Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (20 page)

"I feel bad for them."

"Andrea, Kyle despises me. He tried to have me arrested for bigamy. Why would I want to do him any favors?"

"Because it's the right thing to do. Look, if it was the other way around, I'd talk to Kyle for you."

"The difference being, I would never ask you to meddle in someone else's relationship." His tone was acerbic.

"You are such a guy. Fine, I'll fix them myself."

"Some things can't be resolved," Jones cautioned me. "Please think before you meddle."

"I always think first," I told him. "Just sometimes, I think better of it later."

Jones shook his head. "Let's agree to disagree on this one and change the subject. Anyway, we'll be there soon."

"What's our plan of attack?" I asked. "We could be dealing with a murderer here."

"I'm planning to stick to the truth as closely as possible and let him infer the rest. I'll call Griffin first and have him meet me somewhere public."

It sounded easier said than done. "How will you finagle that?"

"I'll tell him I'm her business partner and that I haven't heard from her in a few days and that I know she was working for him. Remember, Rochelle never met Griffin in person. If he didn't kill her, he might not know she's dead. If he did, he'll want to find out what I know about him. Either way, I'm gambling that he'll be curious enough about how I found him to take the meeting."

I just shook my head. "You're playing a very dangerous game here, Malcolm. If Griffin did kill Rochelle over my case, he's going to want you gone."

"Open the glove compartment," he instructed me.

I did and withdrew the small zippered bag within. After unzipping it, I peered in at the contents. "What's all this?"

"Listening devises. I'm going to plant a bug on Griffin and wear a transmitter. You'll be able to hear everything we're saying, and we can find out where he's headed after our meeting. If we gather enough evidence, we can take it straight to the police."

He made it sound so simple. But I had faith that my man knew what he was doing. "And if he's innocent?"

Jones shook his head. "Then we've come a long way for nothing. One problem at a time, love."

Jones picked the coffee shop by my apartment as the designated meeting place. We parked in the Laundromat parking lot across the street so I'd have a clear view of the door to the coffee shop from the car. The call went exactly the way Jones had predicted it would—the meeting set up for 10:00 AM.

"I wish I had time for a coffee. You don't know how long it's been since I had a double half-caff with a shot of espresso and foam." My hometown had its charms, but a decent coffee place wasn't one of them.

Jones gave me a quick kiss. "Business before pleasure. I'll bring you something if you stay in the car."

"You'd stoop to bribery?"

Jones raised one eyebrow. "I would have handcuffed you in my darkroom if I wasn't worried another teen arsonist would strike while I was away."

"It's a good thing you didn't go that route," I told him. "My wrath would know no bounds. Good luck."

I watched as Jones crossed the street and entered the coffee place. He took a table near the plate-glass window overlooking the street and spoke softly into the microphone. "Can you hear me?"

We'd tested his transmitter with him outside the car, but the program he had running on his laptop made it sound as if he sat in the car next to me. Though I doubted he could see me, I gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

Ten minutes later, I was beginning to believe Griffin was going to stand us up, when he rounded the corner. I recognized him immediately, a tall man with dark hair streaked with silver. It fell in such a way I knew he had visited a decent stylist or barber not too long ago. He was tall with wide shoulders encased in an expensive coat over a steel-gray suit. Most men who dressed like that would have been on their way to the office. Maybe Griffin had been before Jones's phone call.

I held my breath, hoping Jones wasn't putting himself in danger.

The man entered the coffee shop and looked around. Jones rose, and through the transmitter I heard him say, "Mr. Griffin?"
Griffin offered the hand but didn't smile. "Mr. Jones, I presume?"
He had a smooth, cultured voice, carefully accentless but deep and just a little bit gruff. Though it was an idiotic notion, I couldn't keep from thinking that the man didn't sound like a killer.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know if I can help you. I've never met your partner in person."

"Anything you can tell me would be helpful." Jones pressed. "I need a place to start, so maybe I can follow her trail. Tell me, what was my partner doing for you?"

Griffin stared at Jones for a moment. "I assume this will stay between the two of us."

"Of course." Jones didn't so much as twitch. "Just us."

