Amy stood and held up the notebook sign as people emerged from the airport hallway. She could feel Shepler hovering behind her. It felt as though she was being stalked by Bigfoot. Several adorable grandmotherly women who looked as if they were heading to a Mrs. Santa Claus convention walked past and smiled sweetly but didn't stop. Shepler sighed when they passed by. Was the response in relief or disappointment?
Shepler's nervousness was contagious. Amy rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. She looked down and focused on the modern art carpet swirled with red and black. When she looked back up, a woman was heading straight toward her. She had gray hair, but instead of being short and tidy, her locks were long and twisted into a wildly messy bun entwined with purple ribbons. The toes of her red leather shoes peeked out from under the floor-length, mud-colored linen skirt. A heavy chocolate-colored sweater that was several sizes too big completed her ensemble. The woman smiled when she stopped in front of Amy. "I'm Geri. You must be Amy, Carla's friend."
"I am." She pointed her thumb over her right shoulder. "And this is Bruce Shepler. Your son-in-law."
Geri shook hands with both of them. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I can't wait to become better acquainted with both of you and soon, my grandchild."
"Absolutely. There's plenty of time to get to know each other." Shepler pointed at the luggage carousel where the first few suitcases from the flight were coming down the conveyor belt. "I'm sure you're tired from the flight. Why don't we see if we can find your bags then get you back to the house to see Carla?"
"I have definitely spent more than enough time cooped up in that airplane. Over eighteen hours in a flying tin can is a bit tiring." She rubbed the back of her neck. "I can't wait to see my daughter again. I'm sure she looks very different from the last time I saw her but in a very good way."
They all worked at collecting the luggage Geri had brought for her visit. Amy took over wheeling the pink zebra print carry-on suitcase while Shepler hauled the bulging magenta-colored suitcases, which Geri pointed out, off the conveyor belt. He had made a good call bringing his new extended cab pickup for the mission. Three adults and the three suitcases would never have fit into either Amy's or Carla's small cars. It appeared that Geri was planning on staying a while. Hopefully the quickly multiplying family would all get along.
By the time the trio made it to the Shepler household, Amy was optimistic. She and Geri had chatted for the entire forty-five minute drive about everything from living in an Earthship home, made from dirt and recycled materials, in the New Zealand countryside to entering cooking competitions. They were as compatible as pancakes and maple syrup. Even Shepler loosened up and joined in the conversation as he related how Amy sometimes helped with his murder investigations.
When they walked through the front door of the townhome, Carla executed a move that Amy had dubbed The Gopher. Her head popped up over the back of the couch. Since the couch was the color of dirt, she resembled a gopher peeking from its hole. "Mom! I'm so glad you're here."
"Me too," Geri said as she slipped off her shoes on the welcome mat. She trotted across the room, skirted the end of the couch, and wrapped her daughter in a hug. "It's been too long. We have a lot of catching up to do, and I can't wait to meet my grandchild."
CHAPTER NINE
The restroom door thumped shut behind Amy. She was midway through her afternoon shift at the market, and JoJo had sent her on a break. So she made a quick stop to take care of necessary business before heading out for a quick, rejuvenating stroll through the aisles. The Southern Gals booth had erected a blockade of bacon scent in the corner of the retail space. To escape the restroom hallway, she'd have to walk right through the cloud of smoky temptation. Again. As she passed by the first time, Amy had glanced at that day's menu and every entree had bacon in it. But it wasn't the Bacon Bonanza that was the most unusual thing at that booth at the moment.
A woman with the most colorful set of dreadlocks Amy had ever seen was chatting with Rayshelle at the end of the steam table. When the rainbow-haired woman casually turned toward Amy, she gasped and reflexively stepped backward. She just couldn't politely hide her shock. There was a giant eye tattooed in the middle of Rainbow Woman's forehead. Metal balls from piercings on her lip, nose, and both eyebrows glinted in the bright overhead lights. She was like an amped up, scary horror movie ghoul version of Rayshelle, right down to the inappropriate clothes. While Rayshelle had toned down her underwear as outerwear clothing philosophy while working at the market, this woman took the fashion style to new heights. She was wearing shiny black leggings with so many holes cut in them Amy could see she was wearing underpants printed with Monday even though it was Wednesday. See-through mesh crop tops weren't normal apparel choices in Michigan in early winter. But the unexpected clothing ensemble did highlight another piercing and tattoo. Her belly button, fitted with a giant red rhinestone stud, formed one eye in the depiction of a sugar skull decorated with candy-colored flowers.
