Sprinkle with Murder (6 page)

The post-lunch dessert crowd was gone, and Mel and Angie leaned wearily on the counter.
“If this keeps up, we’re going to have to hire some help,” Angie said. “I’m worn out.”
“Five hundred cupcakes a day will do that,” Mel agreed.
With its western-style, squared-off buildings with front porches that sported benches made out of wagon wheels, Old Town Scottsdale was a tourist mecca, and Mel had positioned her shop right in the heart of it. They got more walk-in traffic from tourists than they did from locals, although they did a solid business with them as well.
Now that it was late afternoon, it would be quiet until just after dinner. Mel left Angie to clean up the front while she headed into the back to restock the display cases.
She was deep in the walk-in when she heard a familiar lilting voice.
“Melanie?”
She stepped out of the walk-in, carrying an aluminum tray full of Tinkerbells. These were lemon cupcakes with raspberry buttercream frosting rolled in pink sugar. She resisted the urge to cram three in her mouth. Barely.
“Oh, baby,” her mother wailed, and opened her arms wide.
Mel spun away and scooted the tray onto the large steel table in the center of the kitchen, before turning to receive her mother’s hug.
“Are you okay, Mom?” she asked. She patted her mother’s back, breathing in the familiar scent of her Estee Lauder perfume.
“Am
I
okay?” Joyce Cooper stepped back and grabbed Mel’s shoulders. She peered at her face as if trying to see into her soul. “I think the question is are
you
okay?”
Ah, now it made sense. South Scottsdale might be in the middle of a metropolitan area of more than four million people, but it remained a small town at heart and gossip moved faster than a roadrunner chasing a horned toad. She suspected news of Christie’s death had reached her mother, and the fact that she had been the one to find the body had not been far behind.
“I’m fine,” Mel said. “A little freaked-out but fine.”
Her mother continued to study her. A frown in the shape of a V formed between her eyebrows. She was clearly not satisfied with either “fine” or “freaked-out.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.
Mel leaned against the table. She’d heard this question before; when her hoard of candy was found under her bed as a kid, when she got a D- in algebra, and most memorably when her mother found her birth control pills in her laundry duffel on a weekend home from college.
Needless to say, Mel did not like this question, especially when it was topped by the concerned frown.
As always, she opted to play stupid. It had never worked before, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.
“No,” she said, drawing out the lone syllable. “Not that I can think of.”
“I’ll stand by you, you know,” Joyce said, her voice fierce. “No matter what you’ve done.”
“Excuse me?” Mel asked. “As far as I know, for the past few months I’ve done nothing but bake cupcakes.”
“Really?” Joyce asked. Her voice was ripe with doubt.
Then it hit her. Her mother wasn’t here about her finding Christie, she was here about her altercation with Olivia.
“Oh, now I get it,” Mel said. “Yes, I did it. I’m not proud of it, but she’s been bugging me for months. Frankly, she had it coming.”
Joyce gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. She looked horrified.
“What?” Mel asked.
“No remorse?” her mother asked. “Not even a little?”
Mel thought about it. “No, not really.”
“Oh, no, where did I go wrong?” Joyce wailed. She paced back and forth around the kitchen. “It’s because your father died, isn’t it? Why couldn’t he be here to deal with this? He’d know what to do.”
She glanced at the ceiling. “Just you wait until I see you again, Charlie Cooper. I’m going to get you for sticking me with this mess.”
“Um, Mom, I think if I offer to pay for her van to be washed, all will be well,” Mel said. “Not that I want to, but I will if you think it’ll make it right.”
“Her van?” Joyce gaped at her daughter.
“Yeah,” Mel said. “I think that’s more than generous, given how annoying she’s been.”
“The girl is dead. Why would she care if you pay to wash her car?”
They stared at each other, and Mel got a sinking feeling in her chest.
“Mom.” It was Mel’s turn to frown. “What, exactly, do you think I’ve done?”
Joyce glanced around the room, as if to make sure they were alone. “Whacked Christie Stevens, of course.”
