“Would you like us to call a ride for you?” she asked.
“Nah,” he refused. “The trolley will take me right to my house.”
“If you’re sure,” she said.
Angie dumped her apron and grabbed her purse from the back room.
“I’m going to follow him to make sure he gets home okay,” she said.
“Good idea,” Mel said. “See you tomorrow.”
Mel locked up the bakery, cleaning as she made her way to the back. It was just after five, and she still needed to get to her mother’s to collect “the dress.” Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to climb up the back stairs to her apartment, put on her jammies, curl up in bed, and watch all the episodes of Inspector Lewis she had saved on her DVR.
As she locked up the bakery and walked to her car, she flipped open her phone and sent a text to her brother, Charlie. He was coming down this week to be with their mom. She told him to call her when he arrived. It was good to have backup.
She drove over to her mother’s house. She parked in the wide driveway, and before she was even halfway up the walk, the door opened and her mother came steaming down the cobbled path towards her. In her hand she held a Dillard’s bag, which she thrust into Mel’s arms.
“Take it,” Joyce said. She turned her head dramatically to the side, very Bette Davis. “I never want to see it again.”
Mel flung the bag into the back of her car.
“Have you eaten?” Joyce asked, her inner drama queen being squashed by her more common role of ever-vigilant, worried mother.
“Depends,” Mel said. “What do you have?”
“Uncle Stan just left, but I made us sloppy joes and Tater Tots, and I have plenty of both left.”
“Tots?” Mel asked. “I’m in.”
Mel sat at the counter in her mother’s kitchen. The high-back stools were the same ones she’d sat on as a kid. She took the one on the right, because she always sat on the right, and noticed that it still wobbled, because one leg was shorter than the other three.
Mel had been a chunky kid, and one of the brackets on the bottom of the stool had broken off when she sat down too heavily one day. She’d cried for an hour and then eaten an entire bag of Doritos.
She remembered doing her homework at this counter with Charlie beside her, the two of them sharing a plate of cookies while Joyce cooked dinner and grilled them about school. Back then, the counter had been white Formica with tiny gold flecks. Now it was brown-and-gray granite. It was colder to the touch than she remembered and, suddenly, she longed for the old Formica.
She missed it like she missed the feeling of absolute safety she’d had as a child. No matter what happened, it would be okay because her mother and father were there to take care of things. All of that had changed ten years ago when her father had died. Sometimes she was shocked by how much she still missed him.
“What are you thinking about?” Joyce asked as she slid a plate and a glass of milk in front of Mel.
Somehow a small side salad had appeared on the plate next to the Tots and the hamburger bun filled with sloppy joe. Mel smiled. That was so like her mother, bribing her with Tots and sneaking in a salad.
“I’m thinking that I’m lucky to have you, Mom,” she said.
Joyce teared up and patted her hand. “I miss your dad, too.”
Mel decided to change the subject before they both got soggy. “Is Charlie coming alone, or is he bringing Nancy and the boys?”
“They’re all coming,” Joyce said. She sounded happy, and Mel was relieved to see the familiar sparkle light her eyes. Joyce loved her grandsons.
They spent the rest of Mel’s mealtime making plans for the boys, and then Mel gave her mom a big squeeze good-bye.
“What are you going to do with it?” Joyce asked as they walked out the door. Mel knew she meant “the dress.”
“It’s probably better if you don’t know,” Mel said, which was her way of stalling for an answer because she really had no idea what she was going to do with it.
“You’re right.” Joyce gave her one more solid hug and then stood waving while Mel pulled away.
If the dress had to be destroyed, she supposed she could bag it and put it in a Dumpster. But then someone might fish it out and resurrect it and, with her luck, Joyce would run into that person at the library or the post office. South Scottsdale was like that.
She debated chopping it up and make a pair of bright blue pillows out of it. Nah, her mom would freak if she saw them in Mel’s apartment. The dress had to die, but how?
She spun her Mini Cooper back towards Old Town and zipped along Camelback Road until she was just south of Tate’s penthouse apartment. Ding! He had an outdoor gas grill. That would work.
Tate owned one of four corner penthouses in a luxury building that sat on the north side of the canal. She parked in the garage below his building and called him to make sure he was home. Then she zipped up to the top floor, clutching the Dillard’s bag.
When the elevator announced her arrival, the doors slid open to reveal a marble foyer, tastefully decorated with large topiary bushes and long mirrors. Tate was standing in the open door of his penthouse, looking as if he’d been about to go to bed.
“ ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,’ ” Tate said, doing a very bad Humphrey Bogart impression.
“Casablanca,” Mel said, identifying the quote. “Way too easy.”
“I know, but I just caught the end of it on the big screen, and now it’s stuck in my head. He never should have let her get on that plane.”
“Agreed.”
“So, what brings you here?” Tate asked.
“I need a favor,” she said. “I have to burn my mom’s dress.”
“What did it do to you?” He ushered her into the apartment.
“Not me—her. She’s convinced it’s cursed.”
“That’s . . .”
“Crazy?” Mel supplied.
“I was going to say highly imaginative.”
They paused in the kitchen, where Mel stopped to get a glass of water.
