Fudge Brownies & Murder (2 page)

Rori sighed loudly then moved closer to whisper, "She doesn't look good."

Amy shook her head. "I know. I asked if she was okay during the competition, and she insisted she was just hot because the room was warm. If you get back to your room and find she's resting, you're welcome to come get ready in my room. I'm sharing it with a hair and makeup blogger. She brought her own lighted mirror and has it set up on the dresser so she didn't tie up the bathroom at all this morning."

Thanks to the conference's random roommate assignments, Amy had picked up some excellent makeup advice. Maybe she could finally apply smoky eye shadow without ending up looking like a ghoul for a date night with Alex.

"I may take you up on that offer." Rori snagged another glass of wine from a waitress who was carefully threading through the jovial crowd. "If Esther Mae isn't feeling well, it would be best to leave her alone to recover. Then you and I could have fun getting ready together! Maybe your roommate could even give me some makeup tips. It would be nice to sometimes wear something more than mascara and pink lip gloss."

An hour later, the yoga teacher's wish had come true. She was rocking the sexy vixen look courtesy of dramatic pewter-colored eye shadow and crimson lipstick. Fine silver glitter sparkled in her light blonde ringlets. Rori had arrived back at her room to find Esther Mae napping so deeply her snores were audible in the hall four rooms away. So she grabbed her dress and makeup bag then relocated to Amy's room. Sharing cocktail party prep with the yogi, who had somehow taught her how to do a perfect downward dog pose, and a professional makeup artist felt like a grown-up version of a sleepover to Amy.

Ingrid, the bubbly blogger who posted step-by-step makeup application techniques, chatted about her life as she applied everybody's makeup. While she worked at a department store makeup counter for her day job, Ingrid moonlighted as a special effects makeup artist for a science fiction film production company where she got to turn people into aliens and zombies. Amy was fascinated with her tales of hanging out on the sidelines of horror movie sets.

Even though there were three women getting ready at the same time, the beautification process was quick. Ingrid expertly applied makeup while Amy worked on hair. They were done and ready to head to the ballroom for the cocktail party when a scream echoed through the hallway outside the door.

"Wow, whoever that was should come audition for a victim part on one of the movies I work on," Ingrid said as she hopped off the end of the bed. The sleek, dirty-blonde ponytail cascading down her back swayed back and forth as she jogged to the door and yanked it open. She stepped into the hallway and reported, "It looks like something is going on around the corner."

Amy and Rori slipped out of the room behind Ingrid. While holding the door open with her foot, Amy patted the handy pocket in her black silk skirt to make sure the room keycard was there. It was, so she set off with the others to see what was happening. They rounded the blind corner of the hallway to find a circle of people clustered near the ice machine alcove. The bottoms of a pair of bare feet were visible on the ground between the forest of high-heeled sandals and pumps.

At the other end of the long hall, which skirted the west edge of the expansive K Hotel, an ambulance crew was already rolling toward the fallen person. As Amy arrived at the gathering of concerned onlookers, the crowd parted to make way for the medical personnel. The person lying on the floor was Esther Mae. Her eyes were closed, revealing a thick, opaque layer of mauve eye shadow. Ice cubes were scattered on the carpet around her body. Her limp limbs were splayed at odd, unnaturally contorted angles. The sequin butterflies adorning the shallow scoop neckline of her hot-pink satin blouse sparkled in the light while her Dolly Parton-sized breasts shuddered as she struggled to breathe. A woman wearing a Pucci swing dress who had been kneeling next to Esther Mae scrambled to her feet when the medical team made it to the fallen blogger. More people gathered around as the paramedics placed an oxygen mask on Esther Mae's face then hoisted her onto the gurney.

One of the wheels squeaked rhythmically as the ambulance crew rushed back down the hallway with their new patient. The stunned crowd burst into conversation all at once. Rori wrung her hands as she said, "I wonder what happened. She was sound asleep when I left. The snoring sounded the same as last night, so I assumed she was okay. I guess I should've checked on her again after seeing how bad she looked in the lobby."

