Going, Going, Ganache

by Jenn McKinlay

  Joe’s townhouse was about as different from Mel’s apartment as two places could get. His place was all sleek lines and curves made of steel and granite, featuring black leather furniture with apple green accents, while Mel’s place was more a hodgepodge of antique pieces and was decorated in browns and blues with floral patterns mixed with stripes and matching snuggly chenille pillows and throws on the futon.

  She put Jack’s litter box in the laundry room off the kitchen, and Joe followed with Jack to show him where it was. He then put down Jack, who scampered off to go and investigate. Mel always brought him to Joe’s when she spent the night, as he liked to go adventuring in the bigger house.

  “Don’t break anything!” she called after him.

  “He’s fine,” Joe assured her. He held open his arms. “Need a hug?”

  Mel heaved a soul-deep sigh and fell against him. Joe caught her close and held her tight. He was warm and strong, and she realized that for the first time all day she felt safe. Safe enough for the tears that had threatened repeatedly to spill out. She tried to gulp them back, but Joe had already seen what was coming.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He ran his hand up and down her back. “Let it out.”

  “He was dead!” Mel said, as if this was news. “I saw his hand, and then when I went over there was a pool of blood and the back of his head was crushed.”

  A shudder rippled through her from her hair follicles to her toenails. Joe just kept holding her until the tremors passed.

  “The magazine people were all freaking out, and Uncle Stan and his new partner and the crime-scene crew came. We haven’t been able to find Tate, and then there was this song on the radio and Angie was so mad,” she said.

  Joe’s hand stopped moving on her back. “Sorry, you lost me.”

  “Roach was singing a song about him and Angie on the radio,” she said. “It’s a hit that’s burning up the charts.”

  “Uh-oh. How did she handle that?” he asked.

  “Not well,” Mel said with a shake of her head. “And Tate is missing.”

  “What? What do you mean missing?” he asked.

  “We tried to call him about Sam, but he didn’t answer, so then we thought we’d call his office, but his secretary said he’d quit.”

  “Quit?” Joe asked. “But I thought he was happy there. He’s like a genius at making money, isn’t he?”

  Mel shrugged. “It gets worse.”

  Joe just looked at her.

  “We stopped by his apartment, and he’s moved out,” she said.

  “To where?”

  “We don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t even tell us he was moving.”

  Joe frowned. He obviously did not like what he was hearing.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “And you haven’t heard from him?”

  “Not a peep,” she said. “I’m worried about him. Angie thinks he’s met someone.”

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Mel thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know what to think.”

  A chime sounded in Mel’s purse. It was “Tara’s Theme” from Gone with the Wind, her ringtone.

  “I have to get that,” she said. “It might be Tate.”

  Joe nodded.

  Mel checked the number. It was Angie. She shook her head at Joe before she answered.

  “Hey, Ange. What’s up?”

  “I think we need to call Tate’s parents,” Angie said. “They have to know where he is.”

  “Agreed,” Mel said. “So why don’t you call them?”

  “I was thinking we should stop by the house,” Angie said.

  “Really?” Mel asked. “Why?”

  “Because I think that’s where Tate is, and I think if we show up, his parents won’t give us the brush-off,” she said. “But if we call, they might.”

  Mel thought about it for a minute. Angie was right. They needed to find Tate and let him know what was happening. He was a partner in their business, and their friend. She wouldn’t rest easy until she knew where he was and what was happening with him.

  “I’m at Joe’s,” Mel said. “Can you pick me up?”

  The doorbell rang and Joe went to answer it. Angie stood in the doorway with her phone. She ended the call, and asked, “Hi, Bro. So, Mel, are you ready to go?”

  Joe did not look happy when they left, but Mel promised to bring him a spinach calzone from Spinato’s, one of their favorite Italian restaurants, on her return and he looked somewhat placated.

  “Call me as soon as you know something,” he said. He hugged Angie and planted a kiss on Mel and stood in the doorway waving good-bye with Captain Jack lying across his shoulder.

