Fudge Brownies & Murder - Culinary Competition Mystery #4

Chapter 2

(Amy)

The sunshine was too bright. Amy cupped her hand over the top of her gigantic Jackie O-style sunglasses. It helped a bit—until her purse slid off her shoulder, landed in the crook of her arm, and dislodged the improvised visor. The sudden weight shift coupled with the sensation of ice picks being hammered into her eyeballs caused her to bobble her travel mug of coffee. She skidded to a stop in the parking lot and hoped she wouldn't be run over as she regained control of her body and coffee cup. The sunshine glinted off of windshields and chrome bumpers all around her, sending zings of pain into her brain via her bloodshot eyes. Normally, in early December, she would be happy to soak up every bit of sun she could get before the gray winter completely set in. But normally she wasn't hungover.

As forecasted, the cocktail party at the Blogger Bash had been a blast. After winning the cooking prize, Amy had celebrated with more grilled orange sidecars. She and Rori danced a lot but managed to keep the disco party on the ground instead of on any tables. Amy wanted to attend the conference again and didn't want to be known as The Woman Who Tried Dancing On A Table But Fell On Her Butt Instead. When the alarm went off in the hotel that morning, she wished she could run over the clock with a motorcycle sidecar. Oh, the pain in her head when Ingrid slid open the blackout curtains so they could see better to pack their things and leave. Gathering up her toiletries and clothes had been a slow, uncomfortable process. As Amy was driving home, looking forward to finding refuge from the jackhammering headache in a nap, she remembered she had promised to fill in for a few hours at Riverbend Bake Shop. Christine, one of the women who worked in the booth located in Clement Street Market, had a doctor's appointment. Amy had agreed to fill in for her three weeks earlier, figuring it wouldn't be a problem, even though it was the day after the conference. She hadn't anticipated how much fun she'd have at the wrap-up party.

A puff of warm air rustled her hair as she stepped through the sliding door at the south end of the market. Even her hair hurt. The scents and noise inside the former-warehouse-turned-artisan-market was an overwhelming tsunami of sensations that took her breath away. The ibuprofen had to kick in soon or she wouldn't end up being any help. Curling up in the corner of the booth and whimpering wouldn't exactly be filling in for Christine.

Thank goodness the lunch rush had died down, so the aisles were easier to navigate at a snail's pace without the threat of being run into by impatient business people searching for a tasty lunch. She glanced down the aisle to the left and noticed Buck's Wooden Wares booth had a big Closed sign propped on an easel in front of it. The handcrafted wooden spoons and bowls were made by Esther Mae's husband. He was probably at the hospital attending to his wife. Amy continued walking—or more precisely, shuffling. Southern Gals, Esther Mae's micro restaurant which she owned with her friend LeighAnne, was also closed. A couple of women stood in front of the unmanned cash register. One would point, and the other would shake her head. Then they would reverse the process. It appeared that they had been looking forward to Southern-style meals for lunch but couldn't agree on an alternate place to dine.

Amy touched the side of the steam table that usually held dishes like stewed okra and smothered chicken—a silent wish that Esther Mae would be okay. She rounded the corner and made her way to the Riverbend Bake Shop. The bubble of cinnamon and coffee scent perfuming the area soothed her embattled brain. But seeing only one person in the enclosure composed of bakery cases made her stomach twist with guilt. "Sorry, I'm running a few minutes late," she said to JoJo as she squeezed through the narrow channel between the cash register table and the pegboard wall from the neighboring watercolor artist's booth. Amy grunted, a sound more appropriate for a Neanderthal cavewoman, as she bent to dial in the combination to the safe under the cash register where the workers stashed extra money and their purses.