Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (16 page)

"And I repeat, talk to her. And promise me, no more shenanigans."

"Because that's your department?" he quipped.

"Exactly. And for the love of grief, stay away from Lacey L'Amour. The chick is bad news swathed in Prada."

"She's not the one with a dead body in her freezer." He scowled, looking ready to ask another question, but the door opened, and Detective Darryl Brown strode in. "Sheriff, I'll take it from here. Has she spoken to anyone else?"

Kyle shook his head. "Just me. Have you found Malcolm Jones yet?"

"No." The detective gripped the door handle reflexively.

Though they spoke cordially enough, Darryl wasn't Kyle's biggest fan. I think it had something to do with Kyle's silver-spoon background. Darryl had to earn the football scholarship that had sent him to Notre Dame and then the degree that made him a detective. I was glad to see him on the case. He was a no-nonsense sort of guy. He'd find out who'd killed Rochelle without letting personal bias fog the investigation.

"May I use your office, Sheriff? Since you brought Miz Buckland here instead of to the city police department?"

Kyle nodded. "Of course."

The men locked eyes, Brown obviously expecting Kyle to leave. Kyle folded his arms over his chest, clearly having no intention of moving.

So not good. I'd thought the city police would remove me from the sheriff's station. Brown looked as though he wanted to and was torn between wasting time transporting me to his turf and catching a killer as soon as possible.

I looked back and forth between their silent standoff and then piped up. "I want a lawyer."

Both men swiveled their heads to stare down at me.

"What?" Brown asked as Kyle sputtered, "Why?"

"I want a lawyer. I refuse to say another word until one gets here." I folded my arms and stared at the battered desk. It was a Hail Mary stall tactic, but at least a lawyer could tell me whether or not Kyle must be present while I talked to the detective.

"Miz Buckland—" The detective was interrupted from shouts in the other room.

Kyle stood and rounded the desk.

"What is it?" Brown asked, following Kyle out.

Kyle barked out, "Andy, stay here," and then shut the door.

I didn't wait, just circled Kyle's desk, picked up his landline, and then dialed my own cell number. Since I had Kyle's number programmed into my phone, Jones would know who was calling.

Jones answered on the first ring. "I'm sorry, Sheriff. Andrea isn't here—"

"It's me," I breathed, turning away from the door. Hearing his voice gave me something to cling to. "I don't have a lot of time."

"What's wrong?"

"It's Rochelle." I took a deep breath. "Malcolm, I'm sorry, but she's dead."

"I know," he said.

"What?" I shrieked. "What do you mean you know?"

There was no sound on the other end of the phone. "Malcolm? Hello?"

I turned back, wondering if the call had been dropped. I saw Detective Brown standing there with the unplugged wall jack in one hand, a dark glower on his face.

"We," he said in a dangerous tone, "we have a great deal to discuss."

Mediterranean Chicken Couscous

You'll need:

1 1/4 cups low-sodium fat-free chicken broth

6 oz couscous

3 cups chopped cooked chicken

1/4 cup chopped fresh basil

4 oz tomato-basil feta cheese

1 pint grape tomatoes, halved

1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoon lemon zest

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Garnish: fresh basil leaves and toasted pine nuts

Heat broth until it begins to boil. Place couscous in a large bowl, and stir in broth mixture. Cover, and let stand 5 minutes. Fluff couscous with a fork; stir in chicken and next 6 ingredients. Serve warm or cold. Garnish, if desired.

** Andy's note: Substitute 4 teaspoons of dried basil if you don't have fresh on hand.

"Well, at least he didn't arrest you," Donna said.

"Through no fault of my own." I laid my head back against the seat, breathing in the new-car smell with faint hints of Donna's perfume. I might never move again, I was so tired. "Kyle was pushing for it when he found out Jones had my phone."

"You don't think he ran, do you?" Donna asked. "Steve said they still haven't found him."

"He didn't run. He didn't do anything that would force him to run." Though I spoke the words, they held no real conviction.

Donna eyed me skeptically. "Well, here's the thing, Andy. You said he knew about Rochelle's murder. How could he know and not turn himself in for questioning?"

"Because Kyle has it out for him. He was trying to argue with Detective Brown that because he insisted Jones needed to have his marriage annulled, Jones decided it was easier to just kill her."

"And dump her in your walk-in?" Donna's brows went up. "That's a little farfetched."

"I didn't say it made sense, only that it was Kyle's theory. You and I know he's full of it. Jones isn't a killer, and he has an alibi for the time of the arsons." I took a deep breath to vocalize the worry that had been gnawing away at me for hours. "I'm scared I did this to her."

We were stopped at a light on the corner of Treasure and Green. Slowly, Donna turned to look at me, her expression blank. "I think I'm missing a step in your thought process. The whole town knows you're territorial about Jones, but come on, Andy. How on earth could finding that poor woman's body be your fault?"

"There are a few things I haven't told you. Only because I was sworn to secrecy."

