Murder Most Finicky (21 page)

Chapter 42

“Shoot,” Greta muttered.

“Who are they?” Stan asked.

“Whoever they are, they don't look like they're here for red velvet cupcakes,” Jessie said.

Greta shot her a look. “Pierre would
never
make red velvet cupcakes. He thought they were disgusting.”

One of the men rapped on the door again and rattled the handle. Greta went to open it.

“You sure that's a good idea?” Jessie asked.

“I don't have a choice,” Greta said. She unlocked the door with a shaking hand. The men shoved past her and locked the door behind them. Stan could see Jessie's hand reach casually toward her waistband, where she'd just returned her gun. The dog started to growl, low and menacing. Stan tightened her grip on the leash and tried to pull the dog behind her. He didn't budge. Either he'd seen these guys before and was not a fan, or he sensed danger. Stan didn't like either scenario.

“You hear from him?” The larger of the two asked Greta, ignoring Stan and Jessie. Fat and muscle combined to easily make him a match for a brick wall blocking the exit. His face appeared to reside in a permanent tough-guy scowl, with jowls that reminded Stan of a Great Dane and a gap between his front teeth that didn't help his credibility. The other guy exuded more brains—and more lethality. Stan watched him assess her and Greta and move on within seconds, but his gaze behind dark glasses lingered on Jessie. Hands down he'd made her as a cop, especially if he had the experience Stan guessed he did. She felt a pinprick of fear. These were the situations where things could go drastically wrong. Especially if Jessie decided to play hero. Guilt immediately hit her. She should never have dragged them into this situation.

Greta faced off with the one who had spoken, hands on hips again. She looked like a character on the side of a peanut butter jar with her braids and chocolate-stained apron. “Hear from him? Are you kidding? He's dead! And I wouldn't be surprised if you killed him!”

A fleeting look of surprise passed over the silent guy's face, and his gaze momentarily shifted away from Jessie. Stan caught her eye and shook her head slightly, hoping Jessie understood the message:
Don't try anything stupid. You're not a cop here!

The other guy laughed, a nasty sound that reminded Stan of Voldemort from
Harry Potter
. “Nice try,” he said. “I've heard that one before. Tell him we're not going away until he ponies up the cash, and if he don't pony it up in the next two days he's gonna be doing it with no legs.”

Greta shook her tiny fist at the guy. “I'm telling you, he's dead, you moron!”

The dog, taking his cues from Greta, started to bark furiously at the intruders, despite Stan's choke hold on his leash. She'd pressed them both up against the wall, hoping to stay out of the thugs' line of vision. This whole scenario was reminiscent of a train wreck from which Stan couldn't look away. The kitchen door flew open and Kent stuck his head out. “What's going on out here? Can you please make the dog shut—”

The silent thug, who was apparently a lot more nimble than his friend, was around the counter with his gun stuck in Kent's face before Stan registered that he'd even moved. “Who else is back there?” he demanded, his voice a low, menacing growl that gave Stan chills.

Kent's whole face turned white and he grabbed the doorframe. “Just me and Alex.”

Silent Thug shoved him through the door and out of sight. Stan could see Jessie out of the corner of her eye, weighing her options, deciding to move.

Then everything happened at once.

Jessie's gun appeared in her hand. But before she could do anything, Greta, apparently at wit's end, launched herself at Jowls, screaming obscenities at him, punching and clawing at his face. He grabbed her by the neck, trying to hold her off him as she kicked and flailed. Stan heard Jessie's muffled curse, then remembered she had her own secret weapon at her side. She let go of Gaston's leash, mentally encouraging the pup to do the right thing. He did—he launched himself at Jowls, sinking his teeth into his calf. Jowls yelped in pain and dropped Greta, trying to shake off the dog. Greta stomped on his instep and used her elbow on his neck when he bent over and screamed. Jessie, probably relieved she didn't have to shoot him, had him down on the floor with her knee in his back and arms bent behind him probably before he registered what was happening.

