Going, Going, Ganache

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Uh, yeah,” Angie said with a nice dollop of sarcasm that was the verbal equivalent of a slap upside the head.

  “Are they mad?” he asked.

  “And worried,” Mel said.

  “You need to let them know you’re okay,” Angie said.

  “I sent them an e-mail this morning,” he said.

  Angie shook her head in disgust.

  “What?” he asked. “We’re not like your family. We don’t shout everything out.”

  “Well, maybe you should,” she snapped.

  Tate looked mutinous and to Mel’s surprise, instead of yelling, Angie crossed her legs and put her hands on her knees palms up. She took several deep breaths as if trying to channel an inner calm.

  “Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” Angie asked, her voice low and soft, letting him know without words how worried she’d been. “We’re your best friends.”

  Tate gave her a sad look, as if he knew he’d hurt her but he hadn’t seen any other option.

  “I didn’t want you to talk me out of it,” he said.

  “Out of what?” Mel asked. She was not yet as calm as Angie. She moved from kneeling to sitting, mostly to keep herself from standing and kicking Tate. “I’m not even sure what it is exactly that you’re doing.”

  “I want to be like Ian Hannigan,” he said. “I want to be a self-made man.”

  Mel and Angie exchanged a confused glance.

  “What exactly does that mean?” Angie asked.

  “It means”—Tate paused to close his book and sit up, before he continued—“that I have to prove to myself and to you that I am worthy of you.”

  He reached out with one hand and cupped Angie’s cheek. Mel suddenly felt like an intruder, and she wondered if it would ruin their moment if she abruptly crab-walked away from them.

  “But you are worthy,” Angie protested.

  “No, I’m not,” Tate said. “You made me see that, Mel.”

  “What? Huh?” Mel asked.

  “When we were up at Juniper Pass a few months ago, you told me that I was too chicken to tell Angie how I felt because I’ve never had to work for anything because everything has always been handed to me.”

  “Whoa, kind of harsh,” Angie said with a wide-eyed look at Mel.

  “I didn’t like hearing it,” Tate said. “But it was true.”

  “No, it’s not,” Angie protested.

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “I was a legacy at Princeton because of my dad, I was hired right into the family business after school, and I’ve shot up the ladder there through sheer nepotism.”

  “Tate, you’re a financial wizard,” Mel said. “It’s not all been handed to you.”

  “Well, I don’t know that, do I?” Tate asked. “And neither do you. I need to prove myself, Angie. Before you and I see what’s between us, I need to know that I’m worthy of you.”

  “Tate, it doesn’t matter,” Angie protested. “I know you’re worthy. I lo—”

  “No!” Tate cut her off. “Don’t say anything yet. Let me prove that I can make it on my own so that you know you’ve picked the right guy.”

  “I already know that,” she grumbled. Then she turned to Mel and snapped, “You just had to go and open your big, fat mouth, didn’t you?”

  Mel sucked in a breath. Even though her exterior was now on the slender side, the chubby adolescent inside of her was devastated that her best friend would use the words big and fat, even if only in regard to her mouth.

  “I did it for you,” Mel argued. She rose to her feet and began brushing stray bits of grass off her legs. “I was trying to get him to—”

  “Well, a whole heck of a lot of good it’s doing me, isn’t it?” Angie interrupted, also standing.

  “How was I supposed to know he was going to take it to heart like this?” Mel asked.

  “Maybe you should think before you speak,” Angie snarled.

  “Mel, Angie, come on. We’re all friends here,” Tate said as he stood and subtly moved between them.

  “And maybe you should rein in your temper,” Mel said. “You know we wouldn’t even be in this mess if it wasn’t for you. Did you ever think of that? Huh?”

  “Me?” Angie gasped as if she’d been struck. “How do you figure this is my fault?”

  “Because we would not be having a cupcake boot camp with one camper murdered, if you could have just controlled your temper during the photo shoot!” Mel yelled.

