Going, Going, Ganache

by Jenn McKinlay

  Justin had hooked her about the waist and was trying to remove her forcibly from the patio.

  “You said that if I got rid of Sam, you’d give me the magazine!” Amy continued to shriek. “I want it now. We had a deal. I took care of Sam, now give me my damn magazine and fire that old cow!”

  Thirty-one

  As Justin hefted her into the air to haul her away, Amy pointed a sparkly polished finger at Brigit, who cast a stony glance in return.

  The crowd parted, and Justin took the still shrieking and kicking Amy from the patio. Mel sort of hoped he would dump her in the pool to cool off, but given the expression on Uncle Stan’s face, she was going right into a police car for questioning.

  Martinez followed Justin and his armload of furious female while Uncle Stan spoke quietly but firmly to Hannigan, who cast a look, a worried look, at Brigit before he nodded and followed Uncle Stan through the doors.

  Mel studied Brigit. Despite her emotionless appearance, Mel could see by the pallor of her face that Amy’s accusation had rocked her.

  Had Hannigan made a deal with Amy that if she got rid of Sam he would give her the magazine? Had his jealousy of his rival for Brigit been that great? It appeared so.

  “Come on.” Sylvia hurried over to join them on the patio. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “The dinner should be starting in fifteen minutes,” Brigit protested. “I need to keep up appearances.”

  “Mel and Angie can hold down the fort while you take a few minutes to get yourself together,” Sylvia assured her. “Follow me.”

  Brigit glanced at Mel and Angie. “Do you mind?”

  Her usually strong voice sounded breathless, and Mel had no doubt that the scene with Amy had knocked the wind out of her.

  “Of course we don’t,” Bonnie said as she joined their little group. “Go.”

  Sylvia led away Brigit, who to her credit managed to smile and wave at people as if nothing were amiss.

  “Wow,” Angie said. “You said all along you had a funky feeling about Amy.”

  “She’s pathologically ambitious,” Mel said. “But murder—that brings it to all-new levels.”

  “Come on,” Bonnie said. “Let’s start leading folks into the dining room. Brigit’s a pro. She’ll rally and get back here.”

  The three of them split up and, together with the waitstaff, they managed to encourage the crowd, which had gossip moving through it with the heat and power of a wildfire, into the ballroom. Mel caught snippets of the rumors, most of which were that Amy had confessed to murdering Sam Kelleher at the behest of Ian Hannigan.

  Mel was shaken, she had to admit it. She’d had a bad feeling about Amy, but the fact that she’d committed murder? It was a stunner.

  To take another person’s life was the worst crime a person could commit, and to do it for a career—it made Mel queasy to think that someone could be that much of a sociopath, and it was especially disturbing, since Amy had done it just outside of Mel’s place of business.

  The crowd took their seats as dinner was served. Mel kept glancing at the door to see if Brigit was on her way. Ten minutes passed and then fifteen. Mel wondered if Brigit had decided to abandon the party. She could hardly blame her. The crowd seemed to be buzzing with the same speculation.

  “We need to do something,” Bonnie whispered. “Justin, can you give the opening speech?”

  “Me?” Justin glanced up from where he was pushing salad around his plate like it was a race between the lettuce and the croutons to lap the dish.

  “You’re higher up on the magazine than me,” Bonnie said.

  “It would be a good move,” Angie said. “Just give them a short welcome address.”

  Justin glanced around the room and straightened his tie. “Fine, but could someone please go and see what is taking Brigit so long?”

  “I’ll go,” Mel said.

  “Hurry,” Justin whispered, and Mel rose and hurried out the side door and back out to the patio.

  She could hear Justin addressing the crowd from the podium as the door closed behind her. The night sky was pale purple with the oncoming night. Mel scanned the stone terrace but, other than a few of the waitstaff and a bartender, the patio was empty.

  She really had no idea where Sylvia had taken Brigit. She’d been hoping to find them on their way back, but no. She hurried over to the bartender.

  “What can I get for you, miss?” he asked. He was older, with thick gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray mustache.

