Sprinkle with Murder

Sprinkle with Murder Page 13

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Now, as fascinating as I am,” Terry said, “I’m guess ing you’re not here to talk about me.”

  “Not exactly,” Angie agreed. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m getting married, and I need a gown.”

  “May I say, he is a very, very lucky man,” Terry said.

  “Oh, thank you,” Angie simpered.

  Angie sounded flustered, and Mel wondered if she was blushing. This was not at all how she had envisioned this going. She could hear the clatter of dishes, and then heard Terry’s voice again.

  “Would you like sugar in your coffee, although I doubt a girl as sweet as you would even need it?” he said.

  Oh, good grief! Mel was pretty sure she was going to throw up. Angie giggled again, and Mel thought it might be time for an intervention.

  “I have a confession to make,”

  Mel pressed the phone closer to her ear.

  “I was going to hire Christie Stevens to design my gown.”

  “Were you?” Terry asked. “How unfortunate for you that she suffered such a tragedy.”

  Even through the phone, Mel could tell he thought it was anything but.

  “It has set me back a bit,” Angie said. “Although I’m not sure I was happy with her.”

  “Really?In what way?”

  “She was, well, mean,” Angie said. “She told me I had to lose ten pounds if I wanted to look good in her design.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!” Angie said with just the right amount of indignant hurt.

  Go, girl! Mel thought. Reel him in.

  “Angie, I’m going to be blunt,” Terry said. “Christie was a bitch.”

  The venom in his voice dripped through the phone, and Mel thought perhaps he did have a motive to kill Christie, if hatred was a motive.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That came out a little harsh.”

  “It’s okay,” Angie said. “I happen to agree with you. I imagine she must have made your life very difficult, being in the same business and all.”

  There was a pause, as if he was considering what she said and how to respond.

  “You have no idea,” he said. “Between you and me, the police have been here three times. Just because we were business rivals, they think I might have had something to do with her death.”

  “No!”

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Mel was thinking not so much, and she wondered if Angie was thinking the same.

  “I heard the police suspect her fiancé and his child hood friend,” Angie said in a stage whisper.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Terry said.

  “But you don’t think it’s likely?” Angie asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve met her fiancé at some events and he seemed nice, too nice for her.”

  “Do you know anyone else who wanted to harm her?” she asked.

  “Try everyone who ever had to do business with her. She used people up like they were Kleenex, completely disposable.”

  “Including her designers,” Angie said.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t going to mention it, but from what I’ve heard, she was a nightmare to work for. I try to give my people the credit they deserve. I’ve got fresh grads from the Rhode Island School of Design here. I know they’re not planning to be with me forever. I don’t lock them into untenable contracts. They’re allowed to shine with their own designs. Christie didn’t do that. She suffocated people.”

  “Until someone suffocated her,” Angie said. “Or some thing like that.”

  “You reap what you sow.”

  “Indeed. But your business must be reaping some ben efits from her demise,” Angie suggested.

  Mel held her breath. Angie was going for the jugular. How would Terry respond?

  A pair of hairy knuckles rapped on Mel’s window, making her jump and drop her phone. It fell to the floor and slammed shut. No! Her connection to Angie was cut off.

  She glared out the window. There, attached to the hairy knuckles, stood two of Angie’s older brothers, Sal and Tony. She lowered the window.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise?” she asked.

  Sal frowned at her from under his bushy unibrow.

  “Good to see you, Mel,” he said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, and she was about knocked out by the heady scent of Brut cologne that surrounded him.

  Tony muscled him aside and leaned in to kiss her other cheek. “Yeah, good to see you.”

  “You two, too,” Mel said.

  They stared at her as if waiting for her to make a full confession. Mel was not about to do so. Instead she just sat. She tapped the steering wheel and looked at a hermit warbler sitting on a nearby oleander.

  “Well,” Sal said. He spread his hands wide. “We’re waiting for an explanation.”

  “Of what?” Mel asked.

