Dark Chocolate Demise (15 page)

“You remember those pics I showed you of Tucci's associates,” Manny said.

Mel felt her insides deflate like a cake after a loud bang. So, he was not talking about them, rather he was back on the case.

“Hard to forget,” she said.

“If any of them come into the bakery, you leave,” he said.

He strolled across the room so that he was standing right in front of her. Mel glanced up from her coffee and met his stare. His black eyes crackled with an intensity that made her all too aware of every facial flaw she had ever noted about herself, beginning with her eyes that were too close together and ending with the scar on her chin received from a playground swing-to-face incident that lived on in Pueblo Elementary School lore to this day.

“If they come in, I leave,” Mel said. “Got it.”

Manny narrowed his gaze at her as if he suspected her of something. Surely, he could not know that she had checked to see if any of the goons were customers. Could he? Mel gave him her best toothless smile of innocence.

“No, I'm not buying it,” he said. He leaned closer. “You have a knack for getting into trouble.”

“Me?” Mel put her hand on her chest as if she couldn't be more shocked. “I beg to differ. Trouble seems to find me even when I'm looking the other way.”

A slow smile spread across Manny's face. It took Mel a second to realize that he thought she was calling him trouble. In that, while she was looking at Joe, Manny had found her.

“What I meant was—” she began but he interrupted her.

“I know what you meant.”

They stood quietly staring at each other. There were a thousand words that could have been or should have been spoken between them, but Mel felt like words would diminish their connection somehow. Manny gave her a small nod and she knew he felt the same.

Was it wrong to feel a bond with this man? They had almost died together once. Maybe it was just the natural outcome of surviving a near-death experience together . . . or maybe it was more. Mel swallowed and it was audible. Manny's smile deepened.

“You may be in love with DeLaura,” he said as he stepped back. “But at least I know you're not immune to me.”

“No, I'm not,” Mel said. Her voice sounded strained, and Manny looked pleased.

“I can live with that,” he said. He shifted his bag onto his shoulder and turned towards the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “Lock up behind me and remember what I said. If any of Tucci's thugs show up, you leave.”

“I promise,” she said.

And she meant it. Right up until Angie showed up for work, looking as stressed out and miserable as Mel had ever seen her. Gone was Angie's usual sparkle; instead, she looked more like the zombie she'd been dressed as just a few days before.

“What's going on with her?” Mel asked Tate.

He sighed. “This murder is killing her.”

Mel cringed at the poor word choice.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can't get through to her that it's not her fault. She can't sleep. She won't eat. Having everyone watching her as if she's about to be gunned down is making her a nervous wreck. This morning I found her sobbing in the bathroom because a chunk of her hair fell out. And yet, I can't get her to leave town, not even for a day. It's like she's determined to stay to prove that she wasn't the intended victim. Honestly, I'd love to prove that just to give her peace of mind.”

“Maybe I can help,” Mel said.

“Sorry, kid,” Tate said. “But I don't think there's a cupcake in the world that can solve this.”

Mel watched him trail after Angie. It hurt her heart to see her friend so beaten up by life. If only she could do something, use her connections to figure out if Tucci's thugs were behind the shooting. But what connection did she have? Vincent Tucci. He was it. The only tie she had to the whole stinking mess. She needed to talk to him, but how?

Help came in the guise of her mother, Joyce. Mel loved her mom and they were very close, but even so, she had never been so happy to have her mom pop into the shop and demand a mother-daughter lunch.

Mel knew it was probably her mother's sly way of making sure she was okay after the whole zombie walk body in a casket nightmare, but Mel and the others had downplayed the event and its connection to Angie and Joe's case, specifically to keep Joyce from worrying. Still, Joyce was a good mom, and worry was her middle name.

“I just need to know that my baby is okay,” Joyce said. She was standing in the bakery kitchen, watching while Mel frosted the cupcakes she had baked the night before.

“I'm fine, Mom,” Mel said. “Really.”

“And the others?” Joyce asked. “I couldn't help but notice that Angie doesn't seem herself. She looks like she's been crying, and she keeps checking her hair. Is there something wrong with it?”

Mel wondered how much to say. If she mentioned that Angie might have been the actual target, her mom was going to freak out. Mercifully, she was saved from having to answer.

