Sprinkle with Murder

Sprinkle with Murder Page 15

by Jenn McKinlay

“There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Don’t,” Mel said. She felt oddly betrayed and hurt that Angie had feelings for Tate and she’d never said a word. “Don’t make it worse.”

  Angie looked at her, and her large brown eyes looked sad.

  “When did it happen?” Mel asked.

  “The day you introduced him to me in sixth grade,” Angie said.

  “Twenty-two years ago?” Mel asked. She sat down in her mother’s abandoned chair. “You know, you might have mentioned it somewhere along the line.”

  “You sound mad.”

  “I am mad,” Mel confirmed. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. You’re supposed to tell me when you fall in love with someone, no matter who that someone is.”

  “Oh, like you’re so forthcoming with your feelings,” Angie chided her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at Joe,” Angie said. “Don’t tell me you see him only as your best friend’s brother.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Different how?” Angie leaned over the table, getting into Mel’s space. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t expect full disclosure from me and hold your own stuff back.”

  “What I feel for Joe is just a stupid crush left over from middle school,” Mel argued. “That’s not how you feel about Tate. You’re in love with him, and I can’t believe you never told me.”

  “How could I,” Angie asked, “when he’s always been in love with you?”

  Mel felt as if Angie had just kicked the chair out from under her.

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “Yes, he has,” Angie contradicted her. Her enormous brown eyes were so full of pain that they looked bruised. “He told me so.”

  “When?” Mel asked.

  “Do you remember when we came to visit you while you were studying in Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know we flew over on his company’s corporate jet?”

  Mel nodded. She didn’t want to hear this—no, she didn’t. She hated seeing how devastated Angie looked when recounting the story. She glanced down at her hands and realized she’d just shredded a paper napkin that she didn’t even remember taking out of the holder.

  “Well, we had too much champagne, and I got silly.” Bright red splotches lit up Angie’s cheekbones, and Mel knew she was horribly embarrassed. Angie swallowed, and continued. “I sort of threw myself at Tate, and we . . . uh . . . well, we joined the mile high club, as it were.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” Angie replied. “Afterwards, we both agreed it had been a huge mistake. He made me promise we’d never tell you because, and I quote, ‘I love her and couldn’t bear to lose her.’ ”

  “No,” Mel said. Her throat was tight, and she felt as if something she held precious was shattering into a million pieces and she wasn’t going to be able to fix it.

  “Yes,” Angie said. Her mouth lifted at the corners. “All these years your mom has been pushing you and Tate together, and if you’d just given him the nod, he’d be married to you now.”

  Mel put her head down on the table, feeling slightly sick.

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

  “Let’s see.” Angie ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “I was mortified. I was crushed. And somehow, ‘I’ve seen Tate naked’ isn’t as easy to work into a conversation as you might think.”

  Mel raised her head and gave her a weak smile.

  “Look, you two are my best friends. I couldn’t risk losing either of you,” Angie said.

  “But if you told . . .”

  “You know what?” Angie interrupted. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “But . . .”

  “No,” Angie said with a shake of her head. “I’m going to call Joe and see if he can tell me anything about what’s happening to Tate.”

  “If you . . .”

  “I’m not going to change my mind,” Angie interrupted again. “And I want you to promise that you’ll never tell Tate how I feel.”

  Mel looked at her friend. Her face could have been set in concrete. Mel knew there was no negotiating.

  “Pinky swear,” Angie said.

  Mel felt her lips curve. She linked her right pinky with Angie’s. Then she crossed her fingers behind her back.

  “No crosses count,” Angie said, and Mel let out an exasperated huff. “Swear.”

  “I swear I won’t tell Tate,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Angie unlocked her little finger from Mel’s. “Can you man the shop while I go call Joe?”

  Mel nodded. There was no one in the shop. Even for midafternoon, it was remarkably dead. She wondered if the rumor that she was a murderer was driving business away. Then she wondered who would believe it. And her thoughts turned back to Joe. Was Steve Wolfmeier right about him? Would Joe get her in his sights as a murderer and be a terrier with her?

