Murder Al Fresco

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "Now." Kyle's jaw was set, and he stalked back toward the office.

  "He seems cheerful," Kaylee said, with the biting sarcasm only a teenage girl can pull off. "Honestly, he's been surly since he broke up with Lizzy. We've got to get those two back together."

  I made a choking sound. "You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding. When am I supposed to find the time to meddle in someone's love life?"

  Kaylee frowned as if I were the one being ridiculous. "I'm totally serious. I don't even know why they broke up in the first place."

  "Andy!" Kyle barked from the office.

  I yanked the bread out of the oven and moved it to the cooling rack. "I could hazard a guess."

  "He was happier when he was getting some regularly."

  "Kaylee!" I stuck a finger in my ear and twisted. "That's your dad."

  She shrugged, shrugged! "That doesn't make him less crabby."

  "Thanks for inflicting that mental picture on me." Teenagers, oy.

  Risking Kyle's wrath, I ducked my head back out into the main room and signaled Jones that I was ducking out for a moment. My fiancé looked like he was about to protest my departure but then was shanghaied by the local quilting circle. Feeling both guilty and relieved, I headed down the hallway to my office.

  Kyle stood beside the desk, his face inscrutable. Kaylee was right. Even though Kyle seemed to have matured, he didn't look happy. Not that I was about to help my daughter stepparent trap his hide. I had more than enough shenanigans going on, thank you very much. "I'm not kidding when I say I'm busy, Kyle. The place is jumping."

  "Sit," he ordered me.

  My first impulse was to put my hands on my hips, lift my chin, and refuse to comply. I wasn't his dog. But that would take too long, and as competent as Kaylee was in the kitchen, there was way too much work for one person. So I sat and waited.

  Kyle stared at me for a beat. "Someone," he paused, letting the significance of that word sink in so that I knew he had an idea who that someone was, "hacked into the ME's file on Chad Tobey."

  "Oh?" I blinked, trying to look innocent. Damn, if only Jones and I had had an opportunity to get our stories straight.

  The sheriff wagged a finger in my face. "Don't try that wide-eyed look on me, Andy Buckland. Was it you?"

  I rolled my eyes at him. "Kyle, I'm a chef, not a hacker."

  His eyes narrowed. "How about your boyfriend? He's a PI, and I know he has the skills."

  That was trickier because I didn't know, though I had my suspicions. "He's been a little too busy with personal stuff lately."

  Kyle raised a brow. "You mean his son?"

  "How did you know?" Mental forehead smack. He knew because this was Beaverton, and nobody could keep secrets, at least not for long. "Never mind. You haven't told anyone, have you?"

  Kyle gave me a droll look. "Of course not. It's no one else's business, but I'm a little surprised that you're not more upset about it."

  "Upset?" I snorted. "It was a shock, but it's not like Jones was hiding Clayton from me. He didn't even know about him until his trip to New York with—" I broke off before Lizzy's name tumbled out.

  Kyle looked at me, his expression blank "You can say her name, Andy."

  "Sorry," I said. "I don't want to rub your nose in it or anything." And though I didn't even want to consider it, in my darker moments I wondered if they would be married by now if not for me and all the craziness that followed me back to town.

  He shrugged, though I could tell the gesture wasn't exactly casual. "Back to business."

  But before we could get back to business, there was a crash. Followed by another.

  "What the hell?" Kyle and I looked each other. He flung open the door, and I was right behind him.

  People filled the hallway outside. Another crash sounded, followed by some other noises, and a faint cry of panic. For a wild moment I feared Jones had lost his last shred of self-control and had attacked Rodrigo, and the two were brawling in the front room.

  Then a distinctive noise registered, the cacophony that haunted my nightmares and woke me in a cold sweat.

  The sound of a large crowd of people emptying their stomachs in unison.

  The crush of people wasn't surging away from a commotion. They were heading, en masse, to our small bathrooms.

  "Oh, God," I whispered, sinking against the wall. "Not again."

