Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (2 page)

"That would be Donna. She was at the town council meeting tonight and promised to call in with the gossip. Will you drain the pasta? I'll be just a minute."

"Take your time." Jones headed toward the stove without giving me any eye contact.

My cell was buried beneath a million other random things in my tote bag. I dove in with both hands, shoving aside the new menu samples, my iPod and earbuds, wallet and change purse, coupons and about a dozen recipe cards, tubes of lip gloss, stray scrunchies, bobby pins, leather driving gloves, and the sunglasses I thought I'd lost. I plucked out two key rings, one to Mustang Sally, my cherry-red classic muscle car, and the other to the pasta shop. I'd just grabbed hold of the Droid I was looking for, when the music stopped. Drat, I really needed to talk to her too. Not only was Donna Muller my best friend since kindergarten, she was also a Realtor, and I needed her to get a jump on the spring listings and find me a primo place to live.

I waited to see if she'd left a voice mail, but to my surprise, the phone started jiving again in my palm. I answered by saying, "You're a persistent wench—I'll give you that."

Instead of bantering back in our usual style, Donna gasped. "Oh my god, Andy, did you hear?"

She sounded out of breath, her voice higher than normal. What could have her in such a state? My grandfather and Aunt Cecily had attended the meeting on my behalf so I could have the evening off. Did something happen to one of them? "Hear what? Is it Pops? Or Aunt Cecily?"

"No, they're fine. It's the florist shop next door to the Bowtie Angel." In the background I could hear people shouting and the sound of sirens.

I frowned. "You mean Mrs. Bradford's place? What about it?"

"Oh, Andy, it's just terrible." Donna sniffed. "I came out of the town hall, and well, it's on fire."

Tomato Basil Sauce

You'll need:

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (basil or garlic infused adds a stronger flavor)

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 pound tomatoes, seeded and diced

1 tablespoon sugar in the raw

1 teaspoon molasses

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

10 fresh basil leaves, chopped

Coat a saucepan with 2 tablespoons of the oil, and warm over medium-low heat. Add the garlic, and cook, stirring, until soft, not browned. Add the diced tomatoes, molasses, and sugar. Season with salt and pepper. Turn the heat up slightly to medium, and simmer the sauce for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in the basil and the remaining olive oil. Toss with hot pasta, and serve.

**Andy's note: Fresh tomatoes and molasses cut the acidity in this sauce, and the flavors combine even better if you let them simmer on low in the Crock-Pot for several hours.
 

It seemed like the entire town of Beaverton was out watching Mrs. Bradford's business burn. Luckily, the octogenarian owner and her assistant had both been at home when the structure went up. The volunteer fire department had arrived in time to contain the blaze so it didn't spread to the Bowtie Angel or any of the other nearby structures.

Since the roads were slick and I was distraught, Jones had driven me into town in his behemoth SUV. He parked in the municipal lot, and we watched as the flames died down.

"What do you think caused it?" I asked Jones.

"It could be anything from one of those pluggable air fresheners left on too long to mice chewing through the electrical wires. It's too soon to tell," he murmured. "After the structure cools, the fire department will send an investigator in to determine the point of ignition."

I worried my lower lip. "If this had happened later at night when no one was awake to notice it, it could have spread to the pasta shop. And Mimi would have been inside." As part of her salary, Mimi had taken up living in my great-aunt's studio apartment over the pasta shop.

"But it didn't. Don't borrow trouble, Andrea." He raised my hand to his lips and placed a soft, reassuring kiss on my knuckles

My heart rate had just started to slow when someone rapped on the passenger's side window. I jumped in my seat, jerking my hand back, but sighed when I spotted the familiar face. "Oh, it's Donna. Let her in before she freezes."

Jones hit the automatic locks, and Donna moved around to the backseat. She was paler than usual, her typical healthy glow noticeably absent.

"Are you okay?" I reached over the seat to squeeze her hand reassuringly.

Donna shook her head quickly back and forth. "No. When I first came out, I thought it was the pasta shop. I was halfway up the block when I realized it was the florist's place."

"Did Pops or Aunt Cecily see?" I asked, afraid my older relatives would have heart failure if they thought our family business had gone up in flames.

"No, they left early to meet Kaylee and her mom for dinner in Lumberton."

Thank the heavenly father for small favors. "Where's your car?"

Donna gestured toward the town hall lot, and the exit was currently being blocked by a fire truck. "In there. I'll have Steve come get me."

"Then he'll have to take the kids out too. It's easier if Malcolm drives you home."

"Just me, not us?" Jones raised an eyebrow.

"I want to see if I can find Mimi, make sure she's all right," I told him. "Will you meet me back here after you drop Donna off?"