At the same time, crashes, bangs, and what sounded like an entire display of cookware had crashed to the ground out back. Stan heard shouts, but thankfully no gunshots, then the bleat of some kind of alarm. She whipped out her phone and dialed 911 and gave the bakery's address.

Jessie drilled her knee harder into Jowls's back. “Don't move or I'll shoot you,” she warned him. “This is why I should never go out without my cuffs,” she said to no one in particular.

Chapter 43

Stan grabbed Gaston and pulled him under the table to safety, still expecting the other guy to come back out of the kitchen and shoot them all. But the cops showed up first, about two minutes later. Four of them. Two immediately went into the kitchen, guns drawn. Stan heard the cops yelling something and braced herself for more mayhem. Jessie still had Jowls restrained on the floor. The other two cops took one look at Jessie with her gun drawn and immediately drew their own guns.

“Put the gun down,” one cop advised her.

“I'm a cop. Did you tell them I'm a cop?” she asked Stan, putting the gun on the floor and raising her hands in the air.

“I forgot,” Stan said.

Jessie rolled her eyes. The cop who'd spoken picked up her gun. The other, trying to suppress a grin, went over to Jowls.

“Where are you a cop?” the first cop asked.

“Connecticut State Police. Troop P. My badge is in my pocket. I'm going to take it out.” Jessie reached for it and handed it to the cop. He studied it and returned it to her.

The swinging door opened and two other cops came in with Kent and Alex in front of them. “All clear out back. He took off. Scalia,” one of them added.

Stan froze. Scalia. Maria's family name.

“Go after him. We're clear here,” the first cop said. The second pair left.

“You can get off him now, Trooper,” the second cop said, still smiling. “Thanks much.” Jessie got up and dusted her hands off.

“Marco. Got your butt kicked by three chicks? You must be losing your touch,” he said, pulling out his own cuffs and placing them on Jowls's wrists. Jowls groaned and tried to spit at him.

Greta lost it again. “You can't come in here and spit on my floor!” she shrieked. “After you killed Pierre!”

The cops immediately went back into fight mode. “Someone's been injured?”

“Not today,” Jessie rushed to reassure them.

The other guy hauled Jowls to his feet. “I . . . can't . . . talk!” he rasped. “She elbowed me in the throat!”

The cop shrugged. “I'm sure you deserved it, Marco,” he said, walking him out to the car.

The first cop surveyed them and introduced himself as Officer Walden. After he took their names and contact information, he asked, “So what happened here?”

Jessie, always the most succinct given her line of work, gave them the overview. The cop listened, nodding every now and then. “That's Marco ‘Fat Bladder' Santiago you took down,” he said when she was done. “He works for Anthony Scalia, of the not-so-famed New York Scalias. Good to see he stayed true to himself and left his friend here to rot. He did set the alarm off, though, when he took off out back.”

“He destroyed an entire day's work, too,” Kent said.

Greta turned on him. “He killed Pierre!”

“Ma'am. If someone was killed and you have evidence—”

“Pierre LaPorte. The owner.”

The cop's eyes widened. “Pierre's dead?”

Greta nodded miserably.

“When?”

“Stan,” Jessie said. “Maybe you could fill them in? About how Pierre was killed and the other chef is missing, so we thought we'd come see if she had any ties to New York?”

Thank goodness Jessie had set up the parameters. Stan still felt like a bumbling idiot in front of cops. And she always feared she'd say the wrong thing and get herself arrested for something bizarre. She gave them the Cliffs Notes version about Pierre's death, Kyle's disappearance, the request for Vaughn Dawes to come out and save the dessert for the big meal. She left out her sister's involvement, Pierre's secret recipe, the numerous love triangles, and Sheldon's feud with Pierre. Less was more.

“So you don't know if Marco or Anthony had anything to do with it,” Walden said. “And he was killed in Rhode Island.”

“Correct,” Stan said.

“Ma'am,” he said to Greta, “do you know why Scalia and his goon were here?”

The elephant in the room. Greta shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know. They've come by a few times. I think Pierre owed them money.”

“You think?”

