Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (22 page)

I shivered, recalling just how close the call had been. "Well, I guess I'm officially out of the PI business."

"Why? You're good at it."

I blinked. "You think I'm a good PI?"

"Well, yeah. You solved my case."

"But I made so many mistakes."

"That doesn't mean you're not a good PI. It just means you need to practice and build your skill sets. If you don't want to work for the lawyer anymore, you can come work with me."

My mouth fell open. "Aren't you angry? That I didn't tell you I was pregnant?"

"Getting right into the heavy stuff are we?" He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Well, I'm not thrilled that you didn't tell me. Obviously. And I gotta say it blows my mind. I have a kid—not a kid, a teenager. But no, I'm not mad."

"You don't feel cheated? That I kept her from you?" I probed.

He shook his head. "It's still sinking in. But I guess what I most wanted to say is that I get it, why you didn't tell me."

I jolted as if hit with electric current. "You do?"

"Well, yeah. I mean I wish you had, but it took me a long time to grow up. Hell, some days I think I'm not there yet."

"You're not alone in that." I let out a sigh. "It wasn't just because I thought you were immature. My life had to change, but yours didn't. And I didn't want you to be tied down, obligated to us. I always wanted the best for you, and I knew if I told you that would have impacted every decision you made going forward. Eventually you would have resented both of us, and that wasn't fair to any of us."

He nodded. "So, she knows about me?"

"Only just. After I ran into you again, I knew I had to come clean with both of you."

"What's she like?" He sat forward, eyes alight with eagerness.

"Brilliant. She's quite the little whiz with computers. In fact, she just got an internship with the police." I went on for some time, describing various bits of Mac's personality while her father listened raptly.

"Does she…" Brett cleared his throat. "That is, do you think she will want to get to know me?"

"I think she wants that more than anything."

Brett smiled, that natural-born charmer grin that lit up the room. "Really?"

"Would I lie? She's upstairs with the battle-ax. Maybe you two could talk a little bit."

He rose to go, but hesitated. "Seriously Mackenzie. I think you're going to be one of the best PIs in the business someday. Stick with it."

I glanced away, embarrassed.

Another knock sounded on the door, just three hard raps.

"Did you see anyone lurking in the bushes that time?" Brett asked.

"No, but that's Hunter. Let him in."

Sure enough, Detective Black stood on the other side, and he wasn't alone. Len was with him, the older man holding a large bouquet of autumn flowers.

"I didn't realize you were entertaining," Len said.

"I'm always entertaining." I waved them in. "Brett was just on his way up to see Mac, so I guess I'm ready for a new babysitter."

Len shuffled forward as the two younger men studied each other warily. If they'd been dogs there would have been a lot of circling and butt sniffing as each took the other's measure.

"Mackenzie," Brett called from the door. "I'll see you around."

I rolled my eyes. He had to get in one last shot. "Later, Brett."

As the lawyer approached I saw the bouquet was in fact two different arrangements. He handed me one, and I looked up at him, surprised. "What are these for?"

"To celebrate your first successful case. Detective Black assures me that all the charges against Dr. Granger have been dropped."

I craned my neck up to meet Hunter's gaze. "Is that so?"

He nodded mutely. His gaze was once again dark and inscrutable.

"Have a seat." I waved to the chair and the empty couch cushion beside me.

"I'm not staying. I just wanted to drop off the flowers and this." Len reached into his pocket and extracted a check, which he handed to me.

"But I haven't compiled my hours yet," I protested.

"I know. You can do that when you're feeling better."

My hand shook as I took it from him. It wasn't a ton of money, but it would help. But it was more than the money. I'd solved my first case as a private investigator. With a ton of help and a heaping helping of luck, but still…

"So get some rest." Len twinkled at me. "I'll see you in the office as soon as you're fit to be back on the job."

"Who are those for?" I gestured toward the other bouquet, wondering if the arrangement was a thank you to my mother.

"Nona. Poor dear felt left out so I thought I'd bring these by to cheer her up. Have a good night." Len tipped an imaginary hat and then headed out the door.

I shifted and leaned back against the couch. "Please sit down. My head is throbbing, and tipping it back to look up at you isn't doing me any good."
"You assume I'm staying?" Hunter said quietly.

I flinched. "You probably have a ton of case things to tidy up."

"I do," he said, not moving.

"On a scale of one to ten, with one being not at all and ten being ballistic, just how mad are you?"

Hunter thought about it. "One hundred and ten."

"Yowch. I really screwed up, didn't I?"

He heaved out a breath and then sat on the couch next to me. "Why did you leave like that?"

I almost played the injury card, but decided against it. "I broke a bunch of promises last night to my daughter and to myself. Mac was mad and even worse, hurt. I'm not saying I regret what happened, but I'm not in a place where I can go forward either."

