Murder Al Fresco (7 page)

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!

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 get 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."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, but I already knew. Kaylee had gone behind my back and asked Lacey, my—blech—stepmother, to help out. And because I might just be the most unlucky person who'd ever donned an apron, Lacey had agreed.

The positive attitude thing was way off base today.

"I was available." Lacey's dress had a halter neckline that plunged just a tad too low to be respectable and an inappropriately short skirt to reveal her long, tanned legs. Clearly good old Jacob was a leg man. Add that to the list of things I wish I could un-know. "I am happy to help."

"Well, thanks for stepping up." The words tasted bitter, and I spat them out quickly. Maybe at another time, when I hadn't just discovered a dead man and then been grilled like a halibut by the police, I might have offered more sincere-sounding gratitude. But I was doing my very best to pretend Jacob and Lacey did not exist, and having her in my pasta shop put a damper on that bright idea. Too bad Jones couldn't have stayed here, and I could have gone home to Clayton, even if Lizzy was with him. Lizzy trumped Lacey any day of the week and twice when I'd stumbled on a stiff.

But no, I had a business to run, and the personal stuff had to get drop-kicked at the door. Pasting what I hoped looked like a sincere smile on my puss, I made the rounds and greeted all the diners seated at the various tables. Some were locals wanting to hobnob with celebrities or just coming in to take a break from the oppressive heat and let someone else do the cooking. Others were clearly strangers who were chowing down on lasagna, stuffed shells, and one of my newer concoctions dubbed Stuff. I welcomed them all and asked how they were enjoying the food. Once or twice I heard the whispered words "Death Chef," but I didn't let it get to me. After ensuring that the room was well in hand, I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen and stopped dead.

There was no sign of Pops or Aunt Cecily, but Jacob-freaking-Griffin stood at the counter with Kaylee.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered.

He looked up from the onion he was butchering. "Just lending a hand."

"Well, don't." My tone was sharper than I'd intended. He flinched but didn't set the knife aside and leave.

"Andy," Kaylee began, but I ignored her.

My gaze was all for Jacob. "You should go. We've got it covered now, thanks."

He stared at me for a minute, his eyes narrowing as if he were weighing something. Appearing to come to a decision, he shook his head. "Whether you want to admit it or not, you're in over your head here. Your aunt and grandfather left, and there's no way you and Kaylee can handle this volume alone."

"What do you know about running a restaurant?" I snapped.

"Plenty. I own three of them in Atlanta," he shot back.

That was news to me. I blinked at him, unsure of what to say.

He pushed his advantage. "An operation this size needs a general manager, and you have zero systems in place. You may be a talented chef, but your day-to-day operations are a disaster. I can help you with that, if you'll let me."

"This is a family business." I ground out. Had Pops left in an enraged huff when he'd laid eyes on my father? My father—holy macaroni, that was weird to even think.

"I'm family," Jacob said quietly. "Whether you want to admit it or not."

He was right. I did need help, though the Buckland side of me balked at the idea of copping to it.

Instead, my gaze fixed on the haphazard pile of onions. "Well, you may know business, but your knife skills are horrific. If you want to stay, you'll work out front clearing tables and restocking the pasta dishes." There, the gauntlet was thrown down. Surely a man who owned three (
three!
)
restaurants would balk at being demoted to busboy.

But he simply muttered, "Yes, Chef." And then he pushed his way out into the other room.

Letting out a relieved sigh, I took stock of the kitchen. There was a tray of stuffed shells in the oven but no more cooked pasta. "Kaylee, grab some of the pasta we made yesterday from the walk-in. We need to stay ahead of this crowd as much as possible."

She hesitated, but I turned away, forming a mental to-do list. This kitchen was my home away from home, and having my father in my space was unsettling. I filled a pot with water and salted it heavily. First vermicelli, then rotini.

Kaylee returned with the pasta. "Are you mad at me?"

A watched pot never boils, but I wasn't ready to look at her, so I turned toward the mess of onions instead. "You knew I didn't want them here, especially not him. Why did you invite them after I specifically told you not to?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But Aunt Cecily seemed so tired, and I didn't know who else to call."

My lids closed, and I set the knife aside. I felt like such a bully for coming down on her when she'd only been trying to help. I wasn't training a hopeful chef—she was my daughter, and she'd showed up to give me a hand, and I gave her guff over it. Tears stung my eyes, but I blamed the mishandled root vegetable. "Okay, it's not your fault. I'm sorry I was upset. I know you did your best. Thank you for looking out for Aunt Cecily. Do me a favor, and give her a call, make sure she's all right? And when you get back I'll have the pasta machine out, we're going to have to make more." A great big monstrous pile of more. I'd have to check my inventory and make sure I had plenty of flour and salt on hand. Plenty of everything actually.

I'd expected her to disappear to the office, but Kaylee wrapped her arms around me instead. Although there were thirty things that should have been done already, I took the time to hug her back and whisper, "Love you, kid."

"I know." She sniffled, and it really wasn't the onions that time. Reluctantly I let her go, but she paused in the door. "Oh, when will I get to meet my baby brother?"

A laugh escaped. "I should have known better than to try to keep a secret in this town. Sorry I didn't tell you, but I just found out myself. He's so freaking cute though, looks like a mini Jones. You're gonna love him."

"How is Jones holding up?" she asked. "That had to be a wicked huge shock."

"Better make that phone call," I replied instead of answering her question, mostly because I didn't know
how
to answer. "I need all the help I can get."

She nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Jacob came in loaded down with a bin of dishes. He stacked them in the dishwasher, filled it with soap, started the thing, then retrieved my pasta maker from the high shelf that I needed a step stool to reach. He set it down on the counter and made his way back into the main room, all without uttering a word.