bread and a large container of marinara, took under a minute. Aunt Cecily was organized to the point of OCD. "Dinner's on me—just heat and serve. Give me a call later, and let me know how she's doing."

  "Will do, and thank you." Donna nodded to Jones. "Nice to meet you."

  Jones held the door for her. What a gentleman. "You as well."

  With no other distraction, Jones and I stared at each other. Either the air was charged with electricity, or the chemistry between us was ready to light something on fire.

  "Shall we?" He gestured to the computer.

  Nodding, I sat next to him as we got down to work.

  Tortellini Salad

  What you'll need:

  16 ounces cheese tortellini, cooked, rinsed and drained

  1 large orange pepper, c
hopped, seeds removed

  1 large yellow pepper, chopped, seeds removed

  1 1/2 cups cherry tomatoes halved

  3/4 cup shredded Parmesan cheese

  1/4 cup freshly chopped basil

  1/4 cup freshly chopped parsley

  1/2 cup balsamic vinegar

  1/4 cup sugar

  1/2 cup extra virgin basil-infused olive oil

  1/2 teaspoon Nature's Seasoning

  Salt and pepper to taste

  In a large bowl, combine tortellini, peppers, tomatoes, Parmesan cheese, and basil. Stir until combined. Mix last 5 ingredients for dressing.

  Add the balsamic dressing and gently stir until all of the ingredients are coated with dressing. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. Place tortellini salad in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes before serving. Serve chilled.

  **Andy's note: At first blush, cold tortellini doesn't seem all that appetizing, but on a hot summer day with a burger right off the grill or barbecue chicken or even on its own, a bowl of tortellini hits the spot. Try it with a basil mojito for true decadence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "There's nothing here," I griped several hours later. Jones had taken hundreds of candid shots, and we'd gone over every single one multiple times. At first we'd just scanned the faces, then I double-checked the list of everyone who'd been at the party. At the time I'd figured Lizzy had probably been namedropping so I saw all the important people who were coming to her event. I was grateful for the details in the aftermath.

  Though we'd been interrupted several times by pasta shop patrons—whom I had, of course, waited on—it felt as though we'd been at it for days. My eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen, and all the images were beginning to look alike. "We don't even know what we're looking for."

  "Suspicious activity?" Jones clicked on the next thumbnail. More well-dressed people, laughing and dancing, no killer in plain sight.

  "I'm starting to see boogeymen in the bushes. Maybe we should just hand this over to the police and call our civic duty done." Sliding out of the booth, I headed for the pasta counter. "You hungry?"

  "Starving." Jones stood too, stretching his back. "This is a nice little place. Homey."

  I fixed him a plate of linguini and one for myself as well. "Thanks. I always thought so."

  "So are you going to work here full time?" he asked.

  I retrieved a pitcher of sweet tea from the mini fridge. "Honestly, I don't know how much longer this place will be around."

  "Why's that?"

  I gestured to the front door. "You've been here with me all day. How many people have come in, five, six? I'm starting to see why Pops is so down in the dumps. It's hard to just sit around and watch your business die."

  Jones twirled his fork in his pasta. "Sounds as though your business could use CPR."

  "Yeah, unfortunately I'm not exactly trained for breathing life into a dying career. I'm more of the deliver-the-death-knell type."

  "Is that why you're so driven to find out who killed Chef Farnsworth? To prove yourself to the people around here?"

  Though I hadn't actually thought about it in those terms, I knew his diagnosis was right. "Yeah, I guess I'm sick of being a victim of circumstance."

  "We are all victims of circumstance, Andrea. The trick is to not play the part of the victim."

  "And how exactly do I do that?" The question came out soft, breathy. He'd moved closer, and I studied his face, searching for something, though just like looking at the digital pictures, I wasn't exactly sure what.

  Jones smiled down at me. "If I figure it out, you'll be the first one to know."

  His lips touched mine, just a gentle press, but there it was. That sizzle of connection zipping up my spine. I leaned in closer, and his hands came up to cup my face. In that moment I knew what had been missing from my life, and it had nothing to do with proving myself to anyone else and everything to do with the gaping hole of need and fear yawning inside me.

  Kissing Jones filled that dark pit and shone light into the furthest corners of my soul. Suddenly the world was a wonderful place to be and I was so grateful to be here, in this imperfect body, sharing this perfect moment with him.

  The bell over the pasta shop jingled, and we broke apart reluctantly. "Can I help…?"

  Turning, I saw Lizzy's stricken face as she got an eyeful of me almost necking with her half-brother. Crud muffins, this wasn't going to be pretty.

  "You," she seethed and marched over to me. I barely had any time to react before she was in my face, hurling accusations. "Isn't it enough that you stole Kyle from me? Now you're seducing my brother! What the hell is wrong with you?"

  Jones, probably afraid there would be a catfight, gripped her shoulder and called her name, trying to get her attention. She shrugged him off, otherwise ignoring him, dead set on coming after me. This fight was a long time in coming.

