Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too

by Nancy Martin

  "I don't know," Rawlins said. "I guess so. Or maybe she just quit."

  "Do you know a girl maybe named Jane? A friend of Clover's?"

  "Jane Plain? Her real name is Parker or Planker or something. Yeah, she used to hang with Clover. Probably still does."

  "Do you know anything about her?"

  "Only that she's like Clover's fan club. Ever since elementary school, it's like she doesn't have a personality, so she leeches off Clover. Why do you want to know?"

  "I saw her yesterday, that's all."

  "She goes everywhere Clover does. Hardly says anything. Some kid beat her up on the playground once in fourth grade, and she just let him do it. Didn't fight back, didn't even cry, just let him. Real passive."

  "Did Clover try to help?"

  "No. I think a teacher broke it up."

  We arrived in New Hope soon after that and Rawlins parked in front of a shop that rented formal wear. He left me in the car to ponder what life as a teenager had become. A few minutes later, he came back carrying a long plastic garment bag and a shoe box.

  He showed me the box. "Do I have to wear rented shoes?"

  "Of course not," I said. "Wear what's comfortable. Want some help putting that stuff in the trunk?"

  "Yeah."

  Rawlins was juggling his various bags, so I got out and popped the trunk for him. Together, we looked inside. He said, "There's a bunch of stuff in here."

  I leaned closer and saw two large black nylon suitcases. "I'll move them over."

  But I couldn't budge the suitcases. They were deadweight.

  "Let me try." Rawlins handed his bags to me and grabbed one of the suitcases by its handles. "Whoa, really heavy."

  "You can't lift it, either? What if we lighten the load?" I reached in and opened one of the suitcases.

  Which was how Rawlins and I found ourselves staring at a very large amount of money. Twenty-dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands. The bills looked well used, not like new currency. I couldn't begin to guess how much cash had been packed into the suitcases.

  Rawlins murmured a curse in one long, slow breath.

  I leaned shakily against the rear of the car and tried to absorb what we'd just discovered.

  "Somebody left all this money in the trunk." Rawlins sounded like a kid again.

  "Not somebody," I replied. "Michael."

  "Why? There's a ton of cash here."

  I put the garment bag on top of the suitcases. I closed the trunk, and we got into the car.

  "What's going on?" Rawlins didn't start the car but sat staring out the windshield in shock. "What's Mick doing?"

  "He's in business, Rawlins. A lot of cash businesses."

  "Why doesn't he put the money in the bank? Most businesses deposit—"

  "I know what other people do, but Michael is—he's not exactly a chamber-of-commerce type."

  Abruptly, Rawlins said, "He's been running around with different guys lately."

  I turned to look at my nephew. "Have you met them? The people he's dealing with?"

  "Not really. He kinda threw me out of the garage. He said I should get a life. I thought he was kidding around, but when I went back a couple of days later one of his guys wouldn't let me inside. Said some people were talking to Mick and I should get the hell out."

  "What people?"

  Rawlins shrugged again. "I don't know. One of them was a kid a little older than me. That was weird. Why do I have to get a life while that kid gets to be with Mick?"

  I heard the hurt in his voice finally. "I don't know, Rawlins."

  For the first time, I was confronted with the concrete evidence that Michael was up to something nefarious. I knew what kind of people carried large amounts of cash—and it wasn't upstanding citizens.

  In a little while, Rawlins started the car and we drove into Philadelphia without much further conversation. He drove more slowly than before, as if concerned that the money he was transporting might be obvious to other drivers.

  I tried to push aside my panicky thoughts about Michael. And although I'd planned to pay a visit to ChaCha at Cupcakes, it was clear after my condom conversation with Rawlins that taking him to Cupcakes was a bad idea. I decided a quick stop at Verbena's tea shop might be more informative. Maybe someone in her workplace had some insight into her relationship with her stepfather.

  I helped find a parking space on the street and invited Rawlins to the bakery, but he felt he should stay with the car.

  "I mean, what if somebody tries to steal the money?"

  I pointed out that any self-respecting car thief would more likely choose the upscale vehicles parked around us, which seemed to ease my nephew's mind.

