Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

Swallowing past the panic, I thought about how best to answer without speaking ill of the dead.
"Not much, at least no more than any other pastry chef on the Eastern Seaboard. Mostly gossip and rumors, his professional reputation, that kind of thing."

Darryl raised an eyebrow.
"But you said you met him before. Surely you had an impression of him?"

"
Well, he was a showman. More interested in buffing his ego than quality of his work. His assistant took quite a bit of abuse to help him save face."

Darryl
's eyes narrowed. "Was the assistant here tonight?"

Crap.
"I didn't mean that Mimi was abused, that came out wrong."

"
What's Mimi's last name?"

"
Honestly, I have no idea." Oh hell, I was doing more harm than good, trying to dance around the issue, and I couldn't bear for poor Mimi to have to suffer scrutiny just because she'd worked for the brute. "Zoltan Farnsworth was an ego-manic, and he treated every other chef as his inferior. He was also a booze hound, showed up half in the bag at several culinary functions. If not for Mimi, he probably would have been blacklisted."

"
What does Mimi look like?"

"
Small, petite I mean. Short black hair and dark eyes. Thin, almost gaunt. Early to mid-twenties, though I'm not one hundred percent on that. Asian ancestry, Chinese, I think. I can't imagine her hurting anyone, let alone killing her boss, no matter how big of an ass he was."

"
Be sure to contact me if you see her again. No one matching that description is among the bystanders." He wrote down a few more quick notes, and I said a silent prayer that I hadn't made Mimi's life more difficult. "Tell me about Malcolm Jones."

I blinked, surprised.
"I barely know him. Just ran into him the other day for the first time. Literally, I rear-ended his car. There's a report and everything."

"
He was with you when you found the body?"

"
And for a while before that. We were dancing. Well, actually he was taking pictures while I set up the pasta bar. And then we danced."

Darryl stood up, paced to the window
, and moved the curtain aside. The soft glow of the lamps reflected off his baldpate as he peered out into the night. "It must be hard, seeing Kyle with Lizzy. I remember you guys in high school, thick as thieves, as my granny used to say. Why did you take this job, Andy?"

"
I've been asking myself that all night," I muttered. "Still don't have a good reason, other than Aunt Cecily wanted me to, and the pasta shop needs the business." Taking a deep breath I asked, "Am I in trouble? Do I need to get a lawyer?"

He didn
't answer right away, just let the curtain fall aside. The antique clock on the mantel chimed ten times, and I shifted. "Darryl?"

He looked down at me, his face unreadable
. "I'll have one of the officers drive you home. We'll need to inspect the van. I'll probably need to talk to you again, since you knew him."

"
Sure. I'll either be at Pop's place or at the Bowtie Angel." Pushing off the couch, it suddenly hit me that there was a murderer on the loose. "Darryl, do you think I'm in danger? That message—"

He glanced up sharply.
"What message?"

"
Welcome home. It was written next to the body. In spilled flour. Didn't you see it? Didn't Jones say something about it when you interviewed him?"

Slowly, Darryl shook his head.
"No. Andy, I'm sorry, but I didn't see anything." From his expression it was clear that Jones hadn't said anything either.

* * *

Pops was asleep when I got home. Hurray for small favors because there were only so many times in a given day that I could recount the same information. After kicking off my shoes I fell into bed fully clothed and let exhaustion do its thing. If I had any dreams, I didn't recall them, but I woke up just as the sky was beginning to lighten to blue-black.

Stiff and achy, I pulled on some sweats and trundled downstairs. Clipping
Roofus to his leash, I slipped out the back door. Irene O'Malley popped out of the house next door wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe and bent down to retrieve her paper. She gave me a little wave and then ducked back into her nice warm house. I looked over to my friend Donna Muller's house, but there were no signs of life yet. I'd make a point of stopping by later, after her kids left for school.

The temperature had fallen overnight, frost prominent on the grass, but it would melt away as soon as the sun hit it. Willing my
quiet reprieve to go on just a smidge longer, I headed to the walking trail behind the cul-de-sac.

Beaverton
is located in the central region of North Carolina in an area known as the Piedmont, smack dab between the mountains and the coast. It's several hours' drive to reach either so to make up for it, the community has funneled money into fitness trails. The hiking/biking path was originally laid out to run ten miles around the perimeter of the downtown area, but the economy started slowing down when North Carolina failed to transform into the new Florida. Although we have quite a few denizens who have retired from the Snowbelt, there are just as many vacant lots where real estate speculators ate a humongous loss, and the unfinished trail is only about three miles of nature surrounded by cleared land being slowly reclaimed by Mother Nature.

Roofus
snuffled a bit, and it took some tugging to urge him through the back woods and onto the trail. He lifted his leg on one of the fitness stations and then fell into an easy lope at my side. Though I was far from a natural athlete, I had endurance on my side, built up from all those years of subsisting on a starch heavy diet and needing to burn it off before it settled around my hips like a blubbery hula hoop. Atkins could kiss my grits. If I couldn't enjoy food, I doubt I'd enjoy much of anything.

With my iPod still in the car, I had nothing to drown out the questions plaguing me other than the occasional twittering of birdsong. Why hadn
't Detective Brown seen the words written in the spilled flour? And why hadn't Jones mentioned it to him? Had the message been meant for me? Maybe I was losing my mind, the stress of poisoning a bunch of strangers, of being fired and back in Beaverton, worries about Pops and Aunt Cecily and the Bowtie Angel, seeing Kyle and Lizzy together, all topped off with finding the body. Yeah, maybe my mind had snapped like a dry twig. The thought wasn't exactly reassuring.

