Banana Muffins & Mayhem (6 page)

"Thank you." Amy giggled. Was it because of the wine or the fact that she apparently was now the head of a group of crime-fighting, middle-aged, single women? "I would appreciate any help you can give."

Charlotte picked at a lint ball on the edge of her pillow seat. "Do you realize how much you look like Phoebe at a glance? You're different heights, but your hair and face shape are very similar. Have you thought of the possibility that it could've been a case of mistaken identity that got her killed?"

Well, no, she hadn't thought of that. "You think I could've been the killer's intended victim?"

"Her body was found at your husband's business."

Tommy leaned sideways and slugged her sister in the arm. "Don't scare her! That is not how you help people."

Charlotte shrugged as she rubbed the point of impact. "Just making an observation."

Amy exhaled. "And it was a good one. Definitely something to think about. Although I am leaning more toward one of Phoebe's cyber stalkers going off the deep end. Apparently she had a bunch of strange admirers on social media."

"Can you imagine how someone who is mentally unstable might react to being verbally pummeled by her?" Charlotte tilted her head to the side. "What if one of those online admirers decided to take his obsession to real life but got shot down in flames?"

When Amy left the apartment, she was warm all over from the ginger tea, which she had swapped out for the wine because she needed to drive home, and the unexpected offers to help find a killer. There was also a little bonfire of fear burning in her stomach after hearing Charlotte's mistaken identity theory. All three ladies assured her they would be careful when poking around for clues. Geri's insights had been helpful when Amy was trying to figure out who had killed a fellow food blogger. Now there were two more intelligent, witty women coming to her aid. There was just one problem. Amy had a sinking feeling that Tommy's story of Phoebe's unexpected visit to her business had more holes than a wheel of Swiss cheese.

Amy brought the palms of her hands together in front of her chest. She stayed in that pose, with her legs folded and eyes closed, as she followed Rori's instructions to breathe in…then out. Yoga was known for its meditative properties, which were supposed to help clear a cluttered mind. But that was a tall order when her thoughts were reproducing like furry little Star Trek tribbles. It would be wonderful if the class would summon a big dollop of cosmic awareness, though, so she could figure out who killed Phoebe before the murder hurt Alex's business or, if Charlotte was on the right track with the look-alike angle, Amy ended up in the cemetery. And was Tommy glossing over the important parts of her supposedly random encounter with the spoiled television star? The flute music ended, and Amy cracked open one eye. She was the only student left.

Rori was still at the front of the room. She winked as she rolled up her pink yoga mat and said, "Looks like you were really into meditating this morning."

Amy straightened out one leg and grimaced as a cramp pulsed through her hip muscles. How long had she been sitting with her legs in pretzel position? "I didn't sleep well last night. Not sure if I was meditating or sleeping and dreaming while sitting up."

Rori laughed as she slipped on a gauzy, white shawl-neck sweater over her tank top. "Either one is restorative. I know what you mean about being tired from insomnia. I've had it too, and I've really been struggling by the time my evening classes roll around."

"What's wrong? I figured you'd have herbal remedies and all kinds of homeopathic techniques to help you sleep," Amy said as she walked to the arrangement of storage cubbies near the door. She used a low row of the wooden cubes as a bench. A very wobbly tree pose during class indicated there could be trouble if she tried to put on her slip-on sneakers while standing.

"I feel bad about Phoebe's death." Rori tugged at one of her spring-like, blonde curls. "I helped Aubergine set everything up concerning her appearance. When we found out we could book her to make an appearance in Kellerton, we were so excited since we both loved the show."

"You couldn't have known what would happen," Amy offered as a way to try to help her friend feel better. It was basically the same reasoning she had used with the bookstore owner, but she couldn't think of a better thing to say.

She could sympathize with the guilt both Rori and Aubergine were feeling. If the murder was randomly committed by a local psycho, Phoebe
would
still be alive. However, Amy had a hunch that scenario hadn't happened. It was possible—so was cracking an egg and finding two yolks inside—but unlikely. Amy gathered her rolled mat and tote bag. She turned toward the open door as a man was walking past in the hallway. Familiarity smacked her in the back of the head, but her sleep-deprived brain refused to budge on letting her know where she had seen him before. Since he was in Rori's studio, maybe she could help. "Do you know who that guy is?"

