Doughnuts & Deadly Schemes (Culinary Competition Mysteries Book 3) (9 page)

"There is no reason to just hand over your hard-earned money," he said. "We'll figure out who is behind the threats, but I need your help. Caving in to the demands and hoping for a different outcome isn't the way to go. If you work with us, we will be able to track down the extortionist before he vanishes with your money."

Amy nodded in agreement. Shepler's confidence seemed to be reaching Sophie as she asked, "But how is my not paying going to help you?"

"The computer division can try to trace the messages that are sent to you. I'll have the officers come in posing as computer technicians or some other benign person, like I'm doing now. If you stall by saying you need more time to get the money, you'll most likely get more messages. I promise I will keep you as safe as I possibly can."

Sophie dropped her feet to the floor. "So you're hoping the extortionist will try to kill me too so you can catch him in the process?"

"No. Absolutely not." Shepler stood up straight. He was an impressive mountain of muscle and determination. He stared into Sophie's eyes. "I will catch the murderer soon, and you will live a long, happy life. But you need to take some precautions. Do you live alone?"

"Yes."

Shepler jammed his hands into his pants pockets. "Can you stay with somebody? An attack is much less likely if the assailant has to deal with more than one person."

"You can stay with me," Amy said as she took a step forward in the narrow aisle between boxes of to-go cups. "I have two guest rooms."

"But I don't want to put you and Alex in harm's way."

As if she had never been in that position before.
"We have a high-tech alarm system. Nobody is getting in my house unnoticed. Plus, my dog is a pro at attacking ankles. We'll all be safe."

"No." Sophie hopped off the crates. She stuck her chin in the air and pulled back her shoulders as she looked Shepler in the eye. "I'll help you because I want to find Luke's murderer, but I won't put my friends in danger by staying with them."

Shepler nodded. "I would rather see you stay with Amy. My fiancée says her guest rooms are incredible, by the way, but you can do as you wish. If it makes you feel any better, $5,000 isn't an amount of money that people usually kill for, so the murder may be an anomaly in the extortionist's plan."

"No, that doesn't make me feel better." Sophie picked at a dab of dried frosting on the front of her apron. "Because Luke is still gone. My boyfriend has lost his best friend. A good man is dead, whether murder was this psycho's plan all along or not."

The earlier conversation on the kitchen floor replayed in Amy's head. Even the tiniest clue could help Shepler. "You keep referring to the extortionist as a he. Do you know for sure it's a man?"

"There was no way to tell from the emails. The person literally pushed me
down
in the parking lot. I never got a look at the attacker, but it seemed like the person was quite a bit taller than I am so I assumed it was a man." Sophie shrugged as she shuffled past Amy in the narrow passageway to the door.

Shepler held up his hand to beckon Sophie to stop. "Wait. Do you have a security system here? Did any alarms go off this morning? Did you check video surveillance?"

Sophie placed her hand on the doorknob and rested her forehead on the metal door. She didn't say anything, so Amy answered the question. "There are security cameras inside the café and pointing at the parking lot, just like at Finley & Crowe. According to the timestamps on the footage, the cameras stopped recording at 3:30 a.m. then magically started working again at 6:00 a.m."

"So somebody shut it down remotely or reprogrammed the settings."

Amy held up a finger. "Or erased the files after they broke in, then scheduled when the taping would resume. It's a digital system, so there's no physical videotape being recorded."

Shepler raised his eyebrows at her. "You could very well be correct about the video being erased. Thank you."

Carla took another moment to inhale the intoxicating bacon aroma before pushing open the door of Past To Present Vintage Clothing. It was midmorning, and at the other end of the strip mall, The Breakfast Spot was churning out cheesy omelets, biscuits with sausage gravy, and bacon breakfast sandwiches for hungry customers. Apparently lots of bacon, considering the cloud of mouth-watering, smoky scent enveloping the entire mall.

The door to the clothing store thumped shut behind Carla. The atmosphere inside the little shop was mercifully more flower-scented fabric softener than hearty breakfast. Drooling down the front of her gorgeous bridal gown wouldn't be good for the delicate fabric.

