Sprinkle with Murder

Sprinkle with Murder Page 6

by Jenn McKinlay

  “I think he’s in shock. I don’t know what to say to him.”

  “Do you want me to come over?” Angie asked.

  Mel glanced around the room. She would love to have Angie with her to bolster her through this nightmare. But the medical examiner’s people were swarming the building, and the police were in every inch they weren’t. Spectators were beginning to gather outside, and several news vans filled the parking lot. No, Mel was going to leave as soon as Uncle Stan told her she could. There was nothing Angie could do but stand helplessly with her, and really, what was the point of that?

  “Thanks,” Mel said, “but I’ll meet you at the shop as soon as I get done here. I’ll text you if there’s anything to report.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” Angie said. “And give Tate a hug from me and tell him to call me if he needs me.”

  “I will,” Mel promised, and closed her phone.

  It seemed like days passed before Uncle Stan sent her on her way with a hug and a promise to call her later. She had told her story about finding Christie three times to him and the other detective, and watched in sympathetic horror when Christie’s parents arrived.

  Her father was short and pudgy, clad in pastel golf duds. He was still wearing his spikes, and they scratched against the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. Her mother was rail thin and mature, but fighting the aging process for all she was worth. Wearing a beige Donna Karan wrap dress with a fat strand of pearls at her throat and diamond clusters at her ears, she looked as if she had just left a ladies’ brunch. This was not the way they had planned to spend their day, to be sure.

  When Christie was placed in a body bag and wheeled out to the van that would take her to the medical examiner’s office, Mel felt her throat get tight as Christie’s mother broke down and sobbed onto her husband’s shoulder. He patted her with an awkward hand, his own eyes misty with unshed tears. Mel couldn’t even imagine the depth of their pain. When she glanced at Tate, he looked as if he’d been run over by a truck.

  Mel felt the same helplessness she’d felt when her father died. She’d watched her mother suffer and grieve, and had not known what to say or how to help. Now she was watching one of her closest friends go through the same thing, and again she didn’t know what to do. Granted, she was not paralyzed by her own sense of loss this time, but still, she felt woefully inadequate to help Tate.

  Then Christie’s father glanced over at her. He studied her face as if memorizing it for a police lineup. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, and Mel got the distinct impression that she would soon be hearing from Mr. Stevens. She doubted it would be to place an order for cupcakes.

  When Mel arrived at Fairy Tale Cupcakes, the shop positively sparkled, and she knew Angie had channeled her worry into cleaning.

  “How’s Tate? What happened? How did she die? Should I bring him some soup or cupcakes?” Angie barraged Mel with questions.

  Mel raised her hand to signal “Whoa!”

  “Sorry, I’ve just been so worried.” Angie twisted her pink apron in her hands.

  “I think I need a Death by Chocolate, although that’s an unfortunate name, given the circumstances,” Mel said. She led the way back to the kitchen. In the walk-in, a huge tray of chocolate cupcakes sat waiting. Mel took two and went to sit at the worktable.

  Angie sat across from her, and they silently unwrapped their decadent dark-chocolate-on-chocolate treats. Mel didn’t bother with a plate or a fork.

  “I know emotional eating is bad,” she said. “But if not now, then when?”

  Neither of them spoke until the cupcakes were gone.

  “Tate’s in shock,” Mel said. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how Christie died. And I don’t know if Tate would be up for cupcakes just yet. Maybe in a few days.”

  Angie nodded. Mel went on to recount the morning’s events, and Angie listened. When Mel finally wound down, they sat silently together. Neither of them knew what to say.

  The front door opened with a jingle of bells, and Angie jumped up to greet their customer, probably relieved to get away from the grim news. Mel wadded up their spent cupcake papers and tossed them into the stainless steel garbage can beside the table.

  For a moment, she toyed with the idea of closing the shop, but then, what would she do? Go home and relive this morning in all its Technicolor glory? No. Instead, she pulled on her apron and followed Angie back into the shop.

