Death by the Dozen

by Jenn McKinlay

  She and Angie finished plating with five minutes to spare. She was delighted to see the other chefs pushing it right to the last second. Olivia in particular seemed to be huffing and puffing her way to the finish line.

  Of course, then Mel was riddled with doubt. What if her recipe was so simplistic that the others blew it away? Maybe she should tweak it. She stepped toward her finished desserts, but Angie pulled her back.

  “No, it’s perfect,” she said as if she had read Mel’s mind. “Don’t change a thing.”

  Mel nodded. Angie was right. The final buzzer sounded, and they sagged with relief. It was good to have no more time to second-guess her work.

  They took off their toques and their chef coats and stepped down from the dais.

  “Do you want to watch the judging today?” Angie asked. “We’re down from forty-four to thirty-six. Tomorrow will be the top twenty-eight.”

  “I don’t know,” Mel said. “I think it will be too nervewracking.”

  Angie nodded. Just then the tidal wave of DeLauras engulfed them, and Mel lost sight of Angie while they were both soundly hugged and patted on the back by several of her brothers.

  “So, what was that thing you made?” Ray asked. “It looked amazing.”

  Mel smiled at him. Ray had a sweet tooth that rivaled even Joe’s, which was saying something.

  “It was a chocolate stout brownie torte,” she said.

  “Oh, man,” Sal said. “I think I’m drooling. Was there any left?”

  “As if we’d give it to you,” Angie teased Sal, the car salesman of the family.

  “Hey, I’m the oldest,” Dom said. “I think I’ve earned it.”

  “I’m the baby,” Al said. “If anyone gets the leftovers, it’s me.”

  And on and on they went. Mel debated calling Joe to let him know what he was missing, but she figured he’d probably lived through enough DeLaura family squabbles of his own.

  She glanced up at the stage. The judges had taken their seats, and the professional wait staff was scurrying forward with the first of the desserts to be sampled. With thirty-six entries to judge, it was going to take a while. Her gaze stopped on Jordan, and she couldn’t help the hitch in her chest that told her it should be Vic sitting there.

  Mel eased her way out of the DeLaura group hug and scooted around the dais. She had a sudden longing to go and visit Grace.

  She hadn’t seen her since they’d taken Vic’s body away, and Mel knew that no matter what Vic had done, Grace would be mourning him. And right now, she really wanted to be with someone who understood the complicated loss that was losing Vic.

  She knew the judges were all staying at the Hotel Valley Ho on Indian School Road on the south end of Old Town Scottsdale. The hotel had enjoyed its heyday in the fifties, when cocktail hours and lounges were all the rage and its guests included stars such as Humphrey Bogart, Betty Grable, and Jimmy Durante. It was said that when Jimmy Durante couldn’t sleep, he went down to the lounge and played piano. Mel loved that image.

  Sadly, the hotel had fallen in popularity over the years. But recently, with the returning trend of the martini and cocktail hour, the new owner of the hotel had decided to renovate and remodel the resort while preserving its history and its unique charm. It now hosted the most popular pool to see and be seen at, and celebrities such as Johnny Pepper were bringing it back to its former glory.

  Mel slipped off the festival grounds. She supposed she could walk to the hotel, but she didn’t know how long she could be gone before Angie and the others noticed her absence. She cut across Brown Avenue and hurried to the back of her bakery, where she kept her bike chained up.

  She supposed she should pop in and check on Tony, but since she didn’t see any people crawling out of the bakery retching or flames shooting out of the windows, she assumed all was well.

  She hopped on her Schwinn Cruiser and pedaled through Old Town, turning north on Scottsdale Road and west on Indian School Road. It only took her a few minutes to get to 68th Street, where the Hotel Valley Ho was located.

  She road right up to the valet and hopped off her bike. He raised his eyebrows as she handed it to him.

  “Watch that for me, will ya?” she asked as she slapped a tip in his hand and marched through the front doors, which were open.

