Murder Al Fresco (5 page)

"You're still getting your bearings, aren't you?" I replied to Jones, still speaking to Clayton. The last thing he needed was all the adults talking about him and no one talking to him. "I'll bet you're a regular chatterbox when you get goin'. Come on, don't you want this?"

I held the bottle up in his line of sight. Slowly he turned his head, copper hair gleaming in the early morning sunlight. "A bwee bwee."

"That's right," I coaxed, handing the bottle to him. Slowly he released the death grip on my shirt and reached for the offering.

"Is that his word for bottle?" Jones asked.

"Could be. Or it could be something else entirely." I grinned as he brought the bottle toward himself then plopped backwards onto the couch until he was sprawled flat on his back, fitting the nipple to his lips. Those blue eyes stayed trained on me as he drank deeply, making soft gasping noises between each pull.

There was plenty of room on the other side of the couch, and without turning, I said to Jones, "Try sitting on the other side of the couch. Let him get used to seeing you, hearing your voice. I'll bet he's never heard anyone who talks like you before."

Slowly, as though approaching a wild beast, Jones lowered himself onto the last couch cushion. Clayton's eyes shifted up to his father's, but he didn't stop drinking.

"What should I say?" Jones asked, his gaze transfixed on his son.

His son. Lord, twenty-four hours ago he hadn't even known that Clayton existed. Why hadn't Rochelle told him?

My focus returned to the little guy, and I knew. Rochelle had been protecting her son. She knew how angry and bitter Jones was about their relationship had turned out and hadn't wanted to chance that Jones would transfer those feelings to their child. She'd probably showed up in town last winter planning to tell him then, but she'd died before she'd ever had the chance. Clayton hadn't even been a year old.

I cleared my throat to answer Jones's question. "Anything. I could listen to you read the phone book, for the love of Pete. The content doesn't matter as much as your tone."

"We've never discussed having children," Jones murmured.

Now was so not the time to get into it either, and some part of me was fearful that Jones would be adamantly against the idea, which would break my heart a little for Clayton. My fiancé was many things—cultured, talented, smart, and oh-so-sexy—but I never once looked at him and thought, wow, he'd be a great dad. He was just so cosmopolitan, the shine on the cubic zirconia of Beaverton. I knew from my frequent visits to Donna's house that kids forced you to get your hands dirty in unimaginable ways.

And truth be known, I'd been traumatized when I'd had to give up Kaylee, so the thought of having more children terrified me a little. We weren't ready to be full-time parents, not as a couple or as individuals, but that didn't stop this weird fluttery feeling from taking over my rational thought when I looked at the little guy. "Well, the conversation is sort of moot now, right? He's here, and we better figure out how to deal with him, quick."

As if to underscore my point, Clayton finished his bottle then slithered his way off the couch cushion. Jones lunged forwarded and snagged the back of his onesie before he hit the floor. The boy blinked at him, his lips trembling a little.

"What do I do?" Jones sounded panicked.

Who'd have thought I'd be the level-headed one in this relationship? "He's probably curious. Put him down, and let him explore a little."

"But it's not safe. I don't have any of that paraphernalia you need for kids." Jones glanced around half panicked.

"Paraphernalia?" He made having a baby around sound like a drug habit. "Malcolm, he's fine. We're both here. We won't let him get into anything dangerous."

Jones lowered Clayton to the floor where he sat, blinking up at his father. The stressed-out man let out a sigh, and his hand shook a little as it reached for mine. "I'm completely and utterly unprepared for this."

"You're doing just fine," I soothed. "Remember. Positive attitude."

"That's what got me into this in the first place," Jones growled.

In a burst of movement, Clayton rolled from his diapered butt onto all fours and crawled around the table. The diaper sagged a little as he made his way across the rug to the entertainment center.

Jones ran a free hand down his face. "What if I screw it up? I have no idea what to do."

"I won't let you screw up. It's only for a month, right?"

His rigid posture wilted a little as if in relief. "A month, yes. You're right."

"Words I always love to hear." I kept my tone light, but I didn't want to think about Clayton leaving in thirty days' time. In less than twelve hours I'd already grown attached to him, so how was I supposed to give him up four weeks from now?

And the better question, how could Jones be so relieved at the thought of his flesh and blood hundreds of miles away being raised by someone else?

My phone rang, and I leapt for it, eager for the distraction. "Hello?"

"What is this?" Aunt Cecily asked, her tone dangerous.

I closed my eyes, hoping I wasn't about to be lambasted about the state of the Bowtie Angel. It had been spick-and-span when I left last night, but maybe not up to her standards. "What is what?"

"This mess of TV people in my pasta shop." She made a spitting sound.

"TV people?" I swayed on my feet, my eyes going to Clayton. "Malcolm, stop him before he yanks the curtain rod down on his head."

"You come and get rid of them now," Aunt Cecily demanded and hung up.

Shoot, what the hell were the
Diced
people doing at the Bowtie Angel already? I hadn't notified the chamber of commerce or the town council. I had to go handle them before Aunt Cecily put The Eye on the whole production staff.

"What's the matter?" Jones asked as he untangled the boy from the curtain.

"Malcolm, there's a situation at the pasta shop and—" The phone rang again, cutting my explanation off. "Hello?"

"Andy, what the hell is going on?" Kyle growled at me. Behind him I heard a chatter of excited voices and the blaring of car horns. "Traffic is backed up clear to the interstate, and people with TV cameras are everywhere, and the guy I spoke to said you invited them all here?"

Shoot wasn't gonna cut it this time, but I said my bad words silently, in deference to innocent ears. "Listen, Kyle, I can explain."