“What are you still doing here?” Angie asked as she plowed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Go have lunch with your mom. We got this.”

Tate was hot on her heels, and Mel could tell he was still not letting her out of his sight.

“You sure?” she asked as she handed Angie her pastry bag full of frosting.

“Yes, go before I take your place,” Angie said.

“Okay,” Mel said. She untied her apron and hung it on the hook by her office.

She grabbed her purse out of her desk, pausing to check that there were no batter or frosting smears on her denim capri pants or pink T-shirt, which sported the atomic Fairy Tale Cupcake logo.

Joyce tilted her head as she took in Mel's appearance. “Lipstick, honey; you are on the market after all.”

Mel rolled her eyes and went back into her office. She fished her pale pink lipstick out of her purse and dabbed it on her lips. She quickly checked that she had managed to color within the lines in the reflection of her cell phone before she hurried back out.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much,” Joyce said. She led the way to the back door. “You just never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right. You have to be prepared.”

Mel glanced over her shoulder at Angie and Tate, who were grinning at her; she made an exasperated face and they laughed. Mel closed the door behind her, locking it just to be on the safe side.

She glanced at her mother as they made their way to Mel's Mini Cooper, which was parked in a lot across the alley from the bakery. With the same fair coloring as Mel, Joyce looked adorable in a turquoise-and-white-striped blouse over a knee-length beige skirt. Joyce had matched her sandals and purse to the turquoise in her shirt, and Mel felt exhausted just looking at how put together her mother was.

Honestly, there were days when if Mel managed to shower, she considered it a big achievement.

“Any idea on where you'd like to grab lunch?” Joyce asked. “It's my treat.”

Mel glanced over the top of her car at her mother while pushing the fob to unlock the doors. “How do you feel about Italian?”

“Oh, I could use a nice antipasto,” Joyce said.

“I hear Frank and Mickey's over on Hayden Road makes a nice one, lots of good cheese,” Mel said.

“Your father used to love that place. And they have outside seating,” Joyce said. “Perfect, let's go.”

Mel felt the tiniest pinch of guilt for not telling her mother everything, yeah, and for walking into the lion's den, which she knew Joe and Manny would not approve of, but then she shook it off. She was just having lunch with her mother. What was wrong with that?

When Mel walked into the restaurant, she couldn't help but notice how the place resembled a mobster's hangout. Dim lighting, check. Dark, paneled walls, check. Buxom blond hostess, check. The place was a cliché; then again, that meant the food would be excellent.

“Hi, I'm Heather,” the hostess greeted them. “Would you like to sit inside or outside?”

“Outside, please,” Joyce answered for them.

“Certainly, follow me,” Heather said.

Heather was six foot four in her platform heels. Her low-cut, skintight, micromini black dress hugged her assets with the adhesive property of cling wrap, and her blond ponytail swung back and forth when she walked. She was mesmerizing and Mel noted that every male in the room stopped chewing to stare at her as she walked by.

Mel glanced down at her work clothes and felt as dowdy as a head of lettuce. Then she acknowledged that if she ever attempted to walk in shoes like those, she would do a face-plant and probably break her nose, so yeah, she was just fine the way she was.

Heather guided them to a table on the patio and told them their server would be with them shortly. They took their seats and Mel's mother took her reading glasses out of her purse.

“I have to say that was disappointing,” Joyce said.

“What do you mean?” Mel asked. They hadn't even eaten yet; how could Joyce be disappointed?

“If they insist on hiring strippers for hostesses, I should think she would at least give us a pole dance while walking us to our table,” Joyce said with a sniff. Mel laughed and her mother met her gaze with a teasing twinkle in her eyes.

Joyce reached across the table and patted Mel's hand. “Have I ever told you how proud I am that you're a woman of substance?”

“Aw, thanks, Mom,” Mel said. “I learned from the best.”

Joyce grinned and went back to her menu. A busboy brought them water, and soon after the waiter appeared to take their order.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. He was tall and broad and looked like he'd be more at home wrestling bears than serving food, but Mel liked the way he met her gaze with a straightforwardness that she found refreshing. “My name is Brian, but everyone calls me Meatball.”

“Meatball?” Joyce asked. “Good heavens! Why?”

