"Ouch!" Amy spun around. She flung the parsley into the soup pot then grabbed the tea towel that she always hung on the handle of the oven. Tears prickled in her eyes as she squeezed the cotton towel around the injured finger. A patch of red bloomed through the fabric. "Well, that was a stupid thing to do."
Pogo circled around her ankles, whimpering in sympathy, as she turned off the stove burners and stopped the timers. The soup-making marathon had to be put on hold for emergency finger bandaging. Her concerned pup trotted beside her as she made her way upstairs to the master bathroom, which had the best stocked medicine cabinet. After a few shed tears, courtesy of disinfecting the cut, and a cuddle with Pogo to reassure him that she wasn't seriously injured, Amy returned to the kitchen. She turned the heat back on under the pots. Making soup had lost its calming charm. Having an ouchie dance party wasn't exactly relaxing either.
She turned into a cooking robot for half an hour. All business to keep her mind occupied on something other than the fact that the day was turning out to be about as pleasant as burnt sugar cookies. When the green chile posole was finished, she dished it up into more Fiesta bowls for its photo shoot. While she had always loved the bright colors and classic shapes of the vintage dishware, the bowls suddenly felt boring. Another thing ruined by the bad mood.
Alex had his own way of dealing with the stress. He was out with one of his friends, riding mountain bikes through the narrow, twisting paths along the Cooley River. Her husband combated stress with adrenalin surges. Since the throbbing finger was putting a serious cramp in Amy's usual stress-busting activity, along with making her heart race quite fast enough, she decided to go with favorite coping technique number two—shopping. The intricately patterned Polish pottery that Charlotte had used in her spring table setting at the Cabin Fever Cure had caught Amy's attention and wouldn't let go. The complex patterns were far beyond the dribble and swirl technique she had used to paint her plate at Make It Unique. And much more interesting than the solid-colored Fiesta dinnerware.
Amy quickly divided the rest of the soup into single-serving portions and put the containers in the refrigerator to cool. When she returned from her shopping excursion, she would transfer them to the freezer. Even though she loved to cook, on busy days, heat-and-eat freezer meals were crucial to keeping her from going into hangry—hungry and angry—mode. After diverting Pogo's focus from worrying about her to trying to remove homemade beefy oatmeal snacks from his treat toy, Amy left for downtown.
Even though Unique Decor was located on Main Street, Amy took a detour around the block. She wanted to see what the burnt Dumpster enclosure looked like in the daylight. Part of Quantum's parking lot was cordoned off with yellow caution tape. Close to a dozen cars were parked in the open spaces, people taking advantage of the reserved employee spots, which were fair game for the general public on weekends. She steered her dark-blue Mini into one of the empty spaces and got out. As she approached the off-limits area, the bright sunshine, which had illuminated her breakfast nook table so nicely for the soup photography session, now shined like a spotlight on the streaks of soot tracing over the side of the glass-faced building. The metal Dumpster and wooden fence enclosure which had once surrounded it had merged into a charred lump that resembled a meteor. If one of the glass panels on the side of Quantum had shattered and let the fire spread inside the building, what would've happened to everybody inside? The lives of Alex and his employees had been in peril.
She balled her hands into fists as she forced herself to walk away from the crime scene. A recurring question galloped through her mind again. Was the murder and fire related or a scary coincidence? Wouldn't she love to know. Because she didn't like having a stressed-out hubby. He had enough going on. Murder and mayhem didn't need to be added to his plate.
The journey around the block lightened her spirit a little bit. There was just something about walking in the warm spring sunshine. A natural anti-depressant. By the time she walked through the front door of Unique Decor, there was a genuine smile on her face.
Charlotte's bright-red hair was visible over the top of the counter at the back of the store. She turned when the door sensor beeped to herald Amy's arrival. The interior designer stood and rushed around the end of the counter. As she trotted toward Amy, she said, "Geri told me what happened last night. Are you and your husband okay?"
"Yes. There were about half of a dozen people, including Alex, working late last night. But nobody was injured." She fiddled with the leather tassel zipper fob on her purse. "Lots of frazzled nerves, which is why I'm here doing some shopping therapy, but no one was physically hurt."
Charlotte frowned and shook her head. "What a terrifying ordeal for all of you to go through. I walked around the block this morning before I opened the store. It looks like the fire came close to spreading to the building."
"I think the Dumpster was about ten feet away from the back corner of the building, definitely too close for comfort—especially when it looked like the blazing portal to hell before the fire trucks arrived. So, yes, it was very scary." Amy took a deep breath. The fire had dominated her thoughts all day. It was time to give her brain something new to play with. She pointed at a wooden table covered with the white-, blue-, green-, and yellow-patterned pottery. "I decided to do a bit of shopping to try to soothe my nerves. My motto is—I can never have too many dishes. I just love those."
"If you have the space to store everything, that's a great philosophy. Personally, I think the patterns and colors in the Polish pottery add a lot of pizazz to a table setting." Charlotte plucked the lid off a soup tureen covered in rows of blue pansies and green vines. "The pieces just seem so happy and cheerful to me."
