Authors: Jenn McKinlay

Buttercream Bump Off (19 page)

BOOK: Buttercream Bump Off

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Mel studied her. “Are you going to keep talking like you’re on an MTV reality show?”

“What do you mean?” Angie blinked.

“Forget it,” Mel said. Angie had put up with her through a gazillion bad boyfriends and crash diets over the years; surely Mel could put up with her during her rock-and-roll romance. “Let’s go.”

As they wandered out into the chilly desert evening, Mel was struck by the stunning view. The city lights rolled out in a twinkling carpet below a dusty lavender sky, meeting at the horizon in a ridge of deep purple mountains.

Nestled onto plateaus on the mountain sat other mansions, some lit, some not. The amount of money it would require to be one of these residents was not a number Mel could wrap her brain around. Luckily, she knew someone who could.

She pulled out her phone and called Tate.

“Hi, Mel,” he answered on the second ring.

“ ‘For some players, luck itself is an art,’ ” she said.

“The Color of Money,”
Tate replied. “Nice. Where are you?”

“On a mountain with Angie,” she said.

“What, she doesn’t have a hot date tonight?” he asked.

Mel sighed. How long exactly was it going to take Tate to figure out his feelings for Angie? For one of the country’s top investment analysts, he was as dumb as a brick in matters of the heart.

“Moving on,” she said. “I need a favor.”

“Anything,” he said, which was why she loved him.

“Baxter Malloy was dating a woman named Elle Simpson, a big, bold blonde type. I need to know anything you can find out about her.”

“All right,” Tate said. “What makes you think I can find anything out?”

“You have more access to the hoi polloi gossip than I do, and I think she’s known for travelling in circles with rich men.”

“A gold digger?”

“Precisely.”

“On it,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, do you know the Hargraves?”

“Only by reputation,” he said. “They lost billions to Malloy.”

“Can you find out if they have any children or other young relatives, say, a male in his early to mid-twenties.”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Uh-huh, I get the feeling you’re not telling me something,” he said. Mel was silent. “Fine, be that way. I’ll call you back when I have something.”

Tate never called. Instead, he blew in through the front door of the bakery the next morning like a small tornado.

“You owe me,” he said to Mel.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Where’s Angie?”

“Not here yet,” Mel said.

Tate checked his watch.

“But it’s—” he began, but Mel interrupted him.

“I’m aware of the time.”

“I keep telling her to fire that girl,” Marty said. He was refilling the napkin holders in the booths.

“New employee?” Tate asked.

“A temp,” Mel said.

Tate shook his head. “Okay, I had to have my mother call my aunt Penelope, who called her friend Beverly, who no one can stand.”

Mel remembered the silver-haired lady at the museum luncheon who had not been fond of Elle. She’d bet her body weight in sprinkles that it was the same one.

“And?” she prompted him.

“Well, you were right. Elle Simpson is quite the money magnet. Before Baxter, she was shacked up with a major-league baseball star, a TV producer, and a fast-food franchise owner. Before that she was a B-movie actress who didn’t get much further than the cutting-room floor.”

“So, she’s been around?” Mel asked.

“And how,” Tate agreed. “She likes them old, and she likes them loaded, so Baxter was perfect for her.”

“Except he really wasn’t that well off,” Mel said. “He was a scam artist.”

“Sounds like a perfect match to me,” Tate said.

“Except that if he was bankrolling her and then dumped her to find a wealthy woman to bail him out, Elle might have been a teeny bit upset.”

“Enough to murder him?”

“I don’t know,” Mel said. “How about the Hargraves?”

“They do have a nephew,” Tate said. “Word has it he was kicked out of Yale, Cornell, Harvard, and Princeton.”

“Impressive,” Mel said.

“Apparently, he has an utter lack of social skills. He’s twenty-eight, still lives with the Hargraves, and has never held a job in his life.”

“I think I must have dated him,” Mel joked.

“So, why do you need to know about these people?”

“They’re the best suspects I’ve got for Malloy’s murder,” she said.

“Not the best,” Tate argued. “That would be Roach.”

Mel saw a spot on the counter and wiped it with the corner of her apron.

“You can’t keep avoiding the obvious,” he said. “He is the best suspect.”

“Then why haven’t the police charged him?” Mel asked.

“Because he’s a rock star,” Tate said. His voice was scathing, leaving no doubt in Mel’s mind how he felt about Roach.

“All right, letting go of that for the moment, Angie and I went to the Hargraves’ last night,” Mel said.

“What?” Tate smacked his hand down on the counter. “Are you crazy?”

Before he could continue his diatribe, Mel held up her hand and told him all about the previous evening. He listened intently and only grunted once or twice.

“So, I think we need to follow up and find out more about the Hargraves and Elle Simpson.”

“How do you plan to do that?” Tate asked.

Mel tipped her head and looked him over. “You’re probably too young for her. We need someone older, who can get close to her and find out what she knows.”

“You need a rich geezer,” Tate said.

They both turned to look at Marty.

“Don’t look at me. The last time I went along with one of your brainiac ideas, I ended up in a Dumpster,” he said.

“This time you’d have a babe on your arm,” Mel said.

“Who’d have a babe?” Angie asked as she pushed through the kitchen door into the bakery.

“Where have you been?” Tate asked. He looked like an indignant mother waiting up past curfew.

“Breakfast,” she said.

“At noon?” he sounded outraged.

“Is he for real?” Angie asked Mel.

“As a tick on a hound dog,” Mel said.

“If you must know, the medical examiner has released Baxter Malloy’s body. I was helping Roach work out the details of his funeral.”

“Oh,” Tate said. He looked away, obviously unwilling to acknowledge what a butt he was being.

