Banana Muffins & Mayhem

by Janel Gradowski

Ginny nodded. Her dark hair was slicked back and so stiff it looked as though she was wearing a helmet. It didn't move a millimeter when she turned her head to grab a couple sugar packets from the basket on the table. Definitely not a hairstyle that would commonly be seen in Kellerton.

  "So you said you wanted to talk about preparing for the audition?" Ginny asked.

  The severe hairstyle seemed to match the production assistant's mood. She had been friendlier the last time they had spoken at the café. Amy forced another smile. "Well…yes. I have to say when I called you, I was surprised you and Nigel were still in town. I figured surely you would've finished looking for people for the show and gone back to Traverse City by now."

  Ginny crossed her legs. She was wearing knee-high, black boots over hot-pink leggings. The lady-like move could be a habit. Or a position to make it more convenient to whip out a knife hidden in the top of a boot. Amy used the coffee stirrer to turn the sweet kitten drawing into an abstract swirl. Why was Ginny just staring at her instead of answering? Oh yeah—she hadn't really asked a question.

  "Nigel and I are staying to do some more talent scouting. He and I have been going on press appearances with Phoebe for a few months. Nigel figured she was getting ready to bail, so we've been checking out replacements behind her back for a while. Since we're settled in at the K Hotel, we've just been doing follow-up interviews with people we're interested in who live in the metro Detroit area."

  So they weren't looking for people just in Kellerton. Or so she said. "I see. I hope you're enjoying Kellerton more than Phoebe did. I don't think she liked the town very much."

  Ginny rolled her eyes, which were ringed with bright-purple eyeliner. "She was crankier than normal. Nigel had been trying to get her to be more professional, so she was mad at him. Everything had to be done her way. Never mind that she had zero experience working on a television show before then. She made everything one hundred times more difficult for the crew because she refused to take any kind of direction or advice."

  "So she didn't like being told what to do, even when it would benefit her?"

  "Exactly."

  "Then I bet the crew is glad she's gone. I mean, I'm sure nobody wished she would die, but maybe it's a relief to not have to work with her anymore."

  Ginny ran her hand down her leg. It came to rest at the edge of her boot. Amy swallowed. Had she cornered the killer, just like Shepler had done a few days earlier? Was the assistant about to pull a knife out of her boot and go full-on lethal samurai?

  "Unlike Phoebe, everybody else is a professional. We're used to working with difficult talent. One of the perils of the job." Ginny tapped her pointed, neon-green painted fingernail on the tabletop. "If you think one of us killed her, you're wrong."

  Busted! "No…no, I didn't think that." Amy stared at the flames flickering in the fireplace behind Ginny. If she dared meet the challenging gaze, it would all be over. She would break out in a plethora of nervous ticks. Staring at the flames let her keep a bit of control. "I just can't imagine what it's like to have to go to work and deal with an unpleasant person all the time. I certainly wouldn't enjoy it. I work in this café part-time, and everybody is so nice. I love coming to work, but I wouldn't feel the same if I had to face someone who acted like Phoebe every time I came in."

  "Then you're very lucky." Ginny slid her hand up her leg and positioned it on her knee. "Many people don't have it so good."

  How had the conversation that she had hoped to keep light and evasive turned so dark and confrontational? Maybe she could turn it back around a bit to see if she could throw Ginny, the true intention bloodhound, off track. "I apologize for bringing up so much unpleasantness. I'm afraid this conversation has wandered far from what I asked you to meet me for."

  "Ookaaay…what did you want?" Ginny tilted her head to the side. Her stiffened hair stayed glued to the side of her head. Hopefully, she packed a lot of shampoo, far more than one mini bottle that the hotel would provide, because it was going to take several washes to get all of that hair gel out.

  "I come up with my own recipes, so I was wondering what type of dishes would be appropriate for the show…if I get the call from Nigel to audition."

  Ginny blinked several times, revealing highlighter-blue eye shadow. "Do you mean like salmon or tofu?"