Forget about taking a stroll. Amy stopped to examine the community bulletin board in the hallway so she could study the unusual customer a little longer. People walking past gave the young woman a wide berth and uneasy looks. LeighAnne sat on a stool in the front corner, glaring at the cash register. The poor woman's face was as red as the tomato sauce covering the stuffed bell peppers that was the featured entree for the day. While Amy pretended to read the details on a spaghetti dinner fundraiser flyer, she saw, in her peripheral vision, the woman walk away from Southern Gals with Rayshelle following behind her.
She checked the time on her phone. There were a few more minutes left in her break. LeighAnne was wiping her forehead with a napkin when Amy stepped up to the cash register and asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'll be better when Rayshelle's little sister gives up and stops nosing around for money."
That connection wasn't much of a surprise, nowhere near that of finding out Rayshelle was Esther Mae's niece. "Wow. I bet their family reunions are very…colorful."
LeighAnne chuckled. The deep frown lines on her face softened. "I've never thought about that, but I imagine you're right. Although I doubt anybody in that family would shell out the money to host a party. Shantelle just wants me to give her money because she was related to Esther Mae. The inheritance she thinks she's entitled to even though I know Esther Mae wouldn't have left her anything. I'll be damned if I'm going to give that freak a dime of my hard-earned money just because she shared blood with my business partner. It's bad enough I have to work with Pumpkin Head, but at least Rayshelle's working for the money I'm paying her. It's the least I can do since she was like a wayward daughter to Esther Mae."
The rant caused her face to redden again. A sharp contrast to her soft-gray, curly hair. After witnessing the same phenomenon on Esther Mae preceding her collapse, Amy didn't want to rile up the older woman any more. Yet her curiosity was piqued. "I thought you said Rayshelle was Esther Mae's niece."
"Oh, she was. I said like a wayward daughter since Esther Mae raised her through her teens. They've had some problems because Esther Mae wasn't fond of Rayshelle's choice of jobs and lifestyle. The relationship has been a little rocky over the last five years or so."
"Did Esther Mae raise this sister too?"
LeighAnne shook her head. "No. She and Buck couldn't afford taking on two kids when her sister went to prison, especially when the girls fought like wildcats like those two used to. Neither one of them wanted to take on that mess since they had no experience with children. Shantelle was raised by another sister down south, in Alabama, I think."
"Sounds like a big family."
She snorted. "It is, and according to Buck, they all think they should get money from Esther Mae's estate. Looking for handouts from all of her hard work. Who knows, the whole family may be showing up soon scrounging for money from me and him. Shantelle just informed me that it's how her family works. When somebody dies, everybody gets a share of their money and possessions. It sounds like a bunch of bull
to me, but Esther Mae told me enough stories about her family that it could be true."
"Did they ask Esther Mae for money when she was alive?"
"Oh, hell no. She would just tell them to go get a haircut and find themselves a job. All of them were afraid of her. She might not have liked where Rayshelle worked, at that trashy underwear store, but she did more for her because she at least had a job."
Amy looked around. The siblings who looked like walking sample displays for neon hair dyes were nowhere in sight. "Did Rayshelle have to leave to work at Whisper's?"
"No." LeighAnne watched a woman pushing a double baby stroller walk past. She was too busy trying to hand a pacifier to one of her unhappy toddlers to even glance at the Southern Gals' menu board. "It's been a slow afternoon. I would rather work alone than have that freak show Shantelle lurking around scaring customers again. It's like dealing with a three-year-old. She either asks me for free food, or she has the balls to flat out demand that I give her money from the till for what would've been Esther Mae's portion of the day's profits."
