Sprinkle with Murder

Sprinkle with Murder Page 9

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Oh.” Susan’s brown eyes went wide, and she loosened her hold on Joe. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mel shook her outstretched hand. She couldn’t help but notice that Susan had a perfect manicure, French tips on hands that were as soft as butter. She felt like shoving her own short-nailed, dry-skinned paws into her pockets, but she didn’t.

  “Mel, this is Susan Ross. She’s a colleague of mine,” Joe said.

  The lovely brunette tossed her hair over her shoulder and gazed up at Joe. She gushed, “Oh, we’re more than that, aren’t we, Joe?”

  Joe smiled down at her, and the brunette snuggled back up against him. Mel wished she had a bowl of buttercream frosting and a spatula handy. It had done wonders on Olivia’s van; she could only imagine what it would do to these two.

  There wasn’t anything more to be said, so she wished them both a good night and skedaddled up to her apartment. She could hear Susan’s laughter echoing in the alley behind her.

  Mel was awake before her mother keyed into her apartment. Not only was she awake, she was slurping coffee and reading the newspaper.

  Her mother blinked at her and glanced around the small apartment, as if looking for something that needed doing to justify her presence.

  “Coffee, Mom?” Mel asked.

  “Why, yes, thank you,” Joyce said. “That would be lovely.”

  Mel rose from her seat and retrieved a white ceramic mug from the cupboard above the coffeepot while her mother sat at the small table in the corner.

  “You’re up awfully early,” Joyce said. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”

  “I slept like a baby.” She did not mention it was more like a colicky baby with sleep issues.

  The few dreams she’d had centered on the image of Christie’s leg sticking out from under her designer gowns, followed by visions of Joe DeLaura glaring at her from the prosecutor’s table while she sat on the witness stand on a seat that resembled a bed of nails. Before she could stop it, a shudder ran through her.

  Mel glanced over her shoulder and saw her mother reading the headlines of the Arizona Republic.

  “They didn’t get your good side,” Joyce said as she pushed the paper away.

  “I don’t have a good side,” Mel retorted.

  She had retrieved her paper this morning and found that a large color photo of herself hugging Tate at the crime scene was the focal point of the lead story, which of course was Christie’s murder. Without saying as much, the paper managed to make her longtime friendship with Tate sound seedy and suspect.

  Her temper had boiled at the reporter’s innuendo-laden story. She had scrutinized the article line by line, and realized that the reporter had written a tabloid-worthy story that she couldn’t refute, because it was all speculation and no hard facts.

  Damn it! She could only imagine how this was going to make Tate feel. The thought of him suffering for their friendship made Mel’s temper flare again, and she had to force herself to breathe in slowly and try to calm down.

  “I made an appointment with Johnny Dietz for you,” Joyce said.

  Mel put her mother’s coffee in front of her and resumed her own seat at the table.

  “Any particular reason?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even.

  “You need a lawyer,” her mother said.

  “No, I don’t, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “They’re going to come after you,” Joyce said, her voice trembling. “You need to protect yourself.”

  “Mom, Johnny Dietz is a tax attorney.”

  “Your father used him for years,” Joyce said. “Our taxes were always perfect, never any audits, not one.”

  Mel had to look down at the table to keep from laughing. She supposed it was probably hysterics, but still, the thought of Johnny Dietz, in all his round and bald glory, going nose to nose with Joe DeLaura gave her a severe case of the giggles.

  “Something is funny?” Joyce asked. “A young woman is dead, and you’re the prime suspect. I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  Duly rebuked, Mel felt her smile slink off the side of her face like a misbehaving puppy putting its tail between its legs.

  “Sorry, Mom,” she said. “I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, I do.”

  Joyce sniffed and opened another section of the paper. “Your horoscope is only giving you a one-star day. I’d go back to bed if I were you.”

  After her mother left, Mel called Angie and told her about her appointment with Alma. Angie offered to come along, but Mel figured she’d best keep this meeting one on one, so Alma didn’t feel ganged up on. She really didn’t know what information she was going to get out of the surly designer, but she had to try for Tate’s sake, if not her own.

