Sprinkle with Murder

by Jenn McKinlay

  There was another beat of silence, and Mel wondered if Phoebe had hung up on her. She knew she would if a person she thought was a murderer called her to chat.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Was Christie fighting with anyone? Was she having personal or business problems that you know of?”

  “The police already asked me all of this,” Phoebe said with a weary sigh. “I’m really not up to talking about it. I can’t imagine why anyone would hurt Christie, she was a goddess.”

  Huh? Mel felt bad that Christie was dead, no question, but how could Alma and Phoebe view the same woman so differently? And given what Alma had said about Phoebe’s talent, why would she put up with a woman who ripped her off?

  “Alma doesn’t seem to see her the same way you do,” Mel said.

  “You’ve talked to Alma?” Phoebe asked, but didn’t wait for her answer. “Of course you have. Alma is, how can I say this, bitter?”

  “Bitter, how?” Mel asked. She wanted to hear Phoebe admit that Christie was taking credit for their work.

  “She never really committed to be part of the studio,” Phoebe said. “She acted as if her designs belonged to her and not the company, which is ridiculous. Our work embodied the ideals of the Christie Stevens Design Studio. When it won awards, we won awards. And it was Christie’s ambition and drive that made sure we won.”

  Phoebe’s voice broke, and Mel heard her suck in a gasp of air. “I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine what will happen to me without her.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mel said.

  “Are you?” Phoebe asked.

  “Excuse me?” Mel asked.

  “I know what the police think,” she said. “They think you poisoned her with a cupcake so you could have Tate Harper for yourself.”

  Mel felt her heart thud in her chest. How did Phoebe know what the police thought?

  As if she’d read her mind, Phoebe continued, “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Christie’s family. They’re very distraught. Christie’s father has brought in a private toxicologist and has been pressuring the Scottsdale Police Department to make an arrest. It should happen any day now.”

  Uncle Stan hadn’t told her any of this when he interviewed Angie earlier in the day. Mel wondered if he even knew what the Stevens family was doing. She felt her insides squeeze tight, as if clenched by a fist. Not that she thought for a second that her uncle would do anything out of bounds to help her, but still it was comforting to have an ally on the force, unless he was being kept out of the loop because of her.

  “I haven’t heard about any of this . . .” Mel stammered.

  “I only took your call because I wanted to tell you that if you’re the one who harmed Christie, I’ll see you rotting behind bars if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Phoebe’s voice broke on a sob and she slammed the phone down. Ouch!

  Mel put her phone back in its cradle. Well, that hadn’t accomplished much, except to establish the fact that she was in the sights of the Scottsdale PD and the ick that was surrounding her was now leaking onto anyone else in her vicinity, like Tate and Angie and probably Uncle Stan.

  She had to find someone else to step up and wear the crown of chief suspect. A thought niggled the back of her mind. What about Christie’s rival? If anyone wanted Christie gone, wouldn’t it be her competition? Had anyone looked closely at Terry Longmore, or had they just embraced the idea of a love triangle and looked no further?

  Mel fired up her laptop to see if Longmore Designs had a Web page. Sure enough. Two links into Google and she hit pay dirt. Stick figure models faded in and out on the home page, wearing a lot of black eyeliner, faux fur, and platforms. Ew.

  Under the “about” tab, Mel clicked and saw a brief bio on Terry Longmore and her two top designers. Interesting.

  Maybe claiming your protégé’s work as your own wasn’t the norm.

  She jotted down the address and phone. The Longmore Studio was located in downtown Phoenix, nowhere near Christie’s studio. Interesting. Mel decided to call Terry Longmore tomorrow and see what she had to say about Christie Stevens.

  In her petite bathroom, she studied her face in the mirror. She remembered Joe saying that her haircut made her eyes look big, and she wondered again if it was in a good way or a bad way.

  Whatever. She brushed her teeth, refusing to think about him and his date, or the fact that she hadn’t yet repainted the walls her mother had done in mango.

