Sleuthing for the Weekend

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "I'm glad I have you girls alone for a minute." Agnes pulled her chair around so she faced Nona, Mac, and me. "There's something I want to speak to you about."

  My breath hitched. Was it about Uncle Al? Sudden fear struck me. The Captain had saved my life. He may not be my biological father, but he'd been my hero when I'd needed one. Mac had been looking at him with the utmost adoration. I would hate to see that change.

  "Mom, I don't think this is the time or place to—"

  "I'm going back to school," Agnes announced.

  I opened my mouth then shut it. Looked to Mac, who had the same bewildered expression that I knew was on my own face. "Come again?"

  "After seeing what happened to that poor boy"—Mom shook her head—"I felt like I should have been able to do more. That maybe if I'd known more, I could have saved him. So, I'm going back to school so I can become a nurse."

  "Agnes, that's a terrific idea." Nona squeezed her hand.

  "Girls?" Agnes turned to look at Mac and me, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in inquiry.

  Mac beamed. "I think that's awesome, Grams."

  "We need drinks to celebrate," Nona announced. "Come give me a hand, Mac."

  "You haven't said anything." My mother was searching my face, her expression turning uncertain.

  That's because for once in my life, I was actually afraid of saying the wrong thing. I recalled the way she'd tended to and soothed Daniel, had taken charge at the scene. With total sincerity I held her gaze and said, "I think you'll make a great nurse."

  "Really?"

  "Of course, really. You've got a lot of life left to live, Mom. You should do it on your own terms."

  She beamed, but there was still apprehension there. "I don't know if I can do it though. The classes were too much last time."

  "You didn't want it badly enough last time. You've got to fight for it."

  Her lips parted. "That was what Albert told me."

  "Smart man. And look." I pointed to where Mac was returning with Nona and glasses of something fizzy. "You contributed to one quarter of her DNA. Is there anything in the world that you think Mac couldn't do?"

  "Nothing." Agnes's smile was unrestrained, maybe for the first time in her life.

  "Cheers." Nona handed Agnes a glass, and Mac gave one to me. "To new beginnings."

  Having finished the rounds with his family, Hunter moved to join us.

  Mac caught him up. "Grams going back to school to be a nurse."

  Hunter nodded to her. "That's fantastic. Nurses are in short supply. You know, my mother was a nurse. I'm sure she would be delighted to tell you all about it."

  "Really?" Agnes set her drink down and made a beeline for Kelly.

  I grinned at her enthusiasm but then sobered as I looked up at Hunter. "You caught Wesley?"

  "Thanks to Mac's tracker. Carson told me to tell you he is impressed with the range and detail." He addressed the last part to my daughter.

  Mac blushed, and I frowned at the mention of my daughter's inappropriate crush.

  The little girls charged for Mac, each one grabbing a hand. "Come watch with us, Mac!"

  "Yes, go watch with them," I told my daughter. "And make sure they don't get too close to the edge."

  Mac rolled her eyes, as if to say Who do you think you're dealing with?

  "Where did you find Cummings?" I asked when the others had moved to the railing to watch the parade floats drift by.

  "New Hampshire. His father owned a hunting cabin up there. He had fake IDs and passports all set to go. If not for Mac's tracker, he might have fled the country for good."

  "Did he really kill Elijah Hawthorn?"

  Hunter nodded. "In that same parking garage where you'd left Helga. Stuffed a rag in the tailpipe of the minivan. Though there was a suicide note, lividity showed that Hawthorn's hands were bound so he couldn't exit the vehicle."

  "Why did he do it?" It didn't make any sense.

  "Cummings marked Hawthorn months ago when he first found out about Lois's website. He'd struck up a friendship with the guy, encouraged him to keep trying for making it big in the music industry. When Wesley asked to borrow Hawthorn's car, Elijah thought nothing of it. Wesley ran over Daniel and then hid the vehicle. After your speech at the funeral, Hawthorn realized what Cummings had done. He was too much of a liability for Cummings."

  "But he followed me all over town. He tried to hit me with the van."

  "I think he just wanted to talk to you about Lois. Everyone saw him come unglued at the funeral. Could have been he hit the gas instead of the brake?"

  I sure hadn't thought so at the time, but since Elijah was dead, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I'd been running from the wrong man. Ran right to the real villain. How did he know where I was though?"

  "According to his statement, he spied you in line for the parking garage and realized you were going to take the T home. All he had to do was wait for his chance to get you alone and dose you."

  I shivered.

  Hunter stroked my hair. "It's over, Red."

  Another shiver. I hadn't slept since leaving the hospital yesterday, worried about him returning to finish what he'd started. "Will I have to testify against Cummings?"

  "Maybe. Probably a deposition will be enough." His hand moved to my leg. "For what it's worth, he said he lifted the needle from a vet's office on Friday, along with the ketamine. It had never been used before he used it on you."

  "I'll still have to be tested over the next year or so." Even so, it made me feel better that the bastard hadn't snagged it out of some junkie's arm before using it on me.

