Murder Al Fresco

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "What are you doing here?" I asked, but I already knew. Kaylee had gone behind my back and asked Lacey, my—blech—stepmother, to help out. And because I might just be the most unlucky person who'd ever donned an apron, Lacey had agreed.

  The positive attitude thing was way off base today.

  "I was available." Lacey's dress had a halter neckline that plunged just a tad too low to be respectable and an inappropriately short skirt to reveal her long, tanned legs. Clearly good old Jacob was a leg man. Add that to the list of things I wish I could un-know. "I am happy to help."

  "Well, thanks for stepping up." The words tasted bitter, and I spat them out quickly. Maybe at another time, when I hadn't just discovered a dead man and then been grilled like a halibut by the police, I might have offered more sincere-sounding gratitude. But I was doing my very best to pretend Jacob and Lacey did not exist, and having her in my pasta shop put a damper on that bright idea. Too bad Jones couldn't have stayed here, and I could have gone home to Clayton, even if Lizzy was with him. Lizzy trumped Lacey any day of the week and twice when I'd stumbled on a stiff.

  But no, I had a business to run, and the personal stuff had to get drop-kicked at the door. Pasting what I hoped looked like a sincere smile on my puss, I made the rounds and greeted all the diners seated at the various tables. Some were locals wanting to hobnob with celebrities or just coming in to take a break from the oppressive heat and let someone else do the cooking. Others were clearly strangers who were chowing down on lasagna, stuffed shells, and one of my newer concoctions dubbed Stuff. I welcomed them all and asked how they were enjoying the food. Once or twice I heard the whispered words "Death Chef," but I didn't let it get to me. After ensuring that the room was well in hand, I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen and stopped dead.

  There was no sign of Pops or Aunt Cecily, but Jacob-freaking-Griffin stood at the counter with Kaylee.

  "What are you doing here?" I whispered.

  He looked up from the onion he was butchering. "Just lending a hand."

  "Well, don't." My tone was sharper than I'd intended. He flinched but didn't set the knife aside and leave.

  "Andy," Kaylee began, but I ignored her.

  My gaze was all for Jacob. "You should go. We've got it covered now, thanks."

  He stared at me for a minute, his eyes narrowing as if he were weighing something. Appearing to come to a decision, he shook his head. "Whether you want to admit it or not, you're in over your head here. Your aunt and grandfather left, and there's no way you and Kaylee can handle this volume alone."

  "What do you know about running a restaurant?" I snapped.

  "Plenty. I own three of them in Atlanta," he shot back.

  That was news to me. I blinked at him, unsure of what to say.

  He pushed his advantage. "An operation this size needs a general manager, and you have zero systems in place. You may be a talented chef, but your day-to-day operations are a disaster. I can help you with that, if you'll let me."

  "This is a family business." I ground out. Had Pops left in an enraged huff when he'd laid eyes on my father? My father—holy macaroni, that was weird to even think.

  "I'm family," Jacob said quietly. "Whether you want to admit it or not."

  He was right. I did need help, though the Buckland side of me balked at the idea of copping to it.

  Instead, my gaze fixed on the haphazard pile of onions. "Well, you may know business, but your knife skills are horrific. If you want to stay, you'll work out front clearing tables and restocking the pasta dishes." There, the gauntlet was thrown down. Surely a man who owned three (three!) restaurants would balk at being demoted to busboy.

  But he simply muttered, "Yes, Chef." And then he pushed his way out into the other room.

  Letting out a relieved sigh, I took stock of the kitchen. There was a tray of stuffed shells in the oven but no more cooked pasta. "Kaylee, grab some of the pasta we made yesterday from the walk-in. We need to stay ahead of this crowd as much as possible."

  She hesitated, but I turned away, forming a mental to-do list. This kitchen was my home away from home, and having my father in my space was unsettling. I filled a pot with water and salted it heavily. First vermicelli, then rotini.

  Kaylee returned with the pasta. "Are you mad at me?"

