Why? he asked.
Youre kidding, right?
His face was set. Not kidding.
Ever since I found the body, Ive been targeted by the police and the media as the most likely suspect just because Tate and I are friends. And now Olivia Puckett is using it to try and run me out of business. What am I supposed to do? I need help.
Find someone else, he said.
How is this any of your business? she asked.
Youre my sisters business partner, he said. Im looking out for her interests.
That stung, although Mel wasnt sure why. Maybe because a part of her had hoped he was looking out for her.
Well, dont worry your pretty little head about Angie, shell be fine, Mel said. She glanced pointedly at the clock. Shouldnt you be shuffling along to attend to your little colleague? She must be wondering where you are by now.
How is that relevant? Joe asked. He rose from the table, gathering their plates and mugs, and headed to the sink. He began to wash the dishes, but Mel stomped over and shut off the water.
Dont bother, she said. Ill take care of it myself.
Why are you so angry? he asked, spinning to face her.
Do you think Im guilty? she asked. Thereshed said it. She watched him watching her. He didnt answer right away.
She spun away from him and strode to the back door. She pushed it open and gestured for him to go.
Good night, Joe.
Mel, I dont think . . . he began, but she interrupted, Too little, too late. Good night.
He strode past her and out the door. His jaw was clenched, and he looked as irritated as she felt.
Mel, he said. She glanced up at him, and his brown eyes were narrowed in concern. Be careful.
She said nothing, not trusting her voice, and shut the door with a definitive click.
Eighteen
Mel used an ice cream scoop to fill the paper-lined compartments of the cupcake pan with batter. The scoop was the perfect tool to keep the cupcakes uniform in size. She was making a big batch, using her thirty-five-cupcake tin.
This batch was called Moonlight Madness, because these were the cupcakes she always made in the middle of the night when she couldnt sleep, like tonight. It was a simple chocolate cupcake with vanilla buttercream frosting rolled in coconut and a Hershey Kiss planted in the middle of the frosting. Mostly, she made these because she could eat all the Hershey Kisses she wanted while baking. Tonight, however, even a fistful of kisses wasnt lifting her mood.
Mel opened the door to her industrial-sized convection oven and slid the large tin onto the middle rack. She set her cupcake-shaped timer for twenty minutes and began to clean the steel worktable.
The strains of the theme from Gone With the Wind interrupted the quiet, and Mel grabbed her cell phone off the counter. Who would be calling her at one oclock in the morning?
She checked the number. It was Tate.
What are you doing up so late? she asked.
When you have insomnia, youre never really asleep, and youre never really awake, he said.
The best you can do is a quote from Fight Club? she asked. Hardly a classic, you must have insomnia.
Its a classic guy flick, I dont expect you to appreciate it, he returned.
Huh, she grunted. How did you know I was awake?
Because Angie and I are standing outside the back door, he said.
Mel whirled around, and sure enough, she could see their outlines backlit against the window shade.
She hurried across the kitchen to unbolt the door. Why didnt you use your keys?
We didnt want to scare you, Tate said.
They grinned at each other as she swung the door wide.
I think you two can hang up now, Angie said as she strode around Tate. Oh, kisses! Is it a Moonlight Madness night?
Technically, I think theres a new moon out tonight, but yeah, I couldnt sleep.
We figured, Angie said. We just finished watching the last spaghetti Western and thought wed check on you. How did it go with Olivia? Did you make her cry?
They pulled up stools around the worktable, and Mel passed out Hershey Kisses like she was dealing cards.
No. In fact, I never spoke to her, she said.
What? Angie demanded.
Mel told them the whole story from start to finish. About Olivias frail-looking mother and how compassionate Olivia was while taking care of her.
Now whyd you go and tell me that? Angie grumped. I dont want to feel sorry for that woman.
Me either, Mel admitted. But I cant help it.
What if she pulls another stunt like the last? Tate asked. You cant let her mess with your business.
I know, Mel said. Maybe Ill just have to appeal to her gentler side.
Angie and Tate gave her matching dubious looks, and she shrugged.
It really isnt going to matter what Olivia does to me if the police dont find Christies killer soon, Mel said. The bad press will do us in more swiftly than any of her shenanigans.
Lets revisit our suspects, Tate suggested. Theres me.
No, Angie and Mel said together.
Theres you. He pointed at Mel with a Hershey Kiss.
No, they chorused again.
Theres Terry Longmore, he said. And now that we know hes signed on Alma and had her steal a gown for his studio, theres motive.
But he has an alibi, Angie argued. He was at a fashion show in Los Angeles.
Has that been verified? Tate asked.
Mel peeled off the tiny strip of foil stuck on her kiss. The police must have checked it out.
We should find out for sure, Tate said.
Ill call Uncle Stan, Mel said.
What about that weird Alma girl? Angie asked. I got a very bad feeling about her from the start.
She said she had an alibi, Mel said. Although she never said what it was.
We need to find out what it is, Tate said.
