“Don’t think on it,” Mrs. Felix said. “It’s perfectly reasonable for you to worry about us. How is your mother by the way? Was it terrible for her?”
“Yeah, pretty terrible,” Mel said.
“I’m sorry for her,” Mr. Felix said. “But I’m not sorry he’s dead, the rat bastard.”
Mel met his gaze, and the banked anger within his eyes flared to life, and for an instant she could almost picture Mr. Felix causing Baxter Malloy harm—severe harm.
The oven timer went off, and Mel found herself quite happy to excuse herself to head back to the kitchen. Angie bounced back in through the back door while Mel was pulling out the cupcakes. She placed them on the center of the table to cool, while Angie rambled on and on about Roach.
Mel felt her mind wander, and she let it. It was better than hearing the sordid details of someone else’s really cool love life, since her own had been downgraded to one step above coed napping on mats in preschool.
“And then I lit my hair on fire and ran around the room naked,” Angie said.
“Huh . . . what?” Mel asked. She’d heard the words fire and naked and figured she’d better tune back in.
“You’re not listening,” Angie said.
“Sorry,” Mel admitted. “It’s this murder. I can’t stop thinking about how someone murdered Malloy just feet from my mother but didn’t harm her. I’m grateful, but I can’t help worrying . . .”
“That whoever it is might change their mind and come after her?” Angie asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I know how you feel, I’m dating one of the chief suspects,” Angie said. She fretted her lower lip between her teeth. “I hate that the tabloids keep running stories about Roach. I’d really like to see them find the real killer.”
Mel thought Roach could very well be the killer, but she refrained from saying anything that might make Angie angry with her. She needed to keep Angie close so she could keep an eye on her.
“I was talking to Jay, and he said that there are so many people who lost so much, he thinks there’s more than one person involved in the murder,” she said.
“So they all took turns twisting the stocking around Malloy’s neck?” Angie asked. “Somehow I think your mother would have noticed a crowd outside her cabana.”
“Maybe it was just a group that did the planning,” Mel said.
“But why?” Angie asked. “That wouldn’t get their money back.”
“Unless they were trying to get Baxter to give it back,” Mel said.
“And they went too far.” Angie shuddered. “I don’t like this. Give me a crime of passion over a coldly plotted murder any day.”
“I wonder what the Hargraves are doing tonight?” Mel asked.
“You’re not going over there.”
“Why not?” Mel asked. “I’ll pretend to be making a cupcake delivery and get the wrong house.”
“Mel, these people are billionaires,” Angie said. “They have vicious guard dogs and security personnel. Shoot, they probably have land mines to keep the riffraff—which would be you—out.”
“They’re not billionaires anymore,” Mel said. “I’m going.”
“Fine, but you’re not going alone. I’m coming with you,” Angie said. When Mel began to protest, she raised her hand. “No arguing.”
Mel closed her mouth as her class returned, and she plastered on her encouraging teacher’s smile. Meanwhile she mentally reviewed what sort of cupcake would get her past a killer guard dog. Somehow, carrot cake did not seem likely. Sadly, she didn’t have any bacon-flavored ones.
“So, what are you going to say?” Angie asked as they pulled up outside a large stone mansion perched on the side of Camelback Mountain.
“I’m going to say I have a delivery,” she said. “And then I’m going to bluff.”
“Fall back and punt,” Angie said. “Nice. Remember, if you get into trouble, I’ll be listening.”
Angie pulled back out onto the road and then took a sharp right into the narrow driveway in front of the mansion. There was a steep drop to the right, and Mel saw Angie’s grip on the steering wheel tighten.
“What kind of an idiot builds an eleven-thousand-square-foot house on the side of a damn mountain?” she griped. “I mean, really, how much space do two people need?”
She parked in front of a five-car garage. Mel called her cell phone, and Angie answered. Their plan was to keep their cell phones on so Angie could listen in and be ready if Mel needed backup. At least the mountain wouldn’t cut off their reception given that they were on top of it. Mel took a box of cupcakes out of the back seat and strode towards the three-story glass-and-concrete fortress.
For the first time, she questioned the wisdom of her plan. Mercifully, there were no guard dogs in sight. In fact, there was no one in sight. The house seemed awfully dark, and she wondered if the Hargraves were out. Nuts. She should have called first.
She climbed three wide steps onto a large terrace. Large potted cacti stood like sentries on either side. Feeling edgy, she checked her phone.
“You there, Ange?”
“Roger.”
“We have to learn some better lingo. Shouldn’t there be a code four or something?”
“Quit stalling.”
Mel put the phone back in the front pocket of her bag. She crossed the terrace and paused in front of the massive wooden doors. She didn’t see a doorbell, so she used the enormous iron door knocker that hung on the middle of the right door. It banged so hard against its base that Mel jumped.
“That’s some door knocker,” she said out loud for Angie’s benefit.
She waited. No one answered. She banged again. Still no answer.
She stepped back and tried to peer into the windows above. There was no light, no movement.
She took her phone out of her bag. “I think this is a bust, Angie. No one’s home.”
“What—” Angie began but was cut off by a deep grinding noise.
