Murder Al Fresco

By Jennifer L. Hart

From bestselling cozy mystery author Jennifer L. Hart comes the deliciously deadly conclusion to her Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries...

Redemption never tasted so sweet....
Andy Buckland is no stranger to TV. The worst moment of her career happened when a live studio audience got food poisoning from one of her dishes. But when the pasta guru is given a slot in the televised cooking competition Diced Showdown, she sees her chance at redemption. In exchange for the shot at vindication Andy and her fiancé, Malcolm Jones, are tasked to find the identity of a mysterious blogger who has a nasty habit of revealing detrimental secrets of the show’s top celebrity chefs. A little undercover sleuthing is one thing, but when her hometown is taken over by the show’s production and one of the judges winds up dead, Andy’s afraid she’s bitten off more than she can chew, and she might just choke on a dish best served cold.
**Recipes included!**

Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries:
Murder Al Dente – book #1
Murder À La Flambé– book #2
Murder Al Fresco – book #3
Christmas Al Dente – holiday short story

What critics are saying about Jennifer L. Hart's books:

"A must read for all people who love a good mystery and a jolly good laugh...laugh out loud funny."
~ Black Orchid, Cocktail Reviews

"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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943587315

Jennifer L. Hart

Jennifer L Hart knows that surviving as military spouse takes persistence, comfort food and a stellar sense of humor. Her books often focus on people who've lived the military lifestyle and zany antics of neurotic heroines, who like to eat, drink and have fun. Her works include the Misadventures of the Laundry Hag mystery series, the Damaged Goods mystery series and Murder Al Dente, coming soon from Gemma Halliday Presents.  

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

What's that smell? My fiancé, Malcolm Jones, paused in the doorway of his kitchen and wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste. God help me, in his cultured accent, seasoned with both New Zealand and Oxford, even that question was blood-boiling sexy.

That, my skeptical friend, is either the sweet smell of success or the acrid tang of defeat. Only time will tell. I replaced the lid on my latest concoction and stood on my tiptoes to give him a kiss.

He glanced at the stove, then the counter, which was littered with every kitchen implement he owned. Right now, it smells more like an old pair of knickers than anything. What the devil are you doing, Andrea?

It's for that culinary competition I told you about. Don't worry. I'll clean it up before you get back. Might have to have the place fumigated first—my dish really did smell rancid.

Jones shook his head. Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? You only sent in your application yesterday.

He was probably right. I'd just heard about the Diced Showdown the day before, but ever since, the thought of winning the competition had gnawed at me. I'd been publicly humiliated on television eighteen months ago when my live studio audience came down with food poisoning in the middle of my debut cooking show. The worst part was, I still wasn't sure how it had happened. Over a year later, the how didn't matter. What did matter was me getting back to where I'd been before the disaster, and the Showdown presented a ticket to redemption.

This is my shot, Malcolm. Being selected for the celebrity challenge will help clear my name and get me out from under the whole Death Chef pall once and for all. I was disgraced in public. I should be vindicated in public.

He brushed a stray lock of hair out of my eyes. I understand, and you know I support you, love. But I don't want you to be disappointed if things don't work out the way you intend. I don't want to see you get your hopes dashed.

I grinned up at him. Can't win if I don't play, right? This is me throwing my hat in the proverbial ring, climbing back on the proverbial saddle, and giving the naysayers the proverbial finger.

He laughed and then eyeballed the steaming pot as though it would eat him, instead of the other way around. I don't have to try that, do I?

Not unless I deem it edible. Part of the challenge was coming up with recipes to suit special dietary needs. I'd been experimenting with a unique vegetarian dish—hence the smell. There really wasn't much to be done to overcome the unique aroma of durian, and the odd-looking fruit really did smell like a moldy athletic sock that had slid under the washing machine and been left to rot. I think I reached a little too far outside my comfort zone on this one. Maybe I should scrap the global cook idea and set my sights a little closer to Italy.

A fine idea. I'm glad its summer and we can open the windows. Jones took the bubbling pot of mangled fruit out to the trash, and I filled the sink with soapy water then glanced at the clock. Shoot, the time had gotten away from me. I dried my hands, pocketed my cell phone, and plucked my car keys off the little dish in the foyer.

Tell me again why you aren't cooking in your own kitchen at the pasta shop? Jones asked as he held the door for me.

I opened the door to my baby, aka Mustang Sally, and rolled my eyes at him. We've been over this, Malcolm. I don't want Pops and Aunt Cecily to know anything's up until it's definite I'll be on the show. No sense getting them all riled up if I don't even make the cut.

