Rori was still at the front of the room. She winked as she rolled up her pink yoga mat and said, "Looks like you were really into meditating this morning."
Amy straightened out one leg and grimaced as a cramp pulsed through her hip muscles. How long had she been sitting with her legs in pretzel position? "I didn't sleep well last night. Not sure if I was meditating or sleeping and dreaming while sitting up."
Rori laughed as she slipped on a gauzy, white shawl-neck sweater over her tank top. "Either one is restorative. I know what you mean about being tired from insomnia. I've had it too, and I've really been struggling by the time my evening classes roll around."
"What's wrong? I figured you'd have herbal remedies and all kinds of homeopathic techniques to help you sleep," Amy said as she walked to the arrangement of storage cubbies near the door. She used a low row of the wooden cubes as a bench. A very wobbly tree pose during class indicated there could be trouble if she tried to put on her slip-on sneakers while standing.
"I feel bad about Phoebe's death." Rori tugged at one of her spring-like, blonde curls. "I helped Aubergine set everything up concerning her appearance. When we found out we could book her to make an appearance in Kellerton, we were so excited since we both loved the show."
"You couldn't have known what would happen," Amy offered as a way to try to help her friend feel better. It was basically the same reasoning she had used with the bookstore owner, but she couldn't think of a better thing to say.
She could sympathize with the guilt both Rori and Aubergine were feeling. If the murder was randomly committed by a local psycho, Phoebe would still be alive. However, Amy had a hunch that scenario hadn't happened. It was possible—so was cracking an egg and finding two yolks inside—but unlikely. Amy gathered her rolled mat and tote bag. She turned toward the open door as a man was walking past in the hallway. Familiarity smacked her in the back of the head, but her sleep-deprived brain refused to budge on letting her know where she had seen him before. Since he was in Rori's studio, maybe she could help. "Do you know who that guy is?"
Rori nodded. "The producer of Old House/New Style. I overheard him talking to the receptionist when he was checking in a few days ago. He said something about being stuck in town, so he was taking a few classes here to stay in shape."
So he was part of the entourage that Sophie had mentioned. Now that Amy knew who he was, when exactly had she seen him before? Even though he was probably the person who had filmed the Charlotte versus Phoebe tablescape debacle, she didn't recall seeing him there. She tilted her head to the left and then the right—to stretch out her re-tightening neck muscles and try to jar loose the memory. As she stared at the window, an image appeared in her mind as though it were a Polaroid photo revealing itself. A photo. That's where she had seen him. He was the rumpled man who had been in many of her pictures of Phoebe at the cooking contest. No wonder she hadn't looked nervous with him lurking so near. He wasn't a stalker. He was her boss.
"I have another class to teach soon," Rori said as she turned toward her office at the end of the corridor. "Have a good day."
"Thanks. You too. I hope we both get some sleep tonight."
Amy stepped into the hall. Had the producer gone into a classroom or the restroom? She killed some time by finding a hair elastic in her tote bag then pulling her locks back into a casual ponytail. It was windy outside, so she hoped her stalling tactic didn't look too suspicious. Then again, a man wouldn't understand how annoying it was to try to look through a curtain of tangled hair every time a breeze picked up. The door to the men's locker room at the end of the hallway opened, and the man emerged. Great. She had planned on talking to him, but hadn't managed to think far enough ahead to figure out what to say.
He nodded a greeting as he approached. "Good morning."
"Hello." Amy held up her finger as though she'd had a brilliant thought. And she had because she'd figured out how to start the conversation. The gesture stopped the man in his tracks. So she plunged onward. "You look so familiar, even though I don't think I've ever seen you here at the yoga studio before. For some reason, I'm connecting you with that poor murdered television star who was at the Cabin Fever Cure."
He winced slightly. What part of her impromptu rambling speech had hit a nerve with him? He sighed then said, "That's probably where you recognize me from. I'm the producer of Phoebe Plymouth's show. I came to the event with her hoping to find some guests to appear on Old House/New Style." He took a deep breath and let it out with a loud sigh. "You look familiar too."
