Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (6 page)

Jones shouted something as I slid back down to my seated position, and a moment later he and Kyle were by my side.

"Andrea, look at me," Jones prompted, peeling my eyelids up.

I tried to swat his hands away and failed miserably. "I'm fine, just buzzed."

"Did you hit your head?" The man was relentless.

Had I? I couldn't remember and told him so.

"She seemed all right when I brought her in," Kyle told him. "Just drunk and pissed off."

"She needs medical attention." Jones's energy shifted, and his voice grew lower, more sinister. "You left her in here by herself with a possible head injury for three hours, Sheriff?"

"I didn't know she was hurt!" Kyle put his hands up as though warning Jones off.

"Call an ambulance," Jones barked.

"No," I snapped, aware enough to know that I didn't need an ambulance so much as a glass of water. "You can take me to the hospital, but no ambulance."

I was, of course, ignored and was wheeled out of my jail cell on a stretcher.

"I didn't know," Kyle repeated to the EMTs, to his deputies, to anyone who would listen. I couldn't be sure, but I thought he looked ready to cry. "I didn't know she'd hit her head. Will she be all right?"

"I'll be fine," I reassured him, though I'm not sure why I bothered. He had tossed my carcass in jail and called Jones, when he knew I didn't want that.

For his part, Jones stayed silent, gripping my hand as I was loaded into the ambulance. I closed my eyes so the motion from the vehicle wouldn't make me lose my lunch. Luckily, the community hospital wasn't far, and I managed to keep everything down.

I was examined and told I had a slight concussion, which accounted for the headache more than the tequila did. After being hooked up to a banana bag and told not to sleep for more than an hour at a time for the next twenty-four hours, I was left face-to-face with one very pissed-off boyfriend.

"What were you doing there?" I asked him.

"Working," Jones said. "Or at least I was until you decided to intervene."

"Working?" It was probably the head injury, but that made no sense. "You were working when I left."

He sighed. "I was on a case, Andrea. You know I don't frequent bars unless I have a reason."

"And how come you left without me?"

"I didn't leave. I hid until after the sheriff took you away so I could offer to pay for the damages to the bar. One of us had to stay free to post bail." He ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "This has been an expensive night. Probably more trouble than the case is worth."

Shame burned through me. Jones wasn't a barfly, and he didn't hook up with random women. He was committed to me and to our relationship. So why hadn't I trusted him?

Because he'd been with Lacey, and seeing it had made me nuts.

"I can explain," I began, but he shook his head.

Threading his fingers through mine, he murmured, "Later. When you're up to your fighting weight."

I blew out a breath, relieved that if he was planning on dumping me, at least he wasn't going to break up with my sorry carcass in the ER. I felt pathetic enough. I didn't need the old heave-ho while lying on a gurney in ripped and dirty clothes, fresh from county lockup.

There was a commotion out front, lots of feet moving at a brisk clip, and the high, excited murmur of voices. Jones frowned, dark eyebrows meeting above his sharp blade of a nose.

I struggled until I made it upright. "What's going on out there?" It was a hospital after all, but most of the emergencies in Beaverton were of the drunk and disorderly type, with the occasional car accident or heart attack thrown in. Whatever had happened sent a massive amount of people into the emergency room at once, long after last call.

"I'm not certain." Jones let go of my hand and moved toward the privacy curtain. He pulled it back about a foot. From my position, I couldn't see anything, though the voices were drawing closer.

"Third-degree burns…" someone said.

Curiosity blotted out the intense pain in my head, and I slid off the gurney in an ungraceful heap just as Jones strode out into the hallway, disappearing quickly in the commotion.

"Malcolm?" I called just as he shouted, "Eugene!"

Pops was here? I shoved aside the curtain to face the chaos. There were people everywhere, gurneys rolling by, and medical staff cutting off clothing. I scanned frantically for Pops but didn't have the advantage of Jones's height.

Then he was back, dragging Pops in his wake. For his part, my grandfather looked singed around the edges, his clothing covered with what looked and smelled like ash. I threw myself at him, and he hugged me tightly.

"What happened?" I asked. "Why are there so many people here? And where's Aunt Cecily?"

