"He didn't see me trip. So I slid the mat back over the stain. I'm really hoping I'm wrong and that wasn't blood." Geri crossed her arms over her stomach. "I so want Mick to not be a murderer. Do you know how long it's been since I've had sex?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amy flipped through the pages of the cookbook again. Watercolor paintings, instead of photographs, depicted the food. All of the recipes were handwritten in beautiful, looping text. It felt as though she was looking through an artist's notebook. It was the cookbook where Aubergine found the recipes for the snack she had made for the calligraphy class. When Amy and the talented artist had looked for the book once the class was over, they discovered someone had bought the last copy. So Aubergine ordered more copies. She called that morning to tell Amy that it had come in.
While she could've just picked up the beautiful book and left, Amy wanted to talk to Aubergine. She was worried about the state of mind of both her and her husband. Since the brightly dressed artist was busy helping a mom choose graphic novels that could help encourage her son to read, Amy was hanging out on a huge beanbag in the reading nook in the back corner of the store. The free-form furniture was surprisingly comfortable as it molded to her body, but she was really wishing she had worn jeans instead of a skirt. Getting up without flashing her undies would be tricky. She flipped through the cookbook again so that she wouldn't stress out pondering the logistics of getting to her feet without losing her dignity. A good recipe was a wonderful distraction.
"So what do you think of the cookbook?" Aubergine asked.
Amy flinched. She had been so engrossed in studying the recipes for things like wild mushroom frittata and sweet potato veggie burgers that she hadn't noticed Aubergine approaching the reading area. There was nothing like a little, innocent scare to increase her heart rate. A good warm-up for what she was doing next, heading to Yoga For You for an afternoon energy recharge class. All of the other yoga classes she had taken made her feel mellow and relaxed. So she was curious, and a bit apprehensive, about what would happen in this class. What kind of positions produced the opposite effect of what she was used to?
"I love it. Thank you so much for ordering it for me."
Aubergine shrugged. "You're welcome. I got a couple more copies to keep in stock too. When I fall in love with a book, I recommend it to customers and try to keep copies on the shelves. I'm not much of a cook, so I don't own a lot of cookbooks, but I really liked that one. Maybe it isn't so great to someone like you though."
"It's unique in both its appearance and the recipes inside. I'd say you have very good cookbook selection instincts." Amy set the book on the rug. Then she channeled every ounce of yoga grace she had absorbed over the past year and used it to remove herself from the squishy furniture lump. The extraction maneuver wasn't pretty, but it worked. When she was standing with her lilac-colored skirt properly arranged, Amy pointed at the candy bowl sitting on a nearby table. The ceramic dish was ringed with painted panes from a comic book scene. "Where did you get that bowl? It's so fun."
"I made it at Make It Unique." One side of Aubergine's mouth crooked up in a half-smile. "I went in to pick it up when Phoebe was there throwing a hissy fit."
The air whooshed out of Amy's lungs as she folded herself in half to pick up the book from the floor. She straightened. There was a tribal drumbeat from her heart thumping in her ears. It was Morse code to her brain—pay attention. "I've heard a little bit about what happened but not many details. From what I've heard, I'm still baffled about why she was so angry."
"It didn't make much sense even when I witnessed it in person." Aubergine tugged on one of her eggplant-purple curls. "She was picking out glaze colors when I got there. I was chatting with that lady with the awesome gray hair who makes some of the pottery. Suddenly, Phoebe started screaming that she needed the platter the next day instead of in a week. Tommy was really calm and explained that the glazes needed to be fired in the kiln. Since there was no way to get things done sooner, Tommy suggested that maybe Phoebe would like to look at some of the finished pieces that were being offered for sale by students."
Amy shook her head. "Phoebe did all kinds of crafty decorating projects on her show, but she didn't know that the pottery needed to be fired after painting on the glazes?"
"Apparently not. I was surprised she didn't know that too." Aubergine rolled her eyes. "Especially when there's a big sign on the wall stating that it takes a week to complete a project."
