"Damn. Those were the scariest people I have ever seen in real life," JoJo whispered into Amy's ear. The unexpected oral confirmation of what Amy was already thinking made her jump. She had forgotten that JoJo was even in the booth. "They look like they belong on the cast of some low budget, post-apocalyptic movie."
Amy sighed so hard she began coughing. Once the choking fit subsided, she responded to her coworker's comment. "I agree. I've seen movie villains that looked tamer. They are absolutely terrifying."
Maybe they just didn't look menacing. What were they capable of if someone dared defy them? What if they had been in touch with Esther Mae before her death, and she had refused to do something they wanted, like give them money?
"Your hands are shaking. Why don't you take a break?" JoJo said.
Amy looked down. She was shaking as though she'd just chugged a quadruple espresso shot latte. Not a good physical state to be in while handing scalding hot beverages to paying customers. "Thanks. I think that's a good idea before I drop a cup of coffee on a customer or something else that's equally disastrous."
"Take as long as you need."
In the bathroom, Amy splashed cold water on her face then dried it with a scratchy paper towel. Her cheeks were rosy but in a hot mess instead of healthy way. As she was rummaging in her purse for a powder compact, the door to the bathroom opened. She glanced into the mirror and watched the reflection of Rayshelle as she made her way to the sink beside her.
"Shantelle and her new boyfriend wanted money from me. Money that I don't have to give. She's cooked up some idea that Aunt E left me a fortune." Rayshelle blew her nose on one of the brown paper towels. "She's even crazier and more desperate than she used to be. When our parents both went to prison, she wound up in juvenile hall for committing armed robbery at a convenience store. She was twelve years old when she and her sixteen-year-old boyfriend were convicted."
Damn. They were like pirate sisters. Rayshelle got the surly attitude. Shantelle had mastered the outlaw quotient.
Rayshelle continued, "She got that stupid eye tattoo a couple years ago. Says it's her third eye, like some Indian goddess. I figure it's just a way for her to avoid actually working. I told her to cover it up. They make tattoo concealer now, but she won't do it. Instead, she picks up odd jobs, like cleaning Buzzy's Tattoos at night. She always gets fired then goes back to living on state assistance along with whatever money she can con from friends and family. It's like she figures society owes her because she's a freak." She swiped a streak of bright red gloss over her lips and plunged the applicator back into the tube she had pulled from her pants pocket. "I'm sorry about the rant. I saw she and Mohawk Dude were harassing you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
Amy opened her mouth to respond, but Rayshelle was already gone. The bathroom door thumped shut behind her. It was so strange to see the vulnerable, human side of Rayshelle. Considering what Amy was learning about her family, it was no wonder she had always been in ultra-defensive, ready-for-combat mode. Her life was a wreck.
Before Amy could pry open the plastic powder container that she had finally located in the bottom of her purse, the bathroom door opened again. Candi charged into the white subway tile-lined room. Her eyes glittered with anger. "I saw you steal our mincemeat pie customer," she growled at Amy's back.
Amy spun around. The compact clattered into the sink. She took a step backward as Candi advanced. The edge of the sink counter pressed into the back of her thigh as she said, "The woman asked me about the difference between traditional mincemeat, like we use at Riverbend, and the vegan version. I told her how both styles were made, and she decided to try our pies. I didn't steal her from you. It was completely her decision."
"A business needs customers to survive. As far as I'm concerned, stealing customers is a death threat to The Veggie Crew." She pointed her baby-pink manicured fingernail at Amy. "I had better not catch you doing that again."
Two hours later, Amy finally finished the stomach-turning, nerve-jangling shift. What had she done to deserve confrontations with two psychotic women? She slogged through the slushy snow that covered the parking lot. Apparently she had upset karma enough to also deserve frozen, wet feet. She finally reached her car. The long, frustrating day became, unbelievably, even worse. All that remained of the Mini's passenger side headlight were a couple shards of glass. The round lens resembled the mouth of a snaggletooth eel. Had a stone thrown from a passing vehicle's tire been the culprit? Or was someone sending her a message?
