Read Online Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) by Jennifer L. Hart - Free Book Online

a point of stopping by later, after her kids left for school.
    The temperature had fallen overnight, frost prominent on the grass, but it would melt away as soon as the sun hit it. Willing my quiet reprieve to go on just a smidge longer, I headed to the walking trail behind the cul-de-sac.
    Beaverton is located in the central region of North Carolina in an area known as the Piedmont, smack dab between the mountains and the coast. It's several hours' drive to reach either so to make up for it, the community has funneled money into fitness trails. The hiking/biking path was originally laid out to run ten miles around the perimeter of the downtown area, but the economy started slowing down when North Carolina failed to transform into the new Florida. Although we have quite a few denizens who have retired from the Snowbelt, there are just as many vacant lots where real estate speculators ate a humongous loss, and the unfinished trail is only about three miles of nature surrounded by cleared land being slowly reclaimed by Mother Nature.
    Roofus snuffled a bit, and it took some tugging to urge him through the back woods and onto the trail. He lifted his leg on one of the fitness stations and then fell into an easy lope at my side. Though I was far from a natural athlete, I had endurance on my side, built up from all those years of subsisting on a starch heavy diet and needing to burn it off before it settled around my hips like a blubbery hula hoop. Atkins could kiss my grits. If I couldn't enjoy food, I doubt I'd enjoy much of anything.
    With my iPod still in the car, I had nothing to drown out the questions plaguing me other than the occasional twittering of birdsong. Why hadn 't Detective Brown seen the words written in the spilled flour? And why hadn't Jones mentioned it to him? Had the message been meant for me? Maybe I was losing my mind, the stress of poisoning a bunch of strangers, of being fired and back in Beaverton, worries about Pops and Aunt Cecily and the Bowtie Angel, seeing Kyle and Lizzy together, all topped off with finding the body. Yeah, maybe my mind had snapped like a dry twig. The thought wasn't exactly reassuring.
    Up ahead the Episcopal Church steeple appeared amidst the trees, blazing white against a pink backdrop. That was Kyle 's church, where he and Lizzy would get married in all the fanfare due, the town's golden couple. Rumors would fly of course, just like always, rumors that Chef Zoltan Farnsworth had been a spy, a drug dealer, or undercover paparazzi. A few of the more colorful tales would involve me as his lover/killer/protégé. Good old Andy Buckland, always greasing the gossip mill.
    It occurred to me that the Bowtie Angel would benefit from having me around. The pasta shop was a natural gathering place , and if I was there, answering questions and allowing myself to be grilled like a side of beef about Zoltan and my discovery, well, it would only draw a larger crowd. I hated being the center of attention, it made me nervous as all get-out, and it wasn't exactly a long term solution, but I had yet to devise a better plan.
    A flash of blue caught my attention as a jogger appeared around the bend. Yanking the leash, I urged Roofus to move to the side, but that didn't stop him from barking and pulling to attack the newcomer. Although I appreciated the effort, I was fairly certain that he would run away and hide, shedding and slobbering, if anyone tried to hurt me. Of course, being a city girl had taught me the value of carrying a can of pepper spray in my jacket pocket, so we didn't have to test that theory.
    As the runner approached, I recognized the newcomer. Rats, I was really hoping to have my act together when Jones and I met again. So far he 'd seen me fresh from an accident, wearing the muumuu from hell, and now sweating like a Clydesdale fresh from the Kentucky Derby. Was I destined to always look like day-old road kill in his presence?
    An image of Chef Farnsworth prone on the floor of the