“WHAT?” Mel yelled. She didn’t mean to, but truly, if her mother had said she’d been spawned by an alien abduction, she couldn’t have been more shocked. “Are you kidding me?”
“Hush. It was a crime of passion. I’m sure we can make an excellent defense for that.”
“You think I murdered Christie?” Mel asked. She plunked her hands on her hips and faced her mother down. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Well . . .”
“Don’t you ‘well’ me,” Mel said in a fine imitation of Joyce. “How could you, Mom? How could you think that of me?”
“Tate is the love of your life,” she said. “It’s understandable that the thought of him marrying another might provoke . . .”
“What? Homicidal tendencies?” Mel smacked a hand down on the table. It sounded like a shot, and made her mother jump. It was louder than Mel had intended, and defused her first surge of anger. However, she was still mightily annoyed. “Mom, I am not now, nor have I ever been, in love with Tate. He’s my friend and that’s it.”
Joyce stepped close to her daughter and patted her hand. “That was excellent, I almost believed it. Don’t you worry. We’ll hire the best attorneys money can buy.”
With a quick hug and kiss, Joyce left. Mel watched her go. Her powers of speech had left her, and she stared stupidly at the doorway, wondering what else the day could bring.
“What was that about?” Angie ducked her head in. “I heard you slap the table all the way out front.”
“My mother thinks I whacked Christie Stevens.”
“Did you?” Angie asked.
“What?” Mel asked, shocked. Surely, Angie couldn’t think that, too.
“I’m just messing with you,” Angie said with a grin.
Mel sagged with relief. “Not funny.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The look on your face was classic.” Mel scowled.
“Don’t worry. You know your mom has always been deluded about you and Tate.”
“Yeah,” Mel said. “She doesn’t understand that we’re all just friends.”
Angie moved across the table from Mel and helped her shift the Tinkerbells on the tray to make for easier access.
“So, you’ve never had feelings for Tate?” Angie asked.
Mel glanced up at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
Angie looked momentarily uncomfortable, but she pressed on. “No, I’m serious. Has there ever been a time when you thought you might like to date him?”
“Date Tate?” Mel asked. “The guy who used to have me check his braces for stray lettuce leaves before social studies? The pal who totaled my first car when I was trying to teach him to drive a stick shift? The same buddy who sounded an air horn at my cooking school graduation? That Tate?”
Angie was laughing out loud by the time Mel was done.
“Sorry,” she said through her chuckles. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You’ve been hanging around my mother too much,” Mel said. “Don’t get me wrong. Tate’s on the short list of people I’d give a kidney to, but he’s not a romantic prospect—not now, not ever.”
With the cupcakes all nicely arranged, Mel hefted the tray up to her shoulder and headed out the door to restock the display case.
“You must feel the same way,” she said, but Angie was behind her and Mel missed whatever she said as she walked into the shop and found Uncle Stan and Detective Rayburn waiting for her. Uncle Stan did not look happy.

Seven

“Uncle Stan, it’s not your usual day for a cupcake!” Angie hurried around the counter to give him a hug. He returned the hug and smiled down at her.
“Hi, Angie. Hey, how are the brothers?”
“Oh, you know, lovable, annoying, lovable, same old, same old,” she said with a wave of her hand.
During their teen years, Uncle Stan had gotten to know several of Angie’s seven brothers quite well for a variety of misdeeds and misdemeanors.
Mel slid the tray into the display case and glanced over the top. Uncle Stan was studying her.
“Mel, do you have a minute? I’m actually here on official business.”
Angie looked over her shoulder at Mel with wide eyes.
“It’s okay,” Mel said.
Several of the customers at the booths and tables were watching the interaction, so Mel pasted a pleasant smile on her face. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was failing a health inspection. She gestured for Uncle Stan and company to come around the counter to talk to her in the back.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
She wasn’t sure whether she should sit or stand. If she sat and they didn’t, it would be intimidating, so she stood and leaned against the worktable, hoping to look casual as opposed to rude.