  No, it was much better to think about Tate’s loss and the fact that she was the prime suspect for murder, which was beginning to have seriously adverse effects upon her business. Mel unfolded her futon and rolled out her sheets and blanket.

  She expected sleep would be a long time in coming, but she was asleep before she finished a jaw-popping yawn.

  “We’re low on Blonde Bombshells, Tinkerbells, and Death by Chocolates,” Angie hollered from inside the walk-in.

  Mel noted the three flavors on the pad in front of her. “Got it.”

  This was good. She would have a nice morning baking her butt off, and could pretend that everything was business as usual for at least a little while.

  Angie closed the door to the walk-in behind her and sat on the stool beside Mel’s.

  “I tried calling Tate last night,” she said. “He never answered or called me back.”

  A worried V perched between Angie’s eyebrows, and Mel reached over and patted her hand.

  “He’s got a lot going on,” she said. “He’ll come around when he’s ready.”

  “He didn’t answer your messages either, did he?”

  “No,” Mel admitted.

  “Well, I’ve had it,” Angie said. “We’re his friends, and he needs us. I’m going over there today, and he’s going to talk to me if I have to hold his head over the toilet bowl and threaten him with a swirly.”

  Mel grinned. She could just picture it.

  “Who’s getting a swirly?” a voice asked from the door.

  It was Tate. He looked haggard and worn, like he’d been backed over by a dump truck, repeatedly. Both Angie and Mel hopped up from their stools and ran across the room to hug him.

  He was wearing jeans and a rumpled, long-sleeved T-shirt. His arms locked around both of them, and he hauled them close.

  “ ‘Honest men stay honest only as long as it pays. That’s why I’m a thief and you’re a liar.’ ” Tate let them go.

  “Jack Strawhorn in Posse,” Angie said. “Who’s a liar?”

  Tate looked away.

  “What’s going on, Tate?” Mel asked.

  He paced across the kitchen. The same kitchen he had spent a month of Saturdays in, helping to clean, paint, and stock with supplies. He fingered the door to the walk-in pantry full of dry goods as if he wished he could lock himself up in there as well.

  Angie opened her mouth to press him, but Mel put her hand on her elbow to hold her in check. Angie gave her a curt nod and clamped her lips together.

  “I always thought when I asked a woman to marry me, it would be the happiest moment of my life,” he said.

  Mel and Angie exchanged glances. Where was this going?

  Tate faced them, his boyish features giving them a rueful smile. “I was wrong.”

  “What’s going on, Tate?” Angie asked.

  “I don’t remember asking Christie to marry me,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Mel asked. “Did you block it out?”

  “No, I mean, I don’t remember it. Period.”

  He resumed pacing, and passed a hand through his thick brown hair. His face was pinched with stress, making him appear older than his thirty-four years.

  “We went to dinner, and she started talking about marriage,” he said. “I remember thinking, whoa, as we’d only been dating a few months, but she was so happy, I said nothing. We had a few more drinks and then took a walk along the canal. The rest of the night is blurry, but I vaguely remember being in a jewelry store. When we woke up the next morning, she had a ring on her finger and a date in mind.”

  “Wait, let me get this straight,” Angie said. Her ex
pression was a mixture of confusion and hopefulness. “You didn’t ask her to marry you?”

  “But she had a ring on,” he said. “I must have asked her, right?”

  “Oh, my God!” Angie clapped a hand over her mouth. Then she slowly lowered it and said, “I bet she drugged you.”

  Tate looked pained, and Mel knew the thought had crossed his mind as well.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t be sure,” he said. “But since her death, I’m finding out more and more about how she treated people and how she got what she wanted, and it’s not—pleasant.”

  “That miserable . . .” Angie spluttered, but Tate cut her off. “No, Ange, no matter what she did, she didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  Angie looked as if she would have argued, but obviously thought better of it.