  She felt a flutter of unease. She had thought that by now, things would be better, that the police would have a suspect in custody who wasn’t herself or Tate. Instead, she had more questions than answers, and every time she turned around there was new information that was horrifying, disturbing, or just plain shocking. Angie in love with Tate—why hadn’t she seen that one coming?

  Mel felt a pang of guilt. She knew she hadn’t seen it because she hadn’t wanted to. When she thought back on it now, it all made sense. Angie seldom dated, and when she did, it was reluctantly, and she never went out on their movie night. Also, her intense dislike of Christie made more sense now than ever. Mel had thought Angie just didn’t like her, but no, it must have been eating her alive that Tate was going to get married.

  A hideous thought wiggled into Mel’s brain like a worm into a rotten apple. Could Angie have . . . No!

  She shook her head. She was not going there. No matter how Angie felt about Tate getting married, if it was what he wanted, she’d never do anything to jeopardize his happiness. And even with her firecracker temper, Angie had never caused anyone real harm. Well, except for the broken nose she had given Jeff Stanton when he called Mel a fatso one time too many.

  Mel stood up from the table and started pacing. Whether she liked it or not, it seemed the police liked her or Tate for the crime. The only solution was to find the real killer. Both Terry and Alma looked good for it, but she needed more proof than a stolen wedding gown.

  She needed to talk to someone in Christie’s inner circle. She wasn’t going to get anything more out of Alma. She needed to talk to someone else. She needed to talk to Phoebe.

  She hated intruding upon the girl’s grief, but enough was enough. She needed to know who wanted Christie dead, and Phoebe was her best untapped source.

  “He’s been released,” Angie said as she stepped back into the room. “He’s going home to decompress to some old Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns. We should go over after we close and check on him.”

  “ ‘I’ve never seen so many men wasted so bad,’ ” Mel quoted.

  “We’ll see,” Angie said. “I don’t know if it’s a The Good, The Bad and The Ugly night or a Two Mules for Sister Sara night.”

  “I’d go with Shirley MacLaine, but he may be anti-women right now,” Mel said.

  “Luckily, I don’t count.” Angie’s voice was wry, and Mel felt bad for her. They still needed to talk about the situation, but Mel would let it rest for now.

  “Is it just me, or do we seem abnormally dead?” Mel asked. “I mean, I know the newspaper article may have turned our locals against us, but surely the tourists don’t know.”

  “You’re right,” Angie said. “I should have sold at least three hundred cupcakes by now, but I’m guessing I’ve only sold a couple dozen.”

  “This murder has to be solved quickly,” Mel said.

  “Before we lose everything.”

  The phone behind the counter rang, and Mel hurried to answer it.

  “Good afternoon, Fairy Tale Cupcakes, how may I help you?”

  “Hello, bride killer,” the caller said.

  Mel sucked in a breath. It was Solomon Singh, owner of the posh jewelry store around the
corner.

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Sure you didn’t.” Solomon was from India and his accent was faint, as if faded from years of living in the States, but he retained just enough of it to sound exotic and condescending.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Solomon?” she asked.

  “Yes, you can tell whoever is plastering the streets with these notices of you being wanted for murder to stop putting them on my windows. They clash with my diamond displays.”

  “Excuse me? What notices?”

  “Don’t tell me they haven’t tagged you?” he asked. He sounded annoyed. “I’d have thought your place would have been covered in them. Look outside for an obnoxious yellow paper.”

  Mel dropped the phone and raced towards the door. “What is it?” Angie asked, following her. Mel glanced up and down the street. She felt her vision swim as she saw literally hundreds of yellow notices plastering all available surfaces.

  She snatched one off the wall of the western wear store next door. As her eyes skimmed over the page, she felt her hands begin to shake.