* * *
The next morning, Amy clamped her lips shut to contain the grunt that was trying to escape from her mouth. The hotel pan full of cheesy grits casserole was heavier than she had expected. She gritted her teeth and managed to slide the tray onto the rolling cart sitting behind LeighAnne's minivan.
"Thank you so much for helping, my dear," the newly sole proprietor of Southern Gals said. "That new girl I hired has a sick baby this morning. I called Rayshelle, and she'll eventually be in, but I suspect it will be a while. Sounded like she was hungover to me. That girl couldn't put her life together even if she had an instruction manual the size of a phone book."
If only there were instruction manuals for life. She would certainly read it to save some of the exasperation and anxiety. Amy unfastened a couple buttons on her black wool pea coat. Despite downright fiercely cold gales blowing through the parking lot, she was working up a sweat. When she saw LeighAnne struggling to get her trays of food into the market all on her own, Amy couldn't pass by without offering to help. Taking a few extra minutes to help the older woman wouldn't matter at all because she was working with ultra-organized JoJo again that morning. The copper-haired bakery manager had more energy than a copper-topped battery. Everything in the Riverbend Bake Shop booth was probably set up and ready to go when the market opened.
"I'm happy to help you a bit. You've had a rough time losing Esther Mae then getting bugged by her strange family."
LeighAnne wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. Tears glistened on her skin in the light cast from the street lamps that illuminated the parking lot. "I miss my large-and-in-charge business partner. She would've had all of this food inside the market ten minutes ago. Whenever she set her mind to doing something, she would just put her head down and do it, whether it was starting a new business or helping a sick friend get groceries. Things that would be barriers to most people were just little speed bumps in the road for her."
"I'm so sorry for your loss. It sounds like she was a great friend."
"We knew each other for twenty years. It was her idea to open this booth to help pay off my medical bills. All I had to do was cook while she took care of the books, marketing, and all of that stuff." LeighAnne slipped the last hotel pan out of the van. "Now I have to do it all on top of cooking. Rayshelle is trying to help, but bless her, that girl couldn't cook her way out of a cardboard box. Esther Mae tried to teach her how to cook, but she wasn't any good at cooking in large quantities either. For some reason, converting recipes to feed a crowd was difficult for her. She could balance a checkbook like an accountant, but it never failed that she would forget to increase the quantity of some of the ingredients, and we'd end up with forty hockey pucks instead of buttermilk biscuits."
Amy grabbed the handle on the front of the rolling cart so she could help guide it over the ice bumps frozen to the pavement of the parking lot. "It's good to know your limits, though, and focus on what you do well."
"Being in charge was Esther Mae's forte." LeighAnne slammed the van doors shut then pressed a button on her key fob. The vehicle's horn beeped. She gave the cart a shove to get it rolling and continued. "All I did was cook the recipes she brought me from her family's cookbooks and recipe boxes. This managing hoo-hah is giving me a headache, just like when I got sick. I didn't know what to do with all of the bills. Esther Mae took on the insurance company and the hospital. She negotiated with them all and got me a payment plan I could manage without going into bankruptcy
."
She knew that Carla would do the same kind of thing for her and vice versa. "That's wonderful. I'm glad she could help. If only everybody had friends like her."
The automatic doors to Clement Street Market slid open. The Southern Gals booth was straight ahead. "I can take this from here," LeighAnne said as the cart rumbled over the textured rubber mat in the doorway. "Thank you for your help."
"You're welcome. Just holler if you need anything else. We have enough people working this morning, so I can spare a few minutes to give you a hand."
The two women walked together until they reached the back corner of the market. Then Amy turned the corner and continued on to the bakeshop as LeighAnne maneuvered the cart full of food trays through the opening between her steam table and a prep table. The little unexpected burst of cold weather exercise had revved up Amy's metabolism and mind. Esther Mae had been a shrewd business woman who didn't tolerate crap from her family or probably anybody else. That was the type of personality that could easily gain enemies. So who had gotten mad enough to exact the ultimate revenge—murdering her?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carla adjusted the towel covering her naked breasts. The old beach towel hiding her also garmentless bottom half felt like it was askew, but she couldn't see past the white mound of her belly and couldn't move because wiggling might mess up the art project. The last thing she wanted to do was go through the experience again. "Mom! How much longer until the plaster sets?"
