Chicken Soup & Homicide (7 page)

"Did he seem nervous or upset then?"

Trisha frowned. "No. He seemed fine to me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think he would be dead in a few hours."

That feeling was familiar. After his verbal attempt to try to throw her off during the showdown, she had kind of wished he would burn the bread or drop a bowl of salad dressing during the competition. She wanted to see him get knocked off his game or embarrassed, not end up in a coffin. The conversation with Trisha was turning dark and depressing, emotions she had never experienced at the glorious Columbo's Market before. Helping Trisha out with her quest to raise funds for the community garden project should turn the mood around. "You said you really wanted to win the prize money for your charity. To help raise money for the garden, have you considered participating in the Parade of Desserts fundraiser?"

"I think the south side of town could really benefit from a community garden. It would help bring people in the neighborhood together and give them healthy, nutritious food. I have volunteers who are willing to help in the spring, but we need some money to buy the seeds and supplies." Trisha stuck her hands in her apron pockets. "I've never heard of the Parade of Desserts. Can you tell me about it?"

"Sure. It's a charity fundraiser put together by Bridget Mahoney, the same woman that organized the Chicken Soup Showdown. Basically, it's a cross between a bake sale and a silent auction. If you get in, you bake your best cookies, cakes, cupcakes…whatever, as long as it's a dessert. Bring as many things as you would like. Whatever money your desserts make from the silent auction will go to the charity of your choice. Attendees can also just donate to any charities they like, even if they don't win an auction. It's held in the ballroom at the K Hotel. Everybody wears cocktail attire. It's all very exciting and elegant." Amy leaned closer to Trisha and lowered her voice. "Of course, you're doing this for charity, but you get bragging rights for bringing in high bids."

"That sounds like the perfect way for me to raise money for the garden." She looked down at her worn blue jeans and dirty work boots. "Do I have to dress up and attend too? Couldn't I just send a couple cakes to the hotel and collect the donations when it's over?"

"I'm afraid not. All participants must attend, and Bridget strictly enforces the cocktail party dress code. I can help you find a dress if you don't have one, so don't worry about that. If Chet picked you for his partner, I'm sure you're a fabulous cook and can raise all kinds of money for the garden."

"Thanks. I
may
have a dress that will work. I just don't like wearing it. Farming and skirts don't really go together." She held up her hands. Dark bands of dirt under her fingernails were like an Earth Goddess-style French manicure. She wrinkled up her nose. "Any suggestions for a manicurist who can do miracles?"

"You can't go wrong with Elegance Salon, in my opinion." Amy twisted a lock of her straw-colored hair around her index finger. She wasn't trying to build her client list anymore, but she could always help her former coworkers add to theirs. "Of course, I'm a bit biased. I used to be a stylist there."

"Really? You cut hair? I didn't know that, but I shouldn't be surprised. Your hair always looks so nice, while mine usually resembles a haystack in a windstorm." She patted her puffy ponytail full of white blonde ringlets and curls. "Do you have any tricks or product recommendations that can help me tame this crazy mess?"

"Sure. I can help." Amy dug a notebook and pen out of her purse. She wrote down a list of products that could help subdue Trisha's unruly curls and handed the sheet over. "I would recommend these. The ones at the top are only available at salons, but the items at the bottom should be at most drugstores. They'll be less expensive if you're on a budget. And if you decide to go to the parade and want me to do your hair, just say the word. I'd be happy to."

"Thank you and thank you. I am definitely on a budget, so I'll have to try the cheap ones. Not sure if I'll do the parade thing…yet." She grinned. "Now that I have my beauty dilemmas taken care of, let's tackle the big questions. When is the fundraiser, and do I have to make fancy desserts? I'm more into making oatmeal cookies or apple cakes than fancy cocktail-flavored cupcakes or something like that."

"It's next weekend. Short notice, but I bet Bridget will let you participate. Her motto for everything seems to be bigger is better. As far as what to make goes, I think people like old-fashioned treats just as much as the fancy gourmet ones. Pretty packaging goes a long way in drawing interest. Cute boxes, bows, and ribbons can make simple chocolate chip cookies fetch some of the biggest bids." Amy raised her eyebrows and leaned toward Trisha. "So, do you want to do it?"

