Sprinkle with Murder (4 page)

Mel resided over the cupcake bakery in a studio apartment, Angie rented a duplex in the neighborhood that surrounded Old Town Scottsdale, and Tate lived in a luxury penthouse condominium on the canal just north of Old Town.
Needless to say, movie night was always at Tate’s pad, just as it had been his house when they were growing up. He had the spectacular view of the city, the Italian marble bathrooms, the guest suites, the fully stocked steel-and-granite kitchen, and, most important, the media room, with leather recliners, a sixty-inch, flat-screen plasma HDTV, and a Bose home theater system. Life was good if you were a Harper.
They didn’t have assigned seating for movie night, but they all sat in the same spot every week anyway. Mel sat in the recliner to the left while Angie and Tate shared the sofa, each end reclined, with one empty seat in between them. Mel wondered if Christie would soon be filling that seat. Somehow she doubted it.
Exhausted from baking cupcakes all night, Mel knew Tate’s upcoming wedding was more on her mind than usual. Well, that and getting reamed by bridezilla sort of made it hard to ignore.
While Kate Hepburn quipped with Cary Grant, Mel glanced over at Angie and Tate. Angie was tucked under a cashmere throw, as the October evening had grown chilly. Tate was sprawled in his recliner with a bucket of popcorn on his left and the remote on his right.
She watched the reflection of the black-and-white film flicker across her friends’ faces and felt a sharp pang in her chest. Was this one of the last nights they’d all be together? Would Christie forbid movie night? Could Mel accept her as Tate’s wife, or would their friendship slowly suffocate under Christie’s overbearing presence until it ceased to be? Mel felt a wave of deep depression wash over her. She knew she was overtired and it was a very bad time to be thinking about anything, but still she was besieged by a foreboding she couldn’t seem to shake off.
Abruptly, the theme music from James Bond filled the room.
“What the . . . ?” Angie sat up, annoyed, while Tate paused the film with one hand and fumbled in his pants pocket with the other to retrieve his cell phone.
“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot to shut it off.”
Angie gave him an eye roll while he checked to see who it was. He frowned.
“It’s Christie,” he said. “I have to take it. Sorry.”
As he stepped out of the room under the paused and watchful faces of Kate and Cary, Angie gave Mel a dark look. It said louder than words that Christie was already ruining their movie night. Mel sighed.
“What do you think she wants?” Angie asked.
“Not a clue,” Mel answered. She was afraid Christie was calling to complain about the cupcakes, but she didn’t want to go there.
“Let’s find out.” Angie threw the blanket aside and stood up.
“But that’s eavesdropping,” Mel said as she followed Angie out of the room.
They scuttled down the hall in their socks, following the sound of Tate’s voice. His home was done in rich earth tones that complemented the toffee-colored tile that ran throughout. Angie led the way, past the guest rooms and the large home office, to the master suite. The French doors were open, and Tate was standing on the balcony on the far side of the immense room. The brilliant lights of the Valley of the Sun rolled out before him like a carpet of stars.
Mel seldom thought of how wealthy Tate really was, but every now and then it crept up and slapped her in the face, and she marveled that the three of them had been friends for all these years despite their divergent backgrounds.
He shifted his feet, and Angie grabbed Mel’s arm and yanked her to the floor behind the king-sized bed in the center of the room.
They crept under the bed—no dust bunnies there—and out the other side, where they hugged the wall until they were close enough to hear his side of the conversation.
“Yes, I know,” he said. There was a lengthy pause. “I know you wanted me there tonight, but it’s movie night.”
There was another lengthy pause, and Mel was pretty sure she could hear the sound of a high-pitched nag on the other end of the line.
“Christie, they’ve been my best friends since I was a kid,” he began, and was obviously interrupted. “Why is that weird?” Pause. “So what if they’re women? They’re my friends.”
Mel and Angie exchanged a look. Tate had dated girls before who hadn’t liked that his two best pals were women. He had a group of guy friends he played golf and hoops with, but when he wanted to relax, he kicked around with the two of them.
Mel supposed it was because, just like when they were kids, Tate could be himself with them. His father, a scarily stern man, had kept Tate on a pretty tight leash, grooming him to take over Harper Investments. It was Tate’s mother who had encouraged his friendship with Mel and Angie, as if she knew that Tate needed them to keep him from turning into a replica of his cold, withdrawn father.
