Buttercream Bump Off (22 page)

Tate ignored her. “Ready, Marty?”

“Absolutely.” He gave Mel and Angie a smart salute and led the way out the door.

“I’ll call when I have news,” Tate said. The door banged shut behind him.

“I feel like we just got shut out,” Angie said.

“I think we did.”

“Well, that stinks.”

“Agreed,” Mel said. She didn’t like the idea of Marty and Tate going off on their own. What if they blew it? This was her idea after all. She should be in charge.

“Come on,” she said to Angie. “I’m sure we can blend in with the furniture, and they’ll never know we’re there.”

“Sweet.” Angie flipped the sign to CLOSED, and they hustled out the door, locking it behind them.

The Biltmore was a Phoenix landmark. Built in 1929 with the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright, its consulting architect, it was one of Mel’s favorite places in the Valley of the Sun.

They hopped into Mel’s Mini Cooper, followed Camelback Road into Phoenix, and turned north on 24th Street. Another right took them on the long, winding road towards the beautifully sculpted gray-stone building. The precast concrete blocks, called Biltmore Block, used to make the building were etched with a geometric pattern that was supposed to mimic the patterns found on a palm tree.

“I heard that the pool here was Marilyn Monroe’s favorite,” Angie said.

“It is a spectacular pool,” Mel agreed. “I read somewhere that Irving Berlin penned ‘White Christmas’ while sitting beside it.”

“Can you imagine lounging in your bikini when Elvis strolled by?”

“I’d probably jump in to spare myself the embarrassment.”

They parked in the guest lot and walked towards the main entrance. Just before they reached the door, Angie pulled Mel aside.

“We should probably find a side entrance,” she said. “We might get spotted otherwise.”

“Good thinking,” Mel said.

They passed the main door and walked around the building to the lawn and terrace. It was lovely, with flowers bursting and fountains bubbling, a slice of paradise.

Mel crossed the lawn and followed the line of the building until she found the door that led into the back of the lobby.

Squared off chairs and tables, done in earth tones to match the stone interior, were scattered around the room. Here and there large pots and other symbols of Native American art accented table tops and walls.

It really was a lovely room. Mel had no time to ponder more than this, as Angie gripped her elbow and yanked her down low.

“There they are!” she cried. Sure enough, Marty and Tate were lounging in plump leather seats when two women entered the lobby. Mel recognized one as Elle and assumed the other was Tate’s aunt Penelope.

The men rose and greeted the ladies. Tate took over the introductions. Marty bowed low over Elle’s hand, and Mel could see her sizing him up from where they were watching.

Just then, an older lady entered the lobby. She crossed the room with all the finesse of a tank. Mel clutched Angie’s arm in a panic.

“That’s Beverly,” she hissed. “She was at the luncheon. She may recognize Marty.”

Angie groaned, and the two of them peered over the edge of the sofa to see what would happen. Pleasantries were exchanged. Beverly and Elle were perfectly icy to each other, and then Beverly rolled on.

She was headed straight for Mel and Angie. Mel tried not to draw any more attention to herself, but the shrewd old eyes saw her, and Beverly paused beside them as she pretended interest in a lush floral arrangement.

“Your waiter is setting his sights rather low,” she said. “I’d warn him to watch his neck if I were you.”

With that she sashayed off in the direction of one of the banquet rooms.

“Oh my God,” Angie whispered. “She recognized Marty. Do you think she’ll tell?”

“No,” Mel said. “I think that was a warning for Marty about Elle. It sounds like she thinks Elle murdered Baxter.”

“We’re getting warmer,” Angie said.

They glanced back at the group. The ladies were walking towards them while the men headed for the door.

“We’d better go if we plan to beat them back to the bakery,” Mel said.

They hustled out the side door and around the building to the parking lot. When they reached Mel’s car, Tate and Marty were waiting for them.

“What’s the matter?” Tate asked. “Did you think we couldn’t handle it?”

“No, it’s not that,” Mel protested.

“Really? Then why are you here?”

“We felt left out,” Angie said.

Tate glanced between them. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” they said together.

“So, how did it go?” Mel asked.

“I have a date with the fair Ms. Simpson for tomorrow evening,” Marty said.

“She practically tattooed her number onto his palm,” Tate said. “Marty was perfect. He really played up being a member of the New York elite looking to retire here.”

“Nice.” Angie beamed at Marty, and he grinned.

“Listen, we’d best not be seen together,” Mel said. “Can’t have you two associating with the riffraff.”

She didn’t mention Beverly spotting them. She didn’t want to panic either of them unnecessarily. There’d be plenty of time for that on Marty’s date with Elle.

Mel had so much to tell Joe. She hardly knew where to begin. But then, when he knocked on the door with Gerbera daisies in one hand and a take-out bag from De-Falco’s Italian Deli in the other, she forgot about anything but him.

“How is the case going?” she asked as he shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

“Ugh,” he said. “I believe in everyone’s right to a fair trial, but we’ve got this guy dead to rights. We have his plate number, a witness who can identify him, and the purchase receipt for the gun he used, which ballistics has linked to the shootings. And still, his defense attorney is throwing up every roadblock he can.”

“So, the system works?” Mel asked.

Joe pulled her close and kissed her. He pulled back and looked her in the eye.

“Have I told you how much the thought of coming over here at the end of the day and being with you helps me get through the insanity?”

“Not lately,” she said. “But I feel the same way.”

She carried the daisies and the take-out bag into the kitchenette and started unloading their dinner. The daisies went into a clear glass vase, which Mel put in the middle of her small café table, where she and Joe sat on opposite sides. He had a manly meatball sub while she had the scrambled egg and pepperoni. It was divine.

