Going, Going, Ganache

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Other than to facilitate a reconciliation with your parents?” Mel asked. “We are doing this because I want to know who murdered Sam Kelleher.”

  “What I mean is, shouldn’t you leave this up to Uncle Stan and Martinez?” Tate asked.

  “Oh, I am,” Mel said. “I just think if we can get some names to help out, we should. None of the cupcake boot campers have been arrested. That means they all have alibis, and even Amy, who doesn’t, hasn’t been arrested.”

  “Mel, I really don’t think—” Tate began, but Mel interrupted.

  “Listen. Most of the people at the gala tomorrow have been written about in the magazine. Now, who is going to have better luck than the police at getting these people to talk?”

  “Us,” Tate replied. His voice was low and unhappy.

  Mel switched off the engine and opened her door.

  Tate didn’t follow, however, instead sitting with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Mel looked over the roof of her car at Angie. “Work your magic.”

  Angie blew out a breath. “I’d have better luck if I used dynamite.”

  Mel didn’t wait to see what weapon of choice Angie unleashed. She had complete confidence that Angie would get it done. To that end, she decided to up the ante by approaching the Harpers’ front door and announcing their arrival, leaving Tate with no alternative but to face his parents.

  As she knocked on the door, she heard grumbling coming from behind her and knew that Angie had managed to coerce Tate into getting out of the car.

  “Very mature of you,” Mel said as Tate stood beside her.

  He said something under his breath that Mel did not think was a compliment, but she decided to let it go.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Ada was standing there, scowling at them.

  “Mr. Tate, where have you been?” she asked. Then she pulled him into a bear hug that looked as if it might have squished his innards.

  “Hi, Mrs. Ada,” Tate choked out as he hugged her back. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “Girls, you brought him home,” Mrs. Ada said as she released Tate and reached around him to embrace both Mel and Angie. They were bone-crusher hugs, and Mel surreptitiously felt her side to make sure she hadn’t punctured a lung.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Harper called as she came around the corner. “Oh.”

  She froze in the doorway, staring at her son as if he were a ghost.

  “Hi, Mom,” Tate said. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek, his lips barely brushing her perfectly made-up skin.

  Mrs. Harper blinked rapidly and then, before he could step away, she put her arms around his middle and squeezed him in the most awkward and yet heartfelt hug Mel had ever witnessed.

  “Oh, Tate,” she sighed. “I’ve been so worried. We all have.”

  Mrs. Ada nodded in agreement.

  “Come on in,” Mrs. Harper said. “Ada, would you go get Mr. Harper?”

  “Right away,” Mrs. Ada said. She crossed the foyer and went down a hallway that Mel knew led to Mr. Harper’s home office.

  They took seats in the living room as before. Mrs. Harper kept her eyes on her son as if afraid he would disappear again.

  “Where have you been?” she asked him.

  “I’ve been striking out on my own,” Tate said. “I decided it was time I proved to myself that I could be successful on my own and not because I was born with all of this.” He gestured to the obvious wealth surrounding them.

  “But—” Mrs. Harper began to speak, but then stopped as if she couldn’t fathom why Tate would feel the need to prove himself.

  Mel felt a twinge of guilt that all this upheaval was her fault. She cast a sidelong glance at Angie to see if she was thinking the same thing, but she wasn’t looking at Mel but at Tate, and the glowing expression on her face was one of pride.

  “Tate,” Mrs. Ada came into the room. “Your father would like a word with you in his study.”

  Tate did not look surprised.

  “This should be fun,” he said.

  Mrs. Harper gave him a worried look, and he smiled at her.

  “Do you want backup?” Angie asked.

  Tate grinned at her. “That would be epic, but no, I can handle it.”

  He rose from his seat and disappeared down the hall.

  “Would you girls like a refreshment?” Mrs. Harper asked. “Coffee? Mrs. Ada just baked a chocolate cake that is divine.”

  Mel was tempted. She did love chocolate cake, but she shook her head, determined to stay on task.