  Italian Bread

  You'll need:

  ½ cup water, warmed to 110°F

  1 package of active dry yeast

  Pinch of sugar

  4½ cups bread flour

  1½ cups of warm water

  2 teaspoons salt

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 egg white

  Sesame seeds, if desired

  Directions:

  Proof the yeast, water, and a pinch of sugar right in the mixer bowl. Use the dough hook, not the paddle. Dump flour on top of proofed yeast. Pour all the water on top of that at one time. Mix just a second or two, and add salt. Keep mixing till dough leaves sides of bowl. If it pools in the bottom of the bowl after a couple minutes, add more flour a tablespoon at a time until it really gets itself together. You'll know as it mixes if it's too dry or too moist. If it is too firm, you can add a teaspoon or two of water—but not too much or you will get a slimy ball of dough.

  Turn dough out onto floured counter. Knead for about eight minutes—pound it, drop it, and slap it to get all the air bubbles out. Knead till smooth and elastic. It should feel firm, and don't be afraid to be rough with it. For higher rising bread, the dough should be firmer.

  Oil a bowl with olive oil. Add the ball of dough and turn over to coat both sides. Cover with plastic wrap and let rest in warm place until it doubles, about an hour.

  Dough is ready when fingers inserted leave an indent. Cut the dough in half, and shape each half into a loaf. Put each loaf on a sheet of parchment paper. Using a very sharp knife, cut a few slits in the top of each loaf.

  If adding seeds, mix one egg white with a little water and whip with a whisk until frothy. Brush the bread with the egg wash and sprinkle with sesame seeds. If not adding seeds, you do not need the egg white mixture.

  Cover and let rise another half an hour.

  While the dough is rising, put a pizza stone on the center rack of the oven and preheat to 450°F. Wait to bake the bread until the stone is good and hot. Just prior to baking put about 1½ cups of ice cubes in a small oven-safe dish, and put in on the lower rack of the oven.

  You will be baking the bread for approximately 25 minutes total. Slide the parchments with the bread onto the hot stone in the oven. Using a misting bottle, immediately spray water on the sides and top of the oven and the bread—about six times very rapidly and close the door.

  Bake 5 minutes.

  Open and spray with water again, and bake 5 minutes.

  Open and spray with water again, and bake 5 minutes. (15 minutes total so far.)

  Open and spray with water again and bake for 10 minutes more.

  Keeping the oven moist and hot is what gives the bread that wonderful crust. Bread is done when you tap and it sounds hollow. It should look brown. Remove bread and parchment from the oven, and cool on wire racks. Let cool slightly, if you can wait, and devour!

  **Andy's note: No mixer, no problem—you can go classic Aunt Cecily-style and mix by hand. Proofed yeast: Bring ½ cup water to 110°F then add one package of active dry yeast and a pinch of sugar. Stir and let sit until it foams a bit, about 10 minutes.

  Put 4½ cups bread flour in a bowl or on the counter, and make a well in the center and add the water-yeast mixture. Mix lightly then add an additional 1½ cups of warm water and combine. Add 2 teaspoons salt with a handful of additional flour and knead into the bread. Turn dough onto floured counter and proceed from there.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Crickets. The only sound in the Bowtie Angel several hours later was the distinct chirp of the insects through the open screened door. It was like a bad movie sou
nd effect, except it was my life—in stereo.

  I moved into the main dining area, heart in my throat. The mess had all been cleaned away, the floors mopped, and the case that held the pasta scrubbed to gleaming. Other than the faint scent of cleanser, there was no way anyone would be able to tell what had happened here.

  My career circled the drain.

  Again.

  Jones came up beside me and put a hand on my shoulder, his presence reassuring. We stood there in silence for a time, both of us lost in our own thoughts. My enthusiasm and get-up-and-go from earlier had disappeared with my customers.

  "I don't understand." My voice was thicker than Alfredo, choked up with overwhelming emotions. "Kaylee and I tasted while we prepared it all, and we're fine. What went wrong?"

