Buttercream Bump Off

by Jenn McKinlay

  “What?” Alma snapped, staring at the two of them.

  “Well, at least you still have your charm,” Mel said.

  A small smile curved Alma’s lips. “Sorry, old habits die hard.”

  “You look amazing,” Angie said.

  Alma did a small pirouette. “Terry, my boss, sort of insisted. He was right. You can’t be a jet set designer and look like you’ve got an algebra exam in the morning.”

  “Thanks for agreeing to help us out,” Mel said.

  “I had a choice? I know I owe you one—a big one,” Alma said. “It’s the least I can do. Where is the old guy?”

  Mel handed over Tate’s suits and said, “He’s getting cleaned up over at Mean Christine’s salon.”

  Alma cringed. “How old is he?”

  “Somewhere in his seventies,” Mel said.

  “I hope he’s spry,” Alma said. “A day with Christine could kill a weakling.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Angie said.

  They exchanged a look of understanding, and Mel suspected Alma had suffered a similar trauma at Christine’s.

  “I’ll just take these over there and get some measurements. If I get my staff on it right away, we can probably have these altered in a couple of hours.”

  “Perfect,” Mel said. “Thanks, Alma.”

  “And then we’re square?” Alma asked.

  “Totally.”

  Alma nodded in satisfaction and left.

  As the door shut, Angie looked at Mel and said, “Next step?”

  “Phase two,” Mel said. “We’re going to need an introduction for Marty and Elle.”

  “Well, he can’t show up at her house bearing cupcakes,” Angie said. “What’s your plan?”

  “Tate and Aunt Penelope are going to have to set it up.”

  “He’s not going to like this.”

  “He’s not going to like his Prada and Armani being altered either,” Mel said. “But it’s for the greater good.”

  She called Tate. He answered on the third ring.

  “Harper Investments, Tate Harper speaking,” he said.

  “ ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you had some class,’ ” Mel said.

  “The Sting!” Tate said, identifying the movie quote. “Good one. Are we watching that this week?”

  “Or living it,” Mel said. “Depending upon how you look at it.”

  “What’s going on?” Tate asked. His voice was wary.

  “I need to work out an introduction,” Mel said. “Between Marty and Elle.”

  “Between . . . ? You have got to be kidding me,” he said.

  “Nope, very serious,” Mel said. “Angie and I . . .”

  “So, Angie is there, too?” he asked. “She’s not off with her boyfriend again?”

  Mel let out a sigh. “Focus, Tate. Can you call your aunt and get her to introduce Marty and Elle?”

  “Oh, man,” he groaned. “Can’t I just climb Mount Everest and bring down some fresh snow for you? It’d be less painful.”

  “Sorry, no,” Mel said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Oh, I also have a lead on the Hargraves.”

  “Nice, what do you know?”

  “Mrs. Hargrave has a cousin in town, and my mother heard from a woman at her country club that the Hargraves are staying with them.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “Yeah, hang on. I wrote it down.” Mel heard Tate shuffle some papers. “Irene Bakerson.”

  Mel gasped. “Married to Dan?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s the one,” Tate said. “How did you—”

  Mel interrupted. “I have to go.”

  “Just remember you owe me one,” he said. “A big one.”

  Mel thought of his suits. “You have no idea,” she said. “Later.” She hung up before he could ask any questions.

  “What’s going on?” Angie asked. She’d been hovering near Mel through the whole conversation.

  “You are not going to believe it,” Mel said.

  “Try me.”

  “The Hargraves are the cousins of our very own Bickersons.”

  “Get out!”

  “I’m planning to. I’m going to go stake out their house and see what’s what. Maybe they’re all in it together,” Mel said.

  She lifted her apron off of her head and hung it on a hook by the kitchen door. Angie made to do the same, but Mel stopped her.

  “I need you here to man the bakery and answer the phone in case Christine calls to tell us Marty is done.”

  “Oh, man,” Angie whined.

