Dark Chocolate Demise

by Jenn McKinlay

“How many cupcakes have you eaten?” Dom asked.

  “A few,” Sal said, not meeting his brother’s eyes.

  “Uh-huh,” Dom said. “Looks like you need to go home and purge.”

  “You’re not the boss of me,” Sal protested.

  “Tell me about it,” Angie muttered under her breath.

  “Go,” Dom ordered, making it clear he did think he was the boss. “Mel, is it okay if I sit out front?” He gestured to the laptop bag he carried. “I have some work to do.”

  “No problem,” Mel said. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” Dom said. He pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared.

  “He thinks he’s such a hotshot,” Sal said. His stomach made a horrible grumbling noise and he quickly slipped out the back door, looking decidedly green.

  “Should we feel bad about that?” Mel asked.

  Angie shook her head. “We didn’t make him eat all of those cupcakes. Life is choices, and Sal tends to make bad ones.”

  Mel nodded. She’d known him long enough to know this was true.

  The kitchen door swung open again, and this time it was Tate. He was grinning from ear to ear, which Mel thought was pretty amazing given that his fiancée was being targeted for murder.

  Tate beelined it for Angie, picked her up, and swung her around in circles until she was breathless and clinging to him for fear of falling.

  “What has gotten into you?” she asked.

  “Millions,” he said.

  “Millions of what?” Angie asked as he set her down on one of the stools around the worktable.

  “Cupcakes,” he said.

  Mel smiled. “I think that’s how many Sal ate, but he’s not looking as happy as you.”

  “That’s because he ate those cupcakes instead of franchising them,” Tate said. “Check this out. After extensive research and cost analysis, I have determined that the best price to buy into a Fairy Tale Cupcake franchise would be two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Mel rolled her eyes. She might have known this had to do with Tate’s franchise idea. Then she smiled. No way was anyone ever going to pay that to start up a sister bakery to her original store.

  Angie bit her lip and said what Mel was thinking, “No one is ever going to pay that.”

  “You’re right,” Tate said.

  Mel almost jumped up and down and clapped with joy. She was so tired of having the same argument with Tate.

  “No one is going to pay that,” he said. Then he grinned. “However, five some ones have already filed the paperwork to buy in. My dears, we are going to be rich!”

  Angie cheered and launched herself into Tate’s arms. “You are a financial genius!”

  Mel twisted her apron in her hands. She truly did not want to be the flat can of pop at the picnic, but all she could hear in her head was her hysterical baker voice screaming about the quality of the franchised baked goods.

  Tate must have sensed she was starting to hyperventilate, and he quickly turned and grabbed her hands in his and said, “‘If we’re not pioneers, what have we become? What do you call people, who when they’re faced with a condition or fear, do nothing about it?’”

  “Charles Bronson in Death Wish,” Mel said with a smile. Leave it to Tate to pick that movie to quote, such a dude’s pick. “But let’s not forget that is a movie and not my bakery.”

  “Mel, you’ll have the authority to oversee operations and make sure that everything is up to scratch,” Angie said.

  “Nice wordplay,” Tate said and kissed her.

  “I know, I know that’s what we agreed on, but until I see it in action, it’s very stressful,” Mel said.

  “On the upside, one of the strongest applicants is in Vegas,” Tate said.

  “Road trip?” Angie asked. “Oh, man, we have to watch Viva Las Vegas before we go.”

  While a fan of all things Elvis, Mel felt a little hurly at the thought of her cupcakes trying to hold their own on the Strip.

  “It’ll be okay,” Tate said. “I promise.”

  Mel nodded. She believed him. She did. Really.

  “So where is your chaperone?” Tate asked.

  “Oh, yeah, that sounds so much better than bodyguard,” Angie said. “Not.”

  “Sal went home ill,” Mel said. “Dom is out front keeping an eye on things. Didn’t you see him when you came in?”

  “No,” Tate said. He turned and strode through the swinging doors to the front. Mel and Angie followed him.

