Chicken Soup & Homicide - Culinary Competition Mystery #2

Chapter 13

(Amy)

After having a very interesting and tasty lunch with Carla, Amy returned home. She punched the button on the garage door opener clipped to her car visor. As the door slid up, she did a gyrating, seatbelt-restricted happy dance. Alex was home. Now that she was done searching for murder clues for the day, she could spend some time luring her husband away from his mistress, Quantum Media.

When she made it into the house, it was no surprise that he was holed up in his office. She tapped on the open door as she walked into the bookshelf-lined room. French doors opened into the backyard, but that area currently looked like the arctic tundra. The view was much more appealing in the summer when the flowerbeds tracing along the fence line were a riot of colors. Not that the view did much for him. His desk was positioned so his back was facing the doors. When Alex looked up from his computer screen, she smiled. "I'm so happy you're home. How does spaghetti sound for dinner? Maybe puttanesca or spicy tuna sauce? I'll start making it now. Then we can enjoy dinner together and catch up a bit afterward."

He stared at her like she had sprouted antennas and turned lime green. "I can have a quick dinner with you, but I'll need to get back to work."

"But all you do lately is work." There was nothing like starting the evening out with a whine course. Her squeaky, childish tone even annoyed her. Pull it together, Ridley. Keep your eye on the prize. "You're obviously stressed out from work. A grumpy detective is circling me and my friends like a vulture. You and I could both use some R & R."

More staring from Alex, when what she really wanted was for him to close his laptop and wrap his arms around her. Instead of snuggling, he sighed. "I'm sorry. I know discovering another body must've been horrendous for you. I guess I didn't realize there was anything going on with the police. Isn't Bruce handling the case?"

It was her turn to sound like an air mattress with a leak. She had told him what was going on, that Shepler had been taken off the case, but apparently the information hadn't sunk into his overcrowded mind. "No. I told you Carla used to date the chef that was killed, so Shepler had to remove himself from the case. Since she doesn't have an alibi, his replacement is trying to pin the murder on her and causing all sorts of problems at the station with Shepler."

"I'm sorry. Sounds like they're having a rough time, and I know you want to help. If you've been snooping around while I'm working, please be careful. I don't want the police or the killer coming after you. Bruce can help Carla prove her innocence."

That was cold. What was going on with her husband? Where did the fun and compassionate man she fell in love with go? It was like the brutal winter had frozen those characteristics, leaving her married to a robot. "Too late on one of those things. The detective is eying me as a suspect now."

"What?" He stood. His leather chair spun from the movement. The arm smacked into the edge of his desk. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

Amy stiffened. "When have you given me the chance to tell you? If you are home, you barely speak to me."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered as he crumpled back into his chair.

An argument was not what she wanted when she saw that Alex was home. Maybe a bit of steam would help work out some of the wrinkles. When Alex rested his forehead on his hands, she moved around the end of his desk to stand behind him. He groaned as she slid her hand over his chest and bent to kiss the back of his neck. He leaned back in his chair and pulled her onto his lap. He slipped his hand under her sweater as his lips pressed onto hers. They made out like horny teenagers for a few minutes until he whispered, "I can't do this."

The statement brought the snog fest to a jolting end. "Why? I want you. No...I need you right now. I miss you."

He rested his forehead on her shoulder. "I miss you too. But I need to get this work done. I'm the head of a company with close to 100 employees. A lot of people are depending on me to come up with their paychecks, and I need a healthy company to do that. I would love to stay here, but I can't ignore a crisis and disappear with you, no matter how much I want to."

Amy blinked back tears. "The whole point of working hard is enjoying the rewards. You're the owner of the company. Delegate some of the pressure off of yourself."

"I wish it was that easy. There's nobody that I can delegate this stuff to. There's too much work and not enough employees. We're working on hiring a couple people, but that doesn't help at this moment." He ran his fingers through the rust-colored ringlets on the top of his head. The fact that his hair had grown out enough to curl was a testament to how busy he was. He couldn't even find the time to stop at a barber for his usual near military-style buzz cut. His laptop dinged, indicating a new e-mail had arrived. He read the message around her as she climbed off his lap. "I need to head to the office right away. I'll just grab a couple of those muffins you made this morning for my dinner. Sorry, sweetheart. I really wish we could continue this."

An hour later, Amy plopped onto the corner of the overstuffed couch in the living room. She tugged the wool afghan over her legs while keeping the bowl of cheesy scrambled eggs out of Pogo's reach. He had been much more excited than she was about having eggs for dinner. He danced in circles beside the couch while keeping his eye on the prize bowl hovering above his head.

A documentary about contemporary furniture designers played on the television as she dug into the eggs. They were dry and rubbery. It was official. She was having a horrible, awful, despicable day. Scrambled eggs were one of her specialties. Most people could make edible versions of the dish but often with a texture that resembled chewing gum. Hers were always moist and light. Always. No matter if she was sick or adding a bit of extra salt to the eggs by dripping tears into the pan. Scrambled eggs were her cooking superpower. And she had ruined them.

No matter how much she despised admitting it, she was following Pitts around, talking to people he had already freaked out by insinuating they had murdered Britton. She was trying to figure out the murderer but didn't seem to be making any headway. And Pitts was either just as confused or had a weird way of cracking cases. Her stomach growled, but the eggs had lost their appeal. She set the bowl on the floor. As she listened to Pogo slurp up the unexpected treat, she wondered what it would be like facing down a law enforcement monster without her husband by her side for support.