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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "Did you try to work it out with her? Rochelle, I mean."

  He laughed, the sound hollow and humorless. "Would you?"

  "Hell no." My response was automatic. "But why does Lizzy think you're still married?"

  He made a face. "I was too ashamed of my naiveté to tell her the truth. Our father didn't know, and neither did her mother."

  "So she thinks I've set my sights on a married man." Fan-frigging-tastic.

  He reached out and grabbed my arms. "I will tell her, Andrea."

  Looking into his eyes, I believed him.

  More silence as the mounting tension wove a transparent tapestry between the two of us, linking us together. Or maybe that was just my needy hormones expanding to take up the entire space.

  "Would you care to see my dark room?" Jones dropped his hands and pushed up off the couch. His melodic New Zealand accent made the question sound more formal and enticing than the proposition warranted.

  I shook my head, surprised at the abrupt change of subject. Then again, maybe we needed the emotional distance. "You actually have a dark room? Here?"

  "Lizzy offered to let me use it whenever I wanted."

  "I thought digital cameras and Photoshop made a dark room redundant." I followed him through the great room with its stark color scheme.

  He shrugged. "It's soothing to produce my art photography the old-fashioned way. There's something about the smell of the chemicals and the process. An inherent nostalgia with transferring a supposedly blank piece of paper from one vat to the next until the beauty of the photo is revealed."

  "You're a romantic," I said, not really surprised.

  Jones stopped and turned to face me, wearing a rueful smile. "Maybe a little. The PI business and my personal history made me jaded. I use Photoshop for the business. It's so much more pragmatic and cost effective, especially considering my difficulties. Half the time I don't even need prints, just attach the money shot to an email. No fuss, no muss."

  From his indignant shrug, I got the impression he liked the fuss and the muss, but for once I held my tongue and let him talk, sensing he needed to after discussing his sort-of ex-wife.

  "This helps nurture my creativity in spite of my difficulties. No computers, no picture of cheating spouses or fraudulent insurance claims. Just me and a captured moment in time."

  Like I'd said, a romantic. It was true what they said about scratching the surface of any cynic and finding a wounded idealist. Hell, I ought to know. "What difficulties?"

  He slid back a pocket door and ushered me forward. "I'm color blind."

  "You're kidding." I rolled my eyes at my asinine comment. "Sorry, what I meant was…" What exactly did I mean?

  Jones waved his hand, indicating that I should haul my cookies farther down the stairs. The cellar here was in much better shape than the one over at Pop's place. A pristine white washer and dryer combo sat against the back wall, the hot water heater in the far corner. No battered cardboard boxes or rusty tools littered the cavernous room.

  Jones brushed passed me, and I caught a whiff of his spicy scent. My libido shot into overdrive. All at once I realized why he'd brought me down here.

  His past betrayals were comparable to my own, and yet there he stood, showing me a big part of his inner landscape, admitting to his flaws and mistakes, and trusting me not to hurt him. All in hopes that I'd trust him in return.

  He circled the staircase, leading me to the other side of the basement. His gaze roved to a clock on the wall, and he hesitated with his hand clasped on the knob. "I understand to what you were referring. The question on your mind probably has something to do with why I decided to become a photographer when it's obviously a challenge for me."

  The corner of my mouth kicked up as a big puzzle piece fell into place. "Ah, I get it now. You're the kind of man who thrives on challenge. Not so much an adrenaline junky, but you do like to test yourself, push your limits." And no wonder he continued to pursue me.

  Blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "I see all the mystery has leeched out of our relationship."

  Oh yeah, he was flirting, and I loved it. A little shiver started at the nape of my neck and slithered down my spine. When I spoke, my voice came out low and sultry. "So, are you gonna show me what's behind door number one?"

  He tipped his head to the side. "Some of the prints might still be wet, so watch where you put your hands."

  My mouth went dry. "Damn, you're good at this. I think I'm out of my league here."