  "Okay," he said. "But I'm still going to look mean at anybody who comes along."

  He showed me his threatening look, and I was honestly surprised to see my nephew could manage a pretty dangerous thousand-yard stare. With a pang, I realized he'd developed it by watching Michael.

  I left him listening to his headphones and studying the display screen on his cell phone.

  Verbena's quaint tea shop stood on a busy residential corner only a few blocks from the city condo where I had lived with my husband before his death. I remembered when the bakery opened.

  While still living in the neighborhood, I had enjoyed tea with girlfriends there when the pace of my life had been gentler.

  I maneuvered through a parking lot of baby strollers on the sidewalk. A steady stream of customers swept through the distinctive blue door to reach Verbena's famous cupcakes. The sweet fragrance of baking wafted out onto the sidewalk.

  Inside, I saw the crowded tea tables to my left—all covered with chintz linens and mismatched china. Groups of women—young mothers, mostly—sat sipping their green tea and chatting across tables. There were plenty of babies in laps, diaper bags on the floor. In another corner, a foursome of older men drank coffee and seemed to be arguing over something in the sports pages. A college student sat alone tapping on his computer, and two middle-aged women in bulky sweaters were bending their heads over a handful of photographs. The lush scent of fresh-ground coffee mingled with a nutmeggy smell in the air.

  Although the left side of the tearoom had the atmosphere of a neighborhood gathering spot, a line of patrons inched along the display cases to the right of the door. Everyone picked up a distinctive blue-and-white box at the beginning of the line, then served themselves from the trays of goodies. People filled their boxes with the cupcakes and paid for them at the register before breezing out of the shop. The cupcakes were beautifully topped with pastel pink, yellow or blue frosting, and each sported a red jelly bean in the center. The similarity to the cupcakes depicted on the T-shirts at Cupcakes was obvious. It looked to me as if Zell Orcutt had copied his stepdaughter's signature product.

  I scanned the crowd, hoping to see someone I knew.

  Behind me, the door suddenly slammed on its hinges, and all the customers turned to see who had arrived.

  Clover. In close proximity, she was thinner and rangier than she'd appeared while dancing on the Cupcakes bar, but her breasts looked more like devices designed to save her from drowning. Over tight jeans, she wore a dyed fur bolero jacket with a buckle-encrusted Versace bag on her shoulder and pink sunglasses on her nose. "Mother! Dammit, where are you?"

  Customers turned to stare.

  "Mother!"

  From behind the bakery cases came Verbena. Her white hair was still spiked, but she wore a clean white apron over tight jeans with chef's clogs on her feet. She wiped flour from her hands with a crisp tea towel. Today she looked far more composed than when she'd wept over her stepfather's body.

  In front of the whole crowd, Verbena said with all the concern of any suburban mom, "Honey, what's wrong?"

  Clover took off her sunglasses and fought back tears. "You won't believe it. That bitch really fired me."

  "Clover! Why?"

  The girl jammed her sunglasses into her bag. "She said she didn't want me in the show anymore. T
hat I had no talent. That I ought to go back to baton class with all the other losers! Baton class!"

  "Honey!"

  Verbena took her daughter's arm and pulled her into a space by the bakery case. It wasn't private, but clearly sent a message to the crowd that privacy was requested. Clover swiveled one hip, though, making it obvious she wanted the limelight right where it was. Among the tea shop patrons, you could have heard a pin drop.

  Clover yanked free of her mother's touch. "Who does ChaCha think she is? Doesn't she see I'm gonna own Cupcakes now?"

  "Well," Verbena began.

  "She needs a reality check! What's an old bag like her wearing the Cupcakes shirt for, anyway? What guy wants to look at her little saggy boobs? It's me they want!"

  "Maybe you misunderstood—"

  "I didn't," Clover snapped, dashing tears from her face. "She told me to leave and not come back. She said she'd mail my paycheck. Who does she think signs those checks?"

  "With your grandfather gone—"

  "What?" Clover blazed. "Are you taking her side? You think I'm a loser, too?"

