Banana Muffins & Mayhem

by Janel Gradowski

  When they reached the crosswalk, the glowing Open sign at The Inkwell caught Amy's attention. The owner, Aubergine, had passed out a class schedule after her flower drawing demonstration at the Cabin Fever Cure. There were a few courses that Amy wanted to sign up for. She had never thought of herself as an artist, but maybe she could learn how to draw well enough to add some cute embellishments to her blog. The bouquet she drew on Saturday was currently stuck on the refrigerator door—a little reminder that she could accomplish a lot of things if she took a chance and tried. Hopefully, Detective Foster had the same attitude toward her first case as a lead investigator.

  "Would you mind if we tried stopping for a few minutes at The Inkwell so that I can sign up for some drawing classes?" Amy stooped to look under the stroller canopy. The baby giggled—a good sign. "I promise to only be a few minutes."

  "I'm fine with that," Carla said as they began to cross the street. "Macy seems to be settling down, and I'll just leave if she starts fussing too much."

  "Maybe she'll be fascinated with all of the colors of the books."

  Carla sighed. "Let's hope so. She was up so many times last night that I don't have the energy left to walk around for much longer."

  When they arrived at the comic and graphic novel store, Amy held open the door so that Carla could steer the stroller inside. The whir of the rubber wheels harmonized with the store's squeaky floorboards. Amy made a beeline for the counter, while Carla began slowly circling around the bookcases.

  "Amy, how are you?" Aubergine asked as she emerged from the workroom in the back of the store. The light was a little dim since they were so far away from the front window, but it was clear that there were puffy half-moons under her eyes. She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. It seemed as if half of Kellerton was suffering from sleep deprivation. Amy certainly hadn't slept well after the grim reaper expo in Quantum's parking lot.

  "I came in to sign up for some of your classes. I'm finally ready to take the plunge into learning how to draw. I can't believe how cute my daisy bouquet turned out. Now I want to learn how to draw more things. And do calligraphy. I have always admired your work." She took a deep breath to slow the string of words just blooping out of her mouth. One of the common side effects when she was stressed out—pointless rambling. "How are you doing?"

  Aubergine typed something on the keyboard of the computer that served as a cash register. She stared sightlessly at the screen. "Tired. I couldn't sleep last night after hearing about Phoebe's body being found. I feel so guilty."

  Guilty? The surreal music the stroller and old floor were producing suddenly seemed more like tense background music in a murder mystery movie than a soothing melody. "What do you feel guilty about?"

  She sighed and crumpled into the office chair sitting behind the counter. "It was my idea to bring her here. I suggested we book her appearance during the event planning meetings because I was a huge fan of her show. If I hadn't done that she would never have come to Kellerton, and she would still be alive. I lured Phoebe Plymouth to her death."

  "Nobody can predict the future. You couldn't have known this would happen, right?"

  So Amy didn't think the bubbly, gentle artist could kill a person. And it wasn't like murderers or their accomplices usually fessed up to the crime when being questioned, but she figured it wouldn't hurt to ask. Just in case.

  "You're right. I never in a million years thought that she would be killed. She seemed so sweet and down-to-earth on her show. I admit, a little part of me was hoping we would hit it off and become friends. I had no idea she was so mean." Aubergine shook her head slightly as she pointed at a stack of fliers on the counter. "There is a list of what we're offering this month. Which classes would you like to register for?"

  Amy chose beginner-level calligraphy and food sketching classes then paid the deposit. Carla joined her at the counter. Macy was sound asleep. Stopping at The Inkwell had apparently been a good decision. It seemed as though the musical floorboards had put her to sleep. Or maybe she was just feeling better and had decided to catch up on the sleep she lost the night before. Her momma certainly looked like she needed a nap. Carla's shoulders slumped when Aubergine renewed the conversation about the murder.

  "Plus there's all of the bad publicity the town is getting for being the place where a TV star was murdered. I feel horrible about that. I love living and working here. And now, because I was a fangirl and had to get her to come to Kellerton, I've damaged the town's reputation."