  Dom was in a corner booth. His laptop was open and he was on his cell phone. His face was a mottled shade of red, and his low voice boomed through the bakery when he growled, “Put your sister on the phone. Now.”

  Fearless, Angie approached her brother, looking concerned. “What’s going on?”

  In answer, Dom spun the laptop so that she could see. Angie’s eyes went round and she backed away. She rejoined Mel and Tate and said, “We may want to clear the area. Big brother is about to go vol-freaking-canic.”

  “Why?” Tate asked. He looked nervous and Mel knew it was because his status as fiancé was still under scrutiny by the brothers.

  “My niece, in a singular lack of good judgment, posted a pic to her social media page of her swigging a beer at a party,” Angie said.

  “She’s sixteen!” Mel said.

  “Yeah, and I’m not sure she’s going to see seventeen,” Angie said.

  “Are we having a staff meeting?” Marty asked as he joined them.

  “More like watching a DeLaura implosion,” Tate said.

  “What’s the hullaballoo?” Marty asked.

  “Niece. Beer bottle. Internet.”

  Marty shook his head, clearly confused. “What’s the big stink?”

  “You are grounded!” Dom thundered into the phone. “You will not be going anywhere this weekend, no parties, no friends, nada. Do not sass me, young lady.”

  There was a pause. Dom gasped. Then he pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it as if it had bit him.

  “She hung up on me.”

  “Oh, that’s not going to go well,” Angie said.

  Sure enough, Dom began throwing all of his things into his laptop bag. He paused beside their gawking group and looked at Tate.

  “You got this?” he asked.

  Tate put his arm around Angie. “With my life.”

  “If necessary,” Dom said. He left the bakery at a run.

  “Parents these days,” Marty said.

  “Don’t you mean ‘kids these days’?” Angie asked.

  “Nah, it’s the parents,” he said. “They give ‘precious’ a participation trophy just for showing up, and they wonder why the kid thinks they don’t have to do squat but should still get a trophy.”

  “I don’t think I ever got a participation trophy,” Mel said.

  “That’s because you didn’t join anything,” Tate said. “I got a few. They were lame.”

  “Agreed,” Angie said. “They never meant as much as the awards I knew I’d earned. How does that factor into my niece being an idiot?”

  “No consequences,” Marty said. “You think she would have posted that picture if she knew her dad was going to take a hammer to her phone if she did anything that dumb? No, instead he grounds her. What’s that going to teach her when she’s still connected to her friends with her phone?”

  “Good point,” Angie said. “I’m going to text him your suggestion.”

  She pulled out her phone and fired off a text to her brother.

  “So, it’s about respect,” Tate said. “And a little fear.”

  “Exactly. Your kids aren’t your friends until they’re grown-ups. People just don’t get that,” Marty said. “How many times do we have moms come in here, and if we don’t have the cupcak
e flavor little Johnny wants, she starts negotiating with him. You’ve heard it. Mom bends down to the squirt’s level while he’s pitching a stink and she says, ‘How about vanilla? You like vanilla,’ and on and on it goes while the little runt gets meaner and meaner. What she should do is order what she wants and let the wee one go without. Once is all it would take.”

  Mel nodded. She’d played out this scene just the other day. The whining kid had been like fingernails on a chalkboard, and the mother coddled the mini-monster because she was so worried about his feelings she didn’t give a hoot about his manners.

  “Sometimes you don’t get the flavor you want,” Tate said.

  “And you learn how to deal with it,” Angie said.

  “I actually had a dad offer me a fifty if I could just make a carrot cake cupcake appear for his little princess,” Marty said. “All I could think was that poor little girl is screwed for life.”

  “Sad but true,” Mel agreed. “Hopefully, your niece is about to have her rude awakening right now.”

  “It’s overdue,” Angie said. “Marty’s right about how Dom has been with her since she was born. In fact, I’ve never liked spending time with her. Hey, this might be kind of fun to watch.”

  “Promise me when we have kids, we won’t ruin them,” Tate said to Angie.