"Hello! You must be Carla," a woman wearing a wildly patterned wrap dress said as she emerged from a hallway at the back of the store. The huge, colorful tropical flowers on the silky fabric swayed and shimmered as she wove between low clothing racks. "Congratulations on your upcoming wedding."

"Thank you. I'm thrilled with the dress, but so sorry to rush the alterations like this."

"I'm so glad you found something you like. Don't worry about the alterations. They won't be a problem." She took the garment bag containing the wedding dress from Carla. "My name is Michelle. Why don't we get you into this and see what changes you'd like to make?"

Five minutes later Carla was staring at herself in a full-length mirror fastened to the wall of a dressing room. She looked as though she had stepped out of the pages of a 1950's fashion magazine. Retro sexy. That was the description Amy had come up with after Carla chose the dress. Actually, it had been more like one of those sappy, woo-woo things where the gown seemed to magically choose her for its next owner. When she walked away from the bridal salon, disappointed that none of the new dresses matched the vision in her head, she had no idea that a previously owned dress would be the remedy to her nightmare. Carla had certainly never thought of checking out vintage stores, since she never shopped at them herself.

There was a soft knock on the door. "Ready?"

"Come in."

Michelle slipped into the small room. A fabric tomato pincushion was tied onto her wrist with green ribbon. She wore a yellow tape measure around her neck like a lariat necklace. Michelle tilted her head to the side as she scrutinized the dress.

"It fits pretty well. The straps need to be shortened a little, and I can also take the waist in a bit. Do you like the length of the skirt?"

Carla turned back around to look at her reflection in the mirror. "I think the length is good. It seems appropriate for this style…at least to me."

"You're right." Michelle nodded as she pinched the top of the loose straps that had already slipped off Carla's shoulders. "I can't help but think about the previous life of vintage clothes. I'm pretty sure this was originally a wedding dress, probably from the 1950s or early '60s. I wonder what the wedding was like. I bet the bride and groom were madly in love. Maybe they splurged on a bottle of champagne to toast the start of their marriage."

"You have a very romantic imagination. The reality could've been less rosy. Maybe they both got drunk on the champagne and ended up fighting on their wedding night." Carla smoothed the sheer, white fabric of the skirt. The poor woman would think she was altering a dress for the Bride of Frankenstein after a comment like that. "Sorry. I work in the ER, and my fiancé is a homicide detective. Sometimes we see the not-so-pleasant side of people."

"We all have a different view of life. Selling clothes is much less stressful than what you do. Drawing on my area of expertise, I can tell somebody took very good care of this dress, so I think they cherished it for a reason."

A memento of a special day that revolved around love. So much better than a reminder of an argument with a hangover chaser. Carla smiled. "I promise I will also treasure this dress. I like your tale of its possible heritage better than mine."

"And you'll be adding to the history in your own unique way." Michelle tugged at the fabric of the wide waistband. "Do you want this a little tighter?"

Carla took a deep breath. The fact that she was wearing a wedding dress hit her like a gust from a hurricane. Like a real storm, pretending the disturbance wasn't developing didn't prevent it from causing damage. She had told herself she would never marry again after her nightmare of a first marriage went up in flames faster than the cigarettes her ex-husband chain-smoked. She took another breath. The wide waistband tightened around her stomach.

"You know, the fabric is so delicate I don't want to rip it if I eat too much or try to give someone a hug. Can you just leave the waist as it is? I don't think it looks bad."

Michelle poked a pink-topped straight pin back into her fabric tomato bracelet and took a step back. "I think it looks good. Some women who have a small waist like yours want to highlight it as much as possible. Of course, they probably don't eat or do the 'Funky Chicken' dance either."

Carla chuckled. Avoiding the embarrassing dance was one good thing about cramming the guests into her loft. "Riverbend Café is catering. I will definitely be eating at my wedding. Although, I don't think there will be room for a dance floor where the reception will most likely be held, so the 'Funky Chicken' will not be on the play list for the evening."

"How is the planning going? Your friend who picked out the dresses told me about it. I think you are so brave to organize a wedding in less than a month. Most women take over a year."

"It's been an exercise in learning that what will be, will be. It's like building a beach hut on quicksand. What I want and what I can have are constantly shifting, and I'm just trying to stay afloat. Luckily my friend, Amy, does things like find you and your shop so I can wear the dress of my dreams."