"My condolences. I'm so sorry for your loss." Amy nudged the bamboo floor with the toe of her shoe. "You probably recognize me from my win in the muffin cooking contest."
He nodded an acknowledgment. "Ahh…that's it. Congrats." His clothes were different from what he had worn at the event, but the gray shorts and white cotton T-shirt were still heavily wrinkled. Either his signature look was schlumpy or he didn't know how to pack suitcases well. "And thank you for the sympathy. It's difficult, but life goes on. Phoebe recited everything word for word from the script. I don't think she could improvise if she wanted to. All of the decorating projects were conceptualized and made by others. She was the face for the show, but it was the writers and production crew who made it so good. Thankfully, they're all still very much alive and well."
The people who had worked with Phoebe certainly had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead. That was an outright ode to her ineptitude. None of them, so far, appeared upset over her death. That could definitely be an important clue. Hopefully the rookie investigator thought so too—although they were probably keeping the disparaging remarks to themselves when in Detective Foster's presence. "It sounds like she could be difficult to work with, but I bet she had some redeeming qualities."
He rolled his dark-brown eyes. "She donated money to a lot of charities…her family's money, but in the end, no matter where it came from, I guess she helped a lot of people."
"Maybe she was more of a philanthropist than an actress."
"Um, yeah." The producer glanced at his expensive sports watch. "I need to get going. It figures Phoebe would torture the crew from beyond the grave though. The homicide detective guilted us all into sticking around town to help with the case. If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for an appointment with her."
Amy leaned against the wall as she watched him walk toward the yoga studio's lobby. Phoebe's business associates were portraying her as an unpleasant person, the same persona half of Kellerton witnessed, but they were staying in Kellerton to help with the investigation. If the star was so unlikeable, why would they bother? Amy hitched the handles of her bag over her shoulder. There were a lot of things that weren't adding up because almost everybody she talked to about Phoebe seemed to be impersonating strainers—their stories were full of holes. Was Foster finding the same thing? If she was, Amy hoped the new homicide detective was good at crossword puzzles. There were a lot of blanks that needed to be filled in before the murder could be solved.
* * *
"Here for the class?" Chuck asked as Amy approached the counter. He smiled warmly from his perch on a high stool. The Inkwell's owner was sort of like a chipotle chile-spiked brownie. Surprisingly warm but in a good way.
"I am," Amy said.
"Then head on into the classroom. Aubergine is in there already."
Amy smiled. "Thank you." She wondered if he owned any clothes, besides blue jeans, that weren't black. On that day, even his jeans were as dark as the ink he used to outline his comic illustrations. The ominous-appearing fashion sensibility certainly could deter shoplifters. It also was the clothing equivalent of a counterbalance to his wife's colorful wardrobe. If they shared a closet, it would be very easy to tell which half of the space belonged to which spouse.
The sounds of several conversations slipped out of the classroom's doorway as Amy walked around the end of the counter. Learning calligraphy would be fun. If she was any good at the technique, she planned on usi
ng it on her blog with artfully handwritten recipes instead of typing them in Times New Roman font. But until she went through the entire class, she wasn't banking on it. She was good with whisks and spatulas—her calligraphy pen skills were untested. Maybe she would end up producing the artistic equivalent of grease-soaked, soggy-crusted fried chicken. Totally unappealing.
"Welcome!" Aubergine said when Amy entered the brightly lit room filled with drafting desks. "Pick a spot where you would like to work. We'll get started in a few minutes."
Amy was happy to see the artist acting like her normal bubbly self. The guilt over booking Phoebe's fatal guest appearance had deeply affected the usually jovial calligrapher when Amy had signed up for the class. If Aubergine was still feeling down, she was doing a good job at masking it. Although, it would be difficult to appear sad while wearing a lemon-yellow dress and a headband covered with miniature silk daisies.
