Chicken Soup & Homicide (17 page)

Amy watched the flames undulating in the fireplace. She couldn't deny that Shepler's job had been affected. Carla was right about that. How could she convince her friend that despite everything, Shepler still wanted to be with her? "He called after I tucked you into bed last night." She tapped the back of Carla's hand to get her to look up. "He gave me a message…he said he loves you."

"Okay." Carla swatted Shepler's admission away like a fly. "Sophie is waving at us. I think she wants something."

When Amy turned around, Sophie was motioning for her to come back to the front counter. Amy scooted out of her seat. "Why don't you get your coat on? We can leave after I speak with Sophie."

"Come into the kitchen. You have to see the news," Sophie said as soon as Amy got within earshot. She held open the swinging door. "I can't believe this is happening."

Amy hurried into the cramped kitchen. A small TV was suspended on a bracket in the corner above a stainless steel prep table. Sophie grabbed a remote, and the television screen blurred as she rewound the news program. When the picture refocused, Pitts's face appeared. Amy swayed back and forth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as a reporter interviewed the detective after catching him on his way out of the police department. First he declared that people would probably be surprised at the results of his investigation. He ended by saying he was very close to making an arrest in the murder. As the blue parka-clad reporter signed off, in the background Pitts collapsed face first into a snow bank.

* * *

The numbers on the clock were like a neon sign advertising that her life was a steaming hot mess. It was 1:23 a.m. The only thing Amy had accomplished was wadding up the comforter into uncomfortable knots, making her feel like she was reenacting the princess and the pea fairy tale. Falling asleep any time soon wasn't on the agenda. Just the fact that she could see the clock on Alex's nightstand made her head hurt. If he was in bed, the clock wouldn't be visible to her. She had stopped at his office two hours earlier and begged him to come to bed soon. Either he had lost track of time or she no longer had any influence on her husband.

Then there was the whole murder thing. Or more like a giant, soul-sucking monster thing. Since it seemed like everybody had some reason to kill Britton, it was becoming more of a case of who wanted to do the deed bad enough. She felt like the ball in a pinball machine, bouncing from one scenario to another while trying to avoid the trap doors. And there were so many holes to fall into. What if Pitts got tired of playing his psychotic cat-and-mouse game and started arresting people? She, Carla, Sophie, or all three of them, could end up in orange jumpsuits. And what was up with his on-camera nosedive? Was it a case of severe stage fright or something else? Yay! More unanswered questions to chase off the sandman.

Amy rolled onto her back and stared at the wall beyond the footboard instead of the electronic reminder that she was alone in bed once again. The shadows of bare tree branches projected in the light of a full moon danced on the bathroom door. She squeaked as the mattress moved. Alex was finally crawling into bed. Maybe she should be satisfied that at least he had chosen to spend part of the night next to her. But that wasn't enough.

She shoved the restrictive blankets aside, toward him. Then in one miraculously unclumsy move rolled on top of Alex. She shifted her weight onto her knees so that she was crouching on his hips, then grabbed his hands, gently pressing them into the pillow on each side of his head.

"What are you doing? I thought you were asleep." His voice was low and raspy. Did that mean he was tired or turned on? She couldn't tell. There was too much comforter fluff between them to differentiate between batting bumps and Alex. No matter. He wasn't going anywhere. Trapped in the blanket and Amy straightjacket combo, he had no choice but to listen to her.

"We need to spend more time together. I miss you. It feels like we barely speak anymore." She shifted her weight so that her bottom pressed down more on his hips. He gasped.

"What do you want to do?"

"Go out to dinner. Maybe Cornerstone restaurant on Sunday night?"

Silence. She leaned forward, keeping his hands pinned down, and brushed his lips with hers. "Please. I need you."

"Now?"

"Yes, but you have to answer me about dinner first."

He groaned as she pushed her knees to the side and lowered herself onto him. "Okay. Cornerstone on Sunday night. I can do that. But explain, why there? It's a really nice place, but it's the restaurant the dead chef owned, right?"

No wonder Alex's business did so well. He was exhausted, stressed out, literally in the dark and turned on, but he still made the connection to the restaurant. The man could multitask like a pro. Hopefully that didn't mean that he could juggle a wife and girlfriend like a circus performer too.

