Sprinkle with Murder (13 page)

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 bells 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.”
Angie trotted back into the kitchen with a glass of milk and a Cherry Bomb cupcake. She plopped them down on the table in front of Joe.
“Consider it a bribe,” she said. “Just think, if Mel gets arrested, no more cupcakes for you.”
He looked stricken, but then gave his sister a dark look. “I can’t be bribed.”
Angie gave a long-suffering sigh. “Then I’ll have to lower myself to threats. Help us, or I’ll tell Mom.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“Try me,” she returned as she handed him a fork.
“Are you sure you’re not a defense attorney?” he asked. “You fight dirty.”
“You betcha,” Angie said as she headed back to the front.
“Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do to help until the investigators arrest someone, and hopefully, it won’t be you,” he said.
“It might have helped if you hadn’t had my uncle Stan taken off the case,” Mel complained.
Joe took a bite of the cupcake, and his eyes glazed. “Wow. How do you . . .”
He noticed Mel was frowning at him, and he swallowed with a gulp.
“Sorry. Look, I know it may not seem like it, but I did it to protect both of you. Stan is a lifer with the PD. He can’t risk working a case that involves his niece. It would destroy his career. And as for you, what do you think a decent defense attorney would do to you if he found out your uncle was the lead detective?”
Mel refused to acknowledge the little flutter she felt when he said he did it to protect her. She was not that susceptible to his charm—okay, maybe she was, but she didn’t have to let him know it.
“I suppose,” she said grudgingly.
“Melanie, are you ready to go?”
Mel turned to see Joyce in the doorway. “Hi, Mom. Go where?”
“We have a meeting with the attorney Johnny Dietz recommended. Didn’t you get my message?”
“No, it’s been crazy here today,” Mel said. “Mom, you remember Joe DeLaura, Angie’s brother?”
Joyce glanced at Mel and her eyes went wide; even she understood that it didn’t look good to be talking about going to a defense attorney in front of an assistant district attorney.
“A lawyer?” Joe asked. He had a mouthful of cupcake, so Mel had to translate what he said, but the implication behind the mumble was obvious. If she was innocent, why did she need an attorney?
“Mom believes in preparing for the worst,” Mel said. “She’s the only person I know who has an operational bomb shelter in her backyard.”
“Hey, if the Palo Verde Nuclear Plant decides to have a big hiccup, I’ll be ready,” Joyce said. “And what about terrorists? There could be another attack. You never know.”
Mel made bug eyes at Joe and he nodded in understanding. Mama DeLaura had been known to show up at her grown children’s houses in the middle of the night, just to be sure they were safely tucked into their beds so she could sleep without worrying about them.
“I’d better go,” Mel said.
She and Joyce headed towards the door.
“Who’s the attorney?” Joe asked. “Maybe I know him.”
“Steve Wolfmeier,” Joyce said. “Have you heard of him?”
Joe’s brows lowered over his eyes like storm clouds on the horizon. “Yeah.”
“Care to elaborate?” Mel asked.
“No,” Joe said. He stabbed his cupcake with his fork, and Mel had a feeling he was picturing Steve Wolfmeier’s head. Interesting.
“Mel, we’re going to be late,” Joyce said from the doorway. “Don’t you want to change into a nice dress?”
Joe glanced up from his cupcake, and his gaze raked Mel from head to toe, taking in her clingy knit shirt and hip-hugging jeans and all the way down to her suede boots.
“You look fine just the way you are,” he said. “In fact, you might want to wear a sweater, preferably a big, bulky shapeless number.”
“Well, I don’t see how that would help,” Joyce said.
Mel felt Joe’s gaze on her face, and the intensity of his scrutiny left her feeling flustered. There was history between this Wolfmeier guy and Joe, and she was just the gal to find out what it was.