Sprinkle with Murder

by Jenn McKinlay

  She glanced through the glass again, wondering if Christie had heard her. She didn’t see any movement. She knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.

  Maybe Christie was in back and couldn’t hear her. Mel walked around the row of stores. Behind the building, there were three doors. Christie’s gold Porsche was parked in front of the middle one.

  Mel rapped on the steel door with her knuckles. It made a hollow sound that echoed in the early morning quiet. She frowned. Christie’s car was here. Where was she?

  She turned the doorknob. To her surprise, it opened. She pulled, and let it swing wide. The back room was floor-to-ceiling rolls of fabrics in every hue imaginable. Mel walked into the room feeling much like Alice at the bottom of the rabbit hole.

  “Christie?” she called. Silence greeted her.

  She walked through the rows of fabrics until she came to another room full of sewing machines, drafting tables, and tailors’ mannequins. Sketches of clothing on line drawings of exaggerated silhouettes littered the room. Mel stopped to study several of the sketches. The styles were very different. One was dark and sleek, and she guessed the work belonged to the grim Alma. The other was an explosion of bright colors. Phoebe’s, perhaps? She noted that the initials CSD were scrawled in the lower right-hand corner of each sketch. It appeared she had marked each with the company initials CSD for Christie Stevens Designs. Interesting.

  “Christie, it’s Melanie,” she called out. “I’m here to talk about your cupcakes.”

  Her footsteps echoed on the hard floor, and she supposed Christie must have just popped out. Should she stay? Should she wait outside? She couldn’t help but be miffed. She wasn’t a morning person to begin with, and here she was at—she checked her watch—seven forty and there was no sign of Christie. She wondered if she should call Tate, but given how that had gone over with Christie the last time, she thought not.

  She left the large, industrial design room and entered the shop. It was empty. She supposed she should just plunk down in one of the puffy chairs and wait. She spied some high fashion magazines on a small table by the window. At least she’d have something to read while she waited.

  She rounded a rack of skirts and froze. A leg, a very slim leg in black hose, wearing a Christian Louboutin platform pump with a bright red heel, was sticking out from under a hanging rack of evening gowns. Mel knew right away this was no mannequin that had toppled over.

  She ran across the floor, ducking under the gowns. Sure enough, Christie was sprawled as if she’d fallen and had knocked herself out. For a nanosecond, Mel was sure she’d tripped and banged her head. But her pasty coloring alerted Mel that something was wrong, very wrong.

  “Christie, are you all right?” she asked. She put a hand on each side of Christie’s face and patted her cheeks. She felt stiff to the touch, and Mel yanked her hands back.

  Mel stared at Christie’s chest, but there was no rise and fall. She put a finger on Christie’s exposed wrist, hoping to find a pulse. A cupcake, covered in dark chocolate fondant, rolled out of Christie’s curled fingers. Mel paid it no mind as she frantically felt for any sign of life. There was nothing. Christie was dead.

  Mel refused to believe it. No, no, no. She raced to the service counter and grabbed the receiver to the phone. She punched in 9-1-1.

  “I need an ambulance right away,” she said as soon as the dispatcher answered. “I’m at Christie Stevens Designs on North Scottsdale Road. She’s not breathing, and I can’t find a pulse.”

  The dispatcher deployed an emergency crew and stayed on the line with Mel, asking her questions. Yes, she was safe. No, there was no sign of a break-in. No, Christie wasn’t responding. When the ambulance arrived, screeching into the parking lot with a squeal of wheels and siren blaring, Mel ran to the front door to undo the dead bolt and let them in. She stood huddled in a corner while the EMTs worked on Christie. They had no more luck reviving her than Mel.

  Feeling numb, Mel pulled out her cell phone and called Tate.

  “ ‘Good morning, Stella,’ ” he answered.

  Oh no, a movie quote. Mel twisted her lips at the irony of his choice.

  “ ‘Good morning, dream boy,’ ” she returned, her voice hoarse.

  “Nice catch,” Tate said. “I thought I might stump you with The Killers.”

  “Not likely,” Mel said. She glanced over at the EMTs and saw one shake his head at the other. She turned away.

