by J. R. Ripley
‘That’s some pretty tough dough you’ve got going there.’
He wiped a small line of perspiration from the side of his chin and cracked a smile. ‘It’s fondant. For covering the cake.’ He blinked at me through thick glasses and slammed the wad against the butcher block countertop so hard I felt it in my bones. ‘This stuff can be a bear.’ He set the fondant aside. ‘Here to pick up a cake?’ His brown close-cropped hair glistened with glitter dust. His nose was broad and his brows were bushy. All together he was quite an ordinary-looking specimen, though he came to life when he smiled. Most of us do. I pegged him to be about thirty.
‘No, not exactly.’ The man in the cape flew past once again then disappeared into another room. ‘Aren’t you at all concerned about him?’
The young man looked over his shoulder. ‘You mean Markie?’ We heard the sounds of yelling coming from the room into which Markie had disappeared. ‘Nah.’
I nodded. So that was the famous Markie. From my first impression, Markie was a real piece of work, but I wouldn’t have gone so far as to call him a masterpiece.
‘If you’re not here for a cake, what can I do for you?’ Strong fingers dug back into the fondant.
I held out my hand. ‘I’m Maggie Miller.’
‘I’m Ben Baker.’ He smirked as he took my hand. ‘And yes, I’m aware of the humor in that. Believe me, I’ve heard all the jokes.’ In a goofy tone, he said, ‘So, how long have you been the baker, Ben the baker?’ He rolled his eyes and dropped the fondant ball next to the large sheeter to his left. It looked like some school kid’s science project clay model of the moon made out of sugar. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Miller?’ He wiped his hands across the white apron covering him from chest to knees.
‘Actually, I was here this earlier morning.’ I dropped my voice though I wasn’t sure why. ‘When your coworker, Ms Willoughby was found.’
Ben’s eyes twitched and his teeth pulled at his lower lip. ‘Oh?’ He nodded. ‘Poor Lisa. Such a tragedy.’
I agreed. ‘Were you here working when the body was discovered?’
Ben nodded. ‘Like I told the police, I was in early. But I didn’t see or hear anything. It must have happened when I was up on the roof.’
My brow furrowed. ‘The roof?’
He shrugged sheepishly. ‘What can I say? I’m a smoker. That’s the only place I’m allowed to light up around here.’
‘So you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?’
It was his time to look puzzled. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious, is all. I mean, my friend did find the body. Maybe you know him? Clive Rothschild?’
A young couple came through the door holding hands. The woman approached and announced they were here for a consultation. ‘Hey, Reva!’ Ben called. ‘Your appointment’s here!’
A short, rather plump woman with a mass of brown hair tangled like a honeysuckle thicket atop her head popped out of a room to our right. Streaks of flour dusted her brown Markie’s Masterpieces T-shirt. She wore her apron folded at the waist and clutched a sketchpad.
A small mustard-yellow loveseat and two olive-colored chairs were arranged in the corner, anchored by a white wool rug. Reva led her clients to the sofa and dropped into the chair across from them. There was a tray of small square cake samples on the table between them.
‘Sure, I know Clive. Not well. But we’ve worked with The Hitching Post a bit.’ He dropped the fondant down the back of the sheet roller and ran the ball through. It came out in a clean flat sheet that he caught in his hands. ‘Bridal stuff. He’s gowns, we’re cakes.’
That made sense. ‘What about Ms Willoughby? Did you know her well?’
He repeated the procedure, running the sheet of fondant through the sheeter one more time. He carefully draped the fondant over the top of a fourteen-inch white cake. ‘Well enough.’
Did I detect some hesitancy? Some guardedness? Some crazed killer-ness?
‘Can you think of anyone who might have disliked her enough to push her down four flights of stairs?’
‘Push? What are you talking about, lady? Lisa fell down the stairs. Broke her neck.’
‘The police don’t think it was an accident.’
‘Police can be wrong.’ Ben wiped his brow with the side of his arm. ‘Usually are. Lisa’s dead. It’s a tragedy,’ he huffed. ‘And it’s going to be another tragedy if I don’t get my job done.’ He slammed another slab of fondant down on the countertop. ‘As you can see, we are really busy here this morning. And short-staffed. If there’s nothing else?’
