“I think she might have preferred that you shot or stabbed her,” Bonnie said.
So that answered that. Clearly Brigit’s reporting skills were legendary.
“It was a loathsome thing to do,” Brigit admitted. “Of course, if her family hadn’t been connected to the mob, it might not have been such a big deal.”
“You took on the mob?” Bonnie asked. The timer on the oven rang, and Mel went to get the cupcakes. This batch would stay in the chiller until the day of the gala, when they would frost them.
Angie hurried over to help her, and they listened while they set the tins on the back counter to cool.
“It’s not so much that I took on the mob, as that I exposed the connections they had to several very wealthy Long Island families, one of which just happened to be Hannigan’s wife’s family.”
“What happened?” Sylvia asked.
“Death threats mostly,” Brigit said. “The documentation that I uncovered and published showed a long trail of political corruption. They were in disgrace and became social pariahs.”
“So, how did this cause his wife’s death?” Justin asked.
“Image was everything to Casey,” Brigit said. “She was one of the most fashion forward of New York society, and she lived for her balls and parties and charity galas.”
They waited for Brigit to continue, and she glanced around the kitchen at them and gave a rueful smile.
“No, the irony that Hannigan and I are working together on a charity event is not lost on me,” she said.
“I wanted to humiliate Casey. She wouldn’t divorce Ian, because she was petrified that she’d be disgraced amongst her little clique. Well, I decided to give her what she was so afraid of by outing her family as a bunch of thugs and thieves. A week after the story broke, she killed herself. Hannigan has never forgiven me. In fact, I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“You couldn’t have known that she would—” Justin protested.
“No, but if I hadn’t been motivated by revenge, the story never would have been written. Her family was scum, no question, but there are much worse villains out there. I didn’t need to put the glaring spotlight on them. I did it out of spite. That’s not being a professional journalist. I should have been better than that, but I wasn’t.”
“And that’s why there is so much hostility between you and Hannigan?” Mel asked.
“Pretty much,” Brigit said. “I think we both feel a lot of guilt, and neither of us has ever been able to let it go.”
“Did Sam work on that story with you?” Angie asked.
“Why do you ask?” Brigit asked. She looked cautious.
“Well, the other day, I remember Hannigan saying to Sam that he had chosen whose side he was on. Was he mad at Sam, too?”
“Yes, he was,” she said slowly. “Because when I left Hannigan, Sam stayed with me and helped me investigate Casey’s family.”
“You don’t think—?” Bonnie stopped herself in mid-sentence as if she wasn’t sure she should utter what she was thinking.
“That Hannigan killed Sam in revenge?” Brigit asked. “Given that the man has more money than a small oil-rich nation, it seems unlikely. He could have crushed Sam in so many other ways. Besides, if he did go after Sam, then he’d surely come after—”
“You,” Mel and Angie said together.
Brigit looked alarmed. “Yeah, me.”
Eighteen
They spent the rest of the morning in a baking frenzy. It seemed the crew was collectively trying to forget the morning’s conversation, partly because it seemed far-fetched and partly because there was enough truth to it to make it terrifying.
The magazine staff headed out to lunch at the nearby Los Olivos Mexican restaurant, leaving Mel and Angie to confer with Marty about how business was going. He seemed to have everything under control out front, and Oz was coming in after school to provide backup.
Mel had to talk to him once about not grilling the customers about where they bought their other baked goods. Marty had gotten it into his head that Olivia’s spy could be a chatty customer who shopped at Olivia’s Confections as well as at Fairy Tale Cupcakes and had inadvertently blabbed to Olivia about what was happening in their bakery.
“Have you heard from Tate yet?” Angie asked Mel as they wiped down the kitchen to prep for the afternoon’s baking session.
Mel had checked her office phone and her cell phone three times; so far there was nothing. Angie had checked her phone as well, but the only messages were text messages from Roach—they were still arguing about his song—and her brothers.
“Has he been missing for twenty-four hours yet?” Angie asked. “Can we file a missing-persons report?”
“I already talked to Uncle Stan about it,” Mel said. “He said we should really leave that up to his parents.”
“Will they do it?” Angie asked. She paused to scrape some spilled ingredients into the trash can.
“I would think so,” Mel said. “But what if he wants to remain missing?”
“Who wants to remain missing?” a voice asked from the kitchen door. It was Detective Martinez.
“Uh . . .” Mel hesitated.
Martinez filled the doorway with his broad, well-muscled frame, and she felt as if his sharp, dark eyes saw every single detail of the kitchen at a glance. She felt her face grow hot, as if she and Angie had been caught doing something wrong, which was ridiculous.
“Tate Harper, our business partner, is missing,” Angie said. Obviously, she did not feel as cautious about giving out information to the homicide detective as Mel did.
“Since when?” he asked.
“Since yesterday when he quit his job and moved out of his apartment,” Angie said.
Martinez looked at Mel as if to verify the story. She nodded.
“He went missing after the murder?” he asked.
“Yes, but—” Angie began, but Mel interrupted.
“He had absolutely no connection to Sam Kelleher or anyone at the magazine,” Mel said.