Carla's mother bustled into the living room wiping her hands on a paint-streaked rag. Her pink thermal underwear shirt and baggy blue jean overalls were also mottled with rainbow colored spots and streaks of paint. The schlumpy artist look, topped off with a blue bandanna headscarf wrangling her mane of long, gray hair, was a far cry from the designer dresses and slick French roll hairdos Carla remembered her mother wearing as she grew up. Her mom poked at the white shell covering Carla's baby bump. "Just a few more minutes. I forgot to calculate humidity into the drying time."
Bruce's head appeared over the back of the couch. "Is that the same stuff you use for broken bone casts?"
"Yes." The shell of gauze and plaster jiggled as the baby punched it from inside her belly. An unborn somebody did not like being confined. "It itches like hell. I will definitely be more sympathetic to my patients with fractured limbs from now on."
"You're almost done. I'll take it off soon. Then once I'm sure the plaster is completely dry in a few days, I'll paint it." Her mother rubbed her hands together. A streak of blue glitter paint sparkled on the side of one of her fingers. "This belly cast will be a beautiful memento of this special time in your life, sweetheart."
"Whatever you say, Mom. Just don't paint it like a turtle shell, okay?"
"I promise I won't do that."
Bruce shrugged. "I think making it look like a tortoise shell would be kind of cool."
Her mother shook her head. She turned and headed toward the nursery that was currently her bedroom and art studio. "I'm going to go clean up my paints before your friend gets here for dinner."
Carla lay back on the garbage bag-covered couch and tried to will away the wandering itch that was traveling over her belly, underneath the plaster, like a drunken ladybug. She just couldn't get over the fact that her mother had gone from uptight and sophisticated, living in a two-story Colonial, to a paint-covered artist who lived in a house made of dirt and old tires. Life was getting stranger by the day.
The doorbell bonged. "I'll be right there," Bruce called. From the muffled sound of his voice, Carla guessed he had tried to sneak into his office, the closet-sized room wedged between the kitchen and the hallway, in an attempt to get some work done.
The deadbolt clicked even though she hadn't heard Bruce walk to the door. That meant it was Amy. Great. Her best friend was early, so now she could experience the spectacle of her naked, pregnant mummy performance art routine. Although that was better than having a satellite TV salesperson possibly seeing her naked. Bruce's footsteps thumped on the tile floor of the entryway. "Come on in," he announced as a ripple of cold air swept over the back of the couch, giving Carla a serious case of goosebumps.
"Hey, Momma. How's the bun?" Amy called from the general direction of the kitchen.
"Still cooking."
"Good."
The savory scent of one of Amy's always delicious, home-cooked meals followed on the tail of the frigid draft. "What did you make for dinner?" Carla asked.
"Cheesy chicken casserole," Amy's voice got louder as she approached the couch, "for you and Shepler. And I made Ethiopian lentils and injera for your mom and me."
"Ooh, yum!" Carla's mom said as she reappeared from her top secret painting project in the nursery. "I love Ethiopian food. Thank you so much for making it. What an unexpected surprise."
Amy appeared at the end of the couch. Her eyebrows shot up as she studied Carla's very undignified pose. She took a step forward and poked the plaster cast. "Did you break the baby?"
"Ha ha." Carla looked at her mother, who was studiously ignoring her by rubbing dried paint off her hands. The curls floated to the floor—colorful, latex snowflakes that someone would need to vacuum up because they weren't going to melt like the natural variety. "It's art, according to Mom."
"It will be art. In a few days, after I paint it," her mother explained as she rapped on the plaster as if it were a watermelon that she was checking for ripeness. "For now, I think we need some privacy so I can remove the cast, and Carla can get dressed for dinner."