  A watched pot never boils, but I wasn't ready to look at her, so I turned toward the mess of onions instead. "You knew I didn't want them here, especially not him. Why did you invite them after I specifically told you not to?"

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But Aunt Cecily seemed so tired, and I didn't know who else to call."

  My lids closed, and I set the knife aside. I felt like such a bully for coming down on her when she'd only been trying to help. I wasn't training a hopeful chef—she was my daughter, and she'd showed up to give me a hand, and I gave her guff over it. Tears stung my eyes, but I blamed the mishandled root vegetable. "Okay, it's not your fault. I'm sorry I was upset. I know you did your best. Thank you for looking out for Aunt Cecily. Do me a favor, and give her a call, make sure she's all right? And when you get back I'll have the pasta machine out, we're going to have to make more." A great big monstrous pile of more. I'd have to check my inventory and make sure I had plenty of flour and salt on hand. Plenty of everything actually.

  I'd expected her to disappear to the office, but Kaylee wrapped her arms around me instead. Although there were thirty things that should have been done already, I took the time to hug her back and whisper, "Love you, kid."

  "I know." She sniffled, and it really wasn't the onions that time. Reluctantly I let her go, but she paused in the door. "Oh, when will I get to meet my baby brother?"

  A laugh escaped. "I should have known better than to try to keep a secret in this town. Sorry I didn't tell you, but I just found out myself. He's so freaking cute though, looks like a mini Jones. You're gonna love him."

  "How is Jones holding up?" she asked. "That had to be a wicked huge shock."

  "Better make that phone call," I replied instead of answering her question, mostly because I didn't know how to answer. "I need all the help I can get."

  She nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Jacob came in loaded down with a bin of dishes. He stacked them in the dishwasher, filled it with soap, started the thing, then retrieved my pasta maker from the high shelf that I needed a step stool to reach. He set it down on the counter and made his way back into the main room, all without uttering a word.

  Yes, I needed all the help I could get, so I held my tongue and made the pasta.

  * * *

  There wasn't a part of me that didn't ache by the time I drove home from the pasta shop that evening. The stress of the day had worn me down to a nub. Between pretending Jacob and Lacey were just the part-time help, dodging questions about Jones and his son, and the thrum of excitement surrounding my soon-to-be-televised comeback, I barely had a minute to breathe.

  I was also worried about Pops and Aunt Cecily. Although Pops had assured me they were fine, I knew I couldn't burden them with the day-to-day running of the Bowtie Angel. They'd earned their retirement, and though I was loath to admit it, Jacob had a valid point. The days of the Bowtie Angel being a small-time family operation were numbered. Mimi wasn't family, and yet she was my right hand. If there was anyone I was going to make general manager, it was her. But would she even want the position? Frankly, I had no idea what a general manager even did. If I saw something that needed to be done, I did it. That was the way Nana and Aunt Cecily had run the place—the way they'd taught me.

  But that didn't mean we should stay stuck in the past. The Bowtie Angel shut down at six every night. Many of the Diced people would be heading elsewhere for dinner. When Nana and Aunt Cecily had first opened the place, it made sense for them to close then since most of the locals went home for dinner. But people liked to go out more, even in Beaverton, than they had even when I was growing up. We were leaving money on the table by not offering later dinners.

>   I wanted to pick Jones's brain about that and so much more. As I parked Mustang Sally in front of his house, I imagined having a quiet night going over different options. He'd help me put things in perspective, help me figure out how to deal with having my father underfoot. We'd open a bottle of wine, coo at Clayton, and everything would be perfect.

  After snagging the dish of Stuff from the backseat, I strolled in the front door, glad to be home at last.

  At least until I saw it.

  A bomb must have gone off in the middle of the living room. Either that or a really messy burglar with a lawnmower had been through since I left that morning. The multicolored toys were everywhere, as well as an open package of crackers. Stains marred the formerly immaculate carpet, smudges and spills in every color of the rainbow. A lamp was turned on its side, and several of Jones's photographs were knocked off-center. The glass-topped coffee table was littered with dirty diapers, and all the couch cushions had been pulled off the couch and stacked up in the center of the room like a modern, urban version of a crop circle.