  “If you change your mind, just let me know,” Mrs. Ada said, and she left the room.

  Mel noticed she was headed down the hall towards the study, and she wondered if Mrs. Ada was planning to do some dipping in on the men’s conversation.

  “Mrs. Harper, have you heard of SWS magazine?” Mel asked.

  “Southwest Style?” she asked. “Yes, I’ve had a subscription for years. I have all of the issues. They did a piece on my garden a few years back.”

  “I thought I remembered Tate telling me about that,” Mel said.

  She glanced at Angie, who was staring at the study door with a worried expression on her face. Mel knew she would have liked to have gone with Tate to face his father.

  “May I look at a few of those issues?” Mel asked.

  “Certainly, but why?” Mrs. Harper asked.

  “I’m just curious,” Mel said. “You know that we’ve been hosting a cupcake boot camp for the magazine’s staff at the bakery?”

  Mrs. Harper nodded.

  “And one of their writers was found dead outside the bakery a few days ago,” she said.

  “I thought it was a mugging,” Mrs. Harper said. She looked from both Mel to Angie. “It wasn’t?”

  “Afraid not,” Mel said. “I think it may have to do with something he wrote about someone.”

  “He did write exposé types of articles, and some people were not happy to be the source of his material,” Mrs. Harper said. She rose from her chair. “In fact I can think of one banker, a client of my husband’s, who was particularly enraged. I keep the issues in my sitting room. Come, let’s go look.”

  Mel and Angie rose and followed Mrs. Harper down the hall in the opposite direction of Mr. Harper’s study. Mel noticed that Angie was lagging behind, as if her ears had the auditory power of a bat and could pick up the men’s conversation. Mel was just happy that they hadn’t heard any yelling.

  Then again, this was the Harpers. They were not a yelling family like the DeLaura family. As they made their way into Mrs. Harper’s study, Mel tried to picture the Harpers and the DeLauras united by a relationship between Angie and Tate. It boggled.

  The sitting room was cozy, done in cobalt blue and white with stripes and a floral pattern jumbled together to give a feminine feel but not overly so. Mrs. Harper had a large bookcase that was stuffed floor to ceiling, and beside one of the chairs was a wicker basket full of yarn.

  “My latest knitting project,” she said. “A Fair Isle sweater for Tate.”

  “The colors are lovely,” Angie said.

  “Well, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Harper said. As she turned towards the bookcase, Mel gave Angie a look as if to say, Suck up.

  Angie winked and tapped her temple with her forefinger, letting Mel know that was exactly what she’d been doing, and she was feeling pretty smart about it.

  “Here we are,” Mrs. Harper said. She knelt down beside the bookcase. “Twelve years of the magazine.”

  She pulled out the earliest box and took out the first issue. It was the premier issue of the magazine and the cover featured Carla Stone, a Hollywood actress who made her home in Scottsdale.

  Mrs. Harper handed it to Mel, who flipped it open to the masthead. Sure enough, Brigit was listed, as was Sam Kelleher. She didn’t see Bonnie, Justin, Sylvia, or Amy listed, so she assumed they had all come later. She wondered about the former employees at the magazine.

  Had any of them left the magazine and harbor
ed a grudge? She figured Uncle Stan had probably covered that, but it certainly didn’t hurt to ask.

  “I know this is a lot to ask—” Mel began, but Mrs. Harper interrupted her.

  “Yes, you may borrow them all. I trust you to take good care of them.”

  “Thank you so much,” Mel said. She put the issue back in its box and knelt down on the floor. Each year had a box, so there were twelve boxes total.

  “Mel! Angie!” A shout came from the hallway. “Where are you? We’re leaving now.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Harper put her hand to her throat, as if she were unaccustomed to hearing such a loud voice in her home.

  Angie bounded across the room to the open door.

  “We’re in here,” she called.

  “Fabulous. Let’s go,” Tate said. His brown hair looked disheveled, as if he’d been attempting to rip it out in tufts. His mouth was compressed into a straight line. Mel knew him well enough to know, he did this when he was trying to keep any angry words from getting out.

