Buttercream Bump Off (12 page)

“Elle Simpson,” Jay said. “She’s got a string of sugar daddies behind her, of which Malloy was the latest. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t been strangled by one of the women here.”

Mel raised her eyebrows. “Do tell.”

Jay tipped his head in the direction of the table Mel had just left. “Beverly Logan, queen of the socialites, would love to see Elle swing for Malloy’s murder. Apparently, Elle had a torrid affair with Beverly’s beloved Morty just before he died.”

“So that explains the tension between those two,” Mel said. “Wow.”

“What I’m saying is, don’t worry about your mother. She’ll be cleared. There were too many people with real motives.”

“Thanks, Jay,” Mel said. He made her feel better. “Hey, if you hear anything else, would you let me know?”

“You mean if I hear something suspicious?” he asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Yes, if someone happens to mention over the shrimp cocktail that they strangled Malloy in a fit of pique, that would be fabulous,” she said.

He gave her a dazzling grin. “My ears are at your service.”

“Excuse me, shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?” Bonnie, the event coordinator, approached Mel with her clipboard. “Dessert is coming up fast. You need to be plating your cupcakes.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mel said. She gave Jay a small smile. “Duty calls.”

Marty met her in the kitchen. Under the hustle and bustle of kitchen noise, he told her what he’d heard. The rumors of Malloy’s murder were even wilder and included Malloy being eviscerated by a broken martini glass. Mel could only assume the wealthy really enjoyed the drama of a grisly murder in their midst.

He, too, had heard that Elle was Malloy’s lover and that she was angry that Malloy had been dating someone else. He’d also heard that the Hargraves and Scottie Jensen, along with others who’d lost money to Malloy’s investment company, were under police scrutiny. Still, the consensus of the room was that Baxter had been offed by his date.

Using large circular trays, Mel quickly plated her cupcakes onto dessert plates, putting pink cocktail napkins stamped with the Fairy Tale Cupcakes logo under each cupcake. She used these when she catered and, even if she had muscled Olivia out of this gig, she wasn’t about to let the other baker take credit for her cupcakes.

There was a wide variety of flavors, from Death by Chocolate to Tinkerbells, so the guests wouldn’t have to fight it out for the flavors they wanted.

She shouldered a tray and headed towards the swinging doors when the cell phone in her pocket went off. She put the tray back down and went to shut her phone off. It would be bad form to serve with her
Gone with the Wind
ringtone blaring out of her pocket.

She glanced at the display and saw that it was Tate. Uh-oh.

“Tate, what’s up?”

“The baker is on the move,” he said. His voice was high-pitched and a little hysterical.

“What?” Mel asked.

“The baker is on the move,” he said. “I double-parked just like I planned, and she had me towed. Can you freaking believe that?”

Yeah, that actually seemed reasonable to Mel.

“What’s her ETA?” Mel asked.

“Ten minutes if she hits all the lights right,” he said.

Mel shut her phone. “Marty, we’ve got ten minutes. Move it.”

Mel and Marty hit the doors with their trays up high as if someone had lit their backsides on fire. Mel grabbed two waiters who were standing idly by and drafted them into helping. In minutes, every table was served.

Mel didn’t even take the time to feel gratified by the
ooh
s and
aahs
her cupcakes received. Instead, she grabbed Marty and bolted for the door.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” she yelled.

Mel ran as fast as she could while dragging a seventy-something-year-old man behind her. Bonnie stood gaping as they passed her, obviously losing her powers of speech at the spectacle they created.

They almost made it, too.

Mel hit the back door just as a pink refrigerator van screeched into the lot.

“You!” Olivia jumped out. Her cheeks were flushed, and her corkscrew gray hair was wild on top of her head. Her nostrils flared, and Mel waited for her to paw at the ground with one of her rubber-soled shoes.

“Marty, walk backwards really slowly into the kitchen,” Mel instructed. He shuffled back, and Mel followed, never taking her eyes off of Olivia.

As if sensing her prey was about to escape, Olivia charged, shouting, “I know what you’re up to Melanie Cooper, and it won’t work!”

Mel skirted around Marty, grabbed him by the hand, and, pulling him behind her, dashed into the dining room, thinking there was no way Olivia would interrupt the guests while they were eating. She was so wrong.

They hustled around Bonnie to the bar.

“Drink?” Marty asked. “A bourbon neat sure would hit the spot.”

“Get down!” Mel said and yanked him down beside her.

The bartender gave them an alarmed look, but Mel put her fingers over her lips in a silent
shh
.

“I know you’re in here!” Olivia shouted, and the entire dining room went silent. Mel imagined all seven hundred guests had turned to stare at Olivia.

Mel could feel her heart thumping against her rib cage. How was she going to get out of this?

“Stop, stop eating those cupcakes right now!” Olivia commanded in a voice tinged with hysteria. Indignant mutters broke out across the room. “You’re supposed to be eating my cupcakes. Mine!”

Mel couldn’t see what was going on, but it sounded like a ruckus had broken out. She glanced up from her crouched position at the bartender’s face. His eyes were wide, and his mouth had slid open and stayed agape.

“Give me that!” Olivia demanded.

“Get your hands off my cupcake!” Mel recognized the voice as belonging to Beverly.

“You’re not supposed to eat that!” Olivia snapped. “You’re supposed to be eating mine.”

“I don’t want yours,” Beverly said. “I like this one. The cake is moist, the frosting-to-cake ratio is perfect, and the buttercream, well, it’s positively divine. The best I’ve ever tasted.”

Mel flushed with pleasure and almost popped up from behind the bar to receive her due. Marty shook his head at her, and she sank back down.

“Ouch!” Olivia howled.

