Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) (23 page)

"
And never look back." My coffee had gone cold. I rose and prepared to dump it out. "It was the right choice, for me and for Kaylee especially. Hell, I didn't have a clue how to be a parent, not after the example I was given. I wanted my little girl to have a happily ever after, and with a sixteen-year-old mother, that wasn't in the cards."

"
You made the right choice," Jones said. "The difficult choice, but the right one."

I thought about his unusual upbringing, a party girl mom, a father he barely knew. I almost slipped and asked him if he thought he would have been better off if his mother had given him up for adoption, but
I reined in the question. He wasn't supposed to know that I knew. What a mess, and I wasn't referring only to the clutter of the breakfast dishes heaped in the sink. I attacked them, grateful to have something to do with my hands. "I know. But sometimes I wonder, what if it had all been different, you know?"

Jones got up and turned me to face him.
"I do."

His lips pressed against mine
, and I melted into him, opened to him. My hands were wet from the tap water, but he didn't seem to care. We were hungry for each other, starving for one more taste of the delicacy we'd sampled together before, eager for another sensual feast.

There was a loud crash from the root cellar.

We parted, both out of breath, and turned to look at the door off the kitchen.

"
It might be the dog," I murmured even as I heard Roofus's rumbling snore coming from the living room.

"
I'd better check, just to be safe. Do you have a flashlight?"

I shuffled through one of several junk drawers until I finally came up with a flashlight, sans batteries.
"Shoot, it'll take me twice as long to find working C cells to fit this," I grumbled and dove back into the drawer.

Meanwhile, Jones had opened the door to the root cellar.

"Malcolm," I hissed, my heart thundering in my ears. I didn't want him to go down there, to the root cellar that smelled of mildew. Not when we'd already found a random pool of blood that morning and there was a killer running around town. "Wait!"

He glanced at me over his shoulder.
"Take your phone and go outside. Call the police if I'm not back out in five minutes."

I swallowed, but forced myself to follow him. This was my family
's house, my mess, and he'd already been hurt once this week. "We'll go together."

Pasta with Zucchini and Summer Squash

What you'll need:

1 lb your favorite pasta, cooked and drained

1 red onion sliced thin

2 zucchini, halved and sliced thin

1 yellow summer squash, halved and sliced thin

1 tablespoon dried basil

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in pan
. Add veggies and cook until tender. Spice with basil, and toss with hot pasta.

**Andy's note: This recipe is the exception to the fresh herbs rule. For some reason it doesn't taste the same with fresh basil as with the dried spice. Go figure. Add some cubed chicken for protein and a way to stretch out the meal when company stops by unexpectedly.

Jones cast me a warning look but was already halfway down the cellar stairs and didn't argue. Most houses in the South aren't constructed with full size basements, but Pops had dug a root cellar to the side of the kitchen for Nana's canning. The door opened into the overgrown garden. Last I'd checked, the door had been padlocked, but that was months ago.

The stench of mildew
and dust filled my nostrils as we crept through the dim space.

The cellar didn
't have any windows, so I used my cell phone to cast a little light. Dust had gathered on top of Nana's canning equipment, mason jars, and giant pots which stood to the side of the battered old butcher block, forlornly waiting to be put to use. Cobwebs gathered in the corners. The door to the garden was closed tight, which ruled out the possibility of a non-human intruder, since raccoons didn't typically lock up behind themselves.

"
Do you see anything?" I hissed at Jones. With one hand pressed to his back, the feel of him was warm and reassuring, but because he sported his typical black I could barely make out his shape in the shadows.

"
Andy?" That wasn't Jones's voice I heard—the pitch was too high. Definitely feminine and familiar.

I let out a sigh of relief.
"Mimi? Is that you?"

"
Yes," her voice was soft, barely a whisper. She sounded small and frightened, nothing like the energetic young woman I'd met months ago.

"
I was so worried about you. What are you doing here?"

My eyes had taken their sweet time adjusting to the cellar, but finally I could make out a small shape huddled in the far corner, behind the canning table on an old camp bed. I moved closer, hoping I wouldn
't find a gaping wound in her side. "Are you all right?"

She squinted past me.
"Who's with you?"

"
Malcolm Jones. You can trust him." The words fell out automatically, and I didn't stop to consider what they meant in the grand scheme of things.

He crouched by my side and addressed Mimi.
"Are you injured?"

Her eyes were huge in her thin face. It may have only been the weak light
, but she looked unnaturally pale. "No, I'm okay."

That was still up for debate.
"May I check your pulse?"

She waved him off.
"I'm fine. Really."

"
What are you doing down here?" For the first time, I took in her set up. A small battery powered lantern sat beside the camp bed. Stacks of prepackaged food and bottles of water were lined up neatly. Judging by the smell emanating from the five gallon paint bucket, she'd been using it as a makeshift toilet. "Have you been
living
down here?"

She nodded
, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go."

Jeez-a-lou
. "Well, come on upstairs. We can definitely do better than this."

She shook her head, her manner almost frantic,
"What if someone sees me?"

