Many of the pies were already gone when she finally reached the tables. People may have taken their pies, but they wouldn't be quick to leave the hive of gossip buzzing in the town hall. Alicia Smolks ambushed Amy from behind, locking her in a bear hug. Luckily Amy hadn't been facing Alicia or her face would've been engulfed in a sea of ample, surgically enhanced cleavage. Apparently Dolly Parton was her fashion role model.
"You poor dear," she said as she released the iron grip on Amy's shoulders. "I can't imagine how traumatic it must've been to discover a dead body."
"Thank you. It was awful." Amy held up the basket. "I'm taking donations to buy a memorial bench at the park, to honor Mandy Jo. I figure it's the least we can all do for our fallen comrade."
Alicia shook her head. "You are such a sweetheart. I certainly wouldn't want to memorialize the woman who has been slandering me for years. You're a nicer woman than I."
"No, I'm not. I just think it's the right thing to do since she won the pie contest for five years in a row."
"You have a good point with the champion thing." She leaned closer. "Still, I would've delegated the fundraising to someone else. Then again, I can't think of anybody who would do it. I haven't found a single person yet who liked Mandy Jo. Nobody, other than you, considered her a comrade. You might have a tough time raising the money."
Alicia was on more fundraising committees than Amy. Her comments said a lot about the ill will Mandy Jo had spread around the small town. How would she find people who wanted to pay tribute to the social equivalent of a pissed off cobra that liked to sniff out dusty skeletons in closets then drag them into the open? Just because she thought she knew the reason behind Mandy Jo's unpleasant antics didn't mean anybody else would feel the need to memorialize her.
A loud squawk stunned the audience into silence. Elliot had taken his place behind the podium and turned on the PA system. "Excuse me." Another ear drum shattering moan reverberated through the room. Kristi flicked off the switch on the microphone and whispered something in her husband's ear. He nodded in agreement then shouted, "Excuse me. Can you all still hear me?"
A woman in the back of the room yelled back, "We aren't deaf. Stop shouting at us."
Elliot looked like he had sucked on a lemon wedge. "I apologize," he said at a slightly lower volume. "I want to ensure that everybody can hear me since the public address system doesn't seem to be functioning correctly tonight."
He coughed and continued, "As all of you know by now, Mandy Jo Pierce passed away Saturday evening. After much consideration, my wife and I have decided to cancel the pie contest for this year. We're asking that you all take your pies home with you tonight and wish you the best of luck next year. Have a good evening."
That was it? Kristi had called over fifty people to insist they come to pick up their pies at the same time to attend an important meeting. Why couldn't she just have told people the contest was canceled and let everybody retrieve the pies at their convenience like after every other contest? Judging from the rising chorus of voices, Amy wasn't the only one thinking the same way.
Kristi, still dressed in her chef's jacket and apron from the bakery, nudged her husband aside so she could stand behind the podium. "I know you're all disappointed. You've worked so hard to bake your pies, but we can't ask the judges to eat food that has been in the same room as a dead body."
That comment silenced the room again. People who were holding pies looked like they were afraid the baked goods would grow teeth and develop a craving for human brains. A rash of unnatural skin hues, ranging from chalky white to moldy green, spread through the crowd. Pie sprinkled with dead body cooties. Kristi and Elliot stared at each other. It was a marital showdown. Elliot's left eyebrow twitched. Producing mass nausea probably wasn't his goal for the meeting.
Elliot raised his hand to try to silence the buzz of disgust that was gaining momentum in the crowded room. "Aside from that, the cream and custard pies could not be chilled as we were unable to enter the hall during the investigation to relocate them to a refrigerator. Those pies would be unsafe for the judges to consume now and since it has been several days since the entries were baked, none of the pies are fresh anymore. We cannot fairly judge any of the pies at this time, so we have no choice but to cancel the contest."
Someone in the back corner of the room yelled, "I spent a lot of time and money working on my pie recipe. Why don't you reschedule the contest instead of flat out canceling it?"
