Going, Going, Ganache

by Jenn McKinlay

“No, you?”

  “Not a word,” Mel said. “Should we call his house?”

  “I don’t know,” Angie said. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us.”

  “I need a cupcake,” Mel said. She strode to the walk-in refrigerator and pulled the heavy door open. “You want one?”

  “Two,” Angie said. “A Chocolate Espresso and a Chocolate Mint Chip, please. I need a double chocolate shot to get over this day so far.”

  Mel grabbed Angie’s choices and then two of the same for herself, giving herself permission to go back for a Blonde Bombshell if need be.

  They were quiet while they ate. Angie got up to get them each a glass of milk, but neither of them spoke until they had scraped the last of the frosting off their plates.

  “Okay, I’m restored,” Angie said. “Shall we go to Tate’s apartment and see if he’s there?”

  “We might as well,” Mel said. “I can’t face the thought of opening the bakery. It would just seem wrong.”

  “What did Joe say about the whole thing?” Angie asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you called him,” Angie said. “Wasn’t he freaked out that a man was murdered right by his girlfriend’s apartment?”

  “I haven’t called him yet,” Mel said.

  “What?” Angie asked. “Why not? Are you two having a tiff?”

  “Not exactly,” Mel said. Now was her chance. She could tell Angie that Joe had asked her to marry him but that they’d been keeping it quiet and now he was getting impatient. Angie would understand, right?

  “Come on, spill it,” Angie said. “Just because he’s my brother doesn’t mean you can’t tell me if you’re having issues.”

  And there it was. She couldn’t tell Angie about the engagement or anything. Angie was Mel’s best friend and Joe’s sister, and she would be hurt that they hadn’t told her they were engaged, and she’d be upset if they were having problems. Mel couldn’t do that to her.

  “I just don’t want to worry him,” Mel said.

  “Yeah, on top of that black eye you’ve got going, he’ll probably go all mother hen on you,” Angie said with a laugh. Mel cringed. “Oh, jeez, you didn’t tell him about the eye either?” Mel shook her head.

  “He is going to be so unhappy with you,” Angie said. “You know he lives for that ‘ride in and save the day’ stuff.”

  Mel nodded. She did know. In fact, sometimes she wondered if Joe was only with her because she seemed to need so much rescuing. She shook her head, feeling disloyal even thinking it. Joe loved her and she loved him. They were just approaching a new level in their relationship and it was making her cautious, which she was certain was perfectly normal.

  “Come on,” she said, leading the way through the front of the bakery. She still didn’t want to go out the back way. “Let’s go to Tate’s. I’ll even let you drive, since I’m still monocular.”

  “Can that word be used as an adjective?” Angie asked.

  “It can now,” Mel said.

  They locked the bakery door behind them and headed for Angie’s sedan. She cranked the radio to a rock station, and they hummed along as they went. Tate lived just up the street, but they had to get through several lights before they reached his swank building, where he lived in a corner penthouse overlooking the Arizona Canal.

  As Angie navigated the parking garage, the radio announcer’s voice filled the car. “And now here’s a new song from one of our own native sons. This baby is burning its way up the charts, sung by none other than Roach, the drummer of the Sewers, here’s ‘Angie.’”

  Angie stomped on her brakes so hard that they squealed and Mel was sure they left a chunk of rubber on the asphalt.

  “Oh, no, he didn’t!” Angie said.

  “Shh!” Mel hushed her. Her ears were straining as she listened to Angie’s ex-boyfriend sing about their breakup and his heartache. Surprisingly, Roach had a deep voice that resonated with emotion, and Mel felt herself getting choked up.

  “I didn’t know he could sing. I thought he was just the drummer,” Mel said. “Did you know he could sing?”

  “I’m going to kill him,” Angie said. “How could he do this to me?”

  “He’s an artist,” Mel said. “That’s what they do.”

  “Not with my life!” Angie protested.