  Chuckling in a deep, throaty way, he turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  The overhead light was a soft white bulb, no more than sixty watts, max. On the wall a red bulb sat unlit. Jones saw me staring at it and explained. "Safelights, for making the actual prints. I was going to develop one of the rolls I took at Linville. Would you like to see the process?"

  I nodded, eagerly. This little room filled with all sorts of photographic flotsam was the best hidey hole I had ever found.

  Jones moved a stack of manuals off a metal folding chair. "Have a seat. I already have my chemicals mixed, so the first part of the process you won't actually be able to watch because it must be done in complete darkness."

  "What about the safelight?" I gestured to the red bulb.

  Jones shook his head. "Not for raw film. Any light at all could fog the exposed film and ruin the images. I'm going to open the top and feed the film onto a reel."

  I sat, and Jones moved over to the door. "You aren't claustrophobic, right?"

  "No." Just lustfully incoherent at the thought of being alone in the dark with Jones. Would he try something? Would I try something? If I screamed down here in his dark room would anyone hear me? I wasn't sure if I hoped they would or that they wouldn't.

  He flipped the switch and plunged the room into total darkness. I sank my fingernails into my forearms, trembling with some unidentified emotion. "Jones?"

  "Right here." His voice was several feet from the wall with the switch, much closer to me. I hadn't heard him take a single step. "When I first started out, it would take me several minutes and complete concentration to open the canister, trim the uneven ends, and work the film onto the reel. Years of practice have made me adept at it."

  I heard a few scuffling sounds as he described the process to me. There was no way to keep track of time, or of Jones. I was fervently glad he'd made me sit this part out. "How long have you been doing this?"

  "Almost twelve years. I took a course in high school and became instantly addicted. Shield your eyes."

  I did, and the light came back on. Jones smiled down at me, and I watched his pupils shrink back to normal size. "That's done."

  He turned the canister that held the unraveled film. "Time for the chemicals." He held an amber colored measuring cup full of liquid aloft. "Developer. Watch the clock on the wall. This needs to set about seven minutes."

  Keeping one eye on the time, I watched as he poured the brew in, then turned the canister. Some tilting and tapping took place, all like a choreographed dance, and Jones knew every step. Striding over to the slop sink, he poured the liquid out into an empty tray.

  "Stop bath," he informed me as he poured a golden yellow liquid into the tank. "Keeps the negatives from continuing to be developed."

  After the stop bath came the fixer, and after that the one-minute wash, followed by the hypo and then the five-minute wash under running water.

  "All that just to get to the negatives staged," I murmured as Jones cleaned up, discarding the used chemicals into waste buckets he kept under the sink. The little canister filled with water, overflowing and spilling into the sink. "You don't even know if you have anything worth looking at yet. No wonder those one-hour photo places charged so much."

  "The process is a bit different with color. And I'm strictly a small-time operator, focusing on quality over quantity." Jones stopped the water and added a few drops of photo flow to the canister and his hands. Skillfully, he unraveled the reel and hung the strip on a makesh
ift clothesline.

  I stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder. "Wow. That's some skill set you're rocking, Jones. Color me impressed."

  He turned his head toward mine, a smile in place. Our gazes locked. I thudded back down on my heels as he turned the rest of the way around.

  "Andrea," he murmured.

  Blinking stupidly, I didn't realize I'd been backing up until my shoulder blades met the wall. "I don't think—"

  "Don't think." His lips claimed mine, cutting off my half-assed protest. My brain shrieked finally! Sinking my nails into his black T-shirt, I pulled him to the floor.

  Gorgonzola and Onion Sauce

  12 ounces spiral pasta, cooked, and drained

  1/4 cup extra virgin garlic-infused olive oil

  2 sweet onions, sliced thinly

  2 garlic cloves, crushed

  2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1/4 teaspoon pepper

  4 ounces Gorgonzola, crumbled

  Heat the oil in nonstick a skillet over medium-high heat. Add onions and cook, stirring often until they turn soft and golden brown, approximately five minutes. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute. Remove from heat. Stir in the vinegar, salt, and pepper. Pour over pasta in a large serving bowl, and toss with Gorgonzola.