  “Is there a small meeting room around here where people could go to compose themselves?” His eyes narrowed in concern, and Mel said, “Oh, not for me, I’m fine. I’m looking for someone else.”

  He raised one eyebrow in a skeptical look, and Mel felt her stomach plunge into her feet. If his hair and mustache were black, he would be a ringer for Christopher Iozzi, one of the subjects of Sam’s articles in SWS. Iozzi!

  Mel felt her breath stall in her lungs. That was why Sylvia’s name rang a bell. She had to be related to the Iozzi family.

  What had happened to Iozzi? Mel banged on the top of the bar. She had read so many articles of Sam’s that they had begun to blur in her head.

  The doors to the ballroom opened, and Ian Hannigan strode out. He crossed over to Mel, and asked, “Where’s Brigit?”

  “What happened? I thought you were arrested,” Mel said.

  “No, I never told Amy to kill Sam.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I just encouraged her to get him to fall in love with her,” he said. “She finally admitted as much, but the detectives are still questioning her over in some meeting room about his death.”

  “Iozzi,” Mel said. “Who was he?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Hannigan asked. “I have to find Brigit. I have to explain.”

  “No!” Mel grabbed his arm. “I can’t remember the story Sam wrote, but it’s critical. What happened to Christopher Iozzi?”

  Hannigan must have seen how serious she was, because he blew out a breath, and said, “Iozzi fancied himself an entrepreneur, but he was really a mobster. He got snagged in a drug bust, and Sam exposed his long association with the mob. It ruined him.”

  “Oh, no,” Mel said. She remembered now. She closed her eyes and pictured the grainy snapshot of Iozzi coming out of the courtroom, glaring at the photographer with his left eyebrow up in a contemptuous glance.

  “He went to prison, where he was murdered in his cell by another mobster,” she said.

  “That’s right,” Hannigan said. “But what does that have to do with—”

  “Sylvia Iozzi Porter Levin McKenna Lucci,” Mel said.

  Hannigan’s mouth dropped open, and he braced himself on the bar.

  “Sylvia took Brigit to freshen up,” she said. “I don’t know where they are.”

  “Are you two all right?” the bartender asked, looking worried.

  “We need to find someone who just left here,” Hannigan said. His voice held a note of panic, and the bartender obviously heard it.

  “Around the corner, there’s a small room.” He hooked his thumb in that direction. “It connects to the ballroom and is usually reserved for the bride when we have weddings.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said.

  Hannigan took off at a run, and Mel picked up her skirt and followed him around the corner of the stone building. It could be coincidence, she told herself, but all of a sudden she remembered Alma saying that Sylvia hadn’t been at Bruno Casio’s house on the night of Sam’s murder, and her stomach clenched with acid-churning fear.

  A metal door painted to match the stone around it was set into the wall. Hannigan grabbed the handle and tried to wrench it open, but it was locked. Mel banged on the door with her fist.

  “Sylvia, open the door!” she ordered. “I know what you’re doing. You have to stop.”

  She could hear voices inside, but they were muted into indistinct mumbles. She exchanged a glance with Hannigan. He pushed her back and began to shove into
the door with his shoulder.

  “I’ll get help,” Mel said.

  Suddenly the door swung in, and Hannigan stumbled forward, unable to stop his momentum. Mel followed and saw Sylvia strike Hannigan in the temple with an ornate candleholder that looked to be made of solid brass. He let out an oomph and slumped to the floor.

  “No!” Brigit shouted, and she crawled forward to get to Hannigan.

  Mel stepped back, planning to run for help, but Sylvia was too fast for her. She grabbed Mel’s arm and yanked her into the room, then turned and slammed the door shut, trapping them.

  Thirty-two

  “Sylvia,” Mel panted. “You need to think about what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I can assure you I’ve thought about it,” Sylvia said. She pointed the candleholder at her and paced around them like a lioness sizing up a herd of antelope. “I’ve thought and I’ve planned. Really, you have no idea.”

  “Mel, we need help,” Brigit said. “Ian’s bleeding.”

  Mel looked, and sure enough the gash on his head was gushing crimson into the beige utilitarian carpet.