Meatball opened his mouth very wide and then closed it. “I won the contest for who could hold the most meatballs in his mouth at once.”

Joyce wagged a finger at him. “You could have choked.”

He grinned. “You sound like my mom.”

“So, how many for the win?” Mel asked.

“Eleven,” Meatball answered. Mel noted his chest puffed out a little when he said it.

“Impressive,” she said.

“Don't encourage him, Mel,” Joyce said behind her menu.

Mel and Meatball exchanged a smile before he said, “Let me tell you about our specials.”

Joyce listened attentively while Mel scoped out the patio. She didn't see any of Tucci's thugs out here, but she was hoping not to run into any of them anyway, so she didn't consider that a bad thing.

When Meatball was done, Joyce ordered her antipasto and a Chicken Scarpariello, while Mel ordered Crab Louie. They both passed on wine and ordered iced tea instead. Mel figured she could use the caffeine.

After each order, Meatball would give them a pleased look and say, “Excellent choice.”

It made Mel smile and she thought it might be something to incorporate at the bakery. She could hear Marty saying “Excellent choice” to their customers, and it almost made her laugh out loud.

As Meatball departed, Joyce leaned back in her chair and said, “Do you know who owns this restaurant?”

Mel put on her best blank look. “No, but I'm assuming they're named Frank and Mickey.”

Joyce leaned over the table and whispered, “Yes, Frank and Mickey
Tucci
.”

“No!” Mel said. “You mean the same Frank Tucci that is on trial right now?”

Joyce narrowed her eyes at Mel. “Really, honey, how stupid do you think I am?”

Mel opened her mouth in what she hoped was a look of stunned disbelief. Luckily, Meatball took that moment to reappear with their iced tea.

“Here you go, ladies, and your order will be up shortly,” he said.

“Wonderful, thank you,” Joyce said. Then she turned her gaze back to Mel. “You were saying.”

Mel shook her head. “Nope, I'm pretty sure I wasn't saying anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Joyce said. “On the grounds that you'd incriminate yourself, no doubt.”

Mel picked up the lemon wedge on the edge of her glass and squeezed it over the tea. She dropped it into the glass and pushed it down with her straw. She hoped if she kept busy, her mother would get distracted. No such luck.

Joyce pulled her purse onto her lap and popped open the clasp. She pulled her phone out and glanced at the screen. “Let's see. I know I had Joe in my contacts when you were dating. It's such a beautiful day, I bet he'd love to join us for lunch.”

“Mom!” Mel yelped. “You can't tell Joe we're here.”

Joyce looked at her over the top edge of her reading glasses. “Why not?”

“Because he's at work right now,” Mel said.

“He still gets to eat lunch,” Joyce said.

“Mom, don't. Just don't.”

Joyce leaned back and studied her.

“All right, fine,” Mel said. “What do you want to know?”

“Why are we here?” Joyce asked. “Why does Angie seem so on edge? Why does it seem like one of the brothers is always around? And why did Manny spend the night at the bakery last night?”

Mel goggled at her mother. “How do you know all of these things?”

“Uncle Stan,” Joyce said.

“He told you?” Mel asked.

“He talks in his sleep,” Joyce said.

“What?!” Mel asked. “How do you know what he does in his sleep? Oh, my god, are you sleeping with Uncle Stan?”

“Melanie Cooper, lower your voice,” Joyce hissed. “You are making a scene.”

“
I'm
making a scene?” Mel roared. “You tell me you're sleeping with my uncle over antipasto, and I'm making a scene.”

“I never said I was sleeping with Stan,” Joyce said. “But even if I was, how is that your business?”

“Because you're my mom and he's my uncle, totally my business,” Mel said.

“No, it isn't,” Joyce argued. “Now for the record, Stan came over to watch
Sherlock
with me last night after his meeting with the chief, and he fell asleep on the couch.”

“Where he apparently spilled his guts,” Mel said.

Joyce heaved a put-upon sigh. “Good thing he did, because it's not like you're telling me anything.”

There was a note of hurt in her mother's voice that cracked Mel's chest open like a rib spreader.