  A honk blared behind them, and Angie glanced into her rearview mirror to see a Cadillac Escalade perched on her bumper, looking like it wanted to give her a push.

  “Keep your shirt on!” she yelled, as if the driver could hear her.

  She parked in the first available spot and switched off the engine.

  “Are you okay?” Mel asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “No, I’m not. Is he insane?”

  “He’s working through your breakup.” Mel said. “It sounds like he was deeply in love.”

  Angie glared at her.

  “Well, it does,” Mel said. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. “He made me water up and everything. Look at me, I’m a mess.”

  “Oh, my god, we broke up months ago.” Angie rested her head on her steering wheel.

  “Did he mention the song to you?” Mel said.

  “No, because I would have told him not to even think about it,” she said. She fished her phone out of her purse. “I need to call him. That boy has some explaining to do.”

  “Do you want to do that while I go see Tate?” Mel asked. “Or maybe you should wait until you calm down?”

  Angie looked from her phone to Mel and back to her phone. She gave a quick nod.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve reached reasonable just yet. Let’s go. I’ll deal with Roach later.”

  It sounded like Angie was going to be doing some serious Roach stomping. Mel almost felt sorry for him, but really, he had to be expecting it after writing a song about her and their breakup.

  Mel wondered if his purpose all along had been to win Angie back with his music. She didn’t say as much to Angie—she didn’t have a death wish, after all—but she was pretty impressed with Roach right now.

  They made their way into the bottom of Tate’s building. The lobby was done in Italian marble with several deep green velvet couches and a thick Persian carpet in one corner, and an enormous flower arrangement in the center. Mel could see Hal, the doorman, in the mailroom, assisting the mailman, so she and Angie went right to the bank of elevators.

  Since they watched movies with Tate just about every weekend, they both had a key card to the elevator and knew the pass code to his apartment. Angie seemed preoccupied, so Mel fished out her card and used it to summon the elevator. They stepped in and hit the penthouse button.

  The elevator made a soft whoosh, and in moments they were on the topmost floor. There were four penthouse apartments, and Tate had the one that faced southeast. Mel and Angie crossed the smaller lobby, which also had a huge flower arrangement in the middle of it, and stopped in front of Tate’s door.

  Mel rang the bell, and they waited. If Tate wasn’t at work or at the bakery, he would most likely be home. No one answered, however, and Mel frowned.

  She and Angie exchanged a look, and Angie rapped on the front door with her knuckles. Still, there was no answer.

  “I’m using the code,” Angie said, and she tapped in the code that would unlock the door on the keypad next to the door.

  They heard a click as the door unlatched, and Angie grabbed the handle and turned it. She looked at Mel before she pushed it open, and Mel nodded. Angie entered the apartment, and Mel followed.

  The sight that met their eyes stopped them both in their tracks.

  “What happened?” Angie asked. Her voice echoed in the empty room. Gone were all of Tate’s furnishings, including his enormous television and comfy couches.

  “At a guess,” Mel said as she took it all in, “I’d say he’s moved out.”

  “Yesterday,” said a voice from the door.

  Mel let out a shrie
k and spun around while Angie stiffened as if ready to fight off an attacker. There was no need, as it was Hal, the doorman. He looked at them with a sad smile, and Mel realized that he didn’t like being the bearer of bad news.

  “I take it Mr. Tate didn’t tell you he had moved out?” he asked.

  “No,” Angie said. “He neglected to mention it.”

  “What’s going to happen to the apartment?” Mel asked.

  “A realtor was in here this morning,” Hal said. “He didn’t say as much, but I assume Mr. Tate is going to sell it. Are either of you interested?”

  Mel and Angie exchanged a look. In a dream world, they would be able to buy a place like this.

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Mel said.

  Hal looked sad. “It’s a real loss to lose Mr. Tate. He was a good tenant, always pleasant and never loud. No one ever complained about him.”