  **Andy's note: Gorgonzola is one stinky cheese. Add the garlic and onion, and we could also dub this, recipe for bad breath. I strongly recommend getting your kisses in before you eat!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "I have a confession to make. I only slept with you so you'd let me play in your kitchen."

  I winked at Jones over my shoulder, and without looking, cracked an egg into the exquisite frying pan sizzling on the range top.

  "Works for me." Jones grinned appreciatively while pouring coffee into a large black mug. "As long as I get to eat the results."

  The second egg landed on my foot with a wet plop. "Damn, I think my heart just stopped."

  He laughed. "Don't start what you can't finish." Retrieving a paper towel, he bent down to clean up the mess I'd just made.

  Not wanting another kitchen disaster on my record, I forced myself to focus on the eggs, but I imagined he took advantage of the position on his knees to check out what I was wearing beneath the black button front shirt I'd snagged from his closet. Namely, nothing. I reached for the sea salt and pepper grinders, blushing furiously, unable to remember the last time I'd had so much fun.

  His lips brushed the back of my knee, and I shivered. Finished with his task, he offered me a crooked smile and turned away. Yeah, he'd definitely looked. Why the thought made me so happy I didn't know, but my attitude had done a complete one-eighty since walking through his door last night. It wasn't just the sex either, though that had been out of this world. On an orgasmic intensity scale, we're talking a perfect ten. But that moment, just being with him, teasing, getting ready to share a meal was a ray of magic in the pre-dawn blanket of night.

  I checked the electric griddle, turning the maple bacon over so it cooked evenly on both sides. "Do you have any cheese?"

  He gave me a what do you take me for kind of look and rummaged in the refrigerator. I held my breath—half afraid he'd emerge with those hideous processed American singles Pops liked to age to petrification in his dairy drawer. I should have known better.

  "Cheddar or Swiss?"

  "Cheddar, sliced thinly so it doesn't overload us with flavor." The whole grain English muffins popped out of the toaster oven, and I added a light drizzle of maple syrup to each one. "And real butter if you've got it."

  "Are you trying to kill me with cholesterol?" He put a brick of Cabot Seriously Sharp white cheddar on the counter.

  I bit my lip to keep from asking him to marry me then and there. Weren't all the best relationships based on sex and cheese? "Nana always told me it's better to have a small portion of real food than the same amount of calories in substandard highly processed junk. Obesity, cholesterol, diabetes, and the like weren't rampant problems in her time, and everyone ate like this. I don't skimp on anything when I cook, so the meal is more satisfying."

  Jones leaned against the counter. "And here I thought all you cooked was pasta."

  "Oh ye of little faith." The eggs were done, and I slid them onto the buttered muffins and added a paper thin slice of cheese on top. "You know what they say—once you go foodie you can never go back."

  After layering the bacon and the top of the muffin on one sandwich I slid the plate over to Jones. "Captain's Special, en route from Vermont. Give it a whirl."

  He took a bite, and his eyes slid shut. I grinned and sipped from his coffee cup. It really was the little things in life. "So, tell me about what happened with your ex. Have you slept with anyone since her?"

  Jones made a face as though the sandwich had turned to ash on his tongue. "This is your morning-after etiquette?"

  I rolled my eyes. "I don't have enough mornings after to have developed a plan of attack. If I'm curious, I ask. Besides, we didn't have the safe sex talk." Although we had practiced safe sex. There had been a moment of pure panic when I realized I had nothing, was totally unprepared for an adult situation, and thought we'd have to stop. The unopened box of condoms in the ebony-colored nightstand had made me sigh in relief even as it had raised questions.

  Jones finished the last of his sandwich and indicated that I should eat mine while he talked. "No, I haven't been with anyone since my marriage ended. Not that I planned it that way, but after having my heart stomped on, I wasn't looking either."

