Buttercream Bump Off (20 page)

“So, she was checking out the competition,” Angie said.

“Yep, and given the fact that Baxter met my mother bidding at the car auction, I’m certain he thought she was a wealthy widow, who he planned to scam into investing in his crazy money schemes.”

“No wonder Roach didn’t talk to him,” Angie said. “What a dirtbag.”

“The question is, was Elle mad enough to kill him?”

“How can we find out?”

“We need someone to get close to her,” Mel said. She glanced back at Marty. “Someone older and charming, who reeks of money and good breeding.”

“Oh, no you don’t. I still have a crick in my back from the Dumpster,” he said.

“Come on, Marty,” Angie cajoled. She threw an arm around his shoulders. “Do me a solid, and I’ll give you ten free chances to win the raffle.”

“Ten?”

“Did I say ten? Make that fifteen.”

“Oh, all right,” he said. “But I had better win.”

Mel glanced over at the raffle box. She hadn’t even been paying attention to the entries.

“It’s almost full,” Marty said.

“Nice to know the contest is working,” Angie said. “Now how are we going to get Marty here suavified?”

“Suavified?” Mel asked.

“Like it? I just made it up.” Angie beamed.

“I’m thinking we need Mean Christine.”

“Oh.” Angie pursed her lips. She’d had one waxing episode with Mean Christine that she had not quite gotten over. It was a bikini wax gone Brazilian when Mean Christine got carried away and didn’t wax within the lines.

“I know it’s drastic,” Mel said. “But we’re under a time crunch, and she’s the best in the biz. She’ll have Marty looking snappier than Prince Charles.”

“I think we can set the bar a little higher,” Angie said. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Who is Mean Christine?” Marty asked. “I don’t like this. What are you two planning? Is this going to hurt?”

“Only if you snivel,” Angie said. “Christine does not respond well to whiners.”

When Marty looked like he was going to dig his heels in, Angie and Mel each caught him by an elbow and led him out the door.

Mel locked the bakery up behind them, and they strode down the sidewalk to the salon around the corner on Brown Avenue. A neon sign hung over the door. In swirling script it spelled CHRISTINE’S; no one actually called her Mean Christine to her face.

A redhead wearing a turquoise wraparound smock sat at the front desk. Her hair was shoulder length with severely cut, straight bangs. She wore bright red lipstick and gold hoops in her ears. A brunette wearing the same smock, earrings, and lipstick sat beside her. Christine liked to have her employees look exactly like her, so they all had the same haircut and wore the same colors, right down to their accessories.

Mel tried to imagine Angie and herself doing that at the bakery. A snort escaped her, and she felt Angie shoot her a quick glance. Mel could tell by the smile on her face that she’d been thinking the same thing.

“May I help you?” the redhead asked.

“We have an emergency,” Mel said. “We need Marty turned into a metrosexual asap.”

“What?” Marty started fighting their hold. “You are not touching my privates. I am a man, and I’m staying that way!”

“Marty, chillax!” Angie said. “A metrosexual is just a guy who gets his hair cut by a professional instead of wearing a hair hat.”

“Oh,” Marty settled down. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

The two women behind the counter looked Marty over, from his worn orthopedics and baggy cardigan to the gray tufts on his head.

“Call Christine,” the brunette said. “This is going to require more skill than we have combined.”

A short while later, Christine appeared. She was tall and thin, with bluntly cut black hair. Instead of the turquoise smock, she wore a leopard print. She did have the same red lipstick and hoop earrings, however.

“What’s the ruckus about?” she asked as she came down the stairs from the back room.

“Emergency,” Mel said. “This is Marty, and he needs, well, the works.”

She glanced at Marty, who looked struck dumb at the sight of Christine. Mel couldn’t blame him. Christine was one of those people who owned any room she walked into. With dark brown eyes that were almost black, she seemed to see everything all at once with a laser-like scrutiny that made the recipient of her gaze aware of every hair that was out of place, every pore that was clogged, and every jagged fingernail.

Christine turned to her two assistants. “Take Marty to one of our changing rooms and have him put on a robe.”

Marty gave Mel and Angie a bug-eyed look while he was led off by the two young lovelies.

“This is going to cost you,” Christine said.

Mel sighed. She’d figured. “How much?”

“More than you can afford,” Christine said. “However, you’re in luck. I need a favor.”

“I’m listening.”

“Wedding for three hundred people,” Christine said. “Four different kinds of cupcakes in a tier with a larger cake on top for cutting. It’s for my niece.”

“When?” Mel asked.

“April.”

“Have her stop in to pick flavors and colors, and consider it done,” Mel said.

Christine’s lips twitched at the corners, which was the closest she ever came to a smile. One of her assistants reappeared with a plastic bag. She handed it to Christine, who handed it to Mel.

“Those are his things,” she said. “When you pick him up, have new clothes for him. I can’t let my work be buried behind a polyester sweater and plastic shoes.”

“Will do,” Mel said.

She and Angie turned and left. When they stepped outside, Angie let out a sigh of relief.

“Better him than me,” she said.

“Still not over it?” Mel asked.

“A few more therapy sessions, and then we’ll see,” Angie said. “Poor Marty. I feel like I just left my puppy at the groomer’s for his first haircut.”

“Don’t worry about Marty,” Mel said. “He’s a scrappy little fellow. If anyone can give Christine a run for her wax pot, it’s him.”

“We’re going to need clothes,” Angie said.

“Yes, and they’re going to have to be expensive,” Mel agreed.

“Now what man do we know with a killer wardrobe?”

“Tate,” they said together.

“Should we call him?” Angie asked.

