My grimace was pure reflex. I recalled finding Zoltan Farnsworth's body and the creepy message in the flour. Then I thought about the feeling of acceptance I'd had at Emma's little get-together, at least before Lizzy's proclamation. The eagerness of Mrs. Bradford for the Bowtie Angel to have a booth in the Spring Fling and the compliments Mrs. Tillman had made on my catering.
I thought about my sad little one-bedroom apartment in Atlanta. Not one person I knew had called to check on me after Flavor TV had canned me. The only things waiting for me there were bills I couldn't afford to pay and the possibility of lawsuits from my debut debacle.
I thought about Jones and smiled. "I'm getting there."
Pops grinned back. "It's good to see you happy, sweetheart. Now he just needs to make an honest woman of you."
"Practice what you preach, Pops."
He made a disgruntled sound but then said, "I'll tell you what. I'll stay out of your love life if you stay out of mine. How does that sound?"
"Totally doable. Now, we have to put our plan into action."
"And squeak it by a small, Sicilian force of nature."
"Amen," I said, and we clinked coffee mugs.
The Perfect Side Salad
With all the pasta, cheese, and meats, Italian dishes can be heavy on the stomach. To ensure your guests enjoy your meal without overindulging, I recommend making a terrific salad to accompany the main event. The best salads are both visually and texturally diverse, and there's no need to saturate them with heavy salad dressing. I like to use three different kinds of lettuce, accompanied by artfully sliced sweet bell peppers, a little red onion, carrot curls, and thinly sliced cucumber. Radishes, artichokes, chick peas—there are no limits here! Pick whatever appeals to you visually at the market, make sure it's fresh, and serve with a light vinaigrette and some crumbled feta. And if you're doing a theme European dinner, remember that the salad is served after the main course.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"No," Aunt Cecily gave me her squinty eyed death glare.
Of course. Pops and I exchanged glances. Earlier we'd done a paper, rock, scissors thing to see who started off as the voice of reason and took on her wrath. Pops had lost seven out of ten.
"Cecily," Pops began, then cleared his throat when her scary expression didn't ease. I wasn't sure what their relationship dynamic was—other than bizarre—but Pops had gained no influence from it.
"Aunt Cecily, listen to me." I cleared my throat. "You have more than enough food to provide for a pasta-eating contest. It will be great publicity for the Bowtie Angel."
"What you speak of is gluttonous and wasteful. Where I come from people do not waste good food for such nonsense."
"I already have a couple of professional eaters interested in participating. Jones has agreed to help photograph the food." Or he would when I got a chance to ask him. Either way the crusty old matchmaker brightened at the thought of Jones being included in the family business.
"Mimi will help me at the booth," I went on, pleading our case. Aunt Cecily had taken a shine to Chef Farnsworth's cowed assistant. Maybe because she didn't have to break her will. "Pops and I will handle all of it. You don't need to do anything differently from any other day."
She said nothing for a minute, which was better than her standard "no." "You really think this nonsense will help?"
"I really do." I'd already written a press release with the header, Former Celebrity Chef Set to Save Family Business and started Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts for the Bowtie Angel. Old world pasta with new age marketing. If this didn't save the pasta shop, nothing would.
"Do as you will. I must make the pasta." Cecily turned her back on us.
"That could have gone worse," I said to Pops.
"Much worse," he agreed. "What do you need me to do?"
I was tempted to say cook the books and find me some money to pull the event off without a hitch. But lack of finances was the problem we were trying to fix. "Pray we can pull this off."
Much to my surprise, the Bowtie Angel had a steady stream of customers throughout the day. Between my televised debacle, Chef Farnsworth's murder, and the rumor that Jones and I were house hunting together, everyone in town wanted a slice of the Death Chef. And there was nothing like gossip to work up an appetite.
"Andy, I'm so happy you convinced her to join the fun." Mrs. Bradford beamed at me over her container of turkey tetrazzini when she stopped by for lunch. There was a twinkle in her eye when she asked, "Will you be at our committee meeting tonight?"
