Sprinkle with Murder

by Jenn McKinlay

  “That’s what we were going for,” Angie said dryly. “Cuuuuuute.”

  The one called Alma just glared. She radiated a feeling of doom, and Mel and Angie exchanged a look. If anyone was in need of a cupcake, it was this girl.

  “What are your names?” Angie asked.

  “Why do you need our names?” the one called Alma asked, looking irritated.

  “Your order would be under your name,” Angie said.

  “Oh, they’re not for us, silly,” the blonde girl said.

  “As if,” Alma added. Her tone made it clear that there’d be snowball fights in hell before there was a box of cupcakes with her name on it.

  “What name would the order be under then?” Angie asked. Mel could tell she was about out of patience, and she joined Angie behind the counter to give her backup.

  “Christie Stevens,” the blonde said proudly. “Only the most brilliant designer ever.”

  “She sent you, then?” Mel asked.

  “Obviously.” Alma said each syllable slowly, as if she thought the word was too big for Mel to comprehend.

  Mel saw Angie’s fingers flex and she feared that she might smack the girl with a spatula, so she quickly intervened. “Angie, they’re in a box in the walk-in. Would you get them for me, please?”

  “Gladly.” Angie glared at the dark-haired girl and stomped into the back room.

  Mel studied the gothic-looking young woman. She was dressed head to toe in black, wore too much makeup, and somehow managed to suck all of the joy out of the air around her, as if she were a mini black hole.

  The blonde one, however, was as bright as a buttercup and obviously worshipped her boss. Mel had noticed that not only did the blonde dress like her, but she also had some of Christie’s mannerisms down. She covered her mouth when she giggled, and the giggle sounded just like Christie’s. Eep!

  “So, you’re Christie’s assistants?” she asked.

  Alma glared at her from behind a thick curtain of black bangs. “Hardly. We’re designers.”

  “Really?” Mel asked. “That must be fascinating.”

  “Oh, it is,” the blonde said on a breath. “And working for Christie is such an honor. Why, she’s just totally all that, you know?”

  “Shut up, Phoebe,” Alma snapped.

  “Hmm,” Mel grunted noncommittally.

  Alma glanced around the room as if the cheerful pink walls were making her physically ill. She glided over to a corner booth and sank down as if just being in the shop was making her weak.

  “I’ll need you to sign for the cupcakes,” Mel said to Phoebe.

  “Sure,” she said, with a shrug she tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder.

  Mel quickly rang up a receipt and handed it and a pen to the girl. She scrawled her name just as Angie returned with a pink box with gray and black retro starburst symbols on it.

  She offered the box to Alma, who looked as if she’d rather die than be seen carrying such a thing.

  “Don’t you have a bag you could put that in?” she asked.

  Angie glowered at her and found a plain white bag under the counter. She put the box in the bag and handed it to Alma.

  “Have a lovely evening,” Angie said with so much syrupy cheerfulness even Mary Poppins would have gagged. Mel had to turn away to keep from laughing.

  The bells jangled as the door shut behind the girls.

  “Someone quick call the Addams family and tell them Wednesday is on the loose,” Angie said.

  “She was positively creepy, wasn’t she?”

  “And what was with Malibu Barbie?” Angie asked. “A girl could strain something looking that happy all the time.”

  “Hard to say who I’d rather be stuck in an elevator with, that’s for sure,” Mel said.

  “Oh, not me,” Angie retorted. “I’d take old gloom-and-doom. Probably at night she can transform into a bat and fly; much better chance of a rescue that way.”

  “Let’s just hope Christie loves those cupcakes, so we don’t have to do this again.” Mel glanced at her watch. “We’d better beat feet if we’re going to get to Tate’s in time.”

  “I’m bringing the popcorn.”

  “I’ve got Jujubes and Raisinets,” Mel said. “And Tate promised to make coffee milk shakes.”

  “We’d better enjoy this,” Angie observed. “If Christie has her way, this may be our last movie night together.”

  “Tate will always make time for us,” Mel said.

