Fudge Brownies & Murder (11 page)

"Duh. He thinks I'm a drug addict that's so desperate I'd kill for money to get my next fix." She savagely jabbed her thumb into her breastbone. "I wouldn't do that, but some of our other relatives might." Rayshelle sighed then looked Amy in the eye. "I heard you helped find Luke's killer. Can you help figure out who killed Aunt E? Once Uncle Buck sets his mind on something, he's as determined as a starving coyote tracking a rabbit. He's not going to give up his crusade to make me pay for Aunt E's death even though I didn't do it."

That analogy about his tenacity could explain the weird living room decoration at Buck and Esther Mae's house. Amy swallowed. She felt sorry for Rayshelle.
She felt sorry for Rayshelle.
That was a new one. Fear had cracked the shell of ornery bravado that the newly-christened murder suspect usually sported. The change was startling and steeped in never-before-seen honesty. "I'll see what I can do," Amy answered.

"Is your mincemeat vegan?" the woman in a formfitting, black-and-white vertical striped dress asked. "I just stopped at The Veggie Crew booth, and the person behind the counter was making a big deal about how their vegan mincemeat tasted like the real thing. Is there really meat in a mincemeat pie?"

Amy smiled. Her brain was filled with food facts. It was nice to let them out to play once in a while. "Mincemeat is primarily dried fruit, like raisins and currants, spices, and sugar. Which would be vegan. But traditional mincemeat, like the homemade one we use in our pies and tarts, also has suet. Other recipes can use minced beef, or I've seen a few that call for venison."

The customer wrinkled her nose. "Suet—like the stuff my mom hangs out for birds in the winter, covered with bird seed?"

Yup. It kind of freaked her out too. "We get our suet from the butcher here in the market. It is, I assure you, the finest quality and most certainly not bird food. It is essentially a form of fat, like oil or butter, which adds moistness to the fruit. Mincemeat has been around for centuries, but the bakeshop uses a recipe that dates back to the1800s. I have to say, it really is delicious. To me, it just tastes like the holidays with all of the spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. I don't think you would guess from the flavor that the suet is in there. It doesn't taste like fruity hamburger."

The woman tapped the toe of her black stiletto pump. "Okay. I'm always game for a historical culinary adventure. Thank you for being so informative. I'll take two of the mini mincemeat tarts."

Amy arranged the small pies, topped with sugar-dusted piecrust stars, in a cardboard box. The woman smiled as she took the holiday treats from Amy. "I can't wait to try these. I am curious to see what they taste like. I always hated the jarred stuff my mom used in pies, but I'm sure these are completely different."

"Oh, yes," Amy agreed. "I know what you're talking about. These definitely taste much better than pies made from commercially produced mincemeat."

"Thank you. Happy holidays," the woman said as she walked away.

As Amy turned to drop her plastic gloves into the trash can, she spotted a familiar curly hairdo among the customers crowding the aisle. Candi, from The Veggie Crew, stood in front of the natural soap booth across the aisle. She was so still she looked like a statue—an evil, glaring statue that cursed anybody who dared look into her big brown eyes. Creepy.

Amy concentrated on getting the disposable gloves into the wastebasket. When she looked up again, the creepiness factor ramped up to run-and-hide level. Shantelle Applebee was back. And she had a friend. It had been snowing all day, but the burly man wore a sleeveless black T-shirt. It appeared as though every inch of skin on his arms had been tattooed with a sinister tapestry of skulls, knives, and gory depictions of zombies and demons. He sported the most dangerous-looking hairstyle Amy had ever seen—a mohawk composed of ten-inch-tall spikes of stiffened hair formed a median between two disconcertingly realistic tattoos of a brain depicted on the rest of his shaved head. Behind the couple, a toddler in a stroller pointed at them and began crying.

Shantelle ignored the screams and said, "I want some brownies, but I'm not going to pay that much. What's the best deal you can do for two of them?"

Bargaining for brownies? The terrifying couple was in a high-end specialty market, not a flea market where vendors expected to haggle. "I'm sorry. We aren't running a sale on brownies right now."

Scary Man took a step closer. "My woman wants to make a deal. Make one with her." His voice sounded like he gargled with gasoline—raspy and menacing.