Kristi twisted the stained kitchen towel looped through her apron strings into a knot as she whispered in Elliot's ear. He frowned and stepped back up to the podium. "Who prefers that the pie contest be rescheduled? Please raise your hand if you would care to enter a competition at a later, as of yet undetermined, date."
Amy raised her hand. She had definitely worked overtime on her pie. It looked like almost everybody else in the hall did the same thing.
Elliot cleared his throat. "Very well. I will reorganize the contest for next month. All of you will be contacted after I have coordinated the proceedings and decided upon a new date and venue."
A satisfied murmur rippled through the audience. Groups began to disband as people headed for the exits. The residents of Kellerton had a competitive streak the size of a 5-lane freeway. Bragging rights and social standings were decided in the Summer Festival cooking contests. Beyond awarding trophies and prize money to the top three winners in each category, the final score of every entry was publicly posted. Everything was supposed to be anonymous, thanks to Elliot's numbering system, but which cake or pie belonged to who was easily figured out through the town's rumor grapevine. People compared notes about who was in front or behind them in line and names were quickly associated with the numbers. A poor score from sub-par baked goods, in some social circles, was the equivalent of being caught dancing naked in the park during a full moon with a neighbor's husband. Still, many people were more than happy to pit their recipes against others, despite the risk of becoming a bake sale pariah whose plates of cookies were always relegated to the back of the display tables. On the flip side, high scores could bring invitations to the most exclusive book clubs and progressive dinner parties in town.
"Excuse me. You're standing in front of my pie."
"Sorry," Amy said as she moved aside. Bea Perkins, the woman who had taken third place in the cake contest a few days earlier, grabbed a pumpkin pie off the table. Amy held up the donation basket and swung it back and forth, "Would you like to make a donation to help buy a bench in Town Center Park, in memory of Mandy Jo?"
Bea put the pie back down and placed her hands on her hips. She was tall and fit with short, spiked salt and pepper hair and a diamond nose stud. The restaurateur was more than a bit intimidating as she towered over Amy and said, "Why would I want to memorialize the woman who almost destroyed my marriage? She told me Thomas was having an affair, said she'd spotted him at a romantic restaurant with Paula Harris. I'll never know why now, but for some reason she set out to stir up trouble between the three of us. Tom had ordered a custom pendant from Paula for our anniversary and was meeting with her to make sure it was made the way he wanted. I'm disgusted with myself for almost leaving him because I was gullible enough to believe that wicked Mandy Jo."
Apparently Mandy Jo didn't care who she hurt. Bea and Thomas owned a breakfast-only diner, The Breakfast Spot, which was frequented by many Kellerton residents. Anyone who visited the restaurant could see how much the couple loved each other. Paula was a local jeweler who specialized in custom designs. Only Mandy Jo was twisted enough to try to distort a business meeting into a relationship-crushing lie. Getting donations for the bench was definitely not going to be easy.
Within five minutes the town hall was empty. The two, huge trash cans inside the commercial kitchen were overflowing with discarded pies. Apparently many people couldn't stand the thought of disposing the death contaminated baked goods at their homes. A few competitors were even more squeamish. Several nice pie plates, including an
expensive looking ceramic one, were nestled into the oozing mountains of fruit filling and jagged chunks of crust. She tipped her perfect pie onto the mess. How long had it sat above Mandy Jo's body?
There was only $10 in the donation basket as Amy walked out the door. Bea was outside on the sidewalk, talking with a couple other women. She waved at Amy, "Could we chat a bit while we walk to our vehicles? I think we're parked near each other."
"That would be wonderful," Amy said as she paused to let Bea catch up.
They walked a few feet in silence then Bea looked around. She leaned closer. "I'm not one for spreading rumors, but I have to say I'm surprised ol' Elliot agreed to re-run the pie contest. Between you and me, I think Mandy Jo's murder is the death knell for the Summer Festival baking contests or at least Elliot's sponsorship of them."