I was being given the out the door hustle. ‘Maybe I could help? I’m a baker, you know.’
He appeared dubious. ‘You are?’
Well, I sort of was. I had a copy of the Joy of Cooking in the apartment and Betty Crocker’s The Big Book of Cupcakes. I’d practically memorized that one.
He shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’ His eyes jumped to the door.
I pretended not to notice. ‘Do you think I might speak to Markie for a moment?’
‘What about?’ Ben seemed to be getting less friendly by the minute. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe he needed a cigarette break.
‘My sister’s getting married and while I’m here I thought I might discuss the cake. I hear you guys do the best work in all of Arizona.’
Ben’s hands worked themselves around the cake, smoothing the fondant until not a crease showed. I wondered if he could work some of that magic on my face. I was at that age where wrinkles and lines were beginning to show like San Andreas fault stress lines no matter how much foundation I layered on.
‘I’ll ask him but no guarantees. We really are behind schedule.’
Ben disappeared. I heard whispered shouting and expected the boot as Ben reappeared. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You can go on back.’
‘Thanks.’
Ben laid a light hand on my shoulder. ‘But I warn you. Markie’s in one of his moods.’
I nodded soberly. Was it a mood for murder?
Markie’s desk was cluttered with more toys than I’d had growing up. In fact, the office was covered wall-to-wall-to-floor with playthings. Was this a cake shop or a toy store?
The desktop collection included a red rubber ball, an American Girl doll – Josefina, I think – a Barbie Malibu Ave. Bakery + Doll and an assortment of Lego. I won’t bore you with the rest. But if Markie turned his back, even for a second, I had my eye on that vintage Slinky Dog next to his business card holder that looked fashioned from a Meccano Erector set and read: Markie Gravelle, Markie’s Masterpieces, Proprietor.
‘I’m Maggie Miller,’ I said, stretching out my hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ I sat down in the chair he gestured toward. ‘I was afraid you might be closed today. You know, after what happened this morning.’
Markie set down the plastic replica pirate ship he’d been inspecting and pouted. Six cannons on each side. ‘It’s so sad,’ he said with a shake of the head. His purple cape swirled behind him. ‘Poor, dear Lisa.’
Markie had a ruddy complexion, as if he’d been spending too much time with his face too near the oven door. His flesh was sort of flaccid, as if his features had been crafted out of folds of fondant like I’d seen Ben kneading earlier. ‘I wish we could have mourned for her, you know. Paid our respects by shutting down for the day.’ Markie clasped his hands atop the desk. ‘But we have so, so many orders to fill.’ His dark brown eyes latched onto mine. ‘Lisa would have wanted us to continue working. She lived for cake.’
And died for it, I thought.
A row of walnut plaques hung on the wall to my left. Each contained the bas relief of a cake done in gold leaf. Markie Gravelle had been named Cake Decorator of the Year five years running by Baking Bridal magazine. I was impressed.
‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’ Markie’s fist banged the desk. The little pirate ship listed to port.
‘Had Lisa worked for you long?’
Markie clamped his lips together and thought. ‘S
ix months, maybe more. She was a jewel. And a wonderful cake decorator.’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Such an artiste!’
I nodded. Such a ham.
‘She was especially adept at working with fondant.’ Markie wiggled his fingers. ‘I’m a buttercream man, myself.’
I smiled and crossed my legs. ‘I’m more a margarita girl.’
Markie returned my smile. His teeth were big and white. He pointed his thumb at me. ‘I like you, Maggie.’
‘Thanks.’ I gazed out the wall of windows behind his desk at the red rock mountains in the distance. It was a view that Lisa Willoughby wouldn’t be sharing any longer. Her last vision was of herself falling down a stairwell. I stifled a shiver. That wasn’t the way I’d want to go. ‘Did Lisa have family here?’
Markie shook his head in the negative. ‘I believe she was from Santa Fe.’ He looked out his office door. ‘Ben might know. He and Lisa had a thing going for a while.’
‘Oh?’ Interesting. Ben hadn’t mentioned that.
