Murder Al Fresco (20 page)

I rose to meet him while the officer undid his handcuffs and then shut us in together. We embraced, and I leaned against him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he whispered into my hair. "But I missed you last night."

"I missed you too."

We both sat down, but I continued to clutch his hands in mine. "I've been trying to get ahold of Rochelle's estate attorney so that I can contact Clayton's grandparents. You don't happen to have their number, do you?"

"It's in my phone's memory." He grimaced. "The FBI should have it by now. How's Clayton? I'm glad you didn't bring him here, but I would have liked to see him."

My mouth dropped open. "No one told you?"

"Told me what?"

I groaned. "CPS took him and placed him in foster care until his legal guardians can claim him."

Jones closed his eyes and made a defeated sound. "Oh God, I've ruined everything."

"I'm going to see him later," I told him quickly. "And I want your permission to legally adopt him."

"What?" Jones blinked.

"Mr. White told me that if we start the paperwork and they approve the home visit, they could grant me temporary custody, especially if his grandparents aren't available. The whole town is willing to grant me a character reference, even if I am the Death Chef. I just want to make sure you're okay with it."

His hands shook as he reached for me. "Okay with it? Andrea,
of course
I am."

"This isn't just a temporary fix," I warned him. "If I do this, I'm keeping him."

He raised my knuckles to his lips. "So long as you agree to keep me too."

I grinned, utterly relieved. "That can be arranged." Apparently being incarcerated had done wonders for his priorities.

"Any idea who reported Clayton as being kidnapped?" I raised a brow.

Jones shook his head. "Not a clue."

I glanced over to where Mr. White was softly snoring then back to my fiancé. "Why did you pretend to be the sheriff with Mrs. Tobey?" And more importantly, why hadn't he told me?

He grimaced. "I didn't exactly tell her I was the sheriff. That would be fraud."

I put the pieces together. "But you went to see her wearing the uniform and let her think you were the sheriff?"

"It was a Halloween costume. I went during Clay's nap."

"Why the ruse? You could have just told her you were investigating her husband's death." Something I'd learned about Jones, he took subterfuge to a whole new level. Though he rarely lied, he was a master at twisting the truth to make it dance to his tune.

"She's cagey, wouldn't talk with just anyone, not after that blogger dragged her name through the mud."

"Did you find out anything useful?" I didn't hold out too much hope, since he would have mentioned it to me if he had.

As expected, Jones shook his head. "She's a bit of a pill and not the brightest bulb in the strand, but her alibi is airtight. She was hosting a luncheon in Texas at the time of death. There are no phone calls to anyone in North Carolina on either her home or cell. The son, though, he's another matter. He has a secret. I'm convinced of it, but he wouldn't say anything in front of her. And she watched him like a hawk. I thought if we exposed the blogger she would relax, and then we could get to him. Did you see him last night?"

Miffed that once again he'd known more than he had told me, I folded my arms over my chest. "The son wasn't there when we went last night, not that she let us into the room."

"Us?" Jones asked.

Crap, I hadn't meant to tell him that part. "Um, Rodrigo and Donna and Mimi and me. We went to offer condolences. At least, that's what we told her."

Jones's eyes narrowed to blue slits. "Why was Rodrigo part of this ensemble cast?"

"I was setting him up—to see if he was the blogger. I figured if we took him on an adventure and I shared a few of my suspicions, if he is Fangirl#l, there would be no way he could resist reporting on it."

Satisfaction rolled through me as Jones blinked, clearly surprised. "Andrea, that is a remarkably well-thought-out scheme."

"Thank you." My smugness died away quickly. "I checked the blog when I got up, but so far, nothing."

"Be patient. This blogger is crafty and tends to choose her moment." He looked over at his sleeping attorney. "Is Lizzy out at least?"

"According to Mr. White, she's been released on bail. Because you don't have a permanent residence here, arranging yours is trickier. I told you we should buy a house."

We'd need to now, just to have enough room for Clayton. Donna had promised to scour the listings for me that morning.

Jones cast me a rueful smile. "I wish you wouldn't go to such lengths to be right."

"Knowing Lizzy, she's doing the same thing I've been doing all night, hitting redial for Rochelle's estate lawyer. Hopefully he will put us in touch with the grandparents, and we'll be able to get you out of here before the press conference this afternoon. I need you to dial that blogger's cell, if we haven't found him by then."

Jones's eyebrows went up. "You're going through with the Jacob reveal?"

I nodded. "This madness needs to end, even if my grandfather never speaks to me again."

"I'm so sorry, Andrea. For everything."

"It's as much my fault as it is yours. I never should have let Stu bully and bribe me into being a part of the show."

"So the
Diced
competition is still on?"

I nodded. "Starting tomorrow. That's why I'm sure the blogger will be hanging around town. Whoever it is has a vested interest in bringing down the show and anyone associated with it. Something Donna said to me last night resonated. We've been playing whack-a-mole."

Jones blinked. "What?"

Cultural breakdown yet again. "Remember that game we played at the fair last year, where you took the mallet and bopped the little fuzzy things, trying to keep them down?"

When he nodded, I continued. "Right, well that's what I've been doing all week, knocking out one problem only to have another pop up somewhere else. Much of it seems random, like you being charged with kidnapping and the pasta shop being vandalized, but it's all served the same purpose."

Jones nodded slowly. "To keep you distracted."

"Right. And why bother keeping me distracted unless there's something someone doesn't want me to do."

"You think it's the blogger protecting her identity?"

"I don't know. I wish I knew where Kyle was. I could really use his help."

Jones looked at the clock on the wall, trapped in a custom metal cage. "You should go get ready for the press conference." He appeared sad but was trying to hide it, not wanting to burden me with worry for him.

I squeezed his hands. "Hang in there."

"Not like I can go anywhere." His expression shifted. "Andrea, I—"

But I held up a hand, not wanting to hear another apology. "We'll fix it, all of it. I promise."

*   *   *

"Donna, what are we doing here?" I looked at the house on Grove Street, the Victorian where I'd grown up, that Pops and Aunt Cecily had sold last winter. "I thought you were going to show me a house?"

"I am," she said, smiling. "And I believe my exact words were 'the perfect house for you.'"

"I don't understand," I frowned, glancing at the pristine flower beds, the fresh coat of white paint on the front porch, the gleaming windows of the bump-out bay in the front room. "This house sold. Pops and Aunt Cecily used the money to buy their space in the senior citizen center."

"Right, but the new owner is moving. Technically the family has already moved, to Wilmington. He was going to hold onto it until the market turns around, but he just called me yesterday saying that the property manager I'd suggested isn't working out. I was going to advise him to rent, but if the right buyer came along…" She did a palms up.

"I can't afford this house," I whispered, even as a lump formed in my throat. I'd been imagining a little two-bedroom modular down by the lake. "Not with the fate of the pasta shop so up in the air."

"Just come in and take a look," Donna urged. "You told me yourself that no place has felt like home since you moved out of here last winter. Maybe there's a reason it hasn't and a reason this place is available. Don't think about the money, think about the possibilities."

"Oh, you're good," I whispered as she unlocked the front door. "But I know what you're doing."

She pushed open the door and indicated that I should go first. "What can I say? I'm motivated to have my best friend as a neighbor again."

Against my better judgment, I stepped over the threshold and into my childhood home. Memories assaulted me, and the first thing I noticed was the smell. Lemon floor wax instead of basil, garlic, and oregano. My mind took a minute to adjust to the house as it stood, as I kept imaging Pops' battered old armchair in the corner facing the rabbit-eared television set. There were several oil paintings in the hallway leading to the kitchen instead of the family photographs, and the banister had been replaced on the stairs.

Donna remained silent as I wandered into the kitchen. She gave me time to process the changes, and here there were many. A new, white dishwasher had been installed, and the fridge had been seriously upgraded, the cabinets freshly painted and stenciled with climbing grape leaves. The kitchen was the beating heart of any home, and the numerous changes only underscored the love I'd always experienced in this one.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, running my hands along the light soapstone countertops. "I had no idea they'd done all this."

"Come see the upstairs," she urged like a drug pusher smelling an easy mark.

The three large bedrooms were completely empty, showcasing the freshly stained wood trim and the opulent space. The two bathrooms still held cast-iron tubs, but one had been moved under the window, and a tiled-in shower with sliding glass doors stood in its old spot. The final effect was Old World meets modern convenience and suited the house perfectly.

I whistled low. This had not been a cheap remodel by any means.

"They also replaced the ancient water heater." Donna looked just like her twins when she bounced on her toes. "It's move-in ready. Tell me you wouldn't love to bring Jones and Clayton home here. You remember how much Jones enjoyed Christmas here."

I did, and if he wasn't currently incarcerated, he would probably be pushing me to take it. "I would, you know I would. But how much are they asking?"

She named a sum, much more reasonable than I thought, but still way off my mark. "Donna, I can't swing that."

"You know, you could move Pops and Aunt Cecily in downstairs. If you aren't paying for the A-frame anymore, you could get a halfway-decent mortgage rate. They could even help you out with the down payment, since they got that settlement from the senior citizen's center. We could have you all moved in by Labor Day weekend."

I checked the time on my cell phone. "Speaking of the A-frame, I need to get going if I want a chance to get everything prepared for that social worker."

"Don't worry, I'll lock up. Just think about it, okay?"

Think about asking my two aging relatives, who currently were not speaking to me, if they wanted to move back into our old house together. My friend had lost her mind.

But even as I drove I imagined turning the second largest bedroom into a nursery for Clayton, giving Kaylee the third room in case she wanted to stay with us, and transforming the old root cellar into a darkroom for Jones. And it would be nice to have a place for Pops and Aunt Cecily.

If I won the
Diced Showdown
, I could do it. Originally I'd been thinking of using that money for a wedding, but it's not like Jones or I were big partiers. I didn't need the princess dress or the perfect flowers. I needed my family.

But winning was still a big, fat, juicy if. Deep breath. I could do this. I just had to take it one step at a time.

And try not to trip over my own feet.

The nicest part about living with Pops and Aunt Cecily was that the house was always immaculate. There was a place for everything, and everything was in its place. I let myself in, glad they weren't here to disrupt the interview with more family squabbling. Donna had loaded me down with those plastic thingies people put in electric sockets to keep kids from electrocuting themselves, and I scurried around, plugging up the outlets and moving the cleansing liquid to the top shelves. I'd just stuck the laminated list of emergency contacts to the fridge when the doorbell rang.

Pasting a smile on my face, I opened it, only to see Lizzy, struggling under massive amounts of Clayton's stuff. "What the hell are you doing here? The social worker will be here any minute," I hissed.

"I thought you might need this stuff. You want to make it look like the house is ready for Clay, yeah?"

"We don't have time to set it all up." I took an armload from her and stumbled back to let her in. "And you were an accomplice to the kidnapping. Having you hanging around here is not going to help."

"I'll be gone in a jiff," she gasped.

Tires crunched under gravel. I cussed and shoved Lizzy toward the hall closet. "Get in there, and don't make any noise."

"I'm not going in there," she huffed. "It smells like mildew and old socks."

"Just breathe through your mouth. You dated Kyle, you ought to know how to do that."

She made a pissy sound, which I ignored and shoved her in face-first just as the new arrival tapped on the door.

Well, so much for my impress-the-social-worker neat and tidy home. The place was now covered in kiddie paraphernalia, and I had an accessory to kidnapping stashed in the hall closet.

This was going to go over like a fart in church.

Trying not to trip on the heap of stuff, I scurried to the door. The social worker was a massively overweight woman with lank brown hair streaked with gray spilling from a haphazard ponytail and squinty eyes that held a hint of suspicion. "Hi, you must be Mrs. Griggs."

"It's Ms," she corrected me.

"Sorry, please come in. Excuse the mess, I just got back from picking up a few things for Clayton in town and haven't had a chance to put them away yet. "I nudged a pack of diapers aside with the toe of my sneaker.