Death by the Dozen (4 page)

“You call that a dessert?” he asked with a sneer. “I’d rather eat a clump of dirt with worms in it.”

“That can be arranged,” Mel said. Vic’s gray eyes twinkled at her.

She saw Angie holding her pastry bag like a weapon. Realizing this could get ugly, Mel broke the tension with a laugh and threw her arms around Vic in a big hug.

“I’ve missed you, you old grouch,” she said. She stepped back and looked at her friends. “This is Vic Mazzotta. Vic, these are my friends Angie, Tate, and Joe.”

“I recognize you,” Angie said to Vic. Her eyes were wide as she made the connection. “You’re the chef on the show
World Chef
, the one who travels around the world trying foods from other cultures. Didn’t you make an Italian chef cry over his meringues?”

“Yeah, that’s how I want to be remembered, the tear maker. Maybe they’ll use that for my epitaph,” Vic said to Mel then he turned back to Angie. “Those chefs know what they’re in for, and if they can’t stand the heat with me, they need to get out of the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry, how do you two know each other?” Tate asked.

“Vic was my least favorite cooking teacher at the institute,” Mel said.

“Ha! She means her most brilliant maestro,” Vic corrected her.

“I managed to drive him out,” Mel said. “Shortly after I graduated, he went on to be a celebrity chef on the Food Channel. What brings you to town, Vic?”

“I’m judging the challenge to the chefs, pastry division, at the Scottsdale Food Festival,” he said. “When I heard you had entered, I had to come see how you were preparing yourself.”

“Excellent,” teased Mel. “Now I’m sure to win.”

“Not if you try to serve me concoctions like that,” he said.

“Try one,” she said. “See if you can guess the mystery ingredient.”

“Vic!” a voice called from the door. “What are you . . . oh, hello, Mel!”

“Grace!” Mel opened her arms and hugged the petite blonde woman who stepped into the kitchen. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Is this your bakery, Mel?” Grace asked. “It’s lovely.”

“No, it isn’t,” Vic argued. “It’s too pedestrian for her. Mel, you could have your own cooking show. You could be a world-famous pâtissier. Why are you putzing around in a pokey little cupcake bakery?”

Angie frowned at him again, and Mel said quickly, “I like my bakery, and I don’t have any desire to be famous. Besides, this way I’m near Mom.”

“Hunh,” Vic snorted, but he said nothing more. He had been friends with Mel’s father, Charlie Cooper. They had shared a love of good cigars and fine wines, and when Charlie died ten years ago, Vic had been a surprising source of comfort for Mel in that he hadn’t let her quit cooking school and had helped her to work through her grief in the kitchen.

“Well, I love your bakery,” Grace said. She was dressed in her usual business suit—today’s was a pretty shade of lilac—her makeup was perfect, and her hair was done in a cute blonde bob. She looked every inch the astute business manager that she was, having handled Vic’s career for years. “I peeked through your front windows, and I noticed the retro decor. All pink and chrome with the black-andwhite floor. It’s terrific.”

“Thanks,” Mel said. Like yin and yang, Vic and Grace balanced one another. Where Vic was harsh, Grace was kind. Mel figured it was lucky for Vic he had Grace to sweeten his tartness, or someone might have stabbed him with a Ginsu by now.

“Well, I’ll try a cupcake,” Joe said. He sat at a stool at the table and took one off the tray.

Not to be outdone, Vic sat beside him and took one, too. The rest of them filled the remaining chairs, and Angie offered coffee all around, while Mel passed out forks.

Tate looked expectantly at the others, and Mel knew he was hoping to have stumped them with his choice of mystery ingredient.

Mel watched as Vic lowered his fork into the cupcake, taking an equal amount of cake and frosting. He studied the bite for a moment before putting it in his mouth.

Grace and Joe were quicker, and they both raised their eyebrows and exchanged a look that said “yum” louder than any words could.