Amy frowned. "You said she's hanging around again. Has she been here before? That's the first time I've seen her, and she's memorable enough I'm sure I would recall seeing her."
"She's been coming in the afternoons after I've seen you go home the last few days. Probably doesn't get out of bed until then. I'm sure she thinks I'll give in if she keeps bugging me, but I won't. I have more than enough bills to pay."
A woman wearing black slacks and a white blouse stopped beside Amy. She handed a sheet of paper to LeighAnne and said, "Here's my resume. I can start at any time."
LeighAnne slipped a pair of glasses out of her apron pocket. She put them on and scowled at the resume. "I'm impressed. I could really use some decent help. You have the job and can start tomorrow morning, if you'd like."
"Oh, thank you! I would love to start tomorrow." The newest employee of Southern Gals pulled a notebook out of the black leather purse slung over her shoulder. "What time should I be here?"
"Please be here by 7:30 a.m. so I can go through a few things before the market opens at 8:00."
"I can do that. I'm so excited to have this chance." The woman grinned as she jotted notes in the small spiral notebook. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"I'm looking forward to it," LeighAnne replied. When the woman was out of earshot she turned to Amy. "Even though I just sent Rayshelle away, the reality is I need more help than just her since she can only work part-time because of her other job. Plus, maybe if she isn't here, her disgusting sister won't be around as much either."
"Sounds like a good plan." Amy checked the time on her phone. She would love to pick LeighAnne's brain more about Esther Mae's greedy family, but it was time to get back to work. "I'm sure everything will work out soon."
After the close encounter with Rayshelle's alien-like sister, Amy returned to the bakeshop. JoJo was making a caramel latte for a customer. The beverage was an intoxicating blend of the dark, rich aroma of the espresso with the sweet, sugary scent of the homemade caramel sauce. While the espresso machine puffed through its job, Amy tied her apron back on. A gasp from JoJo blended in with the hiss of the steam. The milk steaming wand was more than hot enough to cause a burn.
"Did you hurt yourself?" Amy asked as she spun around to look at the booth's manager.
JoJo shook her head slightly, causing the massive knot of auburn hair at the back of her head to wobble. She rolled her eyes in the direction of the checkout counter.
Amy turned to find Shantelle standing in front of the glass-front bakery case. So, even though Rayshelle had been dismissed from her duties at Southern Gals, Shantelle hadn't followed her sister out of the market. All three of her eyes were checking out the array of brownies, scones, and miniature tarts. The customer waiting for the latte that JoJo was preparing, a woman dressed in jeans and a pink parka, took a step to the side—farther away from Shantelle. What would it be like to repel people?
"Can I help you?" Amy asked as she stood on her tippy-toes to peer over the top of the case.
"Are your brownies really three dollars for one square? I can buy a whole pan of them at Bargain Foods for less than that."
Shantelle apparently liked her baked goods cheap and full of preservatives. And considering where she was buying them (the store was the foodie equivalent of a scratch and dent merchandise outlet), stale. Amy forced her lips to contort into what she hoped somewhat resembled a smile and replied, "Yes, many people buy our baked goods. Often we sell out by the end of the day."
"Who the hell has that much money to waste on chocolate cake?"
Amy inhaled slowly through her nose. Was that a rhetorical question or was Shantelle expecting a response? She was going to get one anyway. "These are gourmet baked goods made of the highest-quality chocolate, butter, and other ingredients. So people who enjoy fine food are usually more than happy with the prices we charge. In fact, many people often leave tips, too. It's a case of getting what you paid for."
The pea-sized silver nose stud quivered when Shantelle sniffed. "Must be nice to have the extra money to throw away on a stupid brownie. I clean Buzzy's Tattoos at night after they close. I am a tattoo artist, but cleaning is the only position they had open."
That statement said enough to fill a five-inch-thick book. Even a tattoo parlor was afraid to let her around customers in the daytime. A man in a business suit took a circuitous path around Shantelle and stopped at the cash register.
"Could I have one caramel pecan and two coconut brownies, please?" he asked.