  She turned left and stopped at the large wooden desk, taking in the rounded furniture and geometric patterns that filled the waiting area to the right.

  The desk person, who introduced himself as Doug, offered to ring Grace’s room for her. Mel didn’t know her room number, and she didn’t want to barge in on Grace if she wasn’t up to company.

  Doug spoke softly into the phone, and then looked at Mel and said, “She says to come right up. Would you care for an escort?”

  “No, no thank you,” Mel said.

  Doug gave her directions, and Mel left the swank lobby behind as she headed for the elevator. Grace’s room was a tower suite on an upper floor with a view of the pool and Camelback Mountain. Mel wasn’t surprised. Vic always demanded a room with a view. She knocked on the door, and it was a few moments before Grace answered.

  When she pulled open the door, Mel hardly recognized her friend. Grace was always well put together, even in times of stress. She favored neutral colors of black, brown, and beige, but she always looked professional right down to her shiny black pumps. Not today, however.

  Grace was wearing one of the fluffy hotel robes. Her hair was matted, her face was pale, and dark circles surrounded her eyes. She gestured for Mel to come in and then said, “Come on, I’m not allowed to smoke inside.”

  Mel followed her through the room, past the brightcolored retro furniture and large square bed with the long roll pillow, out onto the terrace. It overlooked the meticulously groomed grounds and was decorated in the same retro style.

  A pitcher of iced tea and two glasses sat on a small square table, along with an ashtray that was holding a halfsmoked cigarette. Mel watched a wisp of smoke stream from the cigarette tip, while condensation ran along the side of the glass pitcher. Grace sat down heavily in one of the round wicker chairs next to the table.

  “Do you mind?” she asked, pointing to the ashtray.

  “No, go ahead,” Mel said. She sat in the other wicker chair, which made her feel like she was sitting in half of an eggshell. Too bad she felt more like an old bird than a spring chicken.

  “I haven’t smoked in thirteen years,” Grace said.

  “Well, if not now, when?” Mel asked.

  Grace squinted at her through a plume of blue smoke and then turned to look out over the pool, where tourists were laughing and splashing under the glorious Arizona sun.

  “I take it you’ve heard what they’re saying?” Grace asked.

  “No,” Mel said. “I’ve been sadly out of the information loop.”

  “The rumor is that Vic killed himself.”

  Fourteen

  It wasn’t true. Mel pedaled faster as if she could outrun the horrible rumor that Grace had told her. Vic did not take his own life. She knew this like she knew the pattern of faint freckles on her own nose.

  She had spent an hour with Grace, refuting the rumor. Why would Vic kill himself? The consensus was that he was depressed after losing his show to his rival.

  So he shut himself in a freezer? Mel didn’t buy it. Overdosing on pills, leaping from a tall building, even dumping a toaster in his bathtub, she could see Vic doing if he were the type to take his own life, which he wasn’t. But locking himself in a freezer? He was way too flamboyant for that, and when pressed, even Grace agreed that the freezer was unlikely.

  Mel had spent the better part of the hour convincing Grace that he hadn’t done it, that it was just speculation on the part of the food world, who loved juicy gossip almost as much as a juicy steak. Mel could believe he’d had a few too many margaritas and had fallen into the trailer before she could believe that he had willingly chosen such a chilly end.

  Grace seemed a little better
after Mel left. She’d had some tea, and Mel had ordered her a small meal from room service. It arrived right as she was leaving, and Mel was pleased to see Grace eat a little bit before she left.

  She parked her bike back behind the bakery and again was relieved to see that the bakery seemed to be doing just fine. There was no punk rock blaring from the interior or gang tagging covering the building. She’d have to thank Tony later for being such a trooper.

  She raced back to the festival, using her VIP credentials to get through the gate. The smell of food permeated the air, and people were swarming the various booths to taste a little of this and a little of that. Mel could see the leader board over the crowd, but it was the same as yesterday, so either they were holding their own, or the results had yet to be announced.