Amy patted Rori's arm. "She's changed clothes and applied different makeup. I'd say she felt well enough to at least try to go to the party, so I'm guessing whatever happened came on suddenly. After my conversation with her earlier, I doubt she would've admitted that she wasn't feeling well anyway."

"You're probably right."

The tide of people in the hall had increased, and they were all floating in the same direction—a school of brightly colored, sparkly tropical fish flowing toward the elevators and stairwell. "It looks like everybody is heading downstairs," Amy said as she slipped out of the current in front of their room. She slid the pass card through the reader on the door. "Do you guys want to grab our purses and head out too?"

Ingrid and Rori nodded in unison. "I sure could use a drink after seeing that," Ingrid said as she ducked inside the room to find her silver rhinestone-studded mini clutch.

"I hope it isn't too serious," Rori added. "She bragged to me this morning that she ate either bacon fat or butter at every meal. I think her body may have finally rebelled against the unhealthy assault."

Sparkle was the unofficial theme for the cocktail party. The grand ballroom already had massive tiered chandeliers festooned with rows of cut crystal pendants. Table centerpieces were clear glass cylinders filled with faceted clear glass gems. Color-changing lights hidden at the bottom made the arrangement glow in ever-shifting rainbow hues.

After Ingrid left to join her friends, Rori and Amy procured spots at one of the round tables set for eight. Another chance to network with more people who were serious about blogging. They flipped the cards lying on the plates so they read
Taken
instead of
Available
then made a beeline for the closest bar set up along the perimeter of the ballroom
.
Rori ordered another glass of wine, but Amy decided to go for something a little stronger—a grilled orange sidecar made with a generous portion of cognac to help mellow out the double dose of nervousness between waiting for the cooking contest winner to be announced and concern for Esther Mae. The fallen Southern cuisine maven was in good hands at the hospital, so there was nothing she could do about the situation anymore. And there was nothing she could do at that point to change the outcome of the contest voting either. So she figured she might as well have a cocktail and try to enjoy the party.

Esther Mae's collapse was a frequent topic overheard as Amy and Rori wound through the maze of tables to find their seats again. A short awards ceremony was scheduled to begin soon, during the gourmet dinner portion of the evening. Then, according to veteran conference attendees, the real fun began as cocktails flowed and new friendships were cemented. There were references to table dancing and sneaking into the pool room after hours circulating among the conversations. Legendary high jinks from past conferences.

After the meal was served, Amy sipped her cocktail and picked at her crab-topped cod dinner. Their tablemates turned out to be a group of mommy bloggers. Picky eaters, pesky stains, and diaper disasters dominated their conversations. In between chatting with Rori, Amy listened intently to the other women. It wouldn't be long before her best friend, Carla, joined the mommy ranks. The baby was due in about a month.

A loud riff of electronic funk music heralded the start of the announcements. Amy set her fork on the edge of her plate and took a gulp of the cocktail. Her rather plain blog could use a custom artwork upgrade. She had bought a package of buttons and cooking-related artwork when she set up the website. Recently she had spotted the same art on several other blogs. Her food photography was improving every day, so she couldn't resist the chance to also improve the art by entering the Fast Food Feud. It had turned out to be the most easygoing foodie competition she had ever competed in, but that didn't mean she wasn't any less jittery while waiting to hear whom the winner was.

Of course, the food blogger contest was the last one on the emcee's list. By the time the winner's announcement rolled around, Amy had finished her drink. The mistress of ceremonies wore a short black dress covered in rows of long fringe. After announcing a winner, she would jump up and down. The movement set the silky threads into frenzied motion. Amy felt the same way inside.

"And finally, it's time to find out who won the Fast Food Feud among the food and recipe bloggers. Contestants were tasked with making a main dish entree in only thirty minutes." The woman paused to do a little shimmy shake. "The winner of $200 worth of custom artwork is…Amy Ridley."

Amy jumped up and did her own awkward version of the announcer's little dance, minus the fringe…and grace. She probably looked like a fool, but she didn't care. The party was meant for everybody to relax and have fun after an intense weekend of workshops. Her trek to the stage had a little more sway to it than she had intended, courtesy of the recent influx of cognac, but she would just pretend it was all part of her victory dance. Amy's Kitchen was getting a makeover, and part of the registration fee for the conference paid for the open bar. Huzzah! The wrap-up party was shaping up to be very good indeed.