“Are you sure of that?” Martinez asked.
Mel knew it was critical that she maintain eye contact as she answered. “Yes.”
Martinez was the first to look away, and she found that oddly satisfying.
“Is he a drinker, a drug user, a gambler?” he asked.
“No, no, no,” Angie said. “In fact, up until he disappeared, I would have thought he was perfectly content with his life.”
“Was he in a relationship?” Martinez came in and sat down at the table. Both Angie and Mel sat with him.
“No,” Mel said.
“Even an online one?” Martinez asked. “You know, a lonely middle-aged man sometimes picks up with the women they meet on these match sites on the Internet, and the next thing you know he walks away from his entire life for a woman across the country.”
“He would have told us,” Angie said. She sounded overly firm, and Mel could tell there was a part of her wondering if it was true.
“Well, for his sake, I hope not,” Martinez said. “I’ve seen people arrive at their ‘soul mate’s’ house only to find that the picture of the young hottie they thought they were talking to is actually a flaccid geriatric.”
“You think Tate might have been snookered by an old man pretending to be a hot young woman on the Internet?” Mel asked.
“It happens.” Martinez shrugged.
“Ish,” Mel and Angie said together.
“We have to find him,” Angie said.
“Where have you looked so far?” Martinez asked.
“His workplace, his apartment, and his parents’ house,” Mel said.
“Is there any place that he goes that might be special to him?” Martinez asked. “A coffee shop, a park, a church?”
“Here,” Mel said. “He liked to be here with us.”
Martinez looked around the room. “I can see why. It’s got a nice vibe, this place.”
“Yeah, except that someone was murdered right outside o
f it,” Mel said.
“Speaking of which,” Martinez said, “where are your cupcake people? I have a few questions for them.”
“Well, the ones who are left went out for lunch,” Mel said. “They should be back within the hour.”
“What do you mean the ones who are left?” he asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Viggo.” Mel looked at him, and he quirked one eyebrow up.
“Viggo? Really?”
“You could be a Viggo,” she said.
“Viggo is a dog’s name,” he said.
“Or a hot actor’s name,” Angie said. “What exactly are you two talking about? I thought you were going to tell him about Amy.”
“Amy Pierson?” he asked.
“Yes,” they said together.
“What do you know?” Immediately, he had his detective face on, and Mel knew that any fishing for his first name was over. It was just as well. She hadn’t thought of any other good ones.
She and Angie told him all of the morning’s events, about Amy hating Sam and sleeping with him, and about Brigit and Hannigan.
“I knew about Hannigan and Brigit,” he said. “That was big news when he bought the magazine. Did not know about Kelleher and Amy, which brings up a host of possibilities.
“Do you mind if I wait for them out front?” he asked. “I want to go over their statements when they get back, but I can catch up on some paperwork while I wait.”
“Not at all, make yourself at home,” Mel said.
He smiled at her and Mel felt her breath catch. The man’s smile was a stunner, and she was pretty sure he could use it in his arsenal to apprehend suspects, especially any of the female persuasion.
“I’ve got it!” Angie shouted and jumped out of her seat. “Come on, Mel.”
“Got what? What are you talking about?” Mel asked as she stood. Martinez did the same.
“A place that’s special to Tate,” she said. “I think I know where he went.”
Angie opened the door to the bakery and leaned around the doorjamb.
“Marty, Detective Martinez is staying in the bakery to work for bit,” she said. “Hook him up with a four-pack on me. The man is a genius.”
“Thanks,” Martinez said. “I think.”
Angie gave him a solid thump on the shoulder with her fist. This sort of affection from Angie had knocked Mel to her knees upon occasion, but Martinez didn’t even flinch. Mel had to admit it: She was impressed.
“Come on,” Angie said as she hustled to the back door.
“Let me know how it goes,” Martinez called after them.
“Will do, . . . Gregor?”
He shook his head. “Gregor Martinez? That’s your best guess?”
Mel shrugged. “Am I right?”
“Not even close,” he said.
Mel saw him leave through the kitchen door as Angie pulled her out the back door, slammed it shut, and locked it.
“What was that?” Angie asked.
“What was what?” Mel asked, hoping she sounded innocent as opposed to, well, defensive.
“You’re flirting with Martinez,” Angie said. She stomped down the stairs, and Mel sincerely hoped the steps weren’t a substitute for her head.
“I am not,” she scoffed as she followed.
“Oh, puhleeze,” Angie said. She led the way down the alley in the opposite direction from where Sam’s body had been found, which was still marked off with yellow tape.
“I know flirting when I see flirting. So, what gives?”
“Nothing gives,” Mel said. “And I’m merely trying to figure out his first name.”
That caused Angie to stop in her tracks. “We don’t know his first name?”
“No, and when I asked him, he refused to tell me, so it became a sort of joke to try and guess it,” she said.
“You could just ask Uncle Stan,” Angie said as she resumed walking.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Mel countered.
“And that’s what makes it flirting,” Angie said. “You’re actively engaged in joking around with the man.”