Mel glanced up to see if it was coming from the house, but no. It was coming from where Angie was parked.
Mel’s phone suddenly squawked with profanity, and she heard a squeal of tires as Angie’s car came shooting in reverse from in front of the garage right towards the edge of the mountain.
Sixteen
A huge mover’s truck barreled out of the garage. The cab of the truck was caught in the headlights of Angie’s car and Mel could see that an old lady with gray hair was driving, a younger man was in the middle, and sitting shotgun was an old man. Mel at once recognized the two oldsters as the Hargraves.
She raced to the edge of the terrace, half-afraid the old lady was going to ram Angie down the side of the mountain. But Mrs. Hargrave turned the wheel hard to the right and missed Angie by a breath. Then she rolled down her window and yelled, “Take the house, you parasites, but you’ll never take us alive!”
Mr. Hargrave shot them a rude hand gesture as the moving truck rumbled down the drive and away.
Angie drove her car slowly forward. She parked it, got out, and sat on the ground. Mel rushed over and handed her a Cherry Bomb Cupcake.
“Thanks,” Angie said. Her fingers were shaking, but she managed to peel the paper off and take a bite. “I thought that crazy old bat was going to send me to the big bakery beyond.”
Mel sat down beside her. She took another cupcake out of the box, a Tinkerbell, and bit into it.
“I think my heart stopped,” she said. “If I could main-line this frosting, I think I would.”
“Uh-huh,” Angie said. She reached into the box for another. She downed an Espresso-Shot Cupcake and then took a deep breath. Mel reached for a Death by Chocolate, and only after she finished it did she feel a little better. At least her heart had resumed beating.
“So, what do we do now?” Angie asked.
Mel shrugged. “It doesn’t look good that the Hargraves have flown the coop. I think Jay was right. I think they were in on something.”
“But it sound
ed like they were running more from the bank than the law,” Angie said. “I mean, you flip off a bill collector; you do not flip off the law.”
“But I came with cupcakes,” Mel protested. “Even if I was a bill collector, that was unduly harsh. Not to mention almost running you down.”
“True,” Angie said. “I repeat, what do we do now?”
“We need to find out where they are going, and who the man in the truck with them was,” Mel said.
“Hired muscle?”
“Maybe,” Mel said. “We’re here. Should we check the house?”
“You think they left us a note telling us where to find them?” Angie asked. “Gee, how thoughtful.”
“Sarcasm does not become you.” Mel stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. Angie did the same.
“Really? I thought it was my best feature.”
Mel put the box on the roof of the car, and they walked up to the open garage door. It was dark, and Mel felt along the wall for a light switch. With a snap, light flooded the multiple-bay garage. It was barren.
Angie crossed the room, her footsteps echoing on the hard concrete. A short staircase led up to a door, which was ajar. The Hargraves had left in such a hurry, they hadn’t even bothered to close the door behind them.
“Hello?” Angie called. Mel frowned at her, and she shrugged. “Just being polite.”
They entered through a back hallway, which split into a large kitchen and living area. Mel fumbled along the way until she found another light switch. Recessed lighting in the cathedral ceiling cast a celestial glow down the walls.
“Is it just me, or are you feeling the need to genuflect?” Angie asked.
“Shh,” Mel said. But she had to agree. She was half expecting to find a pulpit.
“Well, now we know why they needed the muscle,” Angie said. “This place has been stripped.”
She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb, and Mel looked over the wide granite counter to the collection of gaping holes in the wall. It was easy to see where the appliances once stood.
“Wow,” she said. “I wonder if the whole house is like this.”
“Let’s check,” Angie said. “I’ll take upstairs.”
She crossed the marble floor to the wide, winding staircase, flipping on lights as she went.
Mel toured the vacant rooms on the first floor. A bedroom, three bathrooms, an office, a formal dining room, and the outside patio, all completely bare. Every fancy fixture had been removed, even the toilet paper holders.
“ ‘And the one speck of food that he left in the house was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse.’ ” Angie’s head appeared over the balcony railing above.
“How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” Mel said, identifying the quote. “He struck down here, too.”
Angie bounced down the stairs. “This is some crib.”
Mel studied her. “Are you going to keep talking like you’re on an MTV reality show?”
“What do you mean?” Angie blinked.
“Forget it,” Mel said. Angie had put up with her through a gazillion bad boyfriends and crash diets over the years; surely Mel could put up with her during her rock-and-roll romance. “Let’s go.”
As they wandered out into the chilly desert evening, Mel was struck by the stunning view. The city lights rolled out in a twinkling carpet below a dusty lavender sky, meeting at the horizon in a ridge of deep purple mountains.
Nestled onto plateaus on the mountain sat other mansions, some lit, some not. The amount of money it would require to be one of these residents was not a number Mel could wrap her brain around. Luckily, she knew someone who could.
She pulled out her phone and called Tate.
“Hi, Mel,” he answered on the second ring.
“ ‘For some players, luck itself is an art,’ ” she said.
“The Color of Money,” Tate replied. “Nice. Where are you?”
“On a mountain with Angie,” she said.
