Amy patted Rori's arm. "She's changed clothes and applied different makeup. I'd say she felt well enough to at least try to go to the party, so I'm guessing whatever happened came on suddenly. After my conversation with her earlier, I doubt she would've admitted that she wasn't feeling well anyway."
"You're probably right."
The tide of people in the hall had increased, and they were all floating in the same direction—a school of brightly colored, sparkly tropical fish flowing toward the elevators and stairwell. "It looks like everybody is heading downstairs," Amy said as she slipped out of the current in front of their room. She slid the pass card through the reader on the door. "Do you guys want to grab our purses and head out too?"
Ingrid and Rori nodded in unison. "I sure could use a drink after seeing that," Ingrid said as she ducked inside the room to find her silver rhinestone-studded mini clutch.
"I hope it isn't too serious," Rori added. "She bragged to me this morning that she ate either bacon fat or butter at every meal. I think her body may have finally rebelled against the unhealthy assault."
Sparkle was the unofficial theme for the cocktail party. The grand ballroom already had massive tiered chandeliers festooned with rows of cut crystal pendants. Table centerpieces were clear glass cylinders filled with faceted clear glass gems. Color-changing lights hidden at the bottom made the arrangement glow in ever-shifting rainbow hues.
After Ingrid left to join her friends, Rori and Amy procured spots at one of the round tables set for eight. Another chance to network with more people who were serious about blogging. They flipped the cards lying on the plates so they read Taken instead of Available then made a beeline for the closest bar set up along the perimeter of the ballroom. Rori ordered another glass of wine, but Amy decided to go for something a little stronger—a grilled orange sidecar made with a generous portion of cognac to help mellow out the double dose of nervousness between waiting for the cooking contest winner to be announced and concern for Esther Mae. The fallen Southern cuisine maven was in good hands at the hospital, so there was nothing she could do about the situation anymore. And there was nothing she could do at that point to change the outcome of the contest voting either. So she figured she might as well have a cocktail and try to enjoy the party.
Esther Mae's collapse was a frequent topic overheard as Amy and Rori wound through the maze of tables to find their seats again. A short awards ceremony was scheduled to begin soon, during the gourmet dinner portion of the evening. Then, according to veteran conference attendees, the real fun began as cocktails flowed and new friendships were cemented. There were references to table dancing and sneaking into the pool room after hours circulating among the conversations. Legendary high jinks from past conferences.
After the meal was served, Amy sipped her cocktail and picked at her crab-topped cod dinner. Their tablemates turned out to be a group of mommy bloggers. Picky eaters, pesky stains, and diaper disasters dominated their conversations. In between chatting with Rori, Amy listened intently to the other women. It wouldn't be long before her best friend, Carla, joined the mommy ranks. The baby was due in about a month.
A loud riff of electronic funk music heralded the start of the announcements. Amy set her fork on the edge of her plate and took a gulp of the cocktail. Her rather plain blog could use a custom artwork upgrade. She had bought a package of buttons and cooking-related artwork when she set up the website. Recently she had spotted the same art on several other blogs. Her food photography was improving every day, so she couldn't resist the chance to also improve the art by entering the Fast Food Feud. It had turned out to be the most easygoing foodie competition she had ever competed in, but that didn't mean she wasn't any less jittery while waiting to hear whom the winner was.
Of course, the food blogger contest was the last one on the emcee's list. By the time the winner's announcement rolled around, Amy had finished her drink. The mistress of ceremonies wore a short black dress covered in rows of long fringe. After announcing a winner, she would jump up and down. The movement set the silky threads into frenzied motion. Amy felt the same way inside.
"And finally, it's time to find out who won the Fast Food Feud among the food and recipe bloggers. Contestants were tasked with making a main dish entree in only thirty minutes." The woman paused to do a little shimmy shake. "The winner of $200 worth of custom artwork is…Amy Ridley."