  She hurried through her shower. Alma was a fashion designer, so she knew there was no way she was going to intimidate the young woman with her extensive wardrobe of jeans and T-shirts, but she still needed her outfit to set the tone. She thought back to her days as a marketing exec. When trying to woo a client, the firm researched the company thoroughly. If its execs dressed in Armani, so did Mel and her team. It was a basic rapport builder.

  She doubted she had time to dye her short blonde hair black, but she could definitely throw together an ensemble worthy of Elvira, Queen of the Night, though perhaps with less cleavage showing, lots less.

  Mel donned her black Hilfiger jeans and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt that she’d picked up at Target. Black Converse All Stars and a heavy hand with her black eyeliner, and she was ready. A glance in the mirror told her she looked somewhat scary. She hoped it was in a good way.

  Java Jive was around the corner on Marshall Way, wedged between a falafel house and an art gallery. The interior of the place was dark, as if trying to maintain the illusion of night and not offend those of its clientele who were not yet ready to face the day. Mel crossed the scarred wooden floor as the distinct aroma of burnt coffee grounds saturated her senses. The only lighting in the place was from blue neon tracks that ran along the ceiling, giving the room just enough light to keep patrons from bumping into the furniture.

  Mel scoped the place, hoping to be sitting before Alma arrived. A glance at a small square table in the corner, however, told her that her date had arrived before her, probably with the same intention. No matter.

  Mel rolled her shoulders and wove her way through the sea of small café tables to the corner. Alma didn’t bother to glance up, although Mel was sure she’d seen her approaching.

  “Hi, Alma,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  Alma put aside the issue of Vogue and swept Mel from head to foot with her gaze. As if aware of her strategy, Alma lifted the corner of her mouth in a small sneer and said, “Nice.”

  Mel took the seat opposite her. The table wobbled when she plunked her purse on it, so she moved her bag onto the seat next to her.

  A waitress with cranberry-colored spiked hair and a nose ring paused at their table.

  “Hi, welcome to Java Jive. What can I get you?” she asked.

  “A latte, please,” Mel said.

  Alma had an espresso already in front of her, and shook her head to let the waitress know she was fine.

  “What do you want to know?” Alma asked. She glanced at her watch.

  “You have someplace to be?” Mel asked.

  Alma stared at her. Her dark brown eyes were rimmed with kohl, and her foundation was several shades lighter than her skin tone. Her inky black hair was styled in careless spikes, and she wore a black knit bodysuit with a black leather minidress over it. If they were in a morgue, Mel would have thought someone had left a body bag unzipped.

  “I have a job interview,” Alma said.

  “What about the studio?” Mel asked.

  “It’s closed,” Alma said. “I have no idea who Christie’s beneficiary is, and I’m not sticking around to find out. As far as I’m concerned, my contract with Christie is now null and void. I’m free.”

  “Free?” Mel repeated. “Interesting choice of words.” They were silent as the waitress returned with Mel’s latte. She stirred in a
packet of sugar and glanced up at Alma, who was considering her through a narrowed gaze.

  “Don’t read anything into it,” Alma said. “I didn’t murder Christie. It’s just that my contract with her was more binding than I realized upon signing.”

  “When would it have expired?” Mel asked.

  “I was locked into a five-year contract,” Alma said. “I had three to go.”

  “Wasn’t working for Christie Stevens a coup?” Mel asked. “I mean, she’s international, Paris runways and all of that.”

  “She’s an up-and-comer, or at least she was,” Alma agreed.

  “But?” Mel encouraged her to continue.

  “But the only one getting any attention at her studio was Christie. Phoebe and I created the looks and Christie put her name on them.”

  “Surely, she . . .”

  “No,” Alma interrupted. Her brown eyes were narrowed with anger. “Christie was the head of the company, but she didn’t design anything. She collected the CFDA awards and the accolades, but the vision and the talent belonged to me and Phoebe.”