  After helping with the morning crush, she spent the next hour baking a fresh batch of strawberry cupcakes called Pretty in Pinks. Mel was inventorying the display case while Angie packed up an order for a customer, when she glanced up and saw Olivia Puckett’s refrigerated van drive by.

  “How many times has she driven by today?”

  “That would be the eighth,” Angie replied.

  “That’s it,” Mel said. “I’ve had it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Angie asked. “You can’t stop her from driving down the street.”

  “No, but maybe I can discourage her.”

  Angie raised her eyebrows as Mel hurried back to the kitchen. Before Angie could stop her, Mel dashed back out the front door with a bowl of the leftover buttercream frosting in one hand and a spatula in the other.

  When Olivia’s pink van circled back to crawl by the shop again, Mel counted to three and scooped up a spatula of pink frosting and let it fly. It landed with a deliciously satisfying splat on Olivia’s windshield.

  Olivia stopped hard with a yelp of her brakes, and hopped out of the van.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  “Oh, oops!” Mel said, completely unrepentant. “I was just mixing, and I guess my frosting got away from me.”

  She lifted another spatula full and flicked it onto the other side of the windshield.

  “Hey, you did that on purpose!” Olivia accused.

  “Did not.”

  “Did, too.”

  Olivia clocked in somewhere in her early fifties. Her corkscrew gray hair was twisted into an untidy knot on top of her head, and her sallow complexion was mottled with ire. Mel was pretty sure that if Olivia had had something to throw back at her, like a rock, she would have.

  “Puckett, why don’t you get a life and stay out of mine?” Mel asked in her most scathing tone.

  “Ha! I can’t help it if I have so many deliveries in this area,” Olivia said. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’m cutting in on your business?”

  “Really? Deliveries?” Mel scoffed. “You drive by fifteen times a day. I see more of you than my own mother, and that’s saying something.”

  Olivia huffed out a breath and swaggered towards Mel. She stuck a meaty finger into the bowl of frosting and popped it into her mouth. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “You call yourself a chef?” Olivia spat the frosting onto the sidewalk. “That’s disgusting.”

  Acutely aware of the crowd that was gathering, Mel did her best to look superior. “Coming from a woman who models her cupcakes after store-bought ones, I’d say that’s high praise.”

  Olivia sucked in an indignant breath. “I do not!”

  “Do t . . .” Mel’s words were cut off when she was yanked back into the store by her apron strings.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Angie demanded. Then she stuck her head out the door, and yelled, “Playtime is over. We just got an order for over two hundred cupcakes. Olivia, you might want to go back to Confections and bake something!”

  Olivia gave Angie a bug-eyed look and scooted back into her van. She sped off with her windshield wipers flapping frosting in all directions.

  Angie turned back to Mel. “Seriously, what were you thinking?”

  Mel sagged, clutching her bowl of frosting to her chest. “I wasn’t. I’m just not having a very good day. Did we really get that big of an order?”

  “No, it was for four dozen,” Angie admitted. “But hey, it got Olivia moving, didn’t it?”

  The front door jangled and several customers poured in, probably curious after the ruckus. Mel was grateful, not only for the business b
ut also because, if she kept busy, then she could stop thinking about finding Christie dead. Or so she hoped.

  The post-lunch dessert crowd was gone, and Mel and Angie leaned wearily on the counter.

  “If this keeps up, we’re going to have to hire some help,” Angie said. “I’m worn out.”

  “Five hundred cupcakes a day will do that,” Mel agreed.

  With its western-style, squared-off buildings with front porches that sported benches made out of wagon wheels, Old Town Scottsdale was a tourist mecca, and Mel had positioned her shop right in the heart of it. They got more walk-in traffic from tourists than they did from locals, although they did a solid business with them as well.

  Now that it was late afternoon, it would be quiet until just after dinner. Mel left Angie to clean up the front while she headed into the back to restock the display cases.

  She was deep in the walk-in when she heard a familiar lilting voice.

  “Melanie?”