  “I talked to Phoebe last night,” Mel said. “She said that Christie’s father has hired his own forensics people and is pushing the police department hard for an arrest.”

  “It’s true,” Tate agreed. “He and I had a bit of a blowout yesterday.”

  He picked up one of Mel’s cupcake-shaped pot holders and squeezed it in his fist like it was a stress release ball. She had a feeling it was keeping him from putting his fist through the wall.

  A knock on the door frame interrupted whatever Tate had been about to say.

  Detective Rayburn was standing there with a folded paper in his hand. Behind him, Mel saw several uniformed Scottsdale police officers in their distinctive khaki uniforms. What struck her as odd was that they all wore blue latex gloves. In a free-falling swoop, she felt her stomach drop to her toes.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said.

  He glanced between her and Tate. She didn’t like the speculative light in his eyes.

  “Is Uncle Stan with you?” she asked.

  “No, but I have a warrant to search the premises,” he said. “Both here and the apartment above.”

  Mel took the piece of paper he offered between stiff fingers.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Where is Uncle Stan?” He gave her an annoyed glance. “He’s been removed from the case.”

  “What?” Angie snapped. “Why?”

  “Probably you should ask your brother in the DA’s office about that,” Rayburn snapped.

  “Don’t move,” Angie said. “I’m calling Joe.”

  Another detective stepped forward. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man with gray hair at his temples and wearing glasses. He extended his hand to Tate.

  “I’m Detective Gonzales,” he said. “You’re Tate Harper?”

  “Yes,” Tate said. His eyes looked wary, and Mel knew he felt just as hunted as she did.

  “I’d like you to come to my office so I can ask you some questions.”

  Mel gasped. She didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. Tate gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “Certainly,” Tate said. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and hit a button. “I’ll just let my attorney know, so he can join us.”

  Mel felt her eyebrows lift up to her hairline. Tate lifted the phone to his ear and barked a few words into it. His gaze was sharp as he studied the detective, and he drew himself up to his full height, so that he looked down on the man. This was corporate Tate, the businessman, not her Groucho Marx-quoting buddy.

  “I’ll be back as soon as it’s finished,” he said to Mel. She watched as the two men exited the kitchen.

  She turned around and saw the uniformed officers with the gloves searching through her pantry. When one of them shoved his gloved hand into the large bin of flour and dumped a fistful of it into a clear plastic bag, she felt her temper begin to get the better of her.

  “Detective,” she said, “these are my supplies. I can’t have people’s hands being shoved into my dry goods.”

  She cringed when another officer did the same with her sugar.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Rayburn said. “That warrant gives us the right to search anything we deem necessary.”

  Mel opened the legal document. Her eyes saw the state and county names printed in bold at the top and the search warrant number listed below. She tried to read the legal speak, but given her increasing state of panic, it was like gibberish to her.

  Angie came out of the office with a slam of the door. Her face was bright red, and Mel suspected that she hadn’t been talking to Joe so much as yelling at him.

  “Come on,” she said. She grabbed Mel’s elbow and led her out front.

  “I really think we should stay,” Mel said. She didn’t like turning the kitchen over, unsupervised, even to law enforcement personnel.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Angie said.

  When they stepped out the front door, Mel was shocked to see a small gathering of tourists. The police cars took up all the parking spots in front of her building, and she knew it looked bad.

  Murmurs started, and Mel felt panic begin to spread like a virus inside her. All they needed now was a news van to roll by, and their business would be finished.

  She glanced up and down the street. Diagonally across from them sat a big pink van. Olivia was watching them, leaning against the back end with a wide smile on her face. Mel wished she had her bowl of frosting now. Only this time she wouldn’t be aiming for the van.

  She had to do something to save the situation. Two more officers passed her to go into the bakery.

  An older gentleman with a walker peered past Mel into the shop. He pushed back the cowboy hat perched on his head and said, “Who’s the party for?”

  Mel could have kissed him.

