Fudge Brownies & Murder (12 page)

"Being in charge was Esther Mae's forte." LeighAnne slammed the van doors shut then pressed a button on her key fob. The vehicle's horn beeped. She gave the cart a shove to get it rolling and continued. "All I did was cook the recipes she brought me from her family's cookbooks and recipe boxes. This managing hoo-hah is giving me a headache, just like when I got sick. I didn't know what to do with all of the bills. Esther Mae took on the insurance company and the hospital. She negotiated with them all and got me a payment plan I could manage without going into bankruptcy."

She knew that Carla would do the same kind of thing for her and vice versa. "That's wonderful. I'm glad she could help. If only everybody had friends like her."

The automatic doors to Clement Street Market slid open. The Southern Gals booth was straight ahead. "I can take this from here," LeighAnne said as the cart rumbled over the textured rubber mat in the doorway. "Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. Just holler if you need anything else. We have enough people working this morning, so I can spare a few minutes to give you a hand."

The two women walked together until they reached the back corner of the market. Then Amy turned the corner and continued on to the bakeshop as LeighAnne maneuvered the cart full of food trays through the opening between her steam table and a prep table. The little unexpected burst of cold weather exercise had revved up Amy's metabolism and mind. Esther Mae had been a shrewd business woman who didn't tolerate crap from her family or probably anybody else. That was the type of personality that could easily gain enemies. So who had gotten mad enough to exact the ultimate revenge—murdering her?

Carla adjusted the towel covering her naked breasts. The old beach towel hiding her also garmentless bottom half felt like it was askew, but she couldn't see past the white mound of her belly and couldn't move because wiggling might mess up the art project. The last thing she wanted to do was go through the experience again. "Mom! How much longer until the plaster sets?"

Carla's mother bustled into the living room wiping her hands on a paint-streaked rag. Her pink thermal underwear shirt and baggy blue jean overalls were also mottled with rainbow colored spots and streaks of paint. The schlumpy artist look, topped off with a blue bandanna headscarf wrangling her mane of long, gray hair, was a far cry from the designer dresses and slick French roll hairdos Carla remembered her mother wearing as she grew up. Her mom poked at the white shell covering Carla's baby bump. "Just a few more minutes. I forgot to calculate humidity into the drying time."

Bruce's head appeared over the back of the couch. "Is that the same stuff you use for broken bone casts?"

"Yes." The shell of gauze and plaster jiggled as the baby punched it from inside her belly. An unborn somebody did not like being confined. "It itches like hell. I will definitely be more sympathetic to my patients with fractured limbs from now on."

"You're almost done. I'll take it off soon. Then once I'm sure the plaster is completely dry in a few days, I'll paint it." Her mother rubbed her hands together. A streak of blue glitter paint sparkled on the side of one of her fingers. "This belly cast will be a beautiful memento of this special time in your life, sweetheart."

"Whatever you say, Mom. Just don't paint it like a turtle shell, okay?"

"I promise I won't do that."

Bruce shrugged. "I think making it look like a tortoise shell would be kind of cool."

Her mother shook her head. She turned and headed toward the nursery that was currently her bedroom and art studio. "I'm going to go clean up my paints before your friend gets here for dinner."

Carla lay back on the garbage bag-covered couch and tried to will away the wandering itch that was traveling over her belly, underneath the plaster, like a drunken ladybug. She just couldn't get over the fact that her mother had gone from uptight and sophisticated, living in a two-story Colonial, to a paint-covered artist who lived in a house made of dirt and old tires. Life was getting stranger by the day.

The doorbell bonged. "I'll be right there," Bruce called. From the muffled sound of his voice, Carla guessed he had tried to sneak into his office, the closet-sized room wedged between the kitchen and the hallway, in an attempt to get some work done.

The deadbolt clicked even though she hadn't heard Bruce walk to the door. That meant it was Amy. Great. Her best friend was early, so now she could experience the spectacle of her naked, pregnant mummy performance art routine. Although that was better than having a satellite TV salesperson possibly seeing her naked. Bruce's footsteps thumped on the tile floor of the entryway. "Come on in," he announced as a ripple of cold air swept over the back of the couch, giving Carla a serious case of goosebumps.

