Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

His eyebrows drew down.
"You?"

"
Well yeah, since I knew Chef Farnsworth and I'd just come back to town."

Jones frowned.
"But he was killed in my family's home."

"
In the kitchen, during an event I was catering," I parried.

He turned and stared out of the window.
"So the message might have been intended for either of us."

"
Or both." That didn't change the fact he'd tampered with the evidence. "We need to tell the police that you erased the message."

He
turned the SUV back on. "What good will that do?"

"
It'll help them focus the investigation."

"
On the two of us, instead of on the real killer" he insisted.

How could I get through to him? Convince him that it was important.
"Listen, I don't know your whole story, but here's what I do know. Beaverton is a hotbed of gossip. The longer the case goes unsolved, the harder it will be on both of us and our families."

He stared at me for a beat, dark blue eyes assessing.
"Let me think about it."

Feeling brave, I reached out and touched his arm.
"I don't want you to go to jail for interfering with a police investigation. Who would catch me when I'm at my worst?"

He smiled then, a real, sincere smile, but it faded quickly.
"Lizzy told me about your history with the good sheriff."

I snatched my hand back as though it had been burned.
"Of frigging course she did." A lump formed in my throat. Would he think the worst of me now, too?

Because I
'd shut my eyes, I started when he threaded his fingers through mine. "There were some…discrepancies in her version."

"
Discrepancies?"

"
Things that don't add up based on what I know about your character. Much like I'm sure your research into my background wasn't entirely complete. I'd like to hear your side of things."

"
You show me yours, and I'll show you mine?" I asked with a raised brow.

"
Think about it," Jones said and then pulled back out onto the road.

* * *

I did think about it, about opening up to the interesting, unique man I followed down the hiking path to Linville Falls. Spring was the best time to see the falls as the snow melt and recent rainfall swelled them until they seethed with barely leashed power. I stood back while Jones set up his camera angles.

"
What's this for, anyway?" I asked as he checked the light.

"
A calendar. Would you mind?" He gestured to a spot in front of the railing, right in the camera's line of sight.

"
Me?"

"
It helps me focus if I have a person as a subject."

"
I'm really not that photogenic," I protested, but Jones wouldn't hear it, and all too soon, he had me posed, looking out at the roaring water of the Linville River where it spilled down into the falls. He took more shots than I could count, some on a tripod and others freehand. There were a few other people milling about, teenagers taking selfies to post on Facebook and Instagram, a few senior citizens, but they kept to themselves.

I walked over the rocks and looked down at the water cutting a swath downhill to the next portion of the falls. Color burst all around us from the green of hemlock trees, to the various colors of wildflowers nestled along the path.
"It's pretty here."

"
There's a better view if you're up for a bit of a hike."

"
You've been here before?" I asked, surprised.

"
A long time ago." He smiled and offered me his hand. It was warm and solid as he pulled me up the steep dugout steps to the next portion of our adventure.

He wasn
't kidding about the hike. It was a trek, almost entirely uphill, and I was sweating and panting by the time we reached the overlook that gave us a magnificent vista of the gorge below. The falls appeared much farther away than the distance we'd climbed warranted.

"
Come here and look." He pulled me close to him and pointed out the chimneys of rock below, the stark gray of the rock contrasting with the white foam of the water and the lush green of the evergreens.

"
Wow," I said and cast Jones a grateful smile when he passed me an aluminum water bottle. Despite the fact that he'd been carrying all his camera equipment plus a pack of supplies he still smelled delicious, like dark spices and nature. He appeared just as in his element here as he had at Lizzy's party or even in the pasta shop. "You just blend well, no matter where you are, don't you?"

He looked down at me.
"It's the black clothes—keeps me neutral."

Though I knew he was teasing I shook my head.
"It's more than that. It's you, your personality. You're just so…?" I waved a hand, unsure of how to finish.

"
So…?" he prompted with a raised eyebrow.

There were several descriptions that fit. Handsome, intriguing, sexy, decent. But it was more than a physical thing. Finally I went with,
"Comfortable in your own skin."

"
What an interesting way to put it. That says more about you rather than me."

"
Like what?" I drained the water bottle and stared out at the view.

"
That you're observant." He smiled. "And that you feel that way too."

"
I'm not so sure about that," I said.

"
I am." And he kissed me.

Alone on the high overlook, without the worry of family or customers interrupting, we indulged in each other for the first time. His lips were soft and firm at the same time, his hands on me tight and possessive. Almost as possessive as mine were on him. Something seemed to click into place, like a puzzle piece that had been lost for so long I didn
't even realize it was missing. The knowledge shook me to my core.

We came up for air
, and I saw the knowledge in his eyes, too. He lightly caressed the side of my face, and murmured. "Andrea, you can trust me."

I wanted to, I really did. He was temptation incarnate
, and the way he looked at me, as though he could not only see my inner workings but
liked
what he saw, was addictive. I'd been burned before though, and my heart wasn't easy access the way it had once been. I looked away. "I really really like you, Malcolm Jones. So much so that I feel like I should warn you about myself before this goes any further. Because there's baggage, and then there's
baggage
, you know?"