“So, can I fire up your gas grill?” she asked.
“Have at it,” he said. “That thing burns so hot it’s almost an incinerator.”
“I know. Remember those steaks we cooked when you first got it?”
“You mean the charcoal we made? Yeah, I remember. It took weeks for my eyebrows to grow back.”
They stepped through one of the open glass doors that led to the veranda. More topiary plants, trimmed into the shape of flying birds, decorated the marble balcony. The view of downtown Scottsdale was all plush dark sky and twinkling lights, with the city of Phoenix visible beyond in another layer of lights. Mel felt a peace settle over her as she looked down at the hustle and bustle of the streets below.
A soft breeze blew across the balcony, and she waited while Tate started up the grill and set it for optimum heat.
“Have you talked to Angie today?” she asked.
“No, I sent her a text earlier, but I haven’t heard back. Why?”
Mel wondered what to say, if anything. Oh, who was she kidding? Angie had a date. This was news!
“She’s probably busy,” she said. “Shopping for her date and all.”
“Her what?” Tate whipped around. “What did you say?”
“Her date. Angie has a date.”
The thermometer on the grill was reaching its high point. Tate stared stupidly at her while Mel lifted up the lid on the steel grill. A blast of heat hit her face, and she felt as if it had singed her eyelashes. Quickly, she took her mother’s dress out of the bag and tossed it on the grill.
There was a loud whoosh sound as the blue fabric ignited. A terrible smell filled the veranda, and Tate reached around her to slam the lid shut.
“Good grief, what is that thing made of, formaldehyde?”
They both gagged and stepped back from the grill.
“Hey, you don’t think the p
olice would find it odd that you just torched the dress your mother was wearing on the night she had a date with a man who was murdered, do you?”
Mel looked at the grill and back at Tate. “Now? You point that out to me now? Not before I toss it on the flames?”
“Sorry, I just thought of it,” he said.
“Well, I’m sure they could make something of it, but that would be ridiculous. I mean, it’s just a dress,” Mel said. “Right?”
“I need a drink,” Tate said and led the way to the other side of the veranda, which housed a wet bar with a mini-fridge. He reached in and grabbed two beers, Fat Tires, and handed one to Mel.
They were quiet for a while, watching a noxious dark gray smoke seep out from under the lid of the grill.
“Angie hasn’t had a date in . . .” He paused.
“A long time.”
Actually, it had been since Angie and Tate had flown to Paris to visit Mel while she was taking a course at a culinary school there. According to Angie, it had been a passionate flight over the pond in Tate’s private jet, but Tate had stopped it from becoming a habitual thing for the sake of their friendship. Angie thought it was because he was in love with Mel, but Mel didn’t agree. In twenty-two years of friendship, she had never gotten that feeling from Tate. Never. Not once.
No, Mel suspected that Tate was afraid that if he and Angie hooked up, then their triad of friendship would suffer. Given that it was the thing that had seen them through awkward adolescence and turbulent college years, and now maintained their stability in adulthood, well, she understood why he hesitated.
Mel had only discovered recently that Angie had been in love with Tate since they were kids. Mel had never guessed, would never have guessed, if it hadn’t been for Tate’s recent engagement. Angie had been beside herself, and Mel had finally figured out that it was because she was in love with Tate. But if Mel hadn’t figured it out, then she couldn’t be terribly surprised that Tate hadn’t either. Angie was very good at hiding her feelings.
She watched Tate closely. How did he feel about Angie having a date? He looked pensive, but that could mean anything.
“Who’s the guy?” he asked, taking a long sip from his beer.
“No one you know,” Mel said. “He came into the shop today.”
“A total stranger?” he asked. Pensive switched to alarmed. “She’s going out with a stranger? Do the brothers know about this?”
Mel laughed. “I don’t think she’s going to tell them.”
“What about Joe?” Tate asked. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I hadn’t planned to,” Mel said. “Since we’re going on the date, I’m not that worried.”
“We’re going?”
“Yes, Angie scored us tickets to his show,” Mel said.
“Show?” Tate raised an eyebrow.
“Are you ready for this?” Mel asked and Tate nodded. “Angie has a date with Roach from the Sewers.”
Tate’s jaw slid open. “You’re kidding. I love those guys.
“Na na na. Na na na. Step on this! Yeah, step on this! Like this? Yeah!”
He sang the lyrics just as badly as Angie, and Mel was suddenly grateful that Roach was not here to hear it.
“So, Roach came into the shop? That is so cool.”
“Sort of,” Mel said. “Do you know his real name?”
“It’s not Roach? Really?” He lifted the bottle to his lips.
“No, it’s Brian Malloy.”
Tate lowered his beer. “No way.”
“Way.” Mel took a long sip of her beer. “And now he’s got the hots for Ange, and we’re all going to his show tomorrow night.”
Tate looked confounded, but before Mel could say anything else, her phone chimed. She knew it had to be her mother looking for a status report.
She flipped open her phone. “Relax, Mom. I took care of it. The dress has been destroyed.”
“Interesting,” a man’s voice said. “And why exactly did you feel the need to destroy a piece of evidence?”
