Sprinkle with Murder (14 page)

Fifteen

The firm of Wolfmeier and Jankovich was located in Paradise Valley. It was the richest zip code in the Valley of the Sun, and that alone should have given Mel a clue as to what to expect. Sadly, it did not.
Joyce parked behind a building that looked like a modern nightmare of concrete and glass. They walked past an enormous fountain in the shape of an upside-down pyramid with layers of gray stone forming a shallow pool around it.
The doors to the building were big and thick, and opened into a lobby of ivory marble with deep-rust-colored veins. A secretary wearing an earbud sat at an oversized desk that Joyce approached, clutching her Coach bag with determination.
Mel hung back. She noticed the building had a security desk with an actual guard in uniform stationed by the door. What, exactly, did an attorney need a security guard for, unless he represented some very bad people?
“Come on, Melanie,” her mother called from the bank of elevators beyond the desk. “Mr. Wolfmeier is expecting us.”
The elevator had mirrored walls and plush carpeting, and a melodic voice announced the floors as they passed. Mel avoided her reflection, choosing to stare at the carpet while her mother fixed her lipstick. A bell chimed, and the elevator stopped on the fifth floor.
Another receptionist greeted them and led them to a large office that offered a panoramic view of the back of Camelback Mountain. Mel and Joyce exchanged a look, and Mel wondered if her eyes looked as nervous as her mother’s.
“Mom,” she said, “I don’t think we can afford to be here. In fact, I don’t think I can even afford to breathe the air in here. These guys will probably rob you blind trying to defend me, when I don’t need it.”
“Nonsense, they come very highly recommended,” said Joyce. “I can pay whatever it takes.”
Mel tipped her head and studied her mom. Since her father had died, her mother had forged ahead even when she didn’t have a clue, like the time she helped Mel buy her first car, which was a lemon they got suckered into paying double its value for, but Joyce had not been daunted. She had parked herself in that auto dealer’s showroom and glowered until she was given a full refund and the clunker was taken off her hands. It hadn’t been easy.
The salesmen had alternately tried charming her and threatening her, but when Joyce dug in her heels about something, she generally sprouted roots until she got her way. It was a quality Mel admired her for; in fact, she admired her mother more than she could ever express.
However, she saw that same root-sprouting expression on her mother’s face now, and that did not bode well for her or for the attorney. She knew her mother wanted to protect her, but she didn’t want her to lose her life’s savings trying to defend Mel for a crime she didn’t commit.
It wasn’t as if the police had arrested her. Sure, they’d questioned her, confiscated her cupcakes, and searched her bakery, but no charges had been filed; and in her hopeful heart, she hoped none would be.
Mel was about to cup Joyce’s elbow and lead her back to the elevator when the door to the office opened and a man in a suit as shiny as sharkskin walked into the room. He was tall and thin; his white hair close cropped in a haircut Mel was sure cost more than her entire outfit. He smiled at them, and his bright blue eyes crinkled in the corners. As he crossed the room, Mel realized he was younger than his hair made him look. She guessed him to be only five years older than herself.
He shook Joyce’s hand first. “Mrs. Cooper, I’m Steve Wolfmeier, and this must be your daughter, Melanie.”
He turned and shook Melanie’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too, Mr. Wolfmeier.”
“Call me Steve.” His look should have been smarmy, but somehow he made it charming. Mel felt a reluctant smile curve her lips.
“Have a seat, please,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, we’re fine, thank you,” Mel said. She didn’t want a twenty-dollar latte tacked onto what was sure to be an exorbitant bill.
Joyce looked at her, and Mel shook her head. They sat down in the chairs across from his desk.
“Miss Cooper, may I call you Melanie?” Wolfmeier asked as he sat in the plush seat behind his desk.
“Sure.”
“It seems you’re a person of interest to the Scottsdale Police,” he said.
“So it seems,” she agreed.
“What do you have to say about it?” he asked.
“I just found her,” Mel said, raising her hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “I had nothing to do with what happened to her.”
“You were hired to make the cupcakes for her wedding, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you were delivering those cupcakes when you found her?”
“No, she already had them. Two of her designers picked up the cupcakes the day before. Christie and I were to have a meeting to discuss the samples I sent over.”
“All we need is a healthy dose of reasonable doubt. Let’s see if we can accomplish that. So, Melanie, the cupcakes were out of your hands for how long?”
“I don’t know, let’s see . . .” Mel tried to remember. Alma and Phoebe had picked up the cupcakes in the evening, and she was to meet Christie in the morning. “Twelve hours.”