"Should I pull over for this?" Donna asked. We were passing the bank, and without waiting to hear my answer, Donna veered into the lot and backed into an empty space. "Okay, tell me everything."

So I did. It was easier the second time around, after telling Detective Brown all the gory details. Like Donna, he'd listened attentively as I spilled my guts. Unlike Donna, he hadn't asked if I'd been mixing medications.

I ended with, "You have to understand—Lizzy was terrified her father was the arsonist. She couldn't turn him in."

Donna shook her head. "I get that. God knows I used to protect my dad when he went on a bender and passed out with a lit cigarette burning away. It's only luck that he didn't burn the house down. You know yourself that you do crazy things for family. What I want to know is, why you didn't tell Jones? And don't give me some cockamamie story about how you wanted to protect Lizzy."

Lying to an old friend is never easy. There were times I'd been convinced that Donna knew me better than I knew myself. Times before Jones. I cleared my throat. "It's because I have daddy issues, okay?"

Donna scowled. "Daddy issues?"

I blew out a breath, too emotionally spent to be having such a conversation, but seeing no way to avoid it. "My mom never told me who my father was, and until a few years ago, Jones didn't know who his father was either. It's different from somebody who grew up knowing their parents. You build all these fantasies about who the parent was and why they couldn't be with you like the other kids' parents. It's something to cling to when all the other kids talk about going fishing with their dads on the weekend, or talking about how their fathers bought them their first car. I had it better than most because I had Pops, but it wasn't the same."

Donna put her mitten-covered hand over mine. "Why didn't you ever tell me any of this?"

I sniffed, refusing to cry. "It sounds so stupid and self-pitying. At least I had Nana and Pops. Jones grew up without any father figure. All he's ever had is the fantasy. And to find out that his father is a mean drunk is bad enough, but an arsonist and a murderer? It isn't fair."

"You wanted to protect him." Donna's eyes were wide.

I gave a hollow laugh. "And look at where that got me. Now Rochelle is dead, and Jones is a suspect himself. And thanks to me, his father is also being questioned. I've made a total mess out of it."

"But you provided Jones with an alibi for the times of the arsons, right?"

"Yeah. The assisted living facility's fire happened when he brought me to the hospital. And we were both home alone when the first one was lit. Of course, since I tried to obstruct the investigation, they aren't eager to take my word for it." I frowned, then jumped in my seat. "Turn the car around."

"What?" Donna blinked at my sudden burst of energy. "What's wrong?"

"We weren't alone at the time the first fire was set. Mr. Tillman stopped by, and he and Jones had an argument. You know what that means, right? He couldn't have set fire to the florist shop."

"Whoa, Andy, slow down a second." Donna held up her hand in classic hold-your-horses fashion. "Maybe he hired someone else to set the fires."

"But why would he leave all the gasoline cans on his property? That's like a flaming arrow pointing right back to him."

Donna shook her head. "Steve always says that criminals aren't as smart as they think they are. Most are caught because they make stupid mistakes. He probably thought no one else knew about the place in the woods."

"Well, in a few hours everyone will know." My second wind had dissipated, and I sagged in the seat. "Poor Rochelle. She should have left town when she finished investigating me. If I had just told Jones the truth, none of this would have happened."

"She was investigating
you
?" The last word went up an octave, and then Donna muttered, "I'm way behind."

"Flavor TV hired her after Jones dropped my case. But with all the lawsuits, they ended up dropping it too. Some guy with a PO box in Atlanta hired her, and she said she'd taken the case because she'd already done most of the preliminary background work."

"Who was her employer?"

"She never met him. He went by the name Jacob Griffin. It could be a real person or an alias. Rochelle just didn't know."

"But what would he want with information on you?"

I shook my head. "It could be anything. Maybe one of his relations was in the audience during my debut, and he wanted to know more about me, try to file his own lawsuit. Or it could be something else entirely."

Every part of me hurt and throbbed. Donna cast me a sympathetic glance. "Do you want me to take you to the pasta shop? Or should I take you home?"

"Home, if you'd be so kind. Pops and Aunt Cecily must have taken the car hours ago."

Donna scrunched her nose up and pulled the Escalade back out onto Treasure Street. "I shudder at the thought of either of them behind the wheel. This town has had more than its share of tragedy lately."

I was only half listening, my mind wandering back to Jones. "Donna, do you think it's odd that Malcolm didn't want me to call the police after I got that phone call?"

She didn't say anything for a minute. All the streetlamps had come on, and one lit her face as we drove beneath it. "Andy, look, I know you're beat, and I wasn't going to say anything."

"But?" I prompted.

"But, you're right. I mean, what kind of man finds out his girlfriend has received a death threat and doesn't go right to the police?"

I swallowed. It was difficult around the lump in my throat. "The kind with something to hide."

*   *   *

Pops and Aunt Cecily and even Roofus greeted us at the door. For a moment, no one said a word, and then Aunt Cecily nodded once. "Okay then. Pasta shop will be closed tomorrow. Who is wanting dinner?" Without waiting for an answer, she shuffled off toward the kitchen.

