"Tom was the biggest prude I have ever dated, or known for that matter. I thought his head was going to explode when I took him to an adult novelty store for his birthday."
"Well I thought he was a nice guy. Glad you didn't kill him buying flavored massage oil and edible panties."
Carla slammed the car door shut. "I see your foodie obsession extends to the bedroom."
"Huh?" Amy carefully stepped over the curb and scanned the sidewalk ahead for loose pebbles. Tripping, at that point, would be an epic nightmare of a disaster. "What are you talking about?"
As Carla fell in step beside her she answered, "I mention sex toys, and you name edible ones, Miss Foodie."
"Those things may technically be safe to eat, but I wouldn't really consider them edible."
"Ha! Sounds like you've tried them."
It was also not a good time to reminisce about the long weekend she and Alex spent in Traverse City a couple years ago. Talk about a distraction. "If I drop this pie because you're messing around and making me not pay attention to where I'm walking, I won't make double chocolate muffins for you anymore."
"Okay. I'll stop." She held her hands up in surrender. "I can't live a week without those muffins."
Carla opened the heavy glass door and stepped aside. Elliot Maxson, owner of Maxson's Bakery and main sponsor of all of the Summer Festival baking contests greeted Amy. "I'm so glad you made it, my dear. You told me you were entering this contest too, but I was afraid something dreadful had happened as the hours ticked by."
Pogo was far from dreadful 97% of the time, but his unexpected foray into pie thievery sure was. She set the pie on the corner of the small table Elliot was sitting behind. He scribbled something on a sheet of paper then handed her a red sticker with the number 51 written on it.
"Thank you." She plucked the sticker out of his manicured grasp. "My dog ate my first pie this afternoon. Hopefully this one is just as good."
"I prefer canines over felines, if I am pressed to choose, but the seemingly perpetually hungry mongrels can choose the worst moments to help themselves to their owner's food." He flashed a sympathetic smile. "Please state the name of your pie."
"Bumble Apple Crumble Pie."
"What a fascinating moniker," he said as he filled in the blank on a form. He held out the clip board and used the tip of an ink pen to point at a line. "Please sign here. It's a document stating that you produced the pie from your own, original recipe. When I lived in Chicago an unscrupulous scoundrel entered a contest with a pie he had procured at a gourmet bakery. The disingenuous cad may have won if the professional baker who actually made the pie hadn't been a judge."
She looked at Carla and raised an eyebrow. So, her theory about Mandy Jo taking the pie to enter it as her own was plausible. As Amy signed her name she said, "I promise on my entire collection of cookbooks that I created an original recipe, and Carla is a witness that I baked it myself. This should be a scandal-free contest."
"Let's hope so." He gestured at a doorway in the movable divider wall that was used to split the space into two rooms. "Find an acceptable display space on one of the tables in the other room, and affix the sticker to the bottom of your pie tin, so it isn't visible. The numbers are to ensure impartial judging."
"Got it." Elliot had said the same thing to her dozens of times over the years, twice that week even. Did he think she was stupid and he needed to repeat it when she entered every contest? Or did he have to explain the numbers to every contestant for legal reasons?
The intoxicating scent of fresh baked goods intensified when Amy walked into the display room. Nobody else was in the room, so she had plenty of time to study the fifty other pies. As expected, that late in the day there was little space left on the three, long tables arranged end to end. A cluster of pies had accumulated directly in front of the door. A blatant ploy to be noticed by the judges when they entered the room. Glass pie plates rubbed shoulders with disposable aluminum pans. The front and center strategy was a decent one, as far as strategies went, but she had another one. She would put her beautiful, perfectly golden brown, crumble topped pie next to the ugliest one she could find. A splash of bright green caught her eye as she searched for prospective pie neighbors.