"Hey, Momma. How's the bun?" Amy called from the general direction of the kitchen.

"Still cooking."

"Good."

The savory scent of one of Amy's always delicious, home-cooked meals followed on the tail of the frigid draft. "What did you make for dinner?" Carla asked.

"Cheesy chicken casserole," Amy's voice got louder as she approached the couch, "for you and Shepler. And I made Ethiopian lentils and injera for your mom and me."

"Ooh, yum!" Carla's mom said as she reappeared from her top secret painting project in the nursery. "I love Ethiopian food. Thank you so much for making it. What an unexpected surprise."

Amy appeared at the end of the couch. Her eyebrows shot up as she studied Carla's very undignified pose. She took a step forward and poked the plaster cast. "Did you break the baby?"

"Ha ha." Carla looked at her mother, who was studiously ignoring her by rubbing dried paint off her hands. The curls floated to the floor—colorful, latex snowflakes that someone would need to vacuum up because they weren't going to melt like the natural variety. "It's art, according to Mom."

"It will be art. In a few days, after I paint it," her mother explained as she rapped on the plaster as if it were a watermelon that she was checking for ripeness. "For now, I think we need some privacy so I can remove the cast, and Carla can get dressed for dinner."

"It's about time," Carla said as she scratched along the edge of the plaster on her left side. The itch had finally moved to where she could reach it. "The karate kid is going to kick it off if you don't pull it off soon. I think someone needs to stretch."

Amy giggled as she turned toward the kitchen. Bruce lingered for a few seconds, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of her naked. That wasn't going to happen, especially since she was covered in petroleum jelly and stray bits of plaster. Not sexy, at all. She waggled her fingers good-bye at him as her mother began to work her fingertips under the edge of the hard dome stuck to Carla's stomach. He frowned and disappeared from view around the back of the couch.

Twenty minutes later, she was finally cleaned up and dressed. Bruce handed her a plate full of chicken casserole, steamed spinach, and roasted potato cubes. She balanced the plate on her belly as everybody else settled into chairs around the living room. The coffee table had turned into the dining table ever since she was ordered to stay as horizontal as possible to keep junior happy and healthy in her belly.

"So…how's the murder investigation going?" Amy asked as she scooped up a gob of orange paste with some kind of flatbread. "You can't possibly still think Rori is the murderer, can you? There's a mouse living in her office. She has some kind of box she's trying to catch it in so she can relocate it to a new home along the river. There is no way she could kill a person if she can't kill a germy rodent who's been contaminating her snack stash. She teaches yoga and is a dedicated vegan, so she won't even eat anything that comes from an animal. That is not the lifestyle of a cold-blooded killer."

Uh-oh. Bruce was in trouble. Carla recognized that tone of voice. Amy was not happy.

He set his plate on the coffee table. "I have several witnesses who saw her in a heated argument with Mrs. Bates about how unhealthy her food and lifestyle were. One person distinctly heard Rori say that Esther Mae was killing her customers by serving them unhealthy food."

"That was an observation, not a murder threat." Amy popped another piece of lentil-smeared bread into her mouth and glared at Bruce as she chewed.

Carla's mom held up a chunk of her flatbread. "Can I just say that this Rori sounds like she is very passionate about her lifestyle choices and spiritual beliefs. When people feel so strongly about things, sometimes good judgment can be pushed aside in the heat of the moment."

All of them stared at her mother. When Carla was growing, up her mom served on the PTA board, gossiped with all of her friends over mimosas, and threw dinner parties featuring pot roasts or baked chicken. Now she was sympathizing with a new age murder suspect who doesn't eat any food that comes from something that has a face? "You sound like you have firsthand knowledge of a similar situation, Mom."

"I do." Her thick, silver-streaked braid fell over her shoulder as she looked down at the plate balanced on her knees. "But since my new son-in-law is a police officer, and I don't know much about international law, I'll just end by saying that even Buddhist monks can lose their temper sometimes."

Carla's right eye involuntarily twitched. "Did you make the monk lose his temper?"

"No."