  "Of course not, honey—"

  "Because you can shove it, you know. Just like ChaCha!"

  "I never said—"

  Clover summoned cold rage. "I'm better than all the other girls put together. I look the best, and who cares about their stupid dances? Nobody's going to ruin my career—not some two-bit, washed-up old bat like her!"

  "Let me make you some hot chocolate. You can have a snack and we'll figure this out."

  Clover's anger bloomed into astonished fury. "Are you kidding? You want me to get all fat and ugly? You think I'm a failure, too, don't you? Well, forget it, Mother. You can't make this day any worse than it already is!"

  "What can I do to help?"

  "Give me some money," Clover snapped.

  "Okay." Verbena reached for the pocket of her apron. "Do you need to buy some lunch for yourself? I have a few dollars—"

  "Are you kidding? I need real money!"

  "We've been over this before, Clover. If you wait for your paycheck, you'll appreciate—"

  "Oh, shove it!" Clover marched to the cash register and slammed her hand down on the keys.

  The money drawer popped open, and Clover began grabbing handfuls of cash and jamming them into her handbag. Verbena didn't move, and the silence in the shop made Clover's thievery all the more appalling.

  When she'd emptied the drawer, Clover rammed it shut and spun around so fast that she knocked me into the display case. As I caught my balance, she slammed out the door and stalked off up the sidewalk.

  Verbena's expression astounded me.

  She was actually smiling as she watched her daughter storm away.

  I collected myself and ventured forward. "Verbena?"

  "Nora." She blinked, surprised to see me. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, fine. But Clover is so upset—"

  "More angry than hurt. I value high spirits in a child, don't you? Strength of character, a powerful will. I'm never more triumphant as a mother than when I see Clover's glorious temper. Do you have children?"

  "No," I said. "Not yet."

  "Well, you'll understand someday." She hesitated, clearly torn between ending our conversation then and there and making amends for Clover's rough shove. Finally, Verbena said, "Would you like some tea? And a cupcake? I was about to make a batch myself. I couldn't stay at home today. So I came to work, where I'm happiest."

  "Everyone copes differently with death."

  "Baking helps me cope with everything. Come into the kitchen. I have an hour before I go choose a casket."

  I'd seen my fair share of peculiar responses to grief, but this one bewildered me. I followed Verbena around the display case and through a doorway to the bakery. Four white-aproned bakers bustled between the stainless steel counters and the daunting wall of ovens. As Verbena entered, they all seemed to focus more sharply on their tasks.

  Verbena led me to her private corner of the kitchen. With a careless gesture, she indicated a stool, and I sat down. She pulled a crockery mixing bowl down from a shelf and set it purposefully before herself, like a potter placing raw clay on a wheel. From a refrigerator drawer, she brought eggs and milk. A glass jar of flour came down off a shelf. I could see she had created a ritual for herself.

  I found myself wondering what her rock fans might think of her now.

  As she gathered her ingredients, I said, "I didn't have a chance to give you my condolences last night. I'm very sorry for your loss."

  "Zell was no loss," Verbena said. "Not to me, anyway."

  "Still, his death must be a shock."

  "For Clover more than anyone. She considered Zell her grandfather. She cried half the night."

  Although she spoke of Clover's pain, I certainly hadn't seen a hint of dismay.

  "It's a shame she's lost her job." Verbena frowned. "But Clover is a determined girl. And she's always wanted to be more famous than me. She'll find something even more exciting now. Something more suited to her talents. She's really going places."

  I had hardly seen stellar quality in Clover's Cupcake performance, but I said, "As her mother, you must be a little relieved that she's been fired from a place like Cupcakes."

  "I want whatever Clover wants," Verbena corrected. "But I never thought Cupcakes was right for her. She's destined for something bigger."

  "Well, she must have enjoyed working with her grandfather."

  One-handed, Verbena cracked two eggs into the bowl and tossed the shells into a nearby sink. "At least he gave her a shot—that's what's important."

  "I hear your uncle Pierpoint is being questioned for Zell's murder."

  "I heard that, too."

  "Do you believe he killed your stepfather?

