Banana Muffins & Mayhem

by Janel Gradowski

  There was a parking space open in the first row nearest the doors. Bruce grunted again when the front tires smacked the curb. The ride had turned him into a caveman. Carla scrambled out of the car and turned toward the back seat to get Macy. But the baby wasn't there. The next door neighbor with the budding soccer team of children had offered to take care of Macy many times. Carla had finally accepted the offer. The need to see what condition Amy and Alex were in overrode the reluctance to let her sweet defenseless baby hang out with a soccer ball-toting horde of older children. She'll be fine. Carla repeated the mantra to herself as she sprinted to the entrance doors. Hopefully, Amy would be too.

  The admission nurses in the waiting area buzzed her through the doors to the exam rooms when she called out who she was looking for. Inside the inner sanctum of the ER, she scanned the arc of glass-walled rooms as she veered toward the nurse's station in the center of the space. "Amy and Alex Ridley. Came in from a car accident downtown," she said to Belinda. One of the many nurses who had been like a sister to her.

  "We have to stop meeting like this," Belinda said. She pointed to the left. "They're together in room four."

  The large rooms had space for two beds. When strangers occupied them, a curtain was drawn in between to give the patients privacy. The divider was drawn back. Amy lay on her side, facing Alex's bed. Both were being prepped for stitches on their heads.

  "You're here!" Amy said as she held out her hand.

  Carla rushed to the bedside and squeezed her best friend's fingers. Because it was basically the only thing she could do. She had always gotten a rush over helping people. But now that she was no longer an employee of Kellerton Hospital, the only support she could provide was morale. She'd found that out when Bruce ended up there. Helplessness was not an emotion she liked.

  "Of course I'm here. And so is Bruce. You are in excellent hands. I would trust anybody in this ER with my life, but you know I'm always here for you." She leaned closer to peer at the small patch where the hair had been shaved off the back of Amy's head. A ragged, bloody gash was punctuated with a deep crater. "Looks like you tangled with some broken glass."

  "We got it all out," someone said as Carla focused on the cut, instinctively looking for signs of remaining glass hidden in the coagulated blood. She nodded. The wound looked clean to her, but she didn't really have any say in the matter. That realization prickled under her skin like an electrical current. What had she done to her life? Helping people had been ingrained in her for so long—it was like breathing. And not being able to do it felt as though she was drowning. Yet how was she supposed to help others if she couldn't even accomplish showering every day anymore?

  Carla grabbed the bed rail with her free hand as her knees wobbled. It wasn't the right time or place to have an existential crisis. She took a deep breath and imagined a door shutting, closing off her emotions. It was a technique she had used often while working long hectic shifts at the hospital. She needed to stay strong and confident for Amy.

  "Do you have any idea what happened?" Bruce asked Alex.

  "The Jeep's engine blew up. We were only going about twenty-five miles per hour, and I'm certain there was nothing wrong with the engine. It wasn't knocking or making an odd noise. I think there was a bomb under the hood."

  Amy's eyes widened as she squeezed Carla's hand tighter. She didn't say a word though. Nobody needed to speak because they were all thinking the same thing—who had tried to kill Amy and Alex? And why?

  "This has to be connected to that TV star's murder, doesn't it?" Carla asked.

  Bruce's chest puffed out as he took a deep breath. "I would think it's very likely, but I don't know Detective Foster's opinion."

  Alex slammed the mattress with his fist. "She thinks the threats I've been receiving aren't directly connected to the murder—that someone is capitalizing on it to screw with my company. The thing is, there have been no demands, let alone any indication of what exactly Quantum or I have done to bring on this vendetta. There is no point to the threats, which I can see, if they aren't directly connected to the murder as a way to throw the investigation off track."

  A vein on the edge of Bruce's forehead bulged out. His green eyes practically glowed with anger. Not good. He had spent months training Lauren Foster, yet she wouldn't acknowledge a connection that was obvious to him. So much for him taking a break to rest and heal. His former trainee would likely be on the receiving end of another investigative lesson soon. "I'll poke around a bit and see what I can find out," he said. "I have a difficult time believing a troll who stumbled upon a chance to cause trouble would resort to attempted murder just for the fun of it."