"Sure will." I couldn't say I looked forward to my new obligations as public relations director for the pasta shop, but I was a better choice than Aunt Cecily who, "refused to suffer tomfoolery."
I kept an eye out for Jones, hoping he would pop by. As the afternoon went on with no sight of him, my enthusiasm started to wane. Though I'd lost count of how many times I'd checked my phone for messages, I slid it out of my pocket and checked again.
I stuffed the phone back into my pocket with more force than necessary and hefted the fresh container of marinara. Terrific, he was turning me into that girl. Would it kill him to send a text, for crying out loud?
The doorbell jingled and Kyle walked in. Not the last person I wanted to see—that was Lizzy—but still, the way the happy buzz of chatter died away at his arrival soured my mood further.
"Andy." He removed his hat at me in classic small southern town sheriff style. I wondered if he practiced in his bathroom mirror. The boy I'd loved in high school was barely visible in the man before me. "Can we talk somewhere in private?"
Irma Getz had practically fallen out of her chair to hear what he said. For the sake of her hip replacement, I ushered Kyle into the small, windowless office.
I crossed my arms over my breasts and stood as far from him as the small space allowed. Kyle had been trying to corner me since I'd come back to town, and now he'd succeeded. "So, is this business or personal?"
"We got the analysis back on the pool of blood," he said. "It was pig's blood, not human. Considering the way it was staged, we're assuming it was a prank. I've contacted the homeowners. They said they had an altercation with the kid that used to mow their lawn. Apparently he hadn't shown up in a month, and they fired him. His new job is cleaning chitlins at the slaughterhouse over on route 467. One of the deputies is bringing him in for questioning, but I'm pretty sure that we're dealing with a nasty trick here. My guess—he broke in and left them that nasty little surprise."
I blew out a breath. "That's a relief, I guess."
Kyle's gaze stayed on my face. "About Jones—"
"Don't start in on me, Kyle. Mrs. Getz probably has a glass pressed to the office door, and I don't want it getting around that I was brawling with the Sheriff."
He put his hands up in classic slow down there girl style. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, mostly because I know you'll do whatever you damn well please. Lizzy told me that she walked in on the two of you this morning, so I'm not trying to warn you off of him."
Before I thought about it, I took a step closer. "Then what are you trying to do?"
"Hell if I know." Kyle put his hands on his hips and stared at his shoes. "You always were stubborn as the day is long. Once you got a notion in your head, it wouldn't leave come hell or high water."
My lips twitched. "Well, it runs in the family. Both sides. I was doomed from the start."
His eyes searched my face, golden brown even under the crappy fluorescent office lights. Once upon a time, I'd seen forever in those eyes. Now, there was only shared history and good intentions.
Kyle clapped his hat back on his head. "I'd better head out."
"Hang on a second." I pulled out my wallet and extracted the only picture I carried everywhere I went. The photo of our daughter was old and creased, but her face was still clear. She was about seven in the shot, missing a tooth on the bottom, shown off by a happy grin.
Kyle's hand shook as he took the picture from me and
studied her face. My dark hair, his brown eyes my nose, his chin, I'd lost count of the number of times I'd tallied them in my head. Our features, combined with a spirit all her own. I held my tongue as he drank her in like a man dying of dehydration.
"Does she know?" he whispered, his voice tight with feeling. "About us?"
I shrugged, though the barb in my heart pressed deeper. "That's really up to her adoptive parents to decide. They kept the name I picked though. Kaylee."
"Kaylee," he breathed. Then before I knew it, he wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug.
I was stunned at first, unused to being so close to him and more so when I discovered he was shaking, literally trembling with feeling.
"It's okay," I told him. I knew how he felt, after all, understood the emotions churning inside of him. I'd succumbed to all of them over the years.
Kyle drew back, and I saw a sheen of tears in his eyes. My shoulders squared. I wouldn't let him make me feel guilty, and I prepared a laundry list of reasons why Kaylee was better off where she was than with us.
