Going, Going, Ganache

by Jenn McKinlay

  Angie stood impatiently waiting for her as Mel scanned the floor.

  “What are you looking for?” Angie asked.

  “My list of names,” Mel said. “I wanted to bring it tonight in case the opportunity presented itself to ask people questions.”

  “Oh, good grief. Let it go,” Angie said.

  “I can’t,” Mel returned. “Marty!”

  Marty popped his head through the kitchen door. His eyes went wide at the sight of them.

  “Well, look at you two. Hearts are going to be breaking all over town tonight,” he said.

  Angie and Mel both gave him dazzling smiles.

  “Thank you, Marty,” Mel said. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see a piece of paper with a list of names on it, did you?”

  Marty frowned. “Nope, I can’t say that I did. Is it important?”

  “No,” Angie said. “It’s not. Can we go now?”

  She hooked her arm in Mel’s and, with a wave to Marty, she hauled Mel out the door.

  “It could be valuable,” Mel said as they made their way down the steps.

  “Yes, but we can’t lose any more time looking for it,” Angie said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to see how the cornucopia turned out.”

  Mel nodded. She supposed she had to let go of her list. And Angie was right, Bonnie had hired a carpenter to build a huge cornucopia to display the cupcakes, and she was excited and nervous to see it.

  They took Mel’s car to Del Sol, a five-star resort nestled at the base of Camelback Mountain just minutes from Old Town Scottsdale, where the gala was being held. She handed her keys to the parking valet and paused at the base of the stairs to hitch up the skirt of her gown so she could navigate the steep steps that led to the terrace and the ballroom.

  A uniformed doorman held the door open for them, and Mel took a quick glance at her reflection in the glass door to check that her short blond hair was keeping the frothy shape into which Angie had whipped it, and to make sure the purple-green remnants of the shiner Amy had give her were completely covered by the makeup Sylvia had pushed on her.

  The entryway was gorgeous, with a highly glossed brown stone floor and silver starbursts hanging above between rectangular shaped lamps, giving the modern space a retro twist.

  Mel and Angie followed the horde of tuxedos and glittery gowns into the ballroom. A large black-and-white framed photo of Sam Kelleher met them at the door. It was Sam in his prime, when he sported a thick head of hair and the wiry build of a man whose meals were grabbed in between chasing down leads, back when he’d been writing for the Los Angeles Times.

  The tables in the ballroom had been set with black cloths, and the centerpieces were tall, clear glass cylinders filled with water, with green apples and burgundy pomegranates bobbing below a wide white candle floating on the top.

  Mel scanned the room, looking for the cupcake cornucopia. She saw several large bars that already had lines forming, as well as a huge ice sculpture carved into the shape of the SWS magazine logo.

  “Over there,” Angie said. She grabbed Mel’s hand, and they wound their way through the tables towards the dessert display.

  The horn of plenty was a huge golden structure. The opening was at least five feet high and five feet wide, and the cupcakes were displayed coming out of it on tiers, as if they were pouring out of the opening. The back of the cornucopia curled up into the air, and bouquets of different-colored mums had been tucked all around its base.

  “Wow,” Mel said. “It’s even better than I imagined. The carpenter they hired outdid himself.”

  Tate appeared from behind the display, and said, “Breathtaking.”

  “It really is,” Angie agreed as she turned to face him.

  “No, I meant you,” he said.

  Thirty

  Angie flushed the same color as her dress, and Tate, who was still in a T-shirt and jeans with his bakery apron over them, held out his arm to her.

  “Walk with me,” he said.

  Without a word to Mel, Angie took his arm, and they walked off with their heads pressed together.

  A sharp pang of envy stabbed Mel, not because she didn’t want Angie and Tate together, but because she wished things were as simple between her and Joe right now. She wished he were here, but she had run him off by not wanting to get married, and now she had to live with it.

  “Mel!” A voice called her name, and she turned to see Uncle Stan making his way across the room towards her.

