Murder Al Fresco (25 page)

I blinked at him, seeing a ruthlessness that I hadn't thought him capable of, and it was like a lightbulb went off. "Oh my God, you were the one who had Jones arrested for kidnapping, weren't you?"

He didn't deny it. "Don't look at me that way. If your boyfriend had done the paperwork—"

"How could you?" I whispered. "And it wasn't just Jones either. Lizzy too."

"Now that was an accident," he said. "And I'd appreciate if you didn't tell Lizzy about it."

"They took Clayton away," I seethed. "Kyle, how could you?"

"I made sure Clayton was placed with a respectable foster family, and didn't I help you get him back?"

"That's not the point. He was scared. I was terrified for him—and for Jones. Didn't I have enough to deal with without all that heaped on top?"

"This is bigger than you, Andy. No one was hurt."

"That isn't the point," I said through gritted teeth. "How could you just go ahead and lie to all of us, Kyle? About something so important?"

He puffed out his chest. "I did what I needed to do to keep this town safe. You, Lizzy, Kaylee. And, Andy, the blogger's been focused on you, so I'm worried you're going to be in the center of whatever might happen."

"Does Stu know about this?"

When Kyle shook his head, I gasped. "Kyle, tell him. He'll shut the show down."

"If he does that," a new voice said from behind me, "we'll never catch him."

I turned, stunned to see Lacey. "What happened to your accent?"

Her gaze slipped from me to the sheriff and back. "Just part of my cover."

"This can't be happening."

"And for the record, I don't hate you, Andy. But I couldn't afford to befriend you either and have you blow my cover. You're too smart. You would have figured it out."

"So when I knew you in culinary school?" I was starting to reevaluate everything I'd known about her.

"I was on a case. Reports of sex being exchanged for grades with certain teachers. I wasn't FBI then."

"And your affair with Rodrigo?"

"He was a suspect," she said. "It was part of the investigation."

"And my dad?" The words were out before I could stop them. "Does he know about you?"

Lacey shook her head. "No."

"He'll be heartbroken." I was sure about that fact.

"He'll get over it."

I looked between Kyle and Lacey. "God help us all with you two doing the protect-and-serve routine. I think the only serving you're doing is for yourselves."

They exchanged a glance, and Kyle sighed. "Look, Andy, we wouldn't even be telling you about this, except that we can't have you blabbing about Rodrigo and Lacey to everyone under the sun. Just give us until the end of the competition, and then you can call us out, ruin my reelection, whatever. Considering what's gone on here the past eighteen months, I doubt I would have been reelected anyway."

"And I'll be moving on as soon as this gets wrapped up. Then you can tell whomever you like." Lacey shrugged.

Angry or not, I still had one question. "Will anyone get hurt today? There's not going to be a massive bombing or anything, right?"

Another unreadable look passed between them. Lacey finally said, "No, no bombing. Whoever is behind it all favors poison, so that's the method he will use."

"He?" I asked.

"Or she," Lacey admitted. "I haven't been able to come up with an accurate profile yet. But it's someone who knows you, Andy, who is capitalizing on your reputation as the Death Chef. He or she might try to blame the whole thing on you."

That had been my fear as well. "Any advice on what I should or shouldn't do?"
"The show is providing your ingredients, correct?"
When I nodded, she continued, "Keep an eye on them. Make sure they haven't been tampered with. I'll be sitting in as one of the judges, so I'll be able to keep an eye on things. Signal me if anything seems off."

"You're going to be a judge?"

She smiled and then said in her fake accent, "Of course, Andee. I am a culinary goddess, am I not?"

I stood up, my knees watery, my head swimming. I opened the door but paused, glancing over my shoulder. "What you told me about your family running a restaurant and bar, was that true?"

I didn't expect her to answer but was surprised when she nodded and again spoke in a no-nonsense voice. "Yup, but it was in Des Moines, not France."

I looked to Kyle. "Can I tell Jones? I don't want him or Clayton there, but if I don't tell him why, he might come anyway." Same went for Kaylee, Donna and her whole family, my grandparents…

Kyle was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but we need everyone to behave as they normally would. Trust me to keep them all safe."

