Sprinkle with Murder (15 page)

“Don’t tell Tate about this,” Mel said. “He’s got enough on his plate.”
“Aren’t you going to come with me to see him?” Angie asked.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s too much speculation about us as it is. I don’t want to cause him any more problems.”
Angie studied her for a moment. “You promise this isn’t about what I told you? I couldn’t stand it if I messed all of us up because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Mel said, and she looped an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “You can’t help how you feel.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Angie said. “I don’t want to feel this way, and I wish I didn’t.”
“We don’t choose who we love,” Mel said comfortingly.
“So if you’re not coming with me, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have a little chat with Olivia.”
“Oh, I’m totally coming with you,” Angie said. She looked like she was ready to rumble.
“No, you’re not. This is between me and her.”
“But . . .” Angie began to protest, but Mel interrupted. “No, Tate needs you, and besides, you know you have a temper. I haven’t always been patient with her. But despite my frosting her windshield, I still think I’ll be able to stay calm when I deal with Olivia.”
“What’re you saying?”
“That you have a tendency to lead with your fists, and I don’t want that kind of trouble.”
“I haven’t hit anyone in ages,” Angie protested.
“You popped a guy with an uppercut when he patted your butt at the Salty Senorita last week,” Mel reminded her.
“I was teaching him some manners,” Angie protested.
Mel smiled. “No doubt he won’t do that again, but I can’t have anything like that go down with Olivia. You’re not going. End of discussion.”
“Call me as soon as you talk to her,” Angie said.
“I promise.”
“And you’d better make her cry, or I’ll be disappointed.”
“I’ll do my best,” Mel said.
They closed the shop and parted with a hug.
Mel climbed into her Mini Cooper and shot across Old Town Scottsdale. She turned south on 68th Street and then headed west on Indian School Road.
She reached 40th Street and turned into the parking lot of a small strip mall. Confections Bakery sat between a trophy maker and a florist. A quick glance told Mel that, unlike her bakery, Confections was busy. Several cars were parked in front, and she could see a line of customers milling about in front of the display cases. She felt her temper heat again, and she forced herself to breathe slowly in and out.
Mel took one of the papers she had collected and strode across the parking lot. She was going to be calm but firm. Olivia Puckett’s obsession with her shop had to stop right now. She had enough to contend with, without dealing with her crazy smear campaign.
If it came right down to it, Mel was not afraid to call in the law. Given her current relationship with the Scottsdale Police, she figured Steve Wolfmeier might have to be her front, but she suspected he’d be okay with that. He looked like the type who could throw out enough legal jargon to choke a donkey, and Olivia certainly qualified as that.
Mel pulled open the door to the bakery and approached the counter. Several hair-netted women stood behind it, wearing white polyester smocks with their names embroidered in black on the left breast. Mel approached a large woman who looked to be in charge of the counter because she was barking orders at the others.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Olivia Puckett.”
“Take a number,” the woman barked.
“Pardon?”
The woman waved a beefy arm towards a red plastic ticket dispenser. “Take a number.”
“I just want to talk . . .” Mel began, but the woman glared at her and pointed to the ticket machine again.
“I’ll just take a number,” Mel said.
The woman nodded and yelled, “Seventy-six.”
Mel glanced at the pink ticket in her hand. She was eighty-three. Terrific.
She waited through an order of cookies, three pies, two birthday cakes, and two more orders of cookies, before the stout woman finally called, “Eighty-three.”
Mel approached the counter. “I would like to speak with Olivia Puckett, please.”
“You don’t want to buy anything?” the woman asked.
Her nose was large and hooked, and her eyes were bulbous like a toad’s.
“No, as I tried to tell you before, I’m here to see Olivia,” Mel said. She knew her voice sounded snippy, but so far the only good thing that had come of this visit was the fact that no one in front of her had bought any cupcakes. It was small satisfaction, but she’d take it.
“Olivia’s not here,” the woman said.
Mel glanced at the name embroidered on her chest. “Well, June, do you know when she’ll be back?”
“She won’t,” June said. “She’s off to see her mother in that assisted-care facility on Thomas Road, Serenity Springs. Her mother is senile, you know, crazy as a bedbug.”
Perhaps that explained Olivia’s behavior, Mel thought. Maybe the whole Puckett family tree was forked. She glanced at her watch. She’d waited twenty minutes for nothing. Well, it was not going to be for nothing. She was going to hunt Olivia down at Serenity Springs and have it out with her once and for all.
“Thanks,” she said and helped herself to one of the sample cookies on the counter. She took a bite, and at the door, she spun around. “Try using some lemon zest in these sugar cookies. It makes all the difference.”
June shrugged at her as if she couldn’t care less what the cookies tasted like. Well, if nothing else, Mel now knew her help was far superior to Olivia’s. Even on her most surly day, Angie was a gracious hostess.