"I've heard from quite a few people that the atmosphere there has changed since Britton was killed. That the employees are happy now that he's gone. Since you and I have been there quite a few times before, I wanted to see for myself if employee attitudes have changed. The staff was so serious and somber in the past. Maybe an employee is really thrilled about losing the tyrant boss and really guilty of killing him."

Alex jerked his arms free from her grasp and wrapped them around her to pull her even closer. "All right, just promise not to ignore me while searching for a suspicious person. I do want to have a romantic date with you. Besides, don't you think that new detective would've looked into that angle already?"

"Pitts is a lunatic with subpar detective skills."

"Ouch. I take it you don't like the guy."

"He's screwed around with Carla and Shepler so much, they've broken up."

"What?" He sat up and turned on the sconce lamp in the headboard. "When did this happen?"

"Last night." Amy rolled off of him. She sat beside him and crossed her arms over her stomach. "I haven't seen you enough to tell you about it. I found another dead body, my best friends and I are being targeted as the prime suspects, and you don't seem to care."

Alex's face contorted in anguish. A tear slipped out of his eye and glimmered in the light. "I'm sorry." He gathered her up into his arms again. Hot tears soaked through Amy's nightgown as he rested his head on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. You're in the middle of a crisis, and I've ignored everything. I'm terrible. You must hate me."

She rubbed small circles with her fingertips on his shoulders. "I am upset, but I don't hate you. I guess I'm just confused. It's felt like you're far away from me, and I can't make contact."

His whole body shuddered as he exhaled. "I haven't been here when you've needed me. I'm going to do more than take you to dinner."

She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder. They were entwined like human yin yang symbols. He wouldn't say those things if he was cheating on her, would he? Normally she could babble for hours about trivial things that didn't matter, but at that moment the only thing she could say was, "I love you."

When life got stressful, the stressed out went grocery shopping. Or at least that was Amy's philosophy. Her shoulder muscles loosened up as soon as she walked through the doors of Clement Street Market. An old warehouse had been converted over the summer into a year-round indoor market. The venue had only opened a month earlier, but it was packed full of customers every day. Vendors offered everything from stinky sheep's milk cheese to fresh passion fruit. There were tiny restaurant stalls serving Vietnamese street food, vegan Indian chaats, and even fresh oysters on the half shell. She inhaled. The mishmash of gourmet scents relaxed her more than laughing gas at the dentist. The sweet fragrance of donuts sizzling in hot oil mingled with the savory aroma of lemongrass chicken. The market was a foodie wonderland.

Amy settled the straps of her midnight-blue canvas tote bag on her shoulder and began to wander. Hopefully poking around the booths would keep the part of her brain that worried occupied, leaving the other half that came up with brilliant ideas to figure out how to prove Pitts's new allegations against Carla wrong. Considering his bulldog approach to pursuing her friend, probably the only way to get him to back off would be to present him with the murderer carrying a signed and notarized confession.

Alex had agreed to take her to Cornerstone restaurant. A huge victory in the fight to keep her marriage alive. She would concentrate on having a romantic dinner with her distracted hubby, but it wouldn't hurt to do some discreet eavesdropping on the staff if she got a chance. It wasn't like somebody would brag about how they knocked off the boss, but just maybe she could pick up a whispered rumor about who had.

Carla had spent the rest of the previous day holed up in the spare bedroom. She didn't want to be alone, but she didn't want to talk either. Her phone was turned off, so Shepler had resorted to calling Amy. But Carla refused to talk to him. It hadn't been a good day for anybody.

As Amy turned the corner at the end of an aisle, Chef Jake from Nibbles & Noshes scooted behind the counter of a butcher stall ahead. Amy stopped to try samples of homemade salsas and tortilla chips. She munched on the spicy chips while keeping an eye on the chef. From the look on his face and the scowl of the man working at the booth, things weren't going well between them either. When a customer stepped up to the counter to place an order, the scowling man said something to a woman behind him wearing a blood-streaked white butcher's apron. She frowned as both men exited the booth space.