“What, she doesn’t have a hot date tonight?” he asked.
Mel sighed. How long exactly was it going to take Tate to figure out his feelings for Angie? For one of the country’s top investment analysts, he was as dumb as a brick in matters of the heart.
“Moving on,” she said. “I need a favor.”
“Anything,” he said, which was why she loved him.
“Baxter Malloy was dating a woman named Elle Simpson, a big, bold blonde type. I need to know anything you can find out about her.”
“All right,” Tate said. “What makes you think I can find anything out?”
“You have more access to the hoi polloi gossip than I do, and I think she’s known for travelling in circles with rich men.”
“A gold digger?”
“Precisely.”
“On it,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, do you know the Hargraves?”
“Only by reputation,” he said. “They lost billions to Malloy.”
“Can you find out if they have any children or other young relatives, say, a male in his early to mid-twenties.”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Uh-huh, I get the feeling you’re not telling me something,” he said. Mel was silent. “Fine, be that way. I’ll call you back when I have something.”
Tate never called. Instead, he blew in through the front door of the bakery the next morning like a small tornado.
“You owe me,” he said to Mel.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Where’s Angie?”
“Not here yet,” Mel said.
Tate checked his watch.
“But it’s—” he began, but Mel interrupted him.
“I’m aware of the time.”
“I keep telling her to fire that girl,” Marty said. He was refilling the napkin holders in the booths.
“New employee?” Tate asked.
“A temp,” Mel said.
Tate shook his head. “Okay, I had to have my mother call my aunt Penelope, who called her friend Beverly, who no one can stand.”
Mel remembered the silver-haired lady at the museum luncheon who had not been fond of Elle. She’d bet her body weight in sprinkles that it was the same one.
“And?” she prompted him.
“Well, you were right. Elle Simpson is quite the money magnet. Before Baxter, she was shacked up with a major-league baseball star, a TV producer, and a fast-food franchise owner. Before that she was a B-movie actress who didn’t get much further than the cutting-room floor.”
“So, she’s been around?” Mel asked.
“And how,” Tate agreed. “She likes them old, and she likes them loaded, so Baxter was perfect for her.”
“Except he really wasn’t that well off,” Mel said. “He was a scam artist.”
“Sounds like a perfect match to me,” Tate said.
“Except that if he was bankrolling her and then dumped her to find a wealthy woman to bail him out, Elle might have been a teeny bit upset.”
“Enough to murder him?”
“I don’t know,” Mel said. “How about the Hargraves?”
“They do have a nephew,” Tate said. “Word has it he was kicked out of Yale, Cornell, Harvard, and Princeton.”
“Impressive,” Mel said.
“Apparently, he has an utter lack of social skills. He’s twenty-eight, still lives with the Hargraves, and has never held a job in his life.”
“I think I must have dated him,” Mel joked.
“So, why do you need to know about these people?”
“They’re the best suspects I’ve got for Malloy’s murder,” she said.
“Not the best,” Tate argued. “That would be Roach.”
Mel saw a spot on the counter and wiped it with the corner of her apron.
“You can’t keep avoiding the obvious,” he said. “He is the best suspect.”
“Then why haven’t the police charged him?” Mel asked.
“
Because he’s a rock star,” Tate said. His voice was scathing, leaving no doubt in Mel’s mind how he felt about Roach.
“All right, letting go of that for the moment, Angie and I went to the Hargraves’ last night,” Mel said.
“What?” Tate smacked his hand down on the counter. “Are you crazy?”
Before he could continue his diatribe, Mel held up her hand and told him all about the previous evening. He listened intently and only grunted once or twice.
“So, I think we need to follow up and find out more about the Hargraves and Elle Simpson.”
“How do you plan to do that?” Tate asked.
Mel tipped her head and looked him over. “You’re probably too young for her. We need someone older, who can get close to her and find out what she knows.”
“You need a rich geezer,” Tate said.
They both turned to look at Marty.
“Don’t look at me. The last time I went along with one of your brainiac ideas, I ended up in a Dumpster,” he said.
“This time you’d have a babe on your arm,” Mel said.
“Who’d have a babe?” Angie asked as she pushed through the kitchen door into the bakery.
“Where have you been?” Tate asked. He looked like an indignant mother waiting up past curfew.
“Breakfast,” she said.
“At noon?” he sounded outraged.
“Is he for real?” Angie asked Mel.
“As a tick on a hound dog,” Mel said.
“If you must know, the medical examiner has released Baxter Malloy’s body. I was helping Roach work out the details of his funeral.”
“Oh,” Tate said. He looked away, obviously unwilling to acknowledge what a butt he was being.
Angie rolled her eyes at Mel. “He’s managing. Thanks for asking.”
“If he’s the killer, I’m sure he is managing,” Tate said. “Managing to cover up his crime.”
“What are you talking about? He’s not the killer,” Angie said.
“You can’t know that,” Tate said. He turned to Mel. “Tell her.”
“I . . .” Mel trailed off awkwardly.
“Tell me what?” Angie asked, glancing between the two of them.
“He lied,” Tate said.
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