Instead, Kyle surprised me. "Thank you."
"I should have shown it to you sooner." Although showing him a picture of his daughter at his engagement party was a little crass. But I could have scanned and emailed it to him years ago, when I'd first received it.
"No, not for the picture, though it's great to see her. I meant, thank you for making the hard choice. It was the right thing to do, for all three of us."
My mouth fell open, and I made an unintelligible sound. Never in a million years would I have expected him to say so.
"I did want to marry you, to raise her with you," he said. "But I didn't know what that would take back then. Remember Lance and Dotty? They had a kid right after graduation and then two more. Both of them always look so wrung out, and their kids are constantly getting into trouble at school, and I've had them at the Sheriff's office more than once. I'm just…I'm glad Kaylee is better off, is all."
After that speech there was no way I couldn't kiss him. It was a passionless peck, a kiss of gratitude for saying words I'd desperately needed to hear, confirmation that I'd made the right choice and that my loss wasn't all for nothing. If I'd been thinking clearly I probably would have hugged him or simply said thank you for that. But I was too busy feeling to think.
The door to the office opened as our lips met, and I heard a gasp.
Kyle and I broke apart and turned to see two sets of pissed off blue eyes.
Lizzy and Jones had stopped in for a visit.
Tetrazzini
What you'll need:
10 ounces Portobello mushrooms
1/3 cup flour
1 teaspoon salt
Dash of pepper
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
10 ounces chicken broth
1 1/2 cup milk
16 ounces cooked rotini
3 cups cooked chicken or turkey, cut small.
1 cup grated cheddar cheese
Preheat oven to 350. Sauté the mushrooms in extra virgin olive oil. Remove from heat. Stir in flour, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Cook 1-2 minutes more to brown the flour. Gradually stir in milk and broth. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly for two minutes, until slightly thickened.
Add cooked pasta and meat gradually into sauce to coat. Mix in some of the cheese, and layer in a 12 x 12 pan or similar volume casserole dish, adding more cheese between layers. Cover with foil and bake 35-40 minutes, until heated through.
**Andy's note: This recipe is a terrific use for leftover turkey, which dries out quickly. Add it to your menu the weekend after Thanksgiving to add a new spin to eating up leftovers. Your family might even thank you for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"It's not what it looks like," is probably the most idiotic phrase in the history of speech. Still, I didn't have anything better on tap.
"How could you?" Lizzy's glare was focused on Kyle. Her lips had compressed into a thin line, and tears welled up in her baby blues. "Her, of all people, Kyle?" She made it sound as though he'd picked me right out of the gutter.
Jones's normally expressive eyes were flat and totally devoid of feeling.
"I can explain." Another winner, straight from the cheater's handbook. "Kyle just saw a photo of Kaylee for the first time and—"
But Lizzy didn't stick around to hear the rest of my bumbling explanation. Whirling on her three inch heels, she left in a cloud of righteous indignation and Chanel number 69 or whatever the hell she wore. Kyle tried to chase after her, but Jones blocked the doorway.
"Leave her be for now," Jones said crisply.
"Get out of the way." Kyle tried to push past him but Malcolm Jones was not a man easily moved.
"Malcolm," I began and then wished I hadn't when those icy irises fixed on me. Gone was the tender lover from the night before. The man before me was more of a stranger than when I'd rear-ended his car.
I hadn't done anything wrong, no matter how it had looked to them. "Let him go after her and explain before it's too late. We were just talking, and it was an innocent kiss. No chemistry whatsoever."
"Hey," Kyle's tone was clearly offended.
I elbowed him in the ribs. "Well, the truth hurts. Zero chemistry left. In fact, if there's such a thing as negative chemistry, we've got it. A total deficit of attraction. Now, if we're done with the drama, I have a pasta-eating contest to prep for."
I pushed past them, hoping Jones would relent so Kyle could chase Lizzy down before matters grew worse. Poor Lizzy, she was having a hell of a day.