  “Tate, what is it?” his mother asked.

  “Dad and I are having a little disagreement,” Tate said. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  He crossed the room and placed a gentle kiss on his mother’s temple that did nothing to ease the worried lines that creased her forehead.

  “If you leave this house without agreeing to come back to the firm, I will disown you,” Mr. Harper announced as he strode into the small room. “You will lose everything.”

  Twenty-eight

  “Ah!” Mrs. Harper gasped. “Dear, you shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

  “Oh, he means it,” Tate said. His cheeks had bright red patches on them, and his eyes snapped with barely banked anger. “But you can’t bully me into staying at Harper Investments, Dad. Disown me, go ahead. I don’t care.”

  When Tate moved to storm out of the room, Mr. Harper stepped in front of him.

  “Think about what you’re doing, son,” Mr. Harper said. “You’re throwing away everything you’ve worked for—”

  “You mean everything you’ve worked for,” Tate said.

  Mr. Harper made a slashing motion with his hand to indicate that Tate should shut up. Mel was in agreement here. There was nothing Tate could say that was going to make this any better.

  “You are throwing away four years at Princeton and ten years in the business and for what? To prove yourself to a girl?”

  Mel felt her eyes go wide. What exactly had Tate said to his father?

  “Yes, I am,” Tate said. “I need to know that I can be the man she deserves.”

  “She’s not even your social equal,” Mr. Harper raged. He waved a dismissive hand at Angie and Mel felt a flash of rage light up inside of her that was so hot and fierce she was afraid she might torch the place if she opened her mouth.

  “You’re right,” Tate said.

  Angie hung her head, looking ashamed, and Mel gasped. How could Tate be such a snob? Now she wanted to punch him in the nose. She wrapped an arm around Angie and pulled her close. She started to lead her towards the door away from this horrible scene.

  “She’s not my social equal,” Tate said. “She is far superior to me in every way and much more than I deserve.”

  Angie stopped in her tracks and turned to look at Tate. He reached out and grabbed her hand. He gently tugged Angie away from Mel and brought her close to his side. Then he gazed at her with a look of such tenderness and devotion that Mel felt her anger evaporate. Her throat got tight, and she glanced at Mrs. Harper to see that her eyes had gotten misty as well.

  “Well,” Mrs. Harper sniffed. “I think you’ve done enough damage for one evening, husband. You may now go back to your study and brood about it.”

  “But—” Mr. Harper protested.

  Mrs. Harper held up her hand. “No, don’t bother. I am not speaking to you. Go away.”

  Mr. Harper glanced at everyone in the room, let out a frustrated growl, and stormed out of the room.

  Mrs. Harper stepped forward and put her right hand on Tate’s cheek and her left on Angie’s. “It’s a perfect match, if you ask me, and I couldn’t be happier.”

  Angie blushed and Tate grinned.

  “Thank you,” Angie said. “But I don’t want to cause trouble within your family.”

  Mrs. Harper took Angie’s hands in hers. “Mr. Harper has obviously forgotten that he is not my social equal. I come from old money, and he comes from no money. Ironic that he is now the bigger snob, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t know that,” Tate said. “I always thought the Harpers were wealthy back to the Mayflower.”

  “Oh, please. Dirt farmers at best,” Mrs. Harper said. “Early on, your father hired a company to have his image overhauled, and I think he has quite forgotten his roots.”

  “I had no idea. I’m stunned,” Tate said.

  “As most people would be, which is why your father is so private about his background,” Mrs. Harper said. “Your father tells everyone that we met at the country club. What he doesn’t say is that I was there taking tennis lessons and he was there on the landscaping crew.”

  Tate’s jaw did a slow slide open.

  “When we fell in love, my parents forbid me from seeing him. He had to bust his butt to win my father’s approval. I wouldn’t have it any other way for my son.”

  She let go of Angie’s hands, and said, “Make sure he’s worthy of you.”