  “They make a cute couple,” Angie said.

  “They sure do,” Mel agreed as she got into the passenger seat.

  About 80 percent of her wanted desperately to be back in the townhouse with Joe and Captain Jack, but she knew the nagging 20 percent of her that would worry about Tate would never let her rest.

  Tate’s parents lived in the same neighborhood as Mel’s mother and Angie’s parents, except where the Cooper and DeLaura families had a nice view of Camelback Mountain, Tate’s family actually lived on the mountain.

  Angie and Mel had spent most of their weekends in high school in the Harpers’ built-in theater watching old movies and giving their popcorn machine a workout. Driving up the winding road, Mel felt a sudden nostalgia for the simplicity of those days, when there were no dead bodies, police investigations, or complicated relationships.

  Angie parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. The Harpers’ mansion was one of the oldest on Camelback Mountain, built in the forties with a decided Frank Lloyd Wright influence. Like his famous Scottsdale residence Taliesin West, the Harpers’ house was built from native stone nestled in concrete and had a squared-off look with cantilevered ceilings and redwood beams.

  Where the other mansions sat on the mountain like blemishes with their ostentatious turrets and towers and ridiculous vaulted ceilings, the Harpers’ mansion seemed to nestle right into the side of the mountain as if the intent of its organic design was to return the house to the earth once the residents were finished with it.

  Angie and Mel got out of the car and climbed the three short steps which led them into a courtyard, built of the same concrete and boulders as the house. The front doors were set back between the two wings of the house that had square floor-to-ceiling glass walls framed by large beams of redwood.

  Angie reached the door first and raised her fist to knock. The door swung open before her knuckles could connect, and she almost rapped Mr. Harper, Tate’s father, on the chest. Luckily, her response time was quick enough and she didn’t connect.

  “Good evening, Melanie, Angela,” he said. “I’m assuming you are here with news.”

  Fifteen

  Mel and Angie exchanged a confused look.

  “News about . . . ?” Mel asked, letting the question dangle.

  “Darling, where are your manners?” Mrs. Harper appeared beside her husband. “Invite the girls in.”

  “Sorry.” Mr. Harper huffed out an irritated sigh and stepped aside. “Please come in.”

  Mel sensed it wasn’t an invitation as much as an order.

  She and Angie followed the Harpers into the foyer, which had a highly polished mahogany floor that led down into a sitting room, where a fire was going and a view of the city of Phoenix could be seen from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “It’s good to see you both,” Mrs. Harper said as she took in the sight of them.

  The Harpers were not a huggie-kissie sort of people. Where Mel’s mother would have hugged the stuffing out of them and the DeLaura family would have smothered them in cheek pinches and kisses, the Harpers stood stiffly, staring at them as if uncertain of what to do.

  “Please, come in and have a seat,” Mrs. Harper invited them.

  Tate’s mother was a sweater-and-pearls type of lady; he
r manicure was always perfect and matched the fastidiousness of her thick silver hair, which she wore in a chin-length bob.

  Despite the workday being long over, Mr. Harper was still in a pale blue dress shirt and tie over crisply pleated navy slacks and brown loafers. In all the years she’d known him, Mel had never seen him don jeans or shorts; in fact, she couldn’t even imagine it.

  “May I bring refreshments?” a voice asked from the doorway that led to the kitchen.

  An older woman dressed all in black appeared behind the Harpers. It had been a long time since Mel had seen Mrs. Ada, the Harpers’ live-in housekeeper, and she noted that the gray-haired lady with the sturdy build didn’t seem to have aged a day since the last time she’d seen her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Ada,” Mel and Angie said together.

  “Would you girls like a nice root-beer float?” Mrs. Ada asked.

  “You remembered,” Mel said.

  “I’m not likely to forget,” Mrs. Ada said with a grin. “I must have made hundreds of those over the years for you and Mr. Tate.”