  “Sure, if Marty will work in an advisory capacity,” Angie said.

  Marty grinned. “So, we’re going to have a baby?”

  Fifteen

  “What?! Who’s having a baby?” Ray strode into the bakery, looking like he was gearing up to crack some skulls, namely Tate’s.

  “Relax,” Angie said. She stepped forward and hugged her brother. “We’re talking someday, not right now.”

  “That’s good, very good,” Ray said, giving Tate the hairy eyeball. It was definitely a look that said the jury was still out.

  He then shook Marty’s hand, not Tate’s, and hugged Mel and said, “And you, you’re saving yourself for Joe, right?”

  Angie slapped a hand to her forehead. “Really? Just like that you’re going there? You’re not even trying to finesse it a little?”

  “What’s to finesse?” Ray asked. He turned and bumped knuckles with Marty. “Am I right, Z?”

  Angie glanced between Marty and her brother. “You two seem awfully chummy, Z?”

  Marty’s bald head turned a faint shade of pink. Ray was the DeLaura family wild card. Sal liked to think he was it, but really as a used car salesman, not so much. But Ray was the one who was “connected.” He lived at Turf Paradise during the horse-racing season, and he was the one who usually “knew a guy” when something needed to be done quickly and quietly. Mel knew that of all the brothers, Joe lost the most sleep over Ray.

  “We’ve taken in some horse races together,” Marty said. “NBD.”

  “No big deal?” Ray exclaimed. “Z, are you telling me that you didn’t tell them about your big win?”

  “I didn’t want to brag,” Marty said. Mel noticed he was not making eye contact with any of them.

  “Brag? My friend, you should have been headlining the nightly news. This guy,” Ray poked Marty in the chest and shook his head before he continued, “this guy put three hundred down on a thirty-to-one horse just because”—Ray stopped to laugh—“because”—he laughed again—“the horse evacuated its bowels on the way to the gate, and Z figured he’d lightened his load enough to win.”

  Ray slapped Marty so hard on the back that Marty lurched forward, stopped only by Tate, who was quick enough to catch him.

  “It was epic,” Ray concluded. “And that’s not his only amazing win. I swear you must have some psychic abilities, Z.”

  “Of course he does—he’s from another dimension.”

  Mel turned around to see two boys standing just inside the entrance to the bakery. They were dressed in green coveralls, and each had a bulky backpack on. Mel thought they looked familiar, but she couldn’t place them.

  “There he is!” The smaller one pointed at Marty while the older one dropped his backpack, opened it, and went digging inside.

  “Don’t let him disappear this time,” the bigger one said. “He’s a sneaky specter.”

  It all came back to Mel in a flash. The Bonehead Investigators, the two brothers from the zombie walk who thought Marty was a ghoul. In all the commotion that day, she’d never found out how Marty had managed to ditch them.

  “You’re the two ghost hunters, right?” Mel asked. “Leo and Adam?”

  The smaller one rolled his eyes. “Wrong. It’s Atom A-T-O-M, and we’re paranormal investigators.”

  “Of course,” Mel said. She didn’t look at any of the others for fear she’d burst out laughing.

  “Oh, for gosh Pete’s sake!” Marty said. “I told you two before I am not a ghost.”

  “My specter meter begs to differ, ghoul,” the younger one said. He was holding his phone at Marty, and the thing was flashing and whistling.

  “Did we miss something?” Angie asked.

  “No!” Marty said. “Just two dopey kids playing a prank.”

  The taller of the two, Leo, looked offended. “This is no prank. Look.”

  He took his specter meter and aimed it at Mel. It went quiet and blank. He did the same with Tate, Angie, and Ray. Then he turned it on Marty, and it went berserk just like his brother’s.

  “See?” Leo said as if it was all perfectly reasonable. “He’s a ghost.”

  “I am not, you little mongrel,” Marty said.

  “Surely, there is a logical explanation,” Tate said. “Maybe your meter is picking up Marty’s belt buckle or something.”