The sunshine was too bright. Amy cupped her hand over the top of her gigantic Jackie O-style sunglasses. It helped a bit—until her purse slid off her shoulder, landed in the crook of her arm, and dislodged the improvised visor. The sudden weight shift coupled with the sensation of ice picks being hammered into her eyeballs caused her to bobble her travel mug of coffee. She skidded to a stop in the parking lot and hoped she wouldn't be run over as she regained control of her body and coffee cup. The sunshine glinted off of windshields and chrome bumpers all around her, sending zings of pain into her brain via her bloodshot eyes. Normally, in early December, she would be happy to soak up every bit of sun she could get before the gray winter completely set in. But normally she wasn't hungover.

As forecasted, the cocktail party at the Blogger Bash had been a blast. After winning the cooking prize, Amy had celebrated with more grilled orange sidecars. She and Rori danced a lot but managed to keep the disco party on the ground instead of on any tables. Amy wanted to attend the conference again and didn't want to be known as
The Woman Who Tried Dancing On A Table But Fell On Her Butt Instead.
When the alarm went off in the hotel that morning, she wished she could run over the clock with a motorcycle sidecar. Oh, the pain in her head when Ingrid slid open the blackout curtains so they could see better to pack their things and leave. Gathering up her toiletries and clothes had been a slow, uncomfortable process. As Amy was driving home, looking forward to finding refuge from the jackhammering headache in a nap, she remembered she had promised to fill in for a few hours at Riverbend Bake Shop. Christine, one of the women who worked in the booth located in Clement Street Market, had a doctor's appointment. Amy had agreed to fill in for her three weeks earlier, figuring it wouldn't be a problem, even though it was the day after the conference. She hadn't anticipated how much fun she'd have at the wrap-up party.

A puff of warm air rustled her hair as she stepped through the sliding door at the south end of the market. Even her hair hurt. The scents and noise inside the former-warehouse-turned-artisan-market was an overwhelming tsunami of sensations that took her breath away. The ibuprofen had to kick in soon or she wouldn't end up being any help. Curling up in the corner of the booth and whimpering wouldn't exactly be filling in for Christine.

Thank goodness the lunch rush had died down, so the aisles were easier to navigate at a snail's pace without the threat of being run into by impatient business people searching for a tasty lunch. She glanced down the aisle to the left and noticed Buck's Wooden Wares booth had a big
Closed
sign propped on an easel in front of it. The handcrafted wooden spoons and bowls were made by Esther Mae's husband. He was probably at the hospital attending to his wife. Amy continued walking—or more precisely, shuffling. Southern Gals, Esther Mae's micro restaurant which she owned with her friend LeighAnne, was also closed. A couple of women stood in front of the unmanned cash register. One would point, and the other would shake her head. Then they would reverse the process. It appeared that they had been looking forward to Southern-style meals for lunch but couldn't agree on an alternate place to dine.

Amy touched the side of the steam table that usually held dishes like stewed okra and smothered chicken—a silent wish that Esther Mae would be okay. She rounded the corner and made her way to the Riverbend Bake Shop. The bubble of cinnamon and coffee scent perfuming the area soothed her embattled brain. But seeing only one person in the enclosure composed of bakery cases made her stomach twist with guilt. "Sorry, I'm running a few minutes late," she said to JoJo as she squeezed through the narrow channel between the cash register table and the pegboard wall from the neighboring watercolor artist's booth. Amy grunted, a sound more appropriate for a Neanderthal cave woman, as she bent to dial in the combination to the safe under the cash register where the workers stashed extra money and their purses.

The ginger-haired baker dismissed the apology with a smile. "You're not late. I sent Christine away early, just in case traffic was bad."

"Oh…okay." Amy forced herself to smile as the elevation change from standing back up made her heartbeat whoosh in her ears. "I'm only supposed to be here for a few hours, right?"