Rori nodded. "The producer of
Old House/New Style
. I overheard him talking to the receptionist when he was checking in a few days ago. He said something about being stuck in town, so he was taking a few classes here to stay in shape."

So he was part of the entourage that Sophie had mentioned. Now that Amy knew who he was, when exactly had she seen him before? Even though he was probably the person who had filmed the Charlotte versus Phoebe tablescape debacle, she didn't recall seeing him there. She tilted her head to the left and then the right—to stretch out her re-tightening neck muscles and try to jar loose the memory. As she stared at the window, an image appeared in her mind as though it were a Polaroid photo revealing itself. A photo. That's where she had seen him. He was the rumpled man who had been in many of her pictures of Phoebe at the cooking contest. No wonder she hadn't looked nervous with him lurking so near. He wasn't a stalker. He was her boss.

"I have another class to teach soon," Rori said as she turned toward her office at the end of the corridor. "Have a good day."

"Thanks. You too. I hope we both get some sleep tonight."

Amy stepped into the hall. Had the producer gone into a classroom or the restroom? She killed some time by finding a hair elastic in her tote bag then pulling her locks back into a casual ponytail. It was windy outside, so she hoped her stalling tactic didn't look too suspicious. Then again, a man wouldn't understand how annoying it was to try to look through a curtain of tangled hair every time a breeze picked up. The door to the men's locker room at the end of the hallway opened, and the man emerged.
Great
. She had planned on talking to him, but hadn't managed to think far enough ahead to figure out what to say.

He nodded a greeting as he approached. "Good morning."

"Hello." Amy held up her finger as though she'd had a brilliant thought. And she had because she'd figured out how to start the conversation. The gesture stopped the man in his tracks. So she plunged onward. "You look so familiar, even though I don't think I've ever seen you here at the yoga studio before. For some reason, I'm connecting you with that poor murdered television star who was at the Cabin Fever Cure."

He winced slightly. What part of her impromptu rambling speech had hit a nerve with him? He sighed then said, "That's probably where you recognize me from. I'm the producer of Phoebe Plymouth's show. I came to the event with her hoping to find some guests to appear on
Old House/New Style
." He took a deep breath and let it out with a loud sigh. "You look familiar too."

"My condolences. I'm so sorry for your loss." Amy nudged the bamboo floor with the toe of her shoe. "You probably recognize me from my win in the muffin cooking contest."

He nodded an acknowledgment. "Ahh…that's it. Congrats." His clothes were different from what he had worn at the event, but the gray shorts and white cotton T-shirt were still heavily wrinkled. Either his signature look was schlumpy or he didn't know how to pack suitcases well. "And thank you for the sympathy. It's difficult, but life goes on. Phoebe recited everything word for word from the script. I don't think she could improvise if she wanted to. All of the decorating projects were conceptualized and made by others. She was the face for the show, but it was the writers and production crew who made it so good. Thankfully, they're all still very much alive and well."

The people who had worked with Phoebe certainly had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead. That was an outright ode to her ineptitude. None of them, so far, appeared upset over her death. That could definitely be an important clue. Hopefully the rookie investigator thought so too—although they were probably keeping the disparaging remarks to themselves when in Detective Foster's presence. "It sounds like she could be difficult to work with, but I bet she had some redeeming qualities."

He rolled his dark-brown eyes. "She donated money to a lot of charities…her family's money, but in the end, no matter where it came from, I guess she helped a lot of people."

"Maybe she was more of a philanthropist than an actress."

"Um, yeah." The producer glanced at his expensive sports watch. "I need to get going. It figures Phoebe would torture the crew from beyond the grave though. The homicide detective guilted us all into sticking around town to help with the case. If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for an appointment with her."

