Buttercream Bump Off

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Ouch!” Olivia howled.

  “What happened?” Mel asked the bartender.

  “The crazy lady tried to take the other woman’s cupcake, and the other woman jabbed the crazy lady with her fork!” he said.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Ms. Puckett,” Bonnie demanded.

  “You can’t kick me out! I’m listed on the invitation. Confections is providing dessert,” Olivia protested.

  “As you can see, dessert has already been taken care of,” Bonnie said. “And a good thing, too, since you were late.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Olivia protested. “Someone was double-parked—Wait a minute.”

  Mel could almost hear the thoughts click into place in Olivia’s brain.

  “Ms. Puckett, if you don’t leave at once, I’m going to call security,” Bonnie said. “This is not the time or place for this discussion.”

  Mel glanced up and saw the bartender looking scared. That could only mean one thing. Olivia was coming.

  “Excuse me.” He stepped over Mel and Marty and ducked out from behind the bar.

  Mel glanced all around her to see if there was a weapon of any kind, because she fully expected Olivia to tear her limb from limb for this. A bucket of pop on ice was the only thing available, so she grabbed a can and shook it as hard as she could.

  “Aha!” When Olivia’s big head appeared over the bar, Mel popped the top and let the contents fly. Olivia sputtered and staggered back.

  Mel dropped the can, yanked Marty to his feet, and dashed for the kitchen. The door was clear. They were going to make it, but Mel was moving too fast, and she didn’t see it: one tiny little pat of butter. She stepped on it, and her shoe went out from under her. To his credit, Marty tried to catch her, but he had to sidestep Olivia, who was hot on their heels. Mel landed on the hard floor with a smack, and Olivia tripped over her and went careening into a collection of pots and pans that echoed with a horrific crash.

  Mel scrambled to her knees and scooted for the back door, which Marty was very gallantly holding open.

  A pair of sturdy black pumps blocked her exit. She slowly glanced up to find herself nose to knee with Bonnie. Her blonde twist had become unraveled, and her face was mottled in shades of red, which clashed with her purple dress.

  “Get out!” she snapped.

  “On my way,” Mel said, and she continued scooting towards the door.

  Behind her she heard Olivia moan, and over that she heard Bonnie tell Olivia that she was never, not under any circumstances, ever to volunteer her services for the annual arts drive again.

  Once outside, Mel found that, in an ironic twist of karmic payback, Olivia’s pink van was blocking her Mini Cooper. She heard Olivia shout her name, and she and Marty exchanged wide-eyed glances.

  Mel spotted a Dumpster in the corner. Marty was too old to outrun Olivia; they were going to have to hide. She grabbed him by the elbow again and shoved him up against the side of the Dumpster.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he protested. “I’m not going in there.”

  “It’s either that, or Olivia catches you,” Mel said.

  Marty scooted up the side with renewed vigor, and Mel jumped in after him. Her left hand landed in slimy raw eggs, and her right foot connected with a hollow melon rind. It was like playing Twister in hell.

  She could hear Marty gagging from the stench, and she could feel her own breakfast surge up her esophagus, but she forced it back down as she heard the back door to the kitchen slam open.

  “Mouth breathe,” Mel instructed. “She’s looking for us.”

  Marty made an audible swallow and was silent. They listened as Olivia stomped around the loading dock. She yelled at a busboy having a smoke and at an assistant chef, demanding to know where Mel and Marty had gone.

  Mel prayed hard that no one had seen them. Finally, she heard Olivia’s pink van start up and drive away.

  She and Marty disentangled themselves from the piles of cold pasta, sour milk, and fish heads. Gingerly, they climbed out of the Dumpster and stood staring at each other. Marty had lost his hair hat and his bald dome gleamed in the afternoon sun. Even covered in Dumpster ick, he looked better without the hair. Mel figured she’d tell him later.

  A silver Lexus skidded into the lot, and Tate jumped out.