  She was lying, and they both knew it. Christie was a force to be reckoned with, and if she pulled the plug on movie night, Mel knew there wasn’t much Tate or anyone else would be able to do about it. She didn’t say as much to Angie, but judging by her conversation with the bride-to-be on the phone, Christie had a warped view of their friendship and would be doing her level best to end it.

  Mel resided over the cupcake bakery in a studio apartment, Angie rented a duplex in the neighborhood that surrounded Old Town Scottsdale, and Tate lived in a luxury penthouse condominium on the canal just north of Old Town.

  Needless to say, movie night was always at Tate’s pad, just as it had been his house when they were growing up. He had the spectacular view of the city, the Italian marble bathrooms, the guest suites, the fully stocked steel-and-granite kitchen, and, most important, the media room, with leather recliners, a sixty-inch, flat-screen plasma HDTV, and a Bose home theater system. Life was good if you were a Harper.

  They didn’t have assigned seating for movie night, but they all sat in the same spot every week anyway. Mel sat in the recliner to the left while Angie and Tate shared the sofa, each end reclined, with one empty seat in between them. Mel wondered if Christie would soon be filling that seat. Somehow she doubted it.

  Exhausted from baking cupcakes all night, Mel knew Tate’s upcoming wedding was more on her mind than usual. Well, that and getting reamed by bridezilla sort of made it hard to ignore.

  While Kate Hepburn quipped with Cary Grant, Mel glanced over at Angie and Tate. Angie was tucked under a cashmere throw, as the October evening had grown chilly. Tate was sprawled in his recliner with a bucket of popcorn on his left and the remote on his right.

  She watched the reflection of the black-and-white film flicker across her friends’ faces and felt a sharp pang in her chest. Was this one of the last nights they’d all be together? Would Christie forbid movie night? Could Mel accept her as Tate’s wife, or would their friendship slowly suffocate under Christie’s overbearing presence until it ceased to be? Mel felt a wave of deep depression wash over her. She knew she was overtired and it was a very bad time to be thinking about anything, but still she was besieged by a foreboding she couldn’t seem to shake off.

  Abruptly, the theme music from James Bond filled the room.

  “What the . . . ?” Angie sat up, annoyed, while Tate paused the film with one hand and fumbled in his pants pocket with the other to retrieve his cell phone.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot to shut it off.”

  Angie gave him an eye roll while he checked to see who it was. He frowned.

  “It’s Christie,” he said. “I have to take it. Sorry.”

  As he stepped out of the room under the paused and watchful faces of Kate and Cary, Angie gave Mel a dark look. It said louder than words that Christie was already ruining their movie night. Mel sighed.

  “What do you think she wants?” Angie asked.

  “Not a clue,” Mel answered. She was afraid Christie was calling to complain about the cupcakes, but she didn’t want to go there.

  “Let’s find out.” Angie threw the blanket aside and stood up.

  “But that’s eavesdropping,” Mel said as she followed Angie out of the room.

  They scuttled down the hall in their socks, following the sound of Tate’s voice. His home was done in rich earth tones that complemented the toffee-colored tile that ran throughout. Angie led the way, past the guest rooms and the large home office, to the master suite. The French doors were open, and Tate was standing on the balcony on the far side of the immense room. The brilliant lights of the Valley of the Sun rolled out before him
like a carpet of stars.

  Mel seldom thought of how wealthy Tate really was, but every now and then it crept up and slapped her in the face, and she marveled that the three of them had been friends for all these years despite their divergent backgrounds.

  He shifted his feet, and Angie grabbed Mel’s arm and yanked her to the floor behind the king-sized bed in the center of the room.

  They crept under the bed—no dust bunnies there—and out the other side, where they hugged the wall until they were close enough to hear his side of the conversation.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. There was a lengthy pause. “I know you wanted me there tonight, but it’s movie night.”

  There was another lengthy pause, and Mel was pretty sure she could hear the sound of a high-pitched nag on the other end of the line.

  “Christie, they’ve been my best friends since I was a kid,” he began, and was obviously interrupted. “Why is that weird?” Pause. “So what if they’re women? They’re my friends.”