"Now there's an emotion I could stand to cultivate a bit more right now," Amy said as she picked up a large teacup adorned with cobalt-blue spirals.
"I can't imagine what you're going through." Charlotte replaced the lid then chose a daisy-covered coffee mug from the arrangement and offered it to Amy. "It sounds like someone is trying to kill your husband now."
CHAPTER NINE
(Carla)
Carla broke the rectangle of lemon shortbread into chunks. The pink dessert plate glittered with the excess sugar that had fallen off the top of the cookie as she dismantled it. Sitting in Amy's breakfast nook, eating cookies, and drinking coffee was an activity that was almost as familiar as brushing her teeth. Or at least it had been, once upon a time, before she became a mother. Now she felt restless, despite participating in an activity that usually chilled her out. It was because Macy wasn't with her.
"Do you know this is the first time I've done anything without the baby?" she asked. "It feels weird."
Amy refilled Carla's coffee mug then set the insulated carafe on a trivet on the table. "The first time? She's over four months old."
"I know how old my daughter is." That was rude. Apparently, having one-sided conversations with a baby who could only respond with squeals and giggles had adversely affected her social skills. "I'm sorry. Mom surprised me by coming over and taking Macy for a playdate at her apartment. It was a spur of the moment thing for all of us. Who would've thought I needed time to mentally prepare for taking a break away from the baby."
Amy drummed her fingers on the side of her coffee mug. "You know I seem to be missing the motherhood gene, so I may be way off base here, but do you think maybe it would be good for you to go back to work?"
Carla ran her fingers through her short hair. The no-fuss, wash-and-go hairstyle that Amy had given her for a breezy summer cut almost a year earlier had turned out to be perfect for motherhood too. The only way she could shower when Bruce wasn't home was to set Macy in her bouncy seat in the bathroom. The sound of the hair dryer scared the baby though, so towel-dried locks were the name of the game. How would she get ready for work every day when she was lucky if she could shower before dinnertime? "I've had a lot of time to think during all of the 2 a.m. feedings. I do crave interacting with people, but I can't go back to
the ER. There's no way I could deal with all of the trauma anymore, especially when it's inflicted by other people, then come home and be a good mom."
Amy dunked a cookie in her coffee and took a bite. She stared out the window facing the driveway. Her mouth twitched a few times as though she wanted to say something but stopped herself. Finally, she said, "I get it. You don't want to bring residual stress and other bad stuff home to Macy. But if you feel like you want to get back to your career, what about a less stressful nursing job, like at a doctor's office?"
It had been several months since she'd had a heart-to-heart conversation with Amy, yet her best friend had the precision of a championship dart player. Bull's-eye. "You're right. But I don't know if I want to put Macy in daycare which is basically a petri dish of germs and viruses. Just because I'm bored, is it fair of me to expose her to all kinds of illnesses?"
"I'm sorry." Amy placed her hand over her heart. "I can't help with those things. In the end, going back to work is your decision, and I don't know how to help steer you in the right direction. I've never had to make a decision like that myself. I wish I could make it easier by offering to take care of Macy, but the thought of babysitting is scarier than trying fermented seafood."
Carla plucked another cookie off the platter sitting between them. She wasn't a foodie. And her mind was perpetually foggy courtesy of baby-induced sleep deprivation. Amy's analogy was so far over her head the thing needed a parachute. "One—I didn't know there was fermented seafood. And two—why is it scary to eat?"
"The Swedish fermented herring. I guess it's one of the foulest smells ever when someone opens a can of it. Can you imagine what it tastes like? On top of that, there is always a possibility of getting botulism if something goes wrong in the fermentation process with meat. So that stuff is scary on so many levels. Just like I have more layers of fear than a croissant about babysitting."
How did Amy even know about the fermented herring? That couldn't be common knowledge—obscure European food traditions. She was like a walking encyclopedia of food facts. "It's okay. I won't make you eat the herring or babysit. Sometimes there are unpleasant side effects from being forced to face your fears," Carla said. "You could puke from eating the rotten fish or get puked on by the baby. Gnarly."
"But sometimes you don't have a choice. You have to take on the scary stuff."
Carla leaned back on the thick cushion that topped the U-shaped nook bench. It felt as though the conversation was taking a turn, but she didn't know to where. Amy's discussion style was usually akin to reading a spy thriller. Better to expect the plot twists than get blindsided by them. "So what is scary in your life right now?"
Amy waved her hand as though she was swatting away her fears. "Oh, not much. Just somebody threatening my husband's business and trying to catch the building on fire when he, along with some of his employees, were in it."
Her mother had told her about the fire—how she and Amy had seen the initial explosion from the rooftop deck. When it came to problems, Amy's life was taking the go big or go home approach. And thanks to hanging out in diaper and pacifier land, Carla had apparently missed some big developments. "What do you mean someone is threatening his company?"
"He got an email saying Quantum was going to pay for doing something. But Alex has no idea who wrote the letter or what happened to piss off the person."
"Did the email come before or after the Dumpster was set on fire?"
"Before."