  Carla's mother appeared in the doorway of the crowded room. A cardboard drink carrier with three to-go cups of coffee fitted into the depressions was in her hands. Her gaze locked on Carla. "Where's Macy?"

  "The woman who lives next door is watching her."

  She nodded then turned her attention to Amy. "I found an espresso cart in the hospital's main lobby. I figured you two would appreciate real coffee instead of whatever those vending machines in the waiting area spit out."

  A viper of jealousy twisted around Carla's chest. Once again her mother had slipped into the role Carla used to play in Amy's life. Nothing was right anymore.

  "Here you go, sweetheart. It's a cinnamon and honey latte. I thought you might like it," her mother said as she handed Amy one of the cups. She looked at Carla. "I don't know about you, but I think these two are doing pretty good considering what happened."

  "I'd say so," Carla said. She walked out of the room and made a beeline to the water and ice station. Amy needed to stay still while the stitches were being done. A straw would be the best way to keep her head immobile while feeding her coffee addiction.

  When she returned to the room, the doctor in charge was standing between the beds. He addressed Carla. "No signs of internal injury. No broken bones. They both sustained quite a few bruises and some temporary hearing loss. We just need to get a few sutures into the head lacerations, and they'll be ready to go home."

  Her mother raised her coffee cup. "I can take them home. Plenty of room in my van."

  And it would be a tight squeeze for two battered adults to fit into the back seat of her car, especially since the baby seat was still there. Another victory for her mother. But declaring it a victory meant that they were in a battle—and they weren't. Were they? She and Amy were still best friends.

  Carla thanked the doctor as she unwrapped a straw and fitted it into the lid of Amy's latte. Her hands were shaking thanks to her metamorphosis into a giant bundle of raw emotions. She was worried about her best friend, angry at her mother for being a caring person, and frustrated with herself for losing control of her emotions. Oh yeah, she was rocking the hot mess persona.

  "Sounds like it will be a little while yet," Bruce said as he placed his hand on Carla's shoulder. "Want to step outside with me while I make a few phone calls?"

  She knew what he was doing—trying to get her out of the room so that her former colleagues could do their jobs without her unneeded meddling. Like she had done when he was lying on one of the beds. How had she gone from competent trauma nurse to annoying bystander? "I'll be back in a bit," she said to Amy.

  As they walked through the waiting room, Bruce put his hand on her forearm, but she shrugged it off. He was trying to comfort her, but she didn't want to be coddled. She wanted to feel like a normal person again. Instead of a stressed-out maniac. What was wrong with her, and what did she need to do to get her life back on track?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Amy slid her leg sideways so that it was sitting in the ray of warm sunshine. She flexed her foot to try to loosen the tight, sore muscles in her ankle. But that wasn't her only aching body part. According to Geri, the explosion had propelled the Jeep several feet into the air. When it slammed down onto the pavement, she and Alex were tossed around inside, their limbs slamming into the dashboard, center console, and various ot
her hard surfaces. Getting out of bed had been an agonizing chore for her and Alex that morning. As they lay under the sheets discussing what to do, they had decided to go about business as usual. Or at least as well as they physically could after playing the part of the prize inside the exploding Jeep piñata.

  According to her very mechanically savvy husband, there was no mechanical explanation for the explosion, but no evidence had been found by police investigators yet to confirm that it was a bomb. The charred Jeep had been removed from Main Street and taken to the state police crime lab. But pieces of an explosive device could've been blown onto rooftops or washed away in gutters when the fire was extinguished. There was a chance that no evidence was left on the melted wreckage.

  Alex figured that the twisted person behind the threats, fire, and explosion was very likely watching him. He refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing how scared and hurt he really was. So after slowly getting ready, to a soundtrack of groans and gasps whenever a new ache was discovered, Amy drove him to Quantum to begin his workday.