A pumpkin pie covered with scorched blisters and edged with a ragged, charred crust was definitely a contender, but the rainbow-colored pie at the end of the third table was the winner. She stopped to study the abomination. It appeared to be some kind of pineapple pie with a Grand Canyon sized crack, from being over-baked, spanning its width. Blobs of blue tinted, whipped cream crowned with green maraschino cherries were plopped in a random pattern on the fluorescent yellow filling. She had found the perfect pie to set hers next to. In fact, there was plenty of room around the garish creation, as if the other competitors were afraid its freakishness was contagious.
The table was too wide for Amy to reach the perfect spot from the front. She walked around to the back side. As she started to set down the pie her toe slammed into something protruding from under the table, but hidden by the ruffled, linen skirt. The pie plate thunked on the table. She held her breath as she once again examined the crumble and crust for cracks. Thankfully she didn't find any. Now to make sure none of the judges would trip like she had and shake the table or worse, do a face plant into her pie. Losing because of faults caused by someone other than herself…not a journey she wanted to take. She lifted up the fabric and screamed like a horror movie star.
"What's wrong? Did you drop your pie or something?" Carla yelled as she and ran into the room.
Amy shook her head. She couldn't take here eyes off Mandy Jo, sprawled under the table with a fresh raspberry pie smashed on her face. "Is she dead, Carla? She sure looks like she is."
"What…damn," Carla said as she rushed to Amy's side. She dropped to her knees and pressed her fingers into the side of Mandy Jo's neck. "I don't feel a pulse. Elliot call 9-1-1."
"Certainly." Elliot fished a cell phone out of his shirt pocket as he trotted across the room to see who was under the table. "Oh my," he said as he dialed the emergency number.
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning the scent of rich, sweet chocolate was Carla's alarm clock. Outside the window the sky was dusky blue. The sun wasn't up, but Amy was already baking. It had been close to midnight when she pulled back into Amy's driveway, her best friend sitting in the passenger seat apparently stunned into uncharacteristic silence from finding Mandy Jo's body. The day had been so strange and exhausting, with one catastrophe after another, ending in being questioned by a police officer, the gorgeous and charming Detective Bruce Shepler, who had danced out of her past and invaded her dreams the entire night.
She had gladly accepted Amy's offer to stay in the guest bedroom instead of driving back across town to her condo. Even though she always worked third shift in the ER, the night still had exhausted her. Within minutes of her head hitting the pillow she fell asleep. Hopefully the luscious scent creeping into the bedroom was from her favorite double chocolate muffins.
Carla pulled on a thick, white terry cloth robe to cover up the oversized T-shirt nightgown borrowed from Amy. Staying in the guest bedroom always made her feel like she had checked into a luxury resort, right down to the plush robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Alex and Amy had invested a lot of money in the two story Craftsman-style house. The place put her loft to shame, outdoing it in elegance and character. Here, stunning, original woodwork mingled with high-end finishes like glass tiles and marble countertops. Even the yard was impressive, thanks to a landscape architect and regular visits from a team of master gardeners. Marrying a successful entrepreneur had definitely improved Amy's lifestyle, but there was no reason to be jealous. If anybody deserved a golden ticket marriage it was Amy. Somehow she had not only survived growing up with a set of alcoholic parents, she had blossomed into a caring, generous woman with a fierce loyalty to her friends.
A quick check in the dresser mirror revealed a sever
e case of bed head. Carla loved the short, sassy haircut Amy had given her a month earlier. The cognac color with honey highlights was gorgeous too, but the hairstyle didn't fare well after a restless night of sleep. She grabbed a brush from her purse. A shower would be the only thing that would truly fix the mess, but she could at least attempt to tame the disheveled hedgehog look. After brushing her teeth and applying a slick of sheer lip gloss, she deemed herself presentable enough to make an appearance downstairs.
When Carla walked into the kitchen, Amy was peering into the open oven. She donned a pair of oven mitts and said, "Good morning. After our awful evening I decided to make quadruple chocolate muffins. Some chocolate therapy is definitely in order since it's too early for wine."
"I agree, but I have to tell you after working third shift I've drunk wine in the morning many times." She inhaled as Amy removed the jumbo muffins from the oven and slid the pan onto a cooling rack. Her stomach growled in anticipation. "What are the four kinds of chocolate?"