  “Excuse me,” Tate said. “Did you say someone was murdered?”

  Enraged, Mel turned on him. “Yes, Mr. Self-Absorbed. If you hadn’t been so busy with your personal crisis, you might have answered one of our messages and heard the news that Sam Kelleher was murdered right outside the bakery.”

  “When did this—?”

  “Yesterday!” Mel yelled. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I’m taking my big, fat mouth back to work.”

  “Mel!” Tate called after her, but Mel waved him off.

  She was halfway across the park before she dared glance over her shoulder. Tate and Angie sat on the base of the sculpture with their heads together, paying no attention to her departing figure. Fine, be that way.

  She knew it was childish of her, but she had really expected Angie to run after her and apologize, and when she hadn’t, Mel felt hurt and miffed.

  Mel left the park behind and stepped back into Old Town Scottsdale. She figured her boot-camp people would be back, and she hoped the afternoon would prove more productive than the morning.

  She decided to enter through the back way, as she didn’t want to field any questions from Marty about where Angie was. As she came around the corner of the building, a flash of pink hair moving at high speed made her jump back with a yelp.

  Her first thought was that it was the killer, and her insides spasmed accordingly; her second thought was that she was going to wring Oz’s neck.

  The pink tornado that had passed her was going full speed down the alley to shoot up a hastily erected skateboard ramp, off of which the rider did a complicated twirl thing and then came back down, zipping past Mel once again.

  “Nice!” Oz yelled from where he was sitting on the back steps.

  Mel watched as the skateboarder stopped right beside Oz, and they exchanged a backhanded high five and a knuckle bump.

  “‘The pool is for swimming!’” Mel called over to them as she approached.

  Oz looked up and grinned, bobbing his head in approval and making the fringe that covered his face all the way down to his nose bob, too.

  “Lords of Dogtown,” he identified the movie quote. “Excellent.”

  “Tate made me watch it after we hired you,” she said. “He said it would give me insight into the whole skater universe.”

  “Did it?” Oz’s friend asked.

  “Only in a ‘where it all began’ sort of context,” Mel said.

  “Beginnings are critical,” Oz said. “Mel, you remember my friend Lupe.”

  Mel glanced at the slender youth standing beside Oz. She had thought it was a boy, but now she could see the definite curves beneath the girl’s outfit of unrelieved black. Her hair was styled much like Oz’s in that it hung over her face down to her nose, but her fringe was an electric pink color.

  “Hi, Lupe. Wasn’t your hair green last time I saw you?”

  “I like to change it up,” Lupe said.

  “The pink is a bold choice,” Mel said. Then she turned to Oz, and said, “You two can’t skateboard in the alley. If you break a bone, I’ll be liable.”

  “We won’t,” he protested. “We’re pros.”

  “Take it to the Wedge over in the park,” Mel said. She used her “this is not negotiable” voice.

  “Oh, man,” Oz began, but Lupe interrupted. “It’s cool. I’ll break down the ramp. You’re supposed to start work in five minutes anyway.”

  They shrugged at each other in some silent teenspeak that Mel didn’t understand.

  Lupe propped her board, which b
oasted a pretty spectacular red skull on its underside, against the wall and jogged over to their hastily constructed ramp.

  “So, you’re spending a lot of time with Lupe, huh?” Mel asked as she passed Oz on the steps.

  “Just friends,” Oz said, clearly anticipating the direction her question was going.

  “Well, tell your friend she can have a cupcake on the house for that sweet alley that she did in the air.”

  “It’s called an ollie,” Oz corrected.

  “Really?” Mel asked. “I could have sworn—”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure,” Oz said.

  Mel looked at him closely. His lip rings were trembling, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  “Ollie, then,” she said.

  As she closed the door behind her, she saw Oz burst out with a laugh as he hurried to help his friend break down their ramp.

