Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé

* * * * *

Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases!

Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!

* * * * *

What critics are saying about

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."

—The 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"

—ParaNormal 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."

—Manic 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."

—Joyfully Reviewed.

"Jennifer L. Hart gives readers a contemporary love story constructed by two achingly real main characters."

—Coffee Time Romance

* * * * *

MURDER À LA FLAMBÉ

by

JENNIFER L. HART

* * * * *

Copyright © 2015 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.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY JENNIFER L. HART

SNEAK PEEK

* * * * *

"Hey, Jones, come taste this sauce. I need to know if it's worth going to war over." I dipped the wooden spoon into the red concoction and brought it to my own mouth, blowing to cool the scalding liquid.

Malcolm Jones, my devilishly handsome significant other, quirked a jet-black brow. "I didn't realize red sauce violated the Geneva Convention." His crisp New Zealand accent always made me shiver.

I held the wooden spoon up to his lips. "Not
war
war, just a battle of wills with Aunt Cecily."

"Andrea, no sauce in the world is worth that." Despite his protest, he leaned down and tasted my fresh batch of tomato basil sauce. I got a little shiver as I watched his masculine lips close around the spoon.

"Well?" I had to clear my throat, my voice thicker than Alfredo.

"It's delicious, as always. But why would you have to battle your aunt over it? Isn't it a family recipe that you already serve in the shop?"

The shop he referenced was my family's pasta shop, the Bowtie Angel. My Christmas present from my Sicilian great-aunt and my grandfather had been a transfer in ownership from them to me. Technically, I, Andy Buckland, was the sole proprietor of the only ethnic eatery in Beaverton, North Carolina. But a month later I was beginning to feel as though the passing of the torch was more symbolic than anything else.

"Not exactly, it's lighter. I made it special to be served over fried risotto. I want to expand the menu to include appetizers. And dessert." As a culinary graduate and former celebrity chef, I was always playing around in the kitchen. While the family recipes we currently served were comforting, I couldn't hold myself back from being creative.

Jones leaned back against the counter and crossed his legs at the ankle. He was garbed in his customary black on black, though his feet were bare. "Appetizers and dessert sounds more like a restaurant than a pasta shop."

I turned to fuss with the window box full of herbs Jones had made for me. "Well, not a restaurant in Beaverton, obviously. The town council would probably have me flogged for even suggesting it. But maybe if the new dishes go over well enough, we could do a restaurant in Raleigh or Charlotte or even Asheville. Celebrity chef–owned restaurants are all the rage."

Though I'd turned away from him, I could feel Jones's piercing blue gaze boring holes into the back of my cranium. "Are you planning to move, Andrea? Is that what this is about?"

I turned again and wrapped my arms around him. "Of course not. This would still be my home base, obviously. Kaylee just started school here. Do you really think I'd up and leave now?"

Kaylee, the baby girl I'd put up for adoption when I was barely more than a kid myself, had recently come back into my life. I'd lived with the regret of giving her up for adoption every day of the past sixteen years, so Jones knew there was no way I'd pull up stakes now that I had her back. "It's just pie in the sky, anyway. No one wants to be fed by the Death Chef."

His forehead creased. "Is that what's troubling you, your reputation? Because I've offered to investigate—"

I held up a hand to stop him mid-offer. "The last thing I want is to stir that all up again."

Among his many other talents, Malcolm Jones was a licensed private investigator. He'd offered before to find out exactly how the linguini and clam sauce recipe that I'd made a hundred times before had given food poisoning to my live studio audience during my debut cooking show. We both harbored the suspicion that someone had tampered with the dish in order to discredit me but hadn't found a way to prove it.

My arms fell to my sides, and I plunged my hands into the soapy water to start tackling the mountain of dishes. When he'd first made the offer to go digging, I'd waved him off. My life was in Beaverton now, and it seemed pointless to stir the pot, since it was unlikely I'd ever go back to celebrity cooking.

He turned me back to face him, ignoring the suds I dripped on his immaculate kitchen floor. "Talk to me, love. What's eating at you?"

