Death by the Dozen

by Jenn McKinlay

  She and Angie squeezed their triggers. Angie got Jordan full on the chest, making her gasp and sputter. Mel fell a bit short and had to take two steps toward Dutch to hit him with the full impact.

  “Hey!” he shouted as he reared back.

  “I’m getting the stains out,” Mel retorted when her bottle fizzled to a stop.

  “Ah!” Jordan was doused from head to foot and seemed incapable of speech.

  “I suggest you two separate until you calm down,” Angie said.

  “What are you doing here?” Dutch asked.

  “Listening in,” Angie said. She put her bottle on the table and fished her cell phone out of her pocket and ended their call.

  “You . . .” Dutch turned hostile accusatory eyes on Mel.

  “Backup,” Mel said. “Don’t leave home without it.”

  “I had thought this was just among friends,” he said.

  He took a pile of napkins off the champagne cart and dabbed at his shirtfront.

  “We have never been friends,” Mel said, “because you are not capable of friendship. You’re so busy trying to be ‘the man,’ you’ve lost sight of everything that’s important.”

  “I have not,” Dutch protested.

  “Eh, please,” Mel said with a dismissive wave. “What is Bertie’s room number?”

  “Why should I tell you?” Dutch said. “So you can tell him what you found out and screw up my last chance at being a celebrity chef? Hell no.”

  “Fine.” Mel fished her phone out of her purse and started to scroll through her contacts. “Let’s see . . . Uncle Stan, where is Uncle Stan, oh, there he is.”

  She was about to push the dial button when Dutch said, “All right, all right. He’s in the suites on the first floor, number fourteen.”

  “Thank you,” Mel said. She turned and looked at Angie. “Shall we?”

  “After you,” she said. Then she turned around and looked at Dutch. “Maybe you should leave with us?”

  He glanced at Jordan, who was soaked and whimpering, and back at them. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Mel and Angie trailed Dutch out the door, closing it with a snap behind them.

  Dutch headed to his own room down the corridor, and Angie followed him.

  “Hey,” she called. “Wait for me. I don’t want you calling Bertie and warning him that we’re coming.”

  He turned to look at Angie with one eyebrow raised.

  “If you wanted to be alone with me, all you had to do was ask.”

  “Oh, hurl,” Angie said. She turned to Mel. “I see what you mean about becoming immune to his charm.”

  “Yeah, it wears thin after a while.”

  Dutch looked offended but they ignored him.

  “Let’s set up our phones,” Angie said.

  They both pulled out their phones, and Mel rang Angie’s number. Angie opened her phone and then disappeared into Dutch’s room. Mel wasn’t worried. She knew that even in Angie’s weakened state, she could take him. Dutch really was a big baby.

  Mel went back to the elevator. It was a short ride down, and she was once again in the lobby. She turned right and headed out toward the suites that lined the pool.

  She got to number fourteen pretty quickly and paused to check her phone.

  “Angie, I’m here, can you hear me?” she asked.

  “Loud and clear,” Angie answered.

  “Is everything okay there?” Mel asked.

  “Yeah, he went to take a shower after I made sure I had his phone, and I checked that there was no phone in the bathroom,” she said.

  “Good thinking,” Mel answered.

  Mel walked across the flagstones to Bertie’s door and gave it three hard taps. No answer. To her surprise, the automatic door hadn’t closed all the way. She glanced down and saw a bit of towel wedged in the door frame, keeping it from shutting. She pushed the door open.

  “Hello? Bertie?” She could hear the sound of running water, so she raised her voice and called out again, “Bertie, it’s Mel. I need to talk to you.”

  There was no answer. Mel wondered what to do. Should she push forward and demand to speak to him or swiftly retreat and come back later?

  If he was in the kitchenette, he would see her if she just moved farther into the room. She decided to risk it.

  “Sorry to barge in, Bertie,” she said as she stepped over the towel that had been dropped in front of the door. “I just need to . . .”