  Mel gave her a look. She didn’t want to have to point out that people skills were not Angie’s gift. If Mel got caught, she could bluff. Angie would never be able to pull that off.

  “Fine, but come straight back here, and I want a full report.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mel stopped by her office and looked up the Bickersons’ address on their registration form. They were in the neighborhood, less than a mile away. Excellent.

  She dashed out to her car and headed south on Scottsdale Road and east on Osborn. She was in an older neighborhood now. The houses were small, red-brick ranch houses with square windows.

  She turned south and then east again, stopping at the end of the Bickersons’ street. She didn’t think they knew what type of car she drove so she decided to drive by their house. There was a car in the carport, but no sign of anyone out front. The vertical blinds were all shut.

  She drove to the end of the street and decided to drive down the alley that ran behind the house to see what was visible in the backyard.

  She counted off the houses as she lurched slowly down the dirt-packed alley. At the seventh house, she stopped her car, got out, and jogged two more houses down until she was at the Bickersons’ residence.

  She heard the sound of laughter, and she crouched low.

  She couldn’t recall ever having heard the Bickersons laugh before. Maybe she had the wrong house.

  “Oh, Miriam. I need a warm-up,” a voice called.

  Mel glanced over the wall to see Dan and Irene sitting in lounge chairs by their pool. Dan was reading the newspaper, while Irene was thumbing through a magazine. They were wearing matching sweaters remarkably similar to the ones Mel had seen Lester and Miriam Hargrave wearing at the museum luncheon.

  “Miriam, did you hear me?” Irene called out.

  The back door burst open. Mel ducked low and pressed her eye to a gap in the back gate, through which she could just see the Bickersons.

  “I heard you. In fact I’m sure the entire neighborhood heard you.” Miriam Hargrave stomped out the back door, carrying a coffee pot. She dutifully refilled the mugs on the small table between Irene and Dan.

  “I don’t think I like your tone, Miriam,” Irene said. “If you want to keep staying here with us, you’d best watch your attitude.”

  Miriam turned on her heel and grumbled as she stomped her way back to the house. When the door shut behind her, Irene leaned over and kissed Dan on the cheek.

  “I’ve always wanted domestic staff,” she said. “You’re a genius, dear.”

  Dan lowered his newspaper and gave Irene a beaming smile. “Thank you, love. It’s more than they deserve after they swindled you out of your inheritance. They’re lucky we let them stay here at all. A little light labor will do them good.”

  Irene chortled.

  “How’s that fish pond coming, Harvey?” Dan called.

  Mel moved so she could see in the direction he had shouted. The young man from the moving van was working in the corner of the yard. He was standing in a hole and was covered in sweat and streaks of dirt.

  “It’s coming,” he snarled. He was clearly not enjoying the task he’d been given.

  Irene and Dan seemed to find his annoyance funny as they clinked coffee cups and beamed at him. This seemed to make Harvey out-and-out mad, and he picked up his shovel and began to dig furiously. Irene and Dan shared a laugh at his ire and wen
t back to their reading.

  Mel eased away from the gate. Well, it looked as if the Bickersons were finally getting along. Maybe uniting against a common enemy was all they needed to rekindle their romance.

  If the Hargraves had taken Irene’s inheritance and invested it with Malloy, they not only stole it but also lost it. She really couldn’t fault the Bickersons for enjoying their revenge. It did make her wonder, though, how far Dan and Irene would go to get even.

  She pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the time. Christine should be about done with Marty by now, and Angie would need support at the shop. Mel hurried back to her car, wondering if Detective Martinez knew about the Hargraves and if she was brave enough to tell him.

  “Your lattes,” the redhead said as she put a tray on the table in front of Mel and Angie.

  Mel and Angie were sitting in Mean Christine’s waiting room. The altered suits had been delivered by Alma, and Christine was in a back room with Marty, making sure they fit. Angie had “borrowed” a pair of Gucci loafers from her brother Tony, as he wore the same shoe size as Marty.