  I squared my shoulders and tried to look down my nose at her, an expression Pops had always pulled off so well. Wasn't easy when she had two inches on me, but I had righteous indignation on my side. "Actually, he's the one seducing me, and if you don't mind I'd like to get back to it."

  For a moment, I thought I actually saw smoke billow from her nostrils. My calm affectation definitely had her blood pressure up.

  "Lizzy," Jones tried again. "Why are you so upset?"

  She turned to him, giving me her profile. "Because I'm the only one who sees how horrible she is! Andy gets whatever she wants, and then she messes it all up! She ruins everything she touches! Kyle was a wreck for years after she left, and now that she's back he's acting strange again! It's so wrong, and I don't want to see the same thing happen to you?"

  Ouch. I sank onto a bar stool, all the starch oozing out of my spine. Melodramatic as it was, her little speech struck a chord in me. Ruins everything she touches…

  "Get her out of here." Pops ordered from the doorway between the pasta shop and Aunt Cecily's apartment. "Don't come back until you can apologize to my granddaughter, missy."

  "Your laptop," I tried to close out the program but Jones waved me off.

  "I'll come back for it in the morning. I'm sorry Andrea—I better see her home," Jones murmured. Lizzy seemed to collapse inward once she spoke her piece, and with one broad arm around her, he ushered her out into the night.

  Pops and I stared at one another, listening as the engine for Jones's SUV turned over and he reversed out of the parking lot.

  "Well, that was fun." I made the sarcastic offering, but my tone came out flat.

  "Andy girl," Pops started, but seemed at a loss.

  "Save it, Pops. I'm fine." Or I would be, eventually. Standing up, I closed out Jones's laptop and began unloading the massive vats full of leftovers from the counter. "What do we do with all this stuff?"

  "I've been donating it to St. Bart's. They sponsor a shelter for needy families."

  Sounded like a good idea to me. I helped pack up the food, wash out the pots and pans and, since the van was still in police custody, we loaded up the Town Car. Aunt Cecily was nowhere to be seen, so I locked up. "Do you know where Aunt Cecily went?"

  Pops didn't meet my gaze. "Could be anywhere."

  Such a shame that those two couldn't get along better. The best times when I was growing up were when we all got together for Sunday dinner, Nana and Aunt Cecily busy in the kitchen, Pops watching baseball in the living room, me and Kyle making out on the back porch swing, the sounds of night peepers breaking up the stillness.

  Ruins everything she touches.

  Nope, I was going to take my cues from another Southern Belle and think about that tomorrow. If at all.

  The shelter was off county road thirty-six, just down the way from St. Bart's, the largest Catholic Church in three counties. Here in the land of the Baptist, the Catholic churches were fewer and farther in between. Both Nana and Aunt Cecily had been Catholic, even though Nana had married a protestant. Still, she'd dragged first my mother, and then me, to church at
St. Bart's for Mass every Sunday. Nana had wanted me to go to CCD class, get confirmed, and be a good Catholic, but my mother had done all that, and I didn't want to follow in her footsteps. I was happier keeping my relationship with the Almighty between myself and God, no outsourcing required.

  "Ho there, Irene!" Pops called out.

  Irene? Who was Irene? I didn't recognize her until she circled around in a shiny black Lexus. Irene Tillman, Lizzy's mother.

  "Eugene, good to see you." Mrs. Tillman smiled warmly at Pops and me. "You too, Andy."

  "You're here almost every night lately," Pops remarked as he unloaded a huge metallic warming bin.

  Mrs. Tillman nodded a conformation. "After what happened at the engagement party, I don't like being at the house by myself. Lizzy has taken to spending all her time with Kyle, and I just need to be with people." She shuddered visibly. "Here, let me give you a hand with that.

  Ignoring her cream sheath dress, she juggled a platter of meatballs and her purse.

  "Well, these folks sure do appreciate all that you do." Even my gruff old grandfather admired Beaverton's paragon of goodness and light. I'd heard him call her a "class act" on more than one occasion, a category he usually reserved just for Nana.

  Carrying the first load of food, we trudged down the stone steps to the shelter. Though the place was packed full to bursting, it was eerily quiet, as though the souls within were too beaten down to make much noise other than the requisite sounds of life. Big folding tables had been lined up, and men, women, and most depressingly, children, sat waiting for their turn to eat.

  As I watched a little girl hug a grubby stuffed giraffe, suddenly my problems, though they were many, didn't seem so big. At least I had a roof over my head and a hot meal any time I wanted it. I had family to turn to and even a glimmer of hope that things would someday get better. I had to give Irene credit for coming face to face with this sort of despair every day, because I doubted I could handle it.

  After the truck was unloaded, Pops donned gloves and a hair net and set to serving the food. I helped for a while, but once everyone was served I itched to get out of there. Sensing my mood, Pops told me to take a break, and I trudged up the stairs. Though I didn't have a specific goal in mind when I started out, my feet carried me down the hill between the shelter and the Church itself and under the stone arch that led to the cemetery,