Markie shrugged then pushed his hands against his temples. ‘What a morning. We lose Lisa. The Robinsons were forced to buy a store-bought cake.’ Snatching the end of his cape, he dabbed his forehead with the satin cloth. ‘I had nothing in the shop to give them and the event was today.’ He lifted his sagging head. ‘Can you believe it, Maggie?’ He shook his fists overhead. ‘A store-bought cake. For a vow renewal!’ His voice rose to the ceiling. ‘I’m humiliated.’
And one of his employees was dead. I sensed Markie’s priorities were a bit warped.
‘Plus I had to eat the cost of the cake we’d spent days designing and building.’ His hands fished around a pile of papers on his desk and he pulled up an invoice. ‘That was a thirty-five-hundred-dollar cake.’
Yikes! Thirty-five hundred dollars for cake? That was about a hundred supermarket cakes. Who spends that kind of money on cake?
Hang on, what was I thinking? I’d once spent a small fortune on a wedding dress. And what had it gotten me? A dead ex-husband who left me for another woman and wouldn’t stay dead. I should have spent more money on the cake and less on my bridal gown. At least with cake, if I socked it away in the freezer and could control my sweet tooth, I could eat for a month. ‘You must have been here when …’ I hesitated, ‘… it happened.’ I laced my fingers across my lap.
Markie shook his head. ‘No, I came in late today. After the—’ He paused, a solemn look crossing his face. ‘You know.’ He swallowed. ‘I saw all the police cars. I wondered what the devil was going on.’ He reached into the drawer of his desk and stuffed a stick of chewing gum in his mouth. ‘Ben and Reva would have been here.’
‘Oh? I’m sure I saw the Markie’s Masterpieces Nissan Cube parked in the lot about that time.’
Markie shrugged; his hands fiddled with a red and green Lego block. ‘That’s our delivery vehicle. I rode my bike in today.’
I sat taller. ‘You ride a bike? Whatcha got? I ride a twenty-six-inch Schwinn.’
Markie’s left brow arched up like it was modeling for the Arc de Triomphe. ‘I ride a Harley. Softail.’
I shrunk back down. Show-off.
‘Now,’ Markie said. Did I just imagine it or were his eyes glittering with dollar signs? ‘About that wedding cake for your sister.’ He rubbed his thick hands and grabbed a gnawed number two pencil. ‘How many guests will you be serving?’
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m not sure.’ I stood. ‘Maybe I’d better get back to you on that.’
‘Wait,’ said Markie, rising and following me out of his office. ‘When is the wedding?’
‘I’ll have to get back to you on that, too!’ I threw open the door to make my escape before committing my already married sister to a cake neither she nor I could afford. I slammed into an elegant fiftyish woman with long, thick blonde hair – like Goldilocks – and crystal-blue eyes. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said as she lightly brushed a perfectly manicured hand along her shirt.
‘You can beg,’ I said, ‘but you’re not getting it.’ OK, I didn’t really say it. But I thought it real hard. What I really said was, ‘Hi, I’m Maggie Miller.’
She looked down at my hand. ‘Samantha Higgins.’
I retracted my untouched hand and checked it carefully for any fresh signs of leprosy. Nope. Good to go.
‘Mrs Higgins!’ Markie cried. ‘Did you hear what happened?’
Samantha Higgins looked like a woman who always got what she wanted. She wore a chic white tennis outfit – the kind women buy to look good in, not necessarily sweat in. A pumpkin-colored cashmere scarf was wrapped around her slender neck.
The woman nodded. ‘Yes, I was working in the gallery when one of the other gallery owners broke the news to me. Such a terrible tragedy.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed brusque a moment ago.’ She managed a smile. ‘I think I’m in shock, is all. I’ve never been so close to something so … so …’ Her voice faded away.
I nodded. ‘I know. I was there when Ms Willoughby’s body was found.’
Mrs Higgins sucked in a breath. ‘How terrible for you!’ She looked around the shop and lowered her voice. ‘I heard the fellow from The Hitching Post was involved.’
Wow, news had travelled fast.
Markie nodded and folded his hands behind his back.
‘Were you and Ms Willoughby close, Mrs Higgins?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but she was supposed to be working on my wedding cake for this Sunday.’ She bit at her lower lip. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do now.’ She gasped and her eyes grew wide. ‘What about our Labor of Love?’