  In the center there was a picture of her holding a tray of cupcakes with the shop’s logo above her. Below the picture was printed: Community Advisory: Melanie Cooper is a suspect in the murder of Christie Stevens. Anyone with any information is encouraged to call the Scottsdale Po lice Department.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Angie blustered from behind her. “That’s a total lie! Who would do . . . ?”

  Their gazes met, and they both said, “Olivia Puckett.”

  Mel wadded up the paper and stuffed it in the nearest trash can.

  “I’m going to track her down and rip her hair out by the roots!” Angie spat.

  “C’mon,” Mel said. She would have liked nothing more than to steam over to Olivia’s shop and blast her, but they needed to do damage control first. She fished a key out of her pocket and locked up the shop. “Let’s gather all of these first.”

  They worked opposite sides of the street, ripping down the sheets that had been attached to every single telephone pole, bench, and storefront they passed. The sheer boldness of the maneuver took Mel’s breath away. When she got to the tattoo parlor on the corner, Mick, one of the tattoo artists, stepped outside, away from the busy buzz of the needles at work inking skin behind him, and handed Mel a stack of yellow papers.

  Mick was six foot four, with large gauges in his earlobes that created dime sized holes, a shaved head that sported a rising Phoenix tattoo, and sleeves of brilliantly colorful tattoos running up and down his arms and legs. Oh, and he had several implants in his forehead that looked like horns about to sprout. In short, he looked terrifying, but Mel had discovered over the past few months that he was really a big sweetie who kept an eye out for the neighborhood, loved coconut cupcakes, and had season tickets to the Arizona Opera. The guy had layers.

  “These were all over my shop and the ones around the corner. Pretty nasty publicity,” he said. “Who did you piss off?”

  “Rival baker,” Mel said.

  “In the ’hood?” he asked.

  “No, she’s on the other side of 40th Street, in Arcadia,” Mel said.

  “Well, she’s certainly got it in for you. If it’s any consolation, I’ve talked to the others and no one believes it, except Solomon, but he always thinks the worst of everyone.”

  The sympathy in his voice made Mel want to cry. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, and said, “Thanks, Mick.”

  “Do you want me to go have a talk with her?” he asked. His blue eyes lit up at the prospect.

  Mel was pretty sure Mick would give Olivia a flat-out heart attack, so it was a very tempting offer.

  “Thanks, but I think I’d better deal with her on my own.”

  Mick patted her shoulder with a large hand. “Tell me if you change your mind.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  It took the better part of an hour to canvass Old Town and gather all of the libelous papers. By the time she was done, Mel was so angry, she was afraid she might do Olivia an injury.

  “I think we got them all,” Angie said as she dumped them into the recycle bin in the office.

  “Let’s keep a couple in case we need proof of harassment,” Mel said. “Although I’m quite sure she made certain she left no fingerprints on them.”

  “You know, I thought she was nuts with the drive-bys and all, but now I think she’s certifiable. The woman should be locked up.”

  “Don’t tell Tate about this,” Mel said. “He’s got enough on his plate.”

  “Aren’t you going to come with me to see him?” Angie asked.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s too much speculation about us as it is. I don’t want to cause him any more problems.”

  Angie studied her for a moment. “You promise this isn’t about what I told you? I couldn’t stand it if I messed all of us up because I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot,” Mel said, and she looped an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “You can’t help how you feel.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried,” Angie said. “I don’t want to feel this way, and I wish I didn’t.”

  “We don’t choose who we love,” Mel said comfortingly.

  “So if you’re not coming with me, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to have a little chat with Olivia.”

  “Oh, I’m totally coming with you,” Angie said. She looked like she was ready to rumble.

  “No, you’re not. This is between me and her.”

  “But . . .” Angie began to protest, but Mel interrupted. “No, Tate needs you, and besides, you know you have a temper. I haven’t always been patient with her. But despite my frosting her windshield, I still think I’ll be able to stay calm when I deal with Olivia.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “That you have a tendency to lead with your fists, and I don’t want that kind of trouble.”