  "Until a fresh splash of Andy broke up your dry spell. I'll admit rear-ending your car was a calculated risk, but it definitely snagged your attention." Why couldn't I stop smiling?

  Jones seemed to be having the same trouble. "Exactly. How about you?"

  I grimaced. "If it's possible for virginity to grow back, I was well on my way. I haven't been with anyone since before Kaylee was born…"

  His dark blue eyes went wide. "You're telling me you hadn't slept with another man since Kyle?"

  I did a palms-up shrugging gesture. "I was focused on my career."

  He still looked stunned, and I was pretty sure if I'd had a feather on hand I could have knocked him on his sexy backside. "I…" He shook his head. "You are a constant surprise, Andrea."

  I rose to refill my coffee mug. "In a good way, I hope."

  He snagged me around the waist and dragged me down onto his lap. "The best way."

  The kiss was just heating up when the doorbell rang. With a muttered oath, he set me aside. "Who could that be? The sun's barely up."

  "You could always ignore it." My fingers threaded through his dark hair and pulled him in for another maple flavored kiss.

  "Malcolm!" Lizzy's shrill tone could have cracked a crystal goblet. "What the hell is going on?"

  Reluctantly, I scooted off his lap and headed for the door as Jones said, "Calm yourself, Elizabeth."

  I winced. Poor foolish man. Didn't he know it was never a good idea to tell a woman to calm down?

  Her shouts carried through the bedroom door as I hurriedly grabbed my clothes. I hadn't slept more than a few winks, but I was refreshed and filled with energy, ready to face the worst.

  As I exited the bedroom, Lizzy turned her wrath on me and grabbed my arm. "What is wrong with you? I tell you he's married, and you run right over here and seduce him?"

  I tugged my arm free. Jones and Kyle might kowtow to the princess, but I refused to put up with her drama. "For the record, he seduced me. And I don't see how it's any of your business what either of us do."

  "You did it in my house!" she screeched.

  "Andrea, will you leave me alone with my sister?" Jones said. "I think we need to have a conversation."

  I met and held his gaze. He was going to tell her about Rochelle. Hopefully, she would accept his explanation and not have me tarred and feathered in the town square for being the Whore of Beaverton.

  "I should get home anyway, to check on
Pops." Hopefully he was alone.

  "I'll call you later." He ignored Lizzy's strangled cry and gave me a farewell kiss.

  I left him to it, ready to tackle my own troubles. First up, a couple of love-starved senior citizens.

  * * *

  Thankfully, Pops was alone in the house when I got there. "Your little friend left for the Bowtie Angel. Cecily is very happy with her work ethic."

  "Speaking of Aunt Cecily…" I cast him a meaningful look.

  His face flushed, and he didn't say anything. Eugene Buckland was not the sort of man to be open to discussing sex with his granddaughter, but I needed him to know I was all right with it.

  So long as I didn't have to see it ever again.

  I covered his hand with mine. "Pops, it's all right. You're not betraying Nana, you know. I think she'd be glad you found a little happiness."

  A tear slid down his whiskered cheek. "I just miss her so much. She took my heart with her when she died and left me here without it. Being with Cecily, well, it's the only thing that makes me feel alive." His head jerked up, and he shifted, clearly uncomfortable

  We were tap dancing on that line again but hadn't crossed it, yet. "I get it, I do."

  "I asked her to marry me," my grandfather said, surprising me.

  "And?" I prompted.

  "She said I was a foolish old man."

  "That sounds like Aunt Cecily."

  "She won't as long as I'm determined to sell off the pasta shop." Pop's expression turned sour. "Stubborn old bat."

  I leaned back in my chair. "Did she tell you we're going to do a booth at the Spring Fling?"

  "She agreed to that?"

  "Reluctantly. I have an idea, but I'm going to need your help getting her to agree to it." Briefly, I outlined my plan.

  "Might as well convince water to run uphill," he groused. Then he squared his shoulders. "Do you really want to do this? I mean stay here in Beaverton and run the Bowtie Angel?"