  He gave her a once-over and grinned. “Wow, who knew that, behind the frosting and sprinkle-covered T-shirts, there was a raving beauty looking to get out?”

  “I knew,” a voice said, and Mel turned to see Martinez approaching from the other direction.

  The look he gave her scorched, and Mel held her silver clutch purse to her middle as if it could help her catch her breath.

  Uncle Stan glanced between them with an interested look, and Mel forced a smile, and said, “Thank you both, but I think the real attraction is the cornucopia. I can’t believe we pulled it off.”

  Chad, the photographer, was snapping pictures of the display, and Mel hoped that SWS planned to use them in the magazine. It would be great publicity for the bakery.

  “I didn’t know you two were going to be here,” she said to her uncle with a swift glance at Martinez that included him in the conversation but didn’t give out even a smidgeon of a flirtatious vibe.

  “A gala that now includes honoring our murder vic,” Uncle Stan said. “Couldn’t miss it.”

  “You look good in a dark suit,” Mel said.

  “Really? Because I feel like a pallbearer,” Uncle Stan said.

  He hooked a finger in the collar of his dress shirt. Like his older brother, Mel’s father, Uncle Stan was a portly fellow, and his starched collar and snappy tie looked to be strangling him.

  “I’m going to work the room,” Uncle Stan said. “The police chief and the mayor are over there, and I want to do some damage control, since they’re pretty unhappy with our lack of a lead at the moment.”

  “Need backup?” Martinez asked.

  Stan glanced at him and then at Mel. She knew his sharp gaze wasn’t missing the fact that Martinez was standing closer to her than a mere acquaintance would.

  “No, I got it,” Uncle Stan said. “Why don’t you keep an eye out for any of our persons of interest?”

  “Will do,” Martinez said.

  They watched him leave, and then Martinez turned to Mel, and asked, “Walk with me?”

  She couldn’t help but note it was the same thing Tate had said to Angie. She scanned the room, not sure of what or who she was looking for, but when the gorgeous gowns and sharp suits started to blur in front of her, she nodded.

  Like Uncle Stan, Martinez was wearing a suit, and it hung off of his broad shoulders as if it were made for him. It was black, as were the shirt and tie he wore underneath. It gave him a dangerous edge that Mel had to acknowledge was just the teensiest bit thrilling.

  “Come on,” he said. “I don’t bite . . . very often.”

  Mel let out a nervous laugh and walked beside him as he led her out the door to the patio outside. The sun was setting, and the south side of Camelback Mountain was absorbing the red and pink hues of the sunset into its pores and returning the glow.

  “So, where’s your date?” he asked.

  “She’s off with her soon-to-be boyfriend,” Mel said, and she nodded towards the corner of the patio where Tate and Angie stood apart from the rest of the crowd, getting lost in one another’s eyes.

  “Ah,” Martinez said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Mel said as they passed a small bar. “I’m too nervous. I haven’t seen any of the boot-camp people arrive, and I am hoping that they are as impressed with the display as I am.”

  “They will be,” he said. “It’s extraordinary.”

  His voice was so certain that Mel couldn’t help but beam at him. His breath caught, and his black eyes
crackled with heat.

  “If I wasn’t on duty, I’d kiss you,” he said.

  Mel felt the air rush out of her lungs in a whoosh.

  “I’m still figuring things out,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. He ducked his head and glanced at her through his lashes in a look that was utterly charming. “But a kiss might help clear things up.”

  “Or make me even more confused,” she countered.

  A cool breeze swept across the patio, tousling Mel’s hair and tugging on her skirt as if inviting her to come and play.

  “I don’t want to do that,” Martinez said. “I want you to be sure.”

  His pocket chirped, and he pulled out his cell phone and checked the display. “Your uncle needs me.”

  Mel nodded, aware that she was disappointed that she wouldn’t get to spend more time with him. She knew it was just as well. Things were complicated enough.

  “Before I go, I have to tell you something,” he said.

  “Your first name?”