  Carla shot Amy a bug-eyed look when Aubergine turned toward the computer again. It was either a sign to wrap up the conversation or she thought the artist, who happened to be wearing a red-and-white striped outfit reminiscent of Where's Waldo, was crazy. Carla cleared her throat. "Personally, I had never heard of Phoebe Plymouth until yesterday, and I doubt I'm alone in not being familiar with her. There are a lot of people who have no desire to watch home improvement television shows. So maybe you're overestimating her popularity and the impact her murder will have on Kellerton."

  Aubergine tilted her head to the side as she pondered Carla's comment. "You could be right. Just because I was a fan, that doesn't mean everybody else is. As a comic book store owner, I see examples of that every day. You wouldn't believe some of the arguments I've heard here. Thank you for the reminder."

  "No problem." Carla placed her hand on Amy's forearm. "I'm going to head back to my car. If I hurry home, maybe I can get in a bit of a nap before Macy wakes up. Thanks for doing the Go To Sleep walk with me today."

  "I always enjoy spending time with you." Amy trotted ahead of the stroller. "Let me get the door for you. I want to chat with Aubergine for a few more minutes though."

  Once Carla and her tiny companion were safely on their way home, Amy turned around to find the shopkeeper's husband, Chuck, had joined her behind the counter. He rubbed his wife's shoulders. A tender gesture from a huge intimidating man. His loose-fitting black hoodie made him seem even more massive. The corner of his mouth crooked up slightly when Amy returned to the counter. "Tell your friend thank you for making that point. It was good for Aubergine to hear that." He kissed the top of her head. "I hate seeing her so sad, but nothing I've said has helped cheer her up."

  Carla didn't often mince words. Her comments were straight as an arrow and sometimes just as pointy. "Carla's been my voice of reason many times. A good anchor when my thoughts are swirling down the proverbial drain." Amy knocked on the counter to get Aubergine's attention, which had returned to the computer. "I know it's difficult right now, but when the killer is found, the reason why Phoebe was killed will be revealed. You'll see it has absolutely nothing to do with you. And in the meantime, maybe you can help. Do you have any ideas on who would've killed her or why? Since you were on the Cabin Fever Cure planning committee, did you hear about anybody getting angry with her?"

  "Everybody was frustrated. A lot of time and money went into planning the event. There were many disappointed people when she didn't turn out to be anything like the way she was on her show. I can't say anybody stood out as being more upset than anyone else though."

  Carla was heading home for a much needed visit to Snooze Land, but Amy was wide awake, even though she too had gotten little sleep topped off with a long walk. When she left The Inkwell, Amy headed straight for her home away from home, Riverbend Café. While she had cut down on the amount of time she worked at the café or its second location at Clement Street Market, she still spent quite a bit of time just hanging out at the coffee shop. The space was cozy and seemed to be steeped in creativity. She often joined the students and writers who were also drawn to the café to write her blog posts or brainstorm new recipes.

  Amy pulled open Riverbend's door and inhaled. The rich coffee aroma had an undercurrent of cinnamon and vanilla. She guessed there was a batch of cinnamon muffins or oatmeal cookies in one of the ovens. Since Sophie wasn't behind the counter when Amy's order was being prepared, she took her pistachio latte and raisin bar to
a small table next to the window. Weak sunshine filtering through the thin layer of clouds warmed her as she watched the Cooley River flowing by outside. Unfortunately, the subject matter she was pondering made the day seem downright gloomy instead of the reality of partly cloudy. It had been unsettling to see Aubergine so upset over something that was beyond her control, although Amy could definitely see herself following that train of thought if she were in the artist's shoes. The "you break it, you buy it" retail policy carried over into owning misplaced guilt.