Trisha held her arms up in surrender. "I suppose I can put on a dress if it means funding for the community garden. Can you help me with that fancy dessert packaging? If it isn't a potted herb garden, I really have no idea how to make it look nice."

"Of course I can help. Sophie from Riverbend Coffee is participating too." Amy clapped her hands. "I have an idea. We can all get ready together. I can help with hair and sparkle everybody up with jewelry from my stash. I'm a bit of a costume jewelry hoarder. We can package all of our baked goods at the same time too. I have a ton of things to gussy up our treats and ourselves."

Trisha clasped her hands together and grinned. "I would love to do that! I don't get to hang out and be girly very often."

"Then we'll plan on it. I can contact Bridget and let her know you want to be included in the parade."

"That would be great." Trisha snubbed the toe of her boot on the tile floor. "Mrs. Mahoney freaks me out a bit with all of the Gucci and diamonds or whatever designer stuff she wears. I feel like a country bumpkin when I'm around her."

"Don't worry about that. You were in the showdown. I guarantee she wouldn't have let you in if she didn't think you were worthy." Amy waved good-bye and headed to the checkout lanes. It would be fun to get ready with Trisha and Sophie. Bonus that she now had a reason to chat with Bridget and see how she felt about Chef Britton.

Carla turned up the windshield defroster another notch. The fan was already roaring, but her car windows were fogging up as she sat in the parking lot. Even though she was still full from the breakfast Amy had fed her, she and Bruce were going to lunch. Or at least that's what they had planned on doing. He was late. She checked her phone. No messages. Hopefully he had just lost track of time and there wasn't something important holding him up.

She stared at the entrance door of the police department, willing him to appear. A tap on the window beside her head made her yelp. Her phone clattered into the footwell. She leaned over to pick it up from the floor mat before it started short-circuiting from landing in a puddle of melted snow. While folded in half, she twisted to see who had startled her. Detective Pitts stood in the harsh midday sunshine, the collar of his black leather coat pulled up around his neck. Not the person she wanted to see. Ever again. He traced circles in the air with his finger to motion for her to roll down the window.

A breathtakingly cold gust of wind hit her in the face as she complied and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I thought maybe you would like to come inside." He leaned closer and cracked a fake smile. With a little clown makeup, he could've passed for The Joker in a Batman movie. "To chat with me a bit about your murder case."

"I believe that would be
your
murder case."

He narrowed his eyes as he tilted his head. "Sorry, slip of the tongue. Why don't you shut your car off and come into the nice warm station so we can talk."

The station would be warm, but she had been there enough times to know it wasn't nice. The police department would begin construction on a new building in the spring. The current building had pea soup green painted cement block walls. All of the furniture looked like it had been thrown away by a thrift store. Despite the shabby atmosphere, she didn't usually mind going into the station. To see Bruce. "You interviewed me yesterday. Did you forget to ask something?"

He straightened and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. "I've been talking to some witnesses to the little spat you had with Mr. Britton right before he was murdered."

The aisles at the expo had been packed. There were plenty of people that had seen her tell Chet off, from the foodie groupies waiting in line for a sample of Cornerstone's trendy gourmet offerings to the chefs who were serving the treats. "Chet always liked to be the center of attention. He never passed up on the chance to make a scene. He probably enjoyed our chat."

Pitts rocked back on his heels. "Some of the witnesses thought that you two seemed rather intimate. It looked like a lover's quarrel to them."

Carla involuntarily winced. At Bruce's suggestion, she had already told Pitts that she had dated Chet years earlier. "An
ex
-lover's spat. I thought I made that clear last night. Our relationship was over almost as soon as it began three years ago. Since then I've tried to avoid him as much as possible, but he was insulting my best friend. It was a low-handed way for him to try to win the showdown, and I called him out on it."

He held up his hands. "Okay. You say the relationship was over. Why don't you come inside and tell me more about dating him?"

"What are you doing?"

The question made Carla jump. Again. The scaredy-cat reactions needed to stop. Twitchy wasn't a good state to be in for a nurse. She'd been concentrating on keeping the wolfish Pitts at bay and hadn't seen Bruce walk up to the front bumper of her car. Pitts glared at the intruder. "I found out some new information and was asking your girlfriend to speak with me some more."