"It's about time," Carla said as she scratched along the edge of the plaster on her left side. The itch had finally moved to where she could reach it. "The karate kid is going to kick it off if you don't pull it off soon. I think someone needs to stretch."
Amy giggled as she turned toward the kitchen. Bruce lingered for a few seconds, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of her naked. That wasn't going to happen, especially since she was covered in petroleum jelly and stray bits of plaster. Not sexy, at all. She waggled her fingers good-bye at him as her mother began to work her fingertips under the edge of the hard dome stuck to Carla's stomach. He frowned and disappeared from view around the back of the couch.
Twenty minutes later, she was finally cleaned up and dressed. Bruce handed her a plate full of chicken casserole, steamed spinach, and roasted potato cubes. She balanced the plate on her belly as everybody else settled into chairs around the living room. The coffee table had turned into the dining table ever since she was ordered to stay as horizontal as possible to keep junior happy and healthy in her belly.
"So…how's the murder investigation going?" Amy asked as she scooped up a gob of orange paste with some kind of flatbread. "You can't possibly still think Rori is the murderer, can you? There's a mouse living in her office. She has some kind of box she's trying to catch it in so she can relocate it to a new home along the river. There is no way she could kill a person if she can't kill a germy rodent who's been contaminating her snack stash. She teaches yoga and is a dedicated vegan, so she won't even eat anything that comes from an animal. That is not the lifestyle of a cold-blooded killer."
Uh-oh. Bruce was in trouble. Carla recognized that tone of voice. Amy was not happy.
He set his plate on the coffee table. "I have several witnesses who saw her in a heated argument with Mrs. Bates about how unhealthy her food and lifestyle were. One person distinctly heard Rori say that Esther Mae was killing her customers by serving them unhealthy food."
"That was an observation, not a murder threat." Amy popped another piece of lentil-smeared bread into her mouth and glared at Bruce as she chewed.
Carla's mom held up a chunk of her flatbread. "Can I just say that this Rori sounds like she is very passionate about her lifestyle choices and spiritual beliefs. When people feel so strongly about things, sometimes good judgment can be pushed aside in the heat of the moment."
All of them stared at her mother. When Carla was growing, up her mom served on the PTA board, gos
siped with all of her friends over mimosas, and threw dinner parties featuring pot roasts or baked chicken. Now she was sympathizing with a new age murder suspect who doesn't eat any food that comes from something that has a face? "You sound like you have firsthand knowledge of a similar situation, Mom."
"I do." Her thick, silver-streaked braid fell over her shoulder as she looked down at the plate balanced on her knees. "But since my new son-in-law is a police officer, and I don't know much about international law, I'll just end by saying that even Buddhist monks can lose their temper sometimes."
Carla's right eye involuntarily twitched. "Did you make the monk lose his temper?"
"No."
There were several moments of silence as they all processed the odd information. Bruce cleared his throat. "So, Amy, who should I be looking at if you're positive Rori isn't the murderer? What about Mrs. Bates's niece Rayshelle? She's pretty rough around the edges."
Amy pushed a blob of green stuff around her plate with another strip of the leather-like bread. "Rayshelle and I have a long history of animosity from competing against each other in cooking contests. But my gut tells me she didn't do it either. Although I think you should definitely look into her cyclops of a sister and her spike-headed boyfriend. I'm all for people doing their own thing, but those two just look downright scary. Not to mention they're shoplifters and have no problems threatening people."
Bruce's eyebrows scrunched together. "How do you know about this sister? And what do you mean by cyclops?"
"Rayshelle's sister has been hanging around the market, pestering her to hand over some of the money she thinks Rayshelle inherited from Esther Mae. There has been a rash of thefts at the market. I caught Shantelle trying to steal a package of cookies from the Riverbend booth, so she and her walking science experiment of a boyfriend are most likely behind all of the thefts. She has a tattoo of a giant eye on her forehead. He has a realistic looking brain tattooed on the shaved part of his head with a spiked mohawk running between the halves. Their picture should be next to Bad People in the dictionary."
Fudge Brownies & Murder Page 9