  "What. The. Frick?" I asked the empty room.

  For one terrifying moment I feared that someone had actually broken in and hurt Jones and Clayton and had trashed the place as some sort of sick message to me. Then I heard splashing and giggling coming from the bathroom. "Malcolm?"

  "In here," he called. He didn't sound like he was being held at gunpoint.

  Carefully, I picked my way across the demilitarized zone and made my way into the bedroom. It looked only slightly better than the living room, in that the bed was made, even if it wasn't Jones's standard hospital-corner-like neatness. Baby clothes were strewn everywhere. Some were even hanging from a lampshade and the overhead ceiling fan. Sounds of happy splashing and gurgles came from the ajar bathroom door.

  I pushed it open further and grinned at the sight. Jones sat shirtless next to the tub, his big hands holding Clayton steady in the inch and a half of bathwater. Clayton was completely naked, slapping the water with glee.

  "Well, at least someone's having fun," I muttered. "What in the name of manicotti happened here?"

  "Andrea," Jones greeted me, his tone weary.

  "What happened to your shirt?" I asked.

  He made a face. "Pureed peas."

  I wanted to ask him if he'd had a chance to look over the Diced files, but he seemed so worn out, and honestly, it could wait. After all, Chad Tobey wasn't going to be any deader tomorrow. I knelt beside him on the soggy bathmat. "Dinner's in the other room. Why don't you go eat, and I'll take over bath time."

  He brushed his lips over my cheek. "You're an angel."

  "Rough day?"

  Jones grimaced. "Finding the body was the easy part. He screamed for hours for no good reason."

  No way could I tell that from the happy little guy splashing in the tub. "He's in a strange place with people he doesn't really know. Give him time to get used to you."

  Jones just shook his head. "It started the instant Lizzy left. I thought he was hurt, and I took him to the emergency room, convinced he was in agonizing pain."

  "You didn't." I barely stifled a laugh. Oh, poor neurotic Jones.

  "I did. We waited for two hours, and then the doctor asked me what happened. I told him nothing that I knew of, but he wouldn't stop crying. And everyone stared at me as though I was the worst father on the planet." He let out a sigh. "If not for my father, I probably would be."

  I almost told him that Jacob had him beat but figured it was better to let the man vent.

  "Why didn't you call me?"

  He shot me a look. "You had to work."

  "Doesn't matter. If everything hadn't gone sideways today, I never would have left you alone to cope with this. I wish there was a way we could bring him to the pasta shop."

  "That's the last thing we need, the press catching a whiff."

  I grimaced at the overflowing waste bin in the corner. "Speaking of which…"

  Jones rose and stretched his back. "I've got it."

  I let Clayton splash for a bit, not caring that my all-black ensemble was sopping wet. Okay, so the little fantasy I had of a clean home and peaceful night wasn't going to happen, but honestly, I was so relieved to be home with Jones and Clayton that I didn't care if we had to exist in a garbage scow. Knowing they were both safe took a weight off my mind—a weight I hadn't even realized was pressing down on me.

  I sat on the floor and splashed with Jones's son until my backside went numb. The little guy put up a fuss when I pulled him out of the bath, but I sang some kiddie songs that Donna's girls had taught me. Clayton gurgled and laughed, probably the only soul who ever appreciated my singing voice.

  "How do you do it?" Jones asked from the doorway.

  "How do I do what?" Distracted by the complicated snaps on the pajama set—seriously, what sadist thought those things up?—it took me a minute to look at Jones.

  He leaned against the doorway, looking both sexy and totally befuddled. "You just know how to calm him, what he needs—instinctively. Every time he cries I panic because I don't know what's wrong."

  "First of all, I don't actually know, but I have been around children before, mostly Donna's. They're fun at this age, before they learn how to talk back. At least that's what Pops has always claimed."

  Jones forced a smile at the joke, but it didn't reach his eyes.

  "You've never been around children before, have you." It wasn't a question.

  "Not since I was one." His tone was dry.