In spite of my apprehension, I smiled to myself. Just them and the woman recording the entire conversation from the van.

Griffin took a deep breath. His words knocked my world off its axis and sent me careening into the void. "I hired her to send me information about my daughter."

Whatever-You've-Got Breakfast Casserole

You'll need:

1 pound mild Italian sausage

1/2 small sweet onion, chopped

3 mini sweet bell peppers of varying color, seeded and chopped

10 oz fresh spinach, rinsed and chopped

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

1 teaspoon dried basil

1/2 teaspoon salt

8 eggs

2 cups milk

1/2 cup shredded mozzarella

1/2 cup shredded aged cheddar

In a large skillet, cook sausage and onion over medium heat until meat is no longer pink; drain. Transfer to a greased 3-quart baking dish. Sprinkle with half of the peppers; top with spinach.

In a large bowl, combine the flour, Parmesan cheese, basil, and salt. Whisk eggs and milk; stir into flour mixture until blended. Pour over veggies.

Bake, uncovered at 425 for 15 to 20 minutes or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Top with cheese

**Andy's note: Perfect for a brunch or brinner (breakfast for dinner). And turn up the heat with a bottle of Tabasco on the table. Great pairing with a pitcher of Bloody Marys.

His daughter. Jacob Griffin had hired Rochelle to find his daughter. Me. I was his daughter.

If the men kept talking, I couldn't hear them over the roaring in my ears. I was his daughter? How was that possible?

Well, of course I knew
how
that was possible. He and my mom, well, they…yeah. Thirty-three years ago they'd been a couple. Or maybe not a couple. Maybe it was a drunken hookup. Mommy dearest had never said. She'd run home to Beaverton and never mentioned him, at least not to me.

Nana had always told me to be grateful I had Pops because he was the best man out there. Pops, who coincidentally had suffered an excruciating arthritis flare-up the second I asked him if he knew Jacob Griffin. Maybe it was just happenstance, but I didn't think so. Pops had known Griffin, at least by name. Knew the man was my father.

And there he sat, across the street in plain view, with my boyfriend. I looked at him again, really looked. Jacob Griffin was my father.

I'd opened the door to the coffee shop before I was even aware of moving. And I looked down at the men, both wide eyed at my sudden appearance. Jones made a strangled sound, but I barely noticed. All my attention remained fixed on the other man.

"You're my…" My throat closed up around the word, choking me to keep it from escaping. "You and my mom…"

"Yes, I knew your mother." Griffin rose slowly, moving as if I were a deer he didn't want to startle. "Andrea Sophia Rossetti Buckland."

I nodded, swallowed as best I could, and managed to croak, "That's me."

No wonder we'd both thought Griffin looked familiar. He looked like me. The nose, the small upturned nose. His was broader, but it fit his face. The chin too, with just the tiniest point, and around the eyes, too. The resemblance was right there for anyone with working vision to notice. Like me, pictures didn't capture his charisma, the assessing flicker of his gaze as he studied me head to toe. Was that why I hadn't recognized him sooner?

"I've seen you before," I breathed. "Here, I mean."

He nodded. "I've been following your career. A mutual friend told me you were a chef in Atlanta. I've been following your career over the past several years. I saw you on Flavor TV."

"You did?" I whispered, amazed that he'd been paying attention, essentially following my career. Then made a face and said in a much different tone, "You weren't in the audience, were you?"

He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "I had business in Luxembourg during your premiere, or I would have been there."

"I'm glad you weren't," I murmured with heartfelt sincerity, then winced when I heard the way the words sounded. "I mean, that is…" Why was I stammering like a half-wit?

Jacob Griffin grinned at me—it was a crooked gesture though, utterly genuine. "I know what you meant."

His teeth were perfect, white and even. The grin changed him from the business professional to a real man, and a good-looking one at that. His expensive clothes fit him just so, complementing his coloring. I suddenly felt very self-conscious, wishing I wasn't sporting a wrinkled sweatshirt and jeans with a small hole in the knee.

"Would you sit down?" he asked, gesturing toward the table.

"Andrea." Jones was tugging on my arm, trying to drag me from the table. "I need to speak with you right now."