  I stood and moved to the rooftop's edge, away from everyone else. After a moment, Hunter joined me there. I didn't mind. Having him there was better than being alone. He would wait as long as I needed him to.

  As though someone had released a band from around my lungs, I managed my first full breath that day.

  "What are you thinking about?" he asked as a marching band turned the corner.

  "Lois. I think…I think she was probably the bravest person I've ever known. And not just because she lived with that cat."

  Hunter smiled.

  "She lived her life on her own terms. Discretely but unflinchingly, doing what she was good at. I don't think she ever loved Daniel. Or that he ever loved her."

  "Why do you say that?" Hunter tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

  I turned to face him. "Lois craved control. After being married to that drunken lout, I think she needed it, demanded it. And that's what Daniel responded to, why he picked his time with Lois over his wife. He had a need, and she filled it. I think the only reason Elijah thought Lois and Daniel were in love was because he was already jealous of Daniel. That's why it looked like he killed him. Lois was just an excuse."

  Hunter was silent.

  I stared out into the distance, seeing buildings, trees, and boats floating in the harbor, the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. "I'm not saying I want to do the things she did. But I've learned so much from her. She was completely content with her life. Have you ever met someone and you just know they are satisfied? Maybe not moment to moment, like when your car won't start or you stub a toe, but overall? I want to be like that instead of scared all the time."

  "Mackenzie," he breathed my name.

  I looked up into his eyes and felt it, that surge of hope, of connection.

  And then the guilt.

  "I need to tell you something."

  He waited.

  "I was…attracted to Alan Whitmore."

  "Was?"

  "I am," I clarified. "Not that it matters, since he hates me for using him."

  Hunter didn't move, his master poker face in place. "Did anything happen?"

  I was shocked. "Do you really need to ask me that?"

  He tilted his head to the side. "Just trying to get a bead on you, Red."

  "No, nothing happened. Even if I'd seen him more than three times, nothing
would have happened because I'm with you."

  He dipped low and brushed his lips over mine. It was a sweet, sensual kiss. What I'd been missing. What I needed to feel content.

  We came up for air, and Hunter tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "So, was that the secret you mentioned at the funeral? The kind that eats away at you?"

  I looked up into his face, swallowed once. "Not exactly."

  He waited, added no pressure, no incentive. He just gave me room to breathe. To make up my own mind. This was the first major test of our relationship, I realized. Did I trust him enough to open up, to expose deep, dark family secrets to his keen midnight gaze?

  I'd never opened up to a man on such a personal level before. Mac always came first. Mac still came first, but Hunter had snuck past my defenses, too. I'd been jealous over his ex, felt guilty about my short-lived flirtmance with the congressman. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, our relationship had progressed beyond the casual hook-up phase.

  One thing was clear, I needed to tell someone, to talk to someone I trusted about my messed-up family tree. Mac, always my first choice of confident, was too close, would be personally impacted by the news. I couldn't unload on her regardless of how badly I might want to.

  I looked over to where my mother was interrogating Hunter's mom about the ins and outs of nursing. Agnes was going to kill me. She'd been so worried about who knew about her and Uncle Al. And it wasn't like she could ignore Hunter. He lived in the apartment under her, for the love of java.

  She'd unburdened herself by telling me the truth. It was time for me to do the same. "It's about Uncle Al. He wasn't…that is he was…he is…my father."

  Hunter had the world's best poker face. He didn't so much as twitch.

  "I just found out a few weeks ago," I added, as if the stupid timeline mattered. "Agnes sort of sprung it on me.

  "What can I do?" Hunter asked.

  That was all it took. No judgment or speculation. Just the honest question that cemented his place in my heart forever. "I want to know more about him. About Al, I mean. To see if I'm like him."

  "I've got stories," he said.

  "I'd like to hear them. But maybe later." I looked over to where Mac was playing with the little girls, a wide grin on her face. "I haven't told her yet. She's had so much upheaval with her dad coming into her life, and I'm trying to digest it fully."

  Hunter put his arm around my shoulder and held me close. "Thank you for trusting me."

  As if by silent agreement, we both turned back to watch the St. Patrick's Day parade together.

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Putting the fun in dysfunctional…

  Born and bred in Upstate New York, USA Today bestselling author Jennifer L. Hart now lives in North Carolina with her three Hart men, two spoiled canines, and a host of imaginary friends. She is the author of several romances and mystery series, including The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag, Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries, Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries, and The Unseelie Court YA fantasy series. Follow her online using the #thegoodnightkiss or #mysterieswithhart on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

  To learn more about Jennifer Hart, visit her online at: http://www.jenniferlhart.com/

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY JENNIFER L. HART

  Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries:

  Sleuthing for a Living

  All Sleuth and No Play

  Sleuthing for the Weekend

  Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries:

  Murder Al Dente

  Christmas Al Dente (short story)

  Murder À La Flambé

  Murder Al Fresco

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first Southern Pasta Shop Mystery

  MURDER AL DENTE

  by

  JENNIFER L. HART

  PROLOGUE

  "Five minutes, Ms. Buckland." Mimi, Chef Zoltan Farnsworth's assistant, poked her head into the closet I'd been given to use as a dressing room.

