by Gina LaManna
Marco shook his head. “No, Lacey, I promised to cook you a one on one romantic dinner tonight.”
“That’s not happening, either. I promised my boyfriend that I wouldn’t let you tempt me with food.” I crossed my arms, leaning against the island in the center of the kitchen. Meg sat on a stool, watching as Marco lined up all of his fancy ingredients on the counter.
“I propose a plan,” Marco said. “A cook-off, pasta style. You and me, we go...how you say, mouth to mouth?”
“Definitely not.” I shook my head so hard I got dizzy. “I think you might mean head to head competition.”
“Yes, my head against yours.” Marco nodded patiently. “If I win, we are allowed to stay one more night. If you win, we leave immediately.” I glanced at the fresh tomatoes on the counter, the handmade pasta next to the sink.
“Not fair. I didn’t get fresh ingredients.”
“Then I let you choose the judge.” Marco smiled. “Anyone here. One judge, who gets the full decision.”
I hesitated a moment. If I could blackmail Meg into choosing my dish, we could have the men out of our hair before bedtime. There was always the off chance she’d be a loose cannon and rebel, but I had to take that chance. Anthony wasn’t around, and I didn’t know the other two stooges.
Granted, I could have tried to get them to leave based on the fact that this house belonged to my grandparents, and they didn’t technically have a say in the matter. But that would require time, energy, and effort, none of which I wanted to spend arguing with them. My stomach rumbled as loud as a thunderclap, and I sighed loudly. Plus, there was always Nora to consider, and I’d already gotten in one argument with her today. I really didn’t want to make it two.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Meg, will you be the judge?”
“If I must.” Meg gave a loud, strenuous sigh, as if taste testing was the most difficult job on the planet. “You’ll owe me, though. Big time.”
“And regardless of what happens, you’re out of here by morning at the latest. If I win, you’ll be out tonight.” I glared at Meg. “I will win, I’m confident.”
“Girl, I’m a fair judge,” Meg said. “I’m an equal opportunity eater.”
“We can discuss this later,” I said through gritted teeth. “How much time do we have?”
“One hour exactly.” Meg stood up, holding her arms in the touchdown position. “My stomach won’t be able to last much longer than that, and you’ll have a fainting referee. Nobody wants a fainting referee.”
“Here goes nothing,” I said, grabbing my Barilla, hoping it wasn’t expired. I enviously eyed the fresh oregano and tomatoes, looking so lush on the cutting board in front of Marco. “This is not fair. He has an entire basil plant growing out of a pot.”
“Life’s not fair,” Meg said. “Get cookin’, good lookin’. Oh, and you too, Lacey. Get to work.”
Chapter 23
ONE HOUR LATER ON THE dot, Meg clapped her hands. Marco and I stopped what we were doing after I squeezed in one last stir.
“Time’s up folks, this mama bear is too hungry to wait any longer. Now, show the referee what you’ve got.” Meg made a gesture worthy of Vanna White. Directing us to place our dishes before her, she sat at the center island with Alfie on one side and Dan-the-string-bean leaned against the other side.
“These are my two backup judges. Just in case I need a second opinion.” Meg wrinkled her nose as I placed my dish before her. “But I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Hey, don’t judge a book by its cover.” I tilted my head, noting that my noodles were a bit sticky and brown, more like potstickers than pasta. Maybe I did get my cooking skills from Nora; the thought was horrifying.
Meanwhile, Marco showed up behind me, setting an elegant platter down, which immediately outshined my paper plate. He’d heaped beautifully tender noodles, cooked al dente according to the instructions, topped with a tomato-based sugo and a light sprinkling of freshly grated parmesan cheese.
“I have to say, this doesn’t look good, Lacey.” Meg shook her head as if disappointed with my performance.
“I didn’t have the opportunity to get fresh ingredients, so it’s not particularly fair,” I said, leaning in and lowering my voice, “plus, you’re my friend, you’re supposed to have my back no matter what.”
