Chicken Soup & Homicide - Culinary Competition Mystery #2

Chapter 8

(Amy)

Amy stomped the snow off her boots in the entranceway of the Mahoney Building. Some architect had planned ahead for the harsh winter weather that was common in Michigan. The double-door entrance acted as a buffer zone as people entered from outside into a small room carpeted with heavy industrial rugs to absorb melting snow. The receptionist surely appreciated not having the biting wind blowing into her face a hundred times a day whenever the automatic door slid open. Considering Michigan was in a typical January cold snap, the poor woman would need to wear long underwear and a balaclava ski mask instead of the sensible black dress and wool cardigan she was actually sporting.

"Hello. Welcome to Mahoney Incorporated. How can I help you?"

Amy smiled as she stepped up to the reception desk made of glittery white stone. "I have an appointment with Bridget Mahoney. I'm Amy Ridley."

The receptionist's toffee-colored hair, slicked back into a high ponytail, glistened in the harsh overhead lights as she nodded. She pointed to a bank of chairs in a waiting area and said, "I'll let her know you're here. Please have a seat. There is fresh coffee in the insulated carafe if you would like some. I made gingerbread flavor this morning."

"Thank you." Amy's sensible, nonslip, rubber-soled boots squawked like a hungry seagull as she trekked across the marble tile floor. The insulated footwear wasn't exactly fashionable, but she wasn't exactly into getting frostbite on her toes. She sat down and hoped the rug under her feet would wick away some of the water in her boot treads and lessen the avian sound effects when she crossed the room again. She picked up the newspaper sitting on the small table next to her chair. Chet's murder was headline news. She had just finished skimming through the article when Bridget called her name.

"Hello, Amy. It's always a pleasure to see you. We can chat in my office."

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Mahoney." Amy folded the paper and carefully placed it back on the table. She hurried across the reception area and did a little mental happy dance because she didn't sound like one of Pogo's squeaky toys. Mrs. Mahoney held her security badge up to a terminal on the wall. The frosted glass door in front of her silently slid open. Amy fell in step behind the older woman as they walked down a hallway lined with doors sporting gold nameplates to indicate who was on the other side. It was kind of like walking through the corridors of a doctor's office, but the furnishings in these rooms would undoubtedly be more upscale than paper-covered exam tables.

The silver-haired CEO opened the door at the end of the hallway and motioned for Amy to follow her. The office was as large as Amy's master bedroom but ten times as lavish. White marble floors, crystal lamps, and gold-plated desk accessories mingled with the elegant art deco prints of sleek women on the walls.

"Have a seat," Mrs. Mahoney said as she settled into the white leather executive's chair behind the ornately carved wood desk. "What can I do for you?"

Amy perched on the edge of a raw silk–covered wing chair and hoped like hell she didn't slide off the slippery fabric. Ending up on the floor in an undignified heap wasn't her objective. She crossed her fingers that wool coat fabric had antislip properties and plunged into the conversation. The first priority was trying to get Trisha into the Parade of Desserts lineup. Hopefully, along the way, she could dig up some high-society dirt on Britton and his enemies. "First of all, I found out that Trisha Dunbar, Chet's partner in the Chicken Soup Showdown, would like to participate in the Parade of Desserts. She's really passionate about raising money for her charity, a community garden that needs funding to start in the spring."