Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (21 page)

Jones returned and sat down next to me. "You're frowning," he observed.

I forced a smile. "We can get back into the pasta shop."

"Do you want to go now?" Jones asked.

I sort of did, but he looked exhausted. "Yeah. You need to rest though."

He shook his head, but I rolled over the top of him. "Malcolm, go lie down before you fall down. I promise I won't leave the house without waking you."

He studied me a moment, then nodded. "You swear on Mimi's cannoli cake?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

He made a face at my inappropriate word choice and then pushed back from the island. "Can I convince you to lie down with me?"

"If I do, you won't get any sleep."

He grinned. "You speak the truth, my lady." He brought my hands to his lips and kissed them before heading into the bedroom.

I tidied the kitchen and wiped down the counters. Thought about opening some wine but decided against it. Sleeping was out of the question, and there was nothing decent on television. I found myself downstairs, poking through Rochelle's files again.

Though we hadn't officially cleared Jacob Griffin—it was easier for me to still refer to him as Jacob Griffin than in terms of any personal connection—of the murder, neither Jones nor I got the sense that he had anything to gain from Rochelle's death. If the gang had been behind the arsons, then they hadn't killed Rochelle either. That was the first thing Detective Brown had done—find out if any of the gang members had alibis for the time of Rochelle's death. And across the board, they'd all had solid ones.

So who'd killed her and why? Could it be personal? Some other case that had gone horribly wrong? If so, why had the killer called to warn me off? Why not just leave Rochelle's body at the lumberyard instead of moving it to my walk-in?

Try as I might, I couldn't see Lacey as the killer. For one thing, she'd been busy opening her restaurant. I knew firsthand just how time consuming that could be. And secondly, she had nothing to gain from Rochelle's death.

I clicked open the file folder Rochelle had marked Beaverton. Inside there were two subfolders, one marked Griffin and the other marked Arson. I clicked on the Griffin folder first and began to read.

Within the first few paragraphs, it became clear that Rochelle had kept plenty of information about me to herself. My relationship with Jones, Kaylee's birth certificate listing me as her mother, and that she'd moved to Beaverton. The document mostly focused on my career, something that it sounded as though Griffin already knew about. She'd done her best to protect both Jones and Kaylee from an unknown. Whatever her reasons, I was grateful to her for that.

I opened the arson folder and began to read. At first the document made little sense. There was a lot of legalese as well as names and dates like in the earlier transcripts. She hadn't gotten far enough to do a summary report and translate her findings into normal people speech.

I was about ready to throw in the towel when a name caught my eye. I blinked and then read the sentence again.

"No way," I breathed.

"I'm afraid so," a male voice said from behind me. It wasn't Jones's smooth New Zealand accent but a Southern twang I recognized all too well.

I spun on the chair, but something crashed down on my head. The force sent me to my hands and knees. Starbursts of light exploded behind my eyes as waves of pain rolled through me.

"It's you," I gasped a second before the next blow knocked me out cold.

Orzo Casserole

You'll need:

1 cup orzo

3 oz prosciutto

1 medium onion, chopped

3 garlic cloves, chopped

1 bell pepper, chopped

Six baby bella mushrooms, washed and sliced thin

Drizzle of extra virgin olive oil

Pinch salt

Pinch black pepper

2 tablespoons flour

2 cups chicken broth

1/4 cup milk

2 1/2 cups Parmesan cheese

1/2 cup Panko bread crumbs

3 tablespoons melted butter

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1/2 teaspoon chili powder

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pour orzo in 9 x 9 baking dish.

Heat a sauté pan over medium-high with a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add the onions, mushrooms, and pepper, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until translucent. Add the garlic. Season with salt, and cook until fragrant.

Sprinkle with flour, and stir to coat onions, pepper, and garlic. Cook for 1 minute to toast flour. Whisk in the chicken stock, and cook for 3 to 4 minutes or until the mixture thickens slightly.

Add milk and 2 cups of cheese, and stir together. Adjust seasoning to taste. Pour over the orzo.

In a medium bowl, combine the remaining ingredients, and stir. Sprinkle over the baking dish. Bake for 30 minutes until bread crumbs are golden. Serve warm.

**Andy's note: A great dish to make ahead and store in the fridge, perfect for a packed-to-the-brim sort of day.

Considering the way my head throbbed even before I opened my eyes, I was fairly sure I had another concussion. My thoughts were thin and slippery, like overcooked angel hair soaked in olive oil, as I tried to recall what had happened. Bits and pieces stuck together, mostly images and feelings. Jones kissing me before turning in, me leafing through Rochelle's files and finding…

My eyes flew open, and I stared up at the profile of Mayor Eli Randal the Second.

He hadn't noticed I was awake yet. Maybe I could use that to my advantage. Maybe there was some suitable weapon nearby, something that would help me turn the tables. I didn't think he had a handgun, but there was no way to be sure.

The room around me was dark, but I recognized right away that I was no longer in Jones's darkroom. I was half sitting, half leaning against something hard. A desk maybe, or a cabinet. Though there wasn't much light, I could make out sleek tile beneath my feet and the press of cool metal against my back. A refrigerator. I was in somebody's kitchen. Not mine or Jones's or even the Bowtie Angel's.