Ill pay her a visit tomorrow, Mel promised. That way she cant duck me. Maybe if I let her know that I know she took the gown, I can use it as leverage to force her to tell me what she knows.
Angie frowned. Be careful. If shes a murderer, she wont hesitate to hurt you in order to protect herself.
I dont think you should go alone, Tate added. It could be dangerous.
I dont think shell talk to me if anyone is with me, Mel countered.
The timer rang, and Mel hopped off her stool to get the cakes out of the oven. She tested the top of one by gently pressing it with her fingertip. When it sprang back, she knew they were done.
She placed the large tin on a wire rack to cool and started to gather her ingredients for the frosting. She had used her industrial Hobart mixer for the batter, so she decided to go with her pink KitchenAid for the frosting. The butter had softened nicely, and she let the mixer cream it while she took a large bottle of clear vanilla extract out of the pantry. She liked to use clear because it kept the frosting a bright white or, in this case, a glowing moon color. Angie added the sugar cup by cup, and then Tate assisted by adding the milk until the frosting was the perfect consistency.
Mel marveled at how the three of them worked silently together, never getting in one anothers way. She supposed twenty-two years of friendship would do that, and she felt a sharp pang of fear that it could all be taken away if either she or Tate was fingered for Christies murder.
When the frosting was finished, Mel covered the bowl with a damp cloth to keep it moist. It would be a few minutes until the cupcakes were cool enough to frost.
Angie and Tate resumed their seats at the table and began talking about what movies they wanted to watch on the next movie
night. Angie was lobbying hard for an action adventure night, but Tate was leaning towards a night of independent films. A fierce feeling of protectiveness swamped Mel as she watched them. These were her dearest friends, as close as you could get without sharing the same parents. She wasnt going to let anyone or anything harm them. Tomorrow, she would talk to Alma, and shed get some answers if she had to shake them out of her.
Mel remembered the address of Almas apartment from when she had looked her up to get her phone number. Alma lived only a few miles away in a duplex in an old neighborhood just on the east side of the park that ran the length of Scottsdale, known locally as the green belt.
Mel sipped a paper cup full of strong coffee as she wound through the neighborhood until she came to a squat, yellow brick house that had a front door at each end of its facade. Judging by the numbers, Almas was the door on the right.
Mel parked at the curb and strode towards the door. She had come early, before she had to open the bakery, hoping to catch Alma before she went out for the day.
There was no doorbell, so she rapped on the security door with her knuckles. The heavy metal door hurt, so Mel switched to the side of her fist.
She waited, expecting to see a face peer out of the window beside the door. There was nothing: no sound of anyone moving, no dog barking, nothing.
Maybe Alma couldnt hear her banging on the door. Mel reached for the knob on the security door to see if it opened so she could knock on the wooden door behind it. The knob turned easily, and Mel gave the inner door a sharp rap with her knuckles. In the morning quiet, it sounded like gunfire. No one could sleep through that.
Except for maybe Alma, Mel thought, because there was still no answer.
Shes home.
Mel turned towards the voice. An older man, wearing a white T-shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts with a bright blue Chicago Cubs cap perched on his gray hair, was in the yard next door. He was unreeling his garden hose, but he paused to look Mel up and down.
I heard her door slam late last night, he said. It must have been about two in the morning. Shes probably still sleeping it off.
Oh. Mel wondered if she should knock again or come back later. Probably Alma wasnt going to hear the knock. She had to admit shed get a certain satisfaction out of waking Alma up, given all the grief shed been through. Itd be nice to share the pain. She tried the doorknob just to see if it turned. It did.
She glanced over at the neighbor, but he had turned his back to her and was watering his roses. Mel took a cautious step into the dark duplex and called, Alma, its Melanie Cooper. I need to talk to you.
The front door opened into a large living room. There were the requisite love seat and coffee table positioned in front of a flat-screen TV. In the corner was a large drawing table littered with sketches. An ashtray sat on the coffee table. A cigarette perched in the ashtray. It had burned down to the filter, obviously forgotten by whoever had lit it. Alma was lucky she hadnt torched the place.
The air in the apartment was stale and flavored with the musk of tobacco. Mel wrinkled her nose. It was then that she noticed the silence. It was too quiet in there, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled in alarm. Oh no, not again!
Mel hurried to the kitchen beyond. No one was there. A short hallway led to a bathroom (empty) and a bedroom. Mel shoved the bedroom door open. She didnt care if she found Alma in bed with someone; in fact, shed be delighted to find her so, given the panic that had just taken over her mind. But Alma wasnt in the bed, and neither was anyone else.
Alma was lying facedown on the floor, and she didnt appear to be breathing.
Nineteen
Not again! Mel cried as she raced across the messy bedroom, stepping over piles of discarded clothing to get to Alma.
She dropped to her knees and rolled the young woman over. Her black hair was greasy and plastered to her head by dried sweat. Her pale skin was even paler than usual, and Mel put her ear to her chest to see if she was breathing.