Rayburn jingled the change in his pocket, as if he were eager for something to happen. He made her nervous, and Mel studied him more closely than she had before. He was short and skinny with a cowlick and a prominent Adam’s apple. He was a new recruit to the detective squad, and he looked it. Judging by the mustard stain on his tie, Mel was betting Rayburn was single and likely to remain that way. Looking at the two of them, she couldn’t help being reminded of Laurel and Hardy. As much as she loved Uncle Stan, this did nothing to reassure her.
Rayburn met her gaze briefly before he carefully moved it over the room. She knew he was cataloging every detail of her kitchen. There was no reason for it, but it still made her nervous.
“What’s going on, Uncle Stan?” she asked, turning her attention back to him because he seemed to be running the show.
“We have some more questions.”
“All right,” Mel replied.
Detective Rayburn walked around the kitchen. He peered into the empty bowl of her pink mixer, and Mel wondered if he was foraging for food. Maybe she should offer him a cupcake. Would that constitute bribery? Wait . . . what would she be bribing them for?
“Mel?” Uncle Stan interrupted her thoughts, and she suspected he’d said her name more than once.
“Yes?” She forced herself to focus on him.
“There was a box of cupcakes found in Ms. Stevens’s studio,” he said. “The markings on the box indicate that they came from your shop. Do you have something you want to tell me?”
“Oh, God, you talked to Mom, didn’t you?” she asked.
“I’m concerned about you,” Uncle Stan said.
“Did she tell you that I’m in love with Tate?” Mel asked. “Uncle Stan, do not believe her.”
Rayburn paused in his search of the kitchen to listen to their conversation.
Uncle Stan raised one bushy eyebrow, which encouraged Mel to continue. “Mom has had it in her head that I’ve loved Tate since we were kids. I don’t, I never have, I never will.”
She watched as Uncle Stan seemed to relax just the littlest bit at this news.
“So you were at her shop to go over the flavors of cupcakes you’d baked?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mel said, feeling relief that someone was finally listening to her.
“Did you bring them over this morning?”
“No, two of her employees came by and picked them up yesterday.”
“Which employees?”
“Two young women named Alma and Phoebe.”
Uncle Stan’s eyebrows moved again, and she’d have bet her secret for moist cupcakes (use oil, not butter) that he was thinking about Alma’s surly attitude. He made a note in his pad.
“What were some of the flavors?” Rayburn asked.
Mel felt him walk behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder; he was examining the area around her triple-basin steel sink. She knew it was unreasonable, but she was not liking him very much.
“There were five different kinds, a chocolate cupcake with cherry filling, a lemon coconut . . . um . . . can I ask why you’re interested in this?”
Uncle Stan opened his mouth to answer when he was interrupted by a voice at the door.
“He probably wants the recipe. He’s the only detective I know who relaxes by watching the Food Network.”
Mel spun around. Joe DeLaura was standing in the doorway. His dark blue suit fit him perfectly and added to his aura of authority. Detective Rayburn straightened up at the sight of him.
“What can I say? Kitchen wizardry runs in the family,” Uncle Stan said as he reached out to shake Joe’s extended hand.
“Oh, please, I’ve tasted your meat loaf. It’s only good for use as a doorstop,” Joe said.
Uncle Stan looked put out and Mel laughed, feeling the tension in the room evaporate.
Uncle Stan adjusted his belt around his middle as he said, “Need I remind you who invited the new fire chief over to his house for a barbecue and then lit his backyard on fire?”
To Mel’s surprise, Joe laughed out loud, and she was momentarily distracted by how handsome he was. His laugh was deep, and she felt it rumble through her own chest, causing her to smile even though she was clearly not in on the joke.
She couldn’t help but notice that once again, Joe had appeared just when she needed him.
“So what brings you here?” Uncle Stan asked.