“So, you didn’t see those cupcakes for twelve hours?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Any idea how many people could have had access to those cupcakes in those twelve hours?”
“No idea,” Mel said. She noticed that he kept referring to the twelve hours. “I suppose it would depend upon where Christie kept them and who was around at the time. I know she was doing a photo shoot, but I have no idea how many people were in her studio that night.”
Steve Wolfmeier leaned back in his chair and grinned. He looked just like a wolf that had cornered a bunny, and Mel wondered if that was where his ancestors had gotten the name Wolfmeier.
“That will be all, Miss Cooper,” he said, as if dismissing her from the witness stand. His eyes lingered on her face, and Mel wondered if he could see the stress and worry seep out of her like a slow leak in an air mattress.
He made it seem so easy and so effortless to cast reasonable doubt. But then, that was probably why he was housed in such a fabulous office. The man was good.
“Mrs. Cooper.” Steve Wolfmeier turned to Joyce. “I’m going to have to turn down your case.”
“What? Why?” Joyce asked, distraught.
“Your daughter doesn’t need me,” he said. “I’d be robbing you if I took your money.”
Mel wondered if the room was miked. How had he known what she’d said? His gaze met hers, and the blue depths were amused. Oh, yeah, he’d heard her. She felt her face grow warm with embarrassment.
“It’s not very polite to listen in on other peoples’ conversations,” she said.
“It’s not polite to believe the worst of a person before you’ve even met them,” he returned.
“Touché,” she said. “Does one ill-mannered faux pas cancel out another?”
“It could,” he said.
Joyce glanced between them. Mel could tell she was so focused on hiring Steve that she was lost to the conversation.
“What would it take?” she asked.
“I hear you bake a mean cupcake,” he said.
“I’ll send some over.”
“Then all is forgiven.”
“So, you’ll take the case?” Joyce asked.
“I’ll consider a box of cupcakes a retainer,” he said. “But I honestly don’t think you’re going to need my services. From my initial inquiries at the medical examiner’s office, although one of the cupcakes was tainted, there was no sign of arsenic in the contents of the victim’s stomach. It takes a considerable amount of arsenic to kill, and there were only trace amounts found in the cupcake.”
“So you’re saying. . . .” Mel hesitated, and he finished for her.
“Someone is trying to frame you, but they’re doing a very poor job of it. I don’t see you getting arrested even if you are a person of interest.”
Mel rose from her seat. She wanted to do a cartwheel, but she resisted the impulse. “Thank you, Mr. Wolfmeier.”
Joyce teared up as she pumped his hand in gratitude. If she had been doubtful about Mel’s innocence before, now she was fully embracing the fact that Mel was innocent. For that alone, Mel would have baked Mr. Wolfmeier a double order of cupcakes.
Joyce excused herself to use the ladies’ room to freshen up, and Mel turned to face Steve. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” he said.
“Do you know Joe DeLaura?” she asked.
His smile hardened until it was brittle. He leaned one hip on the desk and considered her. “We went to law school together.”
“Oh.” Mel would have liked to ask more questions, but Steve didn’t appear forthcoming and she was hesitant to annoy him on the off chance that she might need his services.
He must have picked up on her curiosity, however, because he added, “We were both the top of our class. There was a friendly rivalry between us. Then he went his way and I went mine. Why do you ask?”
“He’s my business partner’s older brother,” she said.
Steve glanced at the notes on top of his desk. “Angela DeLaura is his little sister?”
“Yes. Small world, eh?”
“Don’t talk to him,” Steve said. His friendly smile and demeanor were wiped away like chalk off a slate.
“Why not?” Mel asked.
“Because he’s an assistant DA,” Steve said. “He’s not a friend or a friend of the family; he’s the guy who’ll put your cute butt in jail for a very long time if you give him even the tiniest crumb of information that he can twist against you.”
“But I’m innocent.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Steve said. He crossed the room to stand in front of her. He was a few inches taller, and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “This is a high-profile case, and the DA has to convict someone. If you say the wrong thing to him, even I, as brilliant as I am, won’t be able to save you.”
“Is Joe that good of an attorney?” Mel asked.
Steve leaned back and considered her. “He’s a terrier. If he decides you’re going down, he won’t rest until you’re locked up and they’ve thrown away the key.”
“I really . . .”
“Don’t trust him, don’t talk to him, and for God’s sake, don’t share any information with him,” Steve said.
He pressed a card into her hand. “If you need to talk to someone about the case, call me.”
