Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

"
Chill out, dummy," I muttered a second before answering the phone.

"
Andrea," Jones breathed into the phone.

"
You can call me Andy," I said, and could have kicked myself. I liked the way he said my full first name as if he were savoring the way it tasted. And no one else called me Andrea. It was like our little secret code. Or maybe I was just a nitwit.

"
I know I am able. I simply choose not to," he said.

"
Okeydokey." Who was this femme fatale and what had she done with Andy Buckland?

"
You're cute," Jones said in a way that made me feel a little less like an idiot.

"
You're not so bad yourself." I smacked my palm against my forehead, hoping to knock a few brain cells together. "So, what's up?"

"
I was wondering if you would like to go hiking with me tomorrow. There's a waterfall I intend to photograph near the Linville Gorge."

I worried my lip and considered his invitation. Of course spending more time with him sounded divine, but I
'm more of a mall walker than an actual hiker. Air conditioning is my friend. Did I really want Jones to see me sweating bullets so soon in our relationship? Hell, did we even
have
a relationship?

"
Are you still there?" Jones asked.

I realized I
'd been quiet for an unusually long time. "I was just checking my schedule." Atta girl, make him think you are in demand. The sad truth was that other than dropping Roofus off at the vet to have his teeth cleaned, my calendar was wide open. "Looks like I'm free."

"
So glad you could fit me in," he purred.

Oh hell-
o
that was definitely flirting. I used my illegally obtained file to fan my flaming face. Pops was shuffling out the door, and I hurriedly asked, "What time?"

"
It's a bit of a drive, so I'll pick you up around eight."

"
I'll be ready." I hung up in a hurry and scurried to open the door for Pops, who was wearing dark glasses to counteract his dilated pupils. "Everything go all right?"

Pops grunted as he wedged himself into the car.
"Another new prescription. Not that it'll make a difference. I've got old eyes, nothing much they can do about that."

"
Do you really think you ought to be driving?" I asked.

He didn
't say anything, which was answer enough. Pops knew he shouldn't be behind the wheel.

"
I'm not ready," he said hoarsely. "Not ready to be old, to not drive."

I didn
't say anything, couldn't get past the lump in my throat. I hated to do this to him. Pops was so proud. And the logistics about him no longer driving…how would he get around? Beaverton was a small community, but Pops lived on the outskirts of town. Who would take him to the doctor's office, grocery shopping, or to the pasta shop to harass Aunt Cecily?

The answer I knew should be forthcoming was not one I was ready to live with. After all, Pops had taken me in when I needed it, rearranged his whole life for me. A good granddaughter would bear that mantle stoically.

But committing to staying in Beaverton scared me to death. It was like admitting that I had given up on making something of myself in the outside world, so I slunk home and hid in my family's pasta shop. I wanted more from life than whatever leftovers I could scrounge up.

"
Don't worry," I told Pops. "We'll figure something out."

Garlic Parmesan Pasta

What you
'll need:

1 cup cooked broad egg noodles

1 cup carrots cut into disks

1 cup broccoli

2 cloves of garlic

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

Freshly grated Parmesan
cheese

Steam the broccoli and the carrots until tender. Crush the garlic and sauté it in oil. Add to noodles, toss with veggies and Parmesan while hot to melt the cheese

**Andy's note: Use fresh Parmesan because, in the words of Aunt Cecily "We're not savages." Amen to that.

At quarter to eight the next morning I stood in front of my closet clad only in a towel and considered my limited wardrobe choices. I'd only packed one suitcase and a duffel bag for the sojourn to Beaverton. The weather was unseasonably chilly, and even if I'd brought shorts I wouldn't be wearing them. So that left jeans and yoga pants. The denim was tempting—I was a jean wearer on most days and had a few pairs that cupped my ass in a flattering way. That was important, because Jones might end up walking behind me. On the other hand, the yoga pants were much more comfortable, and I had no idea how arduous our hike would be.

"
Just pick something," I muttered as the clock ticked closer to eight. It was important to my vanity to look terrific in front of Jones for a change, but chafed thighs and sweating buckets probably wasn't the way to go.

Decided, I slithered into the yoga pants, pulled on a blue sports bra and a
racer back tank, topped it with a blue and white hoodie, and yanked my hair back into a ponytail. My sneakers were downstairs. Roofus glared at me from his dog bed, clearly unwilling to go on another walk so soon after our last one.

"
Don't worry—you're not invited," I informed the dog as I snatched a protein bar and a bottle of water from the pantry.

Roofus
put his head back down and sighed.

"
Where are you off to so early?" Pops asked as I poured myself a mug of coffee.

"
I'm going hiking today, but I'll have my cell phone if you need to get in touch with me." I knocked back the coffee, burning my tongue in the process, and dropped a kiss on his weathered cheek on my way out the door. The last thing I wanted was to give him time to ask who I was going with. I shouldn't have worried.

The doorbell rang just as I finished tying my shoelaces
, and I checked my pockets for keys, cash, and my phone before throwing open the door. The smile died an untimely death when I saw not Jones but Kyle on the other side.