  Mel and Angie exchanged a look. Tate had dated girls before who hadn’t liked that his two best pals were women. He had a group of guy friends he played golf and hoops with, but when he wanted to relax, he kicked around with the two of them.

  Mel supposed it was because, just like when they were kids, Tate could be himself with them. His father, a scarily stern man, had kept Tate on a pretty tight leash, grooming him to take over Harper Investments. It was Tate’s mother who had encouraged his friendship with Mel and Angie, as if she knew that Tate needed them to keep him from turning into a replica of his cold, withdrawn father.

  “Christie, don’t ask me to choose between you and my friends, because you won’t like how it turns out.” Tate’s voice was harsh, and Angie looked at Mel with raised eyebrows. Tate seldom lost his cool.

  The wail that Christie let out was loud enough for Mel to hear from several feet away. Tate winced and held his phone away from his ear.

  “I’m sorry, Christie,” he said, sounding sincere. “I didn’t mean that. That was terrible of me to say.”

  He paused, and Mel could hear a series of high-pitched shrieks coming out of his phone.

  “No, of course, I won’t call off the wedding,” he said. “Yes, I know I proposed, and I meant it. You are the most important person in my life. You’re my best friend.”

  Angie made a guttural gagging sound. Tate turned at the noise, and both women ducked behind a wing chair, hoping he didn’t catch them. Mel peeked around the back of the chair. Tate was facing the view and speaking in a low tone, obviously still trying to soothe the bride-to-be.

  Mel pushed Angie back under the high bed, and they scrambled to the door and down the hall. Angie pushed open the bathroom door and yanked Mel inside with her.

  She shut and locked the door, and turned the water on, before she turned to Mel with a scowl.

  Mel sat on the vanity seat while Angie paced back and forth in front of the long counter with double sinks. “We’re supposed to be his best friends.”

  “I know, but things change,” Mel said.

  “She’s muscling him into this marriage. He can’t be in love with her.”

  “He’s marrying her. He must care about her on some level.”

  Mel reached over and shut off the tap. She doubted Tate would be able to hear them through the thick walnut door.

  “That’s because he’s Tate, and Tate always does what he says he’ll do,” Angie said. “It’s a character flaw.”

  Mel smiled. It was true. Tate had always been as good as his word, and up until now that had been a good thing.

  A sharp knock on the door sounded, and they both started.

  “Hey, you two, hurry up,” Tate called.

  “On our way,” Mel replied as Angie ran the sink again.

  When they opened the door, Tate stood there, staring at them, and Mel feared he knew they’d listened in on his conversation. An apology was halfway out of her mouth when he shook his head and asked, “What is it about women and going to the bathroom together?”

  “Buddy system,” Angie said as she strolled by to resume her seat on the couch. “If you fall in too deep, it’s always good to have someone to pull you out.”

  Tate gave her a quizzical look, but shrugged and flopped back onto his side of the sofa. As the movie resumed, Mel crunched her popcorn, but even with extra movie theater butter it tasted like paste.

  Tate didn’t mention Christie’s call until Angie and Mel had donned their hooded sweatshirts and were headed out the door. Tate’s was one of four penthouses, and his front door opened into a large lobby decorated with real ferns, more Italian marble, and mirrors that made you look skinny. The doors to the other luxury homes were closed, and Mel wondered if the owners were home.

  “Uh, Mel, I need to talk to you,” he said.

  Mel and Angie turned around to look at him as they pushed the elevator button for Down.

  “You might as well say it in front of me,” Angie said. “Because she’s just going to tell me on the ride down anyway.”

  Tate grinned and said, “It’s not a secret.”

  “Oh,” Angie said, looking disappointed.

  “No, Christie just wants Mel to stop by her studio tomorrow morning,” he said. “She tried the cupcakes you made, and she has some suggestions.”

  “Oh,” Mel said. “What time?”