  Amy rummaged through her purse looking for a notebook. Over the years, she had learned that writing down her thoughts was helpful in preventing mental overloads and the often resulting headaches. She glanced at the customer standing in front of the order counter and froze. The woman with the dark chin-length bob haircut looked familiar, but why? Amy returned to her purse search because staring was impolite. And she didn't want to be caught gawking at a person who could be a friend or foe—a determination that would be left up in the air until her memory decided to play nice. The petite notebook finally revealed itself at the very bottom of her deep bucket-style purse. The butter-yellow leather bag held all of her many necessities, but its shape led to frustrating searches for items she knew were in it—somewhere.

  She set the purse on the unoccupied chair across from her then took a sip of the warm, nutty latte. The coffee was a miraculous recognition accelerant. The vaguely familiar, geek chic woman at the counter—sporting black-rimmed glasses, chunky Mary Jane shoes, and a blue plaid schoolgirl skirt—had been hanging out with Phoebe on Saturday. She had been nearby whenever Amy had encountered the star. Maybe she was part of the entourage Sophie had mentioned coming into the café on Sunday. Amy flipped open the notebook but watched the woman out of the corner of her eye as she crossed the room and took a seat at the next table.

  Of all the empty chairs in the room, the woman ended up at the next table. It was a sign. There was no glory in being timid, especially when karma was being pushy. Amy waved to catch her attention. "I'm sorry to bother you, but you look so familiar. Didn't I see you chatting with Phoebe Plymouth a couple times at the Cabin Fever Cure?"

  The woman set down her phone. The light from the window reflected on her eyeglass lenses, making her expression hard to interpret. She could be disinterested or annoyed. "I am Old House/New Style's production assistant, but Phoebe treated me more like her personal assistant."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss."

  She frowned. "Thank you. It was a shock for everybody."

  "I can imagine! How awful for you and everyone who worked with Phoebe. It must be difficult for all of you to know that she was murdered."

  Geeky Girl snorted. "It doesn't surprise me much though. I was in charge of handling her social media accounts. Phoebe attracted psychos like moths to a light bulb." She poked her phone screen. "And now that she's dead, they're all crawling out of the woodwork, expressing their sorrow in every nutty way possible. One of the weirdos probably killed her."

  Amy repeatedly clicked the plunger on the top of her ink pen. The sound mimicked her machine-gun paced thoughts. "Really? Have you told the police your theory?"

  "Duh. That's why I'm here. The detective asked me to stick around for a few days to help come up with a list of all of the creepers."

  "Creepers?"

  The assistant tilted her head down and rolled her eyes as she looked over the top of her glasses. No mistaking what that expression conveyed. "Cyber stalkers, internet trolls…creepy superfans—I call them creepers. There are some seriously scary dudes obsessed with her. Phoebe used to think their messages were funny, but she didn't have to deal with them like I did. I'd block one, and three more would appear, writing even more disgusting things—like what they would do if she went on a date with them. They're like fungus in many ways—disgusting and nearly impossible to get rid of. And those guys wonder why they're thirty and have never kissed a girl."

  "It sounds like that aspect of your job was very unpleasant."

  "Every aspect was unpleasant. Phoebe was a giant pain in the ass." The pitch of her voice got higher. "I want this. Get me that. This isn't good enough. Take it back."

  "That would be difficult to deal with." Amy smiled in thanks for the new information which could help solve the murder. "My name is Amy. I won the muffin contest Phoebe helped judge."

  "I'm Ginny." She leaned forward. "You made those banana chocolate chip muffins? I got to try them, and they were so good! It doesn't matter what Phoebe thought. I think you totally deserved to win."

  What had Phoebe thought? If only it were possible to ask a dead woman questions. Then she could tell the police who killed her, along with explaining what her problem was with—pretty much everything. "I take it she didn't like them?"

  Ginny drummed her fingernails on the table. "Don't take it personally. She didn't like any of the food and eventually refused to try any more of the samples. I'm not sure if I should tell you this, but I ended up judging everything in her place. You were definitely the winner for me."