“Christie, don’t ask me to choose between you and my friends, because you won’t like how it turns out.” Tate’s voice was harsh, and Angie looked at Mel with raised eyebrows. Tate seldom lost his cool.
The wail that Christie let out was loud enough for Mel to hear from several feet away. Tate winced and held his phone away from his ear.
“I’m sorry, Christie,” he said, sounding sincere. “I didn’t mean that. That was terrible of me to say.”
He paused, and Mel could hear a series of high-pitched shrieks coming out of his phone.
“No, of course, I won’t call off the wedding,” he said. “Yes, I know I proposed, and I meant it. You are the most important person in my life. You’re my best friend.”
Angie made a guttural gagging sound. Tate turned at the noise, and both women ducked behind a wing chair, hoping he didn’t catch them. Mel peeked around the back of the chair. Tate was facing the view and speaking in a low tone, obviously still trying to soothe the bride-to-be.
Mel pushed Angie back under the high bed, and they scrambled to the door and down the hall. Angie pushed open the bathroom door and yanked Mel inside with her.
She shut and locked the door, and turned the water on, before she turned to Mel with a scowl.
Mel sat on the vanity seat while Angie paced back and forth in front of the long counter with double sinks. “We’re supposed to be his best friends.”
“I know, but things change,” Mel said.
“She’s muscling him into this marriage. He can’t be in love with her.”
“He’s marrying her. He must care about her on some level.”
Mel reached over and shut off the tap. She doubted Tate would be able to hear them through the thick walnut door.
“That’s because he’s Tate, and Tate always does what he says he’ll do,” Angie said. “It’s a character flaw.”
Mel smiled. It was true. Tate had always been as good as his word, and up until now that had been a good thing.
A sharp knock on the door sounded, and they both started.
“Hey, you two, hurry up,” Tate called.
“On our way,” Mel replied as Angie ran the sink again.
When they opened the door, Tate stood there, staring at them, and Mel feared he knew they’d listened in on his conversation. An apology was halfway out of her mouth when he shook his head and asked, “What is it about women and going to the bathroom together?”
“Buddy system,” Angie said as she strolled by to resume her seat on the couch. “If you fall in too deep, it’s always good to have someone to pull you out.”
Tate gave her a quizzical look, but shrugged and flopped back onto his side of the sofa. As the movie resumed, Mel crunched her popcorn, but even with extra movie theater butter it tasted like paste.
Tate didn’t mention Christie’s call until Angie and Mel had donned their hooded sweatshirts and were headed out the door. Tate’s was one of four penthouses, and his front door opened into a large lobby decorated with real ferns, more Italian marble, and mirrors that made you look skinny. The doors to the other luxury homes were closed, and Mel wondered if the owners were home.
“Uh, Mel, I need to talk to you,” he said.
Mel and Angie turned around to look at him as they pushed the elevator button for Down.
“You might as well say it in front of me,” Angie said. “Because she’s just going to tell me on the ride down anyway.”
Tate grinned and said, “It’s not a secret.”
“Oh,” Angie said, looking disappointed.
“No, Christie just wants Mel to stop by her studio tomorrow morning,” he said. “She tried the cupcakes you made, and she has some suggestions.”
“Oh,” Mel said. “What time?”
“She has a meeting at eight. She was wondering if you could stop by at seven thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Sorry, I know you’re not a morning person. Do you want me to give you a wake-up call?”
“No, I’ll be fine.” Mel knew she sounded sulky. She tried to shake it off. Tate had enough on his plate. He certainly didn’t need her being less than supportive, so she added, “I’ll be happy to.”
“Thanks, Mel,” he said. “You’re a pal.”
The three friends hugged, and as the elevator door shut on Tate waving good-bye to them, Mel couldn’t help but think he looked more like a lost little boy than one of the country’s smartest investment analysts.

Five

There was a bite to the brisk morning air. Mel pulled her jacket closer, loving the fact that after a summer where the mercury had hovered around 115 degrees for weeks, it was now down into the sixties in the early morning, and it actually felt cold.