Amy jumped up and did her own awkward version of the announcer's little dance, minus the fringe…and grace. She probably looked like a fool, but she didn't care. The party was meant for everybody to relax and have fun after an intense weekend of workshops. Her trek to the stage had a little more sway to it than she had intended, courtesy of the recent influx of cognac, but she would just pretend it was all part of her victory dance. Amy's Kitchen was getting a makeover, and part of the registration fee for the conference paid for the open bar. Huzzah! The wrap-up party was shaping up to be very good indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
The sunshine was too bright. Amy cupped her hand over the top of her gigantic Jackie O-style sunglasses. It helped a bit—until her purse slid off her shoulder, landed in the crook of her arm, and dislodged the improvised visor. The sudden weight shift coupled with the sensation of ice picks being hammered into her eyeballs caused her to bobble her travel mug of coffee. She skidded to a stop in the parking lot and hoped she wouldn't be run over as she regained control of her body and coffee cup. The sunshine glinted off of windshields and chrome bumpers all around her, sending zings of pain into her brain via her bloodshot eyes. Normally, in early December, she would be happy to soak up every bit of sun she could get before the gray winter completely set in. But normally she wasn't hungover.
As forecasted, the cocktail party at the Blogger Bash had been a blast. After winning the cooking prize, Amy had celebrated with more grilled orange sidecars. She and Rori danced a lot but managed to keep the disco party on the ground instead of on any tables. Amy wanted to attend the conference again and didn't want to be known as The Woman Who Tried Dancing On A Table But Fell On Her Butt Instead. When the alarm went off in the hotel that morning, she wished she could run over the clock with a motorcycle sidecar. Oh, the pain in her head when Ingrid slid open the blackout curtains so they could see better to pack their things and leave. Gathering up her toiletries and clothes had been a slow, uncomfortable process. As Amy was driving home, looking forward to finding refuge from the jackhammering headache in a nap, she remembered she had promised to fill in for a few hours at Riverbend Bake Shop. Christine, one of the women who worked in the booth located in Clement Street Market, had a doctor's appointment. Amy had agreed to fill in for her three weeks earlier, figuring it wouldn't be a problem, even though it was the day after the conference. She hadn't anticipated how much fun she'd have at the wrap-up party.
A puff of warm air rustled her hair as she stepped through the sliding door at the south end of the market. Even her hair hurt. The scents and noise inside the former-warehouse-turned-artisan-market was an overwhelming tsunami of sensations that took her breath away. The ibuprofen had to kick in soon or she wouldn't end up being any help. Curling up in the corner of the booth and whimpering wouldn't exactly be filling in for Christine.
Thank goodness the lunch rush had died down, so the aisles were easier to navigate at a snail's pace without the threat of being run into by impatient business people searching for a tasty lunch. She glanced down the aisle to the left and noticed Buck's Wooden Wares booth had a big Closed sign propped on an easel in front of it. The handcrafted wooden spoons and bowls were made by Esther Mae's husband. He was probably at the hospital attending to his wife. Amy continued walking—or more precisely, shuffling. Southern Gals, Esther Mae's micro restaurant which she owned with her friend LeighAnne, was also closed. A couple of women stood in front of the unmanned cash register. One would point, and the other would shake her head. Then they would reverse the process. It appeared that they had been looking forward to Southern-style
meals for lunch but couldn't agree on an alternate place to dine.
Amy touched the side of the steam table that usually held dishes like stewed okra and smothered chicken—a silent wish that Esther Mae would be okay. She rounded the corner and made her way to the Riverbend Bake Shop. The bubble of cinnamon and coffee scent perfuming the area soothed her embattled brain. But seeing only one person in the enclosure composed of bakery cases made her stomach twist with guilt. "Sorry, I'm running a few minutes late," she said to JoJo as she squeezed through the narrow channel between the cash register table and the pegboard wall from the neighboring watercolor artist's booth. Amy grunted, a sound more appropriate for a Neanderthal cave woman, as she bent to dial in the combination to the safe under the cash register where the workers stashed extra money and their purses.
The ginger-haired baker dismissed the apology with a smile. "You're not late. I sent Christine away early, just in case traffic was bad."
