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

exactly run in the same circles, since he was a pastry chef."
    Donna pulled up in front of a white Tudor with periwinkle blue shutters and a for sale sign staked into the front lawn.
    "Pretty house. Looks brand new."
    " It is new. A real steal, too. The family that lived here walked away, and the bank has it up for sale at a fraction of the original price. Know anyone in the market?"
    " Not in Beaverton, no." What a shame about the family. Though North Carolina hadn't been as hard hit as some other areas of the country, recession recovery was still dragging like a government job. "Can I peek inside?"
    Donna nodded , and we walked up the flagstone path. "It's a three bedroom, two and a half bath, 2100 square feet. Bonus room over the two-car garage and a fantastic view of the lake."
    She continued her Realtor's spiel, talking up the perks of the house as she punched in her code and withdrew the keys. The front door opened into a two-story entryway, living room on the right, dining room to the left, stairs to the second floor dead ahead. All clean, smooth, and efficient lines, not a bazillion nooks filled to overflowing with stuff like at Pop's house. Donna's high heels clicked on the hardwood floors, echoing through the empty space. "Come check out the kitchen."
    I followed, taking it all in. The newness screamed potential, the cream colored walls very bland, urging me to slap some jewel -toned paint up there and make the space my own. Of course I couldn't afford a house like this. I'd be lucky if I had enough in my account to cover the deductible on Mustang Sally.
    The kitchen was a work of art. Gray soapstone counters, a country style sink with a swan neck faucet , and two built-in wall ovens. A center island held— be still my heart —a gas range top. Copper bottom pots and pans hung from a ceiling bracket, practically begging me to whip something up. "Wow, I'd love to own a house like this."
    Donna grinned. "Isn't it amazing? Honestly, I was tempted to buy it myself, but I don't cook. This kitchen makes me want to learn though."
    I could easily picture it. Me, standing at the sink, filling a pot of water for linguini. My fresh herbs growing in pots on the windowsill, the smell of fresh rosemary bread and the tang of tomato sauce simmering on the stove , spicing the air with garlic. A little Norah Jones crooning from my iPod dock while another Jones leaned against the counter, offering me a sip from his wine glass…
    Donna touched my shoulder, popping my delicious fantasy bubble. "Go ahead and prowl around. I'm going to wait outside for the potential buyers. If they ask, you're in the market too."
    If only. Shaking off the last traces of my daydream, I headed upstairs to scope out the bedroom situation. My preoccupation with Malcolm Jones had crossed the line from distraction and was now bordering on ridiculously obsessive. I barely knew anything about the man, other than that he drove like a little old lady, had a yummy accent , took pictures, and had picked up some medical training. And that he was related to my nemesis. Yet he kept creeping into my thoughts as though he belonged there, a permanent fixture in Andy's mental slideshow.
    The master suite was just as glorious as the kitchen, with a half-moon window letting in the late morning sunlight. Side by side sinks in the master bath, along with a garden tub and corner unit glassed-in shower. The doors were wet, as though someone had just stepped out of the shower. How strange. Donna said no one was living here, and the rest of the house was empty other than a few staged Realtor pieces.
    Curious now, I scanned for other signs of life. The white duvet on the California king bed had been neatly made. No other furniture. The master bedroom closet sat empty. Same with the two smaller bedrooms.
    Gripping the knob, I tried to open the door to the bonus room. Locked. The hair on my arms stood st raight up, and my heart rate increased. "Donna?" I called down the stairs.
    No