Christie’s design shop was located near Scottsdale’s premier shopping center, Scottsdale Fashion Square, just north of Old Town. This was Christie’s home office, but she had another shop in Los Angeles, where she sold to an even more exclusive clientele. Her specialty was clothing for the ultra-pampered rich woman in her late twenties and early thirties who maintained a size zero capped with a surgically enhanced bust line; in other words, her specialty was herself.
Mel parked her red Mini Cooper, which she’d bought because it had the same last name as her, in the narrow lot in front of the shop and hurried across the sidewalk to the front door. Nestled between an interior design firm and a day spa, Christie’s studio was very mod, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows framed in brushed steel and doors to match.
Mel leaned close to the glass to peer in. Bright lime green and iridescent purple puffy chairs were the accent colors set against a background of stark white. Clear cables mounted in the ceiling supported steel racks of clothing, making it look as if the clothes were floating. No more than ten items were on any rack, and Mel would bet the point spread that there wasn’t anything over a size four on display. Her inner chubby adolescent bristled at the thought.
It had been years since anyone had called her Fatso, and looking at her tall, thin reflection now it was hard to reconcile the lithe, muscled woman she had become with the plump kid she’d been, but still the scars ran deep.
Melanie had been a large Marge all the way through school, and at college when others gained the freshmen ten, she had gained the freshmen thirty. She had gone to UCLA; Tate was off to Princeton; and Angie had attended Northern Arizona University.
If growing up in Scottsdale and being chubby had been tough, in LA it had been a soul crusher. So Mel dieted and exercised and starved herself until every ounce of baby fat had been eradicated.
It had been the worst four years of her life. Missing Angie and Tate and their late-night movies, Mel had thrown herself into her studies and graduated at the top of her class with a degree in marketing. She had been a whiz-bang young exec working for a firm in LA when she realized the only happy moment of her day was her drop-by at her neighborhood bakery to get her daily sweets fix.
She immediately quit her job, packed a bag, came home to Arizona, and enrolled in the Scottsdale Culinary Institute to be a pastry chef. After she graduated, she topped off her studies by spending several weeks in France, studying at the Paris Lenotre School to learn the
tours de main
from a professional French pastry chef, the sort of things she couldn’t learn from a book. But an interesting thing happened to her while in France.
Mel learned to love food again. Not the unhealthy “I hate myself so I’m going to eat five burgers” love; instead, she noticed that the women in France had a healthy relationship with food and she wanted that, too. The French ate better food; they used all five senses, and they lingered over their food in a love affair that was joyous, not destructive or guilt-ridden. It changed Mel’s relationship with food, and when she returned home, she felt like a butterfly coming out of her cocoon.
She was no longer the rail-thin coed with food issues. Instead, she was a lean but slightly curved version of her old self who loved good food, loved running her own cupcake bakery, and finally, after years of struggle, felt good about herself.
That is, until she looked at the skimpy outfits hanging in Christie’s shop; then the worm of self-doubt wriggled in her belly like a parasite that fed on self-loathing. Mel closed her eyes. No. She was not going to let someone else’s warped idea of what a woman should look like poison her own acceptance and appreciation of herself.
Shaking herself like a wet dog, Mel knocked on the glass door to let Christie know she was there. She glanced at her watch. It was seven thirty-five, so she was essentially on time. She waited, turning to see if anyone else was open, but no, it was too early for the other shops.
She glanced through the glass again, wondering if Christie had heard her. She didn’t see any movement. She knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.
Maybe Christie was in back and couldn’t hear her. Mel walked around the row of stores. Behind the building, there were three doors. Christie’s gold Porsche was parked in front of the middle one.
Mel rapped on the steel door with her knuckles. It made a hollow sound that echoed in the early morning quiet. She frowned. Christie’s car was here. Where was she?
She turned the doorknob. To her surprise, it opened. She pulled, and let it swing wide. The back room was floor-to-ceiling rolls of fabrics in every hue imaginable. Mel walked into the room feeling much like Alice at the bottom of the rabbit hole.
“Christie?” she called. Silence greeted her.
She walked through the rows of fabrics until she came to another room full of sewing machines, drafting tables, and tailors’ mannequins. Sketches of clothing on line drawings of exaggerated silhouettes littered the room. Mel stopped to study several of the sketches. The styles were very different. One was dark and sleek, and she guessed the work belonged to the grim Alma. The other was an explosion of bright colors. Phoebe’s, perhaps? She noted that the initials CSD were scrawled in the lower right-hand corner of each sketch. It appeared she had marked each with the company initials CSD for Christie Stevens Designs. Interesting.