Kyle shouted something to someone else, and there was a screech of tires. "No, you cannot park there! Andy, fix this—now." He hung up.

"I've got to go." I pocketed the phone and lunged for my keys.

"Go?" Jones had started to sweat. "Go where?"

"Into town." I rushed past him and started hunting for something to wear.

Jones followed me to the bedroom door. "You can't leave me, I mean us, here alone."

"It's important." My cell rang again, but I ignored it. I'd be there as soon as humanly possible, and they could all just suck it up until then.

"And this isn't?" he hissed, gaze flitting to where Clayton was pulling himself up to walk along the entertainment center.

I was about to bite his head off when I recognized the terror in his voice. He didn't trust his ability to take care of Clayton on his own and was probably still reeling from yesterday's revelation.

I tugged on a pair of jeans and a red tank top. "Call Lizzy over. She'd be happy to spend time with him."

"Good idea." Jones hopped over Clayton and headed for the phone. "That way I can come with you and help."

"Jones," I said, but he was already heading for the door.

"A doo-doo. A doo-doo!" Clayton cried. I scooped him up before he put his finger in the light socket.

"You said it, pal. We're in deep a doo-doo."

Rosemary Focaccia

You'll need:

1 teaspoon honey

1 package active dry yeast

⅓ cup warm, NOT boiling, water

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

¼ teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, chopped fine

Directions:

Preheat oven to 475
F.

In a small bowl, dissolve honey and yeast in the warm water. Let stand until frothy, about 10 minutes. In a large bowl, combine the yeast mixture with flour. Stir well to combine. Stir in additional water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until all of the flour is absorbed. Once the dough has pulled together, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead briefly for about 1 minute.

Lightly oil a large bowl, place the dough in the bowl, and turn to coat with oil. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth, and let rise in a warm place until doubled in volume, about 30 minutes.

Deflate the dough and turn it out onto a lightly floured surface. Knead briefly. Pat or roll the dough into a sheet and place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Brush the dough with oil and sprinkle with salt and rosemary.

Bake focaccia in preheated oven for 10 to 20 minutes, depending on desired crispness.

**Andy's note: Focaccia is Italian flatbread, but don't use boiling water, or you'll kill the yeast, and it will be
too
flat. Been there, done that. Got the cheap T-shirt to prove it.

Kyle hadn't been kidding. Traffic in town was so snarled that I couldn't make it to the Bowtie Angel parking lot. Instead, I parked across the green behind Mike's Garage, and Jones and I made our way through the throng of people to the pasta shop's back door.

"Keep your eyes peeled for Stu," I shouted to Jones as we maneuvered around a cluster of bitching women. I heard one gripe, "What kind of backward-ass town doesn't have a Starbucks?" Clearly someone who had never spent any time in the franchise-free South.

"What does he look like?" Jones called back.

A dead man when I got ahold of him. The call I'd let go to voicemail had been from Donna, who had it from her husband, Steven, that the Beaverton PD was just as flummoxed by the new arrivals and to call her if any of the TV people were looking to rent places to stay because Marilynn from the motel said they were all booked up. At least somebody wasn't screaming for my head over this.

"Short, squat, not much hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. Thin lips and a smarmy smirk perpetually on his puss. And he probably looks like he's in charge of this circus."

Jones nodded once then stalked off, obviously still miffed that I'd sprung this on him. In turn, I fumed because he'd bailed on Clayton the first chance he got. Not that I minded his help, but it didn't feel right leaving the tyke when he was still acclimating to the changes. How was I going to juggle the competition and an investigation, running the pasta shop, and now a little person who I couldn't let anywhere near the rest of the craziness?

Donna would have to hook me up with some of her supermom juice. Or some more wine coolers.

I bobbed and weaved my way through the crowd, scanning faces for someone I knew. Several were vaguely familiar, so either I'd seen them during my brief tenure on Flavor TV or they were
Diced
regulars.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned and grinned up at the handsome face of Rodrigo Lobo. "Hello, stranger," he said in his rolling Venezuelan accent.

"Hey, yourself." Much to my mortification, a blush stole over my face, same as it had every time I'd spoken to him at Flavor TV.

"You don't call. You don't write," he gave me a what-gives, palms-up gesture and his trademarked, lady-killer smile. "And here I thought we were friends."

"Always the flirt. How's the show?" Rodrigo's small show
Muy Caliente
had grown into a nationwide craze, and he'd left the network about a week before my dreadful debut. Unlike many of the other network stars, none of the blowback from the Flavor TV lawsuits had landed on his doorstep, which explained why he was still speaking to me.

Rodrigo shrugged. "Can't complain. What about you,
chica?
Why don't I see your smiling face on the circuit?"

I laughed before I realized he was serious. "Have you been living under a rock? I'm the Death Chef."

"
Sí,
cocinero de la muerte,"
the man shrugged,
shrugged
, as if my giving a live studio audience a massive case of food poisoning was no biggie. "Mistakes happen. It's what you do after that counts. So, are you going to show me your place?"

I was still stuck on the
what you do after
comment, and it took me a moment to realize he was gesturing to the Bowtie Angel. "Are you serious?"

He grinned. "
¿Por qué no?
Do you have something to hide?"

I made an indignant scoffing sound, but in truth, I was daunted. Pride drove me to continue to expand and improve upon my family's brand, but still… The man owned a Michelin star restaurant for the love of grief, and he wanted to see my family's dinky little pasta shop?

He slung an arm around my shoulders. "I like you, Andy. So I am going to give you some advice. You need to show confidence in everything you do, in all that you have."