  I grinned at her. "Thanks. He has you herding the entire studio, now, huh? Why do you put up with him, Mimi?" She was a talented pastry chef in her own right, but Zoltan Farnsworth treated her like dirt. Not that that was unusual for him. Farnsworth treated everyone like dirt. It was practically his brand.

  "He is not so bad." She paused, seemed to consider, and said in her careful Asian accent, "Well, he is bad."

  "Hey, when I'm Flavor TV's next big thing, I'll hire you right out from under his mustache." I took a deep breath, checked my appearance one last time in the chipped mirror, and pasted on a smile. "First I have to go out there and blow their doors off."

  "You will do very well, I am sure." Mimi offered me a smile, dipped her head, and bustled off.

  I made my way to Studio C where a live audience was already tasting samples of the culinary concoction I'd whipped up. Much to my relief, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. My cell buzzed, and I checked the display. A text from Donna Muller, my best friend since high school, and I grinned at her message.

  Knock 'em dead!

  Donna knew better than pretty much anyone else how hard I'd worked for this moment. After being raised by my very Italian grandmother and great aunt who ran the small town's pasta shop, it was possible I had marinara instead of blood.

  One of the techs signaled me, and I quickly stowed my phone, lifted my arms, and let him attach my microphone. We did a sound check, and I was good to go.

  "All set?" The producer, Stacy DeAngelo scurried over, tablet in hand. She didn't wait for a response but gave me a light shove in the direction of the stage.

  My nerves got the best of me when I saw what appeared to be a sea of faces, all of whom looked at me expectantly. Oh no. I'd told everyone I knew about this. My grandfather, Pops, was tuned in along with my great aunt Cecily. The entire population of Beaverton, N.C, all 21,086 of them, were probably watching the Atlanta based television station.

  Kyle was watching. No, no he wasn't. The sheriff had more important things to do on a weekday afternoon than watch his ex-girlfriend make an idiot out of herself on live television.

  Then, my canned music started and my feet unfroze. "Is it just me or does pasta get a bad rap?" I asked the audience. Mostly smiles, but a few nods. "Let me tell you, there is not a more versatile food in the world. It can be light or heavy, served as a side dish or the main course, or even dessert."

  I lowered my voice to a hush, which of course the microphone projected. "Just don't tell my great aunt Cecily I said that. She's a purist."

  Several chuckles. My confidence grew, and I returned to my normal easygoing drawl. "Today, I'm going to show you linguini's true potential when served with fresh clams in a white wine sauce. So, here's what you'll need." I'd been over the spiel at least a thousand times in my head, and as I spoke, I moved around my "kitchen," which was really a set that had been made to look like a cozy country kitchen. Nothing too ostentatious. Flavor was a relatively new cable channel, and I was supposed to be a girl-next-door kind of cook. Al Dente, my brand spanking new cooking show, focused on the ins and outs of pasta, not high end appliances. But the new countertops practically sparkled, and I could see my face in the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator as I extracted the clams.

  While the water came to a boil, I added a little background to my instructions. "In Italian, al dente means 'to the tooth.' The perfect al dente pasta will have a little resistance when you bite into it. Nothing ruins a meal like overcooked noodles. Cooking times will vary depending on the shape of pasta and thickness. For instance, vermicelli or angel hair will take less time to cook to al dente perfection than fettuccini or shells."

  The first segment of the show seemed to fly by, and bef
ore I knew it, I was being signaled that it was time for our three minute intermission.

  "You're doing great." Stacy looked up from her iPad, her expression approving. She'd gone to bat for me with the network execs when I'd pitched her the concept for the show. She said she'd seen something in me, and she'd fought hard to get me this chance. I wanted to prove her right. "By this time tomorrow you'll have a ton of sponsors."

  I beamed. "I can't believe it, but at one point I actually forgot I was on camera."

  "That's how it goes. We're back in ten seconds."

  My return to the stage-slash-kitchen was much smoother this time, and I talked about pairing wines with different dishes. Before I knew it, the meal was assembled. "Smells great. Just the right combination of garlic and wine really brings the pasta and clams together in perfect harmony. Don't take my word for it though, what does our audience think?"

  Thunderous clapping accompanied by a few wolf whistles. Perfect.

  "And we have a special treat for you. Chef Zoltan Farnsworth is here to join me for the tasting." It hadn't been my idea, but the network insisted a guest spot by their number one cooking show host would help boost my numbers.

  From the sound of the audience clapping to greet the pastry chef, they were right.

  Farnsworth strutted like a peacock and did a little faux air kiss thing in greeting. "It smells…pungent in here," he said with a smug smile.

  Jeez, not exactly a compliment. He couldn't have gone for aromatic or fragrant? I made my tone light as I said, "Garlic will do that. One of my favorite scents in the world."

  After dishing out a serving for Chef Farnsworth, I sat down to mock eat my own serving of pasta. "How is it?"

  "Excellent," Farnsworth said, surprising me. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy. "Though a bit more salt wouldn't hurt."