"I heard Flavor TV declared bankruptcy." Flavor TV was the small cable station that'd aired my disastrous debut. "They've been buried under lawsuits since last spring. All those people out of work. I feel like it's all my fault, you know? I need to prove to the world that I'm a competent cook, not the Death Chef."

My eyes watered, and I swiped at them with the long sleeve of my sweater. The pity party had turned ugly. I thought I'd matured beyond the overwhelming need to prove myself. Not even a year ago I'd helped save the Bowtie Angel from going under and caught a killer at the same time. I had a job, my family, and Jones. It should have been enough, more than enough, so why wasn't I happy?

Jones opened his mouth, but the doorbell rang before he could say anything. He gave me a level stare, and I could almost hear his sultry New Zealand accent in my head saying,
This isn't over.

Turning back to the dishes, I tried to decide if the fried risotto should be flat like pancakes or round like meatballs. The balls could be stuffed with fresh grated cheese, something soft that melted well, like fontina. I was always in favor of adding more cheese to any Italian dish, something that didn't go over well with my very traditional aunt.

Jones was right to be wary of Aunt Cecily. She was a stubborn old battle-ax from the old country, and it was rumored she put the Evil Eye on people who displeased her. In our small southern town, she was a living legend. Only a fool would cross her. Though I was 99.9 percent sure she wouldn't actually curse her own kin, I wasn't willing to bet my best cheese grater on it.

Expanding the menu at the Bowtie Angel wasn't just good for me though. My sous chef, Mimi, was a skilled pastry chef, and expanding meant she could use her expertise right where she was. Otherwise, she might grow bored and start up her own pastry shop after her citizenship came through. Having her make cannoli and tiramisu for our customers would keep her happy and hopefully on my payroll a little longer.

I'd set the colander in the drain board when it occurred to me that Jones hadn't come back yet. Curious, I dried my hands, gave the Crock-Pot of tomato basil sauce one more turn with my wooden spoon, then strode out into the living room.

The sound of angry male voices carried through the spacious front room. I paused, deciding to peek around the corner instead of striding into plain view. Jones had his back to me, blocking the visitor from my line of sight. The front door was still wide open, a cold gray January evening looming ahead.

"Malcolm, be reasonable." I frowned as I recognized the voice as belonging to Jones's father, Mr. Tillman. Jones was, as he'd tactfully put it, "born on the wrong side of the blanket" and hadn't known his father until he moved to Beaverton last spring. So far, he hadn't been impressed. Mr. Tillman's life had been turned upside down, and he had taken to drinking like he could medal in whiskey guzzling. Needless to say, he wasn't a regular visitor.

"I am perfectly reasonable," Jones said. Anyone who didn't know him well would think he wasn't at all affected by the conversation. Over the last year, I'd picked up on his subtler cues, and the crisp way he bit off each word clued me in that he was furious. "This matter is none of your concern."

Mine either, and I doubted the men would be pleased to find me eavesdropping. I was about to tiptoe downstairs and check on the load of towels I'd put in the laundry earlier, when Mr. Tillman's words froze me to the spot. "None of my concern? My only son is married and living with another woman on my property, and it's none of my concern?"

Rochelle. Somehow Mr. Tillman had found out about Jones being married to Rochelle, the two-timing bigamist hussy, and was having a royal conniption over it.

"First of all, you're in no position to pass moral judgment on your bastard son's actions. Pot calling the kettle black and all that rubbish."

I flinched at the cutting word choice. Poor Malcolm had serious daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues and trust issues. I could so relate. That was why we were perfectly dysfunctional together. However, being caught spying on them would most likely throw a big fat monkey wrench into our cozy little setup. I tried to tell my feet to move forward and take me out of earshot, but they refused to cooperate.

"Secondly, the marriage was never legal because she was
already
married."

"So why did she show up at my office today looking for, and I quote, 'her husband?'"

Seriously? I was floored by this, but Jones took it in stride.

"Most likely her other husband finally had enough of her philandering and deception and divorced her, and she thinks I have a rich father. Money is all Rochelle ever cared about. Well, other than herself."