  With that, she left the room, leaving the three of them to stare at one another in amazement.

  “The entire foundation of my life has just crumbled,” Tate said. “This is—”

  “Incredible?” Angie said.

  “Yeah.” He nodded.

  “Well, I’d love to stay here and distill this new information, but we’ve got to go. Come on,” Mel said, realizing Tate was too stunned to move. “Help me with these boxes.”

  “Boxes?” he asked.

  “Yes, your mom is letting me borrow her magazines,” Mel said. “I want to read up on Sam’s articles in SWS.”

  “Mel, don’t you think the police have already done that?” Tate asked.

  “Of course they have,” she said. “But they’re not baking cupcakes all day long with the staff and getting to know them, are they?”

  “No,” Tate agreed. “Still, I get the feeling that Uncle Stan will be so unhappy about this.”

  “I disagree,” Mel said as she handed him four of the boxes and then turned to do the same to Angie. “If he really didn’t want my input, he never would have allowed us to continue the cupcake boot camp.”

  “You have to give her that one,” Angie said.

  “Very reluctantly,” Tate agreed.

  Mel scooped up the last of the boxes, and Tate led the way out of his mom’s sitting room and through the house. Mrs. Ada met them at the door.

  “I am so proud of you, Mr. Tate,” she said.

  Tate looked pleased and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Ada,” he said.

  She then put a brown paper sack on top of his armful of boxes.

  “I packed you each a piece of my chocolate cake,” she said. “You earned it.”

  She patted both Angie and Mel on the arm as they trooped out the door and shut it behind them.

  “Good old Mrs. Ada,” Angie said. “I knew she wouldn’t let us leave without cake.”

  Mel and Captain Jack sprawled out on her futon. Captain Jack was attacking his catnip mouse while Mel read through the back copies of SWS.

  She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, but after several issues she was beginning to understand Sam Kelleher the journalist very well, with just glimpses of Sam Kelleher the man mixed in.

  His writing chops were exemplary. He pulled the reader into his stories with short, smart bursts of description that engaged her as a reader and made her want to know more. His profiles were carefully constructed deconstructions of the person of whom he was writing. Occasionally, he wrote pleas
ant pieces about genuinely nice people doing nice things. But mostly, his work was about not-nice people doing very bad things, and Mel could tell he delighted in being the one to bring them down.

  What amazed Mel was that, although Sam had done the occasional nice interview, it was very apparent that he liked to expose people’s dirty dark secrets, like the banker who was having an affair with his wife’s sister and was so obvious about it that everyone interviewed already knew, including the wife.

  Other stunners included the world famous environmentalist, who traveled by private jet and lived in a McMansion on the side of Camelback Mountain, where he’d installed forty thousand dollars worth of rare teakwood flooring. Sam had eviscerated him in the interview and then had included a picture of the man posing in his opulent home.

  As Mel read the articles, she couldn’t help but be stymied that the people agreed to have Sam write about them. Had they not read the magazine, or was their vanity such that having an article written about them overrode their common sense?

  She was a third of the way through the magazines when her cell phone chimed Tara’s Theme. She wondered if it was time to change it. She needed a different classic movie theme, maybe Rocky or The Pink Panther.

  She looked at the display and saw Joe’s name. Her breath hitched, and she hurriedly answered.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi, Cupcake,” he said. “How goes boot camp?”

  “Good,” she said. “I think we’re going to slide in sideways on our buttercream, but we’ll make it to the gala.”

  He chuckled and Mel felt the warm gravelly sound all the way down to her toes. She missed him. She hadn’t really taken the time to think about it since their tiff, but she missed him a lot.

  “I’m sure you and your cupcakes will be as amazing as usual,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  There was a beat of awkward silence, as if neither of them were willing to break their tenuous connection by bringing up the unresolved issue between them.

  “I miss you,” Mel said.

  Joe sighed. “I miss you, too.”

  Again, there was silence and Joe finally cleared his throat. “Promise me you’ll be careful until the killer is caught.”