  If her husband could be brave, so could she. For her act of defiance, she was sitting in plain sight in the sunny window of Riverbend Café. News of the accident had spread throughout the downtown businesses faster than the fire had spread through the doomed vehicle. She was greeted with crushing hugs from Sophie and most of the staff with whom she was scheduled to work with the following morning. After being given unlimited time off to recover, Amy retreated to the warmest spot she could find in the dining area, with a vanilla cinnamon latte in one hand and an apricot bar in the other. She had warmed up some frozen muffins and managed to make a pot of coffee at home, but a second caffeine-drenched, sugar-filled breakfast could only improve her mood, especially when the meal came from the café.

  Amy tilted her head to the side to stretch out her tender neck muscles. Waiting for Detective Foster to make an arrest wasn't working for her anymore. She wouldn't wait around to be killed while the detective accused half of the town of leading secret lives behind their spouse's backs. Who, if anybody, was the detective's top suspect? Amy had no idea, but she did know who was at the top of her list.

  She made a quick phone call. There was just enough time to finish the midmorning meal before she had to leave for the meeting she had set up. After eating every crumb of the dense cake filled with dried fruit and nuts, she set the plate in the dirty dishes bin near the trash can then gave Sophie a quick hug. Outside on the sidewalk, it felt as though she was being watched. Then she realized people were probably looking at her slowly limping along. Her gate wasn't elegant, but she made it back to the Mini, which was parked at the end of the block. She awkwardly dropped into the driver's seat. Gracefully completing the maneuver wasn't possible, so she settled for accuracy. The last thing she needed was to end up sitting on the pavement instead of inside her car.

  Sliding back out from underneath the steering wheel a while later in the K Hotel parking lot wasn't any more fun. Her muscles had locked into the sitting position and were protesting being straightened out again to stand. She steeled herself for the walk through the lobby and into the central courtyard. If she tried really hard, there was a chance she could manage not to move like an arthritic eighty-year-old woman. A perpetual case of food poisoning wouldn't be enough revenge for the person who had made her feel so terrible. Not to mention, there was now a small bald spot on the back of her head around the line of stitches. Her hair would never grow back on the scar. Yup. Someone needed to pay big-time. But was she zeroed in on the correct someone…or someones?

  The elegant hotel lobby was breathtakingly beautiful. Amy admired the lush flower arrangements scattered around the area as she made her way toward the center of the hotel complex. She hoped that she looked as though she was moving slowly because she was appreciating the gorgeous surroundings, not because she was in too much pain to go any faster.

  She stopped at the end of the wall of windows which faced the interior courtyard. The space was bathed in sore muscle-warming sunshine. But Nigel and Ginny were seated at a table in a shady corner. There were several guests milling around the landscaped outdoor space and more walking along the window-lined hallway that ringed the courtyard. Plenty of witnesses and potential helpers, just in case the possible murderers went berserk after being called out for the crime.

  Amy winced as she took a step toward the nearest French door. Her right ankle throbbed, and the big toe on her other foot was bruised, but she was sure she could run if she needed to. She forced herself to breathe normally as she crept along the paths winding around trees, fountains, and raised flowerbeds. The producer and assistant leaned toward each other. They seemed oblivious to her approach.

  "Good morning," Amy said when she was a few feet away from the table.

  Ginny, whose back was facing Amy, flinched. She turned around and glared. "Whatever. I'm not a morning person."

  Snark deserves more snark. "It's almost noon, so maybe you'll be in a better mood soon."

  Nigel smirked as he gestured toward an unoccupied chair across the table from him. "I wish the clock was like a switch when she's cranky in the morning. She'd go from the wicked stepsister to sweet Cinderella at the stroke of noon."

  The producer looked as disheveled and untidy as ever. Ginny was sporting a casual, rock band groupie look with a super tight Rolling Stones lips T-shirt, artfully ripped blue jeans, and red Converse high tops. She shook her head. The sunlight reflected off the rhinestone-studded headband that held her hair back. Ginny narrowed her eyes at Nigel and said, "Keep it up. I'll break my glass slipper over your head."