Amy leaned against the wall as she watched him walk toward the yoga studio's lobby. Phoebe's business associates were portraying her as an unpleasant person, the same persona half of Kellerton witnessed, but they were staying in Kellerton to help with the investigation. If the star was so unlikeable, why would they bother? Amy hitched the handles of her bag over her shoulder. There were a lot of things that weren't adding up because almost everybody she talked to about Phoebe seemed to be impersonating strainers—their stories were full of holes. Was Foster finding the same thing? If she was, Amy hoped the new homicide detective was good at crossword puzzles. There were a lot of blanks that needed to be filled in before the murder could be solved.

*   *   *

"Here for the class?" Chuck asked as Amy approached the counter. He smiled warmly from his perch on a high stool. The Inkwell's owner was sort of like a chipotle chile-spiked brownie. Surprisingly warm but in a good way.

"I am," Amy said.

"Then head on into the classroom. Aubergine is in there already."

Amy smiled. "Thank you." She wondered if he owned any clothes, besides blue jeans, that weren't black. On that day, even his jeans were as dark as the ink he used to outline his comic illustrations. The ominous-appearing fashion sensibility certainly could deter shoplifters. It also was the clothing equivalent of a counterbalance to his wife's colorful wardrobe. If they shared a closet, it would be very easy to tell which half of the space belonged to which spouse.

The sounds of several conversations slipped out of the classroom's doorway as Amy walked around the end of the counter. Learning calligraphy would be fun. If she was any good at the technique, she planned on using it on her blog with artfully handwritten recipes instead of typing them in Times New Roman font. But until she went through the entire class, she wasn't banking on it. She was good with whisks and spatulas—her calligraphy pen skills were untested. Maybe she would end up producing the artistic equivalent of grease-soaked, soggy-crusted fried chicken. Totally unappealing.

"Welcome!" Aubergine said when Amy entered the brightly lit room filled with drafting desks. "Pick a spot where you would like to work. We'll get started in a few minutes."

Amy was happy to see the artist acting like her normal bubbly self. The guilt over booking Phoebe's fatal guest appearance had deeply affected the usually jovial calligrapher when Amy had signed up for the class. If Aubergine was still feeling down, she was doing a good job at masking it. Although, it would be difficult to appear sad while wearing a lemon-yellow dress and a headband covered with miniature silk daisies.

"I can't wait to start." Amy looked around the room to see if she knew any of the other students. Nobody seemed familiar at first, but then she looked closer at the woman sitting at the far end of the second row. It was Detective Foster. She was engrossed in something on her phone. It had never occurred to Amy that a serious detective would have an interest in making art. But it made sense. Hobbies were a great way to relieve stress. Pursuing killers was definitely stressful.

Before she could convince herself that it was a bad idea, Amy plopped into the chair at the desk beside the detective. As she stowed her purse under the chair, she thought of something else. What if the police officer wasn't pursuing a new hobby? She could be working undercover to observe a suspect. Could she be investigating Aubergine? Amy looked around the room. Or maybe the detective was checking out one of the other students.

The most likely possible murder suspect was walking between the desks, passing out sheets of thick paper. Did Aubergine know that the head investigator for the murder which the artist felt so badly about was one of her students? If she did, she was doing a great job pretending that Foster was just another student.

Amy was still trying to figure out if the police officer's interest in calligraphy was purely recreational or work-related when the class began. For the first half hour, she split her time between concentrating on Aubergine's instructions and trying to decide whether she should say anything to Detective Foster. Every time Amy glanced at her seating neighbor, she seemed to be completely engrossed in forming fancy letters instead of checking out their classmates. If she was also forming opinions on anybody in the classroom or recognized Amy from the murder scene, she was hiding it well under a thick layer of disinterest mixed with dedicated concentration.

Being able to not broadcast every emotion through facial expressions was a technique that Amy had yet to master.
Whom was she kidding?
She had problems hiding her emotions ninety percent of the time. That wasn't even close to mastering control over her telltale features. Her face muscles were hardwired to her thoughts. A person didn't need to be a body language expert to figure out what she was really thinking, especially when she was under stress.