“Fine,” Mel said. “I didn't want you to worry but since it's too late for that, here it is. We're afraid that Kristin, the woman killed at the zombie walk, was a professional hit that was supposed to be Angie. That's why the brothers are always around and why Angie is upset. Manny was at the bakery to keep an eye on me because I refused to go to your house on the very, very, very off chance that I might be a target, too, because of my previous relationship with Joe.”

“Is that everything?” Joyce asked.

“Yes,” Mel said.

“Then why are we here?”

Mel thought about claiming it was all a coincidence, but one look at her mom and she knew it wouldn't fly.

“Angie is struggling with the idea that Kristin's death is somehow her fault, and by struggling, I mean it's really tearing her up, as in she's losing chunks of her hair,” Mel said.

“Oh, that poor girl,” Joyce said and put a hand over her chest. “Her hair really is her crowning glory.”

“And with the brothers hovering and Tate trying to hustle her out of town, it's just getting worse and worse,” Mel said. “Honestly, I'd do anything to help her.”

“And you think you can help how?” Joyce asked.

“I don't know,” Mel said. “Manny mentioned the Tucci family owned this place and I just thought—”

“What?” Joyce asked. “That you'd come and have lunch here and figure out who shot Kristin? Did it not occur to you that you might be putting yourself in danger?”

“I'm not—” Mel began but she paused when Meatball arrived at their table with their food. He put their plates down with a flourish.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” Joyce said. She wasn't rude exactly but it was clearly dismissive, and Mel smiled at Meatball to let him know it wasn't him.

Meatball nodded and headed off to his next table.

“I'm not in danger, Mom,” Mel said. “Joe and I have been apart long enough that I am not associated with him anymore. There has been no indication that anyone is out to harm me.”

Joyce closed her eyes and Mel couldn't tell if she was praying or trying to dig deep to find her patience.

“Well, I suppose that's something at any rate,” Joyce said as she opened her eyes. “I still don't see why you thought coming to lunch here was a good idea, but I understand that you're trying to help Angie.”

“I didn't think I'd discover who shot Kristin so much as I might find out who didn't,” Mel said.

Joyce tipped her head, clearly not understanding Mel's line of thinking.

“I thought if I saw Vincent Tucci and he remembered me for my Tiramisu Cupcakes and we talked shop a bit, then it would clearly indicate that it's not the Tuccis who were after Angie but that it was someone after Kristin instead,” Mel explained.

“I'm going to give on this one,” Joyce said. “Not by choice, however.”

Mel couldn't hide her surprise. “Really, Mom? Wow, and here I thought—”

“Save it,” Joyce interrupted her. “If I'm right and I think I am, Vincent Tucci is headed our way. No, don't turn around. Then he'll know we're talking about him.”

It took everything Mel had to pick up her fork and take a bite of her Crab Louie instead of turning around to see if Vincent was actually coming towards them. How did her mother even know who he was?

“I've lived here a lot longer than you,” Joyce said as if answering her unspoken question. “And I read the papers.”

“Melanie Cooper, is that you?”

Mel swallowed her mouthful and turned in her seat, hoping she looked surprised by the greeting.

“Mr. Tucci,” she said. “How are you?”

“Please call me Vincent,” he said. He took her hand in both of his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Mr. Tucci is my father, and I'd rather not be confused with him at the moment.”

His smile was wide and welcoming, and Mel felt her nerves settle. Dressed in gray slacks with creases sharp enough to slice bread, Vincent was long and lean, but with broad shoulders that were accentuated by his form-fitting white dress shirt. His thick black hair was tousled, his chin clean shaven, and his dark brown eyes seemed to take in everything at once, making Mel feel reassured at the same time it made her edgy.

“Understood,” she said. “Vincent, this is my mother, Joyce Cooper.”

“Mother?” Vincent asked. “I would have sworn she was your sister.”

He clasped Joyce's hand in his the same way he had with Mel, and Joyce tittered at the compliment. It was all Mel could do not to shake her head.

Their waiter was cruising by and Vincent signaled for him to stop. “Meatball, these lovely ladies are having lunch on me today.”

“Oh, no, we couldn't,” Mel protested.

“Yes, you can and you will,” Vincent said. His tone was good-natured but brooked no argument.

“Understood, sir,” Meatball said with a nod.