  She stepped out of the walk-in, carrying an aluminum tray full of Tinkerbells. These were lemon cupcakes with raspberry buttercream frosting rolled in pink sugar. She resisted the urge to cram three in her mouth. Barely.

  “Oh, baby,” her mother wailed, and opened her arms wide.

  Mel spun away and scooted the tray onto the large steel table in the center of the kitchen, before turning to receive her mother’s hug.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” she asked. She patted her mother’s back, breathing in the familiar scent of her Estee Lauder perfume.

  “Am I okay?” Joyce Cooper stepped back and grabbed Mel’s shoulders. She peered at her face as if trying to see into her soul. “I think the question is are you okay?”

  Ah, now it made sense. South Scottsdale might be in the middle of a metropolitan area of more than four million people, but it remained a small town at heart and gossip moved faster than a roadrunner chasing a horned toad. She suspected news of Christie’s death had reached her mother, and the fact that she had been the one to find the body had not been far behind.

  “I’m fine,” Mel said. “A little freaked-out but fine.”

  Her mother continued to study her. A frown in the shape of a V formed between her eyebrows. She was clearly not satisfied with either “fine” or “freaked-out.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.

  Mel leaned against the table. She’d heard this question before; when her hoard of candy was found under her bed as a kid, when she got a D- in algebra, and most memorably when her mother found her birth control pills in her laundry duffel on a weekend home from college.

  Needless to say, Mel did not like this question, especially when it was topped by the concerned frown.

  As always, she opted to play stupid. It had never worked before, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.

  “No,” she said, drawing out the lone syllable. “Not that I can think of.”

  “I’ll stand by you, you know,” Joyce said, her voice fierce. “No matter what you’ve done.”

  “Excuse me?” Mel asked. “As far as I know, for the past few months I’ve done nothing but bake cupcakes.”

  “Really?” Joyce asked. Her voice was ripe with doubt.

  Then it hit her. Her mother wasn’t here about her finding Christie, she was here about her altercation with Olivia.

  “Oh, now I get it,” Mel said. “Yes, I did it. I’m not proud of it, but she’s been bugging me for months. Frankly, she had it coming.”

  Joyce gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. She looked horrified.

  “What?” Mel asked.

  “No remorse?” her mother asked. “Not even a little?”

  Mel thought about it. “No, not really.”

  “Oh, no, where did I go wrong?” Joyce wailed. She paced back and forth around the kitchen. “It’s because your father died, isn’t it? Why couldn’t he be here to deal with this? He’d know what to do.”

  She glanced at the ceiling. “Just you wait until I see you again, Charlie Cooper. I’m going to get you for sticking me with this mess.”

  “Um, Mom, I think if I offer to pay for her van to be washed, all will be well,” Mel said. “Not that I want to, but I will if you think it’ll make it right.”

  “Her van?” Joyce gaped at her daughter.

  “Yeah,” Mel said. “I think that’s more than generous, given how annoying she’s been.”

  “The girl is dead. Why would she care if you pay to wash her car?”

  They stared at each other, and Mel got a sinking feeling in her chest.

  “Mom.” It was Mel’s turn to frown. “What, exactly, do you think I’ve done?”

  Joyce glanced around the room, as if to make sure they were alone. “Whacked Christie Stevens, of course.”

  “WHAT?” Mel yelled. She didn’t mean to, but truly, if her mother had said she’d been spawned by an alien abduction, she couldn’t have been more shocked. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Hush. It was a crime of passion. I’m sure we can make an excellent defense for that.”

  “You think I murdered Christie?” Mel asked. She plunked her hands on her hips and faced her mother down. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t you ‘well’ me,” Mel said in a fine imitation of Joyce. “How could you, Mom? How could you think that of me?”

  “Tate is the love of your life,” she said. “It’s understandable that the thought of him marrying another might provoke . . .”

  “What? Homicidal tendencies?” Mel smacked a hand down on the table. It sounded like a shot, and made her mother jump. It was louder than Mel had intended, and defused her first surge of anger. However, she was still mightily annoyed. “Mom, I am not now, nor have I ever been, in love with Tate. He’s my friend and that’s it.”