  She made her way to the margarita stand, hoping to find Dan or Pete. She had a nagging question that she wanted to ask them before she forgot.

  The after-lunch crowd had formed a line going around the bar. She sidled up the side of it and peeked over the shoulder of a rather large and sweaty man to see who was tending the bar. Crouched over, filling a plastic margarita glass with ice, was Dan.

  He caught sight of Mel and she waved. “Remember me?”

  “Kind of hard to forget you after yesterday,” he said. He didn’t look overly happy to see her, and Mel couldn’t blame him. He’d probably forever associate her and Angie with a dead guy in his freezer.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” she said. “Got a minute?”

  “If you can talk while I work,” he said. He gestured with his ice scoop toward the line, and Mel nodded.

  “That freezer trailer,” she said. “Do you know how long it was parked there?”

  Dan was pouring mix and tequila two fisted into the glass. “It was here when we came to set up in the morning. When it arrived? I don’t know. You’d have to ask one of the festival officials if they know.”

  Mel nodded.

  “Anything else?” he asked as he gave the man his drink.

  “That’s for you,” the customer said as he handed Dan a tip.

  Dan rang the bell over the bar and stuffed the tip in a big jar perched behind the booze bottles on the back of the bar.

  “The trailer,” Mel asked. “If you did get locked inside by accident, is there a way to open the door from the inside ?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “They have a door handle on the inside for safety, you know? I’ve locked myself in there a couple of times, and I can tell you for the few seconds you’re scrambling to find the door handle in the dark, it’s damn scary.”

  Mel winced.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I forgot he was your friend. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  She felt him watch her go, and she dove back into the crowd before she humiliated herself by bursting into tears.

  She knew if there had been a way out of that freezer, Vic would have found it unless for some reason he couldn’t. There was no way Vic committed suicide. It just wasn’t who he was. Someone put him in that freezer, someone who wanted him to die.

  She was walking blindly through the restaurant booths, not seeing or caring what was happening around her. She paused by one of the large fountains that surrounded the mall and watched a white swan glide by.

  “Mel,” a voice called from behind her, and she turned to see her Uncle Stan barreling toward her with two plates loaded with food.

  As always, there was a split second when she saw him that he looked just like her dad. The Cooper men shared the same portly build, round face, and thinning hair, which was something she really enjoyed teasing her brother, Charlie, about.

  “Your mother said to find you and feed you,” Uncle Stan said as he thrust a plate at her.

  “Thanks,” she said. Even though she wasn’t hungry, there was some amazing-looking food on her plate that required her to taste-test it at the very least.

  They found a vacant bench and sat down by the quiet man-made pond, while they tucked into their food.

  After a few moments, Uncle Stan said, “Did you get some of this?”

  Mel looked at his plate. “The falafel? Oh, yeah. Good stuff.”

  “Flawhatal?” Uncle Stan asked.

  “Falafel,” Mel said. “It’s believed to originate from Egypt and is made from ground chickpeas.”

  “Wow, I’m going to have to get more of it,” he said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and asked, “So, how you doing?”

  Subtle Uncle Stan was not.

  “Honestly?” she asked, and he nodded. “Not good.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Vic Mazzotta did not kill himself,” she said.

  Stan let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t hear about that.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I knew it would crush you,” he said. He shifted on the bench. “The worst part of suicide is the people left behind.”

  “He didn’t—” Mel began, but Uncle Stan interrupted.

  “Mel, you don’t know that,” he said.

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “I knew Vic. He didn’t kill himself.”

  “His career was in ruins, his young girlfriend had just dumped him—”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know about that?” he asked. He looked like he wanted to take it back, but of course, he couldn’t. “According to Ms. Russell, she broke it off with him that morning.”

  “She’s lying,” Mel said.

  Uncle Stan gave her a hard stare. “Something you care to share?”

  “No, I just know,” she said.