  “So, how did it go? Do you girls have our wedding cupcakes all figured out?”

  “Oh, Tate.” Her voice broke and she sucked in a breath, trying to ease the lump in her throat.

  “What? What is it, Mel?” He sounded alarmed. He knew her too well not to know that something was seriously wrong.

  “It’s Christie,” she said. “It’s bad.”

  “What? What is it?” His voice dropped to a cautious level as if a whisper could muffle any incoming bad news.

  “When I got here this morning, she didn’t answer the door, so I came around the back,” Mel said. “And I found her . . . Tate, she’s dead.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He disconnected.

  Mel put her phone away but stayed in the corner. The EMTs were conferring with the police officer who had arrived on the scene just after them. No one moved Christie. No one touched the clothing rack above her. No one picked up the cupcake that had rolled out of her hand.

  As if remembering she was there, the officer left the EMTs and made his way to her side.

  “Miss?” he said.

  “Cooper,” she supplied. “Melanie Cooper.”

  “Miss Cooper, I’m Officer Reinhardt. I’m going to ask you to wait outside,” he said. “A detective is on the way, and I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you. In the meantime, we need to keep the integrity of the crime scene intact.”

  “Crime scene?” she asked.

  The officer realized his mistake as soon as Mel repeated his words. “I can’t verify that, ma’am, but I need you to vacate the area until the detectives arrive.”

  She wanted to question him, but as if he sensed this, Officer Reinhardt took her by the elbow and led her outside. Mel sat nearby on a concrete bench beneath an acacia tree. The morning had grown warmer, but still her skin felt chilled.

  More cars arrived, one of which was the county medical examiner’s van. Mel waited for Tate, wondering where he was, what he was thinking, and if he was going to be okay. Finally, his Lexus zipped into the parking lot. He had to park several spots away. Mel stood and waved at him. He ran to her side.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. His brown hair was mussed. Mel suspected he hadn’t even run a comb through it, and his clothes were wrinkled as if he’d grabbed them off the floor in his haste.

  “Oh, Tate,” she said. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly in hers. “It’s bad, very, very bad.”

  “Tell me . . .”

  “Mel,” a voice interrupted. Mel turned to see her uncle Stan striding toward her.

  Uncle Stan had worked as a detective with the Scottsdale Police Department for as long as Mel could remember. He was one with his shield; in fact, she had never seen him without it or his gun. Mel didn’t hesitate, she ran and hugged her uncle Stan as hard as she could.

  “Hey, now,” Uncle Stan said and patted her back. “What are you doing here, Mel? I just got a call that a young woman was found dead.”

  Mel stepped back and looked into her uncle’s kind face. “I know. I found her.”

  “Oh, Mel, are you okay?” he asked. “You look pale. You should be sitting down. What happened?”

  “Wait,” Mel said. She reached behind her and pulled Tate forward. “Uncle Stan, you remember my friend Tate Harper?”

  “Of course. How are you doing, son?” he asked as the two men shook hands.

  “Not too well,” Tate said. “I’d like to go and see her.”

  “Uncle Stan,” Mel said. “The young woman is Christie Stevens. She’s Tate’s fiancée.”

  Uncle Stan’s gaze snapped to Tate. He seemed to study Tate for a moment before he said, “Let me find out what’s going on. I’ll be
right back.”

  He hustled past them, and Mel watched as the glass and steel doors swallowed him up like an appetizer before the big meal.

  “Tell me what happened,” Tate said while they both watched the door for Uncle Stan’s reappearance.

  Mel told him everything she could remember.

  “So there was no blood or marks or any indication that she’d been harmed?” Tate asked.

  “None that I could see,” Mel said. “It was like she was asleep, but she wasn’t. I’m so sorry, Tate.”

  “Ahem.” They turned to find Officer Reinhardt standing behind them. “The detectives would like to see you now.”

  “Oh, okay,” Mel said. “Officer Reinhardt, this is Tate Harper. He’s Ms. Stevens’s fiancé.”

  Understanding passed over the officer’s features, followed swiftly by a speculative glance that Mel did not like.