  “Sounds like you hated her,” Mel said.

  “Pretty much. In the beginning it was an honor to work for her, but when I saw my sketches, my ideas, become hers, I realized she was stealing my work and calling it her own.”

  “How did Phoebe feel about it?” Mel asked. “Was she as angry as you?”

  Alma shook her head, her lip curled in disgust. “She worshipped Christie. She’d have given up her firstborn if Christie asked for it. It was sickening.”

  “You realize you have a pretty strong motive to want Christie dead,” Mel said.

  “That’s what the cops said,” Alma agreed. “But I have an alibi for the entire night, and they seem to be focusing on another angle, a love triangle sort of thing.”

  A nasty smile played around her lips, and Mel felt all of the blood drain from her face. She hadn’t had the warm fuzzies for Alma before, but now she felt it was safe to say that she actively disliked the young woman.

  “Yeah, well, when they discover they’re wrong, I imagine they’ll come back to you,” Mel said. She made her voice saccharine sweet when she added, “I think they’ll find it quite interesting that you were the one who delivered the cupcakes from my shop to Christie, and she was holding one when she died.”

  It was Alma’s turn to become pale, which was an achievement, given the amount of pasty foundation she was wearing. Mel couldn’t help but feel a flush of satisfaction at her discomfiture.

  Alma scowled. “What’s your point?”

  “Work with me. If neither of us killed her, then who did?”

  “How would I know?” Alma asked. “Christie had a lot of enemies. It could be anyone.”

  “Did she fight with anyone recently?”

  “Daily,” Alma replied.

  Mel sighed. She was losing her patience. “Was there anyone who seemed angrier with her than usual?”

  Alma stared into her half-empty cup. “Let’s see. The models hated her, and so did the photographers. No one was ever pretty enough for her clothes, and she had constant battles with the photographers over their vision versus hers. Her rival Terry Longmore wasn’t signing up for her fan club anytime soon. And for that matter, the wedding vendors were getting pretty snarky with all of her demands, too. The caterer told her he hoped she choked on a canapé right before he quit.”

  “Why?” Mel asked.

  “Contract issues,” Alma said. “Christie likes . . . liked to own everything. She wanted music written just for her and flower arrangements just for her. She wanted all of her vendors to sign contracts giving her ownership of their creations.”

  “So it wasn’t just me,” Mel said.

  “Hardly. Christie had an obsessive need to own everything. It was almost pathologic, like she was afraid some crumb of fame might pass her by if she didn’t get full credit for every single aspect of her life.”

  “Whoa,” Mel said.

  “She was a total head case.” Alma watched Mel for a minute. “I’ve met your friend, Tate. He was always nice. What, exactly, did he see in her?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Alma nodded as if she understood, but how could she, when Mel didn’t understand it herself?

  Alma glanced at her watch and rose abruptly from her chair. “I have to go.”

  “Who’s your interview with?”

  “None of your business,” Alma said. “It’s been real.”

  Mel watched her walk away, and was surprised when Alma turned around and approached the table.

  “Listen, the thing with Christie was going to happen one way or another,” Alma said. “She was racking up enemies like some women collect shoes. The outcome was inevitable.”

  Then Alma turned and strode out of the coffee shop without a backward glance. Mel got the distinct impression that the young woman thought she had done “the thing with Christie” and was absolving her of the crime. She wanted to protest her innocence, but there was no one to hear her. Alma was gone, and none of the other customers were paying her any attention.

  She paid for her half-finished latte and hurried back to Fairy Tale Cupcakes, needing to be comforted by the familiar for as long as she was able.

  Ten

  “She thinks I’m guilty,” Mel said to Angie as they worked side by side in the kitchen, frosting their freshly baked and cooled Red Velvet cupcakes with thick smears of cream cheese icing.

  Mel wanted to sit down and stuff four of them into her mouth in rapid succession, but the profit side of her business made her resist such temptation. Anything eaten was one less bought, so chowing down on the cupcakes was not only bad for her butt spread, but it didn’t help business either.