"She sounds like a sweetheart." Michelle sized up the proposed alterations and nodded her head. "I think we're done. Let's get you out of this and going to wherever else you need to do today!"

Carla slipped out of the dress. The silky fabric gliding over her skin felt like cool water. Michelle was right about Amy being a great friend. Hopefully she was correct about happy, loving energy being attached to the garment, too. There was enough of a dark cloud hanging over their heads because of the unsolved murder. She needed every bit of good she could accumulate to combat the evil vibes.

Who would've thought a clothing rack could be so cantankerous? Amy checked to her left and right for cars. Luckily, the coast was clear. No cars to blow past and sway the dresses. She squatted slightly, wrapped her hands around the upright pole, and straightened her legs. All of the lunges and squats doled out by the trainers at the gym had finally paid off. Amy lifted the first set of wheels over the curb. The plastic-sheathed dresses quivered from the motion but didn't break into a potentially disastrous, full-tilt shimmy. She pulled the rack backward until the second set of wheels hit the curb. A quick change in position, a rather unladylike grunt from the effort, and she finally had the rack onto the nice, smooth sidewalk.

The journey from her car, across the pothole-filled parking lot with a cargo of expensive dresses on a tippy, top-heavy portable rack, had fulfilled her anxiety quotient for the day. Ferrying the dresses was easier the first time around, a few days earlier, when she had made multiple trips to the parking lot, carrying the dresses to the car in her arms. But after the first trip into the store that morning, the owner had insisted she take the rack to finish the dress-returning task. At least Amy could do a little retail therapy to help massage out the newly formed kinks in her patience.

Michelle held open the door of Past To Present and said, "I'm sorry! I forgot to tell you there's a handicap ramp in the curb a few doors down."

"It's okay." Amy held her arms up and flexed her biceps. "I can let my Super Woman side out to play once in a while."

Michelle laughed as she helped maneuver the wobbly rack through the doorway. Inside the shop the small wheels hummed over the vinyl flooring as Amy pushed the collection of rejected wedding and matron of honor dresses toward the counter. She exchanged the rejected clothing for a refund of her deposit. It hadn't been a traditional way to pick out a wedding gown, but it worked for Carla. That's all that mattered. Once the paperwork was completed, Amy made a quick circuit of the store. Used clothing shops were like the treasure troves of busy pirates. There were always new clothing jewels arriving. A baby blue circle skirt had to come home to her closet. After making the purchase, she bid farewell to Michelle.

Outside, the midmorning air was warm and a little humid from the sunshine evaporating the dew that had formed overnight. Perfect weather for the beginning of wedding season. The time of year when venues were booked solid a year in advance. Carla's loft or Amy's backyard would technically work for the wedding, but Amy hoped to find someplace more special. Except she was running out of time. Since many other things for the wedding were falling into place, there was no reason that detail wouldn't fall from the sky and turn out perfect too.
Believe and it will happen.
That was her newly adopted mantra.

As she turned to get in her car, Amy noticed movement inside the vacant coffee shop. She stopped for a few seconds to see if any of the figures on the other side of the dusty glass looked familiar. The crunch of tires rolling over the parking lot asphalt drew her attention. A black Mercedes sedan pulled into a parking space in front of the coffee shop. The always-elegant Bridget Mahoney got out. She smoothed down her oyster-colored skirt then waved at Amy.

"Hello! I have some news for you," she called. "If you have a few minutes, come chat with me."

Amy tossed the shopping bag onto the passenger seat and slammed her car door shut. Talking with Bridget was always interesting, especially since Amy had asked her to look into the possibility of other downtown businesses being pressured by the extortionist. The wealthy socialite was the heart monitor of everything pumping through Kellerton, from new business partnerships to juicy gossip. Amy had about three dozen things that she
could
do, but the one thing she couldn't do was pass up the chance to talk to Bridget.

She zigzagged between cars to reach Bridget's side. "Good morning. What a nice surprise to see you here."

"I like to meet my potential clients before they sign a lease. I am impressed that the pastry chef you had contact me about this place won both cake contests at the wedding expo, but I just wanted to talk with her about what she envisions for the business." Bridget pointed at the former coffee shop's door. "You're welcome to come in with me, but I think you'll be more interested in accompanying me to my next stop."