  She stopped and glanced at the kitchenette. No one was there. The sound of running water was coming from the bathroom. Oh, man, now she was embarrassed. She didn’t want to see Bertie in the altogether. She’d need therapy for months.

  She started to back away when she noticed that water was bubbling out from under the closed bathroom door. It was flooding the tile floor like a fast-moving wave headed for the carpet in the living area. Didn’t Bertie realize he was causing a small disaster?

  Oh, ish. She was going to have to knock on the bathroom door. Mel stood to the side, trying to avoid soaking her sneakers, and banged on the door with a closed fist and yelled, “Bertie, you’ve got a mess out here. Bertie!”

  There was no answer. Oh, man, she did not want to go in there, but he obviously could not hear her over the water. She had no choice.

  Clapping one hand over her eyes, Mel pushed the door open and yelled, “Bertie, shut off the water!”

  She waited for him to yell back or for the sound of the water to stop. Nothing. With a sinking feeling in her gut, Mel lowered her hand and opened her eyes.

  Floating amidst the suds in his large circular tub was Bertie. Mel raced forward. Losing her footing in a bout of panicked uncoordination, she slid into the side of the tub, bruising her hip on its hard edge.

  She reached into the water and grabbed Bertie by the shoulders. He was slick and slippery, and she had a hard time keeping a grip on him.

  “Bertie, damn it, help me out,” she yelled at him. He slid back under the water, but not before she saw that his eyes were open and his mouth was slightly agape in a grimace of pain. Bertie Grassello was dead.

  Twenty-eight

  “Are you sure there wasn’t anyone else here when you entered?” Uncle Stan asked.

  “Quite sure,” Mel said. She was sitting outside Bertie’s suite with a large, fluffy pool towel draped over her shoulders. Angie was on one side of her while Joe and Tate were on the other.

  “Was it a heart attack?” Mel asked.

  “It appears to be,” Uncle Stan said. His gaze met Mel’s, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. It was too much of a coincidence, and now that they knew what poison to look for, Bertie needed to be tested immediately.

  Uncle Stan had sent another detective to interview Dutch and Jordan, but until the ME said otherwise, it appeared that Bertie had had a heart attack while enjoying a nice long soak with his loofah and his Mr. Bubble.

  They all watched silently as Bertie was taken out of his suite on a stretcher.

  “Are you all right?” Joe asked.

  “Two bodies in six days. I’ve been better,” Mel said.

  As the stretcher was wheeled away, Felicity Parnassus came racing over to their little group. “Is it true? Is Bertie Grassello dead?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, you would be . . .” Uncle Stan frowned as if he couldn’t quite place her.

  Small wonder, Mel thought. Felicity had changed her hair color again, and now it was the raven black of midnight.

  “I am the chairwoman for the food festival,” she announced this as if it held the same importance as ambassador to China.

  Uncle Stan squinted at her. “Oh, you changed your hair. Any particular reason?”

  Felicity looked nonplussed. “It’s what I do.”

  “Oh, so you’re a hairdresser,” he said.

  Mel saw the twinkle in his eye and had to duck her head to keep from laughing. Judging by Joe’s bowed head, he was having the same reaction. Uncle Stan loved to play the dimwitted cop with societ
y’s ridiculous matrons.

  “I most certainly am not!” she declared hotly. “Now, I need you to tell me how dead is Bertie Grassello?”

  “Excuse me?” It was Uncle Stan’s turn to look nonplussed.

  “How dead is he?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry.” Uncle Stan shook his head. “He had a heart attack in the bathtub.”

  “Is there no chance that he’ll recover by tomorrow’s festival ?” Felicity huffed.

  “Because ‘there’s a big difference between mostly dead and slightly alive. Mostly dead is slightly alive. With all dead, well, with all dead there’s usually only one thing you can do,’” Angie said, keeping her voice low enough so that only Mel, Tate, and Joe could hear her.

  “‘What’s that?’” Joe joined in with the next line.

  “‘Go through his clothes and look for loose change,’” Tate and Mel finished the quote.