Hunter nodded. "So where does that leave us?"

"As neighbors. And friends, I hope." I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his.

"And Brett?" Was that a slight trace of bitterness in his voice?

"Brett is Mac's dad, and I guess he'll be around."

He searched my face. "Nothing else?"

"No. Same rules apply. I have my daughter, and she's my number one priority."

As if summoned, Mac appeared, a sunny smile on her face. It dimmed a little when she saw Hunter seated beside me on the couch. "Oh, uh, hi."

"Did you talk to him?" I asked, releasing Hunter's hand.

"I should go." He stood up.

"Oh, no. That is, you don't have to. I was just coming to ask Mom if it was okay if we ordered pizza. That soup smells vile."

"Try it, meh meh meh," I mimicked Agnes.

"You need to be nicer to your mother," Hunter said, surprising us both. "She's one of the bravest women I've ever seen. She spotted what was going on through the office window, and I tried to get her to stay outside, but she knocked on the door and had the pepper spray ready before I could do anything about it."

I remembered the story he'd told me about his mother and how she died and felt ashamed. "You're right."

"Let me know if you need anything." His gaze devoured me for an endless moment, and then he was gone.

"Is it hot in here?" I asked Mac.

She plopped down on the other side of the couch. "No, it's just you two."

"I meant what I said, you know. I called a halt to things with him. So there won't be awkwardness."

"Good," Mac said distractedly. "That's good"

"Where's your dad?"

"He had to go. Do we really need to eat the soup?"

I plucked the check from my pajama pocket and handed it to her. "Order a pizza and we'll dip it in the soup."

Mac laughed and took out her phone. "Done. Oh and Mom?"

"What?"

"I'm proud of you."

Tears stung my eyes. "Ditto, kid. Now, what do you say to a John Hughes movie marathon until I can see straight?"

"I have school tomorrow," Mac pointed out.

"I'll write you a note." I hit the Walken accent express again.

"Mom."

"You've got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell."

Mac shook her head. "It's a good thing I love you."

I closed my eyes and sighed, content. "It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it."

* * * * *

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Jennifer L. Hart knows that surviving as military spouse takes persistence, comfort food, and a stellar sense of humor. Her books often focus on people who've lived the military lifestyle and zany antics of neurotic heroines who like to eat, drink, and have fun. Her works include the
Misadventures of the Laundry Hag
mystery series, the
Damaged Goods
mystery series, the
Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries
and the
Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries
. Follow her online using #mysterieswithhart on
Facebook
,
Instagram
, and
Twitter
.

To learn more about Jennifer, visit her online at:
http://www.jenniferlhart.com/

* * * * *

Mackenzie & Mackenzie Mysteries:

Sleuthing for a Living

Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries
:

Murder Al Dente

Christmas Al Dente
(holiday short story)

Murder À La Flambé

Murder Al Fresco

Misadventures of the Laundry Hag Mysteries:

Skeletons in the Closet

Swept Under the Rug

All Washed Up

Hung Out to Dry

The Laundry Hag's Christmas Rental

Damaged Goods Mysteries

Final Notice

Lease on the Beach

Cure of Die

Other Works

Who Needs a Hero?

River Rats

Stellar Timing

Daisy Dominatrix

Redeeming Characters

* * * * *

of the first Southern Pasta Shop Mystery

MURDER AL DENTE

by

JENNIFER L. HART

PROLOGUE

"Five minutes, Ms. Buckland." Mimi, Chef Zoltan Farnsworth's assistant, poked her head into the closet I'd been given to use as a dressing room.

I grinned at her. "Thanks. He has you herding the entire studio, now, huh? Why do you put up with him, Mimi?" She was a talented pastry chef in her own right, but Zoltan Farnsworth treated her like dirt. Not that that was unusual for him. Farnsworth treated everyone like dirt. It was practically his brand.

"He is not so bad." She paused, seemed to consider, and said in her careful Asian accent, "Well, he
is
bad."

"Hey, when I'm Flavor TV's next big thing, I'll hire you right out from under his mustache." I took a deep breath, checked my appearance one last time in the chipped mirror, and pasted on a smile. "First I have to go out there and blow their doors off."

"You will do very well, I am sure." Mimi offered me a smile, dipped her head, and bustled off.

I made my way to Studio C where a live audience was already tasting samples of the culinary concoction I'd whipped up. Much to my relief, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. My cell buzzed, and I checked the display. A text from Donna Muller, my best friend since high school, and I grinned at her message.

Knock 'em dead!

Donna knew better than pretty much anyone else how hard I'd worked for this moment. After being raised by my very Italian grandmother and great aunt who ran the small town's pasta shop, it was possible I had marinara instead of blood.

One of the techs signaled me, and I quickly stowed my phone, lifted my arms, and let him attach my microphone. We did a sound check, and I was good to go.

