Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (8 page)

She bit her lip and looked down.

I felt as though were on the verge of something and thought maybe a heaping dose of honesty might add to our connection. "I know I have no right to call myself your mother, because I wasn't there for you the way your mom was. I'm not looking to replace her. But I think with time you'll realize you have room in your life for both of us. She knows that. That's why she moved here, for you to get to know your roots. We both want what's best for you, and that isn't going to change. It's fine if you're mad at me, if you don't like me. Because I'll like you, no matter what. Got it?"

She nodded, and I turned to leave her alone to digest my words for a few. Eventually she'd come out, attitude firmly in place, distain oozing from every pore. I'd been the same way at her age. My disdain had been for Beaverton and my own mother, who'd been a total letdown and had eventually taken the coward's way out, ending her own pain and leaving me to cope. At least Kaylee wouldn't have to deal with that.

I returned to the kitchen and washed my hands, thinking about my daughter. Her extra-crunchy exterior hid her soft and tender heart, an organ that was already badly bruised. It was scary how much we had in common. Lord, was she my daughter or my clone?

After finishing the meatballs, I headed out into the dining area. The midafternoon lull had settled, and I took the time to wipe down tables and chairs as well as remove the lukewarm pasta dishes from the display case. I made the mistake of looking out the big plate-glass window and seeing Lacey L'Amour strolling arm in arm with none other than the good sheriff. She'd attached herself to him like a burr, holding on to his arm as he escorted her to her car. Man, if Lizzy saw that, I wouldn't know who to root for in the knock-down drag-out kerfuffle that would ensue.

I frowned. Speaking of Lizzy, where the heck was she? Considering the bomb she'd dropped on me the night before, I would have thought she'd actually show up at the pasta shop to talk.

Unless I'd imagined the entire thing. Did concussions cause hallucinations?

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and had dialed Jones to ask him if he'd seen his sister the night before, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"Speak of the devil," I said as I stood on tiptoe to kiss the handsome man who was offering me a bouquet of red roses. "I was just about to call you. What are these for?"

He handed me the flowers, thirteen in all. "You told me that one rose means I love you, and a dozen means I screwed up. I thought it was fitting that I get you thirteen so they say both at once."

I grinned up at him. "You really do listen to me. That's so cool. Most of the time I don't even listen to me. But we discussed this yesterday. You have nothing to be sorry for, right?"

I expected him to agree, and a wave of dizziness hit me when he didn't.

Jones's expression was grim when he murmured, "We need to talk."

I set the flowers down on a nearby table. "About what?"

"My ex."

I sat down.

Sweet 'N Tangy Meatballs

You'll need:

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 small red onion, diced

1 small red bell pepper, cut into chunks

1 10 oz jar marinara sauce

1 8 oz can pineapple chunks

2 tablespoons apricot jam

1 package 20 oz frozen, fully-cooked, cocktail-sized meatballs, thawed

Heat olive oil. Cook onion and red pepper, stirring occasionally, 4 minutes. Remove from pan and set aside. Stir marinara, jam, and 1 tablespoon of reserved pineapple juice together. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Add meatballs. Reduce and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally so sauce doesn't stick. Stir in pineapple, and heat through. Add cooked veggies, and serve.

**Andy's note: I know, I know. A
real
chef doesn't use frozen meatballs. You don't have to for this recipe. But let's face it, sometimes speed trumps hours slaving over a hot stove prepping meatballs that are going to get smothered in sauce—and I swear, your guests won't know the difference. Especially if you serve them up over some tri-colored linguini!

"What about her?" I asked, wishing I hadn't stirred this particular pot. Dread coiled in my gut. Why oh why could I never just leave things alone?

Jones sat across from me, his hands flat on the table between us. We were far enough away that Francine O'Reilly and Tommy Gibbons, the only current customers, couldn't overhear us. "You know that my marriage was never legally binding."

I nodded, not taking my eyes off him. "So you said."

"Which I didn't know at the time. I was completely naïve. Even though I followed cheating spouses for a living, it never once occurred to me that Rochelle had an entire life separate from me. I was her dirty little secret." His tone was bitter

My throat went dry. Jones had said the same thing about his mother, how she'd been just another mistress in a long line of them for his father. How it must have devastated him to find out that the woman he loved viewed him in the same dismissive light as his father had perceived his mother. "I'm sure that must have hurt."

"It did. The thing that I didn't mention was that before we got…involved, Rochelle was also my business partner, the other PI in my business."

"Okay." I drew the word out. "Not sure where you're going with this."

He took a deep breath and looked me square in the eye. "She's here investigating you."

My eyes went round, and I squeaked, "Me?"

"Flavor TV hired her to dig into your background after I quit."

I sucked in a sharp breath. "I can't believe they're still coming after me."

Jones shook his head. "They aren't. After the network declared bankruptcy, they had to get rid of her."