  “If you’ll follow me, please,” he said as he led the way into the shop.

  Mel squeezed Tate’s hand once more for courage and followed. Uncle Stan and another detective stood at the back of the shop while several people wearing badges from the county medical examiner’s office worked around Christie’s body.

  “Here they are,” Officer Reinhardt said.

  The detectives exchanged a look, and Uncle Stan stepped close to Mel.

  “I need to ask you some questions,” he said. “My colleague, Detective Rayburn, will escort you to your fiancée, Tate.”

  Tate nodded as he followed Detective Rayburn towards the cluster of medical personnel.

  “Mel, tell me exactly how you came to be here this morning and what you found,” Uncle Stan said.

  “Certainly.” She told him everything. About having a seven thirty meeting and how no one answered, so she tried the back door and found it unlocked, and finally how she saw Christie’s leg, tried to revive her, and called 9-1-1.

  Uncle Stan didn’t interrupt. He took several notes and nodded while she spoke. Mel’s voice cracked when she talked about realizing that Christie was dead, but she swallowed hard and forged on.

  “What was your relationship with the victim?” he asked. Mel paused. She knew Uncle Stan already knew how much she disliked Christie; he’d been in the shop when she lost her temper and announced how much she loathed her. Since this was official police business, however, she skirted around the truth.

  “I’m a longtime friend and business partner with her fiancé, Tate. She and I were just getting to know each other.”

  “So you wouldn’t call her a friend?” he asked. She could tell by his narrowed gaze that he’d caught on that she was being vague.

  “Not yet,” Mel said. “I really haven’t known her that long.”

  Uncle Stan gave her a hard stare, and Mel fought the urge to squirm. Why did he have to look so much like her dad? It made it impossible to hide anything from him.

  She had done nothing wrong, and she certainly wasn’t going to give him any reason to think that she had. Still, she couldn’t help but notice that her hands were sweaty and her heart was thumping harder in her chest than normal.

  “Cooper,” one of the crime scene workers called, and both Mel and Stan answered.

  “I think that’s for me,” Uncle Stan said with a small smile. The tense moment was broken.

  “Stick around. I may have more questions for you. If you think of anything urgent, call my cell.”

  “Okay.” Uncle Stan had been programmed into every phone she had ever owned. You never knew when you might need a family member on the force.

  He escorted her back out the door and gave her a quick hug before he went to talk to the crime scene personnel.

  The other detective was standing with Tate. Mel stood off to one side and waited. Tate looked as if someone had sucker punched him. He kept shaking his head as if trying to make it all go away. The detective handed him a card, and Mel went to stand beside him.

  “How could this be?” he asked. His voice cracked with emotion, and Mel looped an arm around him. He was trembling. She patted his back, wishing she knew what to say.

  After a moment, he pulled away. “I need to call Christie’s parents.”

  Mel nodded, and watched as he drew out his BlackBerry. She sat back down on the concrete bench while he walked to the corner to make the call in private. She did not envy him this task.

  “What’s going on?” a voice asked just behind Mel.

  She turned on the hard bench and saw Alma, the goth designer, standing behind her and smoking. Again, she was all in black from her spiked black hair to her scuffed black combat boots.

  Mel wasn’t sure what to say. Should she be the one to tell Christie’s staff what had happened? She didn’t think so. Phoebe, the blonde with the superbouncy personality, joined them. Her hair was up in a ponytail and held back by a wide headband. She was wearing cherry red leggings with a red and white zebra-striped top. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and studied the door to the studio, which someone had propped open with a brick.

  “Hiya,” she said, as chipper as a morning songbird. “Why are we out here?”

  Mel glanced around for Uncle Stan. There was no sign of him.

  “It seems . . . well . . .” she stammered, hoping someone would show up and rescue her from this task, but no one did. “It seems that Christie, well, she’s dead.”

  Alma squinted at her through a plume of smoke. Mel could tell she thought she was messing with her.

  Phoebe, on the other hand, laughed. “You’re so funny. Seriously, what’s going on? Did the fire alarm go off again?”