Up ahead the Episcopal Church steeple appeared amidst the trees, blazing white against a pink backdrop. That was Kyle
's church, where he and Lizzy would get married in all the fanfare due, the town's golden couple. Rumors would fly of course, just like always, rumors that Chef Zoltan Farnsworth had been a spy, a drug dealer, or undercover paparazzi. A few of the more colorful tales would involve me as his lover/killer/protégé. Good old Andy Buckland, always greasing the gossip mill.

It occurred to me that the Bowtie Angel would benefit from having me around. The pasta shop was a natural gathering place
, and if I was there, answering questions and allowing myself to be grilled like a side of beef about Zoltan and my discovery, well, it would only draw a larger crowd. I hated being the center of attention, it made me nervous as all get-out, and it wasn't exactly a long term solution, but I had yet to devise a better plan.

A flash of blue caught my attention as a jogger appeared around the bend. Yanking the leash, I urged
Roofus to move to the side, but that didn't stop him from barking and pulling to attack the newcomer. Although I appreciated the effort, I was fairly certain that he would run away and hide, shedding and slobbering, if anyone tried to hurt me. Of course, being a city girl had taught me the value of carrying a can of pepper spray in my jacket pocket, so we didn't have to test that theory.

As the runner approached, I recognized the newcomer. Rats, I was really hoping to have my act together when Jones and I met again. So far he
'd seen me fresh from an accident, wearing the muumuu from hell, and now sweating like a Clydesdale fresh from the Kentucky Derby. Was I destined to always look like day-old road kill in his presence?

An image of Chef
Farnsworth prone on the floor of the pantry put my vanity (or lack thereof) into perspective.

"
Andrea," Jones, not even winded, slowed to a walk and fell into step beside me. Roofus growled low and threatening under his breath.

I tugged on the leash to get the disgruntled old dog
's attention off Jones. "Big faker. Don't worry—he won't bite." I hoped.

Crouching down, Jones offered
Roofus his hand, palm up. The beagle sniffed and then pulled back with a slitty-eyed scowl, as though the man's scent had confirmed his suspicions somehow. "Grrrr…"

"
He doesn't like you," I told Jones. "Animals can sense evil, you know."

"
I also make babies cry," Jones said. "It's a gift from the dark prince no doubt."

"
Don't say that too loud around here, or you'll be dunked in the creek faster than you can say, "Bob's your uncle." Speaking of family… "Hey. How's everything going with your family?" Sheesh, could I sound more ridiculously stupid?

Jones grinned at me but answered my trite question.
"The drama has settled down a little. Both Lizzy and her mother downed some Valium and were still sleeping when I left."

"
Oh. Well that's good, I guess. After the shock and everything." Stupid had settled in to roost. I rolled my eyes. "Sorry, I'm not up to my usual verbal sparring weight today."

"
Understandable," Jones murmured. "Quite the homecoming for us both."

I desperately wanted to ask him if he
'd seen, or maybe even erased the words written in the flour, but couldn't find a casual way to bring it up. Not that I'd been doing a great job with subtle so far. Some people have a gift for gab. I have a gift for blather. "So, I guess you're sticking around here for a little while?"

Good, that sounded only mildly interested and not like a crazy women cleaving to her last thread of sanity.

Jones grinned down at me. "At least until after the wedding. It's been a long time since I've spent time with my father and sister, and I promised to photograph for them."

"
They're lucky to have you." Heat crept up my face. To cover I asked, "Do you think the police have any suspects?"

"
Other than me, you mean." His tone was flat.

Gripping his arm I pulled him to a stop.
Roofus cast us both a disgusted look and flopped down for a mid-stroll nap. "It's not about you, other than that they don't know you. You're an outsider and an easy mark. Try not to take it personally."

"
Is there any way to not take personally the fact that half the town thinks I'm guilty of killing a man I'd never laid eyes on before yesterday?"

"
Look, I alibied you out to Detective Brown. I saw you, taking pictures of the crowd—" my words cut off as Jones and I looked at each other. Pictures, as in photographic evidence of who was and was not outside at the time Chef Farnsworth was being stabbed to death.

"
We should probably look at them first, make sure there's something there before disturbing the detective," I reasoned.

"
I'm scheduled to have brunch with my father and a few of his business associates in about an hour. This afternoon perhaps?"

Great, plenty of time to doll myself up, check on my car
, and drop the bomb on Pops and Aunt Cecily, although chances were they already knew about me discovering the body. Plus, I had time to work out exactly how to go about asking Jones if he'd tampered with a police investigation.

The trail had looped back around to the
cul-de-sac. "This is my stop. I'll see you later then?"

"
I'll pick you up at the pasta shop."

"
Don't look at those pictures without me," I called to his retreating form.

"
Bossy!" Jones turned and winked at me. "I like that."

Pops and his
Lincoln were gone by the time Roofus and I got back to the house. After doling out a hearty scoop of Kibbles and Bits for the dog, I darted upstairs and dove into the shower. The ancient pipes rattled, and I hopped around under the icy spray.

"
Ah, oo, eeee!" To the casual observer I might have been speaking in tongues, but this vowel sound-off was par for the course when showering at Pop's house. Though his day job was mild mannered accountant, Pops was tight with a buck when it came to what he called "new-fangled technology." My mom had fondly referred to living with Nana and Pops as camping indoors.

Of course the alternative was living with Aunt Cecily above the Bowtie Angel
, so I'd learned to keep my trap shut.

I
'd just finished zipping my jeans, which seemed a little tight these days, when the doorbell rang. Roofus's nails clicked on the hardwood, and he let out a single mournful bay in greeting.