Amy fell into step beside the elegant businesswoman, whose silver hair was pulled back into a tidy bun secured with an ornate silver barrette. She had some time to spare, but not an entire day to spend playing tag-along. "I'm curious to see what Mariah thinks of this space, but where are you going next?"

"To The Cookbook Nook." She stopped with her hand on the door. "I think you and I both need to see something there."

Amy took a deep breath as the door opened. Bridget's cryptic statement was akin to giving a chocolate-scented candle to a person who was craving a brownie. Inside the shop the real estate agent, a woman dressed in a rose-red wrap dress, greeted her employer with a high-wattage smile. Amy could see Mariah exploring the kitchen through the window between the two rooms. Her characteristic highlighter green jacket seemed to glow in the shadowy space. "Oh, Amy. Thank you for finding this place," she said as she pushed open the swinging metal door. She stood behind the empty bakery case and grinned. "It's perfect."

Amy smiled at the chef's enthusiasm. "I'm glad I could help."

Bridget took over the conversation, asking about Mariah's intentions for the business, what she would like the space to look like, and how many employees the cake-only bakery would employ. The tiny bakery would be a crumb in the towering layer cake that made up all of Mahoney Incorporated's real estate empire. Within five minutes, the savvy businesswoman had determined that Exquisite Cakes would be a worthy tenant. It took forever for Amy to decide on something as simple as what to cook for dinner. Bridget's decision-making speed was impressive.

After a round of goodbyes, Amy followed Bridget out the door. They paused on the sidewalk and Mrs. Mahoney asked, "Would you like to meet me downtown now?"

Amy squinted at Bridget, who had a bright white aura from the still-rising sun positioned in the sky behind her head. Not saying what was going on at the cookbook store was unsettling. Bridget wasn't the kind of person who hedged or danced around a topic. "I have some spare time, so I can do that."

"Good. I would like your take on the situation."

Amy lost sight of the black Mercedes a few minutes after she followed it out of the strip mall parking lot. The luxury car slipped through traffic like a nimble rabbit. Amy stepped on the brake pedal of her Mini Cooper when the traffic light turned yellow. Risking an accident to keep up with Lead Foot Mahoney wasn't worth it. Knowing how crowded downtown was at midday, she'd probably have to park at Alex's business and hike a few blocks to The Cookbook Nook anyway.

Going back to the business district for a mysterious visit filled her with a double-shot of anxiousness. What was happening at the bookstore? And would Sophie ever forgive her for calling in Shepler about the money-grubbing hacker? Amy usually worked at the café until after lunch, but Sophie had sent her away at 9:00 a.m. with instructions to work on wedding stuff. An odd dismissal since Amy hadn't mentioned needing to do anything for the wedding, and the café was busy. Early that morning, as usual, they began preparing the cookie doughs and bread batters. Sophie curtly informed Amy that she had bought a multi-pack of pepper spray…so she would be fine, even though she thought she would be better off if the police hadn't become involved and instructed her not to pay the extortionist.

Amy wasn't convinced that Sophie would follow Shepler's instructions and might still hand over the money in an attempt to end the psychological torture. Her friend was scared and stressed, but that didn't mean the barely veiled anger toward Amy didn't sting. She wanted to help Sophie. Unfortunately, help meant disobeying the hacker's demands. A terrifying act of rebelliousness that would turn even a person with nerves of steel into a twisted mental wreck.

The Mini rolled past Riverbend Café. Amy broadcast positive thoughts toward the building. Sophie just needed some time to calm down. Shepler was on the case. Amy was poking around, possibly digging up some new clues in a few minutes. Everything would be okay.

But first, she needed to find a parking space. The sleek, black Mercedes was parked directly in front of The Cookbook Nook. Even parking spaces opened up for the queen of Kellerton. Amy drove past the luxury car, scanning the side of the street ahead for a break in the solid line of angled back bumpers. Two blocks away, she finally found a parking spot.

