"I work in an emergency room. I deal first hand with the people you read about in the newspaper. Does Kevin enter the contests too?"
"No."
"No reason to get rid of the competition if he isn't in the competition."
Amy used a slotted spoon to fish a piece of ziti out of the pot full of boiling water. She bit into it. Not quite done, but maybe she should inform Killjoy Carla that she was done eating muffins until she stopped pointing out all of the holes in her brilliant theories. Then again…
"What if the killer and the note writer are two different people?"
* * *
Amy shifted her basket so that it was directly in front of her, both hands on the leather handles, in battle position. Ahead of her a knot of people clustered around the booth selling miniature pies and tarts. A couple teen girls, dressed in black nylon smocks that signified they were enrolled in the downtown beauty college, scowled as Amy wriggled through the throng. She should've picked the small gap between two older gentlemen to squeeze through. Coming between women and sugar fixes was always a bad idea. People had poured out of the downtown businesses to find a meal at one of the many prepared food stands or food trucks set up around the perimeter of the park. The farmer's market was one of her favorite parts of summer, but during peak hours the crowd was often so thick it felt like hand to hand combat as people jostled each other to select the perfect size of summer squash or the most beautiful wildflower bouquet. Being short didn't help, especially on hot days, since she was pretty much at the armpit level of most normal-sized people. It felt and smelled like she was a sardine being packed in a tin. Ugh.
The crowd thinned a bit once she got past the pie-hungry mob. Ahead, the last booth she wanted to visit was surrounded by customers. Amy channeled her inner miniature basketball player and made a break for it. Her petite stature, for once, worked to her advantage as she darted around a couple women standing in the aisle having a conversation about removing stains from cloth diapers, and slipped into a crack in the human barricade. The vendor's offerings were a sight to behold, like Mother Nature and the Easter Bunny had gotten together and made tomato babies. The table was filled with baskets full of heirloom tomatoes in a range of colors from acid green to chocolate brown. Some were as large as softballs while others truly looked like eggs. Amy had been making salads with the lovely tomatoes for over a month, but she'd had an idea while making the casseroles for Kevin earlier in the day. Tomato pie.
She chose a basket with a nice variety of medium-sized tomatoes and paid for them. Luckily she had brought a hard-sided wicker basket with her, to protect the delicate cargo from bony hips and giant zucchinis protruding from shopping bags like vegetal clubs. She tilted her head from side to side like a prize fighter before a match as she steeled herself for the last push through the mass of hungry humanity. There was only about 20 feet left in the vending area. Then she could break free and make a dash to her car. As she turned she caught a glimpse of Elliot Maxson's unmistakable helmet-like black hair.
The juicy tomatoes were worth the trip downtown, but she might as well frost two cakes with one batch of frosting. She could check to see how much money was in the donation jar at the bakery. A frazzled, spit-up covered mom blocked her way with a double stroller full of unhappy baby girls as Amy tried to catch up with Elliot. She lost sight of him as she did a do-si-do dance with the stroller and the apologizing momma. Finally she made it past the last stall and found some breathing space. Elliot was half a block away, power walking back to the bakery with a big tray of raspberries balanced on his shoulder. There was no way she could catch up with him to chat, so she slowed her pace from hurried to leisurely. The bakery would surely be sub-arctic cold again, but there was no reason to get extra hot before hand by rushing.
Amy studied the signs on the storefronts ahead of her, trying to decide if there was anything else she needed. A block away a black, script E, hanging from a wrought iron bracket attached to the front of the building, swayed in the hot breeze. Elegance Salon was where she used to work and where Mandy Jo had still worked, until her life had been snuffed out like a candle under an empty chafing dish. It was the perfect place to set out another donation jar for Mandy Jo's memorial.
A flash of red in her peripheral vision stopped Amy. The soles of her bejeweled flip flops skidded on the gritty sidewalk. She had almost walked right past Maxson's Bakery. Elliot was in the tiny lobby, and the tray of raspberries sat on top of one of the bakery cases while Kristi examined them. As Amy opened the door, the pastry decorator scolded, "I said I only needed a couple pints of berries."