"Sshh, Andy girl. She's fine." He gestured down the hallway, toward the waiting area. "She's sitting with Joe Humphries. It seems Ruth didn't make it out."

A cold chill skittered through me, and I shivered, which only made the dull ache in my head throb. "Out of where? Pops, what happened?"

My grandfather met my gaze, his expression grave. "There was another fire. This time at the seniors' facility. And now there's a body count."

Antipasto Platter

Options (mix and match to your tastes):

Jarred marinated artichoke hearts

Water crackers

Camembert cheese

Sliced tomatoes marinated in Italian dressing

Havarti dill cheese

Thinly sliced Genoa salami

Fresh crusty Italian bread/baguette

Prosciutto

Chunks of fresh cantaloupe or honeydew

Jarred roasted red and yellow peppers

Roasted red pepper or garlic hummus

Pita bread

Toasted rosemary focaccia

Sardines

Olives, black and green

Capers

Sweet pickles

Pepperoni

Smoked turkey breast

Roasted pine nuts/almonds/cashews

Dried or fresh figs/dates in season

Green tomato relish

Cold shrimp

Grilled deli vegetables

Marinated fresh buffalo mozzarella

**Andy's note: I always follow the two-by-two rule—2 meats, 2 cheeses, 2 grains, and 2 veggies/fruit. Mix and match to see what you'll come up with. Play with in-season delicacies, or do regional themes. The sky's the limit! Try a milder meat like smoked turkey combined with Genoa salami, or fresh figs with marinated veggies. Color is the name of the game. Remember, this is just your opening act, so save room for the main event!

"Thank you for letting them come home with us," I said to Jones as I eased myself down on the white couch. Pops and Aunt Cecily had taken the master suite, the only one of the three bedrooms that actually had a bed in it.

He shrugged as he crouched beside me. "They're your family. And it's not like either of us will be doing much sleeping over the next twenty-two hours."

My grimace had nothing to do with pain. "Still, you shouldn't have to stay up the entire time."

He gave me a dark-blue look. "Andrea, someone has to check in on you."

I could tell from his tone that he meant more than just the concussion. "Would you shut the curtains, please? The sea of white is making my head throb."

Jones glowered at me but then rose and moved toward the windows. I sighed in relief as dimness filled the space, and snuggled under the red afghan Lizzy had given her brother for Christmas.

"Try to rest. I'll wake you in an hour." He moved quietly through the room toward the kitchen. I heard the scrape of the pantry door, then water running in the sink. Some more shuffling and a few moments later, the enticing scent of coffee.

Though I was sore and exhausted, I couldn't sleep, seeing the mad press in the emergency room. Pops telling us that there had been another fire and that this time, people had died. Was it arson again or just an accident? And why was I focusing on that instead of my own personal multitude of issues?

I cracked an eyelid. Rochelle. This all stemmed back to me finding out about Jones meeting with his ex. That he wouldn't make plans with me to move forward with our lives. I told the man everything and was getting a little tired of his man-of-mystery shtick. We'd been together for almost a year, and yet I still didn't know much more than I had in the beginning.

Slowly, I sat, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass by. When it finally did, I got to my feet, slung the blanket around my shoulders like a shroud, and shuffled into the kitchen to face the music.

Jones was staring into his coffee mug, seemingly lost in thought. I cleared my throat, and his eyes shot up. "Andrea? What's wrong? Can I get you anything?"

He was already on his feet, a look of medical speculation in his eye.

"I can't sleep." I moved to the fridge and extracted a bottle of water. Even though the IV full of fluids had kept me from shriveling up like a grape left in the sun, my throat had gone dry.

I settled in across from him at the breakfast nook and opened my water.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked as though I were a stranger stopping by instead of the woman he'd been living with for nine months.

I met and held his gaze. "What I'd like is some honesty between us."

Jones frowned, the lines creasing his handsome face, making him even more attractive. "What do you mean?"

Physically I was in no condition for this conversation, and emotionally I wasn't much better. Was there any way to admit to your current flame that you'd spied on him without looking like a crazy stalker in the making? Probably not, so I just went for it. "First of all, I know I acted like a lunatic last night, and I'm sorry."

He sat beside me. "All right. Can you tell me why you acted like a lunatic, as you so succinctly phrased it?"