They chatted some more about his case and a little about Angie and her new boyfriend. Mel found herself reluctant to mention Marty or his date with Elle. She had the feeling Joe wouldn’t approve, and she didn’t want to damage the one night where he actually seemed well rested.

Maybe tonight would finally be the night.

They cleared up together and then snuggled on the couch. As Joe went to kiss her again, Mel was sure that he was thinking the same thing she was, and it made her pulse pound in her ears.

The theme to
Gone with the Wind
chimed from her cell phone, which was sitting in its dock on the counter. They pulled apart and looked at it and then back at each other.

“You’d better check it,” Joe said. “It might be Ange with boyfriend trouble.” He sounded hopeful.

Mel hopped up and glanced at the ID. It was her mother.

“Hello,” she answered. She mouthed
Mom
to Joe, and he nodded.

“Melanie,” Joyce said. “I need you to come over.”

“Now?” Mel asked. She hoped she didn’t sound as reluctant as she felt.

“Yes. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I just feel funny,” she said.

“Are you sick?”

Mel glanced at Joe, who raised his eyebrows in concern.

“No, I just—okay, I have the heebie-jeebies,” Joyce said. “I hate to bother you, but if you could just come over and reassure me that everything is okay.”

Mel glanced at Joe again and saw their romantic evening pop like a soap bubble in the air. Still, this was her mother. The woman who had checked her closet for monsters every night from ages four to eight, and who had come running in the middle of the night with soothing whispers and warm hugs whenever Mel woke up from a bad dream and called for her. How could Mel not do the same for her now?

“Sure, Mom, I’ll be right over,” she said. She hung up and grimaced at Joe. “I’m sorry. Mom’s jittery. I have to go over and sweep the house with her.”

“That’s all right. I’ll come, too,” he said. He leaned forward to get up, but Mel shook her head.

“If you come, we’ll never get out of there. She loves you. She’ll ply you with coffee and pie and ask you a million personal questions.”

“What kind of pie?”

Mel smiled. “Trust me, it’s better if I go alone. I’ll be quick, and then we can salvage our evening.”

“I like the sound of that.” Joe gave her his patent-worthy slow grin.

Mel felt a little cross-eyed from the impact. “Me, too.”

She grabbed her jacket and keys, gave Joe a quick peck, and ran out the door.

Joyce was waiting for her in front of the house. Mel gave her a quick, firm hug of reassurance.

“Okay, Mom, what’s got you spooked?”

“Well, I was doing the dishes, and I just got the weirdest feeling that someone was watching me,” she said.

“Watching you?” Mel asked. This sounded more serious than her mother had made out on the phone. “Did you call Uncle Stan?”

“I don’t want to bother him,” she said. “He’s already done so much.”

“Okay, well, let’s go through the house together,” Mel said. “And then you can rest easy.”

They went from room to room, checking windows and doors. The house was clear. When they arrived back in the kitchen, Mel went out into the backyard with a flashlight and checked the back gate. It was secure. She was turning to head back to the house when she noticed a footprint in the mud. She shined the flashlight on it.

Judging by the size and width, it was a man’s footprint. Given that her brother had just been here, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that he had taken the garbage out and left a footprint. The troubling thing was that this imprint wasn’t from the sort of shoe her brother would wear, a sneaker or a work boot.

This print looked more like a man’s dress shoe with a narrow toe and short heel. The footprint faced her mother’s home, as if he’d come in through the gate to watch the house. Mel felt a shudder ripple through her. She didn’t like this, not at all.

She hurried back to the house. While her mother was getting ready for bed, Mel called her Uncle Stan and told him what she’d found. He sounded equally disturbed. He also said he was off duty and would head over to check it out. They both agreed that they wouldn’t mention it to Joyce, because it would only upset her.

Mel was just hanging up when her mother came back into the kitchen. “Was that dear Joe?”

“No, that was Uncle Stan,” Mel said. “He’s going to stop by on his way home and check on you.”

“He doesn’t need to do that,” Joyce protested. Mel saw the slight ease in her shoulders, though, and knew that, despite her protestations, she felt better having Uncle Stan come by.

“So, where is dear Joe tonight?” Joyce asked.

Mel glanced at the clock. She’d been gone almost an hour. “Probably, he’s asleep on my couch by now.”

“What?” Joyce squawked. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on a date?”

“It was just dinner,” Mel said.

“Just dinner? From what your brother said, I gather that’s all it ever is with you two.”

“Charlie told you . . .” Mel couldn’t finish. She was speechless. Joyce, however, was not.

“That you haven’t done the mattress mambo yet?” Joyce asked. “Yeah, he told me.”

Mel felt her face flame hotter than a blowtorch.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Your time would be better spent on your boyfriend,” Joyce said. She tossed Mel’s jacket and keys at her and pushed her towards the door.

“How does everyone know about my sex life?” Mel asked. “Is there a billboard on the freeway or something?”

“There doesn’t need to be,” Joyce said. “We all know you. If you were sleeping with the man, you wouldn’t be so uptight and edgy.”

“I’m not uptight and edgy.”

Joyce gave her a flat stare. “Honey, you have been in love with Joe DeLaura since you were twelve years old.”

Mel nodded. It was true.

Her mother patted her cheek and said, “I say this to you with great love: Get the lead out. That boy is not going to wait forever.”

Before Mel could say another word, her mother pushed her through the door and shut it behind her. She heard the deadbolt click into place.

“Well, there you have it. My humiliation is complete,” Mel muttered as she strode to her car, grateful for the feel of the cool night air against her hot skin.