Murder Al Fresco Page 5

  Malcolm swore as the chilly blast pounded us, an assault just as relentless as our stolen moment of passion. I shrieked and lunged away from the building and away from Jones.

  The water cut off, and Pops stood there, a hose in one arthritic hand. "None of that hanky-panky now. Them TV people are everywhere, and you two are acting like a couple of horny teenagers."

  "Pops," I snarled dripping wet and steaming mad. "You could have just said something. How can I go in there looking like a drowned rat?"

  "Should have thought of that before you decided to get all frisky in the alley." My grandfather gave Jones a withering glare, dropped his weapon of choice, and disappeared into the building.

  "Well, at least it wasn't a shotgun," I groused and wrung my hair out. Although his methods may have been crude, the impromptu shower had cooled my overheated blood.

  "I'll drive home and get you a change of clothes." Jones refused to meet my eyes.

  "Malcolm?" His name came out like a question, mostly because I didn't know which question to ask.

  Not that it mattered. He strode off without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Since I didn't want to upset Aunt Cecily any further, I held court with Stu in the small garden behind the pasta shop. "What the freaking hell, Stu?" I greeted him.

  One sardonic eyebrow lifted when he took in my sopping wet state. "New look, Andy? I doubt that will be camera-friendly."

  I glared at him. "Never mind how I look. Who are all these people, and how did you get them here so fast? We just agreed to host the competition here yesterday for crying out loud."

  Stu was short for a man. He only had about two inches on my five-foot-four stature, but the lack of height advantage didn't make him any less imposing. One of the foodie blogs had dubbed him Napoleon of the Kitchen because he wasn't going to stop before he conquered the culinary world. "There's a ton to do to just get everything set up, and we needed to jump as soon as possible. Don't worry—nothing's going live until the finals. Besides, there's the other thing you're supposed to be handling."

  I wasn't sure if he appreciated the situation he'd put me in. "Again, I need more than a day's lead time. Jones and I have some stuff to deal with and—"

  Stu glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure we were completely alone. "It's getting worse, Andy. Chad Tobey is receiving threats."

  I blinked. "What kind of threats?"

  Stu lowered his voice even further. "Anonymous messages mostly, saying they are going to expose him to the world."

  This sounded like more than somebody making a buck off a celebrity. "Where is he? I'm sure Jones will want to ask him a few questions." And if he didn't, then I sure did.

  "He said he was getting a hotel room the next town over. Between production, the fans, and the media, this town is a zoo." Stu patted his pockets and then sighed. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette would you?"

  When I shook my head, he blew out a breath. "It's for the best. I'm trying to quit. The stress of all this has me off the wagon."

  "I hear you." I'd never smoked and rarely drank, but I could so go for a heaping plate of pasta. Carbs were my vice of choice. Never mind that it was barely noon, I was jonesing for a fix.

  "Okay, well, the first thing we need to do is go before the town council and get all the permits. You might have to pay a fine for this snarl. And here's the number for a local real estate agent. She'll see to it that everyone else has a place to stay." Donna at least would appreciate the business.

  Stu took the card. "I'll have one of my runners get in touch with her. And don't worry about the town—we've been flashing cash around all morning. The chamber of commerce will go to bat for us because we're good for business. What about the investigation? Did you get the files I sent?" He waved the pesky details off like they didn't really matter to him.

  "Like I said, I just started looking into the files last night, but things have been hectic at home. We'll dive in as soon as all this gets straightened out." I waved my hand at the mouth of the alley, indicating the crush of people. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to check on my kitchen."

  Without waiting for a response, I stormed past him and into the back door of the pasta shop.

  Aunt Cecily stood by the stove, muttering in nonstop Italian while she stirred a big batch of gravy. Pops was at the sink scrubbing pots. Both glared at me as I entered the room.

  "I'll fix it," I blurted, already digging my cell out of my sopping wet jeans. "Just give me some time." Not waiting for their reply, I strode through the kitchen and down to the office. Even through the closed doors, I could hear the buzz of voices from the front room. We weren't officially open, yet the place was packed.