I loved when he used words like succinctly, or at least I usually did. At the moment though, I was too busy gathering my courage. "I know you met up with your ex."

"Do you now." Jones raised a brow. "And may I ask how you came by this knowledge?"

I frowned, and even that small working of muscles made my headache worse. "It's not important."

Jones set down the mug he'd been holding and moved toward me. "What happened to honesty? You don't think the fact that you're spying on me is important?"

"I wasn't spying."

He crossed his arms over his chest.

I blew out a sigh. "Okay, I was sort of spying."

He didn't smile, but I could tell from the glint in his eyes that he wanted to. Good thing somebody was enjoying this conversation. He simply nodded and murmured, "Go on."

"The important thing is that I felt the need to spy because you haven't been telling me important stuff."

One jet eyebrow went up. "And what sort of 'stuff' would you like me to tell you, Andrea?"

Normally I loved the way he said my name, his New Zealand accent buttering the syllables so they seared me to a perfect temperature. But his tone had turned frigid.

Damn it, I was no good at this adult relationship crap. Jones was usually so easy going. He'd been a rock over the past several months, supporting me unconditionally, being there when I needed him. Sure, we'd squabbled a bit, but this was different. There was some sort of chasm between us, filled with all sorts of hidden secrets.

My head pounded, and I sank onto a barstool. It took all my willpower to look into his vivid blue eyes. "I'm sorry. I know I'm acting crazy, but I don't know what to do to fix this."

He took a step closer, close enough to touch me. I wished he would, but he didn't. Instead he spoke softly. "Tell me what's really going on."

For no real reason, that made me angry. "You know something? I tell you everything. Every dirty little detail, no matter how stupid or insignificant, or how much it could affect someone else. You've helped me clean out my family's home, met my ex and my daughter. I share everything with you, and you just shut me out."

"You know I can't talk about my clients," he began, but I cut him off.

"I know that. It's not just about work. You skulk down into your darkroom and leave me up here to my own devices all the time. And that's a disaster in the making, because then I have time to drive myself crazy speculating at why you're hiding down there. I really don't want to be one of those needy girlfriends, and I'm trying to support you, but it's more than that, and you know it. You dodge me every time I bring up moving out, and I feel as if you're avoiding me."

He blinked, clearly surprised I was so upset. His mouth opened and then closed again. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say."

He looked so lost, so completely out of his depth, that I reached for his hand. "You've been sidestepping any talk about what happens next."

He ran a hand through his hair and then down his stubble-covered chin. "Because I don't know, Andrea. I don't know what comes next. And I don't know what topics are open for discussion."

"What do you mean?"

He gave me an exasperated look. "You get upset when I talk about Lizzy or when I talk about my father or my ex. You've been high strung ever since Christmas."

I read between the lines. "You mean since Kaylee came to town."

He didn't nod. He didn't need to, because all of a sudden, the picture clicked into focus.

If my head didn't hurt like the devil, I would have thunked it against the quartz countertop. "You haven't wanted to upset me, so you've been keeping it all to yourself."

He smiled faintly. "I'm no better at this relationship business than you are, Andrea."

I'd forgotten that. The only real long-term relationship he'd had before me was with Rochelle, and that had been a soul-shredding disaster.
So here comes Andy and her big old bag of crazy triggers. The poor man must feel like he was walking on eggshells with me.
I blew out an enormous sigh, mingled with regret and relief. "Jones, I'm one-quarter Italian. I get as worked up over a hangnail as I do the quarterly reports. Passion and showmanship—it's the Rossetti way. I thought you liked that about me."

"I do," he insisted, and his eyes were intense. "I love that I always know what you're feeling. I simply don't want to overload you when you're already wound so tightly."

I squeezed his hand. He had such beautifully masculine hands, strength and elegance all at once. "See, that's one of the benefits of having a passionate nature. I have these mini-eruptions all the time, so I'm not gonna pull a Krakatoa on you. I can handle more stress than your average crazypants. What I can't handle is you dodging me or keeping things from me for my own good. Got it?"

He smiled, then reached out to steady me as I listed too far to the right. "You're about to fall off that stool. How about I promise we talk after you're fully recovered?"

I made a face, partly from my throbbing cranium and partly from his avoidance. "Malcolm…"

His hands were warm on my arm. "I'm not dodging—I'm choosing my moment."