"So what did Phoebe do?"
Aubergine sighed. "It gets even more unbelievable. First, she threw the bowl of glaze that Tommy had given her on the floor. Then she stomped to the front of the store to the sales area. She picked up item after item but slammed all of the pieces back down on the shelves—while loudly talking to herself about how much she hated the pottery and Kellerton. It wouldn't surprise me if some of the dishes cracked. The whole thing was like watching a preschooler have a temper tantrum. Very odd."
And very likely maddening to the owner of the studio. "Did she buy anything?"
"No. That woman who works for the show, the assistant who came on the trip with her, arrived and literally dragged her out of the store."
"Wow. That must've been something to see. Do you have any idea why Phoebe was so angry?"
"I overheard the other woman saying something about not letting Nigel get to her as they were walking out the door. Other than that, there was no explanation that I heard for the bad behavior." Aubergine frowned. "At least the assistant had the decency to apologize, even though she wasn't the one being obnoxious."
Amy followed Aubergine to the checkout counter. Recounting the incident hadn't done anything to improve the artist's mood, but at least Amy knew more about what had happened at the studio. Was Tommy being vague about details because she just wanted to forget the ugly scene? Or was there more to it than what Aubergine had observed? Phoebe's reaction seemed over the top for what had apparently happened.
As Aubergine went through the checkout process, her mood seemed to dip lower and lower. Amy tapped the counter to get the dejected woman's attention. "Are you okay? Did something else happen that night that you would like to talk about?"
She shook her head. "No. It just makes me sad that Phoebe was so mean to such nice people. I feel terrible that I was behind bringing such a rude woman here."
Amy thought about some of the less-than-nice people who she had encountered while working at Riverbend. "I'm sure nobody is blaming you for anything. She was responsible for her own behavior. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the market cornered on rudeness. When you work in retail, unpleasant customers happen—just like shoplifters and broken merchandise. It's one of the costs of doing business."
"I know you're right. I just can't help but be bummed that someone I admired turned out to be so rotten."
Despite the dreary conversation, Amy couldn't help but smile during the little jaunt across the street to Yoga For You. Finally, a few things about the murder were becoming clearer. Aubergine had filled in more details about what Phoebe had done at Tommy's studio. The star had made a lot of people angry, from Tommy to the customers she had rudely criticized. Any one of them could've been deeply offended by her remarks and possibly gotten the ultimate revenge. The question now was—who was Nigel, and what was his part in the blowup?
The mood lift increased when Amy walked into the yoga classroom. It was a happy accident that the two people who most likely knew the answer were in the class. Both the show's producer and assistant were unrolling mats in the back corner of the room.
A few minutes before Rori began teaching, it dawned on Amy that Ginny had said that Detective Foster requested she stay in town for a few days to help with the investigation. It had been a week and a half since the murder. So why were she and the producer still hanging out in Kellerton? Amy pondered how to ask that question to them without coming across as a nosy, small-town gossip with nothing better to do. During the half-hour session some of the energy-increa
sing moves were a bit tricky to execute when Amy's mind was elsewhere. The class amped up her thoughts as well as her energy level.
Afterward, as she was gathering her water bottle and towel, the scruffy producer and stylish assistant made a beeline to where she was standing. Amy felt rather like a rabbit being stalked by panthers, considering both of them were wearing all black outfits while the rest of the students in the class wore bright or pastel colors. Maybe goth yoga was a thing in trendy Traverse City, where Phoebe's show had been filmed.
"You're Amy Ridley, right?" the producer asked.
Amy nodded. She didn't remember exchanging names with him the last time they talked after a yoga class. A few seconds of being-chased-by-an-angry-hornet panic set in, until she remembered that he had been at the Muffin Tin Madness award presentation. She extended her hand. It wasn't fair that she didn't know his name. "I am. And I don't believe I caught your name the last time we chatted."