  "Sort of. I meant style more than ingredient." Ginny's expression went blank. At least that was better than angry or suspicious. "Like a special dish that could be prepared for a dinner party or maybe quick to cook dinners or entrees that can be adapted to both vegetarians and meat eaters."

  "Oh. Nigel has never said exactly what he's looking for from cooking segment guests. All I know is that he wants to do them this time around. I guess that would be up to you." She smiled. "Although I mostly eat a plant-based diet, I'm a flexitarian. So I would like to see the recipes that can be changed, just in case I ever begin dating a guy who eats meat more frequently than I do."

  And Amy almost sighed with relief. What appeared to be a genuine smile was much better than a coffee mug lobbed at her head, which is what she feared was coming when the perceptive assistant had become offended. "Then I'll make that kind of recipe."

  "Excellent. Good luck." Ginny stood and grabbed her to-go cup off the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some files to update for Nigel."

  Amy watched the human neon rainbow weave through the maze of tables and customers. Ginny slipped the strap of her lemon-yellow tote bag off her shoulder to search for something inside it. The opening gaped, revealing packs of tissues, a hairbrush…and what appeared to be the handle of a pistol.

  * * *

  Amy traced over the capital G printed on the paper. The practice page resembled a writing lesson for an elementary school student. A flat-tipped calligraphy pen turned the plain looking letter, composed of a faint dotted line, into a miniature work of art with thick and thin areas. Since she didn't have to do much of anything other than hold the pen at a certain angle, the effect was sort of magical. She loved adding curlicues and swirls to invent her own unique font.

  Intently focusing on a task was a nice distraction from trying to figure out what, exactly, had happened at the coffee meeting with Ginny that morning. Had the assistant sniffed out Amy's true intentions or been truly thrown off course by the twisting conversation? Worrying about Ginny's deductive skills had led Amy into a recipe-testing frenzy during the afternoon. Unfortunately, that distracted cooking session had resulted in trying to shred her knuckle, along with a carrot, on a box grater. The wound hurt, but at least the bandage was cute. Carla had given her silver holographic glitter ones for a birthday present. As Amy smoothed down a loosened edge of the sparkle-tastic bandage, someone behind her asked, "Is this seat taken?"

  Neither one of the seats beside her had been taken since she had arrived early for the calligraphy class. Amy smiled as she looked up at the person asking the question. The bright track lights on the ceiling produced a halo around the woman's head. Amy willed her lips to stay in a smile, even though the desire to do so had vanished when she realized who wanted to sit next to her—Detective Foster.

  "No, it's not taken."

  "Would you mind if I sit here then?" The willowy police officer didn't wait for an answer before plunking down at the drafting desk. "I wanted to talk to you."

  So much for tracing letters to distract herself from worrying. There wasn't even a smidgen of pleasantness in the detective's tone of voice. Amy searched her memories. When had Foster sounded friendly? Never. Was that because she wasn't, or did the perpetual seriousness just go along with her job duties? Amy was used to dealing with fellow competitors during cooking contests. Some of those people had attitudes that were far from honey sweet. So she could cope with a personality that was about as appealing as an unsweetened rhubarb ice pop for a while. She would just pretend they were competing in a calligraphy drawing contest.

  Detective Foster was arranging her notebook and pens on the desk. If she wanted to talk business after hou
rs at a fun class—two could play that game. Amy leaned sideways and said, "I want to talk to you too. Do you know that the production crew for Phoebe's show is still in town? I don't know about you, but I wonder why."

  Of course she knew why Nigel and Ginny said they were still in Kellerton. And she also knew she had just thrown them under the murder investigation bus's wheels. But something about the couple didn't seem quite right. She didn't really care to take on a pair of possible killers, or a murderer and an accomplice, on her own—or any more than she already had. At least Foster carried her own weapon and could call in backup if she needed it, in case Ginny really did have a gun mingling with the lip gloss and credit cards in her purse. Amy dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand to slow down the parade of excuses she was making to herself for pointing fingers. She had been so busy with her internal dialog that it took a while to realize the law enforcement officer had stayed silent. The only language was nonverbal. Not a vernacular which Amy enjoyed since her physical cues often made her seem rather crazy with ticks and twitches. On the other hand, Foster had a cold stare that could unnerve a CIA spy.

