Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

Putting off a difficult situation never made it any easier. And I needed Jones to help me find out more about Chef Zoltan Farnsworth. So after the pasta shop was buttoned up for the night, I dropped Aunt Cecily at home to cook dinner for Pops. I'd tried to insist that she should just bring him leftovers so she didn't have to cook again, but she'd given me the evil eye. Whatever blew up her skirt. I had bigger issues to tackle. Resigned to my fate, I headed out to see Malcolm Jones.

The trees opened into a clearing
, and the Town Car bumped along uphill at a sharp angle until I topped the crest and plateaued on a massive circular drive with a few leafless trees clustered in the center. Behind where the driveway ended a house sprawled, an L shaped ranch marvel of cedar and glass that stood sentinel over the valley below. The late afternoon sun sparkled on the glassy surface of a small lake. Despite the dormant state of the grass, I could easily envision what it looked like when everything was in full bloom. The Garden of Eden, hidden deep inside the Inferno.

As the crow flew, Jones
's residence was only a mile or so from his family's enormous monstrosity. It loomed in the distance, though it would be at least five miles along the road, which circumnavigated the lake.

I
'd wondered who owned this house, if it was part of the Tillman estate or if Jones had bought it for himself so he could be close to his family but still keep his distance. The local grapevine had born fruit and told me this was where Jones was staying. Was it his choice or his father's that he remain at arm's reach? One would think reconciliations and family reunions would be better off if all the parties lived under the same roof. Then again, after being back under Pop's roof and working side by side with Aunt Cecily, I craved a little room to breathe.

Before I thought better of it, I texted Donna with the address and asked her to look into who owned the place. Just simple curiosity and having a little more information on my side wouldn
't hurt. I wasn't personally interested, just looking to level the playing field. There was no immediate reply so I stowed my phone, sucked in a fortifying breath, and marched over to knock on the front door.

I
'd gone over the approach in my mind all afternoon as I'd done up the veggie platter for Emma Shaw's party. The phrasing had to be just right so he knew I was there for purely nonromantic reasons
. I need your help
was way too melodramatic.
You owe me
crossed the line into bitchy, even if it was true. I'd settled on,
we have a common goal, finding out who killed Zoltan Farnsworth, and I'd be willing to work with you so we can catch a killer
.

Catch a killer? The way my luck was running, the only thing I
'd catch was a cold.

There was no answer to my knock
, so I repeated it with a little more gusto. Was Jones even home? I hadn't seen his SUV, but after the state it had been in yesterday, that was no surprise. Finally, I heard footsteps, and the door opened, and I stood face to face with Malcolm Jones.

Unfortunately, he wasn
't alone.

"
Andy?" Kyle asked, scowling from me to Jones and back again. "What are you doing here?"

Crap. I couldn
't go into anything with Kyle standing there, and double crap, Lizzy right behind him.

"
I invited her," Jones said without missing a beat.

So he could use his powers for good as well as evil. Not that lying to Kyle and
Lizzy was a big deal to me, not even a twinge on the old Catholic guilt-dar. Nope, fibbing to them held no consequences for me. Maybe it would for Jones though. Lizzy was his sister, and Kyle would soon be his brother-in-law.

"
Sorry I'm late,"
I smiled and stepped through the doorway before he could change his mind and shut me out. "I had to drop Aunt Cecily off with Pops. How are you feeling?"

"
Better," Jones said.

"
You two are really together?" This from Lizzy who didn't look happy at the prospect.

"
Not really," I said before Jones could dig himself in deeper. He was the one who had to live with them, and Lizzy already hated me. "He's been helping me on the Chef Farnsworth thing. You know background research and whatnot."

Lizzy
looked relieved, but Kyle's expression was pained. I was pretty sure the good sheriff didn't appreciate amateur hour horning in on his investigation. Before he could lecture me I turned my attention to the house. "Quite a place you have here."

The inside of the house was equally impressive to the breathtaking surroundings. A gourmet kitchen in the center, connecting the two wings of the house, spectacular western views of the valley below with glass walls all around.
From where we stood I could see into the spacious kitchen, a true sight to behold.

Quartz countertops and cherry cabinets with glass front doors filled the decadent space, all utterly spotless with nary a crumb or a smudge in sight. Wine glasses and plates marched in even rows all the way to the back, a full set of china—not the mishmash stuff I used at home. An industrial-sized gas range had been built into the center island, with a hanging rack of copper bottom pots and pans suspended directly above. Two built-in wall ovens loomed opposite a glass front refrigerator. The large country
-style sink was double the size of a standard sink, and the dishwasher was one of those awesome deep basin deals. If Jones turned his back, I might be tempted to rip it out and take it home with me.

"
Thank you," Jones said. "Would you care for a tour?"

His eyes glinted
, and I saw something in them, something that looked like a warning. Was the tour an excuse to get me alone? "Sure."

"
Why don't you two head on out to the patio?" Jones suggested in that easy managing way of his. I had no doubt they'd obey. He'd capably maneuvered Aunt Cecily. Lizzy and Kyle were putty in his hands.

I followed him into the living room. The floor was blond parquet, the walls white, the windows sparkly clean. The black and white couch looked like a Rorschach test and was an artistic masterpiece in itself. The prints on the walls were absolutely fabulous, stark and dramatic black and white photos, some blown up to poster size, others cropped and displayed in eight by ten
-inch black frames.