"Certainly." Amy turned around to grab a pair of plastic serving gloves from the box on the table situated in the back corner of the booth. When she turned back around to get the brownies from the bakery case, Shantelle was hovering at the edge of the booth looking at a shelving unit stocked with cellophane packages filled with bite-sized cookies and scones. "That will be twelve dollars," Amy said as she handed the bakery bag filled with fudgy brownies to the gentleman.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shantelle pick up a bag of cookies. The customer handed over his money, gave Shantelle a wary sideways glance, and exited stage right. In a hurry. As Amy placed the money in the till, Shantelle slipped the package of cookies into her oversized, fake Coach purse. "You can pay for those down here," Amy called.
Shantelle spun around and narrowed her eyes until they looked like equal signs composed of two, thick slashes of eyeliner fringed with fake eyelashes. Amy sucked in a breath and tried to stand taller. She wasn't intimidating to even a toddler, but at least she could convey through body language that she wouldn't back down. "That'll be six dollars," she said as she held out her hand. "Or I can call market security."
"I don't want them." Rayshelle pulled the bag of cookies out of her bag and threw them back on the shelf. "I was just checking out what fancy ingredients are in your cookies to make them so expensive."
Amy tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "You can't see the label when the package is inside your purse. If you're running low on food, there is a free food pantry in town. I can tell you how to get there. They'll also be giving away food at the library soon."
Shantelle sneered. "I'm not hungry. I've got enough money to buy food. I just like the challenge of getting something for nothing."
And with that disconcerting statement, she strode away with the confidence of a fashion model on a runway. A bold, rude thief. Esther Mae's relatives were getting more unsavory by the minute.
CHAPTER TEN
Amy winced repeatedly when each little knot of tension in her lower back pressed against the yoga mat as she rolled back into corpse pose. She was so stressed, it felt as though she was lying on a bed of nails instead of the rubber mat, even after forty-five minutes of peaceful yoga stretches. Struggling through several unfamiliar poses that were suggested by the substitute teacher had brought Amy out of her meditative state and deposited her brain into cranky land. She would never believe that some of the positions
were humanly possible if she didn't see the teacher actually contorting into the pose herself. It was the first time she had taken a class taught by anyone other than Rori. And Amy's stomach and thigh muscles were feeling the difference in teaching styles.
The new age flute music ended, and the teacher quietly said, "Please feel free to relax as long as you would like. You may leave whenever you feel ready. Namaste."
"I was ready to leave twenty minutes ago," whispered a woman lying on the mat next to Amy. "My Namaste has a muscle cramp."
Amy faked a sneeze to hide a giggle at the comment. She felt the same way. The workout had definitely been more challenging than the class Rori usually taught at that time, causing Amy to emit several undignified grunts during the class. What had prevented the Yoga For You owner from teaching? In the four months that Amy had been attending the weekly gentle yoga class, it was the first time she had encountered a substitute instructor.
Concern raised Amy from the corpse pose—lying on her back, staring at the white, acoustic ceiling tiles. She rolled up her mat and wrangled it into the cylindrical crocheted bag that, while being stylish and adorable, required the dexterity of a master sushi chef to fit the holey lace over the sticky rubber roll. Once that task was over, she retrieved her tote bag from the cubby complex near the door. There was a small sauna in the dressing area of the yoga studio, but a private steam shower for one in her own bathroom at home where she could collapse into a pathetic yoga recovery heap was much more appealing. First, though, she wanted to find out what had happened to Rori.
She stepped into the hallway that connected all of the classrooms. At the end of the passageway, the door to the studio owner's office was halfway open. Light from inside the room spilled out in a distorted rectangle, illuminating a dark corner of the hallway. Someone was, or had been, in Rori's office.
Doors with half windows led into each classroom. As Amy approached the office, she noticed condensation had fogged up the glass on the door to her right. The hot yoga room. The droplets of water sliding down the window reminded her of how the glass lid on her saucepan looked when she cooked pot stickers. While she loved yoga, she had no inclination to feel like a steamed dumpling in the 105-degree room.
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