Elliot shrugged as he said, "You are not obliged to use all of them. The vendor proposed a remarkable price for the flat. I could not refuse such a bargain. Whatever is left over from your cake can be used, perhaps to decorate the top of some lemon tarts or as a filling for turnovers."
Kristi shook her head. "Don't expect me to make any of those things, especially the tarts. Lemon curd smells like puke to me. Since you think it's such a good idea to buy extra berries, you can make all of the stuff to use them up."
"I will." Elliot turned to Amy with a weary smile on his face. "What can I help you with?"
"Just checking on the donations."
Elliot's smile shifted direction and turned into a grimace. He looked at the jar sitting next to the cash register. "Unfortunately, it doesn't appear there are many."
"Did you take out the donations from the pie luncheon after the funeral?" Amy set her basket on the floor at her feet and picked up the jar. A few dollar bills and a handful of change didn't even cover the bottom of the vessel. "Is this just what has been donated since then?"
"That's everything that has been left since you gave me the jar."
Kristi slapped the top of the bakery case and laughed. "Doesn't matter how much glaze you put on a moldy doughnut, people can still tell it's rotten. All of your fancy decorations on that jar did nothing. Nobody wants to memorialize Mandy Jo, other than you."
There was no use emptying a few dollars out of the jar. Possibly people would feel more compelled to donate if they saw others already had. Amy set the jar back down. "If you don't mind, I would like to leave the jar here for a while longer."
"You are welcome to leave it until you decide it is no longer necessary, but please continue to maintain a schedule of checking on the donation accumulation." Elliot waved at an overweight fly as it cruised past his face. An insect drone on its way to plunder cookie crumbs and icing drips. "Please excuse me while I find a fly swatter to eradicate this unwanted visitor."
The stifling cloud of steamy humidity that surrounded Amy again as she stepped outside was more pleasant than the company inside the bakery. Elliot was odd in an overly formal, old-fashioned way, but his wife was a unique variety of weird. Possibly the strange, and often offensive, comments stemmed from a fear of public speaking. Every year during the Summer Festival presentation ceremonies something wildly inappropriate would slip out of Kristi's mouth as she helped her husband hand out trophies, like the comment about the pies being contaminated with death cooties at the recent meeting. There was always a moment or two of stunned silence during the awards ceremonies, prompted by Kristi's improper remarks. How did ultra stuffy Elliot put up with his wife's social snafus?
Amy sighed as she slogged toward Elegance Salon. It had been months since she had stopped in to see the owner, Thalia, and the rest of her former co-workers. Cooking, and then winning things like professional grade ranges and stainless steel refrigerators, was better than triple chocolate fudge cake for lunch every day while cutting hair, but she sometimes missed working at the salon. More precisely, she missed talking to the other stylists, the customers, delivery people from the deli…humans, in general. While life was more peaceful and less stressful developing recipes by herself at home, she did sometimes crave the busyness of the salon. Since one of those former co-workers was Mandy Jo, there was also cattiness and back-stabbing to go with the joking and harmless gossip
ing. Ah, the good old days, dodging metaphorical razor-sharp claws and butcher knives. Now, instead of chatting with someone while she applied hair dye, she talked to the dog while she mixed batter. Poor Pogo. Her dog had an impressive network of hidey-holes in the house. He preferred napping to listening to her chatter while she cooked. Too bad she hadn't thought of visiting the salon before she left the house. She would've made a batch of mini muffins using the low-fat batter. There was nothing like a captive audience of hungry guinea pigs when she was testing new recipes.
The familiar scent of the salon's signature lily of the valley shampoo greeted her when she opened the door to the business. She sneezed. The same thing she did every single time she walked into the place. Her nose's standard protest to the flower-scented atmosphere. The receptionist behind the sleek, black lacquer counter grinned and said, "Welcome back to Allergy Central."