  In as loud a voice as she could muster, she said, “That’s right. Fairy Tale Cupcakes is hosting a private party for the Scottsdale PD. We’re sorry for the inconvenience, but since it’s a surprise party, we need everyone to clear the way, so the guest of honor doesn’t suspect.”

  She saw a few people exchange smiles and nods, and one woman said, “Great idea. I think I’ll do that for my granddaughter’s birthday party. Can I call you?”

  “Absolutely,” Angie said. She reached into her apron and handed the woman one of their cupcake-shaped business cards.

  As the crowd dispersed and Olivia drove off in a huff, Mel and Angie took seats at one of the small café tables in front of the store for people who wanted to enjoy their cupcakes outside.

  Mel glanced up and down the street at the western-looking buildings with false square fronts. Everything seemed normal; even the old stagecoach was hitched to its two horses, ready to take tourists around the block, but it all felt surreal, as if she were out of step with the world around her.

  “Quick thinking,” Angie said.

  “Thanks,” Mel replied. “Good thing you dragged me out here, so we could head off a disaster.”

  “This is so wrong,” Angie fumed. “How can they possibly think that you’d do anything to hurt Christie?”

  “It gets worse,” Mel said. “A Detective Gonzales asked Tate to come in for questioning.”

  “When did this happen?” Angie asked.

  “While you were on the phone. Sorry.”

  “Was Tate okay?”

  “He was a pro,” Mel said. “He let his inner corporate muckety-muck take over.”

  “Excellent,” Angie said. “Now, listen, I talked to Joe.”

  “Please tell me there’s good news here.”

  “It depends upon your point of view,” Angie said.

  “I’m pretty much at the place where not only is the glass half-empty, but someone dropped it on the floor and smashed it, but I’ll try.”

  “Joe’s the one who had Uncle Stan removed from the case.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Joe thought it would hurt both you and Uncle Stan if your relationship became public, which he’s convinced it would,” Angie replied. “Also, he’s trying to protect you both from any hint of impropriety, so the Stevens family won’t have cause to hit you with a civil suit later on.”

  “Humph.” Mel knew Joe was probably right, but still, it grated. She felt protected when Uncle Stan was on the case, but now she was at t
he mercy of Rayburn. “Did Joe say anything else?”

  “Only that the investigation is ongoing,” Angie said. “I asked if they knew the cause of death and he said he couldn’t say, but that he hadn’t heard anything definitive from the medical examiner yet.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  Angie shrugged. “I’d have to say bad. If they could figure out what killed her, they could zero in on a suspect. Without a cause of death, it leaves it wide open and keeps you and Tate as the main suspects.”

  “There has to be someone else,” Mel said. “What about some of the other wedding vendors?”

  “Or that other designer that Alma mentioned.”

  “Terry Longmore. I’m on that one already,” Mel said. “As soon as Tate is free, let’s see if he can give us any more names.”

  “In the meantime?” Angie asked.

  “Business as usual,” Mel said.

  “For as long as it lasts,” Angie said with a sigh.

  Twelve

  Several hours passed before Detective Rayburn and his crew departed. Mel and Angie had waited, sitting in a booth inside the shop. Angie had begun to make a list of all the items that would need replacing when the officers left.

  Mel felt as if she were in suspended animation. She didn’t want to hover and draw attention to herself, but she didn’t know what to do either. She debated calling her mother and having her call the attorney Johnny Dietz had recommended, but she hesitated. Mostly because she didn’t want to appear guilty. But did it really matter when everyone seemed to think she was guilty?

  When the detectives left, she sagged with relief, mostly because they hadn’t handcuffed her and dragged her with them.

  Angie had just locked the door behind them when Tate entered through the door to the kitchen. He looked grim.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Not here.” Mel didn’t really think the detectives had bugged the bakery, but she had watched a few too many episodes of 24, and couldn’t help but think that Jack Bauer would never risk it.

  “What . . .” Angie began, but Mel cut her off by putting a finger over her lips.