"You didn't bring a jacket. Take this so you don't freeze." Jones shucked his black leather coat and handed it to me.

I slid my arms into it, absorbing his body heat and unique male spice. "Thank you. See you in a few."

I leaned in and kissed him, then slithered out of the vehicle and strode toward the congregation being held back by several uniformed police officers. Over the crowd, I spotted the sheriff's hat and called Kyles's name until he strode over.

"Have you seen Mimi?" I asked when he was within earshot.

"We evacuated her from the pasta shop in case it went up. Last I saw, she was headed to the intersection of Main and Elm."

I thanked him, and he turned back to work. Another thought occurred, and I caught his arm. "Are we going to be able to open tomorrow?"

Kyle frowned as he thought about it. "I don't see why not, though part of the street will probably be closed off for several hours."

"Okay. Kaylee's first day of work is tomorrow after school. I didn't want to cancel on her."

Kyle's expression softened the way it always did when someone mentioned our daughter. "I'll make a point to stop by and see her at work—tell her how I used to do that for her mama. Bet she'll get a kick out of that."

"Don't go giving her ideas about boyfriends," I warned him. "We weren't a sterling example of young love, and we don't want her following in our footsteps."

Kyle's eyes widened. "I hadn't thought of that. She's too young to date, isn't she?"

I did a palms up. "You'll have to ask her mom about that."

Kyle didn't like that answer. I could practically hear the shotgun being ratcheted back, but then he pointed over my shoulder. "Oh look, it's your new neighbor."

"What new neighbor?" I turned in the direction he was pointing, and my jaw dropped. "No. Freaking. Way."

"Do you know her?" Kyle's head swung back and forth between the two of us.

"Lacey L'Amour," I said between clenched teeth. "What in the sweet cannoli-filled afterlife is she doing here?"

The blonde bombshell pivoted in our direction, and our eyes locked. She scanned me up and down, a small smirk on her collagen-injected lips. My eyes narrowed, and my lip curled in an involuntary sneer. She wore a scarlet dress that was cut almost indecently low and four-inch heels, which she somehow maneuvered across the icy walkway. Beaverton wouldn't know what the heck to do with her ultra-urban self. Several of the men stared openmouthed while their wives glowered with crossed arms. I couldn't have been more surprised if it had started raining marinara as she approached. "What are you doing here?"

Several heads turned in our direction, but Lacey air-kissed me on either cheek. "
Oui, c'est moi.
So good to see you, Andee."

Liar, liar, well, unfortunately something was already on fire. She didn't like me anymore than I appreciated her. She'd always been a phony, more flash than substance. Her well-displayed charms and saccharine-infused tone made my eye twitch.

"So you two are…friends?" Kyle looked doubtful.

"We went to culinary school together." Unfortunately.

"
Oui
." Lacey nodded forcefully as though Kyle would doubt my statement if she didn't back me up. But that was classic Lacey L'Amour, spotlight hog extraordinaire. She'd been so ticked when I'd been tapped for my own cooking show on Flavor TV. Of course that had been a catastrophe, and from the glint in her dark eyes, she was thinking the same thing.

"Hey, I know you." Missy Elliot from the grocery store snapped her fingers a few times. "Didn't you win a season of
Chef's Showdown
?"

"No, sadly, I was only ze runner up." Lacey pouted prettily. "But you would be amazed by what even zat can do for your career."

"Almost as good as learning how to cook, huh?" I muttered, my tone caustic.

Her eyes flashed, just a glimpse of the poisonous snake, coiled to strike. "Oh, Andee, let's not have ze sour grapes, no?"

"My grapes are just fine, thank you very much. What are you doing here, Lacey?" Dread filled me as I recalled Kyle calling her my neighbor. "You haven't moved here, have you?"

"
Oui
." She tipped her chin up and thrust out her breasts until she looked like the prow of a ship. "I've bought
la petite restaurante
. We will open this weekend."

Dread coiled in my gut like heavy cream turned rancid. "Are you talking about the old pub house? The building right there?" I pointed to the storefront directly across the street from the Bowtie Angel.

"
Oui
." The word dripped with satisfaction. "I'm sure you are up for a little competition."

In fact, I wasn't. While the Bowtie Angel made a small profit, enough to pay Mimi and keep the doors open, we weren't enough of a draw to go up against a competing ethnic cuisine restaurant right across the frigging street. By the evil smirk on her pouty face, she knew it, too.

"Of course." I pasted a bright smile on my own puss so she wouldn't see my unease. "The more the merrier."