The thought was so foreign that I stopped and mulled it over. Could I, Andy Buckland actually pity Princess Lizzy Tillman? I shrugged and continued on my way. Stranger things had happened.
Retreating to the inner sanctum of the kitchen, I sent Mimi out front to serve and answer questions. After telling her side of the story to Detective Brown, Mimi remained a curiosity to the folks in town. No news about her permanent visa yet, but by the end of the week she'd have enough local character witnesses to vouch for her. Hiring her to work at the Bowtie Angel was the smartest thing I'd done since I got back here.
Sleeping with Jones on the other hand…
Without a word, Aunt Cecily handed me the Chef's knife and gestured toward a mountain of freshly washed peppers. Bing Crosby crooned as we chopped and diced, sautéed and stirred. Aunt Cecily disappeared for a while, and I lost myself in the familiar rhythms of making fresh pasta. The Spring Fling was less than a week away, and we had to be ready on all fronts. Thoughts of Jones crept in, but I ruthlessly pushed them aside. Just because I understood where his distrust came from now didn't mean I was going to put up with it. I was tired of people always thinking the worst of me. If he was going to be a big old drama queen like his sister, I was better off washing my hands of him now.
I was elbow deep in a mountain of dishes when Mimi reentered the kitchen. Aunt Cecily hadn't complained about her once, which was like a ringing endorsement. "Aunt Cecily likes you."
"I like her, too." Mimi dried the large sauce pot and hung it on its hook. She was a fast learner.
"Really?" I raised an eyebrow, but then made a face. "Well, I think she's a step up from Farnsworth anyway. Is the shop closed?"
"Yes. And your man is waiting for you."
The pan I'd been about to rinse clattered in the sink. "Jones is still here?"
Mimi took the pan from me. "Yes. Your aunt gave him dinner."
Of course she did. "Okay. Well, take the van home when you're finished. There's a spaghetti pie in the fridge for you and Pops and Cecily. If you can make sure Pops eats, I'd appreciate it." It wouldn't hurt to have two tiny women urging him to eat.
Mimi agreed to look after my relatives. In turn, I took the other spaghetti pie from the oven, set it in a hot carrier, and turned to face the music.
Aunt Cecily stood over Jones, hawking him while he ate whatever she'd served him.
"You must feed your man. He is too thin. Thin men get restless, and then they get in
to trouble. Best to keep them fat and well satisfied."
Jones choked.
"Noted," I said, putting down the carrier to pound him on the back. "I'll take it from here."
Her eyes narrowed on me as though she doubted my words. Then she turned and left to torture Mimi some more before calling it a night. I made a mental note to give our new hire a raise as soon as fiscally possible.
"So, here you are." I studied the table. There were four empty plates stacked there. Maybe he'd had company. Though now that I thought about it, other than me, Aunt Cecily, and Lizzy, no one in town spoke to him. "How long have you been here?"
"Since you went to hide in the kitchen."
I blinked, stunned. "That was four hours ago!"
"A meal for every hour." He waved at the plates.
I sat down across from him. "Why?"
"She told you, to fatten me up."
"No, I mean why have you been sitting here all this time?"
"To apologize." He took my hand in his. "For jumping to conclusions."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "I can't believe you ate four Italian dinners for me." He might have well slayed a dragon.
The lines around his eyes crinkled as he said, "It was an arduous task, but I persevered."
"So you believe me? That there was nothing going on with Kyle?" His presence said so, but I needed to hear the words.
He nodded once. "I do. It took me a little while."
After what I'd learned last night, I understood why he'd been ready to think the worst of me. The fact that his brain had overcome his knee-jerk reaction spoke volumes. He knew me, and he trusted me. "At least you got there."
He nodded at the dish. "Are you going somewhere?"
"The Spring Fling committee meeting. It's over at the first Lutheran Church. I need to get going if I'm going to make it there on time."
Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) Page 18