"Oh…okay." Amy forced herself to smile as the elevation change from standing back up made her heartbeat whoosh in her ears. "I'm only supposed to be here for a few hours, right?"
JoJo tilted her head to the side, causing the knot of auburn hair twisted on the top of her head to shift to the left. "Yes, Christine's hoping to be back by 3:30. Are you feeling okay? You look a little gray."
Amy sighed as she struggled to unscrew the lid of her travel mug. Was everything going to be so difficult for the rest of the day? Why, oh why, had she chosen a cocktail composed of mostly cognac to be the star beverage for the evening? "I spent the weekend at that blogging conference. Ended up winning a cooking contest, and the prize was a gift certificate for custom artwork for my blog, but I celebrated a bit too much."
"You poor thing." JoJo took the cup from Amy, easily removed the lid, and filled it with steaming hot coffee. She pointed at the stool sitting in the back corner of the rectangular booth. "It's pretty slow right now, so have a seat and see if a coffee infusion will help."
Amy nodded in compliance. The whole point of filling in for someone was to do their job, but her head and stomach had other ideas. She plopped onto the stool and took a fortifying sip of the bracing, black coffee. Normally she took it with cream and sugar, but since she was feeling far from normal, she went with an unadulterated brew to try to jumpstart her faltering energy reserves. JoJo kept glancing back at her while she waited for a customer to decide on which type of chocolate chip cookie she wanted. The booth was the newest business venture for Amy's friend Sophie, owner of Riverbend Café. In early summer, she had pared down the café's menu when her boyfriend was in crisis after the murder of his best friend and business partner. A close look at the accounting books convinced Sophie to go back to the café's original coffee shop-style menu of pastries, sandwiches, and coffee. Now that her personal life was settling down, the pastry chef had decided to open a satellite shop in Clement Street Market. The gourmet food and craft marketplace was always filled with customers. Since it was on the other side of town from the main café, the booth attracted its own set of loyal patrons beyond those who regularly visited the downtown Kellerton location.
A mini rush of customers kept JoJo busy for a few minutes. She bustled back and forth between the bakery cases and cash register, slipping on plastic gloves to retrieve cranberry orange scones or s'more brownies then peeling them back off after handling the money. Amy drank the hot coffee as quickly as possible. She had set a deadline. When the coffee was gone, she had to start working. No wimping out. She was tougher than a hangover. Or…what was it that Esther Mae had said in the Fast Food Feud? Tougher than an overcooked pork chop.
By the time Christine returned two hours later, Amy was functioning at an almost normal capacity. There was still a slight headache thunking around her skull if she moved too quickly, but the fatigue and mental fog had lifted. Or maybe she wasn't really feeling better, and it was just the entire pot of coffee she had drank overpowering the flu-like symptoms.
Amy shrugged on her black wool pea coat. Her notes for a new brownie recipe were sitting on the kitchen counter at home. She really wanted to make them then try out the new photography technique she had learned about at the conference. Christine beckoned for her and JoJo to come to the back corner of the booth. When they both arrived at her side, Christine leaned closer and whispered, "I just talked to the woman who owns the gourmet popcorn booth a few rows away. Did you guys hear that the lady with the black hair who owns Southern Gals died? I guess she had a heart attack at some event at the K Hotel last night and passed away early this morning."
* * *
All of the pictures were too dark. Amy slid the floor lamp a little closer to the table and took another picture of the ingredients that went into the brownies baking in the oven. She checked the camera's screen. A little better. The homemade light diffuser was easy to make using wire hangers and one of Alex's old T-shirts, but the photography technique wasn't so easy. Being tired, slightly nauseous, and upset wasn't the ideal state to be in when trying something new.
Esther Mae was dead.
The brash woman who stormed through Clement Street Market like a colorful hurricane had seemed invincible. It seemed true that, like Esther Mae had pronounced during the cooking competition, she could get through anything with sheer will power. But apparently not. Rori had been correct about Esther Mae's heart giving out eventually. It was just that neither one of them had expected the health crisis to come so soon after discussing the possible side effects of the other woman's high-fat, high-sugar, no-such-thing-as-moderation diet.