  “The Princess Bride,” Angie said, identifying their shared quote. Her gaze met Tate’s, and they watched each other for a moment. Mel wondered if they were remembering the other quote from The Princess Bride that they had shared yesterday, the one that meant “I love you.”

  She glanced back at Uncle Stan, who was staring at Felicity as if she were completely demented. He turned and walked away from her without saying a word.

  “How rude!” Felicity glared at his retreating back.

  “What is all this?” Grace Mazzotta walked across the terrace toward them. “Isn’t that . . . Has something happened to Bertie?”

  “Grace!” Felicity raised her hands in the air as if her own personal salvation had come. “You can do it.”

  “Do what?” Grace looked wary.

  “You can take Bertie’s spot in the judging tomorrow,” Felicity said. “It’s the last day. We can’t end it without declaring a winner.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Has something happened to Bertie?”

  “Well, yes, there was a tragedy,” Felicity said. “It seems he had a heart attack in the bathtub.”

  Grace clapped a hand over her mouth and rocked back on her heels. Mel bolted up from her seat to grab Grace’s elbow and steady her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Now, Grace,” Felicity continued, “I’ll just slip you in as Bertie’s replacement. Don’t be late—the judging will start at noon tomorrow.”

  Felicity hurried away on her skinny high heels, and they all stood staring after her.

  “Real bleeding heart, that one,” Mel muttered. She helped Grace into her empty seat. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just shocked,” Grace said. “I suppose given all of the events of the past week, it’s not unlikely that the stress would cause a heart attack, but still . . .”

  “I know,” Mel patted her hand. She pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders. “I can’t believe it—first Vic and now Bertie.”

  “I’m beginning to think this competition is cursed,” Angie said.

  “Don’t let Felicity hear you say that,” Tate said. They all shuddered at the thought.

  Uncle Stan strode over to their group. “Mrs. Mazzotta, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “Certainly,” Grace said. “I don’t know what help I can be, but I’m happy to try.”

  “It’s just a formality. Since you knew the deceased, perhaps you can help us with some background on him.” The crowd that had been loitering while the body was carried out began to surge forward and Uncle Stan frowned. “We’d better do this inside.”

  Grace rose to follow him, and Joe stood as well.

  “Stan, can I take Mel home before she catches a cold?” Joe asked.

  Uncle Stan glanced at Mel, and his cop eyes softened with affection. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” she lied.

  “Call me if you need anything,” he ordered.

  “Will do,” she said.

  “Tate, can you take Angie home?” Joe asked.

  “On it,” he said.

  Angie popped out of her chair and gave Mel a fierce hug. “Call me if you need me.”

  “I promise.”

  Joe put his arm around her waist and led Mel away from the suites, away from the scene of yet another death, and she was relieved to let him.

  Mel awoke to the sound of a soft snoring purr. Captain Jack was curled up in the crevice where her and Joe’s pillows met. She reached out a finger and stroked his downy fur. He responded by purring louder, stretching out his paws and giving her a big yawn with his pink tongue out and curling up.

  He really was the cutest darn thing, and he had slipped himself so seamlessly into her life. She couldn’t imagine her apartment without him. And just like that, she knew that this little guy had found his forever home with her.

  Mel looked at his white fur nestled against Joe’s dark hair. Her gaze moved over Joe’s face relaxed in sleep, giving his handsome features an unusual vulnerability that made her feel a flash of protectiveness for him. She felt so lucky to have them both, so lucky that it scared her, no, it terrified her.

  Joe’s eyes fluttered open as if he was aware of her watching him. His warm brown eyes took a second to focus on her, but when they did, he smiled.

  “Good morning,” he said. He stretched out his arms, much like Captain Jack, and pulled her close. “How did you sleep?”

  Mel took comfort in his warmth, letting his body heat melt the icy clutch of fear that had her in its hard grip.

  “Better than expected,” she said.

  “You must have been exhausted,” he said. “I have to tell you, I will be so glad when this challenge to the chefs is over. I feel like I have been worried about you from the moment it started.”