  Mel sipped the froth off of her coffee, trying to channel her patience. She had filled Angie in on what she’d discovered at the Bickersons’, but neither of them knew what to do with the information.

  They’d been waiting twenty minutes for Marty to appear, so Mel figured it had either gone horribly wrong and Christine was trying to do damage control, or it had gone amazingly well and she was milking her success for every ounce it was worth. Given all that Mel had riding on this transformation, she hoped it was the latter.

  Finally a back door opened, and Christine strode out. Her blunt black hair was mussed, and her glasses were slightly askew, as if she’d spent a grueling afternoon pedaling uphill in the Tour de France.

  She dropped into a seat beside Mel and said, “Behold.”

  And then a very dapper, older gentleman appeared. Mel squinted, trying to see the fusty old Marty underneath the veneer of urbanity in which he was now swathed.

  His wispy hair had been cut short and made a fuller fringe around his dome, which had been polished to a high gloss. His skin looked pink and healthy and less wrinkled than the sallow paper sack it had once resembled.

  Both Mel and Angie rose slowly to their feet. They walked around him with their mouths slightly agape.

  “Marty, you’re a stud,” Angie declared.

  His chest puffed out a bit, and Mel had to admit he looked like a million bucks. But there was something different about him, something that couldn’t be gotten from mere exfoliation and tweezing.

  “Marty, are you taller?” Mel asked. “And where are your glasses?”

  Christine met his gaze and put a finger in front of her pursed lips. Marty nodded at her in silent understanding and said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Nineteen

  “How did she do it?” Mel asked as they returned to the bakery. Marty was walking ahead of them, and instead of his sidewalk-scuffing old-man shuffle he now had a jaunty spring in his step. “You can’t just make someone taller.”

  “Maybe he’s wearing lifts,” Angie said. “Or maybe she stretched him out on a rack.”

  “Weird,” Mel said.

  “And not a little scary,” Angie agreed.

  Tate was waiting for them when they reached the bakery. He had on an apron and was packing a dozen cupcakes for a young mother holding a baby and pushing another in a stroller.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, mostly to Angie.

  “Getting Marty cleaned up,” she said.

  Tate did a double take at Marty, and his eyes widened. “Marty? Wow. You look twenty years younger.”

  “Thanks.” Marty preened.

  “Nice suit by the way,” Tate said. “I have one just like it.”

  Mel and Angie both turned to coo at the baby in her mother’s arms.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Marty offered, carrying the box of cupcakes for the woman, who looked desperately grateful.

  “So, how did it go with your aunt Penelope?” Mel asked.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” Tate said.

  “Bad first,” Angie said. Mel nodded. Angie always wanted the bad first, and she agreed.

  “Aunt Penelope will only help if you provide baby shower cupcakes for her niece, one hundred in pink and blue,” he said.

  “When?” Mel asked.

  “March.”

  Angie and Mel looked at each other and nodded.

  “Doable,” Mel said.

  “Good, because I already said okay. Now listen, I’ve got it all set up,” he said. “My aunt Penelope is meeting Elle at the Biltmore tonight under the pretense of some fashion show for charity. Marty and I will need to be in the lobby at six-thirty. We’ll have to work out our story on the ride over.”

  Marty reentered the bakery, adjusting his lapels before striking a pose beside the display case.

  “That only gives us a half hour,” Mel said. “Let’s go.”

  She and Angie went to grab their purses, but Tate stopped them. “No, you two aren’t coming.”

  “Of course we are,” Mel said.

  “No, this is just a meet and greet,” Tate said. “You two lurking in the lobby will give us away. Besides, the last time you two went to check someone out, you nearly got run off a mountain.”

  “Not exactly the last time,” Angie muttered, but Tate ignored her.

  “But—” Mel began to argue, but Tate cut her off.

  “No buts. I’ll call when we have something to report. Besides, you can’t keep closing the shop on a whim. It’s bad for business.”

  “It’s not a whim,” Mel pouted. “It’s vital to my mother’s—and by extension my—sanity.”

