Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé (12 page)

"I decided I'd had enough drama for one day." Freezing and too tired to drive, I asked, "Do you mind if I leave the town car here? I'm beat."

One dark eyebrow rose. "You want to ride with me?"

"Yeah, I figured I could squeeze in a full eight hours of sleep by the time we get there."

He laughed. "Go park the car, wiseass."

I did and then hustled back to the SUV, which was about ten degrees warmer and climbing. Combined with the lingering kiss I received, I was doubly glad to have cancelled on Rochelle.

We'd barely made it another forty feet when a new set of headlights appeared around the bend.

"Now who's that?" Jones frowned. "I don't recognize the car. Do you?"

Since I was the resident car expert, I squinted into the gloom. "It's too dark to get an accurate make or model, but judging from the headlights, it's a sedan, and not a high-end one, so not Lizzy's Audi. More likely a domestic model."

Jones put the SUV in park and waited while the other vehicle pulled up by his side. He swore, something he rarely did in my presence, when he saw who was behind the wheel. "What the devil is she doing here?"

I frowned as Rochelle got out of her rental—a 2009 Chevy Impala, was I good or what—and saw her heading toward us. Jones gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. A stab of irrational jealousy went through me. I wanted to urge him to go, to just drive away, leaving his past in our dust, but had learned from firsthand experience that running never solved anything.

"Malcolm." She gave him a small smile and then turned to me. "I got your message. I'm sorry to just show up like this, but I really need to speak to you. To both of you."

"We have nothing to discuss," Jones said, his accent even sharper than usual. If the air outside didn't freeze her, his tone would do the trick.

"I'll tell you who's been investigating Andy," she said. "Please, it's important."

Jones and I exchanged a speaking glance. He shook his head slightly, indicating that no, he hadn't been able to find out who she was working for. It surprised me that she'd betray her professional confidence. She really must want this audience with us.

I nodded once, and Jones unlocked the doors and said, "Get in."

Vegetarian Chickpea Pasta

You'll need:

1 tablespoon basil-infused olive oil

3 cloves garlic, chopped

7 cups vegetable broth

1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper

1 pound angel-hair pasta, cooked al dente

1 15.5 oz can chickpeas, drained and rinsed

1 cup flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1/2 cup grated Parmesan

1/2 cup toasted pine nuts for topping

Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Stir in the garlic, and cook for 1 minute. Add the broth, crushed red pepper, and 3/4 teaspoon sea salt. Bring to a boil. Add the pasta, and cook, stirring, until the broth is nearly absorbed and the pasta is al dente, about 6 minutes. Stir in the chickpeas and parsley. Divide among individual bowls, and top with Parmesan.

**Andy's note: Beans are such a great source of protein but require a little extra zip, and the toasted pine nut topping adds a delicious crunch to this vegetarian dish.

"All right. Tell us what's so important." Jones turned in his seat to glare at Rochelle. The man could pull off frosty distain like no one else, but the glower he sent his sort of ex-wife chilled me to the bone. I made a mental note to never do anything that would put me on the receiving end of that look.

Though Rochelle didn't squirm under the scrutiny, she appeared distinctly uncomfortable, unable to hold that piercing blue gaze. "First of all, I feel as though I owe you an explanation. About my husband."

One of Jones's eyebrows lifted. Though he didn't say it, I could almost hear him murmur a droll, "A little late for that?" He didn't respond but simply waited for her to continue. Out of the three people enduring this awkward moment, I was the one squirming like a two-year-old who had to tinkle. I'd been cast in the role of a voyeur, and I felt slightly perverse but still intently curious. From what little he'd told me of his relationship with Rochelle, Jones had been informed by a mutual friend about her deception. He'd left without confronting her, ignoring all of her attempts at further communication. He'd put off the annulment, but that was such a guy thing to do, not make waves until it became an issue. Well, thanks to Kyle, it was now officially an issue we needed to tackle.

My guess—as a purely neutral observer, of course—was that Rochelle had tracked him down hoping for closure. Maybe even a shot at redemption. She sat there as though waiting for some signal from him. How had this gone in her head? Did she imagine he would rant and rave? If so, she didn't know Malcolm Jones, at least not the way I did.

Though he was never overly demonstrative, his stillness told me he was angry, so angry that we could have fried an egg on his raging temper. He hadn't talked much about his brief marriage, but I knew he'd been humiliated by it. I hadn't pushed him to share more information about that time in his life, a fact I was regretting now because I had no idea how he was going to react. He'd been a great support for me as I dealt with Kaylee. And now he was facing off against his own personal demon for the two of us. Only his steely control and need to help me kept him from walking away again.