‘Getting married?’ Not for the first time, I suspected.
Mrs Higgins looked at me blankly before replying. ‘No, my daughter, Sabrina.’ Before I knew what was happening, she’d pulled out a wallet containing a picture of what looked remarkably like a younger version of herself.
‘Don’t worry,’ Markie cut in, grabbing the woman’s hand, ‘we’ll manage. Everything will be ready in time for your daughter’s wedding.’
‘Thank you, Markie, dear.’ She worried her wedding ring. ‘I’ve been a ball of nerves.’ Mrs Higgins pulled a lacey handkerchief from her purse and daubed her eyes. ‘What with Sabrina and Cody’s wedding and the Labor of Love both coming up this weekend …’
That was the second time she’d used the expression ‘labor of love.’ I love weddings as much as the next gal, but still. Weddings are work, lots of work. The labor I got, the ‘of love’ was stretching it. I started to say my goodbyes. So far my search for answers had come up short. Far short.
‘And to think,’ I heard Mrs Higgins say, ‘that Mr Wolfe might be a murderer.’ She shuddered.
I shuddered too. Maybe it was contagious. ‘No,’ I said, clutching the door handle. ‘You’re mistaken. It isn’t Johnny Wolfe that the police are interested in. It’s Clive Rothschild.’
Mrs Higgins’ brow curled up. ‘Are you sure, dear?’
I nodded. ‘Sure as can be. I should know. Like I said, I was here.’
A queer look passed over her face. ‘That’s funny.’
I was getting a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. In fact, I felt my blood chilling down. ‘What’s funny?’ I asked, cocking my head to one side, pretty sure already that the next words out her mouth wouldn’t be funny at all.
Mrs Higgins wrung her hands and deposited her handkerchief back in her oversized tan leather purse. ‘It was Mr Wolfe that I saw speeding away from here this morning.’ She shrugged. ‘So I just assumed …’
TEN
‘Do you mean to say you saw—’
The phone in Mrs Higgins’ purse started ringing like an old-fashioned telephone. She reached in to answer it. ‘Hello?’ She smothered the phone with her palm. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said. ‘I really must take this.’
Mrs Higgins turned her back on me and settled down on the corner loveseat. Markie showed me the door.
The freight elevator was still marked off limits with crime-scene tape s
o I rode the passenger elevator down to the ground floor. Mrs Higgins had dropped a bombshell and, though I was properly shell-shocked, there was nothing I could do about it now.
I’d have to find Johnny and wring the truth out of him. Had he been at the Entronque building this morning? If so, why hadn’t he said so? Maybe he saw something. Something that could help Clive.
Yikes. Maybe he did something! But why?
I spotted the woman Ben had identified as Reva sitting alone at a round pine table out front of a small café called Magic Beans beside the roadrunner fountain. The smell of coffee hung in the air. I angled over. ‘Hi, I’m Maggie Miller. You’re Reva, right? Work for Markie’s Masterpieces?’
She snatched a tube of raspberry lip gloss from her open purse atop the small table and applied it generously to her full lips. ‘That’s right.’ Reva seemed nervous as she looked me up and down. ‘I saw you upstairs.’ She popped the top back on her lip gloss and tossed it into the bowels of her purse. ‘And earlier today, with the police.’
‘I’m helping them with their investigation into Lisa Willoughby’s death.’
Her brows shot up and her eyes twinkled with obvious amusement. ‘In a Maggie’s Beignet Café polo?’
I stopped a frown on its way to blossoming. The blush I couldn’t hide. This woman was perceptive and smart. I hated her already. ‘I’m sort of undercover.’
Her brown eyes flickered. She didn’t look like she was buying what I was selling but she moved her purse aside and waved for me to take a seat. I sat quickly before she changed her mind. Her pale complexion highlighted a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Definitely not a sun worshipper. I pegged her as fortyish. I didn’t see a wedding band. Not that that meant anything. Maybe working with cake all day she didn’t want to take a chance on her ring ending up the prize in somebody’s forkful.
‘So what are you really doing here?’
I decided on the blunt approach – after all, she’d started it. ‘A friend of mine has been accused of being involved in Lisa’s death.’