Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (25 page)

I wanted her to say it, to own the fact that she hated me for no good reason in front of all these witnesses. Let them see how petty and small and stuck in the past she was that she would begrudge me even an iota of happiness.

"Because," she said as if the words were being ripped from her, "he's already married."

Zingy Ziti

What you
'll need:

12 ounces ziti (about 4 cups)

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 large onion, chopped

1cup baby bella mushrooms, sliced

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1
/2 pound spicy Italian sausage

1/2 pound ground beef

Sea salt and black pepper

26
ounces marinara sauce

1 cup fresh parsley, chopped

1/2 cup ricotta cheese

1/2 cup grated Parmesan
cheese

1 cup shredded mozzarella
cheese

Heat oven to 400° F. Cook the pasta according to the package directions. Drain it, and return it to the pot. Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until they begin to soften, 4 to 5 minutes.

Add the sausage,
beef, and 3/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper and cook, breaking up the meat with a spoon until it's no longer pink, 5 to 6 minutes. Toss the pasta with the meat mixture and marinara sauce. Separately mix the parsley, ricotta, and ¼ cup of the Parmesan. Transfer to a 9-by-13-inch baking dish and combine. Sprinkle with the mozzarella and the remaining ¼ cup of the Parmesan. Bake until the cheese melts, 12 to 15 minutes.

**Andy's note: The spicy sausage is what puts the
zing
in this ziti, but if you're not one for hot, simply substitute for all ground beef or even eggplant.

I bounced along in the van with its crappy traction control until the magical spot appeared before me like Brigadoon. Parking the car, I strode toward the house.
He's already married.
Lizzy's words echoed in my ears.

Jones opened the door before I could knock, his expression concerned.
"Is something the matter, Andrea?"

"
That depends." He didn't move aside right away. I wondered if Lizzy had called him and warned him of my impending meltdown. He didn't look wary, only curious about why I'd shown up at nine-thirty at night.

I
'd bee-lined for the door the second the numb shock of Lizzy's declaration wore off and sped into the night, needing answers. Now that I stood in front of him though, I didn't want to ask. "Are you married?"

I wanted him to say no, of course not, or don
't be ridiculous. His words made my heart sink. "It's complicated."

Mentally, I screamed every filthy word I knew at him. Twice. Outwardly, I stood on his front steps as if my whole body had been turned to stone instead of just my heart.

Would I ever learn?

"
Come in," he said.

My throat had closed up by the time he shut the door.
My gaze slithered toward the bedroom door, but I ripped it free. Crap, what the hell was I doing here? I should be halfway down the hill right now.

We stood there a moment in awkward silence.
"May I get you something to drink?" he offered.

I gave him a dirty look.

Jones sighed. "All right." He didn't look at all remorseful, and in that instance I could have cheerfully eviscerated him.

"
Who is she?" The words popped out. "And why isn't she here with you?"

"
Technically, I'm not married."

I blinked.
"Technically? What does that mean, and why does Lizzy think you are?"

He scrubbed a hand through his stubble.
"I married Rochelle in good faith. A small, private ceremony. Lizzy was there. What I didn't find out until later was that Rochelle was already married."

And th
e hits just kept on coming. "What?"

He perched on the arm of the chair, though his posture was far from relaxed.
"It's ironic really, me a private investigator, and yet I wound up with a bigamist."

"
So you were never actually married?"

He looked away
, and I watched his Adam's apple bob. When he spoke his voice was tight with feeling. "I thought I was. I meant to be, so as I said before, it's complicated."

I stood there like a flippin
' idiot with my mouth hanging open. My heart went out to him because clearly he'd loved Rochelle, and she'd broken his heart. And I appreciated how much restraint he'd shown in not digging any deeper into my past when he had the information at his fingertips. Once burned, twice shy, and all that jazz. Yet he'd rolled the dice and trusted me.

"
Did you try to work it out with her? Rochelle, I mean."

He laughed, the sound hollow and humorless.
"Would you?"

"
Hell no." My response was automatic. "But why does Lizzy think you're still married?"

He made a face.
"I was too ashamed of my naiveté to tell her the truth. Our father didn't know, and neither did her mother."

"
So she thinks I've set my sights on a married man." Fan-frigging-tastic.

He reached out and grabbed my arms.
"I will tell her, Andrea."

Looking into his eyes, I believed him.

More silence as the mounting tension wove a transparent tapestry between the two of us, linking us together. Or maybe that was just my needy hormones expanding to take up the entire space.

"
Would you care to see my dark room?" Jones dropped his hands and pushed up off the couch. His melodic New Zealand accent made the question sound more formal and enticing than the proposition warranted.

I shook my head, surprised at the abrupt change of subject. Then again, maybe we needed the emotional distance.
"You actually have a dark room? Here?"

"
Lizzy offered to let me use it whenever I wanted."

"
I thought digital cameras and Photoshop made a dark room redundant." I followed him through the great room with its stark color scheme.