He stepped back and seemed to take off his intensity like a man changing a shirt. “I’ll be waiting for those cupcakes.”
Mel wondered if she’d just dreamt the past few seconds. A horrified part of her was beginning to sift through every conversation she’d had with Joe lately, and weigh how damning it might have been.
She felt a tug on her arm; Joyce had returned from the ladies’ room and was ready to go.
“Thanks,” she said to Steve, and turned to go.
“Don’t forget what I said,” he called after her.
Mel could assure him she would not.

Sixteen

Joyce opened her mouth to begin talking as soon as they were in the car. Mercifully, Mel’s cell phone began to ring its distinctive
Gone With the Wind
theme music, and she gave her mom an apologetic look.
“Sorry, it’s the shop. I have to take this,” she said. She flipped the phone open. “Hello.”
“You need to get back here immediately,” Angie shouted. She sounded panicked, which was disturbing because Angie never panicked.
“What’s going on?” Mel asked.
“I can’t explain right now. Just hurry.”
The line went dead.
“Step on it, Mom,” Mel said. “We have a situation.” Joyce looked at her, and Mel rolled her hand towards the window in a gesture that meant “Hurry up.”
Ten minutes later, Joyce maneuvered into a spot in front of the shop. Mel was out the door and running before the car came to a stop.
The bells chimed as she yanked the door open. Angie was standing alone in the middle of the store. She looked dazed and bewildered.
Mel grabbed her arms. “Ange, what is it? What’s going on?”
“The police brought Tate in for questioning again,” she said. Her voice was faint. “Mel, I’m afraid they’re going to arrest him.”
“Oh, no,” Mel moaned.
“What’s going on? What happened?” Joyce asked as she hurried through the door.
“The police have taken Tate in for questioning again,” Mel said.
“But why?”
“Christie’s father is pushing for an arrest,” Angie said. “Shelby Grady says he’s telling everyone at the country club that Tate did it to get her money.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Mel said. “Tate is worth way more than she was, which is why she drugged him and faked their engagement.”
“Good grief! She drugged him?” Joyce sat down at one of the café tables. “You don’t think Tate . . .”
“Absolutely not!” Angie declared with a ferocity that made Joyce blink. “Tate is innocent. He’d never harm anyone. He’s the kindest, nicest person I’ve ever known.”
Mel could hear their fifties retro atomic wall clock ticking in the ensuing silence. It seemed so much louder than normal. She looked at the flush that stained Angie’s cheeks, and suddenly, she understood.
“You’re in love with him,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Angie scoffed. But her voice was without heat. “That’s absurd.”
Joyce rose from her seat. Her eyes, the eyes that were so like Mel’s, were kind as they gazed at Angie. She gave her a one-armed hug around the shoulders and then patted Mel’s cheek as she made her way to the door.
“I’m going to leave you girls to sort things out,” she said. “Call me if you need me, either of you.”
Mel and Angie watched her go. Mel mouthed “I love you, Mom,” and her mother nodded before she shut the door behind her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Don’t,” Mel said. She felt oddly betrayed and hurt that Angie had feelings for Tate and she’d never said a word. “Don’t make it worse.”
Angie looked at her, and her large brown eyes looked sad.
“When did it happen?” Mel asked.
“The day you introduced him to me in sixth grade,” Angie said.
“Twenty-two years ago?” Mel asked. She sat down in her mother’s abandoned chair. “You know, you might have mentioned it somewhere along the line.”
“You sound mad.”
“I am mad,” Mel confirmed. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. You’re supposed to tell me when you fall in love with someone, no matter who that someone is.”
“Oh, like you’re so forthcoming with your feelings,” Angie chided her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at Joe,” Angie said. “Don’t tell me you see him only as your best friend’s brother.”
“That’s different.”
“Different how?” Angie leaned over the table, getting into Mel’s space. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t expect full disclosure from me and hold your own stuff back.”
“What I feel for Joe is just a stupid crush left over from middle school,” Mel argued. “That’s not how you feel about Tate. You’re in love with him, and I can’t believe you never told me.”
“How could I,” Angie asked, “when he’s always been in love with you?”
Mel felt as if Angie had just kicked the chair out from under her.
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Yes, he has,” Angie contradicted her. Her enormous brown eyes were so full of pain that they looked bruised. “He told me so.”
“When?” Mel asked.
“Do you remember when we came to visit you while you were studying in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“You know we flew over on his company’s corporate jet?”