  A couple more seconds of uncomfortable visual scrutiny passed before she said, "I hope you understand that because of your connection to the murder, I can't place full trust in you. But I would like to thank you for the photos and tips on suspicious behavior."

  Was that a formal, roundabout way of telling her to shut up? Several women entered the room, laughing and chatting. Amy wished she could join in the jovial conversation because the one she was engaged in was about as vibrant and appealing as plain tofu. She wasn't even sure how to respond to the passive-aggressive comment. "You're welcome?"

  More unnerving staring. What was up with that? They weren't sitting in a room at the police station. The detective needed to ease up on her intensity a bit. People might be willing to give more information to her if she softened up her intimidating, stainless steel attitude when she was speaking to informants. Unless the tough persona was what the detective used when confronting suspects. Did that mean she was a suspect?

  "How well do you know the employees at Quantum Media?" Foster uncapped one of the pens and made a short dash in a notebook to get the ink flowing. All of the practice papers were arranged precisely side by side on the slanted desktop.

  Why hadn't she lied and told the detective that the seat was taken? Oh, because it would've been obvious she had lied when the class began and nobody else was sitting beside her. Amy's optimism wilted a bit more—baby spinach leaves under a flood of hot bacon dressing. "I don't know any of them well. I chat with people often when I visit Alex at the office or at company parties, but we usually talk about things like the weather or food."

  "So you don't have much knowledge on what any of them do away from the office."

  Was that a question or a statement? Her voice was so monotone it was difficult to tell. There was no inflection to indicate it was a question, but the murder investigator was looking at her as though she expected a response.

  "No," Amy said. Because short and sweet was better than rambling and suspicious. Which was her usual modus operandi when under pressure.

  "How long have you and Alex been married?"

  Amy squeezed her injured knuckle. A little pain to keep her in the moment, thinking pro-actively. Brevity was the name of the game. She had a feeling spewing more words than necessary would leave her with more woes. Even though she was so angry at the direction the conversation was taking that she wanted to launch into a very wordy rant. "It'll be eight years next month."

  Foster's gaze followed a teenage girl who had walked into the classroom. The detective's merciless stare was a force field directing the girl away from the desk in front of Amy, where she was heading. Once the possible eavesdropper was telepathically dispatched to the front row, the detective continued. "Do you feel as though you know your husband well?"

  So tact wasn't high on the detective's list of skills either. Or maybe it was a tactic, to rattle her, instead of tactlessness. "Of course! Why would we stay married that long if we weren't close?"

  "Some people are very good at hiding their secrets. Not even family members know what is really happening in their lives. I've had narcotics cases where spouses have had no idea their significant other was involved in illegal drug trafficking. Or at least that's what they said. Many times I think people just ignore the signs that are right in front of them and pretend nothing is wrong so that they can continue on with their happy, oblivious lives."

  * * *

  Even though it was late when Amy arrived home from the calligraphy class, she couldn't stop herself from pulling angel hair pasta out of the pantry and eggs from the fridge. She was so freaked-out she needed to do something. The impromptu snack wasn't meant in a cooking is calming manner. No, it was pure and simple stress eating.

  She set a saucepan of water on the stove to boil then plopped a chunk of butter into a small frying pan. As it melted, she tipped the pan to evenly coat the bottom. Buttered pasta with a crispy fried egg on top with lots of black pepper would soon be in a bowl. That's what her tortured heart was telling her overworked brain that her twisted stomach would like.

  Sounds from the television in the den mingled with the hiss of the egg sizzling in the hot butter. Alex was watching some kind of sports—his usual way of winding down in the evening after a long week. Although she had checked on him when she first arrived home, and he was currently sound asleep in his recliner in front of the huge flat screen. Pogo's doggy alarm system hadn't even bothered his pre-bedtime nap. She couldn't blame him for being tired. It sure had been a long and arduous week. She had no doubt that her husband didn't have a secret, evil side.