My good mood evaporated like early morning mist under the heat of the sun.
"What are you doing here?" He was wearing his uniform, but that didn't mean his visit was official. Besides, the last I knew it was the City of Beaverton police investigating both the murder and the break-in.

Kyle took a step forward, ignoring my death glare.
"I need to talk to you."

"
I've already given my statement about what happened the night Chef Farnsworth died."

He waved a dismissive hand.
"Not about the investigation."

"
I have a date." Damn it, where the hell was Jones? If he drove like a normal person instead of a little old lady on her way to Bingo, he could have rescued me from Kyle.

"
Andy…" Kyle shifted his weight, telegraphing exactly how ill at ease he was here.

"
Kyle…" The devil in me suggested we invite him in and then Pops could tear another strip off his hide like he'd done so many years ago. Instead, I stepped outside with him and shut the door, unwilling to upset Pops over something as trivial as Kyle. "How's Lizzy?"

"
Distraught," he muttered. "It's not every day your chef is murdered in your home."

"
He was just the pastry chef," I corrected. Why that seemed an important distinction, I had no idea.

Kyle shifted again.
"About the baby."

I held up a hand.
"We're not going there."

"
We need to talk about it. About her."

"
No, we
really
don't." Tears stung the corners of my eyes. Damn him, why did he have to bring that up now?

"
Lizzy thinks I still have feelings for you."

Though Lizzy had alluded to that the day before, I couldn
't get my head around it. . "What?"

"
I don't," he hurried to explain. "Nothing beyond friendship and history, but she won't hear it. Having you back in town is tough on her. And then the murder, and you're getting close to her brother—"

As if summoned, Jones
's SUV turned onto the street.

Relief flooded through me that this horribly awkward conversation was almost over.
"Kyle, our personal history is just that—history. Now I'm sorry Lizzy is having a tough time, but it's got nothing to do with me."

Kyle
's face fell. "Andy, I'm sorry, I wasn't—"

Jones pu
lled to a stop in front of the house, and I made a slicing motion with my hand. "No Kyle, just no. Not now, not ever."

"
Good morning, Sheriff." Jones's accent was as crisp as the autumn morning. "Andrea," he said to me and offered me his arm.

It was a courteous, old world sort of gesture which should have seemed ridiculous with me sporting yoga pants and him in jeans
—knew I picked wrong!—but Jones had the courtly mien to pull it off.

He escorted me to the SUV and held my door for me while Kyle stared at us. I didn
't want to know what he thought about Jones picking me up, so I didn't look back at him.

Jones circled the vehicle and slid behind the wheel. He gave Kyle a jaunty wave before driving off.

"That was excellent," I told him. "Your timing is impeccable."

He made a face.
"I don't understand his appeal to you or my sister. He's so…." He trailed off, searching for a suitable description.

"
Malleable," I supplied and Jones snapped and pointed at me.

"
Exactly. It's like he's all façade and no depth. Every single photograph I took of him was like a mannequin. Perfect, posed, and plastic."

"
Honestly, after the way your dad treated her mother, are you really surprised Lizzy would choose someone she could control?"

Jones
's gaze darted to me. "How did you know about that?"

Shit
. I'm not with him two minutes before my immoral snooping pops up to bite me on the ass. Would I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?

Trapped, I leaned on the time
-honored tradition of blame shifting. "Small town. You know how gossip goes around."

Jones wasn
't satisfied with my explanation. "Were you checking into me, Andrea?

Busted. Another woman might have played her interest off as a mild flirtation, but my feminine wiles were sorely lacking.
Okay self, don't panic and stick as close to the truth as possible so you don't have to remember a boatload of lies.

"
I felt bad about not realizing your connection with Lizzy, so I asked around. Can you blame me?"

He glanced at me sideways.
"Not at all. Especially with a recent murder."

I shivered, the same way I
'd been doing every time I flashed back to the unfortunate discovery. "Jones, did you see the message written in the flour?"

Because I was watching for it, I saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel even as he asked,
"What message?"

H
e had—I was almost certain of it. "When we discovered the body there was a bag of flour broken on the pantry floor, and someone had written the words 'welcome home.' I mentioned it to the detective in charge, but it had been erased. Are you sure you didn't see it?"

I knew Jones wasn
't the killer. I was his alibi for crying out loud. But I was convinced he knew more than he let on.

Taking a calculated risk, I turned to face him.
"You erased it, didn't you?"

"
Andrea," he started and then pulled off the side of the road.

I didn
't know whether to hit him or scramble from the car and slam the door in his face. "Of all the boneheaded things to do! That's tampering with a crime scene. You could be charged with something, like accessory after the fact. Why would you do that?"

"
Because it was meant for me," Jones said quietly.

That stopped me cold.
"What?"

"
Welcome home, the first time I'm in my father's house. Do you really think that was a coincidence?"

My mouth opened
, but no sound came out so I shut it again.

"
Who else could it have been meant for?" He'd turned to face me, his gaze locked on mine.

I cleared my throat and tried again.
"Me?" I suggested.