Read Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) Online
Authors: Jennifer L. Hart
Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1)
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Jennifer L. Hart's books:
"
Who Needs A Hero is a wonderful story of two people who made their share of mistakes during their lifetime but seem to complete each other."
—
Sizzling Hot Book Reviews
"Ms. Hart writes all genres with ease and I enjoy her books but my heart will always be with Neil and Maggie because I am a total sucker for the Happily Ever After."
—T
he Reading Reviewer
"A must read for all people who love a good mystery and a jolly good laugh...laugh out loud funny."
—
Black Orchid, Cocktail Reviews
"A wonderfully fun whodunit"
—P
araNormal Romance.org
"Laugh out loud funny, realistic characters, snappy true to life dialog, and a sufficiently difficult mystery; all the required elements for an excellent read."
—M
anic Readers
"I would not hesitate to pick up another of Ms. Hart's works as she definitely made me with one book a lifelong fan."
—J
oyfully Reviewed
"Jennifer L. Hart gives readers a contemporary love story constructed by two achingly real main characters."
—C
offee Time Romance
MURDER AL DENTE
by
JENNIFER L. HART
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Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer L. Hart
Cover design by Janet Holmes
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
To my critique partner-in-crime, Saranna DeWylde,
w
ho read every stinking version of this book until it was a book worth reading,
all b
ecause she believed it could be so.
Love you, doll.
"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.
Three months later….
"
Pops? It's Andy. If you're there pick up. Pretty please with spaghetti on top?" My hands- free device was on the fritz, and I had my cell cradled between my ear and my shoulder, praying my grandfather would hear my voice and pick up the damn phone.
My thumbs drummed impatiently against the leather steering wheel as I waited for the jerk driving in the mammoth SUV in front of me to accelerate to the fifty-five mile
per hour speed limit. Tree branches extended over the back road like gnarled fingers, reaching out to squeeze the life out of me. Or maybe that was just my internal panic mode hitting DEFCON 2 at Pop's lack of response. After what had happened on my very short-lived cooking show, I didn't have any trouble imagining the worst case scenario.