"I have been speaking to you for the last five minutes." Carla shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and looked at Bruce. "I don't think there's much more to say."

Bruce seemed to grow a couple inches taller as he took a step toward Detective Pitts. "Stop harassing my girlfriend."

Pitts shuffled a few steps backward as Bruce's shadow traced across him. At least he seemed intelligent enough to realize he would lose in a confrontation against an ex-marine. Pitts thrust his chin into the air. "Stop interfering with my investigation, or I'll turn you in to the chief again."

So much for the intelligence theory. He slid further away from Bruce. The snow under his shoes squeaked and groaned. Pretty much the same thing she felt like doing at the moment.

"Now, if you would excuse us," Bruce said as he reached through the open window and squeezed Carla's hand, "we're going out to lunch."

"Enjoy yourselves." Pitts sneered at Bruce. "You need to realize, I'm just trying to help you by interviewing your lady. Better to find out sooner than later that she's been cheating on you."

Amy stomped the snow off her boots in the entranceway of the Mahoney Building. Some architect had planned ahead for the harsh winter weather that was common in Michigan. The double-door entrance acted as a buffer zone as people entered from outside into a small room carpeted with heavy industrial rugs to absorb melting snow. The receptionist surely appreciated not having the biting wind blowing into her face a hundred times a day whenever the automatic door slid opened. Considering Michigan was in a typical January cold snap, the poor woman would need to wear long underwear and a balaclava ski mask instead of the sensible black dress and wool cardigan she was actually sporting.

"Hello. Welcome to Mahoney Incorporated. How can I help you?"

Amy smiled as she stepped up to the reception desk made of glittery white stone. "I have an appointment with Bridget Mahoney. I'm Amy Ridley."

The receptionist's toffee-colored hair, slicked back into a high ponytail, glistened in the harsh overhead lights as she nodded. She pointed to a bank of chairs in a waiting area and said, "I'll let her know you're here. Please have a seat. There is fresh coffee in the insulated carafe if you would like some. I made gingerbread flavor this morning."

"Thank you." Amy's sensible, nonslip, rubber-soled boots squawked like a hungry seagull as she trekked across the marble tile floor. The insulated footwear wasn't exactly fashionable, but she wasn't exactly into getting frostbite on her toes. She sat down and hoped the rug under her feet would wick away some of the water in her boot treads and lessen the avian sound effects when she crossed the room again. She picked up the newspaper sitting on the small table next to her chair. Chet's murder was headline news. She had just finished skimming through the article when Bridget called her name.

"Hello, Amy. It's always a pleasure to see you. We can chat in my office."

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Mahoney." Amy folded the paper and carefully placed it back on the table. She hurried across the reception area and did a little mental happy dance because she didn't sound like one of Pogo's squeaky toys. Mrs. Mahoney held her security badge up to a terminal on the wall. The frosted glass door in front of her silently slid open. Amy fell in step behind the older woman as they walked down a hallway lined with doors sporting gold nameplates to indicate who was on the other side. It was kind of like walking through the corridors of a doctor's office, but the furnishings in these rooms would undoubtedly be more upscale than paper-covered exam tables.

The silver-haired CEO opened the door at the end of the hallway and motioned for Amy to follow her. The office was as large as Amy's master bedroom but ten times as lavish. White marble floors, crystal lamps, and gold-plated desk accessories mingled with the elegant art deco prints of sleek women on the walls.

"Have a seat," Mrs. Mahoney said as she settled into the white leather executive's chair behind the ornately carved wood desk. "What can I do for you?"

Amy perched on the edge of a raw silk-covered wing chair and hoped like hell she didn't slide off the slippery fabric. Ending up on the floor in an undignified heap wasn't her objective. She crossed her fingers that wool coat fabric had anti-slip properties and plunged into the conversation. First priority was trying to get Trisha into the Parade of Desserts lineup. Hopefully, along the way, she could dig up some high-society dirt on Britton and his enemies. "First of all, I found out that Trisha Dunbar, Chet's partner in the Chicken Soup Showdown, would like to participate in the Parade of Desserts. She's really passionate about raising money for her charity, a community garden that needs funding to start in the spring."