He shrugged.
"It's soothing to produce my art photography the old-fashioned way. There's something about the smell of the chemicals and the process. An inherent nostalgia with transferring a supposedly blank piece of paper from one vat to the next until the beauty of the photo is revealed."

"
You're a romantic," I said, not really surprised.

Jones stopped and turned to face me, wearing a rueful smile.
"Maybe a little. The PI business and my personal history made me jaded. I use Photoshop for the business. It's so much more pragmatic and cost effective, especially considering my difficulties. Half the time I don't even need prints, just attach the money shot to an email. No fuss, no muss."

From his indignant shrug,
I got the impression he liked the fuss and the muss, but for once I held my tongue and let him talk, sensing he needed to after discussing his sort-of ex-wife.

"
This helps nurture my creativity in spite of my difficulties. No computers, no picture of cheating spouses or fraudulent insurance claims. Just me and a captured moment in time."

Like I
'd said, a romantic. It was true what they said about scratching the surface of any cynic and finding a wounded idealist. Hell, I ought to know. "What difficulties?"

He slid back a pocket door and ushered me forward.
"I'm color blind."

"
You're kidding." I rolled my eyes at my asinine comment. "Sorry, what I meant was…" What exactly
did
I mean?

Jones waved his hand, indicating that I should haul my cookies farther down the stairs. The cellar here was in much better shape than the one over at Pop
's place. A pristine white washer and dryer combo sat against the back wall, the hot water heater in the far corner. No battered cardboard boxes or rusty tools littered the cavernous room.

Jones brushed passed me
, and I caught a whiff of his spicy scent. My libido shot into overdrive. All at once I realized why he'd brought me down here.

His past betrayals were comparable to my own
, and yet there he stood, showing me a big part of his inner landscape, admitting to his flaws and mistakes, and trusting me not to hurt him. All in hopes that I'd trust him in return.

He circled the staircase, leading me to the other side of the basement. His gaze roved to a clock on the wall
, and he hesitated with his hand clasped on the knob. "I understand to what you were referring. The question on your mind probably has something to do with why I decided to become a photographer when it's obviously a challenge for me."

The corner of my mouth kicked up as a big puzzle piece fell into place.
"Ah, I get it now. You're the kind of man who thrives on challenge. Not so much an adrenaline junky, but you do like to test yourself, push your limits." And no wonder he continued to pursue me.

Blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
"I see all the mystery has leeched out of our relationship."

Oh yeah, he was flirting
, and I
loved
it. A little shiver started at the nape of my neck and slithered down my spine. When I spoke, my voice came out low and sultry. "So, are you gonna show me what's behind door number one?"

He tipped his head to the side.
"Some of the prints might still be wet, so watch where you put your hands."

My mouth went dry.
"Damn, you're good at this. I think I'm out of my league here."

Chuckling in a deep, throaty way, he turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The overhead light was a soft white bulb, no more than sixty watts, max. On the wall a red bulb sat unlit. Jones saw me staring at it and explained. "Safelights, for making the actual prints. I was going to develop one of the rolls I took at Linville. Would you like to see the process?"

I nodded, eagerly. This little room filled with all sorts of photographic flotsam was the best hidey hole I had ever found.

Jones moved a stack of manuals off a metal folding chair. "Have a seat. I already have my chemicals mixed, so the first part of the process you won't actually be able to watch because it must be done in complete darkness."

"
What about the safelight?" I gestured to the red bulb.

Jones shook his head.
"Not for raw film. Any light at all could fog the exposed film and ruin the images. I'm going to open the top and feed the film onto a reel."

I sat
, and Jones moved over to the door. "You aren't claustrophobic, right?"

"
No." Just lustfully incoherent at the thought of being alone in the dark with Jones. Would he try something? Would
I
try something? If I screamed down here in his dark room would anyone hear me? I wasn't sure if I hoped they would or that they wouldn't.

He flipped the switch and plunged the room into total darkness. I sank my fingernails into my forearms, trembling with some unidentified emotion.
"Jones?"

"
Right here." His voice was several feet from the wall with the switch, much closer to me. I hadn't heard him take a single step. "When I first started out, it would take me several minutes and complete concentration to open the canister, trim the uneven ends, and work the film onto the reel. Years of practice have made me adept at it."

I heard a few scuffling sounds as he described the process to me. There was no way to keep track of time, or of Jones. I was fervently glad he
'd made me sit this part out. "How long have you been doing this?"

"
Almost twelve years. I took a course in high school and became instantly addicted. Shield your eyes."

I did
, and the light came back on. Jones smiled down at me, and I watched his pupils shrink back to normal size. "That's done."

He turned the canister that held the unraveled film.
"Time for the chemicals." He held an amber colored measuring cup full of liquid aloft. "Developer. Watch the clock on the wall. This needs to set about seven minutes."

Keeping one eye on the time, I watched as he poured the brew in, then turned the canister. Some tilting and tapping took place, all like a choreographed dance
, and Jones knew every step. Striding over to the slop sink, he poured the liquid out into an empty tray.

"
Stop bath," he informed me as he poured a golden yellow liquid into the tank. "Keeps the negatives from continuing to be developed."