  Just then Tate walked by with his phone pressed to his ear. He was pacing, as he did when he was agitated, and Mel heard him say, “The police don’t know what’s happened. My friend Melanie Cooper arrived to meet with Christie this morning, and that’s when she found her. She was nonresponsive.”

  Alma and Phoebe looked at Mel with wide eyes and, seeing the confirmation of Tate’s words on her face, Phoebe let loose with a scream that drew Mel’s nerves as tight as a piano string before it snapped.

  Several officers came running, one of whom caught Phoebe as she fainted. Mel rose to help, but an EMT arrived and half carried, half dragged Phoebe to a nearby ambulance.

  Alma slumped onto the concrete bench. “So, it’s true, then? The wicked witch is dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mel said. She was taken aback by the hostility in Alma’s tone, but she said nothing.

  “I don’t suppose I should be surprised,” Alma said, lighting another cigarette. “Someone was going to do the bitch in sooner or later. I guess I just thought it would be later.”

  Mel had not been a fan of Christie’s, but she was stunned by the callousness in Alma’s tone. What had Christie done to the young designer that she hated her so much?

  She was about to ask when one of the EMTs came rushing back. “Excuse me, are you Alma?”

  She turned towards him. “Yes?”

  “Your friend is asking for you,” he said.

  “We’re coworkers, not friends,” she corrected him.

  “Okay, your coworker is asking for you,” he replied, looking irked. “Could you put that out and come with me, please?”

  Alma took one more long drag before she crushed the cigarette under the hard rubber toe of her boot. She gave Mel a put-upon look before she followed the man in the blue uniform.

  When Mel looked up, Tate was standing in front of her. He looked shattered. Without thinking about it, Mel put her arms around him and hugged him tight.

  Six

  A flash popped, and Mel looked over her shoulder and saw a photographer standing there. He was all aquiver like a dog with a juicy bone. It didn’t take a genius to realize that because of Tate’s fortune and Christie’s quasi celebrity, this was going to be front-page news. Tate hugging another woman at the scene of his fiancée’s death wasn’t going to look good, no matter how you sliced it.

  “Your name, miss?” the photographer asked.

  “Oh, hell, no!” Tate snapped.

  He shoved Mel behind him and took a step towards the guy like he was going to punch
him, but Mel held on to his arm and forcibly pulled him back into the studio to wait for Christie’s parents.

  “Tate, don’t,” she said.

  As they hovered near the wall on one side of the studio, Mel’s phone began to ring. It was distinguishable by her Gone With the Wind ring tone. She scrambled to pull it out of her purse and checked the number. It was the cupcake shop, so she knew it was Angie.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “ ‘I know the perfect way to kill someone. You clog their arteries with whipped cream, chocolate mousse, butter . . . they go like that!’ ”

  “Angie, what are you saying?”

  “I’m quoting Manhattan Murder Mystery. Don’t tell me I got you with that one. I thought it would make you laugh. You must be about ready to wring bridezilla’s neck by now.”

  “Oh, man, I thought . . . never mind,” Mel said with a sigh. Tate looked at her with a frown. “Listen, something has happened over here at the studio.”

  “What?” Angie demanded.

  “I don’t know if I should say over the phone,” Mel replied. She could see Uncle Stan and the other detective having a heated conversation with the coroner, and every once and a while the other detective glanced towards her and Tate. It didn’t give her the warm fuzzies; in fact, she felt herself beginning to sweat.

  “Oh, come on,” Angie said. “You can’t start to tell me and then stop. What’s going on? Is Christie being a nightmare or what?”

  “I’m going to wait outside for Christie’s parents,” Tate said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” Angie asked. “Are you going to tell me now?”

  Mel slid down the wall towards the back of the shop, where she figured she could speak without being overheard. In a quiet voice, she said, “Angie, Christie’s dead.”

  “What?” Angie shrieked.

  It was loud enough that Mel had to move the phone away from her ear or risk blowing out her eardrum. Quietly, she described the events of the morning. Angie said nothing, and a few times Mel had to ask her if she was still there.

  “How’s Tate taking it?” Angie asked, her voice tight with worry.