"
Are these yours?" I asked, studying the photos in awe. An old apple tree, barren and leafless, its gnarled branches reaching toward the malevolent sky above. The starkness of an empty street, a skyscraper taken at such an angle the viewer was staring at the corner. A lamppost lit the sidewalk before it like a spotlight, the dramatic shadowing of the building setting the stage for life that didn't reveal itself. Shot after shot of barren desolation, all of it calling to me, underscoring my loneliness.

Shaking my head, I withdrew, turning to face the window. What fresh pile of bull crap was that? I wasn
't lonely. I barely had a minute to myself in a given day. This was no time to feel abandoned and alone.

Yet the stark beauty of his photographs unmasked the yawning chasm deep inside. Did he feel the way I
did, that no matter how hard I tried, I still stood on the outside, looking in? To my horror my eyes filled, and I turned my back on Jones, staring out into the purpling twilight.

My
go away
body language didn't stop him though. He stood behind me, and I could see his reflection in the flawless glass. "I'm surprised you're here."

"
Well, what I told them was true. You have resources that I don't, and I need more information on Chef Zoltan Farnsworth."

"
Andrea," Jones said and paused. "I'm truly sorry I lied to you. It wasn't only about the job. I don't open up to people often."

As apologies went, it was astonishingly half-baked. He
'd pushed and prodded and cajoled me the same way he did everyone else. But I wasn't so subtle, and I didn't need a broken man to make me into half of a matching set of damaged goods. Whatever. Jones wanted to keep his secrets? Fine by me. I had bigger fish to fry. "It's behind us. So, will you help me?"

Pasta Carbonara

What you'll need:

1 pound pasta, not yet cooked (You will need some of the starchy water.)

1
/2 pound pancetta, cut small

1/4 cup garlic
-infused olive oil

4
cloves crushed garlic

1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

2 large egg yolks

4-6 tablespoons grated Parmesan
cheese

A handful
of fresh parsley leaves, finely chopped

A few grinds black pepper

Place a large pot of water on the stove to boil. When water is rolling, add
some salt and the pasta, and cook to al dente, about 8 minutes, reserving 1/4 cup pasta water.

While
the pasta cooks, heat large a skillet over moderate heat. Cook the pancetta in oil, 3 to 5 minutes. Add garlic and crushed pepper flakes. Sauté garlic 2 minutes. Add wine or stock to the pan, and reduce liquid by half, 2 minutes.

Beat together egg yolks
and cheese, and while whisking vigorously, stir in a ladle of the boiling pasta water. Add parsley and pepper and set aside.

Drain the pasta
, and add it to the pan with sauce. Toss pasta with pancetta, and then add egg mixture and toss 1 minute, then remove from heat. Continue to toss until sauce coats the pasta and serve.

**Andy's note: This dish can be made with rigatoni, linguini, or fettuccini. Personally, I think fettuccini makes it oh, so much sexier.

"
No," Jones said. His voice was quiet but underscored with steely resolve.

My shoulders slumped.
"No, you won't help me?" Dang it, I really hadn't considered that possibility.

He shook his head slowly
"No, as in, I'll help you, but I won't accept your conditions. I'm not like Kyle, Andrea. I'm not easily managed. And I refuse to let you push me away because you're afraid of getting hurt."

I made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squawk. The nerve of this guy!
"You can't force me to date you, Jones."

He folded his arms over his chest, and my heart did this stupid little fluttering thing at the sight of his chiseled muscles flexing under the tight shirt. Jones stared me down with those bright blue eyes and one side of his mouth curved up in a sinister smile.
"You're right. But I will refuse to assist you unless you spend time with me."

"
That's blackmail," I hissed. "Are you really that hard up for a date?"

A shrug.
"Believe what you want."

I didn
't believe that for a second. I had no doubt that in spite of the rumors, Jones could stand in the town square, snap his fingers, and all the single women of Beaverton would come a runnin' like he was the Pied Piper of Orgasms.

So why did he want to bother with poor, notorious
Andy Buckland, the Death Chef of Doom?

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall interrupted our silent standoff. Lizzy glanced between the two of us, gave me a tight-lipped smile
, then bee-lined for her brother. "Malcolm? I have to get home. The florist will be there in an hour, and if I'm not there to run interference, mother will cancel my order and take over everything."

Though it was demented, I sort of envied Lizzy and her problems. What I wouldn
't give to have the chance to bicker with my mother over my wedding flowers. But my mom was gone, and I should probably get started collecting the cats that would one day eat my face when I died, bitter and alone. Instead I'm mucking about with Jones and his bedroom eyes and interfering with a police investigation.

The jury was back
—I was officially nuts.

"
I'll see you later, then." Jones brushed a quick kiss over Lizzy's cheek, a tender gesture. No one would ever mistake the two of them for brother and sister, not in looks anyway. He was dark, almost swarthy where she was typical Sothern Belle milquetoast. Yet there was something similar in the precise way they squared their shoulders and lifted their chins, as though bidding one another farewell before heading into battle.

Just another reason getting involved with Malcolm Jones was a heinous idea of the first order. Related to my nemesis, a P.I., a liar, a blackmailing scoundrel. Plenty of reasons to run the other direction. All that was on the other side was his tall, dark
, and handsome allure.

A smarter woman would run, screaming.

"Andy," Kyle pulled me to the side while Jones and Lizzy continued their goodbye. "Don't go digging into the Farnsworth case. It's an open murder investigation, and you'll be charged with interfering with a police investigation."