Amy gave up on the photography session. Not permanently. Just until she got some rest and ditched the melancholy attitude. She stowed the camera back in its padded case and put away the perishable eggs and butter. The pantry ingredients, like flour and cocoa powder, could hang out on the table for the night. She glanced out the window. The black Jeep pulling into the garage—more precisely the person driving it—would help lighten her dark mood that was apparently manifesting in the dark photographs. Alex was home. Because of the conference, they hadn't seen each other in four days.
She sat on the breakfast nook bench with her elbows resting on the table and her head propped on her hands. The windows of the nook faced the garage and driveway, so she got a clear view as Alex made his way to the house. She wasn't sure how many business men filled out their dress pants and button-up shirts like her husband did, but she absolutely adored watching Alex. With his short cropped, dark-copper colored hair, ocean-blue eyes, and muscles galore, there was no reason for her to check out other guys.
The timer for the brownies went off as he stepped onto the porch. She stood to check on them and said, "Welcome home," as the door swung open. Cold air slipped through the warm kitchen as she bent to peer through the oven door. The brownies appeared to be done. She quickly checked them by poking a spear of uncooked spaghetti into the cake near the center. Only a few dark crumbs stuck to the pasta. Amy donned silicone oven mitts and removed the pan from the oven. She set it on a wire cooling rack next to the stove. Alex's arms wrapped around her waist.
"Brownies for Carla again?" he asked as he kissed her on the cheek. She leaned back against his chest as she pulled off the mitts and tossed them onto the counter. His heartbeat softly thumped in her ear when she turned her head and nestled her cheek against his chest. The fabric softener scent of his shirt mingled with the chocolate aroma filling the kitchen. Her insanely handsome husband and mouth-watering baked goods—the best parts of her life hanging out together.
"Of course. Trying a fluffier, cake-style brownie with orange zest and glaze. I'm hoping it tastes like one of those chocolate oranges you always put in my Christmas stocking."
"Interesting. So they're done?"
"Yes." She pointed at the foil-covered red ceramic baking dish sitting on one of the stove's burners. "I also made a chile relleno casserole for our dinner. There is an arugula salad in the refrigerator."
Alex's hands slipped under her sweater. Even though
he had just trekked across the cold yard, his hands were as deliciously warm as melted butter as he traced swirls with his fingertips across her stomach. "Since the oven is on, can you just keep the casserole warm for a while? I think we should catch up a bit. I missed you this weekend, and I'm leaving tomorrow morning."
"I missed you, too." She put the oven mitts back on, moved the cheesy casserole back into the oven, and set the appliance to the warm setting. The movement released her from Alex's grasp. She needed to fix that. Her husband was leaving on his boys-only extreme sports vacation the next morning. They only had one night together, and she was going to make it count. "Come on. Dinner can wait."
CHAPTER THREE
Carla leaned sideways to set the e-reader on the coffee table. The sudden movement woke the baby. Her beach-ball-sized stomach shifted as the baby stretched. A hand, or foot, rose up like a bubble near her belly button then receded. Another appendage jabbed her bladder. The kid was going to be born with a karate black belt.
She lay back on the memory foam pillow and stared out the patio door. Frozen, dead grass and a weathered privacy fence made up the postage stamp-sized backyard. While she escaped to exotic worlds in the e-books, her real life felt just as foreign. In less than a year, she had gone from a single woman living in an industrial chic loft to Mrs. Bruce Shepler, the pregnant wife of a homicide detective, residing in a town house in suburbia. They had decided to rent in the complex because of the abundance of families but soon found out that sharing a wall with a family of tiny soccer players wasn't so great. Her life had taken several routes she never thought she would travel. Equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. Going into premature labor twelve weeks before her due date had been the scariest and most unexpected leg of the journey, so far. That unexpected curve had taken her from living and working mostly normally, except for a few bouts of intense morning sickness, and turned her into a couch potato baby incubator.
Fudge Brownies & Murder Page 2