Fudge Brownies & Murder - Culinary Competition Mystery #4

Chapter 12

(Carla)

Carla adjusted the towel covering her naked breasts. The old beach towel hiding her also garmentless bottom half felt like it was askew, but she couldn't see past the white mound of her belly and couldn't move because wiggling might mess up the art project. The last thing she wanted to do was go through the experience again. "Mom! How much longer until the plaster sets?"

Carla's mother bustled into the living room wiping her hands on a paint-streaked rag. Her pink thermal underwear shirt and baggy blue jean overalls were also mottled with rainbow-colored spots and streaks of paint. The schlumpy artist look, topped off with a blue bandanna headscarf wrangling her mane of long, gray hair, was a far cry from the designer dresses and slick French roll hairdos Carla remembered her mother wearing as she grew up. Her mom poked at the white shell covering Carla's baby bump. "Just a few more minutes. I forgot to calculate humidity into the drying time."

Bruce's head appeared over the back of the couch. "Is that the same stuff you use for broken bone casts?"

"Yes." The shell of gauze and plaster jiggled as the baby punched it from inside her belly. An unborn somebody did not like being confined. "It itches like hell. I will definitely be more sympathetic to my patients with fractured limbs from now on."

"You're almost done. I'll take it off soon. Then once I'm sure the plaster is completely dry in a few days, I'll paint it." Her mother rubbed her hands together. A streak of blue glitter paint sparkled on the side of one of her fingers. "This belly cast will be a beautiful memento of this special time in your life, sweetheart."

"Whatever you say, Mom. Just don't paint it like a turtle shell, okay?"

"I promise I won't do that."

Bruce shrugged. "I think making it look like a tortoise shell would be kind of cool."

Her mother shook her head. She turned and headed toward the nursery that was currently her bedroom and art studio. "I'm going to go clean up my paints before your friend gets here for dinner."

Carla lay back on the garbage bag-covered couch and tried to will away the wandering itch that was traveling over her belly, underneath the plaster, like a drunken ladybug. She just couldn't get over the fact that her mother had gone from uptight and sophisticated, living in a two-story Colonial, to a paint-covered artist who lived in a house made of dirt and old tires. Life was getting stranger by the day.

The doorbell bonged. "I'll be right there," Bruce called. From the muffled sound of his voice, Carla guessed he had tried to sneak into his office, the closet-sized room wedged between the kitchen and the hallway, in an attempt to get some work done.

The deadbolt clicked even though she hadn't heard Bruce walk to the door. That meant it was Amy. Great. Her best friend was early, so now she could experience the spectacle of her naked, pregnant mummy performance art routine. Although that was better than having a satellite TV salesperson possibly seeing her naked. Bruce's footsteps thumped on the tile floor of the entryway. "Come on in," he announced as a ripple of cold air swept over the back of the couch, giving Carla a serious case of goosebumps.

"Hey, Momma. How's the bun?" Amy called from the general direction of the kitchen.

"Still cooking."

"Good."

The savory scent of one of Amy's always delicious, home-cooked meals followed on the tail of the frigid draft. "What did you make for dinner?" Carla asked.

"Cheesy chicken casserole," Amy's voice got louder as she approached the couch, "for you and Shepler. And I made Ethiopian lentils and injera for your mom and me."