"Sorry." He shook her hand. His palms were warm and clammy. "I'm Nigel Snow."
And most likely the one and only Nigel who had apparently, according to his current companion, caused Phoebe's pottery painting meltdown. Woo-hoo. It was turning into a box of chocolate truffles kind of day. Everywhere she stopped she was finding tasty bits of information.
He nodded toward the empty back corner of the room. "Could we chat with you for a minute?"
"Sure." When they reached the more private area, she turned to Ginny and said, "I'm kind of surprised to see you both here. I thought you said the detective in charge of the murder case only needed you to stay for a few days to provide information."
She grinned sheepishly. "Well, that's kind of what we wanted to talk to you about."
Nigel cleared his throat. "We came with Phoebe on this press appearance to try to find guests for the show. There are so many talented people in Kellerton, we have decided to stay and do some scouting to recast Old House/New Style."
That piece of information she already knew from Charlotte. It was sort of like finding the second caramel truffle in the box of assorted flavors. "I guess I hadn't realized that was possible. I figured since Phoebe was the star, everything would be tied to her."
He shook his head. "The house is owned by her father. He bought the show for her. Paid our company to come up with the concept and make it happen. But he told me when I signed on that Phoebe didn't stick with projects for long. So it was set up legally that the show concept belongs to Snow Productions, and she was nothing more than a paid employee. Now that she's gone, we can continue with a new host. We'll rent the house while filming. Then Mr. Plymouth can sell it or do whatever he wants after all of the remodeling for the show is complete."
Phoebe's father didn't have confidence in her staying with the show? Did she have a habit of randomly flitting from one shiny thing to the next? But a television show seemed to be a very expensive way to satisfy his daughter's wanderlust. "Okay. I think I understand."
Ginny rocked forward on her toes. Even her toenails were painted black. "You saw us talking to Charlotte yesterday at Unique Decor. She gave us some excellent tips on local people who might be good guests. You were the first person she named. I guess you've won more cooking contests than just that muffin one?"
"Yes. Entering culinary competitions is my passion. I love to cook and seem to have a knack for coming up with recipes. I guess, considering how many times I've won, I probably have a good bit of luck too." Amy was proud of her accomplishments in the culinary world. Who would've thought that learning to cook as a child because her parents seldom made meals would get her so far?
"Wonderful." Nigel rubbed his hands together. "So would you be interested in auditioning to do a guest spot or two on the new show, once we get the revamped concept nailed down?"
"Oh…what a surprise! I'm flattered." And floored. Several people who read her blog had suggested she try making videos of herself cooking, but she hadn't had the guts to try that yet. The reality was that she was a very messy cook. Aprons were a necessity to save her clothes from stains. She couldn't imagine anyone would want to watch her splashing and splattering around the kitchen, but she was game to try if Nigel wanted her to appear on the show. "Thank you for thinking of me."
He handed Amy a business card. Nigel rummaged around in the leather satchel he was carrying. After a few seconds, he pulled out a small notebook and pen. "I've already looked at your blog, so I have your email from the contact page. Would you mind giving me a phone number where I can reach you?"
A couple hours later, the excitement of being asked to audition for a television show still hadn't worn off. Amy tipped the pot of cooked egg noodles into a colander in the sink. Steam rose from the hot pasta as she shook the strainer. When the water was drained, she used the pot lid as a drip catcher and hurried to the stove to dump the noodles into the pan of pork and mushroom stroganoff. Thick slices of whole wheat bread slathered with Parmesan garlic butter sat on a baking sheet next to the stove, waiting to be set under the broiler when Alex arrived home.
She stirred the noodles to coat them with the rich sauce and wondered what it would feel like to be on a television show with an audience focused on her every move—even the not so graceful ones. But wasn't that what retakes and editing were for? Removing the klutziness. Some cooking shows actually broadcast the outtakes during the credits. She wouldn't be alone if she had to reshoot a scene because she smashed an egg on the side of a bowl instead of gently cracking it or dribbled red sauce down the front of her shirt. Or began speaking in a made-up language when her brain tripped ahead of her mouth. Or…there were a lot of "ors" that could go wrong.