  Her hazel eyes sparkled at them and, if the Harpers hadn’t been standing there watching, Mel would have crossed the room to give her a big hug. As it was, she just smiled back, and Mrs. Ada gave her a small nod as if she understood.

  “I think iced tea would be fine,” Mr. Harper said.

  Clearly he was anxious to get the discussion underway, and Mel wondered what he thought they had to report. She had a feeling they were doomed to disappoint the Harpers.

  Mrs. Ada left the room, and the four of them sat down on the stiff brown leather couches that faced the fireplace. Despite the warmth coming from the fire, the room felt cold to Mel; she wondered if it was the stone or the people in the room that made her feel that way.

  She didn’t dislike the Harpers; in fact, they had been very kind in welcoming Angie and Mel into their home every weekend, and Mel had always gotten the feeling that they were somehow relieved to have them there, so that they wouldn’t be obliged to spend too much time with their son.

  “Now, please tell us what brings you here,” Mrs. Harper said.

  “We’re looking for Tate,” Angie said. “We have to tell . . . that is, there is some news we need to share with him.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Harper exchanged a look. They must have developed a code no one could crack, because Mel could read nothing in their expressions, but they each obviously knew exactly what the other was thinking.

  “Why did you come here?” Mr. Harper asked.

  “Because he’s moved out of his apartment,” Mel said, “and he’s not answering his phone, so we thought he might be here.”

  “You know that he quit his job today,” Mr. Harper said. He was watching them closely.

  Angie nodded. “We talked to his secretary.”

  “Did you know he planned to quit?” Mr. Harper asked.

  Mel could hear the expectation in his voice, as if he was hoping someone could clarify what his son had done. She hated to disappoint him, but there was no alternative.

  “No,” she said. “He never said a word. We were stunned.”

  Mrs. Ada arrived back in the room carrying a tray with four glasses of iced tea. They thanked her for the tea but waited until everyone was served before they continued their conversation.

  “So, I take it he isn’t here?” Angie asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Harper said with a shake of her head. “We’ve heard nothing from him since his father discovered his letter of resignation this morning.”

  “I hate to pry,” Angie said. “I know it’s none of my business, but did he say why he was doing all of this?”

  Mel knew Angie was trying to find out if there was a woman involved, and she prayed for Angie’s sake that there wasn’t, because she feared it would crush her best friend.

  “No, he didn’t,” Mr. Harper said. He sounded angry, and Mel felt Angie stiffen beside her. “It was nothing more than a lousy form letter. It could have been from any of my employees.”

  “It’s all very distressing,” Mrs. Harper said.

  Mel got the feeling Mrs. Harper had been listening to her husband rant and rave for the better part of the evening, and she cast the woman a sympathetic glance.

  “You bet it’s distressing,” Angie said. She took a long swallow of her iced tea. “I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. I mean, who up and quits his job and moves without telling anyone?”

  Mel thought back to when she’d ditched her marketing career in Los Angeles and moved back to Scottsdale to attend culinary school. She hadn’t said a word to anyone.

  “Well, there could be a variety of reasons,” she said. “I mean, maybe he—”

  “No, there’s only one reason,” Angie interrupted. She thunked her glass down onto a cork coaster on the coffee table. “He is being a selfish brat, and he needs a good kick in the pants, since obviously that is where his brain is presently situated.”

  “Hear, hear!” Mr. Harper cheered. He put his glass on the table, too. “That’s the first sense anyone has talked all day.”

  “Now, we don’t know why Tate is making these decisions,” Mrs. Harper said. “He could have very good reasons for what he is doing.”

  “For quitting the family business?” Angie asked doubtfully.

  Mr. Harper shot her a look of approval, and added, “And not telling his friends where he is?”

  Angie nodded at him. “And excluding his family from his decision-making?”

  “As well as his business partners,” Mr. Harper added.

  Mel glanced between Angie and Mr. Harper, as did Mrs. Harper. It was clear Angie and Mr. Harper were allies in their annoyance with Tate, while Mrs. Harper and Mel were more inclined to wait and see what he had to say for himself. Mel wished Tate were here to see this. She never thought she’d see the day when Mr. Harper unbent enough to have a conversation, never mind be in perfect agreement, with Angie.