“Cupcakes. Well, that, and it’s my turn to check up on Angie,” Joe said. “Don’t tell her I said that, though, or she’ll get cranky. Hey, have you tried their Blonde Bombshell? It’s amazing.”
Mel felt herself flush with pleasure, but Uncle Stan exchanged an uncertain look with Rayburn and then nodded.
“Joe, can I have a word with you?” he asked. “Outside?”
“Sure,” he said and turned to Mel. “Tell Ange to save me one of those raspberry things out there. You’ve got a crowd, and they’re going fast.”
“Will do.” Mel tried not to feel abandoned when they disappeared, leaving her with the gangly detective.
Rayburn asked her about the flavors of the cupcakes she’d made for Christie, when she’d made them, and if she had a list of ingredients. He also asked if she had any more, and she went into the walk-in to check. There were a few of each. She showed the detective and then watched in horror as he pulled on gloves and bagged the cupcakes. This could not be good.
When Joe came back, he didn’t look as if he’d been laughing. She felt nervous again, as if something was happening but no one was telling her exactly what.
“I think we’re done here, Mel,” Uncle Stan said. “If you think of anything I ought to know, call me.”
“I will,” she said as she gave him a quick hug.
“I’ll walk this disgrace to the culinary arts out,” Joe said, and then turned back. “Don’t forget my cupcake.”
“Oh, right.” Mel went to the display case. She tried to see through the window, but they went the other way. Damn
“What’s going on?” Angie asked, not bothering to hide her concern.
“I don’t know,” Mel answered. “They had a lot of questions about the cupcakes I made for Christie.”
“That can’t be good.”
“No,” Mel agreed. “Lucky thing Joe showed up.”
“Lucky, my foot,” Angie said. “As soon as Uncle Stan said it was business, I called Joe.”
“You did?”
“Heck, yeah.What’s the point of having an assistant district attorney brother if you can’t call him in a crisis?”
“I don’t know if this qualifies as a crisis, but I appreciate it.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m getting a bad feeling about all of this, Mel,” Angie said.
Mel looked at her and noticed that her large brown eyes looked flat-out scared. It made a shiver run up Mel’s spine, but she shook it off. This was ridiculous. She hadn’t done anything but bake some cupcakes and be the unfortunate one to find Christie. Surely everyone could see that?
When Joe returned, he looked as if he’d just witnessed a three-car pileup with no survivors.
“Mel,” he said, “can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” She followed him back to the kitchen.
“The medical examiner’s preliminary findings are that Christie died of unnatural causes,” he said.
“What?” Mel asked stupidly.
“She was a thirty-two-year-old female in excellent health with no preexisting conditions. Young women don’t just drop dead. They’ll be doing a full autopsy to discover the exact cause of death, but right now they suspect foul play was involved.”
Mel sat down hard on one of the stools. She couldn’t believe this. Christie had not been one of her favorite people by any stretch of the imagination, but murder? That seemed an awfully harsh way to go for being a self-involved egomaniac.
Joe sat on the stool beside her. She took comfort in his presence. He was the righter of wrongs. He’d always been like that. When any of his brothers got into a scuffle, Joe, born smack in the middle of the seven boys, was the one who stuck up for the underdog and negotiated a truce. It was small wonder that he had become a lawyer.
Mel couldn’t help but wonder who he believed was the underdog here, however, her or Christie?
“What’s going to happen?” she asked.
“In a nutshell, the detectives will investigate, the medical examiner will tell them what he discovers, they’ll compile a suspect list, and when they gather enough evidence, they’ll make an arrest. Then my office will prosecute the case, hopefully putting the murderer behind bars.”
“Seems pretty clear-cut,” Mel said.
“It should be, but it never is.”
“Joe, am I going to need a lawyer?” she asked. Her voice sounded fainter than she would have liked, so she cleared her throat.
“Do
you
think you need a lawyer?” he countered.
Mel glanced at him and noticed his usually warm brown eyes were narrowed in concentration as he studied her. He could not possibly think that she did it!
She jumped to her feet. “I did not harm Christie!”