  Joyce stepped close to her daughter and patted her hand. “That was excellent, I almost believed it. Don’t you worry. We’ll hire the best attorneys money can buy.”

  With a quick hug and kiss, Joyce left. Mel watched her go. Her powers of speech had left her, and she stared stupidly at the doorway, wondering what else the day could bring.

  “What was that about?” Angie ducked her head in. “I heard you slap the table all the way out front.”

  “My mother thinks I whacked Christie Stevens.”

  “Did you?” Angie asked.

  “What?” Mel asked, shocked. Surely, Angie couldn’t think that, too.

  “I’m just messing with you,” Angie said with a grin.

  Mel sagged with relief. “Not funny.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The look on your face was classic.” Mel scowled.

  “Don’t worry. You know your mom has always been deluded about you and Tate.”

  “Yeah,” Mel said. “She doesn’t understand that we’re all just friends.”

  Angie moved across the table from Mel and helped her shift the Tinkerbells on the tray to make for easier access.

  “So, you’ve never had feelings for Tate?” Angie asked.

  Mel glanced up at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Angie looked momentarily uncomfortable, but she pressed on. “No, I’m serious. Has there ever been a time when you thought you might like to date him?”

  “Date Tate?” Mel asked. “The guy who used to have me check his braces for stray lettuce leaves before social studies? The pal who totaled my first car when I was trying to teach him to drive a stick shift? The same buddy who sounded an air horn at my cooking school graduation? That Tate?”

  Angie was laughing out loud by the time Mel was done.

  “Sorry,” she said through her chuckles. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You’ve been hanging around my mother too much,” Mel said. “Don’t get me wrong. Tate’s on the short list of people I’d give a kidney to, but he’s not a romantic prospect—not now, not ever.”

  With the cupcakes all nicely arranged, Mel hefted the tray up to her shoulder and headed out the door to restock the display case.

  “You must feel the same way,” she said, but Angie was behind her and Mel missed whatever she said as she walked into the shop and
found Uncle Stan and Detective Rayburn waiting for her. Uncle Stan did not look happy.

  Seven

  “Uncle Stan, it’s not your usual day for a cupcake!” Angie hurried around the counter to give him a hug. He returned the hug and smiled down at her.

  “Hi, Angie. Hey, how are the brothers?”

  “Oh, you know, lovable, annoying, lovable, same old, same old,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  During their teen years, Uncle Stan had gotten to know several of Angie’s seven brothers quite well for a variety of misdeeds and misdemeanors.

  Mel slid the tray into the display case and glanced over the top. Uncle Stan was studying her.

  “Mel, do you have a minute? I’m actually here on official business.”

  Angie looked over her shoulder at Mel with wide eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Mel said.

  Several of the customers at the booths and tables were watching the interaction, so Mel pasted a pleasant smile on her face. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was failing a health inspection. She gestured for Uncle Stan and company to come around the counter to talk to her in the back.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  She wasn’t sure whether she should sit or stand. If she sat and they didn’t, it would be intimidating, so she stood and leaned against the worktable, hoping to look casual as opposed to rude.

  Rayburn jingled the change in his pocket, as if he were eager for something to happen. He made her nervous, and Mel studied him more closely than she had before. He was short and skinny with a cowlick and a prominent Adam’s apple. He was a new recruit to the detective squad, and he looked it. Judging by the mustard stain on his tie, Mel was betting Rayburn was single and likely to remain that way. Looking at the two of them, she couldn’t help being reminded of Laurel and Hardy. As much as she loved Uncle Stan, this did nothing to reassure her.

  Rayburn met her gaze briefly before he carefully moved it over the room. She knew he was cataloging every detail of her kitchen. There was no reason for it, but it still made her nervous.

  “What’s going on, Uncle Stan?” she asked, turning her attention back to him because he seemed to be running the show.

 

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