  She couldn’t help but smile. They reminded her of, well, of her and Tate when they had first become friends. She hoped Lupe proved to be as worthy of Oz’s friendship as Tate had been of hers. Then she remembered that she was mad at him and turned back to the kitchen, scowling.

  “How did it go?” Detective Martinez asked.

  Mel jumped and spun away from the door.

  The kitchen door was swinging shut behind him, and she realized he must have come in just after she did.

  “Good,” she said. “We found him.”

  “Is he all right?” Martinez asked.

  He had his detective face on, and Mel met his inquisitive glance directly, so he had no doubt about what she said.

  “Tate was shocked to hear about Sam Kelleher,” she said. “Completely, utterly shocked.”

  Martinez gave her a slow smile. “I like that.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “That you are so absolutely sure of your friend’s noninvolvement in the murder and that you want me to be sure of it as well.”

  “Why does that amuse you?” she asked.

  “Because it’s very loyal of you,” he said. “And I don’t see a lot of that when I’m questioning people. Like this magazine crew—”

  His voice trailed off, as if he thought better of what he had been about to say, but Mel was curious. Who at the magazine was willing to throw over the others?

  “Are they all pointing fingers at one another?” she asked. She went for a sympathetic tone to draw him out, but he grinned, as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

  “You are so your uncle’s niece,” he said. “That is the exact same tone he would have taken to get more information.”

  “So, you’re not falling for it?” she asked.

  “Not even a little,” he said.

  They studied each other across the kitchen. Mel liked him. He had a real sense of right and wrong, good and bad, up and down.

  “So, given that my kitchen is empty, I have to ask: Did you haul all of my boot-camp cupcake bakers off to jail?” she asked.

  “No, but only because I don’t have enough evidence to stick on any of them yet,” he said. “I have them sitting out front, writing statements about exactly what they knew about Sam Kelleher. Somewhere in there I’ve got to get a lead.”

  “And while you do that, Uncle Stan is doing what exactly?” she asked.

  “Trying to track down the murder weapon,” he said. “The medical examiner had a few ideas of what might have been used to cause the blunt trauma to the back of the skull, and Stan is out canvassing the neighborhood with some uniforms. If they recover the weapon, it could turn the case around for us.”

  “Is it not going well?” Mel asked.

  “Well, we’re past the first twenty-four-hour mark, which is crucial,” he said. “The more time that passes, the harder it will be to trace the killer.”

  “What about Amy Pierson?” Mel asked.

  Martinez lifted his eyebrows, and asked, “Care to share something?”

  “Other than personal dislike, sadly, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you. But I just can’t help thinking that she has the most motive given her twisted relationship with Sam,” she said. “And no one likes her.”

  “I got the feeling of general dislike for her in the interviews and as far as her relationship with Kelleher, it’s under investigation,” he said. “Unfortunately, the DA, as you probably know, likes us to have something a bit more solid than animosity.”

  “Pity,” Mel said.

  “Speaking of the DA, how are things with you and Joe DeLaura?” he asked.

  Mel knew there was absolutely no reason why she should feel uncomfortable talking to Martinez about Joe, and yet that was exactly how she felt. If she was completely honest with herself, it was because she didn’t want Martinez to think of her as being in a relationship, which was so completely wrong. Right?

  So she met his gaze and forced a smile and did the right thing. “Things are good, great, things are great.”

  “You know what I can’t believe?” Martinez asked.

  “What?”

  “That Joe hasn’t gotten a ring on that finger of yours,” he said. “I’d have thought he’d have a lock on you by now.”

  Mel felt her face flash as hot as an oven fire.

  “Oh, no way! You’re engaged?” Martinez asked.

  Twenty

  Mel couldn’t answer. She hadn’t even told her mother; she certainly wasn’t going to tell Martinez. She heard the door to the bakery open and assumed it was Oz. She didn’t want him overhearing this, either.