  The little one gave Tate a look of utter disdain. “It’s not a metal detector. Honestly, do you know anything about the denizens of the netherworld?”

  Ray moaned and Mel looked at him in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I hate this stuff,” he said. “Ghosts and scary movies, possessions and hauntings, it all just freaks me out.”

  “It’s true,” Angie said. “He tried to watch Halloween when he was sixteen and scared himself so bad he had to sleep with Mom and Dad for a month.”

  “Aw, man, thanks for sharing my shame, Ange,” Ray snapped.

  “Sorry.” She shrugged. Then she gave Mel a knowing look. “You know, it might not be Marty that they’re picking up on. Maybe we have a ghost.”

  The young brothers exchanged a look of excitement while Ray turned a puke shade of gray.

  “What ghost?” Tate asked.

  “You remember?” Angie said. “The one the Realtor told us about when Mel first looked at the place.”

  Tate scratched his head. “No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Or maybe we’re being haunted by that guy who was murdered in the alley,” Marty offered. “You know, the cranky reporter from the magazine. I mean if you had to spend eternity hanging around, wouldn’t you rather be in a pretty bakery than a stinky alley?”

  “There was a murder here?” Atom’s eyes went wide.

  Mel felt bad talking about the tragic event, but maybe it would scare the daring duo away, which for Marty’s sake would not be a bad thing. She didn’t know how long he could put up with the two stubby shadows without losing his cool.

  “Do you think there was a transference?” Leo asked Atom. “Maybe the specter is now inhabiting the body of the old man and that’s why we’re getting a reading off of him.”

  Atom scratched his head in thought. “I suppose it’s possible. It would explain why he appears alive with such a high specter reading.

  “I don’t appear alive,” Marty snapped. “I am alive. And I am not possessed by some ghostie. Don’t you think I’d know if I were possessed?”

  “We’d better check,” Leo said. He pulled out a mini-flashlight and shone the beam in Marty’s eyes.

 
“Hey, knock it off, I have cataracts,” Marty said and pushed the boy’s hand away from his face.

  “Any periods of blackout?” Atom asked. “Unexplained memory loss.”

  “Of course; I’m old, aren’t I?” Marty asked. “Hell, five times out of seven I can’t remember why I enter a room.”

  “Blackouts?” Ray yelped. “OMG, he is possessed! That’s why he can pick the winning horses!”

  “That does make sense,” Angie said, looking thoughtful. “Maybe we need to have an exorcism.”

  “No, it does not make sense,” Marty argued.

  “I . . . I . . . I have to go,” Ray stammered. He was texting on his cell phone as he backed to the door. “Tony or Al will be here shortly.”

  “Huh, he looks like he’s seen a ghost,” Leo said to Atom, and they both cracked up. Mel and Angie joined them, but Tate looked irritated. “Your brothers are here to keep an eye on you,” he said to Angie. “Scaring them off is not funny.”

  “He’s right,” Atom said to Leo, looking serious. “We have a mission to contain the ghost.”

  “Roger that,” Leo said. They began digging in their backpacks again.

  “What are you looking for now?” Angie asked, clearly charmed by the brothers.

  “A containment unit,” Leo said. He pulled a glass jar out of his backpack with a twist-off lid.

  “Looks like a pickle jar to me,” Tate said.

  “Pickles, poltergeists, it’s multifunctional,” Atom said.

  “What are you going to do?” Mel asked. The thought of broken glass in her bakery was not wowing her.

  “Contain him,” Leo said.

  “You can’t contain me,” Marty said. “I’m not a ghoul or possessed by a ghost or anything else. I am, however, closer to the gateway of death by about sixty-plus years. Maybe that’s why you get a reading on your spookameter.”

  “Specter meter,” Atom corrected him.

  Leo looked thoughtfully at Marty. “He might be onto something.”

  He reached out and pinched Marty’s forearm.

  “Yow!” Marty cried and yanked his arm back. “What did you do that for?”

  “The subject does have a human response to pain and feels very fleshy.”