  “No.” He grinned. “You’ll have to work for that. But I want to be sure that someone tells you tonight, because you certainly deserve to hear it. Melanie Cooper, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  Mel was caught in his black gaze for a moment, before she had the presence of mind to stammer, “Thank you.”

  “When you know what you want,” he said. “Call me. I’ll come running.”

  Mel stood stupidly watching him as he left to go back into the ballroom. She was incapable of speech and not a little giddy at the compliments he had paid her.

  “Is this a great night or what?” Angie asked as she joined Mel.

  Mel tore her gaze away from where Martinez had disappeared and studied her friend.

  Angie’s red lips were parted in a wide grin and her velvet brown eyes sparkled with undiluted joy. Mel glanced behind her, and asked, “Where’s Tate?”

  “He was a tad underdressed to stay for the event,” she said. “So, we’re going to meet up later at the Sugar Bowl.”

  At the mention of Mel’s favorite ice cream shop, she felt her stomach growl. “Want to join us?” Angie asked. “Maybe we can invite Joe, too.”

  “Eh, I don’t want to cramp your style,” she said. “And I doubt Joe wants to spend any time with me right now.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I doubt he’d ever feel that way about you,” Angie said. Her voice was soft, and Mel knew it had to be hard for her to watch a rift happening between her best friend and her brother.

  “You and Tate need time on your own,” Mel said.

  “Oh, no. Just because Tate and I are . . . hmm, I don’t really know what we are,” Angie admitted. “But just because we are, does not mean things are going to change amongst the three of us. We’re still going to do classic-movie night and hang out.”

  Mel smiled at her. She hated to admit how relieved Angie’s words made her feel, but there it was.

  “I thought I recognized the cupcakes in there,” a voice said. “I might have known it was you two.”

  Mel and Angie turned to find a dark-haired woman in a clingy, satin sheath in deep purple approaching them. Mel frowned. She couldn’t place the woman.

  “Alma?” Angie asked. “Alma Rodriguez?”

  “One and the same,” Alma said and she gave them a tiny curtsey.

  When Mel and Angie had met Alma the year before, she had looked like something that had crawled out of the city sewer, with her relentless black outfits and Addams Family makeup.

  She’d had the snarky disposition to go with the look, and they had not started out on friendly terms at all. But when a murderer had almost taken Alma out, Mel had found her, saving her life and giving her another shot at her design career, which appeared to be flourishing.

  “Is that one of yours?” Mel asked.

  “That depends,” Alma said. “Do you like it?”

  “Are you kidding?” Mel asked. “It’s not a dress; it’s a work of art.”

  “Thanks.” Alma smiled. Mel had seen her once or twice since her goth days, and it was good to see that she was becoming less the snarky, petulant designer she had once been, and a more a confident and gifted artist in her own right.

  “So, what brings you to this shindig?” Angie asked.

  “The same thing as every other designer in the Valley,” Alma said. She turned away from them and scanned the room. “Everyone in the fashion industry is here to court the favor of her.”

  She gestured to a woman in a sea-foam green gown encrusted in crystals. Her raven hair was swept up in an elaborate do with long strands framing her face. When she turned around, they saw that it was Sylvia.

  “Sylvia? Why Sylvia?” Angie asked.

  “Because Sylvia Iozzi Porter Levin McKenna Lucci can make or break each and every one of our careers by giving us press in SWS,” Alma said.

  Angie laughed. “I can’t believe you know all of her married names.”

  Mel frowned. There was something about the names that rang a bell with her, but it didn’t immediately come to mind. She frowned.

  “I heard she was at Bruno Casio’s the other night being wined and dined,” Mel said. “Probably you need to do something like that to get in her good graces.”

  Now Alma frowned. “I was at Bruno’s the other night. I didn’t see her.”

  “It may have been a different night,” Mel said. “It was the beginning of the week, when we started the boot camp to make those cupcakes.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Alma said. “Bruno always has a dinner party in his studio the same night of the week. It’s what he’s known for, because his designs sure aren’t getting him any press.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Mel asked.