  “I thought she’d never leave,” he said. Abruptly, his face turned a shade of pea green, and he pinched his nose. “I smell vomit. Gross!”

  “Actually, you smell Dumpster,” Mel said. “Marty, can I give you a lift home?”

  He nodded as he flicked julienned carrots off his shirt front.

  “Better ride with the windows down,” Tate said as he backed away. “I’ll go man the bakery until you get back.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said. She and Marty climbed into her car. As her eyes watered from their collective stench, she figured she’d have to get the car detailed, or the stink might become a permanent part of her upholstery.

  They pulled up in front of the senior center where Marty lived. It was beautifully landscaped with a large fountain and a planter overflowing with yellow and red lantana. Mel saw a hummingbird pop up from the flowers nearby and zip away. She wondered if it could smell them. Great. Now they were even offending nature.

  “That’s her!” Marty said, and he clapped his hands to his head in a reflexive gesture. “Hey, my hair. Where’s my hair?”

  “I’m guessing you left it back in the Dumpster,” Mel said.

  “And you didn’t say anything?” His eyes were wide with panic. “She can’t see me like this.”

  He crouched down below the dashboard, and Mel looked out the windshield to see the woman who had him in such a state.

  She was young, black-haired, and beautiful. Her olive skin glowed underneath her workout clothes, which showed healthy curves and some serious muscle. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and was making her way towards them.

  “Don’t let her see me,” Marty pleaded.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Mel grabbed a newspaper from the backseat and draped it over him.

  The woman was just passing the car when she stopped and her nose wrinkled in disgust. She looked around her as if trying to find the origin of the odor. She even checked the bottoms of her shoes.

  She was older than she had first appeared. Mel would have placed her in her late forties, so not a spring chicken, unless you were the dirty old man hunched next to her.

  The woman moved on quickly without ever spotting Mel in the car, as if trying to outrun the smell. Once she had left in her own sedan, Marty popped up.

  “You could tell a fella when he loses his hair, you know,” he complained.

  “You look better without it,” Mel said. “Honestly, the hair wasn’t doing a thing for you.”

  He didn’t look like he believed her. “I’m never going to get Beatriz to date me now.”

  “How do you know her?” Mel asked. “She’s too young to live here.”

  “She’s my yoga instructor,” he said.

  “You take yoga?”

  “What? A man can’t take yoga?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Mel said. “It’s just—Don’t you think she’s a bit young for you?”

  Marty opened the door and swung his feet out. He looked back over his shoulder at Mel. “All my life I was a good and dutiful husband and father. I worked hard and provided well and loved them with all that I had. Then the kids grew up and moved away, and Jeanie died.”

  His words slowed, and he said, “There didn’t seem to be much reason to get up anymore—and then I saw her. I’ve never dated a beautiful woman. You know, the sort of woman who can stop people in their tracks and make them forget what they’re doing? So, if not now, when?”

  He shut the door gently behind him, and Mel watched as he gingerly walked towards the entrance of the building. A piece of linguine stuck out of the back of his pants, and a tomato slice dragged off the back of his right heel.

  If not now, when indeed?<
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  Eleven

  Mel arrived back at Fairy Tale Cupcakes. Her eyes had stopped watering, and her nose was plugged up with snot, obviously a self-defense mechanism. She didn’t stop in the bakery, but hurried up the back stairs to her apartment to scour the ick off in her shower.

  It took three lathers with soap and shampoo to get the stink out, but she finally managed it. Her stacked washer was already churning away at her clothes, but she figured she might have to run them through twice just to be sure.

  Her short blonde hair dried quickly and, after pulling on fresh jeans and a sweater, she slipped on her sneakers and dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  She pushed through the back door, calling, “Tate!” but was startled by the sound of two men yelling and holding up her industrial-size cupcake tins as if they were shields.

  “Ah!” She jumped back just as Tate came into the kitchen from the front. “Angie?”