  Detective Foster had tried to plant that seed, but the idea wasn't going to take root. Amy wasn't going to let it—at least not as far as Alex was concerned. But she had no problems letting it take flight like a dandelion puff and land somewhere else. Someone was good at concealing their homicidal tendencies from the world. Once that flower bloomed, she would get her pruning shears out and make sure that deadly "flower" ended up in jail.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Amy watched as Geri played peekaboo with her granddaughter. The baby was lying on one of the floor pillows. She kicked and waved her arms around as Geri used a black silk scarf to cover her face and then reveal it over and over. The game sent Macy into a fit of adorable baby giggles.

  Carla sat on the corner of the couch watching her daughter and mother play. She took a sip of iced tea and then said, "I have to admit, it does feel good to get out of the house for a while. Bruce said my hover-wife routine was driving him crazy. And— I confess that I was driving myself a little insane, too."

  "You know I'm happy to have you and Macy over whenever you want to stop by. And Bruce too, if he wants to come along," Geri said as she swiped the scarf away from her face, eliciting a flurry of baby cackles. "My work in the studio is pretty flexible. So just give me a bit of warning to arrange a break, and I'll have the tea ready when you arrive."

  Amy held up her hand. "And you know you're always welcome at my house. I miss the old days when you would stop in for breakfast after working the night shift."

  "It seems like that was a hundred years ago, doesn't it?" Carla shook her head slightly. "Sometimes it takes my breath away to think about how much my life has changed in the last few years—from living alone to married mommy."

  "Change is good though, right?" Amy wiggled around so that she was facing Carla on the other end of the couch. "Isn't it better to be a happily married momma than a night-dwelling, stressed-out workaholic?"

  She nodded in agreement. "It is, but I'm still stressed out. Bruce getting shot has completely thrown me off kilter. When have you ever seen me go crazy like I did in the ER?" Carla tilted her head to the side as she looked Amy in the eye. "And speaking of freaked-out people, Bruce told me to let you know to lay off trying to help Lauren by giving her information. She's pretty weirded out by it. Sound
s like she's come up with some off-the-wall ideas for who could've committed the murder, so you never know how she could twist anything you say to her."

  "Too late." Amy wrapped a strand of her hair around her index finger. "I talked to her last night about the television show's producer still being in town. And ended up with her asking me how well I know Alex's employees. I got the distinct feeling that she suspects the killer works at Quantum."

  Carla glanced at her cell phone then held her arms out to Macy who wiggled excitedly in response. "I'm not going to say I told you so, but that's exactly the kind of thing I was talking about. Bruce said it seems that she's somehow turning around straight-forward leads and taking them into completely different directions." She picked up the baby. "Sorry to rain on your parade and run, but I need to get going to pick up the pizza I ordered. Deep dish with all meat and extra cheese, my husband's ideal comfort food. He's been so agitated from not being able to work this week, I'll try anything to make him happy again."

  "Good luck!" Amy said as she stood up. She retrieved the baby blanket that was flung over a nearby chair and handed it to Carla. "If you need me to make some vanilla cupcakes or a carrot cake to help appease his grizzly-bear routine, let me know."

  Those two desserts were among Shepler's favorites. If they could help perk up his downer mood, she would be more than happy to make them. Both desserts, if needed. While Carla was a whiz at trauma medicine and now motherhood, she readily admitted that the kitchen was not an area she did well in. Since the arrival of her daughter, there was even less time to learn how to cook.

  When Carla and Macy were safely on their way to pick up the pizza, Geri and Amy settled back down on opposite ends of the couch. "I'm glad to see Carla in a good mood," Geri said. "I thought she was going to have a nervous breakdown when she dropped Macy off the day Bruce was shot. I was terrified she would get in an accident on the way there, but she refused to let me drive. Didn't want the baby anywhere near the emergency room. It's puzzling to me how she is repelled by the place she spent so many years of her life working. I always thought she loved her job there."