"Really? Kristi's death contamination comment was gross, but I don't think that'll stop people from participating, do you? I had a hard time seeing across the room, but it looked to me like almost everybody wanted a rematch."
Bea stopped near the front bumper of her white pickup with vinyl decals of The Breakfast Spot's logo on the doors. "By now I think everybody expects Kristi to make tactless comments. That isn't the problem. I think their bakery is in financial trouble. I have two shelves full of trophies that I've won over the years in the baking contests he's sponsored. None of my customers have ever complained a crumb about my baked goods. In fact, our place is known for homemade biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Elliot has been bugging me to hire his bakery to make all of the baked goods instead of doing it ourselves. I can out-bake him with a blindfold on and one hand tied behind my back."
"You are one of the best bakers that I know, Bea. I agree, I think he's grasping at financial straws to save his business if he thinks you want to offer his products in your restaurant."
"I'll bet you one of my jumbo sticky buns that Maxson's Bakery won't have their logo plastered all over the festival next year."
"I have a feeling I'd lose that bet," Amy giggled, "but I'm more than happy to buy a sticky bun whenever I visit. I can't resist them. Have a good night!"
Amy walked across the last few rows in the empty parking lot. It was after 9 p.m., officially nighttime, but the temperature hadn't dropped much. She had left the car windows open a tiny crack to give the accumulated heat a chance to escape into the wild, but the car was most likely still going to feel like a toaster oven. Some detox sweating would do her body good, at least until the air conditioning kicked in. Amy dug the keys out of her purse. About half a dozen key fobs ranging from a flower-shaped bottle opener to a miniature whisk were attached to them, but somehow they always managed to claw their way to the bottom. She opened the passenger door and set the empty pie plate on the floor so any remaining crumbs wouldn't fall onto the seat. Carla would have a fit if she got grease stains on her jeans from an errant butter-laden crumble crumb. There was a sheet of white paper, folded in quarters, on the seat. Had a receipt fallen out of her purse? She unfolded the sheet and gasped as she read the message printed on it:
Stay away or yule end up like Mandy Jo.
CHAPTER FOUR
Amy glanced at her laptop and plunged a measuring cup into the flour canister. She scraped off the excess with the flat edge of a butter knife. A white cloud puffed from the deep, ceramic bowl when she dumped in the flour. An electric hand mixer sat on the counter, armed with beaters, plugged in, ready for muffin mixing duty. She shook her head. It would be too loud to use at 6 a.m. Not because anybody else was asleep in the house. Because she had a pounding headache from once again barely sleeping. If, like the note hinted, somebody wanted to kill her, giving her a case of severe insomnia might do the trick. No incriminating murder weapon necessary if the victim spontaneously falls asleep at the wheel of her car and drives off a bridge.
The question of why someone would want her to die in any way was what had kept her awake. That and anticipating Alex's reaction to both the threatening note and the fact that she didn't tell him about it immediately. It was after 10 p.m. when she made it home from the town hall after giving a statement and turning over the note to Detective Shepler, the officer in charge of Mandy Jo's murder case. Amy had made the decision not to worry her husband. He was already booked on a red eye flight from Atlanta. He wouldn't make it home any sooner, so there was no reason to make his flight even more miserable as he worried about her. Every time the air conditioner kicked on during the night she almost jumped out of her skin, but even if she had told Alex about the note he still wouldn't have been home. She was being a good wife and saving him a bit of stress. That's what she kept telling herself as her shoulder muscles tightened into marble, from tension and dread, during the long night alone.