  “Well, just knowing doesn’t do me any good,” he said.

  “But why would he choose to freeze to death?” Mel asked. “This is Vic; he does things big. He doesn’t slink away and hide in a freezer box.”

  Uncle Stan stared thoughtfully over the crowd. “Between you and me, I’m not convinced that it was suicide either.”

  “Really? Because I’ve got to tell you I think it was murder,” Mel said. “Vic had a lot of enemies.”

  “So I’ve gathered,” Uncle Stan said. “Gee, I wonder why. Let’s see, he was cheating on his wife, he screwed over the sponsor of his show by refusing to use their products, he humiliated his former colleague on the air, you know, the same one who just got hired to take his job, he ruined the career of a young up-and-comer by calling him out on live TV, oh, and he promised his cute little intern stardom in return for being his girlfriend. Yeah, small wonder I’m thinking murder is more likely.”

  “He wasn’t all that bad,” Mel said.

  Uncle Stan just looked at her.

  “He was a friend of Dad’s,” she said.

  “So you’ve said, but your dad was known for taking in strays,” he said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Vic was one of his rescue cases.”

  It was true. Mel remembered the day her mother had to put her foot down and made her father stop taking in every stray animal he found. At one point, they had four dogs, five cats, two tortoises, a bunny, and an assortment of birds and fish. Mel and her brother sometimes joked that when their dad passed, he hadn’t gone to the rainbow bridge to meet all of their deceased pets, but had been picked up by the rainbow ark.

  “I don’t care,” Mel said. “All I know is that after Dad passed away, Vic was the one who pushed me to finish cooking school. Without him, I wouldn’t have graduated, I wouldn’t have the bakery, I wouldn’t have the life I love so well. I owe him.”

  Uncle Stan looped an arm around Mel’s shoulders and gave her half of his usual bear hug.

  “Well, it’s a good thing for him he did one thing right in his life—he took care of you,” Uncle Stan said. “We’ll find out what happened to him, Mel, I promise.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Stan.” She leaned against him for just the briefest moment in an attempt to absorb some of his strength.

  When they broke apart, Uncle Stan t
ook their plates to a nearby trash can and came back and kissed Mel on the forehead.

  “Be good,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Mel nodded. As she watched him slip back into the crowd, she thought about what he had said. After hearing Vic’s list of wrongs, she believed someone was mad enough at him to kill him.

  She knew about Grace and Dutch and Bertie. They were all old news. But she didn’t know about his sponsor, nor did she know anything about Jordan Russell. The young wannabe Food Channel star seemed as good a place as any to start.

  Fifteen

  Mel figured the judging should be done by now. She wandered back toward the staging area, partly to check their status on the leader board but mostly to check out Jordan Russell.

  The judges were just finishing up. Mel wasn’t sure whose offering was the last concoction of the day, but both Dutch and Bertie grimaced during the tasting. The Food and Wine critic delicately spit hers out in a napkin, and Jordan took one sniff of it and then pushed it away. She was not about to let anything so vile pass her collagen-puffed lips.

  Mel stood studying her. She was young, yes. She was pretty, yes. But what had Vic seen in her besides that? There were scores of pretty young things in cooking school. What had made Vic single her out as his protégée?

  She wasn’t even a real cook by her own admission. Was she just riding Vic’s coattails to fame and glory on the Food Channel? How did Vic’s sudden demise affect her rise? Given that she had taken his place, it didn’t appear to be an adverse turn of events for her.

  While Mel watched, Jordan tossed her thick dark hair over her shoulder and gave Dutch Johnson, who was seated beside her, a decidedly flirty look. Interesting move on her part, given that her lover had just been murdered. But then, Johnny had all but admitted that there was something going on between Jordan and Dutch.

  While the other judges were dressed in professionallooking blazers and sports coats, Jordan had decided this was the place to wear a hot pink halter top and a black ruffled miniskirt. She looked like she was ready to go dance the merengue.