I'd almost forgotten he was there. "Can't it wait?" I asked, my gaze straying back to Jacob Griffin. To my father.

"No," Jones insisted. "It'll only take a moment."

I was about to dig my heels in when Griffin murmured, "I'll just go get us all some coffee." He turned away, and I was finally able to focus on Jones.

"He's my…." Again, my voice died on the word.

"You need to be careful," Jones whispered, shooting a look to the counter where Jacob Griffin stood. "We don't know this man or even if what he claims is true."

I made a face at him. "Jones, he looks like me. More than Pops or Aunt Cecily or even my mom did. You saw all the pictures."

"I'm not denying that. If anyone can understand what it's like to want to know your father after a lifetime of imagining, it's me. But don't forget—he's never approached you directly. There has to be a reason for that. Even under the best of circumstances, I would advise you to maintain a bit of distance, but we came here looking for a murderer. This doesn't change anything."

"You don't understand," I began but then cut off when Griffin approached with three cardboard cups.

"I assume the two of you know one another." He looked from me to Jones.

"I'm surprised you don't already know about our relationship." Jones made no motion to reach for the coffee cup. "Since you hired someone to spy on Andrea."

I huffed out a breath but didn't try to apologize. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, my brain had begun to chug along again. Though I knew Jones was only trying to protect me, he was allowing his poor relationship with his own father to sour the meeting.

That didn't mean he was wrong to be cautious.

Griffin looked from me to Jones and back, his face open and relating confusion. "No, it never came up. You said you were a private investigator. That you worked with Rochelle?"

"I did." Jones nodded. "I was also married to her."

"Before he met me," I rushed to add. God, why did I feel the need to justify my relationship to this man? It was the oddest sensation, like when I didn't want Aunt Cecily to know I'd screwed up a batch of homemade pasta, or to admit to Pops that I dented the car. Their good opinion mattered to me.

Under the table, Jones's hand brush against mine. I gripped it hard, taking the reassurance he offered while trying to give some of my own.

Jacob frowned at us. "Rochelle never mentioned that in her reports."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he knew about Kaylee, but I bit it back. Careful, I had to be careful and not do anything to endanger my daughter.

"Why would you pay a PI for information?" Jones probed. "Why not just approach Andrea yourself?"

Griffin cleared his throat and looked away. My grip on Jones tightened as I waited for him to answer.

He exhaled and then looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Because of your mother."

"What about her?" I whispered. It was all well and good to tell myself that I was going to maintain some distance, but I'd craved answers about my parents my entire life.

Griffin's chin lifted, and he squared his shoulders, looking me right in the eye. "I felt guilty for abandoning you to her care. I knew she suffered from depression, and it only got worse after you were born. I left her, but I should have taken you with me. It's a choice I've had to live with every day of my life, one that I've regretted. I had to know that you were all right, but at the same time, I didn't feel as if I had any right to insert myself into your life."

At his words, my heart seized up and flash froze inside my chest. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His honesty floored me.

"Andrea," Jones spoke, but it sounded like it was coming from a great distance. "Are you all right?"

"I have to go." Stumbling from the booth, I lurched through the coffee shop, ignoring everything else while Griffin's words circled and dove down like pecking buzzards, shredding me.

If not for Jones, I probably would have walked right into traffic. A strong arm went around me, and he guided me across the street to his SUV. He half lifted me to deposit me in the seat. Through a veil of tears, I could still see Jacob Griffin sitting in the coffee shop window.

Our eyes met.

"Drive," I whispered to Jones. "Please. I need to not be near him."

Bless the man—he drove. But the distance changed nothing. "We're exactly the same," I croaked.

"What?" Jones cast me a worried look. "What do you mean?"

"What I did to Kyle, to Kaylee. That's exactly what he did to me. He left me to go live his own life. I'm no better than he is. We're exactly the same."

"You're not." Jones hit the gas and sped through to make the green light. He changed lanes without looking. Behind us a car horn blared as he cut off a Monte Carlo. Jones didn't so much as flinch as he maneuvered the giant vehicle into a parking garage. He snagged the nearest available space, threw the mammoth gas-guzzler into park, and then unfastened my seat belt.

