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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  We set out across the meadow, me asking questions about Lizzy and Kyle's wedding. Honestly I didn't give a fig, but she talked animatedly about the flowers, the guest list, Lizzy's dress, which was a Vera Wang original, naturally.

  We were halfway up the hill when I yawned. "Excuse me."

  "Are you all right?" she asked as I stumbled over nothing.

  "I'm not sure." I was having trouble getting back up. I looked up, but her features had gone indistinct. My body felt slack as lethargy crept over me. Something was very wrong. The world started to spin, and I clung to the grass so I wouldn't go flying off.

  A hand went under my arm and Irene, who was definitely stronger than she looked, pulled me upright. "Here we are."

  "Where?" I looked around in confusion. My thoughts were slow and dim, as though a bulb had blown in my brain.

  "The end of the line," Irene said just before my world went dark.

  Spring Fling Pasta

  What you'll need:

  12 ounces cooked rotini

  2 tablespoons extra virgin basil-infused olive oil

  5 ounces sliced prosciutto, torn into large pieces

  1/4 pound cooked, chopped pancetta

  2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

  3 green onions, chopped

  1/2 cup water

  1 chicken bullion cube

  6 cups baby spinach

  Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

  2 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

  1/4 cup fresh basil leaves, sliced into strips

  Heat the oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add the prosciutto and pancetta, and cook until crisp, about 2 minutes per side. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate.

  Add the garlic and onions to the skillet and cook until softened, about 2 minutes.

  Add the broth, peas, spinach, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/8 teaspoon pepper, and bring to a boil. Toss with the pasta, feta, basil, and prosciutto

  **Andy's note: Prosciutto is Italian ham, but cooks up like bacon. Pancetta is uncured Italian bacon. Bacon plus bacon or in other words, magnifico!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Other than allergy medication and the occasional Tylenol, I'd never taken drugs before. I wasn't a big drinker either, and the woozy, out of control feeling I had when I came to was completely foreign.

  Irene Tillman stood over me, a small silver pistol in her hand. The way she stood with her legs shoulder-width apart, arms straight, eyes narrowed, I knew she meant to kill me.

  I couldn't help it. I started to laugh. Somewhere deep within my mind I was terrified, but that part was buried under layers, like Aunt Cecily's work uniform. She looked ridiculous in her pink linen suit and strappy sandals, ready to blow me away like it was high noon at the O.K. Corral and I was some gun slinging badass. Any minute now My Little Pony would charge in trailing sparkles instead of dust and they'd ride off into the sunset.

  "Get up," Irene said. Her eyes were different, colder, like someone had sucked all the do-gooder personality right out of her.

  I thought about it for a second and decided up was too much effort. Hey, if she was gonna kill me, at least I didn't need to worry about cardio anymore. Though my reaction was completely inappropriate, my brain was still piecing the situation together. Slowly, but things had started to make sense.

  "What's wrong with me?"

  "I put GHB in your tea." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was talking about adding lemon.

  I made a face. "Isn't that a date rape drug?"

  "Perfect for my purposes." Her tone was confident. "Everyone will believe that Malcolm slipped you the drug, but you overdosed, so he buried your body to hide his crime."

  Right away I saw a big hole in her plan, and my drug-loosened tongue had to blurt it out. "Jones wouldn't need to drug me to get me into bed."

  "He wouldn't be the first man to indulge in a rape fantasy," she said. "The people in this town are ready to believe anything about him. I made sure of it."

  An evil mastermind in pink linen. "It was you. You killed Farnsworth."

  "I loved him." Though her voice trembled, the hand gripping her pistol never wavered.

  "Love stinks," I slurred. "Believe me, I know. But still, did you have to off him?"

  The words sounded too funny, and I started to laugh again.

  "He betrayed me, betrayed my trust. I gave him everything, helped build his career until he was famous, and he threw me over for that little slut."

  "You're married." Even in my stupor, I knew that wasn't a smart thing to say. Reasoning with the unreasonable never worked.

  "I am, and I need to stay that way. That dog intended to tell my husband. He tried to blackmail me. Me! I gave him everything, and he threatened to destroy me." Her outrage echoed in the still meadow.

  "He was a jackass," I said. "I'm sorta glad you killed him."

  She looked down at where I sprawled in the dirt. "Get up. There can't be drag marks. He'd be able to carry you."

  I was lost. "Farnsworth?"

  "Jones," she said as if I were thick.

  It occurred to me then that she really did intend to kill me. "Where is he?" And where was Mimi?

  She ignored my question and gripped me by the hair. I shrieked and slapped at her but moved up into her grasp to ease the pain in my scalp.

  "I don't understand," I sulked like an irritable teenager. "Why me? What did I ever do to you?"

  She led me around the massive pile of displaced dirt, toward a massive hole that was about ten feet deep. "It's nothing personal. If you hadn't involved yourself in my business I would have left you alone."

  The image of Farnsworth's body, the knife in his back, surfaced. "What about the message, welcome home?"

  She actually looked surprised. "That was for Malcolm. You just had incredibly bad timing."

  "It's a character flaw." Sense got a toe hold, and I started to struggle against her grip. We were getting closer to that hole.