"Dark, semi-sweet, milk, and white."
Amy set the insulated coffee carafe and a couple mugs on the breakfast nook table. Then she pulled a carton of cream and an unlabeled glass bottle full of milky, brown liquid out of the refrigerator. "I don't know about you, but I kind of feel like I worked third shift. I'm lucky if I slept an hour. So you can have regular cream or homemade Irish cream liqueur in your coffee."
"I didn't sleep that bad, but I'm used to seeing dead people," Carla said as she poured coffee for herself. She uncorked the bottle of liqueur and topped off her mug. Hopefully Amy would follow suit. Her friend needed to chill out a bit. It looked like she was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe a joke would help. "Usually they aren't covered with pie, though."
"I can't believe Mandy Jo's dead." Amy used a butter knife to help lift the muffins out of the tin and arranged them on a clear, glass plate. She brought the plate and a couple smaller ones to the table. She sat down across from Carla and said, "I didn't like her, but I've never wanted to kill her. She was like my arch nemesis from a comic book. The Summer Festival cooking contests won't be the same now that she's gone."
Carla peeled the paper wrapper off a muffin and took a bite. Heavenly was too weak a word to describe the taste. Tender, intensely chocolate cake studded with pockets of gooey, melted chocolate. If there was a more decadent thing to eat for breakfast, she couldn't think of one at the moment. Poor Amy was exhausted and stressed out, but she still turned out muffins that were ten times better than anything Maxson's Bakery ever served. "You know she never worried about making friends. She preferred insulting people. It was like a game for her to see how much she could piss someone off. Being mean and nasty was her hobby. My guess is she finally went too far and someone snapped. It wasn't enough to kill her, but they smashed the pie in her face then left her body where it would be easily found, like they wanted people to see…"
"...her humiliated. An eye for an eye, but somebody upped the stakes." Amy shook her head. "I can't get the image of her lying under the table out of my head. I feel responsible."
"Did you kill her?"
"No!" Amy poured a healthy glug of liqueur into her coffee. "You know I can barely kill a fly when it's nibbling on my sugar cookies."
"Then why do you feel responsible for her death? I'd say all of the bad karma she put into the world finally came back around and gave her a lethal bite in the ass."
Deep furrows formed on Amy's forehead as she frowned. "Mandy Jo used to be somewhat nice when we worked together at the salon. I thought we would be friends at one point, after she confided in me that her parents were both alcoholics, like mine. She would get grumpy sometimes, but she was nowhere near as combative until Alex and I married. Instead of exchanging battle stories from our messed up childhoods, she went into full combat mode and I was her target."
This was a new one. Carla had met Amy five years earlier at a hospital fundraiser. Since then nothing had ever been mentioned about a connection between Mandy Jo and Amy's husband. "Why would your marriage turn her into a raging psycho?"
"Because Alex designed the signs for Elegance Salon. He came in quite a bit to take measurements and discuss things with Thalia. Mandy Jo liked him just as much as I did. He even went out on dates with both of us. When he chose me over her it was like I broke her cookies, melted her crayons, and threw her lunch in the trash all at the same time. She actually called me her mortal enemy because I stole 'her man'. I wonder if the way she treats…treated other people was because of overflow anger for me."
"So you won the awesome guy, and the last few years you've been kicking her butt in the Summer Festival cake and cookie contests." She held her mug up in a salute. "Way to piss off your enemy."
"Except I haven't won a pie contest, but that's just because I've never entered one before now. I'm pretty sure I would've beaten her, especially if the pie on her face was her entry."
Carla took a sip of coffee. Amy was sweet and funny, but she had a wicked competitive streak. She'd crush an opponent in Scrabble and then serve the poor loser the best peach cobbler they had ever tasted to soften the blow. "You've never told me about her and Alex. Considering how unstable she could've been from growing up with drunks as parental role models, I'm surprised she didn't try to kill you. You aren't supposed to poke at a rattlesnake with a stick."