“What happened?” Mel asked the bartender.

“The crazy lady tried to take the other woman’s cupcake, and the other woman jabbed the crazy lady with her fork!” he said.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Ms. Puckett,” Bonnie demanded.

“You can’t kick me out! I’m listed on the invitation. Confections is providing dessert,” Olivia protested.

“As you can see, dessert has already been taken care of,” Bonnie said. “And a good thing, too, since you were late.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Olivia protested. “Someone was double-parked—Wait a minute.”

Mel could almost hear the thoughts click into place in Olivia’s brain.

“Ms. Puckett, if you don’t leave at once, I’m going to call security,” Bonnie said. “This is not the time or place for this discussion.”

Mel glanced up and saw the bartender looking scared. That could only mean one thing. Olivia was coming.

“Excuse me.” He stepped over Mel and Marty and ducked out from behind the bar.

Mel glanced all around her to see if there was a weapon of any kind, because she fully expected Olivia to tear her limb from limb for this. A bucket of pop on ice was the only thing available, so she grabbed a can and shook it as hard as she could.

“Aha!” When Olivia’s big head appeared over the bar, Mel popped the top and let the contents fly. Olivia sputtered and staggered back.

Mel dropped the can, yanked Marty to his feet, and dashed for the kitchen. The door was clear. They were going to make it, but Mel was moving too fast, and she didn’t see it: one tiny little pat of butter. She stepped on it, and her shoe went out from under her. To his credit, Marty tried to catch her, but he had to sidestep Olivia, who was hot on their heels. Mel landed on the hard floor with a
smack
, and Olivia tripped over her and went careening into a collection of pots and pans that echoed with a horrific crash.

Mel scrambled to her knees and scooted for the back door, which Marty was very gallantly holding open.

A pair of sturdy black pumps blocked her exit. She slowly glanced up to find herself nose to knee with Bonnie. Her blonde twist had become unraveled, and her face was mottled in shades of red, which clashed with her purple dress.

“Get out!” she snapped.

“On my way,” Mel said, and she continued scooting towards the door.

Behind her she heard Olivia moan, and over that she heard Bonnie tell Olivia that she was never, not under any circumstances,
ever
to volunteer her services for the annual arts drive again.

Once outside, Mel found that, in an ironic twist of karmic payback, Olivia’s pink van was blocking her Mini Cooper. She heard Olivia shout her name, and she and Marty exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Mel spotted a Dumpster in the corner. Marty was too old to outrun Olivia; they were going to have to hide. She grabbed him by the elbow again and shoved him up against the side of the Dumpster.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he protested. “I’m not going in there.”

“It’s either that, or Olivia catches you,” Mel said.

Marty scooted up the side with renewed vigor, and Mel jumped in after him. Her left hand landed in slimy raw eggs, and her right foot connected with a hollow melon rind. It was like playing Twister in hell.

She could hear Marty gagging from the stench, and she could feel her own breakfast surge up her esophagus, but she forced it back down as she heard the back door to the kitchen slam open.

“Mouth breathe,” Mel instructed. “She’s looking for us.”

Marty made an audible swallow and was silent. They listened as Olivia stomped around the loading dock. She yelled at a busboy having a smoke and at an assistant chef, demanding to know where Mel and Marty had gone.

Mel prayed hard that no one had seen them. Finally, she heard Olivia’s pink van start up and drive away.

She and Marty disentangled themselves from the piles of cold pasta, sour milk, and fish heads. Gingerly, they climbed out of the Dumpster and stood staring at each other. Marty had lost his hair hat and his bald dome gleamed in the afternoon sun. Even covered in Dumpster ick, he looked better without the hair. Mel figured she’d tell him later.

A silver Lexus skidded into the lot, and Tate jumped out.

“I thought she’d never leave,” he said. Abruptly, his face turned a shade of pea green, and he pinched his nose. “I smell vomit. Gross!”

“Actually, you smell Dumpster,” Mel said. “Marty, can I give you a lift home?”

He nodded as he flicked julienned carrots off his shirt front.

“Better ride with the windows down,” Tate said as he backed away. “I’ll go man the bakery until you get back.”

“Thanks,” Mel said. She and Marty climbed into her car. As her eyes watered from their collective stench, she figured she’d have to get the car detailed, or the stink might become a permanent part of her upholstery.

They pulled up in front of the senior center where Marty lived. It was beautifully landscaped with a large fountain and a planter overflowing with yellow and red lantana. Mel saw a hummingbird pop up from the flowers nearby and zip away. She wondered if it could smell them. Great. Now they were even offending nature.

“That’s her!” Marty said, and he clapped his hands to his head in a reflexive gesture. “Hey, my hair. Where’s my hair?”

“I’m guessing you left it back in the Dumpster,” Mel said.

“And you didn’t say anything?” His eyes were wide with panic. “She can’t see me like this.”

He crouched down below the dashboard, and Mel looked out the windshield to see the woman who had him in such a state.

She was young, black-haired, and beautiful. Her olive skin glowed underneath her workout clothes, which showed healthy curves and some serious muscle. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and was making her way towards them.

“Don’t let her see me,” Marty pleaded.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Mel grabbed a newspaper from the backseat and draped it over him.

The woman was just passing the car when she stopped and her nose wrinkled in disgust. She looked around her as if trying to find the origin of the odor. She even checked the bottoms of her shoes.

She was older than she had first appeared. Mel would have placed her in her late forties, so not a spring chicken, unless you were the dirty old man hunched next to her.

The woman moved on quickly without ever spotting Mel in the car, as if trying to outrun the smell. Once she had left in her own sedan, Marty popped up.

“You could tell a fella when he loses his hair, you know,” he complained.