  “Yes,” Alma said.

  Mel looked at Angie. “We need to tell Uncle Stan or Martinez.”

  “Mel, you can’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Angie said.

  Mel widened her eyes in surprise. Of course she was thinking what Angie thought she was thinking.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Alma said, obviously not listening to them. “I see an opportunity to schmooze.”

  Mel and Angie watched Alma strut away with her purple gown trailing behind her. She approached Sylvia, who greeted her with a smile and an air-kiss.

  “There could be a million reasons why Sylvia said she was at Bruno’s when she wasn’t,” Angie continued. “I really don’t think it is as big a deal as you’re thinking it is.”

  “Angie, she lied about her whereabouts on the night of a murder,” Mel said. “That is a big deal.”

  “We don’t know that she lied,” Angie argued. “Maybe she and Alma just missed each other.”

  Mel glanced around the room and noticed that there was a bit of a hullabaloo at the entrance. Brigit and Hannigan had arrived together. There was a swarm of VIP-type people around them, and Mel looked for Martinez or Uncle Stan to be among them. No such luck.

  “Is that the mayor?” Angie asked.

  Mel squinted. It did look like him. Oh, boy.

  “Come on,” she said. “We need to talk to Brigit.”

  “Now?” Angie asked. “Can’t it wait?”

  At that moment, Brigit saw Mel through the throng on the patio, and she smiled. She turned and said something to Hannigan, and he nodded while she extricated herself from the group and approached Mel and Angie.

  “Uh-oh, do you think she hates the display?” Angie asked.

  “No,” Mel said. “It’s fabulous. If anything, she’s coming to praise us to the skies.”

  Angie turned her head to look at her. “Do you really believe that?”

  “No, but reality is highly overrated,” Mel said.

  “Agreed,” Angie said.

  They braced themselves for Brigit’s opinion of the display. Much to their shock, Brigit grabbed their hands in hers and gushed. Yes, gushed.

  “It is fantastic,” Brigit said. “Our cupcakes look amazing in the cornucopia. It’s brilliant,
positively brilliant.”

  “Thank you,” Mel said, her voice weak with relief.

  Brigit laughed. “Were you worried I was going to trash it?”

  “No,” Mel and Angie said together, and then they both added, “Yes.”

  Brigit let go of their hands and heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry if I’ve come across as an ogre.”

  “And an apology?” Mel asked. “Have you been drinking?”

  Brigit glanced over her shoulder at Hannigan, who was watching her. Their eyes met, and it seemed as if the world fell away from them. Mel noticed that Brigit had to practically force herself to turn back around.

  “Let’s just say that I have hope that things might change for the better,” she said.

  “Cautiously optimistic,” Mel said. “I like it.”

  A ruckus at the door caused them all to glance that way. Justin, in an impeccable suit, staggered back from someone, and Mel stood up on her tiptoes to see what was going on.

  “What is it?” Angie asked. Even in her high heels, she was too short to see over the crowd. “What’s happening?”

  “Oh, no, not now,” Brigit muttered.

  “Amy Pierson,” Mel said. “She’s got Hannigan by the shirtfront.”

  Brigit made to storm forward, but Mel caught her arm and held her back. “Seeing you is not going to calm her down. Let Hannigan deal with it. He’s a big boy.”

  Brigit looked as if she would argue, but one glance around the patio at the roll call of Phoenix’s rich and famous and she nodded.

  “This is supposed to be my magazine,” Amy was screeching. “You promised!”

  Hannigan barked something that sounded like a threat, but Amy was obviously beyond caring. Mel noticed that both Martinez and Uncle Stan had moved to the edge of the gathered crowd, as if prepping themselves to move in.

  Amy’s long brown hair was in a tangle, and the frothy, peach-colored gown she wore was sheer and low cut. Mel assumed it was supposed to be a mix of demure and slutty, but given that she looked three sheets to the wind, it really just looked slutty and sad.