Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

Taking the phone, I glanced nervously at the house.
"Does that happen a lot?"

"
Often enough. Now I have to go tell these nice people that they aren't going to view their dream house today. Fricking economy."

* * *

Donna and I waited while a pair of police officers searched the house. Though I didn't recognize either of them, they both knew Donna.

"
Whoever it was is gone." The statuesque female said. "The window in the bonus room is broken, which is probably how they got in. Was anything missing?"

Donna shook her head.
"Except for a few large pieces of furniture, the place was empty. No electronics or anything of real value."

"
So someone scaled the side of the house, broke a window, took a shower and left?" I asked. "Doesn't that seem a little coincidental?"

The thin male policeman scowled as though I
'd spit on his shiny shoe. "Coincidental with what?"

"
The murder last night? What if this is where the killer was staying? The Tillman's live less than a mile away. Right across the lake, for crying out loud."

"
Crime happens, Ma'am. One is not necessarily related to another, even in a small community like this."

Though he had a valid point, it seemed foolish to me that they wouldn
't even consider the possibility. "You could at least dust for fingerprints."

"
Andy, we had an open house here last weekend. Dozens of people came through the house, not to mention bank officials, carpenters, cleaning service employees, and the housing inspectors." Donna said.

"
DNA samples then. How many of them took a shower?" I stubbornly insisted.

"
We'll check into it." The woman spoke in a dismissive tone. Obviously tossing me a bone to get me to shut up and go away.

Donna locked up the house and drove me over to the Bowtie Angel. We sat in the car for a minute
. "What a headache." She pinched her forehead between thumb and forefinger. "Now I have to call the bank and notify them and arrange for someone to fix that window. Why did I think selling real estate would be easy?"

I had no answers for her, so I leaned on my upbringing for the right response. When in doubt, feed them.
"How about a bowl of pasta?"

"
Thanks, but my appetite has disappeared. Rain check, though."

"
I'll hold you to it." I opened my door, just as Jones's SUV slid into the space next to us.

"
Oh my God," Donna breathed as Jones emerged from the driver's side. "Who is that?"

"
Lizzy Tillman's half-brother."

Donna
's eyes had grown to the size of duck eggs. "He looks like a fallen angel."

He did at that, with that wavy dark hair that crept down over one eye, seriously sharp cheekbones,
and a five o'clock shadow before noon. The accent was just a cherry on top. Was it any wonder he took up so much space in my brain, even with a killer on the loose?

"
Good afternoon, ladies." Jones said in his fantastic accent. I swear I heard Donna sigh.

"
Malcolm Jones, meet Donna Muller."

The two shook hands.

"You know what, I changed my mind. I'm totally in the mood for some pasta." Donna scrambled from her Subaru.

Jones
beat us to the door of the Bowtie Angel and held it open for us. "Wonder what changed your mind," I teased Donna. It was reassuring to see another woman as smitten with Jones, since I made an ass out of myself in front of him on a regular basis.

"
I'm married, not dead. Dear sweet Lord, Andy, that accent. Maybe if we're lucky he'll read the menu to us."

Jones had other plans. Digging into his bag, he withdrew a laptop.
"As per your instructions Andrea, I have not looked over the photos from last night." He added a wink to assure me he was teasing.

"
What pictures?" Donna asked.

"
Malcolm was photographing the event." A pebble lodged in my throat at the word engagement party. Jones's gaze lifted to mine but he didn't say anything.

"
Where have you been?" Aunt Cecily had snuck up on me and her sharp no nonsense voice nearly startled me out of my skin. "You must make the pasta. It is your destiny."

Skippy. Not to have a child
, or star in a movie, or save the rain forests. Making pasta at the Bowtie Angel was my destiny. If this was fate's grand design, somebody goofed. "Aunt Cecily, I told you I can't—"

She waved a wooden spoon under my nose.
"This is your home, your heritage. You must make the pasta."

"
Let's compromise," I said instead. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Aunt Cecily never backed down, and in her book, compromise was a dirty word. "I will help out where and when I can, but I'm not going to be primary chef. It would be the final nail in the shop's coffin."

She looked ready to argue
, but Pops emerged from the back office, and sensing a fresh carcass to pick, she swooped down on him in all her Italian wrath. "You talk some sense into your granddaughter before she disgraces the family name."

"
Back off, you old battle-ax. She saw a dead body last night."

"
She will be seeing another one if you do not fix that radiator in my apartment. Do you want me to freeze to death?"

"
Is that a trick question?" Pops mumbled, as he dutifully followed her up the stairs.

"
And I thought my family was dysfunctional," Jones whispered.

"
Hey, they function just fine, if a bit…colorfully. It's not easy, being an Italian living in the land of the good ol' boy and the Southern Belle. Nana and Aunt Cecily had to carve out their niche with a stick of dynamite. Pops is used to it, and he gives as good as he gets."

"
I didn't mean any offense."

I winked at him.
"None taken. I knew we probably seem like a bunch of hokey screwballs to you."

He stared into my eyes a
nd murmured, "Not at all."

I got lost in his gaze and the
small smile tugging up the corner of his lips. Donna cleared her throat, and the moment ended.