Mel watched Vic. She knew from the surprised look on his face, which for Vic was a mere tightening of his jaw, when he tasted the burst of crystallized ginger hidden in the cream cheese frosting.

“Nice surprise,” he said. “Sugared ginger. It complements the cake, which is very moist.”

“So, what is my mystery ingredient?”

“Carrots. It’s a carrot cake, right?” Joe asked. He had finished his first cupcake and was reaching for a second.

“Too obvious,” Grace said. “It’s sweeter than carrots.”

Tate looked quite pleased to have stumped them. Angie had her lips pressed together to keep from blabbing. She was not a very good secret keeper.

Vic, however, was not finished. He took a second bite of the cupcake and chewed thoughtfully.

“You could have gone with a spice cake, you know,” he said. “But then your ginger cream cheese frosting would be too much.”

“Exactly,” Mel said.

“Parsnip,” he said. “Three cups shredded and steamed.”

Mel bowed her head in acknowledgment. Tate looked put out, but he really had no idea what he was up against. For all his egomaniacal bluster, Vic really was one of the greatest chefs in the country.

“Work on your presentation,” Vic said as he snitched a walnut off another cupcake. “It underwhelms.”

“Yes, sir.” Mel gave him a smart salute, and again his lips twitched.

“And you could use a little of my secret ingredient,” Vic said.

Mel let out an exasperated breath. “I would, but you refuse to tell anyone what it is.”

“That’s because you already know,” he said.

“No, I don’t. You always refuse to tell me,” she argued. He just looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Mel, I’ve always said—” Vic began, but Mel interrupted him.

“Yeah, I know, you’ll tell me your secret when you’re dead.” Mel rolled her eyes. “Come on, be a champ and tell me now.”

“Nope. Come on, Grace,” Vic said. “Don’t I have an interview scheduled or something?”

Grace rose and took her cupcake with her. She waved to the group as she followed Vic out the door.

“It’s delicious,” she called. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”

The door shut behind them, and Tate said, “I like her.”

“Yeah, she’s nice, but I’m surprised he could fit through the door with that ego of his,” Angie said. “What can she possibly see in him?”

“Some women are drawn to famous men with giant egos,” Tate said.

Angie gave him a quick glance, but his face was blank. Mel knew he was making a reference to Angie’s relationship with Roach Malloy, but like Angie, she let it go.

“What’s the deal with the secret ingredient?” Joe asked.

Mel smiled. “It’s a running joke between me and Vic. When I was in school, I could never get my pastries to taste exactly like Vic’s, and neither could any of the other students. We began to suspect that he withheld a seemingly insignificant but ultimately vital ingredient from his recipes, so that none of us could achieve his mastery, thus the secret ingredient.”

“Well, that’s rude,” Angie said. “But with his ginormous ego, I could certainly see him doing that. He would want to stay the best.”

Mel shrugged. “I just like to tease him about it. If he does keep his complete recipes to himself, that’s his business. A good chef should be able to develop their own anyway.”

With a round of hugs, Tate and Joe departed, and Mel and Angie set to work.

They spent the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon baking to restock their display case. One of their favorite customers, a pretty young girl named Tori Sampila, came in for her favorite four-pack of chocolate cupcakes topped with cookie dough buttercream frosting. Tori knew her cupcakes, and Mel always liked to get her opinion on the new flavors she was trying.

Tori pushed her long light brown hair over her shoulder as she bit into Mel’s latest experiment, a peaches and cream concoction with peach-flavored cake topped with vanilla buttercream.

Tori’s blue eyes met Mel’s, and she asked, “Honestly?”

“Always,” Mel said.

“Not your best,” Tori said. Mel nodded. Tori was confirming what she’d suspected.

“The peach flavor is too faint, right?” Mel asked.

“Exactly,” Tori said. “Make the peach stronger, and you’ll have another winner.”

“Thanks, hon,” Mel said.

“Any time,” Tori said. “And I mean any time.”