"I can't wait to start." Amy looked around the room to see if she knew any of the other students. Nobody seemed familiar at first, but then she looked closer at the woman sitting at the far end of the second row. It was Detective Foster. She was engrossed in something on her phone. It had never occurred to Amy that a serious detective would have an interest in making art. But it made sense. Hobbies were a great way to relieve stress. Pursuing killers was definitely stressful.
Before she could convince herself that it was a bad idea, Amy plopped into the chair at the desk beside the detective. As she stowed her purse under the chair, she thought of something else. What if the police officer wasn't pursuing a new hobby? She could be working undercover to observe a suspect. Could she be investigating Aubergine? Amy looked around the room. Or maybe the detective was checking out one of the other students.
The most likely possible murder suspect was walking between the desks, passing out sheets of thick paper. Did Aubergine know that the head investigator for the murder which the artist felt so badly about was one of her students? If she did, she was doing a great job pretending that Foster was just another student.
Amy was still trying to figure out if the police officer's interest in calligraphy was purely recreational or work-related when the class began. For the first half hour, she split her time between concentrating on Aubergine's instructions and trying to decide whether she should say anything to Detective Foster. Every time Amy glanced at her seating neighbor, she seemed to be completely engrossed in forming fancy letters instead of checking out their classmates. If she was also forming opinions on anybody in the classroom or recognized Amy from the murder scene, she was hiding it well under a thick layer of disinterest mixed with dedicated concentration.
Being able to not broadcast every emotion through facial expressions was a technique that Amy had yet to master. Whom was she kidding? She had problems hiding her emotions ninety percent of the time. That wasn't even close to mastering control over her telltale features. Her face muscles were hardwired to her thoughts. A person didn't need to be a body language expert to figure out what she was really thinking, especially when she was under stress.
"You all have been concentrating so hard, creating beautiful letters. You deserve a snack." Aubergine turned off the light on the retro-style overhead projector she was using to demonstrate the writing strokes. "There is water, iced tea, and a few snacks at the back of the room."
Amy had been aware of somebody entering and exiting the room behind her. But she was so lost in the maze of thoughts blitzing around her mind, she hadn't paid attention to who it was. Apparently, it had been Chuck delivering the refreshments.
The detective, turned astute student, stood and stretched her arms over her head. As she reached toward the ceiling, her gaze locked on Amy. Her right eyelid twitched. "Hello. Have you been sitting next to me since the class began?"
Amy didn't know if she should be relieved to have someone with such an intense focus working on the murder. Or should she be wary that Detective Foster had been oblivious for over half an hour that the person who found the dead body in her first case was sitting two feet away from her? Or what if she was just pretending to be clueless? The possibilities were as endless as a buffet in Las Vegas. And Foster was the unlabeled mystery sushi. Amy nodded. "I came in right before class started. You seemed to be interested in something on your phone."
"That happens a lot." To prove the point, she fished the vibrating phone out of her pants pocket. "Excuse me."
When she retreated to a quiet corner of the classroom to take the call, Amy headed to the busiest area in the room—the snack table. She grabbed a bottle of water and examined the platters of treats. The sugar-coated gingersnaps looked good, but the chocolate chip energy balls called out to her, so she grabbed a couple. Despite a short nap in the afternoon, her energy reserves were definitely running low. Stupid insomnia. The no-bake snacks were popular in the food blogging world. Bite-sized, homemade versions of energy bars. She took a bite—chewy, sweet, and chocolatey.
"I love these. Did you make them?" Amy asked Aubergine when the teacher joined her students.
"I did. Found the recipe in one of the illustrated cookbooks we carry. Every recipe I've tried from it has been really good, and the book is so colorful and gorgeous."
"Sounds interesting…very unique. Could you show it to me after class?"
"I would be happy to."