  “There is no one to help you,” Sylvia said. She glanced at Mel. “Sorry, but you’re unfortunately what they call collateral damage.”

  Mel studied Sylvia’s face. She could see the resemblance now in the nose and chin. Sylvia had to be Christopher’s little sister.

  “Your brother wouldn’t want this,” she said. “Christopher didn’t join the mob and earn a fortune so that you would end up with blood on your hands. He wanted better than that for you.”

  “Shut up!” Sylvia screeched, and pointed the candleholder at her like it was a gun. “You didn’t know my brother. You don’t know want he wanted for me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brigit snapped. “Sylvia, what is wrong with you? You drag me in here, you curse at me and tell me I’ve ruined your life, and then you strike Ian. What the hell is going on?”

  “Sylvia is an Iozzi,” Mel said. “Related to Christopher Iozzi.”

  “Christopher Iozzi?” Brigit asked. “The drug-runner hiding under the veneer of a young entrepreneur? Sam wrote the article that exposed him.”

  “And got him killed!” Sylvia screeched. “You and your magazine cost me my brother.”

  Brigit rose, standing over Ian like a guardian angel. “Let Ian and Melanie go, they did nothing to you or your brother.”

  “Sorry, but no,” Sylvia said. She picked up a jug of tiki-torch fluid and began to pour it on the floor. She looked at Mel and shook her head. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “You will not do this!” Brigit said, and she lunged for Sylvia. Knowing that they were about to be barbecued, Mel jumped with her. Surely, two of them could overpower Sylvia.

  Sylvia dropped the jug and swung her candleholder. It glanced off Brigit’s shoulder and, before Mel could move, it slammed into her temple. The floor rose up to meet her, and everything went black.

  It was the burn in her lungs that roused her. Mel felt as if her chest were on fire from the inside. She coughed and sucked in a breath, but it made it worse. She convulsed, feeling as if she were suffocating. Her eyes were filled with tears, and the smoke around her was as thick as fog, making it impossible to see.

  She tried to remember where the door was, but she had no idea which way she’d been facing when she’d fallen. When she tried to crawl forward, she noticed through her tears that the room was surrounded by a ring of fire. A sob constricted her throat, but she choked it down. She had no time to cry. She had to get out of here.

  She pulled her gown up past her knees so that she could crawl without getting stuck in her skirt. She inched forward until her hands touched the smooth fabric of a man’s tuxedo jacket. She jumped back, and then realized it had to be Hannigan. She reached out and patted her way up the arm until she found his face. Through the tears that streamed from her eyes, she saw that he was still unconscious.

  “Hannigan,” she croaked. “We have to get out of here.”

  She shook his body. He didn’t respond. She tried to drag him, but he was too heavy, and she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs to give her the power to try. She couldn’t leave him here to die. Adjusting her skirt to free her legs, she hunkered down on her knees and began to roll Hannigan in the direction that she hoped was the door. It was like trying to move a sack of cement.

  Grief welled up from the center of her being. She was going to die. She would never see Joe again. She would never look into his chocolate brown eyes or feel his arms around her again. The pain this thought caused burnt hotter than the flames that licked and lapped at her skin, taunting her with her imminent demise.

  No! Mel refused to give in. She refused to let go of her life so easily. She wanted to laugh with Angie and Tate again and cuddle Captain Jack. She wanted her mother to pester her with her silly worries, and she wanted to bake her cupcakes. She wasn’t going to let go of all she held dear that easily.

  Mel crouched beside Hannigan. She lowered her shoulder and used her body as leverage. She managed to move him once, then twice. She had rolled him about four times when there was a crash behind her. Terrified that the ceiling was coming down, she spun to see four burly firemen and another man coming towards her.

  “Mel!” It was Martinez.

  He snatched her up into his arms, leaving Hannigan to the firemen, and raced out of the room with her. As soon as they reached the patio, he set her down and put the oxygen mask he’d been wearing over her face.

  Mel sucked in the sweet air while Martinez held her hand and checked her over. She immediately began to hack and cough as her body rejected the smoke that had gotten into her lungs.