  “No, it’s Mel,” she said. The other two men lowered their cupcake pans, and Mel bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  “Um, Sal, is there any particular reason you are covered in blue paint splotches?” she asked Angie’s older brother.

  He glowered. She glanced at the other man. “You, too, Tony?”

  He shrugged and went back to eating the vanilla cupcake on the table in front of him.

  “She ambushed us,” Sal explained.

  “Angie?” Mel guessed.

  “She lured us into an alley, and then she splattered us with a paintball gun,” Tony said. “Tactically speaking, it was brilliant.”

  “Hunh,” Sal grunted. He bit into his own cupcake and chewed. When he swallowed, he said, “Tate, has there been any word from unit B-2 or B-3?”

  “None yet,” Tate said. “I’m getting worried. They should have checked in by now.”

  “Tate, what exactly is going on?” Mel asked. “Who are B-2 and B-3?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” he said, but his voice went up a notch, and she knew he was lying. “We’re just doing a little Angie recon. B-2 and B-3 stand for Brothers 2 and Brothers 3.”

  “Angie recon?” Mel repeated.

  “Yeah, you know, making sure she’s okay with that musician guy,” he said.

  “She is going to mur—”

  Whatever Mel was about to say was cut off as the back door swung open and in walked Paulie and Al. They were carrying what appeared to be the remains of some tires.

  “We were right behind them,” Paulie said. “And the next thing I know, all four of my tires blew out. They had nails in them. I think she scattered those nails on purpose.”

  “You think?” Sal asked, rubbing one of his blue eyebrows.

  Just then, Tate’s phone sounded its distinctive James Bond chime.

  “Base here,” he answered. “What? She did what? Well, how did she get that much shaving cream in your car?”

  The brothers exchanged glances. Mel had to turn away before she offended them all by laughing out loud.

  “Well, fine. Go home then.” He pressed a button on his phone and slid it back into his pocket. “I can’t believe that six grown men can’t manage to follow their little sister on a date without her knowing. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Sal, Tony, what’s the matter?” Joe DeLaura asked his brothers as he strolled in from the front room. “You look a little blue.”

  “Funny, really funny,” Sal said. He jammed the rest of his cupcake into his mouth and stormed towards the door. “Let’s go, Tony. I suppose you two need a ride?”

  Without a word, Paulie and Al followed.

  “I’m calling her cell phone,” Tate said, and he strode back into the bakery.

  “What did I miss?” Joe asked.

  “Angie recon,” Mel said. “It didn’t go well.”

  Joe pulled her into his arms for a proper hello. When he released her, Mel had to steady herself by gripping the side of the table. Joe gave her a slow grin and then helped himself to an Orange Dreamsicle Cupcake.

  “Heaven,” he muttered through a bite of cupcake.

  “Are you just dating me for my cupcakes?”

  “Who said I was talking about the cupcake?” he countered. His dark brown eyes lingered on her face, and Mel felt herself flush. Oh, dear.

  “I wish Angie were here,” she said, feeling a sudden need to change the subject. “I’m worried.”

  “Sounds like the brothers kept her too busy to get into trouble,” Joe said. “Do you think she’s in any danger?”

  “From Roach?” Mel asked. “I don’t know. I wish he wasn’t Malloy’s son, and I wish he wasn’t a suspect.”

  “Me, too,” Joe agreed. His voice was grim.

  “Tate and I are going to the concert with Angie tonight,” Mel said. She put her hand on Joe’s shoulder to reassure him. “I’ll check him out up close.”

  Joe put his hand over Mel’s. “I don’t like it. Promise me you’ll be careful and call me before, during, and after, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I have to get back to the office,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t forget. Call me.”

  He kissed Mel good-bye and left through the back door.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a voice said from the opposite door.

  Mel spun around to find Detective Martinez standing there. She had the feeling he’d been there watching them, and it irked her.

  “Just saying good-bye to my boyfriend,” she said.

  “Assistant District Attorney Joe DeLaura,” he said. “Nice.”