Mel felt all of the blood drain from her face. She knew that voice. It was deep and growly and sounded like it was in a perpetual state of annoyance. It was Detective Martinez from the Paradise Valley Police Department, and he did not sound happy.
Eight
“On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you?”
Silence was Joe’s only response.
“Because it’s really hard for me to tell with your jaw clamped shut like that.”
It was late, and they were driving from Joyce’s house to Mel’s apartment. Detective Martinez had questioned Mel and her mother for two hours upon learning that Mel had burned her mother’s dress. For some reason, he didn’t believe her mother thought the dress was cursed, but instead thought they were trying to destroy evidence. He’d even sent a forensic unit over to Tate’s to take samples from the grill.
The interrogation only ended because Uncle Stan and Joe arrived and went nose to nose with Detective Martinez. When the detective accused Joe of covering up for his girlfriend, Mel was sure Joe was going to slug him. The detective even grinned at him as if hoping Joe would lose his cool. Instead, Joe had turned to Mel and said, “Get your things. This interview is over.”
Uncle Stan had muscled Detective Martinez out the door on their heels and slammed it in his face.
While Joe helped Mel into his car, she heard the detective call, “This isn’t over, DeLaura.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Joe muttered under his breath before he roared out of her mother’s driveway.
“What were you thinking?” Joe finally spoke. “Do you have any idea how this looks?”
“Bad?” Mel guessed.
“Detective Martinez is now suspicious that your mother had something to do with Malloy’s murder,” he said. “They were looking at Malloy’s son, but now . . .”
“Funny you should mention him. Brian, right? Yeah, well, Angie’s got a date with him,” Mel said. Joe whipped his head in her direction with an incredulous expression.
She wasn’t proud of herself, but Mel knew that one way to stop Joe from being mad at her was to throw Angie under the wheels of the overprotective-big-brother bus. She felt a little bad about it, but she promised herself she’d make it up to Angie one day.
They turned into the parking lot behind the bakery, and Joe stomped on the brakes of his black Prius, making them screech.
“Explain,” he demanded. He hit the button to lock the doors of the car, keeping Mel right where she was.
“Roach, aka Brian Malloy, came into the shop today because he thought I was the woman dating his father, and he thought I killed him for some nefarious reason of my own,” she said. “Angie set him straight, and I think he was quite taken with her, because he asked her out, and she said yes.”
“But he’s . . .”
“A drummer in a rock band, who goes by the name Roach,” Mel said.
“I was thinking he’s a murder suspect, but the rock-band thing isn’t winning me over either,” he said.
“Quite a pickle, isn’t it?” She reached over Joe and pushed the button to unlock the doors. “I’m guessing you want to go talk to her, so I won’t keep you. Call me.”
She shoved open her door and was halfway out when a strong hand grabbed the tail of her shirt and hauled her back into the car. She landed back in her seat with a thud.
“Why do I get the feeling that dating you is career suicide?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer but kissed her with an incendiary heat that made Tate’s grill seem like a Bunsen burner.
“Go,” he said, releasing her with a rueful smile. “Flip the light on twice, so I know you’re safe.”
Mel scraped her limp body off the expensive leather seat and hurried up the staircase to her apartment above. She unlocked the door, peered inside the studio apartment, and flipped the light switch off and on so that Joe knew she was safe. She watched as he drove away and then collapsed onto her futon with an exhaustion she hadn’t known was p
ossible.
The first person in the door when the bakery opened the next morning was Mr. Zelaznik. He shuffled in and demanded a four-pack of cupcakes and a glass of water.
“Breakfast of champions,” Angie said as she went to fill his order.
Mel had been watching Angie all morning. She hadn’t said anything about Tate or Joe, so Mel was left to wonder if either of them had said anything to Angie about her date.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, Tate strolled in. He looked pensive—again.
“How did it go last night with the detectives?” he asked, taking a seat at the counter.
“It could have gone better,” Mel said. She opened the back of the display case and began shifting cupcakes to make room for a fresh batch of Orange Dreamsicle Cupcakes. It was one of her favorites, an orange cupcake topped with vanilla buttercream and garnished with a candied orange peel.
“What detectives?” Angie asked as she came back from delivering Mr. Zelaznik’s water.
Mel hadn’t told Angie about the night before, because she didn’t want to have to admit that she’d blabbed about Angie’s date to save herself.
“It was no big deal,” she said. “They just had some more questions.”
“No big deal?” Tate gaped. “They impounded my grill.”
“Come again?” Angie looked between the two of them as if they’d suddenly started speaking Swahili.
The bells on the door jangled, and in strode Roach, looking every inch the rock star that he was. Angie broke into a smile at the sight of him, and he grinned at her in return.
Hopping up and leaning over the counter, he planted a kiss on her that did not give Mel the impression that this was new territory for him.
“I missed you,” he said, tossing his long black hair over his shoulder. “I have a few hours before rehearsal. Come away with me.”
“I . . .” Angie glanced at Tate and Mel. “Um . . . we ran into each other at RA, the sushi restaurant, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her cheeks flushed bright pink.
“Ange, I don’t think . . .” Tate began, but she froze him with a hard stare and said, “Let’s keep it that way.”
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