Amy stretched over the counter and hugged the familiar woman as she air kissed both of her cheeks. "Hi, Clarice. How are you?"
"Fabulous. As usual."
Clarice plucked a bit of lint off the bottom edge of the sleeveless, black silk tunic she wore over leather leggings. She was in her fifties, but still had a body that would make women in their twenties jealous. It certainly made Amy wish she hadn't eaten a second muffin that morning.
"Is Thalia around?"
"I'm right here," the owner of the salon called as she glided around the partial wall behind the reception desk. "It's so good to see you."
Amy blinked and pressed her lips together, trying to pretend her lip gloss had magically turned into glue. Thalia's electric blue hair combined with knee high leather boots and a matching vest made her look like a mermaid biker. All black clothing was the uniform for the salon, so black leather was a common wardrobe choice among employees. However, the candy-colored hair just looked so…wrong.
"I know…I know. It's a horrid color. Thought I would try out a new trend and failed. I definitely can't pull this off like Katy Perry. I'll be back to something more normal this evening." Thalia twisted a lock of the cough lozenge blue hair around her index finger. "Enough about me and my poor choices in hair color. What has brought you in today?"
"I'm trying to raise money to buy a memorial bench at Town Center Park for Mandy Jo. She was the Summer Festival Pie Queen for five years in a row. I think that accomplishment deserves to be noted for posterity, especially since she was killed at the contest. I was wondering if I could bring in a donation jar. I'll make sure it looks nice and matches the salon's decor."
"We all chipped in to buy a flower arrangement for the funeral. It never occurred to me to do a memorial. You are such a sweetheart. Of course, you can bring a donation jar in." Thalia leaned closer and said, "Could you schedule an appointment around noon with Clarice when you plan to drop it off? I want to take you out for lunch, so we can chat a bit."
Uh-oh. Thalia was a subtle as a shot of tequila. She talked about anything and everything in the salon without a care if a customer or employee overheard. Scheduling a private conversation away from the building meant something serious was up. "Certainly. I can't wait to catch up with you."
* * *
The thump of a car door signaled that Alex was home. Just in time. The cheese on top of the tomato pies was bubbly and brown. Amy removed the small casserole dishes from the oven. One pie for each of them. Portion control and she had used low-fat mayonnaise in the cheesy topping. There was butter in the biscuit crust and bits of crispy, salty bacon layered with plenty of low-calorie, delicious tomatoes in the pies. A balanced meal, especially with the green salad. She could fill her plate with the salad and just eat half of the tomato pie, but what if she got hungry later from eating mostly rabbit food and gobbled the rest of the pie at 11 p.m.? Wouldn't it be better to eat the whole thing now so some of the calories could burn off before she crawled into bed?
Losing weight was shaping up to be about as difficult as resisting a slice of fresh strawberry pie. It would probably be easier if she was a bad cook. Then she could just buy those frozen diet meals and be happy with their reduced-calorie blandness. She rummaged through the crisper drawer in the refrigerator. More veggies, she needed more veggies.
"Hey, sweetheart," Alex said when he walked into the kitchen as she carefully unloaded her treasure of colorful healthiness on the counter. He kissed her cheek. "Dinner smells wonderful."
"Tomato pie and a nice, healthy salad."
"Sounds good. I'll be in my office. Let me know when it's ready."
Amy selected a chef's knife from the teak wood knife block. Alex often headed straight to his home office when he arrived to utilize the spare moments to completely wrap up his work while she wrapped up dinner. The sharp knife plunged through the soft cucumber and whacked the wooden cutting board. Thunk, thunk, thunk. How many pretty women, with baking sheet flat tummies, had he seen that day? How many of them batted their fake eyelashes at him or strutted to the office's printer like a professional beauty queen to get his attention? Did he notice the squishy bulge of fat above her waistband when he just placed his hand there while executing the peck on her cheek?
