Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé by Jennifer L. Hart Page A
Authors: Jennifer L. Hart
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rearview mirror and then frowned. "I think we're being followed."
When someone announces that you are being followed, the natural impulse is to turn around and see who or what is doing the following. I checked the urge and asked her, "What kind of car is it?"
"I'm not a car person," she griped.
I didn't bother to stop my eye roll. "What color is it? Is it an SUV or sedan?"
"It looks like Jones's car," she said. "All big and dark."
An SUV then. "Can you see the driver?"
"The windows are tinted." Lizzy turned off onto Main Street. "What should I do?"
I thought about it for a second. "Drop me off at the Bowtie Angel."
"What will that do?" She braked for an upcoming turn.
"We'll see if they follow you or me. If they stick with you, drive right to the sheriff's office and make like you were heading to visit Kyle anyway. If they park, circle the block and try to get the license plate. Then call Kyle and tell him what's going on. He'll find out who it is."
She gave me a look of grudging respect. "You're kinda good at this."
I shrugged. "I've picked up a few things from your brother."
Lizzy pulled up in front of the Bowtie Angel. I shivered as a gust of wind hit me, yanking the door out of my grip. I'd be so glad when this damn cold finally let up. My entire body was sore. I felt like a partially frozen piece of meat, as though I could never get warm all the way through.
After hanging up my coat in the kitchen, I peered out the window beside the back door. Lizzy pulled back into traffic—then Mrs. Jaeger's gold Lexus went by. No sign of an SUV.
I pulled the business card Lizzy had given me earlier from my back pocket, wondering why she always seemed to have one to hand out. It was a plain white card with her name and number etched in silver calligraphy. There was no job title, since being a buttinsky wasn't an actual profession. Maybe they were like social cards. I'd have to ask Jones.
Then I winced and remembered I wasn't in any position to ask Jones anything. Shoot, when was that going to sink in? He'd become such an ingrained part of my life that coming to terms with never seeing him again was getting harder, not easier. If Rochelle discovered that Mr. Tillman was indeed behind the arsons, would Jones leave town? What if I never saw him again?
"Eye on the prize, Andy," I muttered to myself. Lizzy. I had to text Lizzy and let her know the SUV had stayed with me. My fingers were stiff, aching from the cold, and I dropped the phone. It slid under the workstation. "Frick."
"Is everything all right, Andy?" Mimi pushed her way in from the front room. We'd delayed opening again because of the funerals, but since Mimi lived over the pasta shop, she'd offered to get things going. The air was spiced with tomatoes, garlic, and oregano.
"Yeah, just dropped my stupid cell."
She gave me a puzzled look. "You sure? You look a little pale."
I pasted on a bright smile. "Just thinking about the new menu. Are you looking forward to getting back to pastries again?"
Mimi grinned. "I can't wait. When are we going to launch it?"
Changing up a long-standing menu wasn't something that happened overnight. There were supply issues, cook-time issues, freezer-space issues. Some current menu items had to be chopped or changed, and I was having trouble picking which ones to cull. They were all classics, dishes Aunt Cecily and my grandmother had implemented with love and care over decades. Deciding what to leave behind was like Sophie's Choice , the pasta edition.
Essentially we were launching a new restaurant at the same time as we tried to run the old one. Tough stuff, but if I was going to compete with Lacey L'Amour across the freaking street, I had to make some damn decisions already.
"I'm thinking Valentine's Day. You up for that?"
Mimi nodded. "Of course. Oh, and Malcolm Jones called."
I blinked. "Today? He called today?"
She nodded. "This morning. Did you hurt your hands?"
I'd been distracted, wondering why Jones would have
When someone announces that you are being followed, the natural impulse is to turn around and see who or what is doing the following. I checked the urge and asked her, "What kind of car is it?"
"I'm not a car person," she griped.
I didn't bother to stop my eye roll. "What color is it? Is it an SUV or sedan?"
"It looks like Jones's car," she said. "All big and dark."
An SUV then. "Can you see the driver?"
"The windows are tinted." Lizzy turned off onto Main Street. "What should I do?"
I thought about it for a second. "Drop me off at the Bowtie Angel."
"What will that do?" She braked for an upcoming turn.
"We'll see if they follow you or me. If they stick with you, drive right to the sheriff's office and make like you were heading to visit Kyle anyway. If they park, circle the block and try to get the license plate. Then call Kyle and tell him what's going on. He'll find out who it is."
She gave me a look of grudging respect. "You're kinda good at this."
I shrugged. "I've picked up a few things from your brother."
Lizzy pulled up in front of the Bowtie Angel. I shivered as a gust of wind hit me, yanking the door out of my grip. I'd be so glad when this damn cold finally let up. My entire body was sore. I felt like a partially frozen piece of meat, as though I could never get warm all the way through.
After hanging up my coat in the kitchen, I peered out the window beside the back door. Lizzy pulled back into traffic—then Mrs. Jaeger's gold Lexus went by. No sign of an SUV.
I pulled the business card Lizzy had given me earlier from my back pocket, wondering why she always seemed to have one to hand out. It was a plain white card with her name and number etched in silver calligraphy. There was no job title, since being a buttinsky wasn't an actual profession. Maybe they were like social cards. I'd have to ask Jones.
Then I winced and remembered I wasn't in any position to ask Jones anything. Shoot, when was that going to sink in? He'd become such an ingrained part of my life that coming to terms with never seeing him again was getting harder, not easier. If Rochelle discovered that Mr. Tillman was indeed behind the arsons, would Jones leave town? What if I never saw him again?
"Eye on the prize, Andy," I muttered to myself. Lizzy. I had to text Lizzy and let her know the SUV had stayed with me. My fingers were stiff, aching from the cold, and I dropped the phone. It slid under the workstation. "Frick."
"Is everything all right, Andy?" Mimi pushed her way in from the front room. We'd delayed opening again because of the funerals, but since Mimi lived over the pasta shop, she'd offered to get things going. The air was spiced with tomatoes, garlic, and oregano.
"Yeah, just dropped my stupid cell."
She gave me a puzzled look. "You sure? You look a little pale."
I pasted on a bright smile. "Just thinking about the new menu. Are you looking forward to getting back to pastries again?"
Mimi grinned. "I can't wait. When are we going to launch it?"
Changing up a long-standing menu wasn't something that happened overnight. There were supply issues, cook-time issues, freezer-space issues. Some current menu items had to be chopped or changed, and I was having trouble picking which ones to cull. They were all classics, dishes Aunt Cecily and my grandmother had implemented with love and care over decades. Deciding what to leave behind was like Sophie's Choice , the pasta edition.
Essentially we were launching a new restaurant at the same time as we tried to run the old one. Tough stuff, but if I was going to compete with Lacey L'Amour across the freaking street, I had to make some damn decisions already.
"I'm thinking Valentine's Day. You up for that?"
Mimi nodded. "Of course. Oh, and Malcolm Jones called."
I blinked. "Today? He called today?"
She nodded. "This morning. Did you hurt your hands?"
I'd been distracted, wondering why Jones would have
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