  “Yeah, if I could throw in the oven mitt today, I would, but we’ve worked so hard. Angie would be crushed, besides . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to beat Olivia,” she said. “And I want to know what really happened to Bertie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It just seems awfully fishy to me that he takes Vic’s television host spot and then ends up dead from a heart attack.”

  “You think Vic haunted him and gave him a heart attack ?”

  “If anyone could do that, it would be Vic, but no, I think there is something more going on here,” she said. “I think, well, what if Bertie killed Vic and the stress of it all did him in?”

  “It’s possible,” Joe said.

  “Anything is possible,” Mel said. “It’s what’s actual that is driving me batty.”

  “Do me a favor,” he said, gently plucking Captain Jack’s claws out of his pajama top while rolling him over to pet him. “Don’t do anything that would piss Vic off so that he feels compelled to haunt you.”

  Mel smiled. She thought it spoke pretty well of Joe that he didn’t even waste his breath telling her to mind her own business.

  They shared a quiet breakfast in her apartment. Thankfully, Captain Jack kept her busy with his shenanigans; otherwise, she might have gone the teensiest bit mental. It was Sunday, so her bakery wouldn’t open until one o’clock, and both Oz and Angie’s brother Al had agreed to man the fort for them.

  Mel had already lost track of how many people she had to thank for getting them through this past week.

  Finally at eleven, she and Joe made their way over to the festival. Angie had texted that she was on her way, but she made no mention of Tate, and Mel had to wonder what had happened with them when Tate had brought her home last night.

  “Melanie and dear Joe,” Mel’s mother greeted them at the entrance. She gave them each a hug and ushered them through the gate. “Can you believe it? The last day!”

  “So did Ginny’s plan work?” Mel asked.

  Her mother turned a faint shade of pink and looked away.

  “What plan?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, nothing really . . .” Joyce waved her hand but Mel ignored her.

  “Ginny thought Mom might meet a man if she volunteered
to work at the festival.”

  Joe raised his brows. “So I expect you’re beating them off with a spatula, then.”

  “Oh, dear Joe, aren’t you a love?” Joyce said, blushing an even deeper shade of pink.

  He grinned and Mel rolled her eyes. Her mother and Joe adored one another, which was fabulous most of the time. It was only when they ganged up on her that she found it problematic.

  “I hate to cut the love fest short, but I have to go,” she said. She kissed Joe’s cheek and then her mother’s. “I’ll see you two later.”

  “Oh, Melanie, wait,” Joyce called after her. She hurried to Mel’s side, drawing something out of her pocket. “This came for you at the house. It looks very official.”

  Mel glanced at the envelope before shoving it in her pocket. She didn’t have time for junk mail right now. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She hurried to the conference room, where they were to cool their heels until showtime. She wanted to visit with Johnny Pepper and see if he knew anything.

  With only four of them competing, the room was empty when Mel got there. She crossed it and knocked on Johnny’s door.

  “What?” a snippy female voice called.

  “It’s Mel, Johnny, open up,” she called.

  The door was yanked open and out popped Johnny’s trademark blond tips.

  “Mel, this isn’t a good time,” he said.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just wondering what you’ve heard about Bertie’s death and what you think about it.”

  Johnny stepped forward and leaned on his doorjamb. Mel glanced over his shoulder and saw a woman, holding a hair dryer, looking like she meant business.

  “Heart attack in the bathtub seems pretty straightforward to me,” he said.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Mel said. “But don’t you think it’s odd that two of our judges are dead?”

  “Yeah, I’m sort of feeling like this food fest is cursed,” he said without humor. “I’m surprised Felicity was able to strong-arm Grace into taking Bertie’s place. I’d have passed.”

  “Agreed,” Mel said.

  “Johnny, your product is going to dry out,” the hair lady called.

  “Gotta go. Don’t tell anyone,” he said and glanced over his shoulder at the dominatrix-looking stylist, “but I’m afraid of her. See y’all on the stage.”