Aubergine excused herself to talk to a group of teenage girls who wanted to speak with her about lettering comics. So Amy turned her attention to eating the second energy ball. Maybe they could boost her decision-making powers too. She had close to one hundred pictures that she had taken at Phoebe's very last public appearance. There could be clues in them pertaining to Foster's case.
Amy sighed. Why did her mind have to come up with so many possibilities? Offering the photographs to the detective seemed like the best thing to do. But what if the police officer interpreted the gesture as an attempt to divert attention away from a suspect? Amy coughed as a crumb caught in her throat. Following that line of reasoning meant that both she and Alex could be murder suspects. Ugh.
The detective finished her call and joined the rest of the class at the snack table. What to do? Amy tapped the toe of her suede bootie on the wooden floor. Another energy ball helped her make a decision. The benefits outweighed the possibly negative interpretation.
Many of the other people were wandering back to their desks, eager to begin the lesson again. Amy tossed her napkin into the trash can and returned to her desk too. When the detective sat down in her chair, Amy leaned sideways. "Excuse me. I don't mean to intrude, but I just wanted to offer you some pictures I took at the Cabin Fever Cure event. I was going to write a blog post about Phoebe, so I took the pics for that. Now that she's dead, I won't be doing the post, but I thought maybe you would like to look at them to see if you spot anything suspicious."
Detective Foster silently stared at Amy for a few seconds. A good technique for making suspects squirm in an interrogation room. Not so pleasant in the middle of what was supposed to be a fun art class. Finally, she replied. "I would like to see those. Thank you."
Phew! Amy was beginning to sweat as though she was standing in front of the open door of a woodburning pizza oven. She placed one of her business cards on the other woman's desk. "Just email me when you get the chance. I'll give you access to the online account where I've stored copies of them."
When Amy left the bookstore an hour later, she was glad the night air was chilly because she was sweltering. She couldn't figure out if Foster was in calm and cool detective mode or if she normally had a frosty personality. Whatever the reason for the cold shoulder, the terse responses and less-than-friendly attitude had left Amy unnerved. The overhead, recessed lights in the classroom felt as though they were heat lamps in a restaurant pass-through window. And she was the sprig of parsley garnish on a plate that had been forgotten by a waitress. Even though she knew in her gut that sharing the photographs was the right thing to do, her overheated mind was questioning the decision.
If the gesture was taken the wrong way, what would be the consequences?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The warmth from the sunshine made Amy feel as if she was wrapped in a cozy flannel blanket. All of the tension in her shoulders eased as she gently baked herself on the park bench. Life was giving her happy little surprises to offset the stress of being in the middle of another murder investigation, such as the gloriously sunny day and a burst of creative ideas for posts on her blog. After working a few hours that morning in the kitchen at Riverbend Café, she ended her shift by making a toasted coconut latte for herself then taking a stroll to the park on the other side of the Cooley River.
Ideas for everything from spring vegetable gratin to how to make the perfect meringue base for a chocolate-covered strawberry pavlova poured into the notebook balanced on her knees. She was jotting down so many notes that her fingers ached from gripping the narrow stick pen. The crunch of shoes on the gravel path beside her produced an undulating flourish at the end of a word, but the writing was far from beautiful calligraphy. The flinch-induced embellishment looked more like toddler scribbles than art. And her heart was racing as fast as her dog, Pogo, when he discovered a squirrel in their backyard. She had been so engrossed in taking notes that she hadn't realized she was no longer alone in the small park.
"Good morning," Chuck said as he paused his jog in front of Amy. Shiny lines of sweat traced down his tanned face. As usual, he was wearing all black clothing, this time with exercise appropriate shorts and a T-shirt. Amy had respect for his unwavering dedication to the color since it absorbed heat from the sunshine and added it to the warmth his exercise routine was already generating internally—suffering in the name of fashion with the macho man equivalent of wearing pointed-toe stilettos.
Banana Muffins & Mayhem Page 5