  "Don't make me shoot you," Irene warned.

  Since I'd be dead either way, I saw no reason to cooperate. She hadn't counted on my obstinate nature. Unfortunately my struggles were pathetically weak and disorganized, and she was stronger than she looked.

  She pulled me right up to the edge, but I sank my fingers into her linen suit jacket, threatening to pull her in with me.

  "Let go," she screamed.

  "As if," I dug in deeper.

  She stepped back, wobbled, and fell. I landed on top of her, a sack of well-fed Italian deadweight. She coldcocked me with the butt of the pistol, and I rolled off. She struggled to her feet. Coated in mud and sporting a triumphant grin, she grabbed hold of my ankle and dragged me toward the pit.

  "Please," I whispered and then started to sob. The drug had brought all of my emotions to the surface, all the things I buried down deep like layers of lasagna. I thought of the people who would mourn me. Pops and Aunt Cecily, Donna and Mimi. And Jones, who would be blamed for my murder while this whack-o woman got away with it. "I don't want to die."

  We were right at the edge. All she had to do was roll me in. My fingers sank into the ground, looking for purchase, but there was only loose dirt, nothing to hold on to.

  A loud clang registered, and I flinched, prepared for pain, feeling nothing. My gaze flew upwards just in time to see Irene's eyes roll back in her head. She crumpled to the ground. Mimi stood behind her, holding a cast iron frying pan that I recognized from Jones's kitchen.

  "Holy macaroni," I breathed. "You saved me."

  Mimi nudged Irene's limp body with her foot. "Is she dead?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Oh," Mimi said. I couldn't tell if she was disappointed or not.

  In the distance, I heard sirens. "Did you call the police?"

  "No. I was hiding in the woods."

  I pushed up off the ground and crawled away from Irene Tillman's body and the hole she'd intended to be my grave.

  "Andrea!"

  I looked up and sagged when I saw
Jones running toward us. Somehow I found the effort to struggle to my feet, and then I was in his arms.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. "What did she do to you?"

  "Nothing permanent." The sirens were drawing closer. "Though I feel like I'm going to throw up."

  I went back down to my hands and knees. Jones held my hair, just in case. What a guy.

  "You need to go to the hospital," he said.

  "Okay," I whispered.

  "No argument?" He rolled me onto my side.

  "Maybe later."

  He caressed my cheek in a tender motion, those blue eyes bright with relief. "Something to look forward to."

  * * *

  There wasn't much the hospital could do for me that Jones hadn't done already. Luckily, no concussion, though the bump on my head was ugly.

  "You're good to go." The ER doctor clicked off the penlight he'd been shining in my eyes. "Just try to rest and stay hydrated."

  "What about you?" I asked Jones. Irene had also dosed him with GHB, presumably to keep him out of the way while she took care of me.

  "I was checked out by the EMTs. She under-dosed me so I shook off the effects faster. I weigh more than I look."

  "Lucky you."

  "Do you feel up to talking to the police?" he asked. "They're waiting outside.

  "Might as well get all the unpleasantness over with at once."

  Detective Brown stood when Jones helped me out of the semiprivate cubical. "Ms. Buckland, how are you feeling?"

  "Bleck," I grumbled, eliciting a smile from Jones.

  The Detective's dark eyes were sympathetic. "I won't keep you long today, I promise. Tell me everything you remember."

  It was hazy, and I probably got several things out of order, but I did the best I could.

  Brown nodded. "That corroborates with what Mimi said. She went to the Tillman's house this morning but heard Irene shouting at her housekeeper, recognized her voice and ran to tell Jones. She said your doors were locked, and your rental car was gone."

  Jones nodded. "I returned it early this morning. Lizzy gave me a ride home. I must have been down in the darkroom when Mimi showed up."

  "Mimi waited for Mrs. Tillman to leave so she could sneak back to town without her seeing. She never did."

  I frowned. "When I called, Marguerite said she was out, and Kyle told me Lizzy and her mother were going to Raleigh for the day."

  Brown's smile was grim. "Mrs. Tillman's housekeeper told us that she canceled her plans with her daughter at the last minute and sent her to Raleigh with her credit card."

  Jones swore low. "She used her housekeeper to establish an alibi. Meanwhile I was out from the pitcher of GHB-laced ice tea Marguerite had dropped off. She really did intend to blame it all on me."

  I squeezed his hand. Poor Jones. Then a thought occurred. "Wait a second, what about the brake lines? How did she pull that off? And why?"

  "You provided an alibi for him at the engagement party," Detective Brown pointed out. "According to her housekeeper, she wanted him gone, one way or another. And as to the how, did you know that Irene Murphy Tillman was the original owner of Mike's Garage, back when it used to be Murphy's Garage? She sold it to him almost thirty years ago, right after she married your father."

  "You're putting me on," I uttered, shaking my head. The philanthropic-sociopath-mechanic. Go figure.

  "My hand to God." Detective Brown smiled. "I have a very credible source on that, and I checked the county records and found the invoice for the sale."

  I snorted. Credible witness my foot, he'd just asked Irma Getz, the busybody.