There were several moments of silence as they all processed the odd information. Bruce cleared his throat. "So, Amy, who should I be looking at if you're positive Rori isn't the murderer? What about Mrs. Bates's niece Rayshelle? She's pretty rough around the edges."

Amy pushed a blob of green stuff around her plate with another strip of the leather-like bread. "Rayshelle and I have a long history of animosity from competing against each other in cooking contests. But my gut tells me she didn't do it either. Although I think you should definitely look into her cyclops of a sister and her spike-headed boyfriend. I'm all for people doing their own thing, but those two just look downright scary. Not to mention they're shoplifters and have no problems threatening people."

Bruce's eyebrows scrunched together. "How do you know about this sister? And what do you mean by cyclops?"

"Rayshelle's sister has been hanging around the market, pestering her to hand over some of the money she thinks Rayshelle inherited from Esther Mae. There has been a rash of thefts at the market. I caught Shantelle trying to steal a package of cookies from the Riverbend booth, so she and her walking science experiment of a boyfriend are most likely behind all of the thefts. She has a tattoo of a giant eye on her forehead. He has a realistic looking brain tattooed on the shaved part of his head with a spiked mohawk running between the halves. Their picture should be next to
Bad People
in the dictionary."

Carla could tell her husband was working hard to keep a neutral expression. "So you're saying you think this sister could be the murderer?" he asked.

"Either her or her boyfriend." Amy shook her head. "She committed armed robbery when she was only twelve years old, according to Rayshelle. And the boyfriend…he made the actors on the haunted hay ride Alex took me on before Halloween look like cherubs."

He nodded. "So you're basing your theories on physical appearance and unverified past criminal activity. Have you ever heard of the concept of a murderer trying to pin their crime on someone else? This is the first time I've heard she has a sister, but to be honest, that's one family tree I don't really want to go climbing around in until I absolutely have to."

"I'd say it's time to put on your hard hat and grab a chainsaw."

Carla willed her face to smooth into the emotionless mask she often used to keep critically ill patients calm in the emergency room. Even though her husband was roughly twice the size of Amy, her petite friend had no qualms about standing up to him when she felt it was necessary. It was rather like watching a Chihuahua backing a mastiff into a corner.

He reached for his plate, but at the last moment, his hand swerved off course, and he grabbed the bottle of beer next to it. Bruce took a long drink of the stout. Most likely a stalling tactic as he decided on how to survive another round in the game show called
Unconventional Logic With Amy
. Finally, he set the bottle down and said, "So you think I should be looking closer into Esther Mae's family instead of friends or business associates."

Amy shrugged. "Yes. Her family sounds messed up. From what I've heard, lots of weirdos and criminals. But I do think you are focusing on the wrong sister. I don't like Rayshelle, yet I really don't think she would kill the aunt who saved her from growing up in foster homes."

Bruce sighed. "I know…sometimes you really want to give people the benefit of doubt, but I've learned that lesson the hard way. Some people don't deserve it."

Carla leaned sideways and snagged her brownie off of the coffee table. It sounded like the entertaining disagreement was wrapping up, so she might as well wrap up her meal with dessert. There wasn't much stomach space left in her body anymore, so she often left food dished up by her husband in Bruce-sized portions on her plate in order to save room for the rich brownies. She nibbled on the edge of the fudgy square and discovered a golden raisin within the dense chocolate cake. The dessert had antioxidant-filled chocolate and protein from eggs. Sometimes there were even nuts and dried fruit in them to add to the health benefits. Not bad on the nutrition forefront. At least that's what she kept telling herself whenever she scarfed down square after square of craving-busting deliciousness. Before she got pregnant, she had been skeptical of pregnancy cravings, figuring they were more psychological affectations than truth—because every pregnant woman has heard stories of wanting pickles and ice cream or other strange food. She was wrong. She couldn't make it through a day without a brownie.

The meal continued in silence, with lots of very studious eating, as everybody seemed to be trying to figure out some sort of benign conversational topic. She had to hand it to her mom. She seemed to be taking the discussion over murder suspects in stride. Not only had she adopted a Bohemian hippie wardrobe, but also her personality had become more relaxed and spontaneous. The uptight and emotionally closed off Geraldine of Carla's childhood had become chilled out and fun loving Geri. The change suited her well.