Okay, well, I was in pain and having a hard time holding a thought. Still, one side of my family tree was Scotts-Irish ornery, and the other was related to Aunt Cecily. I didn't know the meaning of the word quit. "I can handle it now."

Jones grinned down at me. "I know you can, but I can't. Let me tend to you. Twenty-four hours, and then we'll talk. "

I gave him my best Evil-Eye glare, which only made his grin spread. I really must have looked as though I was about to face-plant onto Lizzy's gorgeous tile floor. "Have it your way, then."

Jones escorted me to the couch, helped ease me into the most comfortable position I could manage, and then covered me with a black-and-white blanket.

"Thank you," he said softly, as though allowing him to care for me was a huge inconvenience on my part.

"Anytime," I mumbled as I drifted into a light doze.

*   *   *

It was a miserable twenty-four hours. The headache proved relentless, and every time I managed to escape into sleep, someone was shaking me awake. Jones took the first eight hours, but his hovering drove me nuts, so after I insisted I was well looked after, he left to follow up on one of his cases. I worried about him driving, as he was operating on zero sleep, but he promised he wasn't going far.

At the fourteen-hour mark I gave up on the mini-naps and escaped into the master bath for a long soak in the tub and almost drowned when I fell asleep, cocooned in warm water. I surfaced, sputtering and swearing, completely waterlogged and as uppity as a wet cat.

"Everything all right, Andy girl?" Pops knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yes," I called, sounding testy even in monosyllables.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" Pops was still there, obviously not taking the hint. "Or maybe do anything for you?"

"No, thank you," I called. The light hurt my eyes, and I covered them with my hands, blocking out the gleaming white bathroom.

A pause and then, "You sure 'bout that?"

I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of garlic and oregano drifting under the crack in the door to mix with the aroma of lavender bubble bath. Aunt Cecily had taken over the kitchen. As much as I loved her cooking, at the moment with my head splitting like a ripe melon, the thought of food made me want to gag. I closed my eyes, feeling that drowning sensation all over again, only this time I was suffocating from the crush of well-meaning relations.

Then I recalled the tragedy of the retirement home fire. Tending to me was a good distraction for my older relatives, even if they were driving me up the freaking wall. "Be out in a few, Pops," I called.

"I'm gonna walk Roofus. Call Cecily if you need anything."

I breathed a sigh of relief as his footsteps shuffled off to go pester the dog. Roofus was only getting lazier as he aged, and he detested the cold, so Pops had his work cut out for him. After climbing from the tub, I dried off and swathed myself in Jones's black fleece robe. I pulled the stopper on the tub and then opened the window to let the arctic air break up the cloying scents in the room.

"Come on, boy," I heard Pops say from the other side of the house. He clapped then whistled. "Don't you want to go out?"

I wondered how Roofus would have responded if he could talk. "Kiss off, old timer," maybe. Or more succinct, "No thanks, but if you want to, go nuts." Or maybe if, like me, he would have endured it because that's what you did for family

I stood there as long as I could stand it, concussed and feeling both sick and grateful at the same time. Grateful that I had family who cared enough to smother me with devotion. If I had real people clothes on, I would have slithered right out of the window and run screaming into the purpling twilight.

The flash of headlights as a vehicle crested the hill burned into my brain like acid. I hissed like a vampire caught by a random shaft of sunlight and ducked back into the shadows. Who the heck was that? My heart leapt as I thought of the arsonist. Would he toss a Molotov cocktail through the window?

Breaks sounded, and then a car door slammed. My heart raced, and I stood frozen to the spot.

"Hey there, Miz Lizzy," Pops called out in greeting, and I breathed a sigh of relief, cursing my overactive imagination.

"Hi there, Mr. Buckland." Jones's sister was sweet as cannoli filling to pretty much anyone who wasn't me. Her saccharine tone made my eye twitch, which made my head hurt all the more. "I'm so sorry to hear about what happened at your building."

Since I'd recently sworn off eavesdropping, I shut the window and shuffled into the bedroom. Aunt Cecily had made up the bed with precise hospital corners, the kind that were nice to look at but made sleep impossible, unless you were used to being swaddled in a straitjacket.