  "She's not going to die, is she?" It was Mimi's soft voice that spoke. She'd snuck into the room quietly, her big eyes filled with dread.

  Detective Brown shook his head. "No. She has a concussion, and the doctor wanted to keep her overnight for observation, but she's already been charged with attempted murder, and first degree manslaughter. Don't worry. We know it was self-defense on your part."

  Technically it was my defense, but I didn't feel the need to enlighten him.

  Mimi shifted her weight from foot to foot. Something was eating at her, but she waited until Detective Brown left the room. "Will your aunt fire me now?"

  "What? Of course not."

  "Really?" Her expression was wary, this poor girl who'd been abandoned and used and made to feel like she didn't matter.

  "Mimi, you saved my life. Aunt Cecily will probably name a dish after you. I promise you can work at the pasta shop for as long as you like." And it would be a good long while. Donna had been by earlier to report we had several months worth of catering events set up, all the way out to Christmas.

  "That will be wonderful." Her smile was genuine.

  "I know you want to be a pastry chef, not a pasta chef. Maybe you can convince Aunt Cecily that we should expand our menu."

  Mimi nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Thank you."

  "I'm the one who owes you thanks. For everything."

  Jones was quiet as he drove me back to the house on Grove Street and helped me up the stairs to my room. No one was home, and I was glad Pops and Aunt Cecily hadn't heard about my latest mishap. It would be all over town soon.

  He sat on the edge of my bed, expression haggard.

  "It's not your fault," I told him. "She's nuts."

  "Maybe so, but if I had just left after I saw that message, the way she wanted, maybe none of this would have happened."

  My heart beat a little faster. "Are you going to leave now?"

  But he shook his head. "No, Lizzy will need my support through what's going to happen next."

  A deep sigh escaped, and I felt secure enough to close my eyes.

  "What about you?" Jones asked. "Are you going to return to Atlanta?"

  "Only to clean out my apartment." A job that might take all of an afternoon. After growing up with Nana and Pops and their hoarding, I couldn't stand clutter.

  "So, you plan to stay in Beaverton?"

  I cracked one eye. "Do we have to talk about this now?"

  He grinned down at me, blue eyes alight with mischief. "I have orders to make fat babies with you. I want to make sure their mother intends to stick around."

  "You think you're funny, but—"

  He pressed his lips to mine, silencing me mid-quip. I gave myself up to it; a kiss of comfort, of passion, and of promise.

  The sound of a Town Car hitting the curb broke our private bubble. Through the window Jones had opened I heard a gruff male voice say, "Slicker than cat spit," followed by a slew of Italian curses.

  I sighed and lay back on my pillows, my finger's laced through Jones's. Soon enough he would have to leave, to check up on his sister and deal with his family crisis. But for now, he was right where I wanted him, with me.

  "Figlio stolto di un maiale. Sarete macellato!"

  "What did she say?" Jones curled up next to me on the bed.

  "I will slaughter you, foolish son of a pig," I sighed.

  It was good to be home.

  Bowtie Bake

  What you'll need:

  12-16 ounces farfalle (bowtie pasta)

  1 pound ground beef

  1 clove of garlic

  1 teaspoon sugar

  Salt and pepper to taste

  24 ounces tomato sauce

  1 scallion/ green onion

  3 ounces cream cheese

  1 cup sour cream

  Cheddar cheese for topping

  Preheat oven to 350. Brown meat and garlic. Add sauce, sugar, salt, and pepper. Cover and cook 15 to 20 minutes. Cook the pasta. Mix the cream cheese and sour cream together. Chop the scallion, and mix into the cream cheese mixture. Layer cooked pasta, meat sauce, cream cheese mixture, and cheddar. Bake until it bubbles.

  **Andy's note: Sharp cheddar enhances the flavor of this dish best, like a hamburger, spaghetti, and macaroni and cheese combined. The only thing better, is another serving. Ciao!

  Author's Note:

  Many thanks to Gi
nger Smith and Liane Gentry Sky for their tasty recipe contributions.

  Special thanks to Carl for answering my many questions regarding color blindness and being a color blind photographer. Malcolm Jones wouldn't have been the same without thecolorblindphotographer.com and Carl's insight.

  The drug GHB can often cause blackouts, especially in amounts over 2 grams. Overdoses can cause coma or death, especially in combination with alcohol. For the purposes of this story, both Andy and Jones retained their memories.

  Italian translations came mostly from my lone semester of Italian many moons ago and Google Translate. Any mistakes I've made are mine alone.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Former navy wife turned author Jennifer L. Hart loves a good mystery as well as a good laugh and a happily ever after is a must. When she's not playing with her imaginary friends or losing countless hours on social media, she spends her free time experimenting with both food and drink recipes and wishing someone else would clean up. Since she lives with three guys and a beagle, that's usually not the case. Her works include The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag series and Murder Al Dente.

  Visit Jennifer L. Hart online at: www.jenniferlhart.com

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  BOOKS BY JENNIFER L. HART

  Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries:

  Murder Al Dente

  Misadventures of the Laundry Hag Mysteries:

  Skeletons in the Closet

  Swept Under the Rug

  All Washed Up