"Trust us," Lacey added.

"Easier said than done." Though it was an effort, I didn't slam the office door behind me.

Jones had texted to say he'd meet me in front of the pasta shop before the first round commenced. With only a few minutes to go, I bustled out of the building, my mind whirling. I was halfway across the green when Stu caught up to me.

"Any luck on unmasking the blogger?"

After Kyle and Lacey's confessions, I'd almost forgotten about Fangirl#1. "We were close yesterday, but things went sideways. I have the blogger's phone number—it's an untraceable cell. We tried tracking it, but it's been off. Chances are they'll turn it on for the competition though, wanting to record and upload. If we can get a quiet moment, my fiancé is going to try to call it today, and then we'll know who it is."

"Good. By the way, I hope your sous chef is all right," Stu said. "I can recommend a great rehab place, if you need it."

"Thanks," I said automatically, not wanting to explain that poor Mimi had been victimized and didn't have a drug problem.

"Anyway, there's something I found in the files," Stu continued. "We have a few minutes before the first round. It's in my van."

"Where are you parked?" Honestly, the entire town looked like a parking lot at this point. "I'm meeting Jones in a few and need to get changed before my round."

"Just a few streets over, behind the elementary school."

"There's a shortcut behind the bakery," I said, but Stu was already heading in that direction. "I guess you have this town pretty well mapped out by now."

He shrugged. "Not much to it." We crossed the playground at a steady pace, going too quickly for me to try to text and walk. For a little guy, Stu knew how to move.

"What did you find?" I huffed.

"It's better if you see it for yourself."

"Oh." Not the answer I'd been expecting. We had just made it past the jungle gym when I stopped dead. "Why did you say that?"

"Say what?" Stu glanced over his shoulder, pausing when he realized that I had stopped.

"About Mimi and rehab. The doctor said he wouldn't tell anyone about what caused her seizure. The only way you could have known is if…"

Our gazes met, and I felt a stab of genuine fear. "If what, Andy?"

If he put the drug in the vent system. I didn't voice the thought, instead taking off at a flat-out sprint back to Main Street and the huge crowd.

"Catch her!" I heard Stu shout to somebody. "She knows."

Oh God, someone was helping him?

I was tackled from the side by someone I couldn't see. Sprawled on the ground, I struggled, trying to fight my way free. Behind us, Stu was saying something, but the one who'd tackled me grabbed my head and smashed it against the ground with blackout force and pain faded to nothingness.

White Stuffed Shells

You'll need:

18 jumbo pasta shells

20 ounces fresh spinach, chopped

2 cups cooked chicken, shredded

1 tablespoon fresh basil, chopped

16 ounces low-fat ricotta

1 large egg, beaten

¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese

¼ teaspoon black pepper

16 ounces Alfredo sauce

Directions:

Prepare pasta shells according to package directions. Stir together spinach, chicken, basil, and next 4 ingredients. Spoon mixture evenly into shells. Spread half the Alfredo sauce in a lightly greased 13x9-inch baking dish. Arrange stuffed pasta shells over sauce, and pour remaining sauce over shells.

 Bake, covered, at 350°F for 40-45 minutes or until filling is heated through and sauce bubbles. Remove from oven, and let stand 10 minutes and serve.

**Andy's note: To make ahead, prepare recipe as directed sans the baking. Cover and freeze up to 1 month. Thaw in refrigerator 24 hours. Let stand at room temperature 30 minutes. Bake, covered, for 1 hour and 20 minutes.

I awoke to angry voices, one familiar, and the other I didn't recognize, though it sounded younger than the first. Pressure in my midsection and all the blood rushing to my head and feet, plus a steady jostling motion, clued me in that someone was carrying me over his shoulder.

"Why'd you bring her here?" the unfamiliar one said. His voice sounded closer, so I guessed he was the one who carried me.

"She's our scapegoat. I had to pull her away from the green," the other voice murmured. "Put her in the backseat."

There was a sound like a heavy, metal door being slid back. I tried to keep my breaths slow and easy and not to flinch, struggle, or do anything that would draw their attention back to me as the person carrying me laid me down on my back onto something soft, but lumpy.