  I paced the eight-and-a-half steps, staring at my phone, wondering who I should call for help. Mimi, my sous chef, was out of town until late Sunday night. Donna would have her hands full with the short-term renters, and Lizzy was staying with Clayton. My heart actually stumbled in my chest, and for a moment there was nothing I wanted to do more than go back home and snuggle with the little guy all day.

  But I'd made this mess and couldn't just abandon the town to the show. Decided, I punched in a number and waited.

  "'Lo?" Kaylee picked up on the third ring, her voice froggy as though it were the middle of the night. Ah, to be a teenager on summer vacation.

  "Hey, sweets, sorry to wake you, but it's kind of an emergency, and I need help at the pasta shop in the worst way. You think you could come in a bit early today? Like now?"

  There was a shuffling sound as though she were sitting up. "What's going on?"

  "Well, remember I was telling you about applying for Diced? Long story short, they picked me, and they are holding the competition in town."

  "Now?" Her tone was incredulous.

  "Well, not this second. But I'm going to be tied up with it, and there's no way Pops and

  Aunt Cecily can run the entire place themselves with this kind of crowd. Do you have any friends who might want to earn a little extra cash? We're going to need a full staff, someone to do dishes and serve."

  "What about Lacey?"

  I choked on my own saliva. "Lacey L'Amour? You want Lacey L'Amour to work in my pasta shop?" Just the idea of it horrified me.

  "Well, she knows her way around a kitchen. And she is married to your father, so she's totally family. Aunt Cecily would approve."

  I didn't bother to contradict her. As far as Pops and Aunt Cecily were concerned, Jacob and Lacey were not family and would never be welcomed into our inner sanctum. "Thanks, sweets, but I don't think that's a good idea. Just get here as soon as you can. I'll think of something."

  A knock sounded on the office door, and I hung up, reaching for the knob. "That was fast," I said to Jones as he stepped into the room, a duffel bag in one hand. "I thought maybe you'd take your time."

  "I wanted to get back here. I know you need help." He'd changed from one black pair of jeans and a black T-shirt to another, though his hair was still damp.

  I stripped off my wet garments, not meeting his eye as I asked, "How's Clayton?"

  "Fine." His reply was clipped, as though the subject was closed.

  I decided to let it go, for now, instead investigating his wardrobe choice.

  He'd brought me a long skirt and boat neck top, both in black, with a black pair of mules. My lips twitched. "I can't tell if you're trying to dress me up like you or like Aunt Cecily."

  Instead of laughing, he turned away—not that there was anywhere to go in the dinky space. "You know I don't feel comfortable matching colors. It was either this or all white. And I didn't figure all white would go well with tomato sauce."

  Shame burned over me like prickly heat. How did it always slip my mind that Jones was colorblind? Maybe because he didn't bring it up too often, always so confident. As far as fatal flaws went, it was a minor thing, but the man was still sensitive about his inability to distinguish between blues and greens. It always took me off guard to see Malcolm Jo
nes unsure, and I reached for his hand. "This is perfect, thank you."

  Even though I was stripped down to my skin, his eyes searched my face. "About before," he began, but someone tried the handle on the office door.

  "Later," I squeaked as I scrambled into my clothes.

  "Andy," the person on the other end called. Shoot, Kyle had tracked me down.

  Jones body-blocked the door. "Just a moment," he called.

  "I need to talk to you," Kyle shouted through the wood.

  Kicking the wet things off to the side, I nodded to Jones. "I'm decent. Let him in."

  Jones stood aside, and Kyle barged in. "You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking, inviting all these TV people into town?"

  Kyle had changed over the last six months and not for the better. His happy-go-lucky grin was nowhere in sight, and dark shadows clustered under his eyes. I wished he and Lizzy would just kiss and make up already. They were better together than they'd ever be apart. But both of them were stubborn, so the standoff didn't look to resolve itself anytime soon.