“We don’t want to bother him at work,” Mel said. “Besides, we just need a suit or two. Then we’ll need to have them tailored a bit.”

“I have my key to his place,” Angie said.

“Okay, you go get the clothes, and I’ll see if I can get someone to do the quick fix.”

“On my way,” Angie said.

They parted in front of the bakery. Mel opened the door and hurried back inside.

She got no farther than the kitchen when her cell phone started ringing.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Melanie, where have you been?” Joyce asked. “I’ve been calling the shop, but there was no answer. I thought there may have been a fire or a flood or worse.”

“I had to run an errand,” Mel said.

“Shouldn’t someone always be at the shop?” Joyce asked. “You could lose business that way, and in this economy, you can’t expect Tate or dear Joe to bail you out.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to,” Mel said. She tried not to bristle at the lecture. “Mom, don’t worry. The business is fine. Now, what’s up?”

“I’m just . . . I don’t know. Since Charlie and Nancy and the boys left, it’s so quiet here. I suppose I’m being silly, but something feels wrong,” she said. “And then Detective Martinez stopped by . . .”

“Back up,” Mel said. “Who stopped by?”

“Detective Martinez,” her mother answered.

The door to the bakery opened, and two ladies walked in. Mel smiled at them and signaled that she’d be just a minute.

“What did he want?” Mel asked.

“He seems very concerned that I didn’t see anyone that night,” Joyce said. “I tried to explain that I was in the cabana changing, but he thinks I should have heard a splash when Baxter fell in or was pushed . . .”

Mel could feel her teeth clench. She didn’t like that Martinez was asking her mother questions again. She didn’t like that he was insinuating that Joyce should have heard something.

“Mom, have you called Uncle Stan?” she asked.

“No, I was going to wait until after I talked to you,” she said. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“It’s no bother,” Mel said. “He’d want to know.”

“Well, if you think that’s best,” Joyce said.

“I do.”

The two ladies were now standing in front of the counter waiting to place their orders.

“I have to go, Mom, but I’ll call you later,” she said. “Call your friend Ginny and go out to lunch. I don’t want you to brood about this. It’s going to be fine.”

“That’s a good idea,” Joyce said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Mel hung up the phone, wishing for the first time that her mother had gotten a look at the killer. At least then she’d be able to tell the police something that would get them to leave her alone. Of course, then she might be in danger from the killer herself. It was a sobering thought.

Mel plastered on a smile and served the two ladies their cupcakes. It was a warm day for February, so the two women were eating them outside at the small café tables in front of the shop. Normally, Mel was delighted to have people eat outside because she felt it drew attention to the shop, but today she just wanted to close up and race over to her mother’s and give her a bracing hug.

What if Martinez didn’t find the real killer and decided to arrest Joyce? Mel didn’t want to have her boyfriend prosecuting her mother for a crime she didn’t commit. Truly, that would be the stuff of nightmares.

She forced herself to stop thinking about it and placed a phone call to an acquaintance who owed her a favor. Within five minutes she had what she wanted and hung up with a grin.

Her phone rang again and, thinking it was the acquaintance calling to back out, she snatched up the receiver.

“Fairy Tale Cupcakes, how can I help you?”

“Ear-hair surcharge,” a muffled voice said.

“What?” she asked.

“Hang on,” the muffled voice said. There was a rustling noise as if the phone was being moved around.

“There is going to be an ear-hair surcharge.” This time Mel could tell it was Christine. “I just wanted to let you know in advance. Seriously, I have carpets with less fur.”

“Yowch!”
A voice Mel feared was Marty’s yipped in the background.

“Is he okay?” she asked, but Christine had already hung up.

The front door to the bakery opened and in strode Angie with two suits slung over her arm. “I took an Armani and a Prada. Tate must have fifty pounds on Marty, do you think we can tailor them?”

“We can’t, but Alma Rodriguez can,” Mel said.

“The scary-looking design girl who used to work for Tate’s late fiancée?” Angie asked.

“That’s the one,” Mel said.

“How are you going to get her to do that?”

“She owes me,” Mel said.

As if their conversation had beckoned her, Alma Rodriguez pulled open the door and entered the bakery.

Both Mel and Angie stared. They hadn’t seen Alma in several months, and what a transformation she had made from a black-clad goth girl to a stunner in narrow heels and an olive green tailored suit that hugged and flared in all the right places. Whereas before she had resembled a petulant teen, now she exuded a mature confidence that awed and intimidated.

“What?” Alma snapped, staring at the two of them.

“Well, at least you still have your charm,” Mel said.

A small smile curved Alma’s lips. “Sorry, old habits die hard.”

“You look amazing,” Angie said.

Alma did a small pirouette. “Terry, my boss, sort of insisted. He was right. You can’t be a jet set designer and look like you’ve got an algebra exam in the morning.”

“Thanks for agreeing to help us out,” Mel said.

“I had a choice? I know I owe you one—a big one,” Alma said. “It’s the least I can do. Where is the old guy?”

Mel handed over Tate’s suits and said, “He’s getting cleaned up over at Mean Christine’s salon.”

Alma cringed. “How old is he?”

“Somewhere in his seventies,” Mel said.

“I hope he’s spry,” Alma said. “A day with Christine could kill a weakling.”

“Don’t I know it,” Angie said.

They exchanged a look of understanding, and Mel suspected Alma had suffered a similar trauma at Christine’s.

“I’ll just take these over there and get some measurements. If I get my staff on it right away, we can probably have these altered in a couple of hours.”

“Perfect,” Mel said. “Thanks, Alma.”

“And then we’re square?” Alma asked.

“Totally.”

Alma nodded in satisfaction and left.