"But shouldn't she be there?" the one who'd been lugging me panted. "If she really snapped, wouldn't she want to witness the destruction?"

There was a sigh, and I risked cracking an eyelid. Stu. That was the voice I'd recognized. The events of our last conversation rushed back, him knowing how Mimi had been drugged as only the person who'd drugged her would. I didn't want to move my head and risk getting their attention. As far as I could tell, my only injury was the pounding in my skull, and my hands and feet weren't bound in any way. If they gave me an opportunity, I'd run for help.

Though that hadn't worked out so well before, had it? The other guy must be a marathon sprinter. Stu never would have caught me on his own. Too little cardio, too many desserts.

Something clicked when I thought those last words.
On his own,
but there were two of them. This was the threat that Lacey and Kyle had been worried about.

"We need to compose a suicide note," Stu said. "Rob, put on some gloves and check her pockets. We can leave it on her phone. Better yet, send it as a text message to her boyfriend."

Rob? Who was the other guy? I wanted to ask them why they were doing this, but they had me at a serious disadvantage.

"I still don't get why you picked her and this tiny-ass town to begin with," Rob grumbled as he patted me down. "We could have made much more impact in Charleston or Atlanta."

"And that's why you're not the brains of this operation." Stu sounded the same way he had when I'd been a line cook in his restaurant, patronizing as hell. "I lined this up over a year ago when I swapped out her dishes on live television. Trust me, that little incident garnered her more recognition than most celebrity chefs receive in a lifetime. And half the population of a town dead will look much more dramatic on the news."

It took a great deal of effort to keep playing possum at that. Stu had swapped out my linguini and clam sauce, had ruined my reputation? Why?

"It was supposed to be my dad." Rob had discovered my cell phone in my pocket. "We were supposed to take him down first. You said that telling everyone that he hit my mom and me would end his career."

His dad? Then something Jones had said to me days ago registered. Chad Tobey's son, Rob, had given him a case of the creeps.

"Well, he's taken care of now." Stu sounded aggravated, as if he'd explained this point before. "I can't believe you were stupid enough to leave your laptop out for him to find. When he discovered that you were behind Fangirl#1, we had to do something, or he would have ruined everything. Are you sure he didn't tell your mother what he found?"

"No way. You talk to her more often than he did. She trusts you. She never trusted him—not after she caught him with my football coach. Shouldn't I tie her up or something?"

I was starting to realize that Rob was a few shovels shy of a tool shed. Along with homicidal.

"Well, I am trustworthy. Ask anybody." Stu laughed. "I didn't anticipate having her here. Do you have any duct tape?"

There was no audible response, but Stu's next words indicated that Rob had shaken his head. "There are some cable ties over there. Those will work for now."

I was shifted onto my side, and my wrists and ankles were bound together. Though I was tempted to panic, I fought the impulse and kept my eyes shut, taking it all in. Slowly but surely, I was getting the picture. Chad Tobey had discovered his son was the blogger spreading all sorts of lies about him and had gone to one of the show's producers with the information, hoping to keep it quiet. Stu had slipped gelatin into Chad's breakfast knowing that the grill-master chef was allergic. Maybe he'd even been there, forcing him to stay put at gunpoint, instead of lunging for his lifesaving EpiPen. I recalled how I hadn't been able to find Stu that morning during the chaos.

So Chad's nearest and dearest had stone-cold alibis at the time of his death. But I still didn't understand why Stu was doing all this. He was a world-renowned chef, for the love of Pete. Why would he possibly want to make people sick?

After leaving me abandoned on the lumpy seat, Rob had moved away, and he and Stu were conversing. We must be in Stu's production van. That's where he'd been leading me when he heard about my plan to out the blogger at the town function. So my wrists were bound behind my back, ankles tethered together. How are you going to get out of this one, Andy Buckland?

I shifted a little to test the strength of the cable ties, and something sharp jabbed me in the hip. Cracking one eyelid, I risked a quick glance around. The seat I was on was old and ripped up. The thing poking me was probably a spring that had protruded from the fabric. Could I use its sharp edge to rip the cable ties and free myself?