But at what personal cost?

I threaded my fingers through his in a silent show of support. His head jerked my way, surprise clear in his eyes. I offered him a small smile of encouragement. He blinked, clearly unsure. My heart ached for him. He'd endured so much on his own, never having a stable support network, anyone to lean on when push came to shove. That was different now. I might not want to live with him in his sister's house at the moment, but I did want to offer support when and where I could. Trust went two ways, and he needed to know he could count on me.

Our eyes locked, and he blew out a slow breath, then nodded.

"We're listening." I turned my smile on Rochelle. Though Jones had painted her as some sort of money-grubbing villainess, I didn't see that in her at all. She may not have had the most integrity in the world, but she was a decent person who was trying to do the right thing. I respected that.

To give her credit, she didn't pussyfoot around the issue, just cut straight to the heart of the matter. "Paul was the love of my life. He meant the world to me. He was an artist, always temperamental. I thought that was just part of the package." Her expression turned sad, her eyes downcast.

Jones had fallen back into that eerie stillness, though his knuckles whitened as he gripped my hand. The conversation had to be killing him, hearing that Rochelle considered another man the love of her life, and I squeezed back, silently communicating that he was mine and we'd get through this together. I braced myself, knowing this story was about to take a dark turn, and not just because of her use of the past tense.

"We'd been married about a year when he told me he'd been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. At first I thought I could live with it, with him. He was still Paul, and I actually admired him more because I knew how hard he fought his illness. But then he went off his meds."

Emotion clogged my throat, and I was glad we weren't hearing this sad tale over an appetizer in a restaurant. A thumb stroked over my knuckles, as if Jones was checking to make sure I would be able to hold myself together. I squeezed back to reassure him that no, I was not about to blubber like an emotional idiot and add another layer of awkward to the moment.

Rochelle continued. "It was sort of a roller coaster after that. The doctors played around with different drugs, but nothing stabilized him, not really. He'd get depressed or angry, with no external cause. Be unable to separate reality from his hallucinations. I really thought I could handle it, did my best to get him home care. But when he attacked me, I knew I was fooling myself. If the day nurse hadn't been there to give him a sedative, he'd have cut my throat. He needed more help and supervision than I could ever give him."

She stopped, took a deep breath, and looked up at Jones. "He's in a group home, in upstate New York. Most of the time when I go there, he isn't lucid, doesn't recognize me. Paul's gone in all but body and name."

"I know," Jones said quietly.

He did? That was news to me.

Rochelle's jaw dropped. Apparently, she hadn't known either. "How long have you known?" she asked.

Jones cleared his throat. "Since the day I moved out. I'm a private investigator— it's what I do. What I should have done before we went through with that sham of a wedding." There was no malice in his tone. He sounded completely detached, as though reciting a particularly uninspired scene for the community theater.

Rochelle shook her head, unable to accept his words. "You never said anything."

Jones looked at me, and I made a go-on gesture with my free hand.

He cleared his throat, his accent thicker than usual. "I'm sorry for what you both went through. Are still going through. But it didn't change anything between us, then or now."

Rochelle shook her head. "You wouldn't even take my calls. All this time you knew?" If anything, she was the one who sounded pissed off. Having been on the receiving end of one of Jones's digging expeditions without warning, I could so relate.

"There was nothing to talk about. It was over the second you made the choice to intentionally deceive me." That steely glint was back in his gaze. "I know you aren't here to try and win me back. So why go after my girlfriend?"

Rochelle still hadn't recovered from the thought that Jones had known all along about her first husband. Her cheeks were flushed from more than the cold, and she looked from him to me.

"He doesn't talk about it." I shrugged. "So I had no clue."

Rochelle let out a humorless laugh and then shook her head. "Sounds familiar."

"I know, right? He's not much of a sharer."

"Tell me about it."

Jones wore a slightly horrified expression, as if we were about to start trading tales of our sexual escapades with him. I rolled my eyes and then for his benefit added, "Anyway, we're working through it. And I am also very sorry about your husband. Er, the other one. Now, please tell us who hired you."

Rochelle looked from me to Jones and then back. She nodded slowly, struggling to compose herself. "His name is Griffin, Jacob Griffin. He called me soon after Flavor TV dropped the investigation."

Who? I frowned at the unfamiliar name. "What do you know about him?"

"Nothing, other than that name. I sent my reports to a PO box in Atlanta. I've never spoken to him, so for all I know, it could be a woman using a man's name."

So it could still be Lacey L'Amour.

Jones frowned at her. "It's not like you to take on a job for someone you'd never met."

