Chicken Soup & Homicide - Culinary Competition Mystery #2

Chapter 24

(Amy)

Amy parked on the freshly plowed street in front of Holly Neale's house. The driveway was a mountain range of drifts filled in between the snowbanks edging it. There was no way her Mini would make it up the snow-clogged driveway. She grabbed the box of thrown-together, absolutely mediocre cupcakes that were her excuse for the unannounced visit. But hopefully, Holly wasn't home and wouldn't be sampling the uninspired baked goods anyway. Preston may actually be happy with the outcome of having his life turned upside down by Britton's machinations, but maybe he knew somebody else who wasn't. Bridget was somehow going to feel out—she swore not literally—Michael to see if he had reason to kill. As she waited for word from her new partner in crime-solving, Amy couldn't stand to sit around hoping she had finally figured out the real murderer. Considering Pitts's frequent bouts of queasiness, he might not be in shape to do the job anyway.

She walked heel to toe up the fresh tire tracks in the driveway. Otherwise, the snow would've soaked the bottom of her jeans and sifted into the top of her ankle boots. Somebody had left the house that morning, and most likely it was Holly. Amy rang the doorbell. There was silence for a few seconds, then the door flew open. She took a step back. Preston had perfected the psychotic serial-killer look. Crazy, bugged-out eyes. Greasy, stringy hair that looked like it hadn't been combed in a week, then styled by sticking his head in a toilet and flushing. Pink boxer shorts covered in brown cow-spot stains were his entire outfit.

"What do you want?" His breath formed a cloud in the cold air. The fog drifted toward her face, and she coughed. Morning breath and beer. One scent was common at ten o'clock in the morning.

"I was hoping your mom was home to sample some more of my cupcakes."

"She ain't here." He started to swing the door shut, but Amy stuck her foot out to stop it. Her big toe cramped from the impact. Thank god she had thick winter boots on instead of sandals. That wasn't a move she wanted to try again in the summer.

"Why don't I just put these in the kitchen for her? If you have some scrap paper, I'll leave a note." She put her shoulder against the door and pushed her way into the cave of a living room. It smelled like the bottle recycling area at the grocery store. A mixture of stale beer and a random unpleasant sourness. Would her boots stick to the floor too? She hurried into the kitchen and looked around. There weren't any notepads in sight, but that wasn't what she was really looking for anyway. The empty slot in the knife block still didn't hold a knife. She returned to the living room. Preston was sprawled on the couch, balancing a beer can on his hairy, bloated belly. She needed to get Alex naked ASAP to overwrite that image in her mind. She diverted her gaze to the painting of a bowl full of tropical fruit on the wall behind him. "I didn't find any paper, so can you just let her know I would like her opinion on this batch of cupcakes?"

"Whatever."

His alcohol-stunted conversation style didn't lend itself to her subtly bringing up what she really wanted to know. But did she need to be subtle with a drunk? Maybe he was too smashed to care about blatant nosiness. At the moment, Preston didn't look happy, but at the bar he had more or less told her that he was fine with having his life ruined as long as his mama was there to coddle him. Did he know of somebody else who might not be so thrilled about having their life crushed by Britton? She took a deep breath and plunged in. "So, I know you had problems with Chef Britton and didn't fare so well in the end. Do you know of anybody else that Britton scammed or screwed over?"

"Don't ever mention Chet Britton in this house! He ruined my life, and I hope he's burning in hell!" Preston winged a beer can in her direction. Luckily, it was empty. And he had bad aim. The can clunked on the floor at her feet. "Get out, bitch!"