“Christie, it’s Melanie,” she called out. “I’m here to talk about your cupcakes.”
Her footsteps echoed on the hard floor, and she supposed Christie must have just popped out. Should she stay? Should she wait outside? She couldn’t help but be miffed. She wasn’t a morning person to begin with, and here she was at—she checked her watch—seven forty and there was no sign of Christie. She wondered if she should call Tate, but given how that had gone over with Christie the last time, she thought not.
She left the large, industrial design room and entered the shop. It was empty. She supposed she should just plunk down in one of the puffy chairs and wait. She spied some high fashion magazines on a small table by the window. At least she’d have something to read while she waited.
She rounded a rack of skirts and froze. A leg, a very slim leg in black hose, wearing a Christian Louboutin platform pump with a bright red heel, was sticking out from under a hanging rack of evening gowns. Mel knew right away this was no mannequin that had toppled over.
She ran across the floor, ducking under the gowns. Sure enough, Christie was sprawled as if she’d fallen and had knocked herself out. For a nanosecond, Mel was sure she’d tripped and banged her head. But her pasty coloring alerted Mel that something was wrong, very wrong.
“Christie, are you all right?” she asked. She put a hand on each side of Christie’s face and patted her cheeks. She felt stiff to the touch, and Mel yanked her hands back.
Mel stared at Christie’s chest, but there was no rise and fall. She put a finger on Christie’s exposed wrist, hoping to find a pulse. A cupcake, covered in dark chocolate fondant, rolled out of Christie’s curled fingers. Mel paid it no mind as she frantically felt for any sign of life. There was nothing. Christie was dead.
Mel refused to believe it. No, no, no. She raced to the service counter and grabbed the receiver to the phone. She punched in 9-1-1.
“I need an ambulance right away,” she said as soon as the dispatcher answered. “I’m at Christie Stevens Designs on North Scottsdale Road. She’s not breathing, and I can’t find a pulse.”
The dispatcher deployed an emergency crew and stayed on the line with Mel, asking her questions. Yes, she was safe. No, there was no sign of a break-in. No, Christie wasn’t responding. When the ambulance arrived, screeching into the parking lot with a squeal of wheels and siren blaring, Mel ran to the front door to undo the dead bolt and let them in. She stood huddled in a corner while the EMTs worked on Christie. They had no more luck reviving her than Mel.
Feeling numb, Mel pulled out her cell phone and called Tate.
“ ‘Good morning, Stella,’ ” he answered.
Oh no, a movie quote. Mel twisted her lips at the irony of his choice.
“ ‘Good morning, dream boy,’ ” she returned, her voice hoarse.
“Nice catch,” Tate said. “I thought I might stump you with
The Killers
.”
“Not likely,” Mel said. She glanced over at the EMTs and saw one shake his head at the other. She turned away.
“So, how did it go? Do you girls have our wedding cupcakes all figured out?”
“Oh, Tate.” Her voice broke and she sucked in a breath, trying to ease the lump in her throat.
“What? What is it, Mel?” He sounded alarmed. He knew her too well not to know that something was seriously wrong.
“It’s Christie,” she said. “It’s bad.”
“What? What is it?” His voice dropped to a cautious level as if a whisper could muffle any incoming bad news.
“When I got here this morning, she didn’t answer the door, so I came around the back,” Mel said. “And I found her . . . Tate, she’s dead.”
“I’ll be right there.” He disconnected.
Mel put her phone away but stayed in the corner. The EMTs were conferring with the police officer who had arrived on the scene just after them. No one moved Christie. No one touched the clothing rack above her. No one picked up the cupcake that had rolled out of her hand.
As if remembering she was there, the officer left the EMTs and made his way to her side.
“Miss?” he said.
“Cooper,” she supplied. “Melanie Cooper.”
“Miss Cooper, I’m Officer Reinhardt. I’m going to ask you to wait outside,” he said. “A detective is on the way, and I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you. In the meantime, we need to keep the integrity of the crime scene intact.”
“Crime scene?” she asked.