She dumped the bag of baby lettuce mix from the farmer's market into the salad spinner and ran cold water over the leaves. This was going to be the best salad ever. She would love it and eat it and feel so good afterward. Right. The buttery, cheesy, smoky, tomato-y aroma of the pies was the grand champion of appetizing scents. The green, grassy fragrance of the lettuce just didn't cut it in the competition between mouth watering aromas. How in the world did vegans live without cheese and bacon, two of the best ingredients in the cooking universe? A puzzle she was sure she would never find out, at least not from first-hand experience. She was an omnivore through and through.
The salad spinner hummed as she pushed the plunger that set the basket in motion. In the backyard, Pogo erupted in a frenzied bark tirade. The dog's main goal in life was to bark at anything that moved, just in case. To him, everything was a potential enemy that could need to be scared away. Like anything other than a fat squirrel would be afraid of what looked more like a mutant dust bunny than a dog.
A loud bang echoed through the house. Pogo's barks ratcheted up another notch. Amy let go of the salad spinner. It skittered across the counter from the momentum of the whirling lettuce inside.
"What was that? Are you okay?" Alex yelled from his office. A few seconds later he tore into the kitchen. "That noise…it sounded like it came from the back of the house."
Pogo's yips were still raging at a demonic pace. Whatever happened, it didn't seem to have affected him. "I…I don't know what that was," Amy said.
"Stay right here. I'm going to check the backyard."
The thuds of Alex's footsteps, as he ran across the hardwood floor, matched the pace of her heartbeat. There were a few seconds of silence then the feverish scrapes of doggy toenails on tile filled the kitchen. Pogo was safe. He bounded across the room and launched himself at her legs. She picked him up. The poor baby. His entire body heaved as he tried to catch his breath. She could feel his heart pounding under his ribs. As she stroked his head Alex returned to the kitchen with a big rock in one hand.
"Somebody threw this onto the deck."
He set the gray stone on the counter. There was a white rectangle of folded paper attached to it. Clear packing tape had been used to secure it in place.
"It's a note," Amy said as she reached for the rock.
"Don't touch it. There could be fingerprints."
"You touched it."
"Just the exposed rock. I don't think the police can collect fingerprints from a rough surface like that. The tape could have prints. Let's call the police and have them take care of it."
Mr. Calm, Cool and Rational. That was her man. He might be able to think under pressure, but she couldn't wait for a squad car to arrive before reading the note. What if it said she had to turn over her apple pie recipe within the next five minutes or their home would be blown up? The house could be a pile o
f kindling before the police arrived. She set Pogo back on the floor. He scrambled to his water dish. The knife she had used to chop the vegetables sat next to the rock.
"How about cutting around the note with a knife?" Now her brain was working. Not quite on par with her brainy hubby, but at least she had come up with a valid plan. She pulled open a nearby drawer. The latex gloves she used to clean chili peppers looked like the ones crime scene investigators used on television shows. She plucked out a pair. "I can wear these so I won't get my prints on anything."
Alex nodded in agreement. Huzzah! A brilliant idea that was all her own. She put on the gloves and then carefully traced the tip of the chef's knife around the rectangle of paper. It slipped away from the stone. She grabbed the edges of the note with her fingernails to unfold it.
Your not lisening. Stay away or pay the price.
She laid the paper on the counter and glared at it. Alex wrapped her in a bear hug. "It'll be alright. I'm going to call Detective Shepler."
Hmph. Carla might want to share dinner with the police officer, but she certainly didn't want to. Alex kept one arm around Amy as he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and made the call.
"He'll be here in a few minutes." He sighed. "Judging from what this says, the part about staying away, I guess you're right about someone trying to keep you away from the pie contest. What kind of idiot makes death threats to win a couple hundred dollars?"
Amy shook her head. "Apparently an illiterate one. Listening isn't spelled correctly and they used the wrong your. It should be Y-O-U apostrophe R-E."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pies & Peril: A Culinary Competition Mystery (Culinary Competition Mysteries) Page 9