“He didn't tell me things like that,” she said, barely audibly.

“I'd suggest you close up shop for the day just in case Anthony has a bone to pick before we get him,” Walden said. “And take anything valuable with you. The rest of you”—he nodded to Stan, Jessie, and the bakers—“are also free to go. Trooper Pasquale, thanks for your help today.”

Jessie nodded. “Glad to do it.”

Stan grabbed Gaston's leash and they left the bakery. “Good dog!” Stan praised Gaston. “What a good boy, biting that jerk!”

Jessie shook her head, biting back a smile. “What now?” she asked, nodding at their new companion. “I'm presuming we can't take a cab, with our new passenger.”

“I bet we can.” Stan did her cab hailing thing again. The first cab stopped. She opened the back door. “Sir, can we bring the dog? He's a rescue pup and he's scared to walk. We're trying to get him home.”

The cabbie observed her, then the dog, then waved at her to get in.

“Thank you so much,” she said, winking at Jessie. “Six-oh-two West Forty-second Street, please.”

Gaston sat between them, head on his paws. Stan fished around in her bag. She'd cleaned everything out before leaving, but she usually kept a tiny bag of “emergency” treats in the zippered pouch. Feeling around, her fingers closed over the Ziploc bag.

“Aha! I knew I had some.” She pulled them out triumphantly and fed him one. He immediately perked up and devoured it. She gave him the last two. “You did such a good job in there. I'll get you more when we get back,” she promised. He flopped down again, and she could swear he sighed.

The cabbie got them to their destination with a minimum of nail biting on Jessie's part. They climbed out and stood in front of the building. If Melanie lived here, then Gem Communications was a thriving enterprise. Either that or she came from money. This was one of the buildings Stan, in her days of corporate fog-brain, had dreamed of living in. The sleek structure was clearly one that attracted a certain class of people, a building that boasted indoor parking and probably an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The only downfall, in her mind, was its proximity to Times Square. Although the building itself would be quiet, you'd constantly step out the front door into mayhem.

“Okay, you're going to have to pretend you're legit police,” Stan said. “Otherwise we'll never get in.”

Jessie gave her a look. “I am legit police.”

“Not in New York,” Stan said.

“The NYPD cops back there thought so,” Jessie said.

They entered the building. A doorman greeted them. “May I help you?”

Stan nudged Jessie. Jessie flashed her badge, fast enough that the man couldn't possibly get a good look at it. “I'm here to see Melanie Diamond regarding one of her clients,” she said.

He regarded them long enough that Stan started to worry, but then he directed them to the fifteenth floor, and Miss Melanie could be found in apartment 1015B. He even offered Gaston a treat and invited him to play in the community puppy park, which Stan declined. Gaston took the treat, but once they were out of the doorman's sight, he dropped it. Stan stifled a giggle. He was definitely accustomed to a certain standard of food.

“Weird place,” Jessie muttered as they walked to the elevator. “I can't imagine living here. Like, ever.”

“I get it. You're not a city girl.” Stan smiled and punched the button. “This is actually an amazing place, if you can afford it.”

“How much does something like this cost?” Jessie wanted to know.

Stan shrugged. “I haven't priced New York apartments lately, but I would guess for a one-bedroom here, you're looking at four thousand plus.”

Jessie's jaw dropped. “A
month
?”

“Sure.” Stan stepped onto the elevator and tugged Gaston to follow her. He hesitated, then jumped over the gap in the floor to join her.

“My mortgage is twelve hundred dollars. For a
house.
With three bedrooms.” Jessie punched the button for floor fifteen.

“And you have to drive an hour to go shopping. To each his own.” The doors
whooshed
open and Stan led the dog out into a white hallway with a black-tiled floor. Melanie's door was three down on the left. Stan knocked.

Silence inside. The doorman hadn't mentioned that she wasn't home, unless she'd slipped out when he wasn't looking. Stan swallowed her frustration and tried the bell this time. A minute later, she heard a lock flip from inside. The door swung open, and a gun emerged, pointing straight into her face.