"I…I can give you a dollar off each one since you want to buy two."

The man looked at Shantelle, who nodded. He narrowed his almost black eyes at Amy. "Deal."

Amy quickly dropped the brownies into a paper bag. A buffer zone void of other people had formed around the couple. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a uniformed security officer winding through the traffic jam of customers who were trying to get as far away as possible from Shantelle and her companion.

Shantelle stuck her hand down the ripped, deep V-neck front of her AC/DC concert T-shirt and pulled a handful of crumpled dollar bills out of her bra. She tossed the wad of money on the counter next to the cash register then snatched the bag of baked goods from Amy. Without saying a word, the couple slinked away toward the end of the aisle where Southern Gals was located. The guard stopped in front of Amy and asked, "Are you okay? Did they threaten you?"

"I'm okay. They just asked if we were offering any discounts."

He grunted. "Let me know if they cause any more problems. I've heard more than enough complaints about that couple. I'm not letting them out of my sight."

The guard continued to hover in front of the bakeshop. Amy could see Rayshelle was having a very animated discussion with her sister. The duo faced off on opposite sides of the steam cart that kept the booth's entrees hot. The argument ended when Shantelle screeched and slammed her fist on the top of the sneeze shield. The security guard placed his hand on a device clasped to his utility belt. It appeared to be a Taser. The gaze of the fierce mohawk-sporting boyfriend locked onto the guard. He poked a finger into Shantelle's side. She recoiled like an angry cobra. The couple exchanged a few words, and then both of them sprinted out of sight, in the general direction of one of the market exits. Rayshelle shook her head as the security guard rushed past her in pursuit of her sister.

"Damn. Those were the scariest people I have ever seen in real life," JoJo whispered into Amy's ear. The unexpected oral confirmation of what Amy was already thinking made her jump. She had forgotten that JoJo was even in the booth. "They look like they belong on the cast of some low budget, post-apocalyptic movie."

Amy sighed so hard she began coughing. Once the choking fit subsided, she responded to her coworker's comment. "I agree. I've seen movie villains that looked tamer. They are absolutely terrifying."

Maybe they just didn't look menacing. What were they capable of if someone dared defy them? What if they had been in touch with Esther Mae before her death, and she had refused to do something they wanted, like give them money?

"Your hands are shaking. Why don't you take a break?" JoJo said.

Amy looked down. She was shaking as though she'd just chugged a quadruple espresso shot latte. Not a good physical state to be in while handing scalding hot beverages to paying customers. "Thanks. I think that's a good idea before I drop a cup of coffee on a customer or something else that's equally disastrous."

"Take as long as you need."

In the bathroom, Amy splashed cold water on her face then dried it with a scratchy paper towel. Her cheeks were rosy but in a hot mess instead of healthy way. As she was rummaging in her purse for a powder compact, the door to the bathroom opened. She glanced into the mirror and watched the reflection of Rayshelle as she made her way to the sink beside her.

"Shantelle and her new boyfriend wanted money from me. Money that I don't have to give. She's cooked up some idea that Aunt E left me a fortune." Rayshelle blew her nose on one of the brown paper towels. "She's even crazier and more desperate than she used to be. When our parents both went to prison, she wound up in juvenile hall for committing armed robbery at a convenience store. She was twelve years old when she and her sixteen-year-old boyfriend were convicted."

Damn. They were like pirate sisters. Rayshelle got the surly attitude. Shantelle had mastered the outlaw quotient.

Rayshelle continued, "She got that stupid eye tattoo a couple years ago. Says it's her third eye, like some Indian goddess. I figure it's just a way for her to avoid actually working. I told her to cover it up. They make tattoo concealer now, but she won't do it. Instead, she picks up odd jobs, like cleaning Buzzy's Tattoos at night. She always gets fired then goes back to living on state assistance along with whatever money she can con from friends and family. It's like she figures society owes her because she's a freak." She swiped a streak of bright red gloss over her lips and plunged the applicator back into the tube she had pulled from her pants pocket. "I'm sorry about the rant. I saw she and Mohawk Dude were harassing you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Amy opened her mouth to respond, but Rayshelle was already gone. The bathroom door thumped shut behind her. It was so strange to see the vulnerable, human side of Rayshelle. Considering what Amy was learning about her family, it was no wonder she had always been in ultra-defensive, ready-for-combat mode. Her life was a wreck.