She sighed as she retrieved a whisk from a utensil crock near the stove. Every muscle in her body ached from the lack of sleep. Mixing the muffin batter by hand was bound to make her arm feel like overcooked asparagus, but shaky muscles were preferable to escalating her headache with the electric mixer. She cracked an egg into the bowl, poured in the milk, and started the mixing process. Her arm muscles immediately protested the whisking by cramping, but the culinary exercise was mercifully over quickly. Then she scooped up the mounds of sundried tomatoes and diced salami with her pastry scraper, dropped the intensely flavored nuggets on top of the batter, and gritted her teeth. Just a bit more arm torture to fold in the flavorful additions. The less taxing task of transferring the batter into the wrappers with an ice cream scoop was something she could probably do in her sleep after thousands of times practicing the technique.
When the muffins were safely in the oven, Amy poured the last splash of coffee into her mug and refilled the machine with water and freshly ground Kona coffee so Alex could have some with his breakfast. She sat down on the bench in the nook and then laid back. The thick cushion actually was a comfortable substitute for a bed. She wiggled backward until her whole body was on the long bench. Insisting the upholsterer use thicker than standard foam had been a very good decision when the kitchen was remodeled four years earlier. She congratulated herself on the foresight and promptly fell asleep.
The frenzied, robotic bird chirp of the timer woke Amy. She sat up and whacked her elbow on the edge of the table. The zing of a direct hit on the funny bone jolted her fully awake. She scrambled out of the confines of the breakfast nook and sprinted to the oven. While she'd power napped, the kitchen had filled with the mouth watering scent of the savory muffins. If it had taken her a while to wake up after the timer began going off, the aroma could develop smoky campfire overtones at any moment. After taking 2 seconds to silence the blaring timer, she opened the oven. Mercifully, the muffins were golden brown, not even close to becoming charcoal briquettes. Alex was going to love her welcome back meal. He preferred savory breakfasts, instead of fruit-filled muffins or maple syrup-drenched French toast. She deposited the pan onto a cooling rack. According to the airline's website, Alex's flight should've landed 40 minutes earlier.
She set the table and made a mental note to get some pillows to add to the U-shaped bench. The nap in her favorite room in the house had been amazingly restorative. The headache was gone, and the short jog across the kitchen to rescue the close to over-baked muffins, hadn't left her feeling like she had run a marathon. Fabulous.
Alex's black, 4-door Jeep pulled into the driveway as she set the coffee carafe and a basket full of the muffins on the table. Pogo recognized the sound of the vehicle and skittered in circles around Amy. She threw herself at Alex the moment he walked through the door.
"Hey, baby," he said as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the floor.
"Welcome home."
She ran her fingers through his short cropped hair, which tended to curl adorably around his ears and collar if he let it grow out a bit. He hated that, though, so visits to the barber every few weeks kept his mahogany brown locks suitably short. It looked like he hadn't shaved for a few days. The scruff added an extra-sexy sauce to thei
r reunion.
"It smells wonderful." Alex said as he set her back down. "What did you make?"
"A meat-filled version of my standard, savory Parmesan muffins." Usually she made the cheesy muffins as a side for dinner. The salami and tomato additions were an attempt to soothe Alex's savory breakfast cravings. And get on his good side before she told him about the note. She slid into the nook and tugged him down beside her. "After they were baking I thought that I should've added a nugget of cream cheese or mozzarella in the center. That would've been nice."
He broke off a chunk of one of the muffins and popped it into his mouth. "They're great even without the extra cheese. I'll definitely be a willing tester for this recipe if you're going to enter it in a contest."
Amy laid her head on his shoulder as she tasted a bit of her own muffin. Good, but not quite incredible. She stared at the basket of golden, speckled muffins. A gooey, cheese filling would definitely be good. Maybe add some breadcrumbs to the Parmesan topping to make it crunchier? As she ran through ingredients in her mind Alex asked, "Did the police arrest anybody for Mandy Jo's murder yet?"
"No." She stuffed another chunk of muffin in her mouth. The meal was going so nicely, but now it was skidding toward her having to tell him she was hiding something.
Pies & Peril: A Culinary Competition Mystery (Culinary Competition Mysteries) Page 4