"You're not," he repeated as he pulled me across the parking break and onto his lap. "You're nothing like him. You did what was best for Kaylee as well as yourself. You didn't leave her with a deranged woman. You made sure she would have better than what you could have given her. Andrea, do you hear me? You are nothing like him."

I clung to him and his words, wishing that they were true, fearing that they weren't.

*   *   *

I slept during the entire trip back to Beaverton and still felt both physically and emotionally exhausted by the time we got back to Jones's house.

Lizzy's Audi was parked in the driveway, and something smelled good when Jones opened the door. "I ordered takeout from Lacey's," Jones's sister said.

A day earlier I would have refused to eat anything Lacey L'Amour had prepared, but cast in the light of the day's revelation, our feud seemed both juvenile and pointless.

"Did she know it was for me?" I opened the Styrofoam take-out dish. Filet mignon and ratatouille, and it both looked and smelled good enough to eat.

"Not unless she's psychic." Lizzy shrugged. "Why?"

"Good, then she probably didn't spit in it." Too tired to care either way, I grabbed a fork from the island and dug in.

"For the record, I didn't either," Lizzy murmured. "But I thought about it."

"We both appreciate your restraint." Jones gave his sister a one-armed hug. His gaze drifted back to me, his expression worried. "Any news?"

Lizzy shook her head. "Town's been quiet for a change. Daddy's back home."

"Did you ever find out what he was doing with all those gasoline cans?" Jones asked.

Lizzy made a face. "Apparently, he's joined a survivalist's club. He claimed the gas was for after the Apocalypse hit. He's been squirreling canned goods in the basement along with bottled water, but he didn't want to keep the gas on the property. I really don't know if this is better or worse than if he was an arsonist. That's why I've been hiding here for the day."

Jones made a disgusted noise. "Better, though everything is relative. Especially with relatives."

A sort of half-hysterical noise escaped my throat, and both Jones and Lizzy whipped their gazes to me. I waved them away and slid off the stool and approached the fridge. Several bottles of water stood in anal-retentive rows, and I moved them around, just to give myself a minute to recover.

"A bunch of people stopped by—Bee from the post office, Freddy Harris, Mrs. Bradford, and Mayor Randal."

"Here?" Jones raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

I could answer that one. "It's the gossip committee. Everyone is looking for the scoop now that word is out about Kaylee being my and Kyle's long-lost daughter."

Lizzy shifted on her barstool. "And Kyle and I broke up."

No one said anything for a minute. I opened a bottle of water and took a swig.

"I'm sorry," Jones murmured, placing a hand on Lizzy's.

"Not as sorry as Kyle," I said.

Lizzy frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"The man is stupid for you," I told her. "I mean, come on. Fake flirting with my arch enemy to get me to fink him out. That falls neatly into the
it's just so darn crazy it might work
category. He was never like that with me or with anyone else. You brought forth his special streak of idiot."

Jones cast me a
what the blazes do you think you are doing?
kind of look, but Lizzy's lips actually twitched as if she was holding in a smile. "It was ridiculous."

"Like romantic comedy sort of ridiculous. A full-blown boom box over the head playing our song in the middle of the night kind of ridiculous." I nudged her a little. "The kind where the audience roots for the guy to get the girl because they know he'll never be truly happy without her."

But Lizzy was shaking her head. "I can't—"

"Don't make any decisions right now." Though Jones was speaking to Lizzy, his gaze locked on me. "If it's right, it will all work out."

Lizzy opened her mouth and then shook her head as though she'd changed her mind. "I'd better head home."

Jones walked her to the door. I finished my dinner—it was better than I'd ever have thought possible from Lacey, though I'd never say so aloud—and then checked my phone messages. The first was from Detective Brown, letting me know the investigators were done with the Bowtie Angel and I was free to come and go as I pleased. Well, that was sort of good news. That meant Mimi could move back into her apartment. She'd been staying with Pops and Aunt Cecily at the A-frame. I almost called her to let her know, but the idea of her being alone in the pasta shop after a body had been dumped there bothered me.