The officer realized his mistake as soon as Mel repeated his words. “I can’t verify that, ma’am, but I need you to vacate the area until the detectives arrive.”
She wanted to question him, but as if he sensed this, Officer Reinhardt took her by the elbow and led her outside. Mel sat nearby on a concrete bench beneath an acacia tree. The morning had grown warmer, but still her skin felt chilled.
More cars arrived, one of which was the county medical examiner’s van. Mel waited for Tate, wondering where he was, what he was thinking, and if he was going to be okay. Finally, his Lexus zipped into the parking lot. He had to park several spots away. Mel stood and waved at him. He ran to her side.
“What’s going on?” he asked. His brown hair was mussed. Mel suspected he hadn’t even run a comb through it, and his clothes were wrinkled as if he’d grabbed them off the floor in his haste.
“Oh, Tate,” she said. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly in hers. “It’s bad, very, very bad.”
“Tell me . . .”
“Mel,” a voice interrupted. Mel turned to see her uncle Stan striding toward her.
Uncle Stan had worked as a detective with the Scottsdale Police Department for as long as Mel could remember. He was one with his shield; in fact, she had never seen him without it or his gun. Mel didn’t hesitate, she ran and hugged her uncle Stan as hard as she could.
“Hey, now,” Uncle Stan said and patted her back. “What are you doing here, Mel? I just got a call that a young woman was found dead.”
Mel stepped back and looked into her uncle’s kind face. “I know. I found her.”
“Oh, Mel, are you okay?” he asked. “You look pale. You should be sitting down. What happened?”
“Wait,” Mel said. She reached behind her and pulled Tate forward. “Uncle Stan, you remember my friend Tate Harper?”
“Of course. How are you doing, son?” he asked as the two men shook hands.
“Not too well,” Tate said. “I’d like to go and see her.”
“Uncle Stan,” Mel said. “The young woman is Christie Stevens. She’s Tate’s fiancée.”
Uncle Stan’s gaze snapped to Tate. He seemed to study Tate for a moment before he said, “Let me find out what’s going on. I’ll be right back.”
He hustled past them, and Mel watched as the glass and steel doors swallowed him up like an appetizer before the big meal.
“Tell me what happened,” Tate said while they both watched the door for Uncle Stan’s reappearance.
Mel told him everything she could remember.
“So there was no blood or marks or any indication that she’d been harmed?” Tate asked.
“None that I could see,” Mel said. “It was like she was asleep, but she wasn’t. I’m so sorry, Tate.”
“Ahem.” They turned to find Officer Reinhardt standing behind them. “The detectives would like to see you now.”
“Oh, okay,” Mel said. “Officer Reinhardt, this is Tate Harper. He’s Ms. Stevens’s fiancé.”
Understanding passed over the officer’s features, followed swiftly by a speculative glance that Mel did not like.
“If you’ll follow me, please,” he said as he led the way into the shop.
Mel squeezed Tate’s hand once more for courage and followed. Uncle Stan and another detective stood at the back of the shop while several people wearing badges from the county medical examiner’s office worked around Christie’s body.
“Here they are,” Officer Reinhardt said.
The detectives exchanged a look, and Uncle Stan stepped close to Mel.
“I need to ask you some questions,” he said. “My colleague, Detective Rayburn, will escort you to your fiancée, Tate.”
Tate nodded as he followed Detective Rayburn towards the cluster of medical personnel.
“Mel, tell me exactly how you came to be here this morning and what you found,” Uncle Stan said.
“Certainly.” She told him everything. About having a seven thirty meeting and how no one answered, so she tried the back door and found it unlocked, and finally how she saw Christie’s leg, tried to revive her, and called 9-1-1.
Uncle Stan didn’t interrupt. He took several notes and nodded while she spoke. Mel’s voice cracked when she talked about realizing that Christie was dead, but she swallowed hard and forged on.
“What was your relationship with the victim?” he asked. Mel paused. She knew Uncle Stan already knew how much she disliked Christie; he’d been in the shop when she lost her temper and announced how much she loathed her. Since this was official police business, however, she skirted around the truth.
“I’m a longtime friend and business partner with her fiancé, Tate. She and I were just getting to know each other.”
“So you wouldn’t call her a friend?” he asked. She could tell by his narrowed gaze that he’d caught on that she was being vague.