  “Is there a problem with me dating him?”

  “Not for me,” he said. He strolled around her kitchen and stopped at her industrial mixer. “Nice Hobart.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, that was quite a luncheon this afternoon,” he said.

  Mel blew out a breath. So that’s why he was here. She decided to play it cool. “Really? How so?”

  “I heard there was quite a scuffle between you and Olivia Puckett.”

  “She’s very territorial and has some issues with my bakery,” Mel said.

  “The way she told it, you cut into her charity event,” he said.

  “I covered for her,” Mel said. “I teach a couples’ cupcake class, and one of the women is on the board. I was happy to help out.”

  Wow, Mel thought. Word choice is so very important when you are trying to avoid culpability without actually lying.

  “Ms. Puckett seemed to think you set it up,” he said.

  “I expect she was distraught at being late.”

  Detective Martinez turned back around to face her and crossed his arms over his chest. He resembled a brick wall. With his dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, and sturdy build, Mel had no doubt that he was very successful at intimidating his suspects. Fortunately, she was not one of them. She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

  “Yes, that must be it,” he said. Mel glanced away but felt him watching her.

  Not a suspect, not a suspect, not a suspect. She chanted the litany in her head. Still, her palms were sweaty, and she felt the need to flee.

  “Can I offer you a cupcake?” she asked.

  “No th . . .” He paused and then said, “Actually, yes.”

  Mel was momentarily caught off guard. She had not figured him for a sweets guy and had just assumed he’d say no.

  “Okay,” she said.

  This would take some thought. She looked him up and down. His khaki pants were pressed with a stiff crease, his shoes were buffed to a gloss that would allow her to check her teeth for stray lettuce leaves, and his dress shirt was wrinkle free and starched at the collar and cuffs. This was a man who paid attention to the details.

  “Lemon,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Sit,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mel ducked into the bakery and came back with a fresh lemon cupcake iced with a tart lemon buttercream. Milk didn’t go very well with this
one, so she poured him a glass of sweet tea to wash it down.

  Martinez studied her. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?” she asked.

  “That lemon is my favorite flavor?”

  Mel took the seat across from him. “I just had a feeling.”

  He cautiously sampled a small bite. His eyebrows lifted again, but this time in surprise.

  “Wow,” he said. “You made this?”

  Mel nodded.

  “Impressive,” he said. He tucked into the cake and didn’t speak again until it was gone and he’d drained his glass of iced tea. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  He picked up his plate and stood to take it to the sink. Mel stood at the same time, and they collided at the corner of the table. Martinez was reaching out to grab her elbow to steady her when the kitchen door swung open.

  “Mel, what are you doing?” Tate stuck his head around the door. “We have to go! Angie, the concert, remember?”

  “Concert?” Martinez asked.

  “We’re going to see a friend of a friend, sort of,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” He studied her for a second and then said, “Have fun.”

  He strolled back out to the bakery, picking up a four-pack of lemon cupcakes on his way. As soon as Tate rang up the sale, he bolted the door after the detective and Mel was given no time to debate what the heck that had been about, which was probably a good thing. Because she definitely did not want to acknowledge the flutter of attraction she had felt when she and the detective collided. Nope, she wasn’t going there. No way, no how.

  “Mel, snap out of it!” Tate barked.

  They scrambled around the bakery closing up, and Mel had just ditched her apron and changed her outfit when a car and driver pulled up to the curb.

  “Show time,” Tate said. He had a manic light in his eyes that made Mel nervous.

  “So, what do we know about this guy exactly?” Tate asked Mel as they were driven to the Dodge Theater in downtown Phoenix in the Lincoln Town Car that Roach had sent for them. Angie was supposed to be with them, but she had texted Mel earlier that she’d meet them at the gig.

  “He’s Baxter Malloy’s son, he and his father haven’t spoken in years, and he likes Angie,” Mel said for the third time. She was getting tired of repeating herself.