"Where?" The word came out as a croak, and even that made my pulse pound in my temple. And then I realized I'd ruined my chance to take him unawares.

Randal turned to face me, his soft doughy face as amiable as always. "Good, you're awake. I need you to sign something for me."

Was he nuts? "So you hit me on the head? That's not the way you get votes, Mayor."

He made a tsking sound, the kind I heard him make to some of the children who cut across his home on Oak Summit Drive after school let out. "Now, Andy, you've made more than enough trouble for me already. You and your boyfriend and that private investigator you hired."

It all came back in a rush. Rochelle's notes about the business that had been torched, and the line in the town law about any property in the town limits that had not been developed in a set amount of time after a catastrophic incident would revert back to the town to auction off.

And her notice that both the owners of the flower shop and the assisted living facility had been members of the Beaverton Chamber of Commerce. The group of business owners who were always chaired by the mayor, who knew the town bylaws like the back of his hand.

Rochelle had suspected that Mayor Randal was behind the arsons, though she'd lacked any real evidence to support her theory.

The fact that he'd conked me on the head was pretty damning though.

"Sign this." Eli thrust a clipboard at me. Though I had no intention of doing what he said, I wanted a closer look at the paper. I lifted my right hand, but it stopped about halfway to the clipboard. There was a clank behind me, and I looked up to see the metallic glint of a handcuff linking my arm to the refrigerator.

Maybe I hadn't lost my chance at escape, only because I'd never really had one.

"Use the other hand." Randal was starting to sweat like a cheese that had been left out on a hot day. "It doesn't need to be perfect, just legible."

"How did you even get into Jones's house?" I asked.

He shrugged. "That was simple enough. I just asked to use the facilities and unbolted the door to the cellar from the inside. Lizzy was so inundated with company, she didn't even notice I slipped downstairs. Never underestimate the power of misdirection."

Using my left hand, I brought the clipboard down to eye level. It read, Last Will and Testament, and my full name was typed in the space below.

"A will?"

Randal nodded. "To make it legal that upon your death, the Bowtie Angel reverts to the town."

This was all a real estate scam? When had I stumbled into an episode of
Scooby-Doo
?

Then his words registered. "Upon my death," he'd said. I wasn't supposed to make it out of this mystery kitchen alive.

"I've already left a suicide note on your boyfriend's computer," Randal muttered, mostly to himself.

"You're out of your mind if you think Jones would ever believe I committed suicide. He won't stop looking, and he'll expose you."

Randal perched on a black chair, looking like an overfed Atlas as he stared down at me. "I disagree. He knows how unstable you are. You broke up with him over nothing, moved out on a whim, started a bar fight, and got yourself thrown in jail by your ex-boyfriend. Combined with the fact that the health department has shut your pasta shop down and that your daughter will be tried for destruction of private property, I think he'd believe you cracked under the pressure. And even if he doesn't, I have other plans for him."

The words sent a cold chill through me, and the shaking only made my headache worse.

"What about Rochelle? The entire town knows she was murdered."

"And found on your property. There's some serious nepotism in the police department— you should have been arrested already." A line formed between his eyebrows. "I should look into that."

"But they already found the crime scene. Sooner or later Detective Brown will link it back to you."

Randal blinked as if I'd interrupted him mid-thought. "Of course they won't. When you're found dead, everyone will assume you and Jones killed Rochelle together, but you cracked under the strain of it all. With no more murders or arsons to contend with, the good people of Beaverton will have no reason to ask questions."

"So you're okay letting your nephew and his friends take the rap for the fires? Was there ever really a gang?"

His fishy lips twitched. "Not in the strictest interpretation of the word. My nephew actually believes he concocted the idea on his own, and my brother has already hired some of the best lawyers in the state to represent him. He'll get off with a slap on the wrist while his peers take the brunt of the blame. Sign the paper, Andy."

"This will never hold up in court," I said. "Aunt Cecily and Pops know I would never leave the pasta shop to the town over my own flesh and blood."

"It's already notarized. I convinced Alfred Hennessey to do it in exchange for a bottle of whiskey and fixing his DUI." Randal shrugged. "There's nothing they can do, regardless of what they believe."

I shook my head, stalling for time. My only hope was that Jones would realize I was no longer in the house and come looking for me. Once I signed the papers, I was as good as dead. "Why though? Why is it so important to have all this land turned over to the town? What are you going to do with it?"

He blinked as though I'd startled him. "Why, franchise it all, of course."

"Franchise? This is all for a Starbucks?"

"Starbucks, McDonald's, Subway, Pizza Hut, you name it. Beaverton proper open to the highest bidder."

"But how can you? I thought the chamber of commerce denied the franchises."

"The old chamber of commerce did. The motion lost by three votes." He held up his hand and started to tick names off. "Inga Bradford, Freddy Harris, Cecily Rossetti, and Lacey, L'Amour."

"Lacey? She just moved to town. What does she have to do with any of this?" It dawned on me exactly where I was. "Oh my god, this is Lacey's restaurant. You're going to torch it?"

