Fudge Brownies & Murder (10 page)

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.

When Amy arrived at the partially open office door, she tapped on the lavender-painted wood. "Hello? Anybody here?"

"Come in."

She pushed the door the rest of the way open. Rori sat behind a white painted desk which faced the doorway. She was squinting at the screen of her laptop. Her usually wildly free blonde curls were slicked back into a neat bun. Rori looked up from the computer and asked, "Did you just get done with class?"

Amy nodded. "I did. It was a bit different from what I'm used to when you teach, but it's good to mix things up sometimes."

"I wish more people had that attitude. A flexible outlook toward life can open so many more doors."

Amy had never really thought of it that way. Especially since she had made the comment about mixing things up as a hopefully subtle complaint about being Zenfully encouraged to assume the physical properties of unbaked pretzel dough. In return for grumbling, she had received a crumb of wisdom.

Rori flipped down the screen of her laptop and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to make sure you are okay. I was surprised to find you weren't teaching today."

"I was at the police station talking with your friend's husband. I just got to the studio about ten minutes ago." Rori drummed her fingers on the silver-toned top of the closed computer. "He needed to ask me more questions about the blogger conference. I spent the morning racking my brain to remember every tiny detail about every single interaction I had with Esther Mae, even though I honestly tried to avoid her as much as possible. I just felt so many bad vibes coming from her, it kind of creeped me out to be in the same room." She plucked several bobby pins out of her bun. Straw-colored curls slowly unfurled, forming a cotton candy-like halo around her head. "I got the distinct impression that I am now a suspect."

Amy knew from experience that being focused on in a murder investigation was a serious mood crusher. Plus, Shepler's work face, the mask of stony determination, could unnerve cold-blooded killers. According to Carla, his interrogation skills were famous among his law enforcement peers. Apparently, all he did was walk into the room to question a suspect once, and the man peed his pants. And that was
before
Shepler even said a word. Being questioned by him could make a person feel guilty about something they don't even have any knowledge of.

 "Being questioned, even for a second time, does not necessarily mean you are a suspect. He's probably just trying to gather more information about the murder. Some small detail that you noticed may seem inconsequential to you, but it could be a clue in the case. Don't worry. It'll be okay."

"I knew who Esther Mae was because I recognized her from Clement Street Market. I had never met her before I walked into the hotel room and found her there at the conference." She plucked a pen out of a glass jar on the corner of the desk and began frantically scribbling circles on a notepad that was sitting beside the laptop. "I teach yoga and spirituality classes, for goodness sake. How can anybody think I would kill a person?"

Amy had told Shepler pretty much the same thing when he suggested she could be a suspect. "
Did
Shepler say you were a suspect?"

Rori's pen stopped. Amy could see the notepad. The scribbles and swirls had turned into a tree with gnarled, twisted branches. "No. He didn't. I just assumed that being questioned again had some significance, like he was looking into me more as a suspect." She pointed the pen at a black box in the corner of the room. "That's a live mouse trap. The little bugger has been breaking into my desk and nibbling on my stash of sprouted quinoa crackers. I plan on relocating him, or her, to the grass along the river. I couldn't bring myself to buy one of the traps that would kill it."

"Try not to worry."
That was easier said than done.
Being under Shepler's scrutiny was excruciating. Amy fussed with the strap of her yoga mat tote. Even though she was trying to calm Rori, she had to wonder too why the yoga instructor was being questioned again. Not to mention, there could be him, her, and children mice in the office. Now
there
was something to worry about. As long as Rori was innocent, she wouldn't go to prison for a crime she didn't commit. Not with Carla's hubby on the case. He was Detective Integrity. "Shepler will find the killer soon."

"I hope so. All of this worrying has really thrown me off. It isn't easy teaching students to chill out when your mind is spinning out of control."

Amy reluctantly bid good-bye to Rori. Nothing she could do or say was going to make her friend feel better. The chilly gust of wind that greeted her when she stepped onto the sidewalk was welcome. She had worked up a sweat under the tutelage of the unfamiliar exercise instructor. The damp layer of hair on the back of her neck instantly cooled. She usually tried not to follow up exercise with a decadent latte, but a dose of caffeine could help clarify the bubbling witch's brew of thoughts bouncing around her mind. Shepler needed help. In the past, when she helped solve murders, it took her a while to zero in on the real killer. Amy didn't want to freak Rori out even more, but it did seem like he was looking into her as a suspect. But he didn't know the beloved yoga teacher like she did. If he was going the wrong way, it might be up to her to point him in the right direction. A pumpkin pie latte from Riverbend Café would be the perfect start to a brainstorming session.

Main Street was bustling with cars, and the sidewalk was filled with people. The residents of Kellerton, Michigan appeared to be out in full force preparing for the holiday season. Window displays in the busy retail district were a mix of Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and non-denominational winter themes. There was a riot of colors lining the sidewalk. Everything was bright and festive with red ribbon wreaths hanging from all of the Victorian-style street lamps.

As Amy wove between shoppers, she couldn't stop thinking about Rori. Being questioned a second time by the police would set anyone on edge, but would every person assume that meant they were a suspect? Or was that a side effect of having a guilty conscience—maybe not for committing the murder but because of some other incident? Of course, she knew Shepler really was looking at Esther Mae's conference roommate as a possible suspect because Rori had access to the murder victim's belongings. Had he found something to make him look even closer?