“I have your back if you have my stomach, but this...this mess...” Meg attempted to stab a noodle from my paper plate with a fork, but it collapsed in half. “Honestly Lacey, even if you had the freshest of ingredients, would it have changed the outcome?”
I ignored my friend’s lack of faith in my ability to prepare a meal, and instead turned my grumpiness on my competition. “Where on earth did you find a porcelain platter to serve your...meal on?”
I said the second to last word as if it were the worst meal I’d ever encountered in my life when, in reality, my stomach was rebelling against me and telling me to eat Marco’s cooking.
“The cupboard,” Marco said.
“How sensible,” I growled.
“Lacey, you’re getting hangry,” Meg said. “Hunger and anger don’t mix well together. Just forfeit, let the boys stay here another night, and eat food meant for humans. I’m sure Marco will share.”
“Of course,” Marco said. “For my love.”
“Not my love,” I said, my teeth grinding. “And I’m eating my own food because it’s delicious. Meg, you’re forced to try it.”
“Fine. I’ll get to it. Dinner time!” Meg clanked her spoon against her water cup. “Everyone take a seat.”
Chairs scraped against the floor as we all hovered around the center island. Marco earned a slap to the hand as he pulled up a seat next to me and rested his hand on my thigh.
“Watch it, buster.” I scooted away a few more inches and pulled my paper plate of noodles with me.
“Have some of the meal,” Marco said, pushing his platter towards me, just as Meg was helping herself to a large portion of it.
A few noodles fell onto the table and Meg scooped them right up and continued eating.
“Meg, you have to try mine, too!” I pushed my paper plate towards her.
“I will. At the end,” she said through a mouthful of Marco’s meal. “But this is heavenly. Seriously, try it.”
“Why would I have that,” I gestured towards Marco’s exquisite compilation of pasta, herbs, and sauce, “when I could have this.”
Everyone’s eyes settled on my soggy pile of Barilla. Overcooked, under-garnished, and poorly presented, I tried to pretend that I’d prefer my own meal. Somehow, the outcome had looked different on the box. In my head, I’d imagined something more like Marco’s finished product, but alas, it was not to be.
No one spoke, either because they’d been rendered speechless after looking at my plate, or they were too busy stuffing their faces with Mini-Mario’s five-star cuisine. “Fine, then,” I said. “Meg, you have five minutes to make your decision.”
I forked a few limp noodles into my mouth. Where the heck was Anthony? If he were here, he’d have my back. This whole cooking thing was way out of my comfort zone. I tended to stick more to a raw diet – raw toast, raw sugar, raw cereal – that was my specialty.
I’d hoped he would have shown up by now. The afternoon had turned into early evening, and soon the sun would set. I hadn’t talked to him since he’d taken off earlier, except for a few butt dials and our text conversation.
“What’s your deal?” Meg asked, turning to Dan-the-string-bean, the latter looking a bit dazed and confused. “Tell me your story.”
“Me?” Dan asked, looking around.
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” Meg said. “You single?”
“Yeah.” Dan looked down at his empty plate. “I just got out of rehab.”
“That’s cool, good for you,” Meg said. “Except I own a bar, so I don’t think we’ll work out. Bummer, I thought you were cute.”
“It wasn’t alcohol,” Marco said quickly.
&n
bsp; Meg looked stunned. “Really? What was it?”
“Meg, that is personal. I don’t think it’s appropriate dinner conversation,” I said through a chewy mouthful of carbs.
“It’s hard to call this dinner.” Meg looked down at the plate of noodles I’d shifted in front of her. “This is more like...slop.”
I set my fork down. “I don’t know why it didn’t turn out better. I followed Nora’s recipe to a tee! She has it posted right here on the fridge...oh, crap.”
“Where’d you go wrong?” Meg looked over my shoulder.
“Step one is three glasses of red, and I thought that meant...” I trailed off.
“Did you put three glasses of wine in the boiling water?” Meg howled as she shook her head. “You know your grandmother. She meant that you drink three glasses of wine before you start cooking. Helps her to be loosey goosey while she’s moving around the kitchen.”