Mel nodded. She didn’t want to hear this—no, she didn’t. She hated seeing how devastated Angie looked when recounting the story. She glanced down at her hands and realized she’d just shredded a paper napkin that she didn’t even remember taking out of the holder.
“Well, we had too much champagne, and I got silly.” Bright red splotches lit up Angie’s cheekbones, and Mel knew she was horribly embarrassed. Angie swallowed, and continued. “I sort of threw myself at Tate, and we . . . uh . . . well, we joined the mile high club, as it were.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes,” Angie replied. “Afterwards, we both agreed it had been a huge mistake. He made me promise we’d never tell you because, and I quote, ‘I love her and couldn’t bear to lose her.’ ”
“No,” Mel said. Her throat was tight, and she felt as if something she held precious was shattering into a million pieces and she wasn’t going to be able to fix it.
“Yes,” Angie said. Her mouth lifted at the corners. “All these years your mom has been pushing you and Tate together, and if you’d just given him the nod, he’d be married to you now.”
Mel put her head down on the table, feeling slightly sick.
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” she asked.
“Let’s see.” Angie ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “I was mortified. I was crushed. And somehow, ‘I’ve seen Tate naked’ isn’t as easy to work into a conversation as you might think.”
Mel raised her head and gave her a weak smile.
“Look, you two are my best friends. I couldn’t risk losing either of you,” Angie said.
“But if you told . . .”
“You know what?” Angie interrupted. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“But . . .”
“No,” Angie said with a shake of her head. “I’m going to call Joe and see if he can tell me anything about what’s happening to Tate.”
“If you . . .”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Angie interrupted again. “And I want you to promise that you’ll never tell Tate how I feel.”
Mel looked at her friend. Her face could have been set in concrete. Mel knew there was no negotiating.
“Pinky swear,” Angie said.
Mel felt her lips curve. She linked her right pinky with Angie’s. Then she crossed her fingers behind her back.
“No crosses count,” Angie said, and Mel let out an exasperated huff. “Swear.”
“I swear I won’t tell Tate,” she said.
“Thank you.” Angie unlocked her little finger from Mel’s. “Can you man the shop while I go call Joe?”
Mel nodded. There was no one in the shop. Even for midafternoon, it was remarkably dead. She wondered if the rumor that she was a murderer was driving business away. Then she wondered who would believe it. And her thoughts turned back to Joe. Was Steve Wolfmeier right about him? Would Joe get her in his sights as a murderer and be a terrier with her?
She felt a flutter of unease. She had thought that by now, things would be better, that the police would have a suspect in custody who wasn’t herself or Tate. Instead, she had more questions than answers, and every time she turned around there was new information that was horrifying, disturbing, or just plain shocking. Angie in love with Tate—why hadn’t she seen that one coming?
Mel felt a pang of guilt. She knew she hadn’t seen it because she hadn’t wanted to. When she thought back on it now, it all made sense. Angie seldom dated, and when she did, it was reluctantly, and she never went out on their movie night. Also, her intense dislike of Christie made more sense now than ever. Mel had thought Angie just didn’t like her, but no, it must have been eating her alive that Tate was going to get married.
A hideous thought wiggled into Mel’s brain like a worm into a rotten apple. Could Angie have . . . No!
She shook her head. She was not going there. No matter how Angie felt about Tate getting married, if it was what he wanted, she’d never do anything to jeopardize his happiness. And even with her firecracker temper, Angie had never caused anyone real harm. Well, except for the broken nose she had given Jeff Stanton when he called Mel a fatso one time too many.
Mel stood up from the table and started pacing. Whether she liked it or not, it seemed the police liked her or Tate for the crime. The only solution was to find the real killer. Both Terry and Alma looked good for it, but she needed more proof than a stolen wedding gown.
She needed to talk to someone in Christie’s inner circle. She wasn’t going to get anything more out of Alma. She needed to talk to someone else. She needed to talk to Phoebe.
She hated intruding upon the girl’s grief, but enough was enough. She needed to know who wanted Christie dead, and Phoebe was her best untapped source.
“He’s been released,” Angie said as she stepped back into the room. “He’s going home to decompress to some old Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns. We should go over after we close and check on him.”
“ ‘I’ve never seen so many men wasted so bad,’ ” Mel quoted.
“We’ll see,” Angie said. “I don’t know if it’s a
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
night or a
Two Mules for Sister Sara
night.”
“I’d go with Shirley MacLaine, but he may be anti-women right now,” Mel said.