Mel felt her face flame hot with guilt at Angie’s use of the word engaged. Oh, man, if she knew that Mel and Joe were engaged, this would be so much worse. Then again, maybe now would be a good time to tell her. Yeah, Mel didn’t have to feel her back to verify that chicken wings had abruptly sprouted.
“I am not flirting,” she protested. “Anyway, I thought we were looking for Tate. What’s your grand idea?”
Now it was Angie’s turn to blush. She blew out a breath as if trying to cool herself off from the inside.
“Okay, so you know how Martinez—wow, we really don’t know his first name, do we?” she asked.
“Already established,” Mel said, and she rolled her hands, signaling Angie to continue.
“Anyway, he asked if there was any place special that Tate likes to go,” Angie said.
“The bakery.”
“Beyond the bakery,” Angie said.
They walked from the alley to the street, and Angie went to the right. They passed several shops and the tattoo parlor where Mick, the tattoo artist, nodded to them while working on the ankle of a young woman who did not appear to be enjoying herself.
“Did I mention that Roach wanted us to get matching tattoos?” Angie asked.
“Was that part of the breakup?” Mel asked.
“No, I kind of liked the idea.” She paused. “Just not with him.”
“Ah.” Mel tried to picture Angie and Tate with matching tattoos. Since they couldn’t even manage to pull together a first date, it was hard for her to see them in matching ink.
“So, back to Tate. Beyond the bakery would be where?” Mel asked.
“He’s taken to hanging out on the green in the Civic Center Mall,” Angie said. They crossed the street, and strolled past several fountains and sculptures.
“Since when does he hang out here?” Mel asked.
“Remember the cooking competition we were in last spring?” Angie asked.
“You almost died,” Mel said. “It’s embedded in my brain for life.”
“Yeah, well, remember when I was still pretty weak and Tate had to carry me out of there?”
“Yeah.” Mel got misty at the memory. “You asked him for help, and he said, ‘As you wish.’”
“At the time, I wasn’t sure he meant what I thought he meant,” Angie said. She paused to scan the park. There was no sign of Tate, lounging in one of his power suits at any of the picnic tables.
“Angie, we live movie quotes,” Mel said. “There is no way you didn’t know that he was quoting Westley from The Princess Bride.”
“Hey, I was in a weakened state from my near-death experience,” Angie said. “Plus, I was still dating Roach, so it was awkward.”
“Whatever,” Mel said. “What’s your point?”
Angie bit her lip and looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I think that’s why he hangs out here, because that’s the closest we’ve ever come to telling each other how we feel.”
Mel nodded. It made sense. Besides, she didn’t have the heart to embarrass Angie any more than she already was.
“Well, it’s about the only lead we’ve got,” she said. “Let’s do a sweep. I want to get back before the boot campers.”
Together they worked the park with Angie looking to the right and Mel looking to the left. They had covered most of the park when they came upon Robert Indiana’s LOVE sculpture with the L O perched atop the V E, done in red and blue.
It stood happily on its slope of grass, but there was something wrong. Mel could see a person’s foot peeking out from just behind its cement base.
“Oh, no,” she said. She felt all of the blood drain out of her face, and she got the spins.
“What is it?” Angie whipped around. “Do you see him?”
“No, but I think we may have found another body,” Mel said.
Nineteen
Angie looked in the direction that Mel was pointing,
and she gasped.
“What is it with you?” she asked as they hurried across the grass towards the foot. “You attract bodies like bees to pollen. It’s not right.”
“Hey, it’s not just me,” Mel said as she pulled out her phone, getting ready to call the police. “You’ve been with me for most of the bodies. And it’s your fault we’re here now looking for Tate, so this one is on you.”
“Hey!” Angie protested.
They rounded the sculpture to see a scruffy-looking man in khaki shorts and a grungy T-shirt lying down with his head on a backpack. His eyes were open and his chest was moving up and down. He was not dead.
“Do you two think you could keep down?” he asked. “I’m trying to nap.”
Mel squinted at the man. Beneath his day-old beard growth was a familiar square jaw and laughing eyes.
“Tate?” Angie asked. She rushed forward, and he sat up, opening his arms to hug her, but she shoved his arms away and got right in his face and shouted, “Have you lost your mind?”
He looked surprised and then shrugged and reclined back on his backpack. “No.”
“No?” Angie yelled. “That’s all you have to say for yourself—no?”
“You asked me a question,” Tate said. “And I answered it.”
Mel could see that Angie was about to pop her cork, so she kneeled down beside her, and said, “Tate, what’s going on?”
“Presently, I’m being accosted in the park by two ladies while I try to read,” he said. He lifted a book from the grass beside him. “And you?”
Now Mel could feel her temper heat up. If Tate was going through something, that was fine, but his attitude was really becoming annoying, as if he were the only one who had something going on.
“Well, let’s see,” she said. “We’ve been frantically searching for you only to find out that you’ve moved out of you apartment—”
“—quit your job—” Angie added.
“—and not told anyone, us or your parents, what is going on,” Mel finished.
“You spoke to my parents?” he asked. He lowered the book.
Going, Going, Ganache Page 12