  That made me sad for him. Maybe it was because I'd been so young when I'd given Kaylee up, but I'd always enjoyed little kids. Unlike some chefs who griped about having a kids' menu, during my time as a line cook, I tried to stick with simple, clean flavors that could be enjoyed by an uncomplicated and basically untainted palate. Children liked to know what they were eating, to not have foods smothered with rich sauces or heavy marinades.

  I carried Clayton over to Jones and transferred the little guy into his arms. "No time like the present."

  Jones's eyes went wide, but he took the boy, his shoulders bunching with tension.

  I pushed past him and went into the living room. Thankfully, Jones had taken the trash out. Although the white carpet was still stained and the toys made for some tricky maneuvering, at least the place smelled a little better.

  I poured myself a glass of wine while waiting for Clayton's bottle to heat. We really needed to see a pediatrician about his diet, to make sure he was getting the nutrition he needed, but I didn't want to mess with his diet until then. He already had so much change to adjust to. There was comfort in familiarity, and all three of us needed as much of that as we could get.

  With the bottle in one hand and my wine glass in the other, I made my way over to the couch where the two Jones boys were sizing each other up. To take my fiancé's mind off his anxiety, I asked, "Any thoughts on the case?"

  "I barely have any thoughts at all. My mind doesn't seem to be working properly." Malcolm took the bottle and offered it to Clayton. Clayton took it and stared up at his daddy, scrutinizing him the whole time.

  "You're overwhelmed. I get it, but I need to know what our next step should be?" I pressed.

  Jones leaned his head against the back of the couch. "Dissecting Chad Tobey's background. We need to determine if this was an accident or murder. If the latter, find out who had the means and the motive to kill him. And I want to track down the blogger who seemed to have a personal vendetta."

  "I'll handle the professional part, if you look into his personal connections," I offered.

  Jones made a face. "I don't like the idea of you getting involved in this. You're a chef, not a detective. If Chad Tobey was murdered, you could jeopardize yourself. This situation is extremely dangerous. We should let the police handle it."

  Part of me knew he was right. Although Chad's death may have been from some fluke medical condition or even an accident, my twisting stomach made me think otherwise. The last thing either of us needed w
as a killer setting his sinister sights on our little family.

  "I know, but Jones, my actions might have brought a murderer to our town. And the sooner he's caught and brought to justice, the safer I'll feel. I have to be in town, mingling with all of those people because of the competition anyway. I promise not to draw any extra attention. But if I can keep my ears open and maybe find something out, I need to do it to make things right and keep you guys safe."

  Jones looked at me for a long moment. "Promise me, Andrea, that you will be careful."

  I bit my lip, not wanting to make a promise I couldn't keep. "I promise I'll do my best."

  Jones barked out a laugh that made Clayton jump. Jones froze, a panicked look crossing his face, his posture rigid. Little limbs flailed a moment, but the bottle was still half full, and Clayton's eyelids soon drifted low.

  "Take him. I'll get to work." Jones handed Clayton over, bottle and all, and was off the couch and down the stairs to his darkroom before you could say marinara.

  I sighed and looked down at his offspring, who hadn't grown horns or anything that I could tell. My big, strong, sexy fiancé was terrified of a twenty-pound imp who couldn't even talk yet. "What did you do to my man, little guy?"

  Clayton pushed the bottle away and belched.

  "Well, that is sort of terrifying," I agreed. "But doesn't explain your daddy's total meltdown."

  Clayton settled back in with the bottle, content, and I leaned back, mulling over the problem. For all of my talk about Clayton adjusting, he was acclimating better than his dad. Was Jones even trying, or was he just biding his time until Clayton returned to his grandparents?

  I looked down at the little red-haired cherub and admitted the truth to myself. I liked having him here, as messy and demanding as he was. But was there any way Jones could ever accept him?

  Did he even want to?

  Stuff

  You'll need:

  1 pound egg noodles

  1 pound lean ground beef or turkey

  1 egg

  4 tablespoons cream cheese

  1 package frozen spinach, thawed and drained