“Whoops.” I cringed. “I thought it was flavoring.”
“Well, that’s not the only place you went wrong,” Meg said, “if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t.” I said, forcing another bite of the mush into my mouth. I shook my head as Marco offered to scoop me a serving from his elegant platter. My pride was still too injured to give up – plus, there was still time. Meg hadn’t announced a winner yet. But, apparently Meg was focused on something far more important to her.
“So what were you in rehab for?”
Marco interrupted. “What do you think? It’s not drugs or alcohol. That’s your hint.”
Meg sucked in her breath. “Is he a real life sex addict?”
This time, it was Dan-the-string-bean who nodded.
Meg stood up. “Well, I will eat my hat. I’m fascinated. I think I might be a sex addict, too.”
“So, about this competition!” I burst into the middle of the not-for-dinner conversation. “Did I win?”
Meg, Dan, and Marco all swiveled their heads to me in shock.
“Win what?” Meg asked.
“The cooking contest!” I gestured towards the island. “This whole thing we’ve been working on for an hour and a half.”
“Oh honey, I’m sorry...I didn’t realize you were waiting to find out.” She glanced down at the food. “This wasn’t really a contest.”
“Oh, okay then,” I said sadly. I stood up. Today really wasn’t my day, and it would probably be better to call it quits before things got any worse. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
“Everything okay?” Meg’s eyebrows pinched together. “Have some of Marco’s pasta. It’s no big deal, it’s not like you were going to kick them out anyway. You’re too nice, and they’re harmless. Let the boys stay another night and they’ll vanish in the morning.”
“I’m not really hungry,” I lied, my stubbornness turned up to the max. “I had plenty of my wonderful noodles. No one else even gave them a chance...”
“Here, if you must go...” Marco scooped a teensy pile of his gorgeous pasta into a bowl. “Take it with you.”
“Who is this size portion supposed to feed, a mouse?” I glanced down at the bowl with a total of ten noodles tucked under the still-steaming red sauce. I drooled at the scent.
“You will want to maintain a slim figure, yes?” Marco looked me up and down.
“I’ll maintain whatever figure I want.” I meant to leave the bowl on the table, but I forgot. Somehow, it seemed stuck to my hand as I tried to stalk out of the room. “My soul mate will love me for whatever shape I’m in – square, stick, or spherical.”
“But I love you!” Marco shouted after me.
“Cool it, brother,” Meg said. “She’s sensitive after losing the battle. Give her some time.”
I retreated to my room, brushing shards of bed frame off of my mattress. Letting myself sink into a pity party that lasted close to a minute and a half, I inhaled Marco’s pasta, wishing mine tasted even a tenth as scrumptious.
Marco’s Pasta – 1, Lacey’s Pasta – 0.
When I couldn’t possibly lick any more sauce from the bowl, I set it aside and decided to go on a “hunger diet” for the rest of the night, since I couldn’t bring myself to go back into the kitchen. I’d lost the cooking contest, I had no idea what was happening with Anthony, and I was no closer to finding out why I’d been the recipient of a dead body.
Sighing, I rolled over and hoped for sleep to come and with it, a new day.
Chapter 24
SOMETIME DEEP, DEEP in the night, I woke from a sleep as solid as a boulder. Keeping my eyes closed, I tried as hard as I could to control my breathing, but try as I might, I’d never heard myself inhale and exhale during sleep, and my breaths came in erratic puffs. A footstep creaked against the floor. Pant legs swished softly against each other.
I didn’t dare roll over.
“It’s okay, it’s me.” Anthony spoke in a calm, slow voice.
I rolled over, and in doing so, came face to face with Anthony standing next to the mattress. He looked down at me, the moonlight glinting off his dark eyes, though his expression was difficult to read.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry to startle you.” Anthony lowered himself so he sat on the edge of the mattress. “I meant to sleep on the couch, since it’s so late. I didn’t want to wake you when I came back, but I couldn’t...I couldn’t resist. I needed to see you. Make sure you were okay.”