  "It's possible." Verbena began to whisk the eggs with a strong rhythm. "Uncle Pointy and Zell fought on and off for years. But Zell fought with everyone in his life, you know."

  "Even Clover?"

  She smiled at last. "Of course not with Clover. Everyone loves Clover."

  "Did they get along?"

  "I just said they did." Verbena stopped whisking. "Are you implying that Clover might have hurt her grandfather? Because that's ridiculous."

  "No, I only—"

  "She loved him, and he loved her in his own way. If you think you can print something about Clover and her grandfather, you'll have me to answer to."

  I suddenly saw Viper standing before me. "Verbena, that's not at all what—"

  "If you're wondering who killed my stepfather, you should trust the professionals."

  "I do. Generally, that is."

  But Michael often said murder resulted from circumstances that involved drugs, money, family or sex. Sometimes all four. The only category Pointy fitted was family.

  Carefully, I said, "Pointy seemed a little irrational yesterday when I saw him. But he hardly seemed murderous. And surely Zell had more dangerous enemies than Pointy."

  "Dozens," Verbena agreed, going back to her whisking. "It would be easier to find somebody who wasn't his enemy. He was always helping people in business."

  And frequently ruined those businesses when he forced the owners to cut him in on the profits. I asked, "What about love affairs?"

  With another frown, Verbena said, "I doubt he called them love affairs. Zell went for one-night stands. Not that I would know. Once I left home, Nora, I paid as little attention to my stepfather as possible. Look." She rapped the dripping whisk against the bowl and pointed it at me. "I think the police have the right person. Or at least the right branch of the family."

  I couldn't have been more surprised if she'd beaned me with a rolling pin. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Who had the biggest reason to get rid of Zell Orcutt right now?" Blithely, she reached for a glass measuring cup. "Whose career would be severely damaged by a connection with a venture like Cupcakes?"

  I blinked. "You're saying Boy might have wanted to kill Zell?"

  She shru
gged. "Politicians will do just about anything to get elected these days."

  "But . . . your cousin Boy?"

  "He's not as sweet as he pretends. He's ambitious, too. Maybe it's a family trait. And, of course, you don't swallow that dummy routine of his, do you? He may be clumsy, but he's not an idiot."

  I almost told Verbena that Boy had asked me to look into Zell's death. He wouldn't ask for my help if he were guilty of the crime himself. Or would he?

  None of it made sense.

  Claiming I had to get to work, I begged off waiting for Verbena's cupcakes and said good-bye. I bought a box at the counter and went outside, still wondering about the Fitch family. They were even nuttier than I had thought.

  Standing with Rawlins on the sidewalk was Clover. She had one arm draped around his shoulder, and she appeared to be sticking her tongue in his ear.

  Chapter Seven

  I skidded to a stop and quickly backpedaled to the bakery doorway, almost dropping the box of cupcakes in my arms. What to do? March over and humiliate Rawlins? Or break them up before their public display of affection officially got them arrested for public lewdness?

  Beside Rawlins, Clover looked like a praying mantis—long, skinny legs made to look longer by the height of her heels, and arms that seemed stretched to inhuman lengths. Her pouty lips had been smeared with so much sticky lip gloss that they looked like pink flypaper. And by the way she draped her arm around Rawlins's shoulder and leaned in to lick his earlobe, she might have been a giant flesh-eating insect tranquilizing her victim before she sucked his succulent brain out of his skull.

  Judging by his expression, Rawlins would have died empty-headed but happy. As he clung to a parking meter to keep his balance, his face was dazed and delirious.

  Clover's hand slipped from my nephew's chest, down his quivering abdomen to linger at the belt that barely kept his corduroys on his hips.

  A passerby, a young man in a yarmulke, carrying a backpack, shook his head and muttered, "Get a room."

  I had to do something.

  On the corner, there was a trash can and a public telephone. In a burst of inspiration, I headed for it, juggling the box of cupcakes and scrabbling one-handed through my pockets for some change. Luckily, the phone hadn't been vandalized. I dialed Rawlins's cell number and fed coins into the phone.