"
I've traveled all over the world. I know about baggage. You don't scare me. Go ahead— hit me with your best shot, and see if I run away."

It was a challenge
, and I knew it. He'd offered to vault any hurdle I pointed to and maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to see him do it, to land on his feet, facing me, unscathed and ready for more.

So what was the biggest grenade I had to launch
? What snippet of history held the most potential for mass destruction?

Taking a deep breath, I pulled the pin and let it fly, praying that I was doing the right thing.
"Okay, well when I was in high school, my mother committed suicide."

Mac and Cheese

What you
'll need:

3 cups cooked cellentani or corkscrew pasta

1 cup
shredded cheddar cheese

1 tablespoon butter

1 cup milk

Flour to thicken

Salt and Pepper to taste

Melt butter in a microwave safe dish. Add 1 tablespoon of flour, whisk until smooth, and then add cold milk. Cook for two minutes on high, whisking after every minute. If the mixture hasn't thickened whisk in a little more flour. Heat for another minute, 30 seconds at a time, so it doesn't boil over, until mixture thickens. Stir in cheese until fully melted then add hot pasta. Microwave an additional two minutes, and serve hot.

** Andy's note: Is there any food more comforting than a big steaming bowl of mac-n-cheese? I could have a carbgasm just thinking about it. It's hard to improve on a classic but cellentani, rotini, or any other spiral shaped pasta holds the cheese sauce better than traditional elbow macaroni. The perfect ending to an emotionally taxing day.

Jones blinked, clearly surprised. I bet he
'd expected me to go into the whole Kyle kerfuffle. But in truth, that was more a symptom of the pain of my mom's death, not the cause of my major malfunction. I held my breath and waited for him to bolt.

His dark eyebrows drew down.
"I'm not sure…" He stopped and shook his head.

I liked that he was taking his time with his response, that he considered both my feelings and his own.

"It's okay," I said and even meant it.

Finally he inhaled and held my gaze.
"Will you tell me about it?"

I frowned.
"I thought I just did."

"
That was the headline, not the whole story. I think you lobbed it at me to get a reaction. You do that when you don't want to delve deeper into a topic."

His eerily accurate perception was a little bit scary.
"Okay. Well, first of all I should probably explain that in Beaverton my family is different.
Much
different, as in one of these things is not like the other, you know apples to garbanzo beans."

"
Interesting analogy," Jones said. "But what do you mean 'doesn't belong'?"

"
You've met Aunt Cecily. Nana was very much like her. Not in personality, but old world Italian is not the norm in a place like Beaverton. Most of the people in our area are of Northern European or African descent—you don't see many Mediterranean families. So that's one difference which is obvious as soon as Aunt Cecily opens her mouth."

"
You don't value your unique heritage?" Jones tilted his head to the side.

"
I do now. It's why I devoted my life to Italian cooking and why I never bothered to take speech lessons and undo the southern accent. I don't know about where you grew up, but around here teenagers just want to be like their friends, not the odd man out."

"
Some things are universal." His smile didn't reach his eyes. A sore spot? I wanted to ask about it, but I had a feeling he wouldn't answer my questions until I answered his.

"
The Italian thing was just one of the differences. We were also Catholics amongst Baptists and ate spaghetti instead of barbeque. There was a big cultural divide. My mom took a lot of flak for it in high school." So did I, before I started dating Kyle.

"
I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with her death."

I squared my shoulders and dove in, head first.
"She hated it here, hightailed it to Atlanta the first chance she got. That's where she met my dad. He was only in her life long enough to empty out her bank account and knock her up. Then he took off, leaving her with the fallout. At that point she didn't have much choice. She had to move back to Beaverton."

Jones pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"Did she blame you for that?"

I couldn
't hold his gaze any longer, so I stared out at the gorge. "How could she not? I ruined her life."

"
You were a helpless child."

Deep down, I knew that. But when you trained yourself to think one way for your whole life, there
's no way to just hit the emergency brake and stop the runaway train in its tracks.

"
Right, so yeah, it was not exactly an ideal way to grow up. But I was lucky because I had Nana and Pops. They were like my real parents, you know?" I glanced back at him over my shoulder.

Jones nodded but didn
't say anything, which encouraged me to keep going.
"So Mom worked in the pasta shop with Nana and Aunt Cecily, at least until she got sick. The cancer was advanced by the time they caught it. I suppose she didn't have much hope that life would ever get any better for her. She didn't cry, or rage, or do any of the things that you see people do on television when they get a diagnosis like that. There was no making of a bucket list or long soulful talks with me. She just…gave up. I came home from school one day and found her in the bathroom. She'd slit her wrists and bled out in the bathtub."

I refused to close my eyes because the image, that horrific image lurked there like a monster, ready to drag me back into the darkness.
Sometimes days, even weeks, would pass, and I would go about my life and not think about it. But the cold feeling never fully abandoned me.