  “He has a lot of explaining to do,” Angie said.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Harper agreed.

  “Be that as it may,” Mrs. Harper said. “I’m really more concerned with where he is right now.”

  And there it was, a mother’s love for her son, bringing the entire discussion full circle to the fact that someone that all four of them loved was missing.

  Mel didn’t sleep well at Joe’s. He had a queen-size bed that was as soft as a cloud. She should have slept like a baby, even after the horror of the day and her worry about Tate, but no. Comfort wasn’t exactly comfortable. Mel knew each individual lump in her futon mattress, and she missed angling her body around them just so. Captain Jack had no such problems, as he chose a nice, fluffy pillow to sleep on—hers—and spent the night snoring in synch with Joe.

  Was this what married life would be like? Mel stared at the ceiling while she thought about moving in here with Joe. She tried to imagine how her florals and plaids would blend with his black leather. She couldn’t picture it. She tried to picture him moving into her shoebox of an apartment above the bakery— no, that didn’t work either.

  She could feel a complete freak-out brewing just underneath her skin. She tried to breathe through it. No decisions had to be made today. She was fine. Life was fine.

  Her phone chimed from its spot on the bedside table. She glanced at the clock. It was five in the morning. Who would be calling her at five in the morning? Joe grumbled and rolled over. Maybe it was Tate.

  Mel sat up in bed and grabbed the phone. She checked the number and sighed. It was her mother.

  She pressed the button to talk as she tiptoed from the room, grabbing a sweatshirt of Joe’s on the way.

  “Mom, is everything all right?” she asked. She pulled on the sweatshirt and went down the stairs to the kitchen. She might as well start the coffee.

  “What do you mean is everything all right?” Joyce asked. “There was a murder right outside your bakery!”

  “I know,” Mel said.

  “You know?” Joyce parroted her. “And you didn
’t call me? I turned on the morning news, and there is Gina Mendoza standing right outside your bakery, talking about a murder.”

  Mel could hear her mother’s television in the background. Joyce was quiet, and Mel could tell she was watching the news again.

  “Mom, hello? Mom!”

  “That Gina is so cute,” her mother said. “I love how she wears her hair. Could you run downstairs and get me her autograph?”

  “I’d love to Mom,” Mel said. “But I’m not home. Captain Jack and I are at Joe’s.”

  “Dear Joe,” Joyce sighed. “How is he?”

  “Asleep like most normal people at five o’clock in the morning,” Mel said.

  She wrestled a coffee filter into the pot and measured out enough scoops for the two of them. She hit the button and was immediately comforted by the sound of the coffee machine beginning to drip hot java into its glass carafe.

  “Well, I’m glad you had the sense not to stay at the bakery,” Joyce said.

  “Uncle Stan made me promise to stay elsewhere.”

  “Stan knows about the murder?” Joyce asked.

  “He’s the lead detective for the investigation,” Mel said. “And since Sam Kelleher, the victim, was one of my cupcake boot-camp participants, Stan thought it best if I—”

  “You knew him?” Joyce interrupted. She sounded stunned. “I thought it was just a robbery gone wrong that happened to be outside your bakery.”

  “No,” Mel said. “I found Sam when I went to open the bakery yesterday.”

  “You found him? Oh, my lord, Melanie Cooper, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Joyce asked.

  “Nothing,” Mel protested. “I’m just holding a cupcake boot camp for the staff of SWS magazine. I have nothing to do with anyone getting murdered.”

  “That’s it. You’re selling the bakery,” Joyce said.

  Sixteen

  “What?” Mel asked. She thumped her head softly against the wooden front of Joe’s kitchen cabinet. “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, obviously cupcake baking is a much more dangerous profession than we first anticipated,” Joyce said. “It’s like the dead bodies are lured in by your buttercream.”