He hadn't spoken to me about her, beyond the basic facts. Married, then heartbroken when he'd found out about her trickery. His quick recap was concise and to the point, almost as though he were assembling a case for the grand jury. I knew she'd cut him deeply though. I could hear the hurt in his voice.

"It's not as though you'll inherit from me, not carrying on with that woman right under my nose."

I bristled at that. That woman? As in me, myself, and I? What was so wrong with that woman? I was freaking fabulous—just ask me.

There was a thud and a grunt, and for one horrifying moment I thought Jones had walloped his father. As much as the old jerk deserved it, I didn't want my significant other brought up on assault charges. The last thing the Tillman family needed was more public tongue wagging. A door slammed, and the sound of footsteps headed my way. Jones had physically shown his father the door and was about to bust me as Little Andy Spies-A-Lot. Scurrying for the kitchen, I dove for the fridge and pretended to look busy. I grabbed the first thing my hand closed on, kicked the door shut, and picked up my chef's knife.

"Hey," I said brightly, using my
everything is just hunky-dory
tone.

"You heard all that." It wasn't a question.

I picked up my chef's knife and set the random cold objects on a cutting board. "Shoot, how'd you know?"

"You were about to mince my film containers."

I looked down and sure enough, two black canisters were laid out side by side on my cutting board.

"Rats," I grumbled. "It was totally an accident, I swear. I wasn't trying to spy. I just sort of got stuck there, you know?"

His expression lightened. He crossed the room and rested his cheek against my hair. "Thank you."

I blinked. "Whatever for?"

"For giving me a reason to smile."

I glanced around the kitchen, but everything was staged well and could be left unattended for a bit. "Come on to the bedroom, and I'll give you a few more reasons to smile."

*   *   *

A while later, I slipped on one of Jones's black button-down shirts and a pair of thick gray socks and padded into the kitchen. Since the sauce was done, I shut off the Crock-Pot and filled a pot of water for dinner. After salting the water and setting it on the stove to boil, I snagged the fresh linguini I'd brought home from the pasta shop.

"That's a great look for you," Jones murmured as I reached for the wineglasses, his shirt riding up to expose my pasta-enhanced backside. "I wish I had my camera."

Thank the powers that be that he didn't. I cleared my throat and tugged the shirt back into place. "Sorry, all my stuff is in the wash."

"You can bring more stuff over, you know," Jones said as he opened a bottle of red wine. "You're practically living here now."

He had a point. I'd brought everything of importance over, including my grandfather's smelly old dog, Roofus, who spent most of his time sprawled on the blindingly white living room rug, snoring like a buzz saw. "I could, but I don't see the point when you could be evicted at any time."

Jones shrugged. "It's Lizzy's place. She's free to move in whenever she wants—though I don't think she'll want to until after the wedding."

"Any idea when that will be?" Jones's half sister, Lizzy Tillman, was engaged to Kyle Landers, who also happened to be the father of my daughter, Kaylee. Though they'd been engaged for over a year, Lizzy seemed reluctant to set a new wedding date, since the death of the pastry chef at her engagement party had put the kibosh on the original date.

He shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine."

The water had reached a rolling boil, so I added the pasta while Jones sliced a loaf of fresh Italian bread. I stirred in silence, lost in my own thoughts.

Though the house we inhabited was perfect for Jones and me, it wasn't truly ours. If Lizzy decided to elope with Kyle next weekend, we had nowhere else to go. The Victorian on Grove Street where I'd grown up had been put on the market. I'd sold my condo in Atlanta, and my assistant was currently residing in the small room over the pasta shop. Lizzy and I had a tumultuous history, and I knew she didn't like me shacking up with her half brother any more than her dad did. What if the two of them decided to oust Jones out of spite? I wouldn't put it past anyone in the Tillman family. "I probably should start looking for my own place anyway."

Jones didn't answer, and I glanced over my shoulder, frowning. Had he heard me? Before I could ask, my cell phone blared. The ringtone was a classic, "Baby's Got Back."