A warm breeze played with her sunshine yellow, tiered skirt as she hurried along the sidewalk. Considering Amy had been delayed by at least three stoplights in her journey across town, Bridget could've been waiting for several minutes before she even arrived downtown. Even though they were on friendly terms, Amy didn't want to push her luck by keeping the busy woman waiting any longer than necessary.

When Amy stopped in front of the Mercedes she could see Bridget through the windshield, talking on the phone. A smiling golden retriever strolled by while its owner and her friend window-shopped. Both women were dressed in pastel T-shirts and black leggings. Rolled yoga mats housed in net bags were slung over their shoulders. The happy pup probably got to visit friends at the doggy daycare, next door to the yoga studio, while its owner stretched through sun salutations and downward dog variations.

"Sorry to keep you waiting while I searched for a parking spot," Amy said as Bridget exited the car.

Bridget deposited the phone in her simple, black handbag. "And I apologize for making you wait here on the hot sidewalk. Some calls just can't be put off. The downside of running a successful business."

"I can only imagine the issues you have to deal with." Amy fell in step beside Bridget as they strode toward the cookbook shop. At the café, late produce deliveries and the occasional sick employee were the usual business hassles. What kind of problems did a property management mogul have?

"Property damage is just the beginning of the issues."

Amy glanced up at the typically straight-shooting socialite as she pulled open the door to The Cookbook Nook. Another odd statement. She'd need a spreadsheet to keep up with the conversation if Bridget's comments didn't start adding up to an obvious conclusion soon. A bell on the door handle jingled merrily to announce their arrival. They walked into the cozy store. Everything looked normal to Amy. All of the cookbooks about every subject from raw vegan desserts to home-curing bacon were neatly lined up on the shelves that took up every ounce of available wall space. Maybe Bridget's phone call was about damage somewhere else.

"Amy. What a pleasant surprise to see you this morning…along with Mrs. Mahoney," Kendra Hale, the owner of the food centric bookstore, said as she emerged from the back room and took her place behind the checkout counter. The diminutive woman's dark hair was twisted back into a messy knot. Sweat-dampened curls stuck to her cheeks, which were speckled with red blotches. She nodded at Bridget. "Hello, Mrs. Mahoney."

During the drive to the store Amy had thought about buying a cookbook as a wedding present for Carla. Her best friend did a lot of things expertly, like administering life-saving first aid, but cooking wasn't one of her specialties. Now that she was going to have a hungry husband to feed every day, a good understanding of how to roast a chicken and make pot roast was in order. There was no way a mountain of a man like Shepler built his muscles feasting on the foods that were Carla's standard bachelorette fare—ramen noodles, instant oatmeal, and pre-packaged salads. But after seeing the bookstore's owner, Amy didn't feel like shopping. Worry overrode the urge to peruse the shelves. "Are you okay?"

Kendra plucked a tissue from a box on the checkout counter. "I'll be fine. Thank you for asking. So when am I going to stock a cookbook that you have written on my shelves?"

Amy blinked at the unexpected diversion tactic. Something was obviously wrong, but Kendra didn't want to talk about it. So she decided to play along. "Oh, I have no idea how to find a publisher or anything like that. I don't think a small town cook's recipes would appeal to a lot of people."

"You've won many contests. I'm sure people would love to get their hands on your recipes." Kendra brushed the stray curls off of her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. Maybe tears, instead of sweat, were the cause of the wet hair. "Start a food blog. A lot of bloggers end up with cookbook contracts."

Writing a cookbook was a dream that had been floating through Amy's thoughts for years. She developed recipes continually. She had never thought much about publishing them on a blog instead of entering them in contests. If a blog really could be the ticket to publishing a cookbook, she could focus some of her recipe inventing attention on one. It just seemed like such a big project, and she had no idea where to start. "Thank you for your advice. A blog is a great idea. I would love to do a cookbook."

Bridget cleared her throat. "Can you show me the damage, Kendra? According to Amy, you aren't the only person who is having problems."

Kendra's hazel brown eyes widened. She nodded and led the way to the back room. Books were scattered everywhere on the floor. In the kitchenette on the left side of the room, red sauce-covered spaghetti noodles were stuck to the walls and cabinets. There was barely any space to step without standing on books or spilled food. The shop owner hung her head. "I found this when I came in this morning."