  “Why you’re here,” Tony said. He was the tallest of the DeLaura brothers and the skinniest.

  “I heard there was a paper company that does cupcake liners down here, and I’m checking it out,” she answered.

  “In Angie’s car?” Sal asked.

  That was the problem with the DeLauras, they were an observant bunch.

  “Mine’s in the shop,” she lied.

  “Really?” Tony asked. “Because it looks like it’s parked over there in front of that clothing designer’s studio.”

  Nuts! Too late Mel remembered Tony had helped her change a flat on her car a few months ago; of course he recognized it.

  “Where is she, Mel?” Sal asked.

  “Who?”

  They looked at her with the grim inevitability of prison walls.

  “What makes you think she’s with me?” Mel asked. “I’m her partner, not her keeper.”

  “We tracked her cell phone using GPS,” Sal said. “When your shop was closed this morning and no one could get in touch with her, we ran the search and followed it to this location. So, what is she doing? Or, more accurately, what are the two of you up to?”

  “You tracked her?” Mel asked, sure she must have heard him wrong.

  “She’s our little sister,” Sal said, as if this was all the explanation necessary. “We worry.”

  “You’d better worry, because if she finds out, she’s going to . . .” Mel stopped in midsentence. She’d forgotten Angie was still inside asking the tricky questions. How much time had passed? Should she be out by now? What if something had gone terribly wrong?

  She scrambled out of the car and hurried toward the building.

  “Mel, I don’t like that look on your face,” Tony said. “What’s happening?”

  “Angie’s pretending to be a bride-to-be shopping for a gown, so we can scope out Christie’s competition and see if maybe he had a motive to kill her. That way the police will stop looking at Tate and me, and our business will be saved.”

  “You mean she’s in there with a killer?” Sal shouted.

  “No, I mean, I don’t know. I was listening to her conversation on my phone until you two came along and scared me,” Mel snapped. “But I do think she should be out by now.”

  Sal and Tony hurried to the door. Sal pulled a small case out of his suit jacket and unzipped it. He jimmied the two locks on the door and then, with a pop, the door swung wide.

  Uncle Stan would be so unhappy about this, Mel thought. Before Sal became a car salesman, he and Uncle Stan had quite a shared history, with Sal being naughty and Uncle Stan catching him.

  “You wait out here,” Tony said. “You’ll be safer, plus they might recognize you. Go wait in your car.”

  “But . . .” Mel began, but Sal cut her off. “No buts.”

  Sal still had enough of the thug in him that Mel didn’t argue. If Angie needed rescuing, there was no one better for the job than her brothers.

  She hurried back across the parking lot and hunkered low in the seat of Angie’s car. She was just getting crazy restless when she saw one of the garage doors slide open to admit a black SUV. She blinked. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Alma Rodriguez.

  Four teen

  The air whooshed out of her lungs in a rush that left Mel dizzy. Alma was driving into Terry Longmore’s
garage. What did that mean?

  She glanced at the door. There was no sign of Sal or Tony or Angie. Mel knew she had a split second to make her decision. She didn’t hesitate. Very quietly she opened the car door, and hurried to the side of the building and peered around the corner.

  The garage door was still open. She hunched low and crept inside, hoping she wasn’t spotted. Parked next to the SUV was a small blue Porsche; she knelt down beside it and listened to her heartbeat pound in her ears. She had no idea what she would say if anyone caught her here. That she was looking for a restroom? She didn’t think they’d buy it.

  A grinding noise sounded, and as she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the daylight behind her shrinking. She was irrevocably shut in.

  A door opened, and she heard the sound of footsteps. Judging by the patter, they belonged to more than one person.

  “What are you thinking, bringing it here?”

  Mel pressed herself closer to the car as she recognized Terry’s voice.

  “I had to,” Alma said. “I can’t have it found with me.”

  Mel wondered what they were talking about. She squatted lower and tried to see beneath the car as she heard them open the back of the SUV.

  “Wow,” Terry said. “That’s amazing. It’s not just a gown, it’s a work of art.”