"But you said she was here investigating me. If not Flavor TV, then who is she working for?"

Jones shook his head. "She wouldn't tell me. Whoever it is has to have money though. Rochelle doesn't come cheap."

Frickin' chicken fricassee. "I thought this was all over."

Jones's intense blue eyes were steady, his expression grim as he murmured, "There's more."

I didn't like the sound of that. "She found something?" I guessed.

Jones didn't say anything, but his gaze moved to the pasta bar, where Kaylee was stacking plates.

I swore long and low under my breath. "Oh no. Please tell me this is a joke."

"I'm sorry," he said, putting a hand over mine.

I snatched my hand away, setting it back. "How long have you known?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "A week."

"A
week
?" My heart shriveled up and descended down to the vicinity of my naval. "And you didn't bother to tell me what was going on?"

His gaze pleaded with me for understanding. "Andrea, I was trying to stop it."

My gaze landed on the roses. He did indeed screw up. Epically, colossally, monumentally. There weren't enough adverbs in the English language to weigh how badly he'd screwed up. If it had been just about me, I could have taken it.

But Kaylee…

A fierce wave of protectiveness washed through me, powerful and all-consuming. "I finally had a moment with her, Jones. A solid bonding moment. But if news gets spread around town about who she is and what she's doing here, it will ruin
everything
. I can't let that happen, not now, not to her." My head swam as all the possible ramifications hit me one on top of the other, like a badly plated dish ready to topple.

As far as the town of Beaverton knew, Kaylee and her mom were just newcomers to the area. Only a handful of people knew she was my daughter. "Oh god, have you told Kyle about this yet? Or Lizzy? Their relationship is already hanging by a thread."

"I wanted to speak with you first. So we could decide what to do."

"Why now?" I said coldly. "Why all of a sudden, when you've been sitting on this for over a week?"

"I tried to talk Rochelle out of it," he pleaded. "I tried to buy her off."

"Buy her off? With what?"

He looked down, seemingly unable to meet my gaze.

I gritted my teeth. "I'm imagining the worst here, Jones. You better tell me all of it."

"I offered her money."

"What money?" As far as I knew, Jones was living hand to mouth.

"Not cash. But I owned my co-op in New York. I offered to sign it over to her."

"I take it she didn't agree?"

He snorted. "She said it wasn't about the money—it was about her business integrity."

I bit back a slew of curses. No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk about moving in with me. He'd been scurrying around to rebury the dirt his ex had dug up. My hands shook, and I clenched them into fists. In the back, someone had turned on the radio. I could hear Mimi and Kaylee chattering away happily.

The kid had been through too much already. I couldn't let this ghost from my boyfriend's past do further damage.

"Okay, then. I want to hire you. To find out who Rochelle is working for. If I find out who, I can maybe figure something else out. Some way to encourage them to keep her findings under wraps."

Jones frowned. "You don't need to hire me. I'll do whatever I can to help."

He reached for me again, but I bolted from the table. "No, I want to keep this strictly professional. And I'm moving out."

He blanched. "Andrea—"

"It's the right thing to do." I said it with as much conviction as I could muster. "Aunt Cecily and Pops need a place to stay, and I don't need the distraction of a relationship right now."

"Don't do this," he said quietly. "Don't shut me out."

I almost sniped that I was only following his example. That he'd shut me out first, and Kaylee was the one who'd pay for it if we couldn't fix this. But I couldn't get involved in an emotional public spat for the second time in a week, especially not in my place of business. My reputation was already a disaster—I didn't mean to give the town gossips any more fat to chew. "I'll be by after work to get my stuff and pick up Roofus."

"So that's it then?" Jones stared at me for a full minute. He didn't telegraph his emotions at all, but I knew him well. He'd been afraid that this was a deal breaker, which was why he'd kept the information from me for as long as he could. I understood the why of it, but if I couldn't trust him, I couldn't hope to have any kind of a future with him.

"I won't accept this." He said it quietly but firmly. His stubble-covered chin was set in a stubborn angle. "I will find out who hired Rochelle, and I'll fix this. Fix us."

I wanted to believe him, badly. He'd been my emotional crutch for months, and I didn't know what I'd do without him. That was the trouble with crutches though—you fell when they got yanked away. My head shook back and forth. "I can't trust you."

"You can," he insisted as he rose from his seat and towered over me. "And you will again. I won't lose you."

He pulled me close, and though I tried to push away, his grip remained firm. My back arched, and he slanted his lips over mine, stealing the kiss I refused to give.

I held out for all of ten seconds before I melted against him, leaning on him, into him. His heat seeped into me the way it always did, warming my cold places, thawing the permafrost that settled on my heart.

Outside there was a wolf whistle and a few jeers from passersby. I pushed him away, eyes bulging.

"This isn't over." He let go and turned away, exiting through the gathered crowd. Applause followed him to his SUV.