  Once the coughing fit stopped, she lifted her mask, and asked in a raspy voice, “Where’s Brigit? Sylvia Lucci killed Sam, and she planned to kill Brigit, too.”

  “Mask on,” Martinez ordered. He cupped her face and studied her eyes for a moment, as if reassuring himself that she was okay. “I’ll go see if they’ve found them.”

  An EMT arrived at Mel’s side, but she didn’t let go of Martinez’s hand. She didn’t like the idea of him going anywhere near the fire. He turned to look at her, gave her a slow smile, and leaned forward and kissed her head.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”

  Mel nodded and watched him go, feeling a surge of panic give her a case of the shakes, which in turn caused another bout of coughing. Damn, she hadn’t even gotten his first name yet.

  “I’m going to check you for signs of smoke inhalation,” the EMT said. He was young, but he was very gentle as he tipped her head back and checked her eyes and then her nostrils with a light. “Are you nauseous?”

  Mel thought about it for a second. Her lungs hurt as if she had bronchitis, and her skin felt hot. She had a scorching headache, but otherwise she felt okay.

  “No,” she said. “But my head hurts.”

  “You took a solid hit to the head,” the EMT said. “You’re very lucky, there’s no sign of a concussion. Still, I want you to go to the hospital and get checked out.”

  She watched as Hannigan was strapped to a stretcher and carried to an ambulance. He hadn’t even woken up yet. Across the patio, Mel could see that the police and fire departments had cleared the party out of the ballroom. As she squinted through the rescue personnel, she saw Uncle Stan escorting Angie through the crowd. They rushed to her side.

  “Mel! What happened? Are you all right?” Angie looked frantic, and Mel had no doubt she was a sight.

  Both Uncle Stan and Angie knelt down to hug her, and the feel of their arms about her made Mel’s throat get tight with unshed tears. There was a shout and a crashing noise. Several firemen backed away from the building, and Mel felt her chest compress, and it had nothing to do with the smoke.

  Where was Martinez? Had he gone back into the building after Brigit? Mel tried to stand, but Angie held her down.

  “No. There’s nothing you can do,” she said.

  They w
atched in horror as the firemen worked the hoses, trying to douse the flames before they spread to the bigger rooms. There was a shout, and then Martinez came out of the building, carrying Brigit MacLeod.

  He collapsed onto his knees, a fireman catching Brigit before he dropped her. Moving faster than his bulky frame seemed capable of, Uncle Stan caught his partner before he hit the patio floor.

  The EMT who’d been checking Mel raced over to the two men, helping Uncle Stan with Martinez. Mel watched with her heart in her throat. Finally, Uncle Stan looked up and caught her eye. He gave her a nod, signaling that Martinez was okay, and Mel slumped back against Angie.

  “Can I take you to the hospital now?” Angie asked.

  Mel fell into a coughing fit that left her weak and with a pounding head when it was over.

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  Angie helped her up, putting Mel’s arm over her shoulders to brace her. As the EMTs worked on Martinez, putting an oxygen mask on him and tending to his burns, he glanced up and met Mel’s gaze. She gave him a small smile, and he winked at her in return.

  “Take him to the hospital,” Uncle Stan ordered, and the paramedics began to load Martinez onto a stretcher. Uncle Stan took Mel’s other arm and helped Angie get her to a waiting squad car. “I’m going to have a squad drive you over to the hospital, and I’m calling your mother.”

  “No,” Mel began to argue, but she started coughing. Angie stuffed her gown into the car after her and then climbed in herself.

  A uniformed officer was at the wheel, and Uncle Stan gave him a nod. Before Mel could offer up any other protest, they were on their way.

  Although Mel showed no signs of smoke inhalation, the doctors were worried about the knot on her head and admitted her for observation. Angie and Tate and her mother all hovered until the doctor noticed that Mel wasn’t resting, and he shooed them all away.

  Mel hated that she didn’t know what had happened to Brigit and Hannigan. She wondered if they’d caught Sylvia and how Martinez was doing. She tried to find her cell phone, but she suspected her mother had taken it. When her doctor came to check on her again, he was unhappy to find her awake and had the nurse give her a sedative.