  "Later," I said to Kyle as I clasped Jones's hand. "We've got work to do."

  "We do?" I could hear the question in Jones's voice. "My kind of work or your kind of work?"

  "Our kind of work," I said. "We're going to see one of the judges for Diced."

  "I'm coming with you," Kyle announced. "I'm not letting the two of you slip the hook so easily."

  "In that case, we'll take your car." The sheriff's ride had lights and a siren, so we were less likely to get stuck in traffic. Not wanting to deal with Aunt Cecily's dark mood again, I pushed my way out through the front of the pasta shop where many unfamiliar faces talked on cell phones, held impromptu meetings, and scurried about doing whatever was necessary to set up a live television show from a small town.

  I texted Stu, asking for Chad Tobey's phone number and the name of the hotel where he was staying. He hit me back less than a minute later. Head into Fairhope. He's got a reservation at the Blooming Blossom Inn.

  I tried Chad's number twice on the ride over to the neighboring town. Unlike Beaverton, Fairhope was full of franchise stores and chain restaurants, and the streets were even more crowded than usual, although nothing compared to the kerfuffle in Beaverton.

  "Who are all these people?" Kyle asked as he turned into the packed hotel parking lot. "Don't they have lives?"

  "It's the show. Some are fans who want to see it filmed, others are food bloggers or reviewers, and others are hopeful contestants. And then there are the groupies."

  Kyle cast me a disbelieving look. "Chefs have groupies?"

  "Some of the bigger name ones, totally. I don't think Stu has many because he's an angry little man, but Chad Tobey definitely does."

  "And Rodrigo Lobo," Jones added darkly.

  If he'd been under a smidge less stress, I would have made a smart-ass reply, but I tried Chad's number again instead. "He isn't picking up."

  "Let me get his room number." Kyle exited the car, striding to the main lobby.

  "Do you really think it was smart to bring him with us?" Jones turned in the seat to face me.

  "I didn't want to waste time arguing with him. Kyle's stubborn when he digs his heels in."

  Jones snorted, and I scowled. "Yes, I know I'm stubborn too, but I have to prioritize here. The sooner we talk to Tobey, the sooner I can get back into the pasta shop, and the less likely that Aunt Cecily puts The Eye on anyone." Plus I still needed to head Kaylee off and tell her about Clayton.

  Maybe I should make a list so that I didn't forget anything.

  Before I could, Kyle had returned. "He's staying in the penthouse suite. The manager agreed to let us in."

  "Power of the badge," I quipped. "It's good to know low people in high places."

  "Now or never, wiseass."

  Jones and I followed Kyle back into the hotel. We proceeded through the opulent lobby, and I made note of the many different people clustered around the place. Lots of women, gobs and gobs of them, ranging from jailbait to Crypt Keeper. Either they didn't know or didn't care about the rumors of domestic violence surrounding the Diced judge. Obviously the word was out that he was here. Maybe Chad had turned his phone off to get the hell away from all the cray-cray for a spell.

  The manager escorted us into the elevator, and I shifted closer to Jones in the compartment. There was only one door on the top floor, and our steps didn't make a sound as we crossed the plush, taupe carpeting to the door. The manager tried knocking first. "Sir? This is the manager. You have some official-looking persons here to see you."

  "This is Sherriff Landers," Kyle spoke up. "Please open the door, Mr. Tobey."

  Silence.

  "You're sure he's in there?" Jones asked.

  The manager, a tiny balding man in his early forties, nodded. "Oh yes. He came in late last night and ordered room service less than an hour ago."

  "Let us in," Kyle ordered, and although the manager protested, the sheriff wouldn't back down.

  The manager swiped his key card, and Kyle drew his sidearm. "Mr. Tobey?" he called out.

  Jones pushed me behind him. "Stay here, Andrea."

  I didn't, though I stood far enough back to be out of the way. If Chad Tobey emerged from the bathroom to see two strange men, one of them armed and the other still dangerous, I wanted to be there to help explain our presence.