Angie rolled her eyes at Mel. “He’s managing. Thanks for asking.”

“If he’s the killer, I’m sure he is managing,” Tate said. “Managing to cover up his crime.”

“What are you talking about? He’s not the killer,” Angie said.

“You can’t know that,” Tate said. He turned to Mel. “Tell her.”

“I . . .” Mel trailed off awkwardly.

“Tell me what?” Angie asked, glancing between the two of them.

“He lied,” Tate said.

“Who lied?” Angie asked.

“Roach lied,” Mel said.

Seventeen

“Lied about what?” Angie asked.

“He told us the first day we met him that he was at rehearsal when his father was killed, but Carl and Jimbo told me that the band hasn’t been practicing,” Mel said. “I’m sorry, Angie, but it doesn’t look good that he lied.”

Angie stepped back from them and crossed her arms over her chest. Her lips were compressed as if holding back harsh words. Mel felt dread twist her insides. She didn’t want to hurt Angie, but Tate was right. It was time to tell her the truth.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” Angie asked.

Mel shrugged. “You’ve been so happy. I didn’t want to ruin it for you, and even if he did kill his father, I didn’t see why he’d want to harm you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s smitten.”

“So you said nothing, even though I might be dating a murderer?”

“My point exactly,” Tate said. “I knew we should have told you sooner.”

“You’re the best!” Angie cried, threw her arms around Mel’s neck, and hugged her close. “If you were dating a murderer, I wouldn’t try to wreck it for you either.”

“You’re all crazy, you know that?” Marty said. “Plum crazy.”

Mel hugged Angie back. She was so relieved. Angie knew the truth and she wasn’t mad at her. Whew.

“What about me?” Tate asked. “Don’t I get a hug?”

Angie stepped back and glowered at him. “After sending the brothers after me?”

Tate stepped back. Angie stepped forward.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with that?” he asked. He took another step back. “You know how overprotective they are.”

“Oh, please. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have your older brothers just appear at the bowling alley, at the movies, and at every meal you eat when you’re trying to have a date?” she asked, taking another step forward. “Don’t deny it. Every incident has had Tate Harper’s sticky little fingers all over it.”

“I don’t think . . .”

“No, you don’t,” she agreed.

He took two quick steps back, and she pursued.

“Why aren’t you mad at Mel?” he asked. “She’s the one who snooped at the concert.”

“Yes, but she wants me to be happy, and you don’t,” Angie snapped.

Tate’s back was against the front door now. He looked to Mel for help, but she had none to offer. He was going to have to fess up to his real feelings or suffer Angie’s wrath.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. “Just not with . . .”

The door was abruptly yanked open by a customer, and Tate went sprawling onto the sidewalk.

Angie pulled the customer in by the elbow, then slammed and locked the door. She wiped her hands together as if she’d just taken out the trash, then turned her most charming smile on the middle-aged woman before her.

“Hi. Welcome to Fairy Tale Cupcakes. What can I get for you?”

Mel and Marty exchanged alarmed looks. Angry Angie was always a sight to behold. Tate bounced up off the walk and knocked on the door. Angie pulled the mini-blinds shut and led the woman over to the counter, her smile still in place.

Mel hurried to the door and unlocked it. She poked her head out and said, “You’d better go. I’ll call you later.”

“Why is she so mad at me?” Tate asked. “I’m just looking out for her.”

“Why? Tate, ask
yourself
why.”

“I’m asking you why,” he said. He frowned. “How am I supposed to know why she’s so mad at me?”

Mel heaved an impatient sigh. “Tate, focus. Ask yourself why you feel the need to look out for her at all.”

“Because she’s my fr—” he began, but Mel cut him off.

“No! Ask yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

She turned just as the middle-aged woman was leaving with a big box in her hands. Mel held open the door and let it swing shut behind her.

“You can’t lock Tate out,” she said to Angie. “It’s bad for business, plus he’s our partner.”

Angie grumbled, but she didn’t lock the door again.

“Now what are you going to do about Roach?” Mel asked.

“What do you mean?” Angie asked.

“You have to find out where he was when his father was murdered,” Mel said. “I didn’t want to tell you but, now that you know, you have to follow up.”

“No, I don’t,” Angie said.

“Ange!” Mel wailed. “I get that you like him. I do. But you can’t ignore the facts.”

“I’m not,” Angie said. She met Mel’s gaze and held it. “I know where he was when his father was killed. He told me on our first date.”

“And?” Mel asked.

“And I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said.

“I’m not anyone,” Mel said, feeling a bit miffed.

“I know, but I promised,” Angie said. “Trust me when I tell you that I know him, and I know he’s innocent.”

“You’ve only known him for a few days,” Mel said.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” Angie said.

“He’d better have one heck of an alibi,” Marty said.

Angie spun around to face him. She tipped her head as she studied him. “Are you working here now?”

“Someone had to fill in for you,” he said. “Miss Always Late and Never Calls.”

“He’s a temp,” Mel said. “Believe it or not, he has a way with our older female clientele.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Angie said. Marty stuck his tongue out at her. “But if you must know, yes, Roach has an alibi, a good one.”

Mel didn’t push it. She’d have to trust that if the police hadn’t arrested him yet, then his alibi was legit. She just hoped Angie knew what she was doing.

“Okay then, I’m back where I started,” Mel said. “I think Elle Simpson had motive and opportunity, and I think we need to find out more about her.”

“This is the woman Baxter was two-timing with your mother?” Angie asked.

“Yes, and the day I went shopping with Mom for her dress, I ran into her twice. I think she was tailing my mother,” Mel said.

BOOK: Buttercream Bump Off

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