Rochelle shrugged. "I'd already done a good chunk of the work. Flavor TV had no basis for a lawsuit, and they didn't care what I did with the information I'd gathered. No matter what you think, this wasn't personal. The place where Paul is housed is expensive. I needed the income."

I couldn't blame her. Well, I
could
, but I wouldn't. Though I wasn't happy to be the subject of yet another investigation, she'd only been doing her job. "Did you tell Mr. Griffin about Kaylee?"

She bit her lip, then shook her head. "No. It might end up costing me the job, but from what I've found out about her, the kid already had a rough life. I don't know what my employer wants the information for, but I wanted to keep her clear of it if I could."

I blew out a breath that seemed to start somewhere around my kneecaps. "Thank you. You don't know how important that is to her. And to me."

She looked at me, and this time, her smile was genuine. "Actually, I think I do."

Though I knew the answer, I asked anyway. "So, you'll be staying in town awhile?"

She nodded, glancing from me to Jones, as if wondering if I'd told him about Lizzy's case. I gave a slight shake of my head to communicate that no, not yet, and she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose as if she had a headache.

"I should be going." She fixed me with a hard stare and then turned to Jones. "Thanks for hearing me out."

We watched her walk back across the driveway to her rental.

"Andrea." Jones watched her even though he spoke to me in a mild tone. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I told you, it isn't my secret to tell." And hadn't I just witnessed firsthand how well that had worked out for him and Rochelle? Damn Lizzy, and her snooping, straight to the fiery gates of hell.

He turned the engine over and put the SUV into gear. "I thought we were working through it."

"Rome wasn't built in a day," I murmured. Between the exhaustion of the day's work and the relief that Rochelle was going to keep Kaylee's identity to herself, I was drooping with fatigue. "Come on. We're late for dinner."

*   *   *

"You are late," Aunt Cecily said in a menacing tone when we walked in the door to my rental. It had taken my great-aunt no time at all to make herself at home. Between the smells of cooking Italian spices, and Pops's football game blaring from the television, and Roofus snoring on the rug, the place felt like home.

Or maybe that was just because Jones was with me.

He leaned down and kissed Aunt Cecily on her papery cheek. "She was being stubborn, as usual. Had practically chained herself to the stove."

Aunt Cecily nodded with approval. Her work ethic was of the "I'll rest when I'm dead" variety. "I will go in to work with you tomorrow. Make sure you aren't ruining the pasta shop."

Audible gulp. "Um, Aunt Cecily, tomorrow really isn't a good time—"

She set the piping hot casserole dish down on a hot pad. "Tomorrow. After the Mass. You must go to Mass more. And confession. And then we will make the pasta. Go now and wash for dinner."

Having been given his marching orders, Jones loped off to the second bathroom. I washed up at the kitchen sink and tried to think of a way to get my rigid great-aunt on board with my new recipes. Oh man, she was going to fillet me like a flounder when she saw that B from the health department.

"Hey there, Andy girl." Pops kissed my forehead in the same way as he'd done since I was little. "What's new?"

I shrugged. "Not too much. Hey, Pops, do you know someone named Jacob Griffin?"

Pops knew everyone who'd lived in the town of Beaverton since before I was born. If anyone in town knew the man, it would be my grandfather.

He'd been bent over the refrigerator, extracting a wine bottle from the door. He froze midmotion.

"Pops?" I asked, frowning. "Are you all right?"

"My back," he gasped, still hunched over. "Damned arthritis."

I was by his side in a moment, calling for Jones to come help. "Where do you want to go, Pops? The couch?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'll never be able to get back up. The table."

"You sure?"

He nodded and then winced. "It'll pass in a bit. Don't feel much like eating, but at least I can sit with my family."

Jones moved to his other side, and together we guided Pops to the table. He winced with every step and grimaced as we helped ease him down onto the chair, Aunt Cecily looking on the entire time.

"You go to doctor," she declared. "Tomorrow."

"Ain't nothing the doctor can do for me." Pops had brought his ornery streak to the fore. "I'm old. They don't got a way to fix old."

"It's called death," Aunt Cecily said. "Permanent fix.
Testardo capra vecchia
!"

Jones held out a chair for me and whispered, "What did she call him?"

"A stubborn old goat," I whispered back, and then louder, "and you really should go, Pops. Just have Doc Harrison take a look. Maybe he can give you something for the pain. I can drive you."

He was taking deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling in a steady rhythm. "You're busy at the pasta shop."

"I can make time." I just had to stop wasting hours sleeping and possibly develop time travel. "This is important."

"I would be happy to drive you, Eugene," Jones offered out of nowhere.

All three of us looked at him.