"
So, how about we take a look at those pictures?" I asked.

Jones pulled a memory card from his camera and booted up his laptop. Donna
's cell phone bleated out the theme from
Desperate Housewives
. She looked down at the display. "Uh-oh, it's the daycare. I'll take this outside."

Jones scooted over in the booth.
"Would you care to sit down?"

Sitting next to him
, I snuck a few looks at his computer screen as he clicked with his wireless mouse. I was filled with nervous energy, my knee bouncing manically as I waited for Donna to return, for Aunt Cecily or Pops to reappear and start sniping at one another again. Anything to end this tense and awful silence.

What the hell was wrong with me? Last night, Jones and I had danced, flirted
, and talked like normal people, yet now I couldn't look him in the eye, or say anything halfway intelligent. Perhaps because he was Lizzy's half-brother, or maybe it was the fact that he'd been with me when I found Zoltan Farnsworth's dead body that made me feel as though I was wearing a wool bodysuit in one hundred degree heat.

His hand, warm and smooth
, covered mine, and I yelped. "Andrea, relax."

"
Sorry, I guess I'm still a bit squirrely."

"
It's understandable," he said, "after last night."

I r
eally didn't want to cop to the fact that it was his presence making me so edgy, not the dead pastry chef. That seemed a little heartless and self-centered. The door opened, and Donna reentered. "Listen, I have to go. Pippa hit her head, and I have to take her to the doctor to make sure she doesn't have a concussion."

"
Hold on a sec." I leapt up and scuttled back to the kitchen. Tossing together a carry out meal for five complete with garlic bread and a large container of marinara, took under a minute. Aunt Cecily was organized to the point of OCD. "Dinner's on me—just heat and serve. Give me a call later, and let me know how she's doing."

"
Will do, and thank you." Donna nodded to Jones. "Nice to meet you."

Jones held the door for her. What a gentleman.
"You as well."

With no other distraction, Jones and I stared at each other. Either the air was charged with electricity
, or the chemistry between us was ready to light something on fire.

"
Shall we?" He gestured to the computer.

Nodding, I sat next to him as we got down to work.

Tortellini Salad

What you
'll need:

16 ounces cheese tortellini, cooked, rinsed and drained

1 large
orange pepper, chopped, seeds removed

1 large yellow pepper, chopped, seeds removed

1 1/2 cups cherry tomatoes halved

3/4 cup shredded Parmesan cheese

1/4 cup freshly chopped basil

1/4 cup freshly chopped parsley

1/2 cup balsamic vinegar

1/4 cup sugar

1/2 cup extra virgin basil-infused olive oil

1/2 teaspoon Nature
's Seasoning

Salt and pepper to taste

In a large bowl, combine tortellini, peppers, tomatoes, Parmesan cheese, and basil. Stir until combined. Mix last 5 ingredients for dressing.

Add the balsamic dressing and gently stir until all of the ingredients are coated with dressing. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. Place tortellini salad in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes before serving. Serve chilled.

**
Andy's note: At first blush, cold tortellini doesn't seem all that appetizing, but on a hot summer day with a burger right off the grill or barbecue chicken or even on its own, a bowl of tortellini hits the spot. Try it with a basil mojito for true decadence.

"
There's nothing here," I griped several hours later. Jones had taken hundreds of candid shots, and we'd gone over every single one multiple times. At first we'd just scanned the faces, then I double-checked the list of everyone who'd been at the party. At the time I'd figured Lizzy had probably been namedropping so I saw all the important people who were coming to her event. I was grateful for the details in the aftermath.

Though we
'd been interrupted several times by pasta shop patrons—whom I had, of course, waited on—it felt as though we'd been at it for days. My eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen, and all the images were beginning to look alike. "We don't even know what we're looking for."

"
Suspicious activity?" Jones clicked on the next thumbnail. More well-dressed people, laughing and dancing, no killer in plain sight.

"
I'm starting to see boogeymen in the bushes. Maybe we should just hand this over to the police and call our civic duty done." Sliding out of the booth, I headed for the pasta counter. "You hungry?"

"
Starving." Jones stood too, stretching his back. "This is a nice little place. Homey."

I fixed him a plate of linguini and one for myself as well.
"Thanks. I always thought so."

"
So are you going to work here full time?" he asked.

I retrieved a pitcher of sweet tea from the mini fridge.
"Honestly, I don't know how much longer this place will be around."

"
Why's that?"

I gestured to the front door.
"You've been here with me all day. How many people have come in, five, six? I'm starting to see why Pops is so down in the dumps. It's hard to just sit around and watch your business die."

Jones twirled his fork in his pasta.
"Sounds as though your business could use CPR."

"
Yeah, unfortunately I'm not exactly trained for breathing life into a dying career. I'm more of the deliver-the-death-knell type."

"
Is that why you're so driven to find out who killed Chef Farnsworth? To prove yourself to the people around here?"

Though I hadn
't actually thought about it in those terms, I knew his diagnosis was right. "Yeah, I guess I'm sick of being a victim of circumstance."

"
We are all victims of circumstance, Andrea. The trick is to not play the part of the victim."