My own expectations I could handle, but my grandfather's and my great aunt's were another matter. Then there was my long lost yet recently found biological daughter and her father, the sheriff. Not to mention my BFF Donna Muller and her family, plus various friends, and pretty much the entire population of Beaverton, NC. The town had been blessedly quiet for six blissful months, and I wasn't about to get them all stirred up about my possible return to celebrity status again.

It was a glorious July day with bees buzzing in the herb garden and sun warm enough to seep into my bones without cooking the flesh right off them. The arm I'd badly broken last winter ached on occasion, but today it felt good as new.

I climbed behind the wheel of my mustang—I was driving since we needed to get to the airport ASAP, and Jones, despite his many attributes, meandered like a little old lady on the way to bingo. He set his small duffel on the backseat, his camera bag on his lap, and then buckled up.

I can't believe I'm going to miss your artistic debut, I said and pulled out of the driveway. I feel like a crummy girlfriend. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?

Jones slid opaque sunglasses over his gorgeous blue eyes. First of all, you're my fiancée, not my girlfriend. Of course I want you to come with me, but I know you can't get away right now. And it's not like it's my own show. It's a joint one with a bunch of other no-name artists hosted by the Brooklyn gallery where I used to work. If I'm lucky, my sales will cover the airfare.

"People are going to buy your photographs from a gallery. How could the man not make a huge deal out of this? He'd been so nonchalant when he'd received the call, had brushed it off like he hadn't been working his oh-so-sexy backside off to get to this point in his career. If it were me, I'd be shouting from the roof of the pasta shop and telling the whole town to choke on it."

I doubt that would help your bottom line, he said dryly.

I waved him off. Nah. Just another day in Beaverton.

A few moments later we pulled up at the neighboring estate to pick up Jones's half-sister and my former archenemy, Lizzy Tillman. She'd been my nemesis in high school, but Lizzy and I had formed a tentative truce since I'd started dating Jones. I'd even been ready to hand her over to my ex, Kyle, with best wishes. For some unknown reason, the pair had broken up a few months back, though neither of them seemed happy about the situation.

Lizzy was sitting on the steps, her pink suitcase propped on her lap, but she jumped up when we pulled up. She had oblong-shaped sunglass with huge, white frames that engulfed her elfin face. Her hair was tied back with a pink-and-white polka dot scarf. She looked like a retro model going out incognito to avoid the paparazzi. Jones got out to hug her and dealt with her luggage while she climbed into the backseat.

How's it hanging? I asked her.

She lowered her sunglass enough to display her eye roll and answered primly, Just fine, thank you very much. And how are you, Andy?

Can't complain. Well I could, but I wasn't going to. It was part of my whole positive attitude makeover. I'd read somewhere that to attract positive things to you, you needed to be positive, and I had decided to give it a go.

Once everybody was settled, I maneuvered the car out to the main highway that led to the nearest airport, in Charlotte. So, Lizzy, do me a solid, and make sure that Jones actually goes to the meeting with Rochelle's lawyer.

Lizzy looked at me over the tops of her glasses. What meeting?

Andrea, his tone held a note of warning, which Lizzy and I both ignored.

Rochelle's lawyer has been calling him like three times a day, and he's been too damn stubborn to take the call. Rochelle was his recently deceased ex and a very long story.

So Andrea took it upon herself and called on my behalf and set up a meeting. His tone left no doubt how he'd felt about my butting in.

You need closure, I insisted.

Since when did you become a monument to mental health? In the rearview mirror, Lizzy's reflection quirked a brow.

I made a faux ringing sound. "Brrriiiinnng. Hello, Pot? This is Kettle, and I hate to break it to you, but you're black."

Ladies, please. Jones sounded a trifle impatient. I promised I would go and hear the man out, but that's all. Agreed?

Whatever you want, I said even as I caught Lizzy's eye in the rearview as she peered over her ridiculous sunglasses at the two of us.

He'll go, she mouthed silently.

Lizzy was definitely a better ally than enemy, and I had to give her props for playing dirty when the situation called for it.

We chatted about New York, a city I loved to visit for the food and energy. I made Jones promise to indulge on my behalf and then call me every night to describe slowly and in vivid detail exactly what he ate and how it tasted—our version of phone sex. Lizzy was more of a Fifth Avenue shopper and Jones the designated cultural connoisseur. If not for having no one to cover the pasta shop in my absence, I would have bought a ticket to hang out with them for the weekend in, well, a New York minute. Since my sous chef, and lone employee, was also taking a holiday over the weekend to visit her long-distance beaux, I had to hold down the fort.