  Or blow up your vehicle. Amy sat down. Adrenalin was apparently a pain reliever since the move didn't hurt nearly as much as she had expected. She raised one eyebrow at Nigel. "Better watch it. The princesses with glass slippers are always tougher than you'd expect."

  Wow. Had the explosion brought out a hidden abrasive side of her personality? She didn't know where her unusually catty attitude was coming from, but it was working well in the situation. Nigel laughed again and asked, "So what can we help you with?"

  Amy crossed her legs. That move didn't feel pleasant. Incentive to get to the point. "I was wondering what the real reason is that you two are still hanging around Kellerton. I doubt you have that many people lined up to audition for the shiny new reincarnation of Phoebe's show."

  Ginny's perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up. "What does it matter to you?"

  "And what, exactly, do you think we're doing?" Nigel asked.

  Amy crossed her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward. She couldn't see anyone else since she was focused on Nigel, but she could hear steps on the cobblestones somewhere in the courtyard. They weren't alone. Good. Someone would notice if the pair dragged her to the central fountain and tried to drown her in it. "Oh, I don't know. How about planting a bomb in my husband's Jeep yesterday?" she whispered.

  "What the hell!" Nigel exclaimed. "What are you talking about? Are you accusing us of trying to kill your husband?"

  A patch of red appeared in Amy's peripheral vision. The source of the footsteps. A woman wearing a scarlet dress froze for a few seconds as she stared at Nigel with her mouth hanging open. Then she turned around and hurried away. So much for help from strangers. Amy met his angry glare and answered. "Yes. Somebody almost killed me and my husband. And you two are the most likely culprits in my opinion because I think one, or both, of you murdered Phoebe."

  "We didn't kill her, and we didn't try to kill you." Ginny shook her head so violently the elastic headband slipped backward and fell on the floor behind her chair. "We're looking for Phoebe's murderer."

  Okay…that was a twist she hadn't thought of. Or a great diversion to throw her off. There was an easy way to find out if the revelation was true. "Really? So who do you think killed her?"

  Ginny wrinkled her nose as though she had smelled one of Pogo's doggy toots. "You."

  Damn it. The plot twists were giving her a headache. "Why would you think t
hat?"

  "Phoebe is the only person who wasn't a local judge in that muffin contest. You probably bribed the other judges to rig it so that you would win. But Phoebe refused." Ginny pointed her black-painted fingernail at Amy. "So you killed her."

  "Your theory has more holes in it than a slice of focaccia. For one thing, you tasted the food in place of Phoebe. You even told me how much you liked my muffins, so you should realize how my recipe stacked up to the others. Two—I won, so why would I kill her afterward? And three—did you even look at the bio on my website?"

  The barrage of sensibility seemed to confuse the duo. They looked at each other. Nigel shrugged. "I don't get it. What does your website have to do with you bribing a judge?"

  Amy took a deep breath. She had thought they were a pair of cunning killers. They certainly weren't very bright though. Their rank on her suspect list was going down by the second. "If you had actually checked out my credentials online like you said you did, then you'd know that I've won many recipe contests—even national ones. The prize in the Muffin Tin Madness contest was a trophy and a fifty-dollar prepaid debit card. Nobody would kill for that. It was just a friendly little local competition with no hard feelings between anybody." She tapped her fingernails on the glass table several times. "Neither of you have seemed distressed by Phoebe's death. Why would you bother trying to find the killer of someone you obviously didn't like much?"

  Nigel looked at Ginny. "I think I should tell her, before she goes to the police and gets us in trouble." His shoulders sagged. "We've been badmouthing Phoebe to try to flush out the killer. I figured the person most likely had some kind of issue with her, so maybe they would commiserate with other haters—in our case, pretend haters, and admit to what they had done. We're trying to find the killer because we feel responsible for her death. I was dating Phoebe, but she found out I was cheating on her a few days before we came to Kellerton. That's why she was in such a bad mood. Honestly, she was much nicer than what everybody witnessed that weekend. She was pissed off at me and not acting like herself." He ran his fingers through his already messed up hair. "I think that's why she ended up with that stranger in the bar. It was her way of getting back at me."