Amy plucked her second muffin off the plate. "I know. I just hate to lose. I thought she would mellow out after she got married this spring. It was her chance to start a new life and forget about her past, but I swear she just got angrier."
"Not everyone can move on, like you did, after having a crappy childhood. You know, the increased anger could've come from never even getting on the podium in the cookie and cake contests. Close, but you lose to Amy Ridley. Again."
"You're not making me feel any better." Amy ran her fingers through her long, blonde hair and sighed. "I need to make it up to her. I was thinking while I couldn't sleep last night. I'm going to talk to Elliot Maxson to see about doing some kind of memorial. Either renaming the pie contest in her honor or buying a memorial bench at Town Center Park."
"I have to say, considering how much you two hated each other, it seems like spearheading a memorial would be the last thing you'd want to do."
Amy shrugged. "She's dead, and she wasn't even 30 years old. Maybe she would've turned her life around eventually. I bet her attitude would've changed completely if she had lived long enough to become a mother. Dealing with a sour attitude mimicking mini me would've been a pretty good incentive to be nicer. Besides, being more unpleasant than a dozen deviled eggs left in a hot car all day doesn't mean she deserved to be murdered."
* * *
Amy waved good-bye as she stood under the side door awning and watched Carla's red Nissan Juke back out of the driveway. Sleepovers with her best friend usually happened after they had stayed up too late watching movies and drinking wine. Never in her craziest dreams did she ever expect Carla to stay over because they were both too shell-shocked and exhausted to move after the chaos from finding a dead body.
She walked back into the kitchen. The scent of chocolate, usually one of her favorite things, did little to counteract the muscle melting tiredness of only getting about an hour of sleep. She picked up the plates and mugs from the breakfast nook table and put them in the dishwasher. The dirty dishes from making the muffins were already deposited there. Cleaning as she cooked was a habit that served her well. It was much easier to scrutinize the flavor of a new muffin or texture of an experimental pudding cake when there wasn't a sink full of dirty dishes nearby, practically begging to be cleaned. Okay. The dirty dishes didn't talk, but she couldn't stand to see them sitting there, like batter coated chore devils perched on her shoulder.
Her robin's egg blue, cotton pajamas were covered with new embellishments, clouds of flour and cocoa powder. The messiness of her cooking always calibrated with her energy level. Exhaustion combined with forgetting to put on an apron meant her
favorite pajamas needed to meet some stain remover stat. She grabbed her laptop from the desk in the corner of the kitchen and went upstairs.
Alex was at the most important conference of the year for his business, Quantum Media. Every year he came home from the meetings and trade show excited about a new product or technique he had discovered. Since there was nothing he could do about Mandy Jo's death, Amy had decided to take the less disruptive route and send him an email in the middle of the night, instead of calling, when she and Carla had gotten home. Since she hadn't heard from him immediately that meant, like she expected, he had already logged off from his email account for the night when her message arrived. As a business owner, he checked his email fanatically. He should be reading about the pie contest of doom at any moment.
Amy set the computer on the bed and disappeared into the walk-in closet. It was a yoga pants and T-shirt with no bra kind of day. Nothing to do except search for new cooking contests, cook, and try to forget about Mandy Jo's pie-covered, lifeless face. A nap would also be nice. The phone rang as Amy was smearing stain remover gel on the chocolate spotted pajama bottoms. She tossed the pants into the hamper and ran to the phone on the nightstand. Alex's name was on the caller ID screen.
She answered then settled onto the unmade bed to recount the evening for her husband. Her hands trembled as if she'd drunk a quadruple shot latte, and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes by the time she got done explaining everything. Then Alex asked the question she dreaded answering, "Do you want me to come home?"
Of course, she didn't want to spend more time than necessary alone with her disturbing, I found a dead person memories. Snuggling up with Alex would help her forget the creepiest cooking competition ever. She just couldn't ask him to cut short his business trip because she had the heebie-jeebies.
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