  The suite was huge, with a separate living room area and dining room-kitchenette. Kyle moved down the hallway, probably to the bedrooms, Jones only a few steps behind.

  Something tickled the back of my neck, and I jumped about a foot in the air, whirling in mid-motion. My heart slowed when I realized it was just the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze.

  Then my blood froze as I looked beyond the gauzy material and saw the figure on the patio.

  "Mr. Tobey?" I called, heart in my throat.

  There was no blood, no sign that he hadn't just fallen asleep while eating his oatmeal. But his lips were tinged blue, his eyes glazed over.

  Chad Tobey was dead.

  Easy as Pie Apple Crostata

  You'll need:

  1 refrigerated pie crust

  ½ cup light brown sugar

  1 cup golden raisins

  1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

  1 tablespoon butter

  2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

  4 medium baking apples, peeled and sliced very thin

  Dash of ground cloves and ginger

  ¼ cup slivered almonds

  1 egg white

  1 teaspoon sugar-cinnamon mixture

  Directions:

  Heat oven to 450°F. Place large piece of parchment paper on a cookie sheet. Remove pie crust from pouch and place flat on parchment.

  In medium bowl, combine the brown sugar, cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Gently stir in apples and add lemon juice. Spoon apple mixture onto center of crust, spreading to within 2 inches of edge. Fold crust edge over filling to form a 2-inch border, pleating crust as necessary. Cut the butter onto the apples, and top with slivered almonds. Brush crust edges with egg white, and sprinkle with the sugar-cinnamon mixture. Cover edges of crust with aluminum foil ring to prevent overbrowning.

  Bake 15 minutes. Remove foil, and bake 5-15 minutes longer or until apples are tender and crust is browned. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

  **Andy's note: Change up the filling however you like, with mixed berries, peaches, or plums. I even made a cream cheese and chocolate crostata once—turned out like a really big cannoli. Apple is still my favorite though, especially when served with cinnamon gelato!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hours later, Kyle dropped us off a few streets down from the pasta shop with a final warning. "You two need to keep this to yourselves. You hear me, Andy?"

  Normally I would have given him a snotty comeback, but I was numb from the shock and could only manage a nod—much as I had done when the police showed up and began questioning us. Funny thing about finding dead bodies, it didn't g
et any easier with practice.

  Jones urged me out of the car and then leaned down to say something to Kyle. It was weird, the two men had never really gotten along, and yet there seemed to be a level of respect between them. Guys were strange like that though. They could despise one another but still go out and have a beer together.

  "He's changed a great deal since I first came to town," Jones observed as the sheriff drove off. "Matured."

  "Between your sister dumping him and being a dad, Kyle's had a lot to deal with." Never mind all the murders. The good sheriff had probably never anticipated multiple homicides in what, up until last year, had been a peaceful county. Reelection was going to be a bear for Kyle, and I couldn't help feeling partly responsible.

  The hubbub around the center of town had died down a bit, and we were able to enter the Bowtie Angel through the front door. The first thing I saw was Lacey L'Amour by the register, her hair perfectly coiffed, her nails shimmering pearly pink. She wore a retro gingham swing-style dress and a frilly white apron, and my lip curled up slightly as it always did when I caught sight of her. "Kill me now."

  Jones blanched at my poor choice of words but didn't comment. "I'd better head home and check on Lizzy and Clayton. Send me the files when you have a chance. I'll ask Lizzy to drop off your car when she comes into town later."

  I nodded. At least I had a professional investigator on the case. Jones and I had revealed to Kyle that Stu had hired Jones to investigate the employees of Diced and that Chad Tobey specifically had been targeted by the hate blogger, but we hadn't mentioned the files for fear the police would try to confiscate them. They could get their own copies easily enough.

  "Will do. Kiss that little guy for me," I whispered and brushed my lips over his rough cheek.

  Jones's lips parted, and he looked as though he wanted to say something but then backed out of the door with a wave of farewell.

  "Andee." Lacey minced over and gave me her customary two-cheek air kiss greeting. "So good to see you."