My body swayed, and I felt as though someone had scooped all my insides out, sautéed them in garlic butter, and stuffed them back in willy-nilly. Nothing fit the way it had before. Everything had turned all shriveled and gooey.

I dug out my cell phone and called Donna. "I want the A-frame. And I want to move in as soon as possible."

Being the stellar friend that she was, she asked, "How does tonight sound?"

"Perfect," I said, picking up my roses and bringing them outside to the Dumpster.

*   *   *

"It will do," Aunt Cecily said as she set her purse down on the kitchen counter. "Plenty of room to make the pasta."

Pops was busy poking through the fully furnished living room. "This is a bit much for the two of us."

"The three of us," I corrected as I set down the box I was carrying. "Don't forget—I'm living here too."

Pops eyeballed me. "That all you got?"

I nodded. Sadly, my worldly possessions fit in the backseat of Mustang Sally, which had barely made it up the icy driveway. Four boxes marked Kitchen and one marked Clothes, plus one smelly old hound dog. My life had turned into a bad country song.

With my laptop and purse, that was six trips to make the move official. I'd stop by the storage unit and grab a vase and a few other tidbits from the Grove Street house to round it all out tomorrow.

Jones hadn't been home when I'd gone there to pick up my relatives and possessions. Something had torn in my chest when I'd shut and locked the door, leaving my key under the mat. It was over. The best relationship of my life had come to a screeching halt. Part of me couldn't believe it, like it was some kind of dream that I'd wake up from any minute.

"I think it is good." Aunt Cecily nodded with approval. "Woman should not live with a man and give him the pasta for free before they are wed."

I rolled my eyes. Talk about your pot and your kettle scenario.

Aunt Cecily caught the gesture and said, "I was not living with Eugene. We just had the intercourse."

"Ew," I said, pretty sure I never wanted to have "the intercourse" again after that announcement. Now I knew how Kaylee had felt earlier when I'd talked about my love life. Queasy and embarrassed all at once. "And you're still not married."

"We are old, and we are family," Aunt Cecily said as though that made it any better. "Do as I say, not as I do."

Arguing with her was an exercise in futility. I took my sad little box of clothes back to the master bedroom and locked the door.

The room was dark and cool but not frigidly cold. I put down my box and opened the lid. It took all of two minutes to hang every article of clothing I owned on a hanger. Thirtysomething and moving in with my grandfather and great-aunt. A daughter who disdained me. Incapable of an adult relationship with a man
, and
not like I had many prospects for future dates either. Between my crazy work hours and being banned from the only decent bar in the county, my future dating life looked dimmer than a burnt-out light bulb. The dating pool of Beaverton was remarkably shallow, especially with two of my ex's lurking around every corner.

I sat down on the bed, blinking back tears. Well, didn't this just bite the big ol' hairy Italian sausage? I didn't want to date anyone but Jones, and he'd gone and screwed that all up. The big sexy jerk.

Someone tapped on my window, and I let out a startled shriek.

"Psst, Andy!" a female voice called from the azalea bushes.

What the hell? I rose and moved over to the window. The shade had been down, and I had to tug it several times to get it to retract. It snapped up with a
thwack
,
and I stared down at Lizzy Tillman's half-frozen form.

I opened the window. "What are you doing here?" After my last conversation with Jones, I'd forgotten all about her and her wild theory.

She was in full ski regalia. Powder-blue jacket and ivory mittens, with a matching ear band. Skintight black ski pants. Hastily removed baby-blue poles and skis stuck out of the bush almost obscenely. "I didn't want anyone else to see me. Will you let me in? It's colder than a witch's britches out here."

I bit back the retort that if she didn't want anyone to see, her she shouldn't have skied over the pastel rainbow to get here. All in favor of shutting the window again as soon as possible, I held out a hand and hoisted her up. "You could have come to the door, you know. It's just Pops and Aunt Cecily here, and trust me, they know how to keep a secret."

Lizzy whipped the cover off the bed and swaddled herself in it. Her pale face was almost translucent. I could see the blue of veins snaking beneath the surface of her skin, but her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from more than windburn. "I don't want anyone to know I was here."

I frowned. "I just moved in. How did you know I'd be here?"

"The whole town is talking about your breakup with my brother."

"They are?" I blinked. Even for Beaverton, that was some fast work.

Lizzy nodded. "I made a few calls and found out which house had been rented today."

Cursed small town. "Is this about your dad?" I asked.

She nodded. "You know that little shack in the woods where he goes to imbibe?"

"Sort of." If imbibe meant getting out-of-control plastered. Lizzy had to learn to call a spade a spade. The man had pulled a shotgun on Jones and me when we'd been looking for a Christmas tree, for crying out loud. "What about it?"

Lizzy shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. "After he left for his business trip, I went there, looking for clues. And you'll never guess what I found there."