An exceptionally sparkly red and green window display bored through all of the thoughts and into Amy's consciousness. Whisper's Intimate Apparel was in full Christmas mode. Through the front window of the shop, by peering between the mannequins wearing itty-bitty ensembles that would be perfect for a holiday party at a strip club, Amy could see Rayshelle inside. Chatting with the woman who had the look and demeanor of a pissed off tropical parrot would cancel out all of the meditative calm Amy had worked so hard to attain in the yoga class, but she would willingly take a hit in the Zen to help Shepler out.

The giant jingle bell that hung on the front door year round at Whisper's clanked to signal her arrival. Rayshelle looked up from her task of tidying a rack of white undergarments that were polar opposites of white, cotton granny panties. "Good afternoon."

Huh? A normal, non-insulting greeting. Something was up. Rayshelle was
never
polite and courteous, at least not to Amy. They had competed against each other in many local cooking competitions. While Amy sometimes won, Rayshelle's efforts had never even got her an honorable mention. She tried to put a unique spin on her entries but often ended up with just plain odd flavor combinations in her quest to stand out. Jalapeno pepper and lemon cream pie with a chocolate crust had been her entry in the Kellerton Summer Festival pie contest a few months earlier. Rayshelle didn't win.

Amy decided to go along with the mellower than ever in the history of being acquainted mood. "Hello. Your cheerful window display got my attention. I thought maybe I would pick something up to surprise my husband."

"Let me know if you need any help."

The completely polite response put Amy on edge. Was Rayshelle trying to tell her something? Her aunt had been killed. What if the murderer was in the store threatening her, but Amy interrupted the encounter, so the killer told the doomed niece to act normal, or he would kill both of them? And Rayshelle knew that normal was abnormal for her, so she was counting on Amy to figure that out and save her. Amy plunged her hand into her tote bag. Her fingers closed around the canister of pepper spray she always carried as she wove between the low circular racks that crowded the store.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Nobody appeared to be hiding behind the plethora of latex body suits and see-through nighties. Still, she wasn't letting go of the pepper spray.

"Aunt E was the only person I have ever truly loved in my family. If it wasn't for her, I would think the whole world hates me, but no matter what, she always told me she loved me." Rayshelle disappeared from view as she bent down behind the rack she was trying to reorganize. She reappeared with a white, faux-fur bra in her hand. As she fiddled with a knot of tangled straps on the unusual garment, she said, "And now I can't even go to her funeral to say good-bye."

"What?" Amy gave up looking for deadly intruders and moved closer to the distressed clerk.

"Aunt E thought that lingerie was a tool of the devil. So she and I had been having some problems since I began working here." She crammed the hanger with the fluffy bra dangling from it into the bountiful rack of virgin-white trashy lingerie. "She probably wore a turtleneck flannel nightgown on her wedding night with Uncle Buck."

Amy thought about the clothes she had always seen Esther Mae wearing. The ensembles were always colorful, often glittery, but in retrospect, there were no plunging necklines. Her clothing style had been eye-popping bright, ultraconservative. Rayshelle was right on target with her proposed wedding night ensemble. Amy nodded in agreement and added, "But I bet the nightgown was hot pink or canary yellow."

A genuine, friendly smile curved Rayshelle's lips. "You're right about that."

Where had Rayshelle's usual tough-bitch veneer gone? Maybe it was a grief-induced personality change. She had to be taking the death of her beloved aunt much harder than anybody realized. But if they were so close, why couldn't she go to the funeral?

"So was she so upset about you working here that she put some kind of clause in her will saying you couldn't attend her funeral?"

A familiar scowl crinkled Rayshelle's face. "No…no. It's Uncle Buck.
He
thinks because I work here, don't dress like a prude, and have different colored hair that means I'm a drug addict."

Amy didn't say anything because she couldn't think of anything appropriate to say.

"I don't do drugs! Well, at least not anymore. I used to smoke weed with my boyfriends when I was a teen and lived with Aunt E and Uncle Buck, but I don't even do that anymore. I can't afford to be an addict on the salary I make here. And I kill plants by just looking at them, so I can't grow my own. I get a buzz from cheap beer now, and that's it."

Normally, Amy didn't trust anything that Rayshelle said, but the rant felt too emotionally raw to be a lie. Inflammatory comments, not stark honesty, were more of her usual conversation style. "I'm sorry he's keeping you from attending the funeral. Especially since his reason isn't true. That has to hurt."

The orange hue of Rayshelle's foundation makeup deepened until she looked like an Oompa-Loompa from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. She pounded a fist on the top of the clothing rack. The headless, limbless, silver bikini-wearing mannequin on the platform wobbled from the concussion. "I'm used to being screwed over by everybody. My life sucks and it's getting even worse. I'm pretty sure Uncle Buck told the cops that he thinks I killed Aunt E."

Wowza. That was a right turn she hadn't seen coming. Buck had told her he suspected somebody, but she didn't think it was Rayshelle. "Why would he think that?"