She climbed back into her car and headed south to Thomas Road. Serenity Springs was a posh assisted-care facility, and Mel knew Olivia’s bakery must be doing quite well if she could afford this sort of care for her mother.
She pulled in and scanned the lot until she saw Olivia’s pink nightmare of a van parked near the entrance. Bingo!
She took the flyer and strode towards the building. Again, she coached herself on her behavior. She wasn’t going to cause a scene. She was just going to be very firm, letting Olivia know that she had better back off or there would be severe consequences. She was going to use calm, cool reasoning. If that didn’t work, she’d just have to go to plan B. Too bad she didn’t really have a plan B.

Seventeen

Two sets of sliding doors opened when Mel stepped on the large black mat. She strode into the lobby, which was decorated in dark woods and beige marble but didn’t seem oppressive because there were floor-to-ceiling windows all around that let in the daylight.
A pretty young woman in a bright red suit was working at the reception desk. Her name tag read Grace. Mel approached the desk with her most winning smile.
“Hi, I’m here to see Olivia Puckett,” she said.
Grace frowned in thought. “I don’t know a resident by that name. We have an Anna Puckett in room 363. Isn’t Olivia her daughter?”
“Yes, she is,” Mel said. “She’s expecting me. We’re meeting here to discuss some business.”
“I’ll ring to let them know to expect you,” Grace said. “And your name?”
Mel blanked. She didn’t want to give Olivia a heads-up. She’d freak out if she knew Mel was here. She’d probably call the police, and that was the last thing Mel needed.
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Sarah McAllister,” Mel said, surprised by her own lie. It was the name of the food critic for the local paper, and a pretty brilliant fib. “I’m here to interview her for the paper.”
“Oh, I love your column, Ms. McAllister. I read it every Wednesday.” The woman smiled and handed her a clip-on visitor’s badge. She dialed a house phone, waited a bit, and then hung up. “There’s no answer, but since she’s expecting you, I’ll just send you on down. Now, you want to head straight down the hall and turn to the right; Mrs. Puckett’s room is halfway down on your left.”
“Thank you,” Mel said.
She strode away from the desk. She felt a little bad about lying, but she needed to clear the air with Olivia once and for all. She suspected Olivia was with her mother today in an attempt to avoid this confrontation, which she had to know was coming. Well, Mel couldn’t let her get away with it. It was one thing to stalk her shop, but it was another to slander her in her own neighborhood.
She turned right as directed and glanced up ahead. In what appeared to be a small lounge area, she saw a woman standing in front of the tall windows beside an elderly lady in a wheelchair. The giveaway was the wiry gray topknot on her head. As she bent over the woman in the chair, Olivia’s broad features held an unexpected softness, a compassion Mel would not have expected of her.
She watched as Olivia smoothed her mother’s white hair back from her face.
“Look, Mama,” Olivia said as she pointed out the window, “there are those lovebirds we saw last week. I think they came back to say hi to you.”
The elderly woman made a small grunting sound, as if she had lost her power of speech.
Olivia tenderly tucked a light blanket around her mother’s legs and a shawl around her frail shoulders.
“Do you suppose they were somebody’s pets and now they’re free?” Olivia asked. Her voice sounded wistful.
Mel stepped back into the shadows. She felt like a heel. No matter what Olivia had done to her, she had no right to intrude upon her time with her mother. Their discussion could wait for another time.
She turned and was headed toward the door when she heard Olivia’s shrill voice.
“What are
you
doing here?”
Mel glanced over her shoulder, fearful that Olivia was talking to her. But no, she was chastising someone wearing scrubs. From the back, it appeared to be a man in his early twenties.
“I thought they fired you!” Olivia snapped. Any compassion she had shown her mother vanished as she lashed out at the unfortunate worker. “I know you’ve been taking her fentanyl. I’ve been counting every day, and some are always missing. What are you doing, selling it?”
There was a muttered reply that Mel couldn’t hear.
“Don’t lie to me!” Olivia snapped. She grabbed the handles of her mother’s chair and began pushing her in Mel’s direction. “I’ll have you fired yet!”
This was definitely not the best time to talk to Olivia. Mel beat a hasty retreat towards the lobby.
“Ms. McAllister,” Grace called as she approached. “Did you find Ms. Puckett? I tried ringing her room again, but no one answered.”
“It’s fine,” Mel said, removing her visitor’s badge. “She seems busy. Perhaps another time.”
The young woman’s face got tight. “Not again.”
“I’m sorry?” Mel asked.
“Someone has been stealing Mrs. Puckett’s pain patches, and her daughter thinks it’s someone on staff, but it isn’t.”