  “I haven’t hit anyone in ages,” Angie protested.

  “You popped a guy with an uppercut when he patted your butt at the Salty Senorita last week,” Mel reminded her.

  “I was teaching him some manners,” Angie protested.

  Mel smiled. “No doubt he won’t do that again, but I can’t have anything like that go down with Olivia. You’re not going. End of discussion.”

  “Call me as soon as you talk to her,” Angie said.

  “I promise.”

  “And you’d better make her cry, or I’ll be disappointed.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Mel said.

  They closed the shop and parted with a hug.

  Mel climbed into her Mini Cooper and shot across Old Town Scottsdale. She turned south on 68th Street and then headed west on Indian School Road.

  She reached 40th Street and turned into the parking lot of a small strip mall. Confections Bakery sat between a trophy maker and a florist. A quick glance told Mel that, unlike her bakery, Confections was busy. Several cars were parked in front, and she could see a line of customers milling about in front of the display cases. She felt her temper heat again, and she forced herself to breathe slowly in and out.

  Mel took one of the papers she had collected and strode across the parking lot. She was going to be calm but firm. Olivia Puckett’s obsession with her shop had to stop right now. She had enough to contend with, without dealing with her crazy smear campaign.

  If it came right down to it, Mel was not afraid to call in the law. Given her current relationship with the Scottsdale Police, she figured Steve Wolfmeier might have to be her front, but she suspected he’d be okay with that. He looked like the type who could throw out enough legal jargon to choke a donkey, and Olivia certainly qualified as that.

  Mel pulled open the door to the bakery and approached the counter. Several hair-netted women stood behind it, wearing white polyester smocks with their names embroidered in black on the left breast. Mel approached a large woman who looked to be in charge of the counter because she was barking orders at the others.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Olivia Puckett.”

&nbs
p; “Take a number,” the woman barked.

  “Pardon?”

  The woman waved a beefy arm towards a red plastic ticket dispenser. “Take a number.”

  “I just want to talk . . .” Mel began, but the woman glared at her and pointed to the ticket machine again.

  “I’ll just take a number,” Mel said.

  The woman nodded and yelled, “Seventy-six.”

  Mel glanced at the pink ticket in her hand. She was eighty-three. Terrific.

  She waited through an order of cookies, three pies, two birthday cakes, and two more orders of cookies, before the stout woman finally called, “Eighty-three.”

  Mel approached the counter. “I would like to speak with Olivia Puckett, please.”

  “You don’t want to buy anything?” the woman asked.

  Her nose was large and hooked, and her eyes were bulbous like a toad’s.

  “No, as I tried to tell you before, I’m here to see Olivia,” Mel said. She knew her voice sounded snippy, but so far the only good thing that had come of this visit was the fact that no one in front of her had bought any cupcakes. It was small satisfaction, but she’d take it.

  “Olivia’s not here,” the woman said.

  Mel glanced at the name embroidered on her chest. “Well, June, do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “She won’t,” June said. “She’s off to see her mother in that assisted-care facility on Thomas Road, Serenity Springs. Her mother is senile, you know, crazy as a bedbug.”

  Perhaps that explained Olivia’s behavior, Mel thought. Maybe the whole Puckett family tree was forked. She glanced at her watch. She’d waited twenty minutes for nothing. Well, it was not going to be for nothing. She was going to hunt Olivia down at Serenity Springs and have it out with her once and for all.

  “Thanks,” she said and helped herself to one of the sample cookies on the counter. She took a bite, and at the door, she spun around. “Try using some lemon zest in these sugar cookies. It makes all the difference.”

  June shrugged at her as if she couldn’t care less what the cookies tasted like. Well, if nothing else, Mel now knew her help was far superior to Olivia’s. Even on her most surly day, Angie was a gracious hostess.

  She climbed back into her car and headed south to Thomas Road. Serenity Springs was a posh assisted-care facility, and Mel knew Olivia’s bakery must be doing quite well if she could afford this sort of care for her mother.

 

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