  “You have to wonder what the police think of her sparkling personality,” Angie said. “I mean, she doesn’t exactly hide how she felt about Christie. Don’t you think that would make her suspect number one, whether she has an alibi or not?”

  “I don’t know,” Mel replied. “All I can figure, is she must have a really good one.”

  “Did she give you any idea of anyone else who might have a motive?”

  “The list was endless. Christie seemed to alienate everyone equally.”

  “To the point of murder?” Angie asked skeptically.

  “I know,” Mel said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t make sense?”

  Both women turned towards the door to the shop. Framed in the doorway were Uncle Stan and his partner, Detective Rayburn.

  Mel dropped her spatula into the bowl of frosting and wiped her hands on her apron. She crossed the room to give her uncle a quick hug. She wondered if it was just her imagination, or was he squeezing her a little tighter than usual?

  “What can I do for you, Uncle Stan?”

  “Actually, we’re here to talk to Angie,” he said.

  Angie’s eyes went round, and she glanced at Mel as if to ask, “What the . . . ?”

  “Miss DeLaura?” Detective Rayburn prompted her.

  Although it was ridiculous, Mel felt her ears grow hot, and her heart thumped loudly in her chest. She really did not like the cloud of suspicion that seemed to hover over her. She decided to bluff.

  “Use the office,” she suggested. “It’ll be more private.”

  Uncle Stan gave her an approving nod, and Mel returned it with a weak smile.

  They were going to find the small office a tight squeeze, but maybe that would move them on their way.

  The door closed behind them and Mel could hear the low rumble of voices, but not any specific words, much to her chagrin. She slathered frosting on cupcakes, not really paying attention, while keeping her ears pricked up for words like “arrest” and “suspect,” but still, she heard nothing.

  She wondered if Joe knew that his sister was being questioned. She could only imagine how that was going to go over. If the brothers had been unhappy with Angie giving up teaching to hawk cupcakes before, this was going to send them into multiple tailspins of brotherly distress.

  Unbidden, an image of the woman Joe had been with last night flashed into her mind. Susan Ros
s was obviously from his world, a girl lawyer who dressed in Elie Tahari and probably drove an Infiniti, who didn’t know a spatula from a whisk and got all of her sustenance from takeout containers or leisurely dinners with her male coworkers.

  Mel felt like an idiot for believing he’d been having dinner with his colleague and just thought he’d stop by. The man had been on a date. A date! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date.

  She grabbed a spoon and scraped up the last of the rich, tangy frosting. She licked it off the spoon as if it were a big lollipop. She knew it was wrong to be eating for comfort, but there was no denying that at the moment, it made her feel better.

  She had to accept the reality that Joe DeLaura was a handsome, successful attorney who undoubtedly had to beat the women off with his briefcase. This was not news. He’d always had a girlfriend in high school. In fact, she and Angie had made his life a misery by demanding to go to the movies with him and his dates. Mama DeLaura had loved the idea. Mel was pretty sure Joe had never gotten past first base on any of his dates, because she and Angie were always there to keep him in check. Small wonder he never let them come visit him in college.

  The bells hanging on the front door of the shop jangled, and Mel went to greet her customers. Three four-packs of cupcakes later, she was back in the kitchen. She was just putting the Red Velvets on a tray when the office door opened.

  “If you think of anything, call me,” Uncle Stan said. Mel knew that tone. It wasn’t a request.

  Angie nodded, looking grim.

  Mel put four cupcakes in a box and handed it to Uncle Stan. He looked as if he’d refuse, but she stepped away, giving him no choice but to take it with him.

  “Thanks, Mel,” he said. The outside door shut behind them.

  With Angie’s help Mel hefted the fresh tray of cupcakes out to the main room to restock the display case.

  “Where were you after we finished watching the movie at Tate’s?” Angie asked.

  “I went home and went to bed,” Mel said. “I was dead on my feet from being up all night the night before, coming up with new flavors for Christie. You know that.”

 

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