Any feelings of frustration I’d had quickly faded away. I reached my arms up to Anthony and locked my hands behind his head, pulling him close.
Anthony tumbled onto the bed, protectively rolling me with him so that we ended up in each other’s arms, nose to nose on the floor among chunks of dismembered bed frame. Romantic honeymoon suite, this place was not. But it didn’t matter. It only mattered that he’d come back to me.
“Where were you?” I looked into his eyes, searching for the answer when he hesitated.
“You’re not going to like this.”
My joy at seeing him deflated ever so slightly. “Let me guess, you can’t tell me.”
“I was taking care of a problem. For you, Lacey. I was only doing it to keep you safe.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“I promised someone.”
“Who did you have to promise...and why?” I peered into his stormy brown eyes, which still contained the hard edge that went along with the “business” side of Anthony’s personality.
“I needed to get more information. I needed a name on the body, and the police were keeping the information locked up tight.”
“You could have talked to Clay.”
“He couldn’t have gotten a name.” Anthony brushed his thumb over my cheek. “You’ve got to understand that Tonka is a small town. Incredibly small. The only way to get on the inside is to be on the inside. And that doesn’t come from a computer program. It comes from contacts, and I happen to have one.”
“Do you have contacts everywhere?” I gave a small smile.
“Everywhere I need one to keep you safe.” Anthony didn’t smile back. “I’ve been here a handful of times, and I know one of the local cops that was able to pass along Facelli’s name.”
“I told Clay about him.”
Anthony nodded. “I spoke to him after you did. He agreed – without an inside source, it might’ve been days, weeks even, until your cousin could’ve gotten into the system. The technology around here is slow, old, and frankly, less reliable. Best to go straight to the source. Water cooler chatter is gold in a town this size.”
“I understand.” I let my hand trace along Anthony’s chest. What on earth was my problem? He’d barely been gone for half a day, and here I was, acting as if he’d been gone for months.
“But I’m back, and we’re farther ahead now,” Anthony let my fingers pull the material of his shirt taut, and he held me even tighter than I thought possible. “We don’t have everything figured out yet, but the police are watching, I’m watching...we’ll be okay, Lacey.”
“I know that.” I smiled again. “I’ve never doubted you.”
Anthony’s eyes lost a bit of edginess. “Don’t ever doubt me, sugar. You’ve no reason to. Ever.”
“But Anthony,” I said, the words heavy on my tongue, “what took so long?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m not asking for details.” I didn’t like the pleading note in my voice, but I wasn’t a moron, and I could put two and two together. Grabbing coffee with an old friend and asking for the name of a body, as a favor, didn’t take until...what time was it? Two a.m.?
“My source offered to let me sit in on an operation involving some of the potential suspects – suspects that we think might have been involved with Facelli’s death. I agreed.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“I can’t speak to the details.”
“But I’m the one who was framed. Or sent the message. Or whatever. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“Honey, I c—”
“You can’t,” I finished for him. “Okay. Let me at least guess.”
I took Anthony’s silence as a go ahead.
“Something to do with diamonds. Maybe involving the truckers Laurelei told us about. But why would they have wanted Facelli dead? Did he turn on them or something?”
“I don’t know that,” Anthony said, surprising me by offering his input. “I still am not sure why they’d want him dead.”
Anthony’s cryptic response had me thinking. He must’ve promised his contact he wouldn’t divulge any details, which was why he didn’t specify he’d been focusing on the diamond smugglers.
But he didn’t deny it, which meant my guess was probably spot on. Still, Anthony didn’t seem convinced the “truckers” were involved with the murder.
So if it wasn’t them, who’d had a bone to pick with Facelli?
“It’s late, let’s get some sleep,” Anthony murmured against my shoulder. His hands ran leisurely up and down my arm.
“Hey, so does this mean we’re out of going to the karaoke bar tomorrow night?” I asked, breaking the quiet. “If you’ve already checked out the smugglers...”