  “She has a meeting at eight. She was wondering if you could stop by at seven thirty.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Sorry, I know you’re not a morning person. Do you want me to give you a wake-up call?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” Mel knew she sounded sulky. She tried to shake it off. Tate had enough on his plate. He certainly didn’t need her being less than supportive, so she added, “I’ll be happy to.”

  “Thanks, Mel,” he said. “You’re a pal.”

  The three friends hugged, and as the elevator door shut on Tate waving good-bye to them, Mel couldn’t help but think he looked more like a lost little boy than one of the country’s smartest investment analysts.

  Five

  There was a bite to the brisk morning air. Mel pulled her jacket closer, loving the fact that after a summer where the mercury had hovered around 115 degrees for weeks, it was now down into the sixties in the early morning, and it actually felt cold.

  Christie’s design shop was located near Scottsdale’s premier shopping center, Scottsdale Fashion Square, just north of Old Town. This was Christie’s home office, but she had another shop in Los Angeles, where she sold to an even more exclusive clientele. Her specialty was clothing for the ultra-pampered rich woman in her late twenties and early thirties who maintained a size zero capped with a surgically enhanced bust line; in other words, her specialty was herself.

  Mel parked her red Mini Cooper, which she’d bought because it had the same last name as her, in the narrow lot in front of the shop and hurried across the sidewalk to the front door. Nestled between an interior design firm and a day spa, Christie’s studio was very mod, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows framed in brushed steel and doors to match.

  Mel leaned close to the glass to peer in. Bright lime green and iridescent purple puffy chairs were the accent colors set against a background of stark white. Clear cables mounted in the ceiling supported steel racks of clothing, making it look as if the clothes were floating. No more than ten items were on any rack, and Mel would bet the point spread that there wasn’t anything over a size four on display. Her inner chubby adolescent bristled at the thought.

  It had been years since anyone had called her Fatso, and looking at her tall, thin reflection now it was hard to reconcile the lithe, muscled woman she had become with the plump kid she’d been, but still the scars ran deep.

  Melanie had been a large Marge all the way through school, and at college when others gained the freshmen ten, she had gained the freshmen thirty. She had gone to UCLA; Tate was off to Princeton; and Angie had attended Northern Arizona University.

  If growing up in Scottsdale and being chubby had been tough, in LA it had been a soul crusher. So Mel dieted and exerc
ised and starved herself until every ounce of baby fat had been eradicated.

  It had been the worst four years of her life. Missing Angie and Tate and their late-night movies, Mel had thrown herself into her studies and graduated at the top of her class with a degree in marketing. She had been a whiz-bang young exec working for a firm in LA when she realized the only happy moment of her day was her drop-by at her neighborhood bakery to get her daily sweets fix.

  She immediately quit her job, packed a bag, came home to Arizona, and enrolled in the Scottsdale Culinary Institute to be a pastry chef. After she graduated, she topped off her studies by spending several weeks in France, studying at the Paris Lenotre School to learn the tours de main from a professional French pastry chef, the sort of things she couldn’t learn from a book. But an interesting thing happened to her while in France.

  Mel learned to love food again. Not the unhealthy “I hate myself so I’m going to eat five burgers” love; instead, she noticed that the women in France had a healthy relationship with food and she wanted that, too. The French ate better food; they used all five senses, and they lingered over their food in a love affair that was joyous, not destructive or guilt-ridden. It changed Mel’s relationship with food, and when she returned home, she felt like a butterfly coming out of her cocoon.

  She was no longer the rail-thin coed with food issues. Instead, she was a lean but slightly curved version of her old self who loved good food, loved running her own cupcake bakery, and finally, after years of struggle, felt good about herself.

  That is, until she looked at the skimpy outfits hanging in Christie’s shop; then the worm of self-doubt wriggled in her belly like a parasite that fed on self-loathing. Mel closed her eyes. No. She was not going to let someone else’s warped idea of what a woman should look like poison her own acceptance and appreciation of herself.

  Shaking herself like a wet dog, Mel knocked on the glass door to let Christie know she was there. She glanced at her watch. It was seven thirty-five, so she was essentially on time. She waited, turning to see if anyone else was open, but no, it was too early for the other shops.