  "Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed the muffins so much." Amy pulled a business card, printed with her blog's address, out of the front pocket of her purse. She always made sure to keep those in an easily accessible spot since she had a tendency to choose purses which had the potential for becoming magic show props. Everything disappeared inside them. As she extended her arm to offer the card to Ginny, she said, "I just posted the recipe for them on my blog yesterday, if you would like to make a batch yourself."

  "Excellent." Ginny tucked the card into her tiny, black leather wristlet wallet. Her phone buzzed. When she looked at the screen, she frowned. "It was nice talking to you. I'm sorry, but I have to go."

  "It was nice meeting you. Have a good day."

  She watched Ginny until she disappeared out the front door of the café. Then Amy turned to her notebook. She didn't want to forget anything the production assistant had said. When she got to the end of a line, her hand brushed her cell phone. If one of Phoebe's cyber stalkers had decided to interact with her in person, maybe he had been lurking at the Cabin Fever Cure. Since Amy took pictures at the recipe contest, she could've snapped one that contained the killer.

  Out of habit, she had uploaded all of the photos to a digital cloud service so that she could access them from any computer or her phone. As she scrolled through the pictures, she noticed another shutterbug had been in the tent. Most of the contest entrants had been women, so they composed the majority of the audience. But the person with a camera trained constantly on Phoebe Plymouth was a man wearing jeans and a wrinkled blue T-shirt. Amy leaned closer to her phone as she scrolled through the photos. Since the man was sitting in the front row, all she could see was the back of his head in frame after frame. He seemed to have skipped combing his hair that morning, and that was the only distinguishing feature she could see. She sucked in a breath when she flicked to the next picture. Judging from all of the people standing in the audience, the pre-judging presentation had ended, but Amy remembered she had tried to get one last shot of the television star. Phoebe was blurred because of her hasty exit from the judge's table, but the rumpled man was standing still and looking straight at Amy's camera. Had she captured an image of the killer?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  (Carla)

  Carla stared at the chunks of broken plate scattered on the floor in front of the sink. A patch of ketchup had been her downfall. The plate was heavy. The thin layer of unconsumed condiment was slippery. Her once cat-like reflexes had developed a two-second delay thanks to a perpetual lack of sleep. So now one of the beautiful, one-of-a-kind plates that her mother had made was shattered, just inches away from its intended destination—the top rack of the dishwasher.

  "Are you okay?" Bruce called from the living room.

  "I'm fine. The plate…not so much."

  "Let me know if you need any help. I'm…" Her husband's voice trailed off. He was camped out in his recliner in the living room, doing re
search for his latest case. Something interesting must've popped up onto the screen. His laser focus and machine-like work ethic made him a fantastic homicide detective, but sometimes those admirable qualities didn't make being his wife easy. On top of that, their daughter had inherited his stubborn tenacity and applied it as much as possible to not sleeping at night. The crankiness from colic was beginning to lessen, but even though she was feeling better, the baby was still staying up until the wee hours of the morning. Routines were important to babies, and Macy had developed one heck of a mind-bending one that she was determined to keep with or without a tummy ache.

  Carla swiped the back of her hand across a tear that had escaped from her eye. The wife and mom gig was hard. She stooped to pick up the ceramic shards. Bruce's voice filtered into the small kitchen again. Macy cooed in response. He was a wonderful father, but she was feeling like a hot mess of a mother. At the moment, she certainly looked like one. Her hair hadn't been washed for at least two days. And she was wearing puke-splattered scrubs, even though the only nursing she was doing was to provide nourishment for her infant daughter. Although she had kept the comfortable uniforms, it had been over six months since she last worked in the Kellerton Hospital emergency room, the place that used to be her second home.

  After stacking the sharp pottery shards on a paper towel, she carefully folded in the sides and stood up. Carla turned toward the garbage can, took one step, and smacked her shin on the open dishwasher door. That did it. The lone tear from a moment ago turned into a torrent. "Stupid tiny kitchen," she whispered to herself.