Pops slung an arm around me. "It's all right, Andy girl. Just remember that like a stone, this too shall pass."

In spite of the dour circumstances, I laughed. "Charming, Pops, really."

My grandfather turned to Donna. "Pretty as a picture as always, Mrs. Muller. You staying for supper?"

Donna shook her head. "I can't. The twins have a play coming up, and I have to supervise the making of costumes."
Pops's eyebrows went up. "What's the play about?"

Donna grimaced. "The food pyramid. It's for their gymnastics class. Pippa is going to be a carrot, and Hailey is a cabbage. Try telling either one of them that veggies don't require a metric ton of pink sparkles. This is a slow-motion disaster in the making. My sunroom looks like Tinker Bell threw a party and forgot to clean up after."

"I remember when Andy had to be a sheep in the church's production of the Nativity. You couldn't have been more than five at the time. Her nana made her a vest and glued cotton balls to every visible inch of it. Musta worked on that thing for a month. Then what does our girl do? Wears it up on stage for five seconds and then whips it off and pitches it into the audience on her way off the stage."

"It was itchy," I said in self-defense. "Not to mention hideous."

"I won't argue with you there. And your nana laughed harder than anyone else. You get your sense of humor from her."

"God help us." Aunt Cecily crossed herself, but I saw the trace of a small smile.

Donna gave me a quick hug, threatened to string me up if I didn't call her the second anything happened, and took her leave. Pops led me over to the table and urged me to sit. I protested, saying I would get the dishes, but he waved me off. "Have you heard anything from your young man?"

I shook my head. "No. And if he comes by here, don't let him in."

Aunt Cecily set a bubbling cauldron of gravy on the table. "Why not?"

"Because…" This was hard to explain, mostly because I didn't understand it myself. "He needs to cooperate with the police. That was his ex-wife."

"They were not married, yes?" Aunt Cecily asked.

"No, I mean, yes. I mean, no. They were never really married because she was already married."

Pops nodded. "Malcolm told me."

I'd just taken a big sip from my wineglass but froze at his words. Wine slid down my windpipe, and I choked. Aunt Cecily leapt to her feet and pounded me on the back while calling me "
Sciocca ragazza
," a foolish girl.

"Me? Why am I foolish?" I managed to wheeze the question.

Aunt Cecily gave me a patient look. "Eugene, you must leave us
per un momento
."

I was shocked when Pops actually got to his feet and left. "What's this about?"

Aunt Cecily studied me for a moment before asking, "Do you no trust your man?"

I thought about when I'd seen him in the bar with Lacey and how I'd freaked out. Even though I knew he loved me and was faithful to me, I'd acted like a total jealous shrew. I thought about how I'd moved out suddenly after discovering that Jones had hidden Rochelle's investigation from me. Had I learned anything from that?

"I do," I said slowly. "I do trust him. But I don't understand why—"

Aunt Cecily held up a thin withered hand, cutting me off. "A child asks why over and over. But it is not always necessary to understand the why. Know what you know, and do what you do. Trust in your man and in your blood and in God, but most import, in yourself. You are smart and strong woman. You are a Rossetti. And Rossetti woman work hard, and we give thanks. It is that simple. Now we eat."

It was probably the longest speech I'd ever heard my great-aunt utter. Her life in a nutshell.

I kinda wanted to be her when I grew up.

Pops rejoined us at the table, and we ate our pasta and gravy in silence. It was the best meal I had in days, if not weeks.

"I'm changing the menu at the Bowtie Angel," I announced when the food was done.

Pops cast a wary glance to Aunt Cecily.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "You still make the pasta?"

"Always." I nodded once.

She folded her thin arms and looked me up and down. "All right. Come, I want to watch that television show with the judges and the cooks."

Pops offered to do the dishes, said it helped the arthritis in his hands to soak them in the hot water. Aunt Cecily and I settled on the couch, a bottle of wine between us. I checked the DVR and selected the latest episode of
Sliced
. It was a repeat, but I didn't care, glad I could shut down my brain for a while.

"Why do they no never make the pasta right?" Aunt Cecily asked. "
Lui è un pazzo
."

"You would be the best judge ever," I told my great-aunt with complete sincerity. "You'd terrify them all."

"
Proprio così
," she agreed, accepting my words as the truth.

We all turned in early, exhausted from the events of the day. Worry for Jones and the memory of Rochelle's sightless eyes kept me from sleeping. Who had killed her? Was it the arsonist? If so, he or she would be on to me and Lizzy next.

I wanted to call Lizzy, to see how she was holding up. I wondered if the police had searched the Tillman estate yet or if her father had been arrested.

Shoot, I'd never called Detective Brown to tell him that Mr. Tillman had come to see Jones at the time of the first fire. Donna had convinced me to call him with the information, but I'd been so out of it that I'd forgotten.