T-shirt were still heavily wrinkled. Either his signature look was schlumpy or he didn't know how to pack suitcases well. "And thank you for the sympathy. It's difficult, but life goes on. Phoebe recited everything word for word from the script. I don't think she could improvise if she wanted to. All of the decorating projects were conceptualized and made by others. She was the face for the show, but it was the writers and production crew who made it so good. Thankfully, they're all still very much alive and well."
The people who had worked with Phoebe certainly had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead. That was an outright ode to her ineptitude. None of them, so far, appeared upset over her death. That could definitely be an important clue. Hopefully the rookie investigator thought so too—although they were probably keeping the disparaging remarks to themselves when in Detective Foster's presence. "It sounds like she could be difficult to work with, but I bet she had some redeeming qualities."
He rolled his dark-brown eyes. "She donated money to a lot of charities…her family's money, but in the end, no matter where it came from, I guess she helped a lot of people."
"Maybe she was more of a philanthropist than an actress."
"Um, yeah." The producer glanced at his expensive sports watch. "I need to get going. It figures Phoebe would torture the crew from beyond the grave though. The homicide detective guilted us all into sticking around town to help with the case. If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for an appointment with her."
Amy leaned against the wall as she watched him walk toward the yoga studio's lobby. Phoebe's business associates were portraying her as an unpleasant person, the same persona half of Kellerton witnessed, but they were staying in Kellerton to help with the investigation. If the star was so unlikeable, why would they bother? Amy hitched the handles of her bag over her shoulder. There were a lot of things that weren't adding up because almost everybody she talked to about Phoebe seemed to be impersonating strainers—their stories were full of holes. Was Foster finding the same thing? If she was, Amy hoped the new homicide detective was good at crossword puzzles. There were a lot of blanks that needed to be filled in before the murder could be solved.
* * *
"Here for the class?" Chuck asked as Amy approached the counter. He smiled warmly from his perch on a high stool. The Inkwell's owner was sort of like a chipotle chile-spiked brownie. Surprisingly warm but in a good way.
"I am," Amy said.
"Then head on into the classroom. Aubergine is in there already."
Amy smiled. "Thank you." She wondered if he owned any clothes, besides blue jeans, that weren't black. On that day, even his jeans were as dark as the ink he used to outline his comic illustrations. The ominous-appearing fashion sensibility certainly could deter shoplifters. It also was the clothing equivalent of a counterbalance to his wife's colorful wardrobe. If they shared a closet, it would be very easy to tell which half of the space belonged to which spouse.
The sounds of several conversations slipped out of the classroom's doorway as Amy walked around the end of the counter. Learning calligraphy would be fun. If she was any good at the technique, she planned on using it on her blog with artfully handwritten recipes instead of typing them in Times New Roman font. But until she went through the entire class, she wasn't banking on it. She was good with whisks and spatulas—her calligraphy pen skills were untested. Maybe she would end up producing the artistic equivalent of grease-soaked, soggy-crusted fried chicken. Totally unappealing.
"Welcome!" Aubergine said when Amy entered the brightly lit room filled with drafting desks. "Pick a spot where you would like to work. We'll get started in a few minutes."
Amy was happy to see the artist acting like her normal bubbly self. The guilt over booking Phoebe's
The people who had worked with Phoebe certainly had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead. That was an outright ode to her ineptitude. None of them, so far, appeared upset over her death. That could definitely be an important clue. Hopefully the rookie investigator thought so too—although they were probably keeping the disparaging remarks to themselves when in Detective Foster's presence. "It sounds like she could be difficult to work with, but I bet she had some redeeming qualities."
He rolled his dark-brown eyes. "She donated money to a lot of charities…her family's money, but in the end, no matter where it came from, I guess she helped a lot of people."
"Maybe she was more of a philanthropist than an actress."
"Um, yeah." The producer glanced at his expensive sports watch. "I need to get going. It figures Phoebe would torture the crew from beyond the grave though. The homicide detective guilted us all into sticking around town to help with the case. If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for an appointment with her."
Amy leaned against the wall as she watched him walk toward the yoga studio's lobby. Phoebe's business associates were portraying her as an unpleasant person, the same persona half of Kellerton witnessed, but they were staying in Kellerton to help with the investigation. If the star was so unlikeable, why would they bother? Amy hitched the handles of her bag over her shoulder. There were a lot of things that weren't adding up because almost everybody she talked to about Phoebe seemed to be impersonating strainers—their stories were full of holes. Was Foster finding the same thing? If she was, Amy hoped the new homicide detective was good at crossword puzzles. There were a lot of blanks that needed to be filled in before the murder could be solved.
* * *
"Here for the class?" Chuck asked as Amy approached the counter. He smiled warmly from his perch on a high stool. The Inkwell's owner was sort of like a chipotle chile-spiked brownie. Surprisingly warm but in a good way.
"I am," Amy said.
"Then head on into the classroom. Aubergine is in there already."
Amy smiled. "Thank you." She wondered if he owned any clothes, besides blue jeans, that weren't black. On that day, even his jeans were as dark as the ink he used to outline his comic illustrations. The ominous-appearing fashion sensibility certainly could deter shoplifters. It also was the clothing equivalent of a counterbalance to his wife's colorful wardrobe. If they shared a closet, it would be very easy to tell which half of the space belonged to which spouse.
The sounds of several conversations slipped out of the classroom's doorway as Amy walked around the end of the counter. Learning calligraphy would be fun. If she was any good at the technique, she planned on using it on her blog with artfully handwritten recipes instead of typing them in Times New Roman font. But until she went through the entire class, she wasn't banking on it. She was good with whisks and spatulas—her calligraphy pen skills were untested. Maybe she would end up producing the artistic equivalent of grease-soaked, soggy-crusted fried chicken. Totally unappealing.
"Welcome!" Aubergine said when Amy entered the brightly lit room filled with drafting desks. "Pick a spot where you would like to work. We'll get started in a few minutes."
Amy was happy to see the artist acting like her normal bubbly self. The guilt over booking Phoebe's
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