*   *   *

"Why Beaverton?" I griped to Jones the next morning as I added Arborio rice to the sizzling pan in our kitchen. I planned to have the risotto ready so Kaylee could help me try out the new appetizer later that day. Since the fire marshal was still investigating the blaze, I'd decided to do my prep work from home. We couldn't serve it to the customers that way, but it would be good practice for her and allow me to tweak the recipe as needed. "Lacey has no connection to this town, so why set up shop across the frigging street from me?"

"I don't know." Jones poured himself a second cup of coffee.

I stirred a little too franticly and several grains of rice went flying. "Damn it."

He set his mug aside and wrapped his arms around me. "It'll be all right, Andrea."

I knew better than to cook while I was angry. Short tempers led to ruined meals and on occasion, injury. I slowed my frenetic stirring and leaned back into his embrace even as I said, "You don't know her like I do. She's crazy."

I could hear the smile in his voice as he murmured, "Then you're well matched." I shot him a scathing look, and he held up his hands in defense. "Sorry, couldn't resist."

Jones was right. I
was
acting like a lunatic. The rice had begun to emit a nutty aroma, and I added the wine to the pan, careful not to slop this time. I tried to focus positive energy into my food instead of the whirlwind of frenetic emotion that had me gasping for air.

Jones set his coffee cup aside. "Talk to me, love. What is it that has you so worked up?"

I took three deep breaths and ladled some hot stock into the pan. "I don't know, exactly. I just feel so unsettled, and having Lacey here chafes like a sandpaper thong."

His lips twitched. "Quite the image."

"It's the best I've got. She never could cook. Do you know she was sleeping with several of our instructors back in school?"

Jones raised a jet eyebrow. "Is that fact or rumor?"

"Fact. Someone reported her to the program coordinator. Three instructors lost their positions, though she didn't get booted out. Her food is bland and tasteless, though she does know presentation."

"I know," Jones said, surprising me.

I frowned and added another ladleful of stock to my pan. "You do?"

"I saw her on that cooking competition."

My jaw dropped, and I glared at him. "Are you kidding? You, who refuses to watch television, who had
no clue
who Regis Philbin was, saw Lacey frigging L'Amour on TV?"

He shrugged in an offhanded way, as though that wasn't a big fat hairy deal. "It was on in a bar I frequented while doing surveillance. Watching the program was a good cover."

Though his explanation made sense, an irrational flare of jealousy kindled in my chest. "I see." I didn't, but what else could I say?

Jones, being Jones, knew exactly what was bugging me. "Would you like me to watch your show? I know for a fact that Donna still has a copy—"

"No!" Talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire. The last thing I wanted was Jones having the visual of my horror-stricken face as my live studio audience upchucked my linguini and clam sauce. "Not exactly my finest hour as a chef. Plus, you already have all the behind-the-scenes information. Let's not beat the dead horse, okay?"

"As you wish." With one last lingering kiss, Jones set his empty coffee mug in the sink and turned toward the cellar stairs. "Call me if you want a ride into town. It's icy out this morning."

I smiled my thanks. He really was a gentleman, helping me in and out of the SUV, when I slowed down long enough to let him. For the next twenty minutes, I focused on my risotto and had just put the double batch in the refrigerator to cool when my cell phone rang.

"Where are you?" Aunt Cecily asked.

Her terse greeting was par for the course. Since I'd known her all my life, Aunt Cecily didn't scare me. Much. "With Jones, at his place. Where are you?"

"Where you should be, making the pasta."

Crud, I'd forgotten to tell her that we were delaying opening because of the fire. Officially, Aunt Cecily was retired, but that didn't stop her from coming in to "supervise." Translated roughly, she showed up to boss me around. "I'll be there soon."

"You come now," she said and hung up before I could argue.

"Ugh," I said to the empty room. Even though Jones had offered to drive me in, I hated tearing him away from his darkroom. Mustang Sally was garaged for the winter, since as pretty as she was, she was a crappy snow car. When I'd lived in Atlanta, I'd taken public transportation whenever the weather was iffy. I still needed to talk to Donna and, on impulse, texted her to ask for a lift.

Fifteen minutes later, her shiny new Escalade was parked in the driveway. I said a quick good-bye to Jones, who was monkeying with a few prints he had contracted with a gallery in New York. If all went well, he might have his own show over the summer and be able to live off his art instead of following cheating spouses around to seedy bars and hotels that rented rooms by the hour.

"You doing okay?" I asked Donna as she helped me load my food into her cargo net.

"Better than yesterday, at least. Everything's relative." She shrugged. Dressed in her Realtor duds, a smart black pinstripe pantsuit with a dove-gray shell and pearl earrings, she was a knockout. The lime-green bubble jacket and pink mittens she wore to stave off the cold ruined the effect.