Mel exchanged a helpless glance with her mother. Her first thought was that Joe, Manny, and Stan could never find out about this. With a mobster's son buying them lunch, they'd fit her for cement shoes themselves if they ever found out. Judging by the concerned look in Joyce's eyes, she was thinking the same thing.

Vincent pulled out the empty chair next to Mel's and sat down.

“I have to apologize, Melanie,” he said. “I have not forgotten how we talked about carrying your Tiramisu cupcakes in the restaurant, but as you can imagine, things have been rather hectic since, well, my father . . .”

Mel nodded. She could tell it was painful for him to talk about. She remembered Manny telling her that by all accounts Vincent was legit. She couldn't imagine how hard it must be for him to be so with a mob boss for a dad.

“Don't worry about it,” Mel said. “When life is less complicated, we can certainly work out the details.”

“Sounds terrific,” Vincent said. He glanced at the door to the restaurant and Mel followed his gaze to see the bodacious hostess Heather waving at Vincent. “Excuse me. It appears that I'm needed.”

He rose from his seat and smoothed the front of his shirt then glanced back down at Mel.

His handsome face looked serious and not a little intimidating. “You'll stop by my office before you leave.”

“Of course,” Mel said.

Mel and Joyce watched him go; as soon as he cleared the door, Joyce starting having palpitations.

“Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god,” Joyce wailed. “He's going to kill us. He knows Joe was at your place the other night. He knows you're still Joe's weakness. He's going to kill you as a warning to Joe. We have to get out of here.”

“Mom, breathe,” Mel said. She leaned over the table and whispered. “We're in a public place. Nothing is going to happen to us. I'm sure it's just about business.”

“He could talk business out here,” Joyce said.

“Everything all right here, ladies?” Meatball appeared at their table.

Glancing up, Mel noted that Meatball didn't just appear to be a big man, rather he seemed ripped with muscles. A veritable behemoth who could tie a person into cute little balloon animals if he felt like it.
Gulp!

“Everything is great,” Mel said. She forced the corners of her lips up even though everything inside of her wanted to open her mouth wide and wail.

Meatball nodded and backed away.

“Maybe we should ask him for help,” Joyce said.

“Mom, he works for Tucci, does that really seem like the best idea?” Mel asked.

“No, but what are we going to do?” she asked.

“I'm going to meet him in his office while you wait in the ladies' room,” Mel said. “We'll stay connected through our cell phones and if anything goes wrong, you can call the police and they'll get you out of here.”

“What about you?” Joyce asked.

“I'll be okay,” Mel said. “I'll stall him as long as I can and if that doesn't work, I'll let him know he's being monitored and if he hurts me, he'll give us all the evidence we need against him and his father.”

Joyce reached across the table and patted Mel's hand. “I don't know whether to be proud of how brave you are or horrified.”

“Proud works,” Mel said with a shaky smile.

“You're sure we can't just hop the rail and run?” Joyce asked.

Mel tipped her head in the direction of the door. Meatball was standing beside the open door with his arms over his chest, watching them.

“Oh,” Joyce said.

“Eat up,” Mel ordered. “This might be our last meal.”

“Not funny,” Joyce said. “But at least it's a good one. Maybe if you praise the food, he won't kill you.”

“I'll cling to that,” Mel said. She tried to savor her Crab Louie, but even with avocados and black olives, it tasted like dirt.

When they had lingered as long as they could and kicked around four other ways to get out of there without having to meet with Vincent, Mel finally pulled her napkin from her lap and tossed it onto her cleared plate. She couldn't ever remember a time where she had felt as if she was literally throwing in the towel.

“Okay, Mom, call me,” Mel said.

Joyce took out her phone with shaking fingers. She dialed Mel's number and Mel felt her phone vibrate in her hand. She answered it and checked the display to see that the call was connected. She carefully put her phone in her purse and kept the top of her bag open for the best reception.

“Okay, I'll go pop in on Vincent and you hit the restroom,” Mel said. Joyce kept her phone to her ear as if she was taking a call. She nodded, letting Mel know she had heard her through the phone as well.

Mel threw a fifty down on the table as a tip for Meatball. If things turned ugly, this might be the tip that saved her life. A guy couldn't kill a woman who gave him a fifty-dollar tip on lunch, right?