  “I know,” Alma said. She sounded grudging in her agreement.

  “Does Phoebe suspect?”

  “What? That I’m working for you or that I’ve made off with her creation before the cops impounded it?”

  “Either,” Terry said.

  Mel could hear the rustle of fabric and saw a flash of white beneath the belly of the car.

  “No, Phoebe hasn’t gotten out of bed since the incident.”

  “You’re calling Christie’s murder an incident?”

  “Whatever.”

  Mel heard the strike of a match, and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted toward her.

  “Not near the dress,” Terry snapped.

  “Fine,” Alma said, and Mel heard her walk a few steps away. “Now, I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. When do I start work?”

  “What’s Phoebe going to do for work?” Terry asked.

  “Oh, hell no,” Alma said. Mel could see her feet pace back and forth, back and forth the length of the car. “I’m not working with her again. If you give her a spot in your studio, I’ll tell her you asked me to hijack the dress she designed for Christie’s wedding. I’ll out you.”

  “Relax, it was just a thought,” Terry said.

  “Well, it was a bad one.” Mel saw Alma’s cigarette hit the cement floor and watched as she ground it out under her boot heel. “That girl may have some design skills, but she is a nutburger without a bun.”

  “Are you finished?” Terry asked, his voice impatient.

  “I’m not having a great day. I just had to coddle a delusional bride, whose two crazy brothers showed up after she wasted my whole morning. She’s apparently not getting married after all.”

  Delusional bride? Mel reared up and smacked her head on the side mirror of the sports car. Biting off a string of curses, she squinched her face and hunkered down, hoping they hadn’t heard her.

  “What was that?” Terry asked Alma. “It sounded like a banging noise.”

  There was a beat of silence, and Mel was sure they could hear her heart pounding in her chest like a bass drum.

  “It’s the sound of me kicking you in the peanuts if you even think of signing on Phoebe.”

  “Lovely,” Terry said.

  Mel pressed her hand to the throbbing bump on her head as they went up the shallow steps to the door above.

  When she heard the door open and shut, she carefully rose from her spot and crept back towards the closed garage door. Luckily, she was able to lift it just enough to squeeze out beneath it.

  Sal and Tony were standing beside the Mini Cooper. Angie revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, looking as if she wished her brothers were under the wheels. She stopped short in front of Mel.

  “Bakery,” she barked, and drove off.

  Mel looked at Sal and Tony. They looked bewildered and hurt, but Mel didn’t have time to listen to their tales of brotherly woe. She gave them a quick wave, climbed into Angie’s car, and sped after her.

  Angie was sitting at the steel worktable in the kitchen, staring at a pile of electronic rubble. She held one of her chunky-soled yellow sandals in her hand, and looked like she was going to club the pile of plastic and wires again if it made one false move.

  “I think you killed it,” Mel said.

  “You can’t be too sure,” Angie retorted. “You never know when a sneaky, interfering brother or two has put a tracking device in your stuff.”

  “Mmm,” Mel hummed in agreement. She didn’t want to say anything that might set Angie off.

  “Sal and Tony are banned from the bakery,” Angie said.

  “No cupcakes for them. Period.”

  “Okay,” Mel said.

  Angie whacked what used to be her cell phone one more time. Then she rose, and with only one shoe on, she limped over to the garbage can. She brought it back to the table and swept the remnants of her phone into it.

  “Better now?” Mel asked.

  Angie nodded.

  “So, what happened? I lost contact with you when you asked him if his business was getting better with Christie’s murder.”

  “You lost me?” Angie asked. “How?”

  Mel didn’t say anything, and Angie glowered.

  “Never mind, I have a pretty good idea,” she huffed.

  “Bigger picture, here, Angie,” Mel said. “What happened?”

  Angie shook her head, trying to shake off her foul mood. “You’re right. Okay, so I asked Terry if his business was improving since, well, you know, and he got a really funny look on his face.”

  “Guilt?” Mel asked.