  Tate ignored her. “Ready, Marty?”

  “Absolutely.” He gave Mel and Angie a smart salute and led the way out the door.

  “I’ll call when I have news,” Tate said. The door banged shut behind him.

  “I feel like we just got shut out,” Angie said.

  “I think we did.”

  “Well, that stinks.”

  “Agreed,” Mel said. She didn’t like the idea of Marty and Tate going off on their own. What if they blew it? This was her idea after all. She should be in charge.

  “Come on,” she said to Angie. “I’m sure we can blend in with the furniture, and they’ll never know we’re there.”

  “Sweet.” Angie flipped the sign to CLOSED, and they hustled out the door, locking it behind them.

  The Biltmore was a Phoenix landmark. Built in 1929 with the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright, its consulting architect, it was one of Mel’s favorite places in the Valley of the Sun.

  They hopped into Mel’s Mini Cooper, followed Camelback Road into Phoenix, and turned north on 24th Street. Another right took them on the long, winding road towards the beautifully sculpted gray-stone building. The precast concrete blocks, called Biltmore Block, used to make the building were etched with a geometric pattern that was supposed to mimic the patterns found on a palm tree.

  “I heard that the pool here was Marilyn Monroe’s favorite,” Angie said.

  “It is a spectacular pool,” Mel agreed. “I read somewhere that Irving Berlin penned ‘White Christmas’ while sitting beside it.”

  “Can you imagine lounging in your bikini when Elvis strolled by?”

  “I’d probably jump in to spare myself the embarrassment.”

  They parked in the guest lot and walked towards the main entrance. Just before they reached the door, Angie pulled Mel aside.

  “We should probably find a side entrance,” she said. “We might get spotted otherwise.”

  “Good thinking,” Mel said.

  They passed the main door and walked around the building to the lawn and terrace. It was lovely, with flowers bursting and fountains bubbling, a slice of paradise.

  Mel crossed the lawn and followed the line of the building until she found the door that led into the back of the lobby.<
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  Squared off chairs and tables, done in earth tones to match the stone interior, were scattered around the room. Here and there large pots and other symbols of Native American art accented table tops and walls.

  It really was a lovely room. Mel had no time to ponder more than this, as Angie gripped her elbow and yanked her down low.

  “There they are!” she cried. Sure enough, Marty and Tate were lounging in plump leather seats when two women entered the lobby. Mel recognized one as Elle and assumed the other was Tate’s aunt Penelope.

  The men rose and greeted the ladies. Tate took over the introductions. Marty bowed low over Elle’s hand, and Mel could see her sizing him up from where they were watching.

  Just then, an older lady entered the lobby. She crossed the room with all the finesse of a tank. Mel clutched Angie’s arm in a panic.

  “That’s Beverly,” she hissed. “She was at the luncheon. She may recognize Marty.”

  Angie groaned, and the two of them peered over the edge of the sofa to see what would happen. Pleasantries were exchanged. Beverly and Elle were perfectly icy to each other, and then Beverly rolled on.

  She was headed straight for Mel and Angie. Mel tried not to draw any more attention to herself, but the shrewd old eyes saw her, and Beverly paused beside them as she pretended interest in a lush floral arrangement.

  “Your waiter is setting his sights rather low,” she said. “I’d warn him to watch his neck if I were you.”

  With that she sashayed off in the direction of one of the banquet rooms.

  “Oh my God,” Angie whispered. “She recognized Marty. Do you think she’ll tell?”

  “No,” Mel said. “I think that was a warning for Marty about Elle. It sounds like she thinks Elle murdered Baxter.”

  “We’re getting warmer,” Angie said.

  They glanced back at the group. The ladies were walking towards them while the men headed for the door.

  “We’d better go if we plan to beat them back to the bakery,” Mel said.

  They hustled out the side door and around the building to the parking lot. When they reached Mel’s car, Tate and Marty were waiting for them.

  “What’s the matter?” Tate asked. “Did you think we couldn’t handle it?”