There was a very slight rise to her chest, and Mel reared back and stared at her. Had she just imagined it, or was Alma breathing? She couldnt tell. Panic made her fingers shake as she pressed them beneath Almas ear, looking for a pulse. It was faint, but it was there.
Alma, Mel called her name. Alma, can you hear me?
She forced open Almas right eye and saw that the pupil was a tiny pinprick. At least she wasnt dead. Not yet.
Mel dug through her purse for her phone. She pulled it out, but it shut itself off because of a low battery. Damn it!
Stay with me, Alma, she demanded, and ran out the front door.
The neighbor was still there, spraying his roses while sipping a steaming cup of coffee.
Sir! Mel yelled. Sir, I found Alma. Shes unconscious. Call 9-1-1.
What? The man looked at her in confusion. He released the sprayer nozzle and the water stopped. Mel repeated her order, and he gave a quick nod and barreled into his house.
Mel ran back to be beside Alma. She didnt want anything to happen to her. Not on her watch. Not this time.
In less than five minutes the sound of sirens filled the air. The neighbor led the EMTs into the house, and Mel quickly told them exactly what shed found when she arrived: Alma, facedown and barely breathing.
They set to work trying to revive her while Mel stood beside the neighbor.
Good thing for her you stopped by, he said. He looked distressed, and Mel patted his arm.
Lets hope so, she said.
As the medics prepared to lift Alma onto a stretcher, her arm flopped down. One of the men, young with dark hair, leaned close to examine something on her side. He stood back and frowned at Mel.
How well did you know her? he asked.
Not very, she said. Why?
Did she have any conditions, like rheumatoid arthritis or a back injury, something that caused her constant pain?
I dont know, Mel said. Why?
Shes wearing a time-release pain patch, the medic said. Its called fentanyl. Its an opiate that helps people in chronic pain.
I dont know, Mel said again, feeling incredibly inadequate. She gave one of the medics her contact information and followed them out the door.
The neighbor offered to keep an eye on Almas place, and when they found her address book by her drawing table, he said hed contact her family in Texas.
I met them once when they were out here for a visit, he said. They seemed like nice folks.
Thank you, Mr. . . .
Horowitz, he said. But you can call me Ben.
They shook hands and Mel climbed into her car, feeling like she just stepped off the Tilt-O-Whirl at the Arizona State Fair and hadnt gotten her balance back.
This was no accident. Someone had tried to kill Alma. But who? Terry Longmore seemed the likely candidate. Maybe Alma was getting too demanding in her new job. Maybe she had too much leverage over him, given that they had stolen a gown and possibly murdered Christie together.
There was something about the pain patch that bothered her, however. She couldnt help thinking it was a pivotal piece to the puzzle, but she couldnt make it fit.
She drove down Hayden Road with the windows down. She was on autopilot, stopping or slowing at traffic lights, but she couldnt have said whether they were green or red or yellow. Her brain whirred like an old hard drive trying to load too much information.
The photographer. Her memory of talking to Jay Driscoll came into her brain in a rush. He had said something about weight-loss patches at the photo shoot.
What had he said? Oh yeah, that theyd been delayed because Christie and her assistant had to put on some patch.
She turned right on Camelback Road and wound her way through Old Town. She found a parking spot on Main Street and hurried into the bakery. Angie was in back, getting ready to open.
Mel ran
past her to the office.
Well, hello to you, too, Angie said.
Mel grabbed the cordless phone in the office and punched in Uncle Stans number.
Cooper here, he answered on the third ring.
Does the ME know what killed Christie yet?
Melanie? he said.
Yes, its me. This is important. Have they figured it out yet?
Im out of the loop on that case, he said. And I cant talk to you about it.
Tell them to check for an opiate, Mel said. Something that would be time-released in a pain patch.
Whats going on, Mel? His low voice was a bark.
I went to see Alma Rodriguez today, Mel said. I found her unconscious. She was unresponsive but alive. The medic said she had a pain patch on and wanted to know if she had any chronic conditions. I dont think she did. Uncle Stan, I think whoever murdered Christie tried to murder Alma, too.
Ill call you back, he said, and hung up.
Angie was standing in the door, looking stunned. You heard? Mel asked.
All of it, she said. Who would want Alma dead?
The killer, Mel said.
Angie slumped into the chair beside Mels desk.
You think Alma knew who the killer was?
I dont know, Mel said. The phone rang, and she picked it up. Hello.
I talked to the ME, Uncle Stan said. They dont generally check for substances like that in their initial tox screen. Theyre going to run it now.
Let me know what they find out, Mel said.
Uncle Stan let out a sigh. Mel, Im calling your mother. I dont want you to leave the bakery until we know whats going on.
Dont, she said. Shell just worry.
Good, then she can join me, he retorted. Im not kidding, Melanie Jean Cooper, you do not set one toe outside of that bakery. Theres a killer on the loose, and now that youve stopped them by finding Alma, you could very well be the next target. Im sending a squad car to park out front. Do not move!
Sprinkle with Murder Page 17