Before Amy could pry open the plastic powder container that she had finally located in the bottom of her purse, the bathroom door opened again. Candi charged into the white subway tile-lined room. Her eyes glittered with anger. "I saw you steal our mincemeat pie customer," she growled at Amy's back.

Amy spun around. The compact clattered into the sink. She took a step backward as Candi advanced. The edge of the sink counter pressed into the back of her thigh as she said, "The woman asked me about the difference between traditional mincemeat, like we use at Riverbend, and the vegan version. I told her how both styles were made, and she decided to try our pies. I didn't steal her from you. It was completely her decision."

"A business needs customers to survive. As far as I'm concerned, stealing customers is a death threat to The Veggie Crew." She pointed her baby-pink manicured fingernail at Amy. "I had better not catch you doing that again."

Two hours later, Amy finally finished the stomach-turning, nerve-jangling shift. What had she done to deserve confrontations with two psychotic women? She slogged through the slushy snow that covered the parking lot. Apparently she had upset karma enough to also deserve frozen, wet feet. She finally reached her car. The long, frustrating day became, unbelievably, even worse. All that remained of the Mini's passenger side headlight were a couple shards of glass. The round lens resembled the mouth of a snaggletooth eel. Had a stone thrown from a passing vehicle's tire been the culprit? Or was someone sending her a message?

*   *   *

The next morning, Amy clamped her lips shut to contain the grunt that was trying to escape from her mouth. The hotel pan full of cheesy grits casserole was heavier than she had expected. She gritted her teeth and managed to slide the tray onto the rolling cart sitting behind LeighAnne's minivan.

"Thank you so much for helping, my dear," the newly sole proprietor of Southern Gals said. "That new girl I hired has a sick baby this morning. I called Rayshelle, and she'll eventually be in, but I suspect it will be a while. Sounded like she was hungover to me. That girl couldn't put her life together even if she had an instruction manual the size of a phone book."

If only there were instruction manuals for life. She would certainly read it to save some of the exasperation and anxiety. Amy unfastened a couple buttons on her black wool pea coat. Despite downright fiercely cold gales blowing through the parking lot, she was working up a sweat. When she saw LeighAnne struggling to get her trays of food into the market all on her own, Amy couldn't pass by without offering to help. Taking a few extra minutes to help the older woman wouldn't matter at all because she was working with ultra-organized JoJo again that morning. The copper-haired bakery manager had more energy than a copper-topped battery. Everything in the Riverbend Bake Shop booth was probably set up and ready to go when the market opened.

"I'm happy to help you a bit. You've had a rough time losing Esther Mae then getting bugged by her strange family."

LeighAnne wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. Tears glistened on her skin in the light cast from the street lamps that illuminated the parking lot. "I miss my large-and-in-charge business partner. She would've had all of this food inside the market ten minutes ago. Whenever she set her mind to doing something, she would just put her head down and do it, whether it was starting a new business or helping a sick friend get groceries. Things that would be barriers to most people were just little speed bumps in the road for her."

"I'm so sorry for your loss. It sounds like she was a great friend."

"We knew each other for twenty years. It was her idea to open this booth to help pay off my medical bills. All I had to do was cook while she took care of the books, marketing, and all of that stuff." LeighAnne slipped the last hotel pan out of the van. "Now I have to do it all on top of cooking. Rayshelle is trying to help, but bless her, that girl couldn't cook her way out of a cardboard box. Esther Mae tried to teach her how to cook, but she wasn't any good at cooking in large quantities either. For some reason, converting recipes to feed a crowd was difficult for her. She could balance a checkbook like an accountant, but it never failed that she would forget to increase the quantity of some of the ingredients, and we'd end up with forty hockey pucks instead of buttermilk biscuits."

Amy grabbed the handle on the front of the rolling cart so she could help guide it over the ice bumps frozen to the pavement of the parking lot. "It's good to know your limits, though, and focus on what you do well."