  Mel knew that there were a few pseudo celebrities living in the building who were not well liked. One was a movie actress whose star had waned who was known for going out and getting roaring drunk and bringing the party back to her penthouse. Darby Meeks was her name, and she lived catty-corner from Tate. On several occasions they’d seen her taken out by the paramedics when she’d overindulged. Mel had never understood it. Darby had wealth and fame, and she chose to squander it in a parade of drugs and alcohol, letting the world see her still beautiful face covered in her own snot and tears with vomit running down her front. It was pathetic.

  “You don’t think Darby’s antics finally caused him to move, do you?” Mel asked Angie.

  “No, Darby’s been in rehab out in Wickenburg for a month,” Angie said. “Besides she was afraid of coming near Tate after I clarified his situation for her.”

  “Ah,” Mel said.

  Darby had taken to showing up at Tate’s front door buck naked with a rose in her teeth and holding a bottle of champagne. She had made the mistake of doing it on a night when Angie had opened the door.

  “I can’t believe we’ll never watch movies here again,” Angie said.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us he was selling,” Mel said. “If he’s moved out of here, where is he living?”

  “Let’s ask him,” Angie said. She took out her phone and called Tate again. Still, there was no answer.

  “Hal, I suppose we should leave our pass cards with you,” Mel said. She handed him hers and Angie did the same.

  Hal looked choked up, but he took the cards with a nod as if accepting the inevitable.

  “Come by the bakery anytime,” Mel said. “I’ll always have a Red Velvet waiting for you.”

  “Aw, thanks, Miss Mel,” Hal said. He blew his nose into a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. “I’m going to miss you girls.”

  He opened his arms wide, and Mel and Angie exchanged an uncertain look before stepping into his embrace. They shared an awkward hug and an even more awkward ride down in the elevator.

  As they crossed the parking garage to Angie’s car, she looked at Mel and said, “That was more emotional than I expected.”

  “I know,” Mel agreed. “I knew Hal was fond of us, but I didn’t expect tears.”

  “Some people are really bad with change,” Angie said. “I thought Tate was one of them, but now I don’t know what to think. He’s quit his job and moved out of his apartment. It’s like he’s having a major midlife crisis.”

  “He has been acting odd,” Mel said. “Where do you suppose he’s living now?”

  Angie was silent as they got into the car. Her face was grim, and she looked worried.

  “What are you thinking?” Mel asked.

  “I think he’s met someone,” Angie said. “And he’s too chicken to tell us.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Mel said. “You know how he feels about you.”

  “I thought I did,” Angie said. “And when I broke up with Roach, I thought Tate might finally do something.”

  “No, huh?”

  “Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. I think he changed his mind,” Angie said. “I think he wanted me when he couldn’t have me, but now that I’m available, he’s panicking. He’s probably on his way to Costa Rica right now to get away from me.”

  “You’re nuts,” Mel said. “He’s crazy about you. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for everything that is happening.”

  “Really?” Angie asked. “Lay it on me, because I’d love to hear it.”

  “Well, I don’t know what it is,” Mel said. “But I’m sure it will make sense once we hear it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Angie said.

  She started the car and pulled out of the parking garage. Mel turned her head and stared out the window as they left the luxury apartments for the last time. She didn’t want Angie to see the doubt on her face. What could be happening with Tate? She didn’t want to say it out loud, but for the first time she wondered if he had met someone new.

  Fourteen

  Mel had some choices for where to spend the night. She could bunk with Angie, who had a small house in the neighborhood that surrounded Old Town. It would be nice to be with a friend, someone who had gone through the trauma of finding Sam with her.

  But she had a feeling Angie was going to be busy talking to Roach about his new hit single. She was still pretty steamed, and Mel didn’t want to intrude on her letting her ex-boyfriend have it.

  Then of course there was her mother, Joyce, who would love to have Mel spend the night, but she would wonder why, and Mel would have to tell her about the body. As it was, Mel was hoping that the news reports of where the body had been found would be vague, so that her mother might not find out it was beside the bakery. It would only cause her to worry and insist that Mel move home, which was not going to happen.