  Jones squeezed my shoulder with a gentle pressure. He had no answers. I knew that, but that squeeze meant he'd do whatever it took to help me find some. "Come on. We should go home."

  My eyes met his, and I nodded. "Okay."

  "Give me your keys." He held out his hand.

  Too numb to protest, I did. It might take us hours to get home with Jones behind the wheel, but my situational awareness was nil. My brain kept turning the events of the day over and over in my head, looking for answers to the same old question—what had gone wrong?

  "We'll know more when we hear from the lab," Jones murmured as we left the too-silent kitchen.

  "Right." Kyle had had all the food from the bins sealed up and taken to a lab for testing. Between that and the hospital results from some of the people who'd gone in to have their stomachs pumped, we could figure out where the contamination had started. Once we narrowed down what the culprit was, we might have a better idea of what had happened. But knowing wouldn't get customers to spend their hard-earned money on my food.

  I'd checked the Foodie Fanatic blog, and sure enough, I was the headline. The Death Chef Strikes Again, Fangirl#1 had written. All that work to rebuild my reputation, completely destroyed.

  Jones locked up as I stared down the alley to the back. Jacob's construction crew had taken off some unknown amount of time ago, the patio area more of a mess than before they'd started. Idly the thought surfaced that I should call a halt to all the work, since there was no way I could ever pay Jacob back. Not after what had happened.

  A tear slid down my cheek. The Bowtie Angel was shut down, indefinitely.

  "Andrea," Jones cupped my face in his hands. "It'll be all right."

  "Sure." The word came out sounding forced and hollow. I didn't believe him but was too wrung out to argue.

  Jones escorted me to Mustang Sally and helped me into the car. Distantly I felt as though I was forgetting something, but my brain was too fuzzy to care. Whatever it was, it wasn't urgent.

  The sun was much higher in the sky than it usually was when I drove up to Jones's house. The town car was gone, a small relief. Aunt Cecily and Pops would find out sooner or later about what had happened, but I didn't have the energy to try to explain what I didn't fully comprehend myself.

  Lizzy and Clayton were perched in the hammock out back, and she was singing some sort of song to him that I didn't recognize. Something about ducks, and she quacked every other verse, which made the little guy chortle.

  "I have some calls to make. Will you be all right?" Jones asked.

  "Yeah." What I needed at the moment was a super-huge dose of nonjudgmental baby love. Clayton at least didn't look at me and think Death Chef or failure or loser.

  Lizzy swung her legs over the side when she heard my approach, her genial expression morphed to concern. "Hi, Andy."

  "You heard?" I asked flatly and reached for Clayton, needing his warm weight anchoring me to the earth. I felt completely insubstantial, like a gust of air would carry me off.

  She grimaced. "It was on the news."

  I closed my eyes. Of course it was. I couldn't make a mistake without it ending up on television. "Did Pops and Aunt Cecily see it?"

  Lizzy settled back on the hammock, one leg dangling casually over the side. "They left before it aired, so I don't know for sure. What happened?"

  I just shook my head.

  "Do you want me to stick around?" Lizzy asked. "I could help out with Clay, give him dinner and a bath."

  Surprised, I opened my eyes to study her. A year ago I never could have imagined Lizzy Tillman eager to babysit. "You've been really great these last couple of days, you know that?"

  She shrugged, appearing uncomfortable. "It's what you do for family."

  "It is," I agreed. "But I still get to say thank you. And yes, I would love for you to stick around and help out."

  The sound of gravel crunching under tires snagged our attention. I gasped, horrified at the sight of the news van heading toward us.

  "They can't come up here." Lizzy sounded furious, an irate fairy princess on the warpath. "This is private property."

  I was already scurrying toward the house. The absolute last thing we needed was the press getting a good look at Clayton and for some reporter to get curious. It would be open season on my personal life as well as my professional one.

  Clayton and I rushed through the door just as Jones emerged from the basement. "Your grandfather telephoned to warn us about the paparazzi. They're at the rental too."

  "This is a nightmare," I huffed. "Lizzy's out there reading them the riot act, but I don't know if they saw me with Clayton."