I'll miss you, I said as I hugged Jones at the airport drop off. "You better not have too much fun without me."

Not even in the realm of possibility, he assured me.

I silently promised myself that after we were married we'd do a romantic weekend in the Big Apple. You'll have a good time with your sister. And your show will be a mad success—I know it.

One of the parking goons was giving us the hairy eyeball, so I settled for one last squeeze and scuttled back behind the wheel. Jones waved once more and escorted Lizzy through the revolving door, and I shifted, suddenly uneasy.

This was the first time Jones had left Beaverton without me since we'd met the previous year. Would I be able to endure the town without him?

Don't be an idiot, I told my reflection. To distract myself, I clicked on the radio and searched for some decent driving tunes. It was a beautiful day, traffic was light, and I cruised along thinking about the recipes I would try once I got home.

For some reason though, I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to change.

* * *

Ugh, I give up. I can't cook vegan. I threw down my wooden spoon in a huff. And I really don't want to eat it either.

Why are you even trying to? Kaylee asked me.

It was lull time at the Bowtie Angel, that mid-afternoon slump between late lunches and early dinner. In about an hour we'd be slammed with take-out orders until we closed for the night, but for now, all was quiet.

In spite of my earlier resolve to not get anyone's hopes up, I'd decided I needed someone to confide in about the opportunity. And sharing a secret with my biological daughter seemed right. Promise you won't tell anyone. Not your mom or Aunt Cecily or your friends?

She shook her head. Do I have to do the lame cross my heart thing?

I smirked. She was so my kid. Just give me your word, brat.

She laughed, the same way I did, whenever I called her a brat. Fine, I promise not to tell anyone.

I bit my lip then spilled the beans. I might have a shot at a television competition.

She made a high-pitched keening sound and jumped up off her stool. OMG, that's like so amazing, so you're gonna be on TV again? Will they come here? Will there be cameras everywhere? Oh, wow, this is so exciting!

It's not for sure yet. I patted the air in a classic simmer-down gesture, needing to unwind her before she burst a blood vessel. There's no guarantee they'll even pick me.

Oh, they totally will. Kaylee had complete confidence—the kind only a teenager could muster. I know you'll be picked. So what's the challenge?

I have to come up with a menu suited to special dietary needs. Some appetizers, some entrees, some desserts, but all with the same restrictions. Unfortunately… I glared at the pot of bubbling glop. I'm not used to cooking this way, and it shows.

Well, at least they can't smell it on TV. Kaylee drummed her fingers on the counter. Aunt Cecily might have some ideas.

I was already shaking my head. No way. Have you ever heard Aunt Cecily's take on special dietary needs? I lowered my voice and adopted her thick Sicilian accent. If God wants him dead by turning my good food to poison in his belly, who am I to stop Him? I shuddered. She's not exactly down with the sensitivity training.

Kaylee grimaced. Yeah, okay. I see your point.

Ignoring the mess on the stove, I plopped down onto the barstool and slid the family's recipe book closer for inspiration. I'm sure I could modify almost anything in here. The problem is that I don't know what direction to take it.

Well, if it's got pasta in it, I'm sure you can make it taste good. Kaylee slid off her barstool and removed her apron. I gotta jet. Dad's taking me to the movies tonight.

I smiled. Dad, huh?

She blushed and toed a crease in the linoleum. Yeah, well, it makes him like crazy happy. Emphasis on the crazy.

I laughed. Kyle can be a little high strung.

She tilted her head to the side, studying me. Somehow I just can't picture the two of you together. He's so happy, and you're…

I raised a brow, wondering how she'd finish that sentence. Donna had once told me I was like Aunt Cecily in training. The thought still sent a chill down my spine, hence the attempt at positivity.

She shrugged. Well, you're a better fit with Malcolm is all I'm saying.

You got that right, kid. I popped up and gave her a hug, still a novel experience. Having given her up for adoption when I was still a kid myself, it blew my mind that this incredible person had come from me.

Kaylee picked up her backpack, which I assumed doubled as her purse since school was out for the summer, but paused by the back door. Even, white teeth sank into her lower lip, and she hesitated.

Something on your mind, sweets? I prompted. After a rough start, we'd struck a balance in our relationship, and I tried not to pry, but I sensed she was testing the waters.

Speaking of daddy issues…

I blew out a breath. I know where you're going with this, kid. Let me save both of us the time. I don't know what to do about him.