By her fiercely protective tone, Mel guessed there was something between the young receptionist and the man Olivia had been accusing. Mel was doubly glad that she hadn’t stormed in on Olivia. She certainly didn’t want to be stepping into the midst of a drama.
“Well, I’ll just be on my way,” Mel said.
“Should I tell Miss Puckett you stopped by?” Grace asked.
“Oh, no,” Mel said. “I wouldn’t want her to feel awkward. I’ll just pop into her shop tomorrow.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Grace agreed.
Mel stepped back through the automatic doors and crossed the parking lot to her car. She rounded a minivan and smacked into a slender blonde who looked as if she’d been crying.
“Phoebe?” Mel asked, stunned to have run into the young designer.
Phoebe blinked at her through teary eyes, and Mel watched her struggle to gain her composure.
“Are you all right?” Mel asked.
“No,” Phoebe snapped. “My grampy’s dying. I’m very far from all right.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mel said.
“Why are you here?” Phoebe asked, her tone ripe with hostility.
“Visiting someone,” Mel said. It wasn’t a total lie, and maybe it would get her a sympathy vote.
Phoebe fished through her silver bag until she found a small packet of tissues. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Actually, I’d like to ask you some questions,” Mel said.
“Why would I talk to you?” Phoebe asked. Her eyes were hard. Her upper lip curled in a sneer. “I heard they think her fiancé, your friend, murdered Christie.”
“He didn’t,” Mel said. It came out more defensive than she would have liked, and Phoebe looked even more suspicious.
“I’m trying to find out who did kill Christie before an innocent person is wrongly convicted.”
Phoebe tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder with a humph. She obviously didn’t believe Mel.
“I thought you baked cupcakes for a living,” Phoebe said. “I had no idea you were an investigator, too. Do detectives Gonzales and Rayburn know you’re on the case?”
Mel got the feeling that Phoebe was trying to provoke her. The young woman had her head tilted to the side and was watching her like a cat scrutinizing a fish in a fishbowl.
“You were close to Christie, weren’t you?” Mel asked.
“More than close,” Phoebe said. She glanced over her shoulder at the building and then began to walk towards her car. She didn’t invite her, but Mel walked beside her anyway.
“Did Christie confide to you that she was afraid of someone?”
“Afraid? She wasn’t afraid of anyone. People adored her,” Phoebe said. “She was a visionary.”
“Then why was she trying to trap Tate Harper into marrying her?” Mel asked.
Phoebe glared. “She wasn’t. She didn’t.”
“She drugged him and then convinced him that he proposed to her when he didn’t,” Mel said.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Phoebe said.
“Really?” Mel asked. Then she decided to bluff. “Alma says you helped her.”
“I did not,” Phoebe protested, but she glanced away, not meeting Mel’s eyes. “Alma’s just jealous. She always was.”
“Jealous of what?”
“My relationship with Christie. She knew I was more talented than Alma, so she invested more time in me. We were gal pals. We went shopping together and got manicures, we even dieted together, which Alma would never do.”
“So you were friends,” Mel said.
“More like sisters,” Phoebe said. Her voice broke, and she looked as if she was about to cry again.
“I’m sorry,” Mel said.
“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” Phoebe sniffed. Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and Mel sighed.
“Look, this is none of my business,” Mel said. “But maybe you should know.”
“What?” Phoebe paused with her car door open.
“Terry Longmore has hired Alma to work in his studio.”
“So?” Phoebe asked. “They were both jealous of me and Christie; they deserve each other.”
“Maybe, but Terry hired Alma on the condition that she deliver Christie’s wedding gown to him,” Mel said. “As I understand it, Alma took it from the studio and turned it over to Terry for the promise of a design job.”
Phoebe stared at her for a moment, as if she couldn’t believe what Mel as saying. Then she shrugged.
“Given that Christie’s dead, I don’t suppose it really matters now, does it?”
“But it’s your design,” Mel said.
Phoebe tipped her head toward the building behind them. “I have bigger things to worry about.”
Mel watched her climb into her sports car and drive away. She sensed Phoebe was trying to put some distance between them, which wasn’t a complete surprise if she thought that Mel had murdered her beloved mentor.
She drove back to her apartment in Old Town feeling as if she had accomplished nothing. The sun had slipped below the horizon and the orange sky was being brushed like an artist’s canvas with the broad lilac strokes of the coming twilight.
Mel wondered how Tate was doing, and which movie he and Angie were watching. Then she thought about Angie’s feelings for Tate, and selfishly wished she didn’t know. She didn’t want their dynamic to get messed up because Angie liked Tate more than she should. Mel rejected Angie’s idea that Tate felt more for her than friendship. She figured that, being a man, that had probably been the first excuse he could come up with to let Angie down easily. But then, why didn’t he like Angie?