"
No one's here except us. The drapes are all drawn in front."

She worried her lower lip.
"What about your grandfather?"

"
Pops won't mind." I didn't mention she couldn't hide in the Grove Street house forever, regardless of where she slept. Mimi was a person of interest in Chef Farnsworth's murder. Sooner or later she'd have to talk to the police.

Eventually, we coaxed Mimi up the stairs. She squinted at the light from the kitchen. Though her clothes were grubby and wrinkled, her skin and hair appeared relatively clean.
"How long have you been down there?"

"
Since it happened. I came up here when the house was empty to shower and get food. I promise I will pay you back."

"
Oh, honey, don't worry about it. Come on—I'll find you something to wear. Are you hungry?"

"
I could eat," she said in a small voice.

Jones met my gaze over the top of Mimi
's head. So, she hadn't been the one breaking into the houses that were up for sale. Maybe it really had been teenagers.

I led her to the bathroom and set her up with fresh towels and clean clothes.

"I promise to clean up everything," she said again, as though fearing I'd toss her to the wolves if she didn't.

"
I'm more worried about you than any mess in an abandoned room. Take your time. If you've been showering here you know the hot water heater is temperamental. I'll fix you some food, and we'll talk after you get out, okay?"

She nodded
, and I saw a gleam in her frightened eyes. "Thank you, Andy."

I returned to the kitchen and to Jones.
"Looks like my theory was wrong. Judging by the look of the place, she's been literally under my nose the entire time."

"
I still want to look her over, to make sure she doesn't need medical care."

"
Even if she does, I doubt she'd go to a doctor, but I'll wear her down." I checked the continents of the freezer and retrieved a tray of stuffed shells and a small container of marinara. Bless Aunt Cecily's compulsive cooking. "The poor thing is terrified."

"
Do you think she saw the murder?" Jones asked.

"
What else could make a young woman live in a stranger's spider-infested root cellar?"

"
I don't know. But I have a feeling she'll be more willing to open up to you if I'm not around. That is, as long as you feel safe with her."

"
If she wanted to hurt me she would have done it days ago while I was sleeping," I pointed out. I popped the sauce into the microwave and preheated the oven. "Will you stay for lunch at least?"

He shook his head.
"Wish I could, but I'm supposed to meet with Lizzy regarding the photography session for the wedding. Speaking of which, would you like to go with me?"

I fumbled the tray of shells.
"You want me to be your date to Lizzy and Kyle's wedding?"

His blue eyes were sincere and guileless.
"That's right. After all, half the town has probably heard that we intend to move in together."

"
That's different. It was just our cover story. Going to the wedding is a statement, a very public statement."

One dark eyebrow went up.
"Is it different because the story is pretend?"

Drat him for reading my insecurities like they came with
CliffsNotes and a free Pez dispenser. I was unsure, not just about showing up to watch the father of my daughter marry another woman but about appearing in public on Jones's arm. That was like saying we were officially together and the gossips would descend on us like buzzards on fresh road kill. Was I ready for that?

Jones shifted, visibly unsettled by my lack of response.
"I understand the situation is a little…unusual. If you don't think you can handle it, I understand."

I narrowed my eyes at him.
"That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."

He shrugged.
"Take it as you will."

Oh yeah, it was definitely a challenge. He chucked me under the chin, feathered one more soft kiss on my mouth
, and departed.

A slow grin spread over my face. Even though he unsettled me to my marrow
. I hated to see him leave.

And loved to watch him walk away.

*
* *

Mimi ate two plates of stuffed shells and the side salad I made her. "I didn't realize how hungry I was," she said when she'd finished.

"
When was the last time you ate real food?" I asked her. She seemed both thinner and paler than she had the last time I'd seen her, but holing up in a basement would do that to a person.

"
Before…" she shivered, and her eyes darted down.

"
Mimi," I said. "I know it's upsetting, but you need to talk about it. What happened the night Chef Farnsworth died?"

She shook her head.
"I don't know."

"
Tell me what you do know," I prompted.

She took a deep breath.
"He sent me out to the van to retrieve the pressed and sugared violets to decorate the cake, but I couldn't find them. I went back to the kitchen to ask him where he stored them and heard him arguing with someone."

"
Who? Me?" I did remember sparring with him briefly.

But Mimi shook her head.
"No, this was after you went out with your dishes. I didn't see her, and I stayed out of sight when I heard them."

"
What were they fighting about? The cake?" God knew Lizzy was a bitter pill to swallow when she didn't get her way.

Another head shake.
"No. About me."

"
You?" I frowned. "Are you sure?"

"
She said, 'I'm going to have your little slut deported.' Since my temporary visa has almost expired, I knew she meant me." A tear rolled down her cheek.

Your little slut
. An idea snuck into my head at the words like a thief in the night. Just like the Grinch, it was a horrible, awful idea, and it wouldn't go away. "Mimi, were you and Zoltan involved sexually?"

She couldn
't meet my eyes, but her solemn nod told me everything. "It was part of my job, he'd said."