Amy thanked the salsa purveyor for the samples and stepped into the stream of customers perusing the booths. Following people in a crowd was not an easy task thanks to her shorter-than-average height. Then again, since she was drowning in the tide of people, the men probably wouldn't realize she was following them. She spotted Chef Jake's man-bun turning left at the end of the aisle. Of course, a knot of senior citizens stopped to admire an artistically arranged French baguette display right in front of her. She executed a lateral stutter step followed by a belly-dance shimmy to squeeze through a gap between two stationary bread aficionados. Jake's topknot bobbed out a side exit.

Great. She had just gotten warmed up, and it was back into the deep freeze for spy duty. She stepped through the automatic-opening doors and was greeted by an icy blast of wind. To the left, the men were walking along the edge of the snow-coated parking lot, heading toward the line of supply trucks emblazoned with the logos of vendors inside the market. Amy cut up an aisle until she was past the truck where the pair had stopped. Then she angled back toward them, moving between parked cars, looking from side to side like she was searching for her Mini. She knew where it was, several rows away, but it was often hard to spot among oversized SUVs and hulking pickup trucks. The lost-and-confused routine often played out for real.

Nobody else appeared to be around the cargo trucks. She called on her high school drama training and tried to assume a clueless look before scooting between trucks that belonged to a seafood company and a pie bakery. As she crept along the back of the vehicles, she could finally hear what the men were saying.

"Come on—I have to be one of your biggest clients. I know you can make me a better deal."

"I can't cut prices when costs are going up for me. You own a business. You know how it goes."

"I can't raise my menu prices right now. Not if I want to keep people coming in. My shtick is low-priced gourmet. Damn it, Harry. Give me a break, or I'll go somewhere else. Cut me a deal, or lose all of my business."

Amy stopped at the back bumper of the Christopherson Meats truck. She unzipped her purse and started digging through it. Hopefully it appeared that she was looking for her keys or phone instead of eavesdropping on a potential murderer. There was silence. Had they moved away? She counted to three and peeked around the corner of the truck. They were still there, just staring at each other like two angry bulls in a face-off. She ducked back behind the truck and waited.

Finally, the butcher broke the silence. "I'll charge you the same price for this week's shipment only. Business is good here at the market. If you want to find another supplier, go for it."

"You sonuvabitch. You'll regret this."

The sound of work boots stomping away signaled the end of the conversation. Amy resumed her purse-search ruse just in case one of the men spotted her. Cute and cheerful Chef Jake had a dark side. And he wasn't above threatening people when they crossed him. Did he have enough of a temper to follow through on his threats?

Amy peeked over the top of the leather-bound menu. Alex stared at the candle in the center of the table. She had no idea what he was thinking. His blank expression gave no clue to his emotions. He glanced up and met her gaze with a scowl. "What?"

"I'm just happy to be here…with you. To be honest, I'd eat at Carson's Coneys as long as you're with me." It was true. She would choke down the soggy-bunned, dirty-water hot dogs and Coney sauce that tasted like warmed-up ketchup studded with random bits of mystery meat if it meant she got to spend time with Alex.

He slid his hand over the heavy white tablecloth and squeezed her hand. "This was a great idea. I'm glad we could do this."

It was a miracle he had agreed to the date night. It seemed that his work schedule was an impenetrable blockade of appointments and commitments. She understood that he needed to stay on top of things at his business, but it didn't make the time spent apart any easier. It was sort of like dieting. Just because some foods were healthier than others, it didn't mean she wanted to eat broccoli for every meal. Amy smoothed out the skirt of her dress. The sea-blue and white chevron wrap dress flattered her short and curvy body type, along with providing a deep vee of cleavage. A touchdown in the clothing category.

Across the room, the open kitchen buzzed with activity. The last time she and Alex had been to Cornerstone, the kitchen had seemed more like a military drill display. Chefs worked silently after Chet Britton bellowed his orders. Now the atmosphere appeared jovial and relaxed as chefs chatted with each other and even smiled or laughed while preparing the elaborately plated meals. It was just like the pastry chef she had met at Riverbend Coffee said—everyone was in a better mood now that Britton was gone.