  “So, have you set a date?” Martinez asked. “And where’s the rock? If you’re engaged, DeLaura better pony up a serious sparkler for that left hand.”

  Mel started to shake her head, but a shout of fury interrupted her.

  “What?”

  Mel spun around to see Angie standing in the open door with her hands planted on her hips, looking outraged.

  “When? And why didn’t you tell me?” Angie hollered.

  Oz came in behind Angie, took one look at her gladiator posture, and turned back around.

  “I’ll just go around the side,” he called to Mel.

  “Angie, Detective Martinez was just teasing me,” Mel said. “Really.”

  She whipped around and narrowed her eyes at him in a look that promised impending pain if he didn’t go along with her, “Right, detective?”

  “Yep,” he said immediately. “Just joshing.”

  Angie glanced suspiciously between them.

  “Because that would be a huge thing to keep from your best friend,” Angie said. “Unforgivably huge.”

  Mel felt the sweat bead up on her forehead. Then she got mad. She still hadn’t forgiven Angie for earlier.

  “Well, maybe if I do get engaged I’ll just keep my big, fat mouth shut about it,” she said. “So there.”

  “‘So there’?” Angie mocked. “Really? So lame.”

  “Go away,” Mel said.

  “Fine, I’ll go help Marty and Oz out front,” Angie huffed. She strode past Martinez and hit the swinging kitchen door harder than necessary.

  “Still mad?” a voice asked from the back door.

  Mel turned to see Tate standing there.

  “Yes,” she said. “But not so much at you.”

  “Good, because I have something to ask you,” he said.

  He glanced over her shoulder, and said, “Oh, hi, detective.”

  Martinez nodded at him, and Mel could tell his detective brain was still wondering why Tate had disappeared right after Sam’s murder.

  “Come on,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”

  She didn’t look to see what Martinez thought of this; she just led the way. Tate followed her inside, and she shut the door. Brigit’s stuff covered most of her desk, and her own things were in a pile on the floor. Mel felt her mood dip even lower. If this week did not end soon, she was pretty sure she was going to punch some poor sap right in the nose for no other reason than he’d be crowding her personal space bubble and she would h
ave had it.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Can I have a job?” he asked.

  Mel starred at him. He looked terrible: wrinkled and unshaven, and he had a faint unemployed odor about him that was not pleasant.

  “You’re serious?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Just until I figure out what I’m going to do.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Report to Angie. She’ll work you into the schedule.”

  “Thanks, Mel,” he said. “You’re the best.”

  He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Where are you living now?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a line on a place,” he said.

  “You know you could stay with me or Angie,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. “But then I wouldn’t really be doing all this on my own, now, would I?”

  “Tate, when I said all of those things, it was just to get you to build up the courage to tell Angie how you feel, not to walk away from your whole life,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know, but you made me realize that my whole life is a sham,” he said. “I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I’ve never earned anything on my own.”

  “Yes, you have,” Mel said.

  Tate tilted his head and gave her a doubtful look. “Name one thing.”

  “My friendship,” she said. “You were my first real friend.”

  He gave her a small smile and then opened his arms. Mel hugged him and then quickly stepped back, holding her nose.

  “As your boss, I insist you go up to my apartment and shower,” she said. “To put it kindly, you stink.”

  “Still, harsh,” Tate said.

  “Git,” Mel said, and she tossed him the key to her apartment.

  The door shut behind him, and she sighed. What a mess. Tate’s life was a complete disaster, and she couldn’t help but feel that it was a little bit her fault. Angie was mad at her, and she probably had a small right to be, although Mel wasn’t completely sure about that. And now she had lied to Angie about being engaged, and if the truth got out, it was going to be ugly.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and she imagined it was Brigit coming to lay claim to her office again.

  “Come in,” she said.

  To her surprise it was Detective Martinez. He closed the door behind him, and Mel felt as if her already small office had shrunk to the size of an old-fashioned phone booth.