The him in question was my biological father, Jacob Griffin, who had recently moved back into town. Much like Kaylee, I was having a hard time adjusting to the fact that a person I'd never met wanted to be a part of my life. Truth be told, my daughter was handling the family upheaval better than I did.

Kaylee picked at her nail polish, not meeting my eyes—a sure sign of guilt. I ran into him at the gas station the other day. He and Lacey invited Kyle and me to dinner tomorrow night, and I sort of told him you'd come too.

Of course I didn't want to go to Jacob's house. The man had abandoned me to my mother's dubious care when I was just an infant. Unlike Kaylee, who'd been adopted by two loving parents, I'd been left with one mentally unstable guardian who had committed suicide when I was fifteen, essentially orphaning me. I shuddered to think what I would have been without Nana, Pops, and Aunt Cecily to raise me. As if that weren't bad enough, he'd gone and hooked up with my culinary rival, the French tart Lacey L'Amour. Dinner with the two of them was on par with having a root canal sans Novocain.

Your face is all squinty and scrunched up, Kaylee said. Are you having a stroke or something?

I blew out a breath. I was trying to find a way to gracefully bow out. Grace isn't my strong suit.

Please will you come? They have a really nice house and an in-ground pool and everything. We could go swimming. We never do anything together but cook.

Oh, slather on the guilt why don't you? I grumbled.

She grinned. Just think about it. With Jones out of town, you won't have anything to do at night.

I do stuff. I put my hands on my hips and lifted my chin.

Kaylee raised a brow. Like what?

Grown-up stuff. I smirked. I'll tell you when you're older.

Oh, ew. She wrinkled her nose. That's okay, I don't wanna know.

The landline rang, and I snapped a dishtowel at her as I moved to answer. Get going, brat. I'll see you tomorrow.

Kaylee waved, and I turned my attention to the phone. Good afternoon, Bowtie Angel. This is Andy.

Andy, The male voice on the other end of the line greeted me in a hearty baritone. It's Stu Fogerty.

Hey, Stu, I said cautiously. Stewart Fogerty had been a mentor of sorts when I'd first graduated from the CIA. He'd been the head chef in the restaurant where I'd first landed a job. Stu was a real hard-ass chef to work under but overall a pretty decent guy. After a few months he'd moved out of the kitchen and onto the Iron Chef circuit. He hadn't contacted me since my televised debacle though, so hearing his voice was unexpected. What can I do for you?

"It's what I can do for you. I'm one of the producers for Diced, and I was nominated to give you the news. Congratulations, you've been selected to participate in the Diced Showdown!"

For a second I forgot how to breathe. Really?

Of course! You trained under the best. And you're notorious, which doesn't hurt your case. He laughed.

But I just sent my application in yesterday. I thought it would take weeks to even hear anything. I leaned against the counter for support. Man, that positive attitude thing worked quick!

The network wanted to bump up the timeline since ratings always fall off during the summer months. Problem with that is we need a new venue that can match our dates. Do you think your town would be willing to host the event?

I blinked. You want to hold the competition in Beaverton? Why? It wasn't like we were a huge tourist draw, too far from the coast or the mountains to really be anything more than an out-of-the-way stop.

I told you—we need a venue. Small, quaint towns film exceptionally well and drive better ratings than a studio set. And if we hold it there, you'll have the home-court advantage. So do you think you can help me make this happen?

The chamber of commerce would be thrilled with the publicity. I had no doubt about it. And Beaverton did come off as particularly picturesque in the summer. Still, I hesitated, sensing something wasn't on the up and up. Pops had a saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Good for the town, good for my career—it would be idiotic not to jump at the chance.

Call my cynical but about Stu's offer seemed a little too good to be true. What aren't you telling me?

He sighed. I never could get anything past you. I told them that. All right, but I want your word that this is going to stay between the two of us and that PI boyfriend of yours.

I frowned. Jones? What does he have to do with anything?

Everything. The other producers and I want to hire him. Someone on our staff is leaking celebrity chef gossip to an online blogger who has it in for us.

I shrugged. That's not unusual. There are always rumors surrounding anyone even mildly famous.

Yeah, but this is real nasty stuff about personal medical information and relationships. The latest says that Chad Tobey hits his wife and his seventeen-year-old son. That's the kind of garbage publicity that could ruin a career.

Chad Tobey was a regular Diced judge and grill master from Texas. I'd never met him in person, though, I'd watched the show enough that I felt I had a personal connection. The man totally knew how to treat a side of beef.

Is he? I bristled, not willing to become part of covering up domestic abuse.

"No. They're going through a nasty divorce, and