  Jones took the little guy from me, but Clayton snagged a fistful of my hair and yanked, screaming bloody murder.

  "I have him," I snapped, my temper burning through my numbness. Jones stepped back, dropping his hands, and I felt like a shrew. "Sorry."

  With his son in my custody, Jones moved toward the front windows and pulled a sheer to the side. "Should I telephone the sheriff?"

  I considered it then shook my head. "Kyle can only push them back to the property line."

  Jones looked over at me, one eyebrow raised. "You know this, how?"

  "Firsthand experience." What we needed was to escape for the night, somewhere they wouldn't look for us. My rental house was out, and no way would I lead the circus to Donna's. There was only one option left. "Go out, and tell them I'll make a statement tomorrow in town and that they need to get off the property, or we will involve law enforcement."

  "Do you think that'll head them off?" Jones raised a brow.

  I could only hope. "I think it will buy us time. Go, and I'll pack up."

  Jones raised a brow. "Where are we going?"

  I let out a sigh. "To the only place I can think of—the next circle of hell."

  * * *

  Lizzy and Jones managed to shoo the media back down to the main road. I had three bags packed, two for Clayton and one for Jones and me, and I met them by the door. "I think we should walk across the field to Lizzy's and then take her Audi down that horrible back road that comes out on the other side of the mountain."

  Lizzy nodded. "Fine, but I'm coming too. Will I need my passport?"

  "I sincerely hope not." Jones's tone was dry, but he sent me a speculative look.

  "No, we aren't escaping extradition. We just need to lie low for a bit." I took a deep breath and pushed the words out. "We're going to Jacob's house."

  Lizzy's eyes went wide, but Jones nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Clever. There's no public record of your relationship with him, so the press won't know to look there. Let me grab my laptop, and then we'll go."

  "You're just going to show up though?" Lizzy asked. "I mean, won't that be a little awkward?"

  In fact it would be completely awkward, but there was no helping it. "Maybe, but I don't have any other ideas. Besides, he invited me, and Kaylee will be there. So will Kyle," I added, taking a time-out from my own drama to study her. Sure enough, her shoulders went back, and her chin lifted. "Will that be a problem for you?"

  She sniffed indignantly. "No, of course not. The sheriff and I are adults."

  "Adults who used to get naked togethe
r." The words slipped out before I thought better of it. Drat the brat for blindsiding me with that mental picture.

  Lizzy blushed furiously. "Here, give me the baby before you drop him."

  Clayton was in no danger, but I handed him over anyway. "Sorry, I didn't mean to go there. It's just for a minute—" I broke off, amazed by what I'd been about to admit.

  "What?" Lizzy snapped.

  Oh, what the hell. Not like the day could descend any further into madness. "I was talking to you the way I talk to Donna, you know? Like a friend."

  Her lips parted, and she blinked. I couldn't tell if her shock stemmed from my admission or the fact that I'd been willing to cop to my feelings. Moments passed, and Jones returned.

  "Anyway," I cleared my throat. "Sorry. It won't happen again."

  "No," Lizzy whispered, surprising me. "I'm the one who should apologize. I'm not usually so sensitive. It's just…" She trailed off.

  Jones looked back and forth between the two of us. "Am I interrupting something?"

  "No," we both said and turned toward the door.

  I thought about Lizzy's reaction as we schlepped across the field to her house. I knew exactly how she felt because I'd gotten used to being on the defensive with her. Teasing wasn't a normal part of our cool-but-cordial relationship. But she'd been so helpful over the last few days, looking out for Clayton and going toe-to-toe with the press on my behalf. I guess we were friends of a sort. But neither of us was ready to accept that change or the mutual caring that came with it.

  By the time we loaded Clayton and all his gear into the car and maneuvered Lizzy's car down the treacherous back road, the sun was low on the western horizon. Luckily none of the dogged reporters had zoomed in on our escape route, and we hit the highway without incident.

  "Should we call to let them know we're coming?" Lizzy, ever the polite southern belle, asked.