“I never said you did,” he replied, jumping to his feet, too.
They faced each other with just a foot of space between them. Mel was so furious she was surprised she wasn’t letting off sparks. First her mother then Uncle Stan, and now Joe—they all thought she was a suspect. It cut deep, and she was out of Band-Aids.
“Get out,” she snapped. If he thought this badly of her, then she didn’t want him around, no matter how much she liked him.
“Listen,” he said. His voice was placating, but Mel was having none of it.
“No!” she snapped. She turned on her heel and stomped to her office. She slammed the door so hard it rattled on its hinges.
She heard Angie’s voice through the door. It was muffled, but she could tell that Angie was irate. She heard Joe reply, but couldn’t make out his words. It helped to know that her friend was on her side. She refused to acknowledge how much it hurt for Joe to think that she might be a murderer. It just showed that he didn’t know her at all, not even one little bit.
She sat at her desk, and a picture of Angie, Tate, and herself stared back at her. It was from last Halloween when they had gone as the Three Stooges. She looked at Tate with his faux bald head—he’d been Curly—and she felt as if a giant hand was squeezing her chest. To lose his bride to a murderer, what must he be going through right now?
She dug her cell phone out of her purse. She needed to call him. His phone rang and rang and rang and went to voice mail.
“I’ve already tried three times.”
Angie stood in the doorway.
“Did Joe tell you what the medical examiner thinks?”
“That Christie was murdered?” Angie asked. “Yes.”
“Did he tell you they think I did it?”
“He didn’t have to,” Angie replied. “You found the body. It’s not a big shock that they’d look at you.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, duh,” Angie said. “I’m just saying, of course they’re going to look at you and, of course, they’re wrong.”
“Thank you, but it doesn’t change the fact that someone did murder Christie.”
“Do you think they’re considering Tate?” Angie asked.
“He is . . . was her fiancé,” Mel said. “I think they’d have to.”
“It wasn’t Tate,” Angie said.
“I know”
“Then who?”
“How should I know?” Mel asked. “I barely knew the woman.”
“No need to get snippy,” Angie answered. “I was just throwing it out there.”
“Yeah, well, a few too many people are looking at me for answers I don’t have,” Mel said. “It’s making me cranky.”
“So I see.”
Mel gave her a look, but Angie just raised her eyebrows, the picture of innocence.
“You know who had a perverse reaction to Christie’s death?” Mel asked.
Angie shook her head as she sank into the seat opposite the desk.
“The creepy-looking girl who came to pick up the cupcakes.”
“Alma? I’d think death would be right up her alley. Probably it’ll inspire her to greater heights of ghoulish fashion design.”
“She wasn’t surprised,” Mel said, remembering the girl’s callous reaction. “In fact, she almost seemed to have expected someone to murder Christie.”
“You met with her for half an hour and you were ready to do her an injury,” Angie pointed out. She reached up and tightened the band that held her thick hair in a ponytail on top of her had. “Can you imagine if you worked with her day in, day out?”
“So, you think it may have been someone in the design studio?”
“Maybe,” Angie replied. “I suppose it depends on what kind of boss she was.”
“I wonder if I could ask Alma,” Mel said. “Or maybe Phoebe; she worshipped Christie.”
“There’s an accurate account,” Angie’s sarcasm was thicker than cream cheese frosting, but Mel ignored her.
“If I talk to both of them, I might get a better idea of what she was like to work for,” Mel said.
The bells on the front door jangled, and Angie hopped up from her seat.
“The first thing you should do is talk to Tate,” Angie said. “He’ll have more information, plus you don’t want to go digging up stuff on his fiancée that might hurt him.”
Mel watched her go. She hated to think that this situation might put her friendship with Tate in jeopardy. Still, she couldn’t have people thinking she was capable of murder. If everyone was looking at her, then they weren’t looking at whoever really did it. And if they weren’t going to, then someone had to, and since it was her neck in the noose, it looked like it was going to be her.