"All set?" The producer, Stacy DeAngelo scurried over, tablet in hand. She didn't wait for a response but gave me a light shove in the direction of the stage.

My nerves got the best of me when I saw what appeared to be a sea of faces, all of whom looked at me expectantly.
Oh no
. I'd told everyone I knew about this. My grandfather, Pops, was tuned in along with my great aunt Cecily. The entire population of Beaverton, N.C, all 21,086 of them, were probably watching the Atlanta based television station.

Kyle was watching. No, no he wasn't. The sheriff had more important things to do on a weekday afternoon than watch his ex-girlfriend make an idiot out of herself on live television.

Then, my canned music started and my feet unfroze. "Is it just me or does pasta get a bad rap?" I asked the audience. Mostly smiles, but a few nods. "Let me tell you, there is not a more versatile food in the world. It can be light or heavy, served as a side dish or the main course, or even dessert."

I lowered my voice to a hush, which of course the microphone projected. "Just don't tell my great aunt Cecily I said that. She's a purist."

Several chuckles. My confidence grew, and I returned to my normal easygoing drawl. "Today, I'm going to show you linguini's true potential when served with fresh clams in a white wine sauce. So, here's what you'll need." I'd been over the spiel at least a thousand times in my head, and as I spoke, I moved around my "kitchen," which was really a set that had been made to look like a cozy country kitchen. Nothing too ostentatious.
Flavor was a relatively new cable channel, and I was supposed to be a girl-next-door kind of cook.
Al Dente
, my brand spanking new cooking show, focused on the ins and outs of pasta, not high end appliances. But the new countertops practically sparkled, and I could see my face in the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator as I extracted the clams.

While the water came to a boil, I added a little background to my instructions. "In Italian,
al dente
means 'to the tooth.' The perfect
al dente
pasta will have a little resistance when you bite into it. Nothing ruins a meal like overcooked noodles. Cooking times will vary depending on the shape of pasta and thickness. For instance, vermicelli or angel hair will take less time to cook to
al dente
perfection than fettuccini or shells."

The first segment of the show seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, I was being signaled that it was time for our three minute intermission.

"You're doing great." Stacy looked up from her iPad, her expression approving. She'd gone to bat for me with the network execs when I'd pitched her the concept for the show. She said she'd seen something in me, and she'd fought hard to get me this chance. I wanted to prove her right. "By this time tomorrow you'll have a
ton
of sponsors."

I beamed. "I can't believe it, but at one point I actually forgot I was on camera."

"That's how it goes. We're back in ten seconds."

My return to the stage-slash-kitchen was much smoother this time, and I talked about pairing wines with different dishes. Before I knew it, the meal was assembled. "Smells great. Just the right combination of garlic and wine really brings the pasta and clams together in perfect harmony. Don't take my word for it though, what does our audience think?"

Thunderous clapping accompanied by a few wolf whistles. Perfect.

"And we have a special treat for you. Chef Zoltan Farnsworth is here to join me for the tasting." It hadn't been my idea, but the network insisted a guest spot by their number one cooking show host would help boost my numbers.

From the sound of the audience clapping to greet the pastry chef, they were right.

Farnsworth strutted like a peacock and did a little faux air kiss thing in greeting. "It smells…pungent in here," he said with a smug smile.

Jeez, not exactly a compliment. He couldn't have gone for aromatic or fragrant? I made my tone light as I said, "Garlic will do that. One of my favorite scents in the world."

After dishing out a serving for Chef Farnsworth, I sat down to mock eat my own serving of pasta. "How is it?"

"Excellent," Farnsworth said, surprising me. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy. "Though a bit more salt wouldn't hurt."

I didn't roll my eyes, but it was a struggle. "Well—" The sound of retching came from the audience, and my head whipped around so fast I bumped my microphone. Was I being heckled?

Then again, from another section. Definitely vomiting this time, and my heart stumbled in my chest. "What's going on?"

Frantic movement caught my attention, and I turned in my seat to see Stacy, her eyes huge, her face pale. She was mouthing something to me.

Something that looked like
bad clams
.

I was on my feet in an instant. "Don't eat it!" I shouted at the audience.

Some people looked startled, others angry.

My phone buzzed again, but I ignored it. Multiple people were bent over, obviously sick. Oh dear sweet Lord, I'd given my audience food poisoning on live television. Zoltan was on his feet, hands in the air, ranting about incompetent cooks. About me.

"Call 911," I said to Mimi, who was hovering by Stacy's side. "We need to get these people medical treatment, now."

"We'll take care of it." Stacy said, not unkindly. "You'd better go, Andy."

"But—"

She shoved me again, this time in the direction of the exit. "Go."

I went, stunned by what had just happened.