  “No,” Angie said. “More like caution.”

  “Hold that thought,” Mel said. She hurried to the walk-in and stepped inside. She grabbed two carrot cake cupcakes and kicked the door shut behind her.

  “All right, now I’m ready,” she said as she sat down and put a cupcake in front of each of them.

  “I don’t think he suspected that I was fishing,” Angie said as she peeled the paper from around her cupcake. “But he was very careful with his answers. He said it was better to have competition, because it raises the bar for the designers to always feel pushed by someone else’s work. He also said he was in Los Angeles at a fashion show the night of Christie’s death and had loads of witnesses.”

  “Really? Then what happened?”

  “Stupid Tony and Sal came barging in. They told Terry that I had just run away from the convent and was having delusions of getting married. I could have killed them!”

  “It was better that you took it out on your phone,” Mel said. Her head throbbed where she’d smacked it, and she put her hand up to feel the bump. Sure enough, the goose egg was bigger and sat right in the middle of her cowlick, making her hair stick up. Fabulous.

  “What happened to you?”

  Mel told her about seeing Alma drive into the garage and the conversation she’d overheard between Terry and Alma.

  “It sounds like Terry convinced her to steal the dress Phoebe designed for Christie’s wedding, and in return she gets a job there.”

  “Yeah,” Mel agreed. “What I wonder is did they kill her to get this dress? It seems unlikely, but they both loathed Christie, and certainly neither of them seems sad to see her dead.”

  “Did you see the gown?” Angie asked.

  “Just a glance under the car,” Mel said. “Could a gown really incite murder, or is it just the spoils of the tragedy? As in did Alma help herself to the gown because Christie obviously wasn’t going to be using it?”

  “But if Phoebe’s the designer, won’t she notice that it’s gone missing?” Angie asked.

  “They seem to think she’s too distraught over Christie’s death. It sounds as if she’s practically catatonic. Certainly, Terry and Alma weren’t worried about her finding out.”

  The b
ells jangled on the door, and both Mel and Angie left the kitchen to wait on the customers. Three high school kids from the local prep school—their knee-highs and plaid skirts gave them away—stood jostling one another at the counter.

  The girls giggled as they ordered and took their cupcakes to go. The bells jangled again, and several older ladies on a shopping spree, as evidenced by the bags that surrounded them, entered and parked themselves in a booth. More students arrived, as well as a busload of tourists. Not bad for the middle of the afternoon on a weekday.

  They spent the next hour in a flurry of cupcakes. It felt good, almost normal, again. When the crush eased and they were loading up trays to restock the front, Angie looked at Mel. Her brown eyes were full of hope, and Mel nodded in understanding.

  “We won’t lose our business,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “Now that we know someone else had a real motive.”

  “Who had a motive?”

  Angie and Mel glanced up; Joe DeLaura was standing in the doorway. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit with a white dress shirt and a black and burgundy striped tie.

  “Hi, Joe,” Angie said with a glare that could have melted ice. “Did Tony and Sal send you?”

  “Nope, I just came by for a cupcake,” he said with a smile. His gaze lingered on Mel’s face, making her feel like he was talking about more than her baked goods. She returned his stare, feeling ridiculously breathless.

  “Oh, well, what can I get you?” Angie asked, obviously deciding not to enlighten him about her rift with Sal and Tony.

  “You pick. I trust your judgment,” he said.

  Angie glanced between them. “Okay, then, I’ll just . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she took a full tray to the front of the bakery.

  “Hi, Mel,” Joe said. He came farther into the kitchen. “How are you?”

  “Aside from being falsely suspected of murder and having my business ruined because of it, I’m fine.”

  “Gonzales and Rayburn are good detectives,” he said. “They’ll find out who killed Christie Stevens and your name will be cleared.”

  “I wish I could be so sure,” she said. “In the meantime, the media is slapping my reputation around like it’s a pińata just because I’m longtime friends with Tate. Even if they catch the real killer, I’m not sure my business will survive the slander.”

 

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