How did that much trouble find such nice people? Neither Alex nor Amy would intentionally hurt someone, but a person with a different moral compass was going after them. And in a serious way. "The Dumpster that was set on fire was the same one where that TV star's body was found. Do you think the fire was connected with that or the threat to Quantum?"
"Who knows. It's all more confusing than an Italian restaurant menu written in Japanese." Amy's gaze shifted to the window. "That can't be good either."
Carla turned. Alex's black Jeep was rolling up the driveway. The man was a workaholic, and it was the middle of a Monday afternoon. She had to agree with Amy. Whatever had brought him home probably wasn't a good thing. Yet maybe she could ease her friend's worried mind a bit. "Maybe he wanted to surprise you with a quickie, and I'm ruining his romantic plans. I can leave."
"Nice idea." Amy sighed. "But judging from the look on his face—you're wrong. He came home early a few days ago too—to tell me that a man wearing a Quantum shirt was spotted with Phoebe the night she was murdered."
The scowl on Alex's face as he walked up the path to the porch definitely was not an indicator for afternoon delight. He opened the door and set his briefcase on the floor next to the coatrack. "Hello, Carla. I haven't seen you here in a while." He moved to the end of the table and looked around the kitchen. "Where's Macy?"
"With grandma for the afternoon."
"Wonderful." He looked at Amy while sporting a decidedly serious, instead of sexy, expression. "Detective Foster had a theory that the fire may have been an attempt to light the building on fire, possibly to get rid of some kind of evidence. So she had a team come in and do a search." Alex ran his hand over his short dark-red hair. "They found a pair of women's panties hidden under some fiberboard in the third floor production room."
"Okay, that's kind of weird." Amy's nose wrinkled. "We've had sex away from home, and I've never left behind my underwear. You kind of realize things like that are missing when you get dressed."
Carla gave her friend a sideways glance. Amy seemed sweet and innocent, but underneath the Goldilocks persona was a bit of a wild woman. At the moment though, her sex life wasn't the most interesting thing. "So was anything else found?" Carla asked.
"No." Alex shoved his hands in his pants pockets. "Detective Foster seemed pretty excited to find the panties. I was standing at the bottom of the stairwell, blatantly eavesdropping, so I could hear what she was saying to the people who found them. Something about needing to test them, but they appeared to match the bra."
"How much do you want to bet the dead woman wasn't wearing panties?" Carla asked. She was rewarded with a full-on grimace from Amy.
Alex shrugged. "That was my guess."
"But how did they get there?" Amy asked.
Carla raised an eyebrow. "Do we really need to explain that to you? I thought you had the concept down a minute ago."
"No! I didn't phrase the question correctly." Amy rolled her eyes as she poked Carla's shin with her bare foot. "I mean, you have security cameras all over inside the building. Shouldn't the couple have been caught on tape if they came in after hours to do the hokey pokey?"
"Yes," Alex said. "Nobody was up there on the night of the murder. I know that because I looked through the video footage myself. Only you and I came in on Sunday, and even if someone did decide to use the workroom to hook up with Phoebe, they would've had to use their security code to get in. So obviously something isn't right."
Carla leaned sideways so that she could tuck her leg underneath herself, to get comfortable and keep it out of revenge kicking range. Solving the murder puzzle was much more mentally stimulating than chatting with Macy who had yet to develop coherent conversational skills. "Did any of your security cameras catch what happened outside when the Dumpster blew up?"
"Something that appeared to be a Molotov cocktail was thrown from behind the Dumpster. I'd say from a passing car, but that half of the parking lot is just out of range of the surveillance camera over our employee entrance. There's no way to tell where the firebomb originated, especially since a big panel van was parked next to the Dumpster. It completely blocked the view of anything farther away."
"There are security cameras all over downtown. Maybe they picked something up," Carla offered. "So was your building searched inside before today?"
Alex shook his head.
Carla looked at Amy, whose face lit up in excitement. She could be thinking the same thing—or she could have pole-vaulted to a completely different idea. Amy sla
pped the table and asked, "What if the panties haven't been there for over a week?"
"That's what I was thinking," Carla said. "If there is no evidence of them getting there in the expected manner, then how and why did they end up in the room?"
CHAPTER TEN
As Amy descended the open staircase inside Quantum, she looked at all of the people bustling around between the desks and cubicles on the main level. Her husband had built a nice, little business empire. Whoever was trying to ruin it wasn't going to get away with it if she had any say in what was happening. She had always prided herself in not being a clingy wife, but since the firebombing, she felt drawn to stopping by his office to check on him. Her morning shift at Riverbend Café was complete. And now so was her mental health booster of making sure her husband was okay and that everybody around him seemed to be okay too. No odd behaviors, that she could see, which could possibly betray a guilty conscience.
The thought that she and Alex could be in the same building as the killer or arsonist or killer/arsonist made her shiver. The jittery reaction threw off her coordination, and only her heel made contact with the next step. Her foot then promptly slid off, landing on the next step with a loud thud which echoed through the reception area. Several people turned to look up at her. Never mind the klutz on the staircase. The clear glass railing was a nice design touch but not so nice for people who were trying to appear graceful…but weren't.
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