With a wave, Tori clutched her four-pack and headed out the door, where her father Brad was waiting.

Mel did inventory. They were low on Tinkerbells and Moonlight Madness cupcakes as well as the Choco-Poms, which had proven to be a huge hit.

There were also several special orders to be filled. First, they had to finish making a huge cupcake tier for a retirement party for a lovely woman named Sharon who worked at the Phoenix Public Library. Then they had a specialty four-pack to decorate for a woman who was breaking up with her boyfriend. She wanted the breakup cupcakes to spell out,
I’m so over you
.

The woman was very pleased with them when she left, and Angie stared after her in wonder.

“Dump him with cupcakes,” she said. “I think we may have a niche market there.”

“I guess it sweetens the blow,” Mel said.

“That was bad, as in artificial sweetener bad.”

“Forgive me, I’m exhausted,” Mel said. She put her head down on the counter.

“If we’re going to be putting in these extra hours, prepping for the contest, then we have to hire some temporary help,” Angie said. She was resting her chin on her hand on the counter, and by the look of it, she was keeping her eyes open through sheer force of will. “Is Marty available?”

“I already called him,” Mel said. “He’s on a cruise with Beatriz and won’t be back for two weeks.”

Marty Zelaznik was an older gentleman who had volunteered in the bakery before when they got into a time crunch. Well, more accurately when Angie had been spending more time with her boyfriend than in the shop. He had become a part-time employee, and up until his vacation, he could be depended upon to pick up several shifts every week.

“I’m glad that’s working out for him,” Angie said. Mel wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a note of jealousy in Angie’s tone.

“Me, too,” Mel said. “But fear not. I called Urban Technical High School, and they’re sending over an intern to help us out in the afternoons. She should be popping in any time now.”

“Perfect,” Angie said. “Well done. That must be why you’re the boss.”

Mel could have listed a few other reasons, but the timer on her oven buzzed and she ducked into the kitchen to retrieve her latest batch of Cinnamon Sinners, a cinnamon mocha cupcake that she topped with a cinnamon buttercream frosting and Red Hots.

She was off-loading the cupcakes onto a wire cooling rack when she heard the string of bells on the front door jangle. She could hear voices, but it didn’t sound like Angie’s usual chipper tone with the customers. Mel knew she was tired, but that was no reason to be snippy.

The kitchen door swung open, and Angie stuck her head in. “Mel, can you come out here for a minute?”

“What’s up?” Mel asked as she left the worktable and wiped her hands on her apron. “Cranky customer?”

“You’ll see,” Angie said.

Mel entered the bakery to find a large hulking teenage boy standing there. He wore his hair long and shaggy, and it looked as if it had been cut with dull scissors or fingernail clippers. It hung over his eyes, making it impossible to see half of his face. The lower half that she could see was his mouth, with a lower lip that was pierced with multiple rings.

He was dressed all in black—black Vans, black jeans, and a black Ramones T-shirt. A chain hung from his back pocket to his front belt loop, and his hands were encased in fingerless black leather gloves.

“May I help you?” Mel asked. She tried to keep her voice even, as in showing no fear.

“I’m Oz, your intern,” he growled.

“Excuse me?” Mel said.

“I’m Oz,” he said.

“The great and powerful?” Angie asked.

His head swiveled on his neck in Angie’s direction.

“Whoa, never heard that before,” he said. His sarcasm was thicker than Mel’s cream cheese frosting.

“I’m sorry. How can I help you, Oz?” Mel asked.

“This is Fairy Tale Cupcakes, right?” he asked. His voice was a low rumble and sounded like big-rig tires rolling on the Interstate. Mel watched his mouth move since she couldn’t see his eyes.

“Yup, that’s us,” she said.

“Then I’m your intern,” he said.

Mel wasn’t sure, but his tone made it sound like he thought she might be dim.

“And you’re from . . .”

“Urban Tech High School,” he said with a sigh. “My counselor, Ms. Martin, sent me.”