She was beautiful and funny and smart, a fiercely loyal friend, certainly a better catch than Christie Stevens. What had he been thinking to get involved with that? And now that she thought of it, this whole thing was Tate’s fault for getting involved with that egomaniac in the first place.
Deep in her brooding, Mel didn’t notice the person waiting in the shadows of her apartment stairs until it was too late. He shoved off the wall and stepped towards her. She leapt back with a gasp.
A hand reached out to grab her, and Mel didn’t hesitate. Using her purse, she smacked her would-be assailant in the head with all her might.
“Ouch!” a male voice grunted. Mel turned to run for help, but then he said, “Mel, it’s Joe.”
“Joe? Delaura?” she asked stupidly. “What are you doing lurking in the dark? What if I had a gun?”
“I shudder to think,” he said dryly. “What do you have in that purse, rocks?”
He had a hand pressed to his temple, and Mel saw a thin trickle of blood run down the side of his face.
“Oh, no, you’re hurt,” she said. Her voice was shaky from the rush of adrenaline, and she put her hand over her chest as if she could calm her racing heart. “Let’s get you into the kitchen and wash that cut.”
He pulled his fingers away. “It’s just a scrape.” “Scrapes don’t trickle,” she said. She unlocked the door and flipped on the light. “Go.”
“You closed early tonight.” He sounded disappointed.
Mel felt a small smile tip her lips. “Don’t tell me you’re here for cupcakes. The shop is closed, maybe for good.”
She tried to keep the self-pitying tone out of her voice, really she did, and failed miserably.
“Angie told me about the posters,” he said. “Are you sure it was Olivia Puckett?”
She gave him a look and led him over to the sink. She ran the water until it was warm and then put a paper towel under it. The cut on his forehead really was more of a scrape. Nevertheless, she pressed the wet towel against it and held it there.
She glared at him. Steve Wolfmeier’s warning echoed in her ears, and she didn’t want to discuss anything with Joe that might land her in an unflattering black-and-white striped pantsuit.
“What?” he asked. He plunked his hands on his hips and smiled at her. It was a Joe DeLaura special, all dimples and white teeth, that made her brain fog up like steam on a windowpane.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you about anything,” she said. “Not even the weather.”
“Says who?” he asked.
“Steve Wolfmeier.”
“He’s your attorney?”
“Sort of,” she said. “He wouldn’t take the case, but he did say that I shouldn’t talk to you, that you’re a terrier, and if you decide I’m guilty, then I’m as good as locked up.”
Joe frowned and leaned close. His face was just inches from hers when he said, “I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.”
“It didn’t sound like praise.”
“What did it sound like?”
He was standing inside the edge of her personal space. Mel tried to be okay with it, but his presence was a bit overwhelming, as if he inhaled more than his share of the oxygen between them.
“It sounded like you two have a history,” she said. “And not a nice one.”
Joe raised his eyebrows in surprise and stepped back. Mel lowered her arms and examined the towel. It had a smudge of blood from the cut, but a glance at his temple revealed that the bleeding had stopped. She felt the air whoosh out of her lungs, which surprised her; she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. Assaulting an assistant DA would do that for you, she supposed.
“You’re very astute,” he said. “We were friends in law school, but it ended badly.”
“Grades or a girl?”
“A little bit of both.”
An awkward silence in which Mel desperately wanted to grill him about his past, which good manners forbade, ensued. She resisted. Barely.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I’m sure to have cupcakes that need to be eaten. Not the healthiest choice for dinner, but I think I can live with it.”
“I thought the shop was closed,” he said. “And that you weren’t to talk to me.”
“I changed my mind,” she said. “Steve Wolfmeier is not the boss of me. Besides, someone needs to help get rid of my inventory. Coffee?”
“That’d be great,” he answered as he prowled around the kitchen.
Mel fussed with the coffeepot, thinking that if someone had told her when she was twelve that Joe DeLaura would be standing in her cupcake bakery awaiting coffee and cupcakes with her, she’d have keeled over on the spot.
“Can you grab some plates and forks?” She gestured towards the cupboard over the triple-basin sink.
“Sure,” he said.
Mel let the coffee drip and headed into the walk-in with a tray. She pulled four of her favorites and headed back out to the kitchen.
She filled two mugs with hot coffee and added them to the tray. Joe was already sitting when she joined him at the worktable. She put a mug in front of him while he debated which of the cupcakes on the tray he wanted.
“Why cupcakes?” he asked.
She knew he was asking why she made only cupcakes and nothing else.
“They’re happy,” she answered. “I like to think they remind people of the simple pleasures of childhood. Well, that and it’s a lot easier to justify buying yourself a cupcake than it is a whole cake, so it seemed like good economics, too.”