“Luckily, I don’t count.” Angie’s voice was wry, and Mel felt bad for her. They still needed to talk about the situation, but Mel would let it rest for now.
“Is it just me, or do we seem abnormally dead?” Mel asked. “I mean, I know the newspaper article may have turned our locals against us, but surely the tourists don’t know.”
“You’re right,” Angie said. “I should have sold at least three hundred cupcakes by now, but I’m guessing I’ve only sold a couple dozen.”
“This murder has to be solved quickly,” Mel said.
“Before we lose everything.”
The phone behind the counter rang, and Mel hurried to answer it.
“Good afternoon, Fairy Tale Cupcakes
,
how may I help you?”
“Hello, bride killer,” the caller said.
Mel sucked in a breath. It was Solomon Singh, owner of the posh jewelry store around the corner.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Solomon was from India and his accent was faint, as if faded from years of living in the States, but he retained just enough of it to sound exotic and condescending.
“Is there something I can do for you, Solomon?” she asked.
“Yes, you can tell whoever is plastering the streets with these notices of you being wanted for murder to stop putting them on my windows. They clash with my diamond displays.”
“Excuse me? What notices?”
“Don’t tell me they haven’t tagged you?” he asked. He sounded annoyed. “I’d have thought your place would have been covered in them. Look outside for an obnoxious yellow paper.”
Mel dropped the phone and raced towards the door. “What is it?” Angie asked, following her. Mel glanced up and down the street. She felt her vision swim as she saw literally hundreds of yellow notices plastering all available surfaces.
She snatched one off the wall of the western wear store next door. As her eyes skimmed over the page, she felt her hands begin to shake.
In the center there was a picture of her holding a tray of cupcakes with the shop’s logo above her. Below the picture was printed:
Community Advisory: Melanie Cooper is a suspect in the murder of Christie Stevens. Anyone with any information is encouraged to call the Scottsdale Po lice Department.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Angie blustered from behind her. “That’s a total lie! Who would do . . . ?”
Their gazes met, and they both said, “Olivia Puckett.”
Mel wadded up the paper and stuffed it in the nearest trash can.
“I’m going to track her down and rip her hair out by the roots!” Angie spat.
“C’mon,” Mel said. She would have liked nothing more than to steam over to Olivia’s shop and blast her, but they needed to do damage control first. She fished a key out of her pocket and locked up the shop. “Let’s gather all of these first.”
They worked opposite sides of the street, ripping down the sheets that had been attached to every single telephone pole, bench, and storefront they passed. The sheer boldness of the maneuver took Mel’s breath away. When she got to the tattoo parlor on the corner, Mick, one of the tattoo artists, stepped outside, away from the busy buzz of the needles at work inking skin behind him, and handed Mel a stack of yellow papers.
Mick was six foot four, with large gauges in his earlobes that created dime sized holes, a shaved head that sported a rising Phoenix tattoo, and sleeves of brilliantly colorful tattoos running up and down his arms and legs. Oh, and he had several implants in his forehead that looked like horns about to sprout. In short, he looked terrifying, but Mel had discovered over the past few months that he was really a big sweetie who kept an eye out for the neighborhood, loved coconut cupcakes, and had season tickets to the Arizona Opera. The guy had layers.
“These were all over my shop and the ones around the corner. Pretty nasty publicity,” he said. “Who did you piss off?”
“Rival baker,” Mel said.
“In the ’hood?” he asked.
“No, she’s on the other side of 40th Street, in Arcadia,” Mel said.
“Well, she’s certainly got it in for you. If it’s any consolation, I’ve talked to the others and no one believes it, except Solomon, but he always thinks the worst of everyone.”
The sympathy in his voice made Mel want to cry. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, and said, “Thanks, Mick.”
“Do you want me to go have a talk with her?” he asked. His blue eyes lit up at the prospect.
Mel was pretty sure Mick would give Olivia a flat-out heart attack, so it was a very tempting offer.
“Thanks, but I think I’d better deal with her on my own.”
Mick patted her shoulder with a large hand. “Tell me if you change your mind.”
“I will,” she promised.
It took the better part of an hour to canvass Old Town and gather all of the libelous papers. By the time she was done, Mel was so angry, she was afraid she might do Olivia an injury.
“I think we got them all,” Angie said as she dumped them into the recycle bin in the office.
“Let’s keep a couple in case we need proof of harassment,” Mel said. “Although I’m quite sure she made certain she left no fingerprints on them.”
“You know, I thought she was nuts with the drive-bys and all, but now I think she’s certifiable. The woman should be locked up.”