  Of course, crashing at Tate’s would have been an option, but since he had up and moved and was not returning calls, she had no idea where Tate’s was anymore.

  Her brother Charlie lived in Flagstaff, so he was out, and she couldn’t see staying with Uncle Stan, because he would want to know why she wasn’t bunking with her boyfriend, which brought her full circle to why didn’t she want to stay with Joe.

  She loved Joe; she had loved him since she was twelve years old and he was the sixteen-year-old heartthrob of the local high school. Joe was the whole package: smart, kind, and funny, not to mention tall and handsome. He was a dedicated attorney and believed in the judicial system and its ability to regulate society. She knew it was her own poor self-esteem that made it hard for her to believe that Joe was in love with her, a cupcake baker, but there it was.

  The man could have anyone he wanted, anyone, and he had chosen her. She could not wrap her brain around it and sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder why. Why did Joe want to marry her?

  Oh, she knew he had a mythic sweet tooth and he loved her cupcakes, but that certainly didn’t seem like enough of a reason to marry someone.

  Then again, she knew she wasn’t the chubster she’d been when they were in school. She’d spent some time in Paris, studying to be a pâtissier and had learned to have a healthy relationship with food and not one where food became her go-to for sadness, happiness, loneliness, and boredom.

  She knew she was a confident businesswoman and that Joe was proud to have her come to his lawyerly events because she cleaned up okay and she could carry on conversations with local business leaders with intelligence and charm. She knew this, but old insecurities never died, they just waited until she wasn’t paying attention so they could rear up and bite her on the butt. Maybe she wasn’t a chunky adolescent on the outside, but most of the time, she sure felt like one.

  She knew her hesitation about staying with Joe was grounded in her desire not to talk about the marriage thing. Add to that the fact that if she stayed with Joe, he’d see her eye, and she’d have to tell him about Sam’s murder and, yeah, she had a feeling that conversation wouldn’t be much better than if she was having it with Joyce.

  She didn’t enjoy being in her apart
ment that evening. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sam, and when she glanced out her window, the yellow crime-scene tape with which they’d marked off the area where his body had been found flapped in the breeze as if daring her to come by so it could snatch her into its death grasp, too.

  A shudder traveled down her spine, and she pulled her window shades closed. She knew she’d been on pain meds last night, but she still wondered how someone could have smashed Sam’s skull in without her hearing.

  It made her think it must have been someone Sam knew, since he hadn’t shouted for help. Which then made her wonder if it was one of the cupcake boot campers, which frankly gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  She packed up the necessaries for herself and Jack and headed over to Joe’s house. She texted him before locking up her apartment, asking if she could come over and, naturally, being the perfect guy, he had texted back an affirmative. No hesitation. No questions asked.

  Joe lived in a two-story townhouse right off Central Avenue in Phoenix. It took Mel about a half hour to get to Joe’s, and she pulled into his two-car carport, parking beside his Prius. His front door opened before she had shut off her engine, and Joe met her as she stepped out of the car.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  Mel stepped out of the car and Joe’s eyes opened wide.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” she said.

  “Explain,” he said with a frown.

  “I stepped into a scuffle between two of my cupcake boot campers yesterday and didn’t duck in time,” she said.

  “I just got off the phone with Uncle Stan,” he said. “He told me about Sam Kelleher. Are you all right? Can I do anything?”

  “Yes, take him,” Mel said. She handed him Captain Jack, who was yelling at her and had yelled at her the entire ride over. He didn’t like cars. “He’s very cranky.”

  “Oh, come here, little buddy,” Joe said, and he cradled Jack close to his chest. Jack gave a mollified purr and began to butt Joe’s chin with his head.

  Joe planted a quick kiss on Mel’s bangs, took her overnight bag, and led the way into the house. Mel shouldered Jack’s tote bag of food and toys and followed with his litter box.