Randal shrugged as though it couldn't be helped. "I tried to talk her to my side of things. Tell her we all stand to gain from opening the town to franchises. No one wants to drive thirty miles for fast food. But she was as obstinate as you usually are. Besides, I think you setting fire to your rival's restaurant fits right in with your character."

Considering the source, the slight didn't faze me. "So you've destroyed all the businesses who opposed you? And what about the innocent people who've died? Those kids you manipulated, who've destroyed their futures? Don't they matter at all?"

"Not especially." His tone was flat. No hint of regret or remorse. A lunatic. Our mayor was a complete sociopathic lunatic.

He cleared his throat and then continued as if I wasn't already pants-peeing terrified. "Both the florist and the assisted living facility were severely underinsured. The pasta shop is different. If the kids had burned it down, you would have just rebuilt. Your family is as stubborn as they come, and you've been a thorn in my side from day one."

There was no hate or malice in his eyes, and that scared me more than everything else. He didn't see us as people, only obstacles to be overcome by whatever means necessary. Destruction of property, fraud, murder—he'd do anything to have his way. This wasn't personal. It was business to him.

"What if…" I searched frantically through my mental hard drive, looking for anything I could say that would convince him not to kill me. "What if I just closed the pasta shop? What if we all just moved away?"

He smiled at me, but there was no amusement in it. If not for the sweat soaking his underarms and glistening on his face, I would have guessed he was a cyborg. "Come now, Andy. You don't kid a kidder. Your family would never move away from Beaverton. And even if they agreed, it's not like I can let you live after telling you all this."

My voice shook only a little as I asked the next question. He hadn't asked me to sign the paper again, and I needed to stall as long as I could. We were in the heart of town. Someone had to come by eventually. God alone understood why that paper was important to him. It's not like psychopaths had supervisors. After arson and murder, forgery should be no biggie. "I still don't understand why, though. Why is it so important to you to have franchises all over town?"

For the first time, his expression changed with genuine emotion. Rage. His tone was deadly quiet as he hissed, "Do you know what it's like to have a family legacy hanging over your head?"

"I do," I said, before thinking better of it.

He sent me a sharp glare, and I pressed my lips together. Apparently, he didn't want me relating to his angst. "You have
no
idea. The Randals were a founding family. We've been part of Beaverton since before the Revolutionary War. Each generation is expected to be instrumental in bettering the town. So don't tell me you understand my position. You, who got to leave this town and then were foolish enough to return. You had freedom there for the taking, and you turned your back on it."

"You don't have to stay here," I insisted. "Eli, you don't have to be mayor anymore if you don't want to be. There's nothing holding you to it. Go out and find your bliss."

He rose from the chair and straightened his shirt over his doughy frame. "I never shirk my responsibilities. I am doing what I must for Beaverton. It's my destiny. Now, let's be done with this. Sign the paper, Andy."

"No." Though it took effort, I lifted my chin and stared him straight in the eye. "I will never sign that."

He sighed as if I'd disappointed him, then shrugged. "Fine then, I'll force your daughter to do it."

My eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."

He raised an eyebrow, as if I dared him.

"Leave her alone. Kaylee has nothing to do with this."

"The way I understand it, she has everything to do with it. When your Aunt Cecily turned the Bowtie Angel over to you, there was a clause that if anything should happen to you, the pasta shop will go to your next of kin. And the whole town knows that's Kaylee. Sign the papers, Andy, or I'm going after her."

I signed the papers.

*   *   *

Eli left me chained to the refrigerator. The key to my handcuffs sat on the metal workstation that he had nudged about six inches beyond my reach. "To make it look like you put it down and then kicked the bench away so you couldn't back out at the last minute."

The man had covered his tracks well.

He'd set the fire in the storeroom, the innermost part of the building. No one passing by on the street would see it before it was too late. The small space was packed with plenty of flammable materials like oils and grease, which would make the fire burn harder and be that much more difficult to put out. Smoke had started to seep out from underneath the storeroom door. An insidious trickle at first, it was growing into a bigger cloud by the minute. Soon the entire door would be consumed by flames, and then the choking smoke would billow forth, suffocating me well before the fire got to me.

I coughed. Then stretched for the key again. I had to get out of here. For Pops and Aunt Cecily, for Kaylee, and Jones.

"Damn you, Malcolm Jones," I wheezed. My wrist was raw where the skin along the cuff had scraped away. "Where the hell are you when I need you?"

The smoke was growing thicker. I coughed again and stretched, reaching for the key. I wanted to live, damn it. I wanted to live. To bring Mayor Randal down, but also so I could know my daughter and spend the rest of my life with the man I loved. I couldn't stand the thought that my loved ones would believe I'd offed myself. It would destroy Aunt Cecily and Pops, good Catholics that they were. They believed suicide was a mortal sin, and the grief over not just losing me but envisioning me in hell might kill one or both of them.

Kaylee would be scarred for life and might be in danger if she questioned what Randal was doing.

And Jones. Would he be blamed for Rochelle's murder in the end? Worse, would he think I didn't love him enough to fight for my life? For our lives? I couldn't let that happen.