Amy was so wrapped up in her TV star fantasy she didn't hear Alex's Jeep pull into the driveway. The beep of the security system touch pad didn't even penetrate her thoughts, but the frenzied spaz attack from Pogo did. She reacted to his first bark by flinging gravy onto the tiles behind the stove. Grace in action.
While Alex was busy greeting his canine best buddy, she slipped the garlic bread into the oven and used a dishrag to clean up the splatters. She turned and studied her husband. He was playing tug with Pogo using an old tube sock, which was the dog's favorite toy. Amy couldn't help but grin at the playful game. Alex glanced up as he took a break to scratch Pogo behind his ears and said, "It's great to see you smile. I know we haven't had a lot to smile about lately, considering what's been happening. Did you win a recipe contest or something?"
So much of her life revolved around food. It was a pretty easy guess that her good mood was related to cooking. He was just a wee bit off on the reason behind the food-related happiness burst. "Close." She stepped away from the stove and wrapped her arms around Alex's neck, being careful not to step on Pogo—who was circling both of them as though he was on a crazed merry-go-round. "I ran into the producer of Phoebe's show at a yoga class today. He's planning on replacing her and continuing the show. Nigel asked if I would be interested in doing some cooking guest segments."
The good mood drained from his expression quicker than the pasta water through the colander. His sigh ruffled the hair on the top of her head. "Nigel…is he the producer?"
She nodded.
"Did you tell him you would definitely take part in the show?"
She shook her head. Something was going on. Alex's thoughts appeared to be traveling down a whole different highway than hers. While she was excited, he definitely was not. "No, not exactly. We just exchanged contact information so that he can get in touch with me when he begins auditions. What's wrong?"
"Detective Foster seems very professional, but she is a rookie investigator. She doesn't know you or your background like Shepler does. I don't know how much influence he would have on her or if she even consults with him now that she is no longer in training." He placed his hands on top of Amy's shoulders and kissed her forehead. The scent of the toasting garlic bread mingled with his musky aftershave. "You might want to wait on pursuing this television deal until after the murderer is found. If you do get
a part in the show, I'm afraid it could be interpreted as profiting from Phoebe's death, and who knows where the assumptions could lead from there."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Amy smiled when Geri opened her apartment door. The artist's usually eclectic, Bohemian clothing had been replaced with some other style that Amy could only describe as lumberjack chic. The long skirts and embroidered tunics had been swapped out for form fitting, boot cut jeans and a pink plaid shirt. Geri was also sporting one of the hairstyles Amy had come up with on the night of the Dumpster fire. A long, glistening gray braid was draped over one shoulder.
"Come on in," Geri said as she stepped aside. "I'm so glad you're up for a little excursion."
Where exactly the trip would be to had been left out of the phone conversation a few hours earlier, replaced with the declaration that "it would be interesting." Since just about everything Geri did was interesting in Amy's opinion, she had agreed to come along on the mysterious outing. It most likely wouldn't be boring, considering the instigator.
"So what are we doing?" Amy asked as she glanced around the one-bedroom apartment, looking for clues as to what lie ahead. The uncharacteristic outfit was the only thing which appeared different. So she took a stab at what might be a logical, at least to her, reason for the wardrobe change-up. "Scouting petting farms that you can take Macy to this summer?"
Geri frowned. "No, why would you think that?"
Amy pointed at the pink-, black-, and white-checked shirt. "Your clothes remind me of what someone would wear on a farm."
"I was going for a more rustic and rugged look, not farmhand. Maybe I should've gone with red plaid instead of pink."
"The shirt is cute. Think of it as a rugged feminine style." Amy tilted her head to the side. Was Geri purposely changing the subject to clothing? "So where are we going?"
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