Authors: Jennifer L. Hart
The question, though, was what
did
I want out of life?
Creeping out of bed like a thief in the night, I snuck past Clayton's crib and into the bathroom. A hot shower soothed my stiff muscles and helped clear away the cobwebs, but that question kept ricocheting around in my brain.
What did I want?
The laundry was piling up, but I managed to find a clean pair of jeans and a red, V-neck T-shirt to wear. Collecting as much of the discarded clothing as I could without waking the boys, I headed down to the basement to put a load in.
The basement office was really just a desk with an all-in-one computer and a few filing cabinets. Jones's darkroom was just behind the desk, but I never went into it unless he invited me to see something. We worked as a couple because we gave each other space. Of course, space wasn't an option with Clayton in our lives.
While the wash ran, I checked out the new file folder that Jones must have started earlier.
Subject name: Chad Tobey
Date of birth: October 12, 1976
Marital status: Separated
Children: Two
Occupation: Chef (Iron Chef, grill master, sole proprietor of barbeque sauces and rubs)
Cause of Death: Unknown (check with county ME's office for toxin screening)
Other Notes: Subject was in the midst of a custody battle and a cooking competition. Andrea reports that subject received threatening messages, which may or may not have been violent in nature. Will obtain subject's medical records and credit history for further examination.
Blogger fixated on Tobey's personal life, accused him of domestic violence. A personal vendetta? Fact-check to follow.
I had an inkling that when Jones said check with ME's office, he didn't intend to just waltz up to the desk and ask. Either he had an informant who worked there, willing to slip him a copy of the report, or he would hack the system. The financial and medical stuff would be a breeze for him as well, and determining cause of death would hopefully clear up the issue of accidental death versus murder. The blogger, though, was the sticky part.
Maybe we'd get lucky, and poor Chad had dropped dead of a massive heart attack—no harm, no foul. Although I felt sorry for his son and any other loved ones, at least that would mean we didn't have yet another killer roaming around the greater Beaverton area.
After setting up a pot of coffee, I retrieved my laptop and started going through the files Stu had sent me on the former Flavor TV employees. They ranged in age from a nineteen-year-old intern to a seventy-year-old camera operator. The information didn't come with photos, but I recognized several names. Considering many of them had lost their jobs when Flavor TV filed for bankruptcy—a direct result of the food-poisoning incident during my lone episode of
Al Dente
— I doubted they would open up to me. Maybe I could talk to Rodrigo about some of them, get his impression of any he knew from his time at the network, and narrow the list down that way.
I also needed to get moving on my recipes for the contest.
Diced
gave me a budget to work with, so I needed to decide what exactly I would make with each challenge and have the list of ingredients to Stu a few days before. The Stuff recipe had gone over well, and it made sense to test a few of the dishes at the pasta shop ahead of time.
Then there was Clayton, who I wanted to bring to the pediatrician. I'd have to call Donna and get the number for the one she used. So recipes, doctor appointments, business operations, childcare, and an ongoing possible murder investigation. I should get a cape. Andy Buckland: Pasta Sleuth and Superhero. Well, anything beat the Death Chef title.
I was so lost in thought that I missed the soft knocking on the front door until it became more insistent. Leaping up, I rushed up the stairs and to the door before the pounding grew loud enough to wake Jones or Clayton.
It was Donna, sporting a killer polka dot dress and matching scarf tied in her thick, auburn curls. "What's this I hear about you having a baby?"
Quickly, I stepped out onto the porch and shut the door. "For the love of pasta fazool, Donna. The sun's barely up. Couldn't this wait?"
She put her hands on her hips and glowered at me. "Don't try to change the subject, Andy. Is there a baby here or isn't there?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but the sound of Clayton's crying filtered out through the closed door.
"Cat's out of the bag. Why don't you come in, and as soon as I get him situated, I'll explain everything."
I opened the door, and Donna swished past me in a flounce of skirts. "This, I gotta hear."
* * *
Jacob was standing on the front stoop of the Bowtie Angel when I drove up at 7:30. He wore a light-colored suit with a matching jacket, though there was no tie. No way would that thing remain stain free in the kitchen. Scowling, I climbed from Mustang Sally and took my time pinning her top up, in case the dark sky turned to rain later that day. Jacob approached, a cardboard carryout from Starbucks in one hand. I knew from firsthand experience that the round trip to the nearest franchised java joint was almost fifty miles. I'd made that drive more than once, though most days I brewed my own. Jones joked it was a public service for me to stay off the roads until I was fully caffeinated.
"I thought we said eight," I remarked when he handed me one of the coffees.
He shrugged. "I'm an early riser. I got you a scone too. It's in the car."
"I already ate." As soon as the words popped out, my stomach growled. Traitor.
Jacob shot me a knowing smirk.
"Fine, I don't like scones," I fibbed, determined to ignore the offering. Coffee was one thing, but the breakfast… Maybe it was nuts, but I'd been brought up believing food equaled love, and taking Jacob Griffin's food might indicate I was willing to accept the other. And I wasn't—not now, not ever.
Hell, he was so different from the Buckland-Rosetti clan that a scone might just be a scone.
"Bull," Jacob said, surprising me. "I used to watch you at that coffee shop in Atlanta, remember? Nine times out of ten you ordered a scone."
My hand was poised to open the shop door. "Okay, let's get one thing straight. You spying on me only reminds me why I don't like you."
He shrugged—shrugged! "Jones spied on you, and you've forgiven him."
Did the man always have an answer for everything? "That's different."
To my surprise, he nodded. "You're right, it is different. I've always been concerned with your well-being, but to Malcolm Jones you were just a job. I find it curious that you can move beyond his actions but not mine."
A retort was poised on my lips, but I thought better of it. Better to change the subject than air my true feelings in front of him. "Look, I don't want your scone, and I refuse to discuss my personal life. Either you do what you came here to do or you can leave. Your call."
Instead of waiting for him to answer, I unlocked the front door and strode into the empty front room. The scent of cleaning products greeted me, a light fragrance that would soon be overwhelmed by the headier aromas of sizzling onions, fresh rosemary and basil, and homemade Italian bread.
Griffin followed me in, shutting the door behind him. "All right then. Let's go through your morning routine. I want to see your process step-by-step, and we'll create the opening system based on that."
A reasonable-enough request. "Okay, well, I have a delivery in an hour, and Kaylee's due in at eleven—"
He held up a hand, cutting me off mid to-do list. "I meant as far as business operations."
I stared at him blankly.
He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "What needs to happen before you open in the mornings? What's involved with your start-up procedures, things that need to be done before the customers arrive?"
"Cooking?" The word came out like a question because I wasn't sure what he was driving at.
He nodded. "Okay, cooking. What's on the menu for the day?"
"The usual. Red sauce, rotini, meatballs, pesto, Italian bread, spaghetti, linguini…" My recitation went on for some time, since I'd expanded the menu and was planning to try out the nightshade-free recipes too. "Today's special will be lemon herb pasta."
Jacob nodded. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. You have recipes for all your regular menu items, right?"
"Of course." I flicked on the overhead light.
"Okay, well anyone you hire is going to need to familiarize him or herself with those recipes." Jacob set his coffee cup down and removed a smartphone from an inner suit pocket and began to type.
"Mimi already knows them all by heart and Kaylee too. I wasn't planning to add any more cooks, so why would a new hire need to know the recipes?" Setting my own coffee aside, I put my purse on its usual shelf before turning to face him.
Jacob didn't look away from his screen, his thumbs busy as he spoke. "For ingredient purposes. You said you're delving into specialty-diet waters, and there are lots of people out there with food sensitivities. Anyone working here should be able to tell any customer if there's a certain ingredient involved with a meal before they order it."
"I've never been to a restaurant where every server knows every single ingredient in every dish." I set my own phone on the shelf next to the picture of Nana that we kept in the kitchen.
Jacob raised a brow. "Have you ever asked?"
He had a point. I wasn't in the habit of quizzing my servers when I ate out because I didn't have food allergies. And when I cooked, I knew what went into the pot. "No. But it still sounds like a lot of effort for someone who will only be bussing tables and running the dishwasher."
Jacob finished typing and set his phone aside to look at me. "It'll be a point of difference. Your little pasta shop is highly specialized. You're offering authentic Italian cuisine here. Knowing the recipes and being part of the team will give your employees a sense of pride and unity. Those qualities, along with fair wages and a positive work environment, inspire loyalty. Think of it this way, the community knows this is a family-owned and -operated business, right?"
"Of course." I had no idea what he was driving at.
He gave me an indulgent smile. "So when you start hiring other people, it's as if you're inviting them to be part of that family. People like feeling included, and reliable employees will tell their friends and family, who will in turn tell their friends. There's no promotional service out there that can beat positive word of mouth."
It made sense. "Okay, but how do I know who to hire? Mimi sort of fell into the job here, so technically I've never hired anyone before."
Jacob smiled. "Don't worry. I'll help you with that. With all the free publicity this competition is stirring up, people will be curious."
There was a knock on the back door, and we both turned to face it.
"That's odd," I murmured. "It's way too early for the produce guy."
Jacob moved to answer it. "That's probably the crew I hired."
"Crew?" I yelped. "What crew?"
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Contractor and his crew to do up the back patio."
"I don't have the budget for that," I said, slightly panicked.
Jacob held up a finger, essentially shushing me. Shushed me in my own kitchen! He opened the door to reveal a burly guy with a shaved head and tattoos. The man wore battered jeans and a white, V-neck T-shirt, as well as a hardhat.
"Ed, good to see you." Jacob held out his hand.
"Mr. Griffin." Ed had a deep voice that resonated in his barrel chest. His accent was pure Jersey. "My boys are here and ready to get started."
"Started on what?" I asked, my agitation climbing.
"Do you have the plans? I want to show my daughter what we have planned."
"They're in the truck." The hulking man chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."
My daughter. How easily the words rolled off his sneaky tongue. I bristled like a cat dunked in a rain barrel. "I haven't approved any changes, Mr. Griffin."
"You will." Jacob's confidence was completely annoying. Why couldn't I have inherited some of that? As far as I could tell, my biological father and I had diddly freaking squat in common.
I shook my head as he took the set of plans from Ed and unrolled them on the clean island counter. "You have the potential for another thirty seats for outdoor dining. Each of those seats represents lost revenue every year. For a moderate investment, we open up the outdoor dining option, an alfresco patio. I envisioned something very Old World, cobblestone and wrought iron furniture, a small amount of greenery here to set up the illusion of privacy, and a corner fountain for a water effect over there to block the alley. Maybe string some lights and put up a few torches for ambience as well as repelling mosquitos. You could host parties out there, maybe events that you already cater with the portable pasta bar, though we'll need to run more electrical outlets to do so. You could charge more for the venue than you do for just the food. What do you think?"
I studied the plans, unable to see what he was talking about, though it all sounded beautiful. Having the pasta shop cater on our own turf would be so
so
much easier than trying to prepare food ahead of time and finish in the client's house.
"I think," I said slowly, "that I can't afford it."
"Give us a minute, Ed." Jacob rolled up the plans and waited for his man to exit. "Andy, it's an investment in your business. You'll get it back, probably sooner than you think."
"Jacob, you don't understand. I don't know what kind of money we're talking about—"
He cut me off, naming a sum that made my eyes bulge.